May, 1975.
In the quiet suburban street of the otherwise lively town of Stinchcombe was a house guarded by a maroon maple door (and a number of protective spells) marked with a golden number twenty-one; in front of it stood an empty-eyed teenager, stoic despite the pounding rain and the biting chill in the air, both head and hair hanging limply as he moved toward the house. Although it was a rather uncommon occurrence (or more truthfully, one he knew to hide well), Sirius Black was not feeling himself to say the least, and the thunderstorm was not the reason. No, the gloomy weather was just an added bonus. His head hurt and his steel-grey eyes throbbed, bloodshot from sleepless nights, excessive yelling, and pent-up emotions; the privileges of being a Black, he thought bitterly.
Sirius knew that he could've just Flooed in through the fireplace - the Potters never minded nor questioned his arrival at their house, no matter the time - but he didn't think he would've been able to, not after what had just happened and when the reality of his own situation weighed so heavily on him like all the gold in his family's vaults at Gringotts. He climbed up the front steps, eyes downcast and a stony expression on his face as the cold rain soaked him through to the bone, unrelenting and unforgiving in its quest to make him miserable, reminding him almost humorously of his mother.
Hanging above the door was a rather plainly carved golden plaque, swinging every so often in the blowing wind. "Once for friends, Twice for business, Thrice for threats," it read. Water steadily dripped from it in grey streams, puddling momentarily on the lacquered doorstep before trickling through.
Stiff, straight-backed, and scowling, Sirius paused before reaching out for the bronze knocker and knocking once, the metal ice cold in his wet hands. For a while, the only audible sound was that of the pattering rain and water sloshing down the road, a few Muggle cars honking in the distance as street lights flickered on. Then the door opened and Sirius stared at his shoes, face an expressionless mask as a defeated storm similar to the one he was standing in raged inside his eyes. James eyed his lowered head, a sharp contrast to the sophisticated and confident posture of the Blacks, looking momentarily perplexed before realisation dawned on him and he gently grabbed Sirius's shoulder, urging him in.
"C'mon, Sirius."
It was the sound of his name being spoken so softly and with such care that finally cracked Sirius's demeanour. He stumbled forward, letting go of his trunk and wrapping his arms around James, who didn't seem to mind at all that he was sopping with rainwater. He shook slightly, a few undisciplined tears escaping his eyes and onto James's shoulder (which already had a wet patch on it from Sirius's sleeves), hoping the other boy would perceive it as shivering and not notice it. Although the sting of rejection was fresh, Sirius felt a momentary calm overtake him, rather like a balm. The two friends stayed that way for a few uncounted moments before separating, the front of James' shirt now thoroughly soaked as well.
"Prat," James murmured as Sirius let go, smiling lightly at him. He dragged the trunk in while Sirius trudged inside, perfect posture gone and shoulders slumped but appearing somewhat lighter, clearly exhausted as he crossed the hallway. The Black dragged himself to the living room, waiting only long enough to cast a drying charm on himself before collapsing into the nearest sofa, one arm covering his eyes while the other hung over the edge of the armrest. A sharp crack! was heard as James ordered a house-elf to put Sirius's trunk in one of the guest rooms, followed by light and quiet footsteps that had sneaked up on one too many people and, when they stopped, a friendly and exasperated huff.
"Still as dramatic as ever, eh?" James smirked at Sirius's pained form, snickering when the other boy lifted his arm that had, till now, been hanging oh-so-dramatically to the floor and flipped him off. Chortling, James went to the kitchen to make some tea, adding a teaspoon of honey and some Fire-whiskey to Sirius's cup, his Mum's go-to recipe for whenever anyone was feeling melodramatic or, in this case, deeply upset.
When he returned to the living room, his best friend was still draped tormentedly over the cushions, somehow managing to look graceful while still being a complete disaster.
"I'll pour this down your shirt if you don't get up soon, Padfoot," he said and sat in the armchair opposite Sirius, shaking the cup lightly to show that he meant business. Sirius only groaned in response.
So James sipped his tea in silence, eyeing the other pointedly every once in a while, knowing just how much that annoyed him. The steam over Sirius's cup eventually lessened to wisps, curls that danced alluringly in the air before diffusing away. It was after the performance stopped that Sirius finally sat up.
"I feel like crap," he mumbled, fidgeting with the cuff of his sleeve.
"You look like crap," James replied, setting his teacup down just as Sirius picked his up.
