Disclaimer: 'I don't own the computer I'm using (it's Lily's). I don't own the letters I'm typing (they belong to whomever created words). I don't own that last sentence. Or that one. Or that one. Or—you get the point.
'I don't own the point either...'
Disclaimer for the disclaimer: I don't own that disclaimer. It belongs to Fool Moon and/or Sirius Black in Fool Moon's story 'Sirius Writes.' The plot's acoming!
from Rambles with a Magical Flare
The Blood-Traitor
"I'm sick of this family," a 16-year-old Sirius said to one of the portraits, knowing that he wouldn't care how Sirius felt. No one ever did in this house. It was torture living in this hell-hole.
"You have told me this eight hundred forty six times, my precocious blood traitor—"
"I knew I should have talked to Andromeda. All of the paintings in this god forsaken house always insult me if I come near them, just because I ruined the so-called 'family pride' for being sorted into a house! It's bloody insane."
"Well, my ungrateful great grandson, we are the noble—"
"And ancient house of Black," Sirius muttered along with the portrait, cringing at what that house did to him.
"—and all of our minds work in a suitably twisted fashion. It's what all of the interbreeding does."
"But why do we need to breed every single pureblood like we're dogs? My best friend is a pureblood and he could care less what type of blood he marries."
"It instills pride, you ungrateful mutt."
"Pride from the same people as my parents. Pride from the same people as my cousins. Of course that's who I want to spend the rest of my life surrounded by: people who don't give a shit about skills and just mark someone by blood."
"Why don't you do something about it then? Isn't that what this era is about, changing the world?"
"You know what? I think I will." And with that, Sirius grabbed his leather jacket and left the room with a particular nasty look on his face. But the portrait just sighed and shook his head, unable to do anything to change the boy's fate.