"Gee, thanks, Prongs." James brightened at the use of the nickname. "Right ray of sunshine, you are."
James grinned, watching the fire thriving in the fireplace as Sirius gradually emptied the cup of tea, checking his watch every so often out of habit. He could sense the air tensing slightly when the teacup was, at last, put down but willed it to go away; Sirius had just escaped an intense situation, he didn't need to enter another one now.
"I'm going to bed," Sirius finally declared, getting to his feet. Before he knew it, a house-elf had Apparated him in front of a bedroom. It was simply but warmly decorated, with plush pillows and thin but dark curtains, a far cry from the Ancient and Most Noble House of Crap with its heavy drapes and oily portraits, Sirius noted. He gratefully fell back into the bed, crawling into the covers as he imagined his life had he been named Sirius Orion Crap instead of Sirius Orion Black and concluding that it would've been much better than the one he was stuck in now. It took him about a second to fall asleep, feeling, with a sense of wonder, that he was where he belonged and safe at last.
If only it had lasted long enough for him to not wake up a few hours later, shaking from dreams about pointing fingers and getting burned off the family tree as his ancestors' portraits raged along the hallways.
———
1 September, 1972.
"Sirius?" James tentatively made his way from the bottom of the dormitory stairs to the Common Room's fireplace, Gryffindor colours splashed all around him. Sirius was sitting silently in front of it, staring distractedly at the flames. He looked up at James's voice.
"Hey," he grinned but it was strained. "Fancy seeing you here, you were out like a log when I came to the dormroom."
"Yeah, well, I'd say the Welcoming Feast was a bit too welcoming this year," James grinned, remembering fondly all the tarts he'd eaten. He was sure that at least one of them had been a new recipe. Sirius chuckled, pushing a hand through his hair, and that was when James noticed it.
"What's up with your hand?" he asked for the second time that day, his eyeline following the thin bandage wrapped around Sirius's palm. He'd worded the same question in the train but Sirius had flicked it away as a story for some other time, distracting them with a new prank idea he'd thought of instead.
"Oh, nothing, really," Sirius lied easily, stuffing both hands in his pockets. "Just a scratch I got from one of Aunt Cassiopeia's cats. Tried to kick it down the stairs after it messed up my broom at Regulus's birthday party." James nodded, secretly thinking that his best friend was a surprisingly talented liar and grimly congratulating himself for spotting it; Sirius never referred to his Great Aunt Cassiopeia as anything other than Crazy Aunt Cass, owing to the woman's many eccentricities.
"C'mon, it's getting late. We've got to be early tomorrow or we'll miss the Slytherin Team's tryouts," James said, still wondering how crazy one would have to be to have tryouts this early, although he had to admit that it would ensure that only dedicated volunteers showed up which would, no doubt, be beneficial.
"Right," Sirius answered, following him up the stairs. The two reached the third-year dormitories and Sirius placed his hand on the door handle, about to push it open when James made a grab for it. The bandage was loose, already unraveling when James yanked it off, careful not to make the cut worse. He had barely read the words carved on his friend's skin when Sirius snatched his hand away, looking both angry and defensive as well as scared.
'Blood traitors have no family.'
"What did you do that for?" he shouted, backing away from James, clutching his bloody hand to his chest as a few doors opened and students peeked out to find the source of the commotion. James said nothing and hurriedly steered Sirius down the stairs, past the others' curious faces and into the Common Room. Sighing, he settled into the over-stuffed armchairs near the windows, forcing Sirius to sit down as well.
"I knew she was doing something to you," he murmured darkly, combing a hand through the tangled mess on his head that he called hair. "You looked off this morning too. And you didn't write as much in the summer and ..." he trailed off at the look on Sirius's face.
"Didn't write as much, huh?" Sirius spat out heatedly, standing up from the chair. "So that's the problem now! Never good enough for anyone, am I?"
"No, Padfoot," James quickly back tracked, eyes wide. "That's not what I meant. You sounded so ... distant. I was worried. I tried asking Mum if we could visit but she isn't exactly on good terms with your family," he hesitated, suddenly remembering another detail that had worried him over the summer. "Sometimes I saw red smudges on your letters, Sirius!" The Black stared morbidly at the floor, almost uncaring it would seem, but James knew that he was just used to it and didn't want to 'make a fuss'. They stayed quiet for a minute before Sirius huffed and plopped back onto the chair, arms folded and glaring at some point on the ground.
James waited, not wanting to upset him further but knowing that he would end up asking the question anyway. "Why didn't you tell anyone?" he asked, voice toneless.
Sirius shrugged as if to say he didn't think it was important.
"No point, was there? Telling anyone," he conceded. James opened his mouth to disagree but Sirius cut across him. "Look, I appreciate you talking to me but it's not going to change anything. The Ministry can't confiscate the Quills, my family's too well-connected for that. McGonagall, heck, Dumbledore, could send her a letter but that would only make it worse. She'll get mad that I blabbed," he paused, lowering an eyebrow as if considering a grave possibility. "And I won't blab. You're the only one who knows about this and no one else can!"
"But why, Sirius?" James asked, wringing his hands together. "At least tell Pomfrey, she could heal the cut," he suggested.
"No," the Black shook his head adamantly. "I'll just order some Murtlap by Owl Order. It works fine." He said the last part as if to end the conversation and, sure enough, got to his feet.
"Sirius, wait," James put a hand on his shoulder. "Why don't you want to tell anyone? Maybe someone can get you out of ther - "
"No one can, James!" Sirius bellowed, pushing him away. "They're my parents! My legal guardians! They decide where I go and what happens to me! If you're suggesting I murder them in their sleep then please, keep your advice to yourself!" James felt anguished, wishing that his friend's words weren't true. He thought it must've shown on his face because Sirius's tight posture slackened.
"And I can't let them get to me, okay?" he continued in a much calmer voice, as if to reassure himself. "I can't give her the pleasure of showing weakness. I can't be vulnerable."
With that, the boy left for bed, not knowing that his best friend was biting his lip in worry at how much his parting words had sounded like a chant, like a decree from a hastily written rule book to protect himself.
———
"I can't let her get to me, okay? I'm not giving her the pleasure of showing weakness. I'm not being vulnerable," Harry spat the words out, refusing to look at the other three people in the room.
It was this resolution, more than anything else he'd seen or heard that day, which drove Sirius over the edge. A sense of deja vu shot through him and he froze; anxiously watching Harry as the boy crossed his arms and glared at the floor, the lenses of his glasses glinting in the firelight. Sirius could almost see the tiredness in his eyes through the fiery reflections and wondered how much he really knew about his godson.
"Harry," he reached out to touch his shoulder, voice hoarse. "This isn't about ... about showing weakness. That woman is torturing you. This is wrong. It has nothing to do with - with vulnerability." Sirius forced himself to say, pushing the possibility that Harry's childhood had been similar to (or worse than) his to the back of his mind. He would think about that later; now was not the moment for being woeful, especially since both McGonagall and Dumbledore were his present company.
Normally, this would be when he'd start pacing around but since he had chosen, for some godforsaken reason, to have this talk in the family-tree tapestry room, Sirius knew it would only aggravate him further. So he made himself stand still and, with even more difficulty, try to reason with Harry. Before he could even start however, his ex-Transfiguration Professor came to his rescue.
"Potter, if you and the other students take this case to the Wizengamot," she began and Sirius thought that the words sounded infinitely more reasonable in her voice. "Then parents will be enraged. They won't tolerate having their children get taught by a woman who is perfectly prepared to torture them."
"Indeed, Minerva," Dumbledore agreed, speaking for the first time since he'd seen Harry's hand, the anger evident in his tone despite his calm voice. "I can file the court order and the Wizengamot can try Dolores, but before that can be done we must gather as much evidence as possible," he reasoned tiredly. Sirius bristled. He hadn't missed the way Dumbledore had not looked directly at Harry throughout the whole exchange, excepting when he'd checked the cut from the Blood Quill on his godson's hand. Did he think Harry's testimony wasn't enough?
"Is Harry's word not enough, Albus?" Sirius inquired. "We need to get rid of that woman as quickly as possible. I'm not letting her hurt him again," he said coldly.
Silence reigned as Dumbledore peered at him with his piercing gaze, looking about to say something before Harry spoke up instead.
"Professor Dumbledore's right, Sirius," he muttered dejectedly. "I'm supposed to be a nutter, remember? How can anyone know I didn't buy the Quill illegally and write with it just to dish dirt on the Ministry-appointed Defence teacher?"
Sirius didn't know what to say to that so he frowned, forehead creasing with concern and his mood shifting yet again. "Right," he admitted in defeat, to which Harry nodded, looking relieved.
"I'll check if any other students have scars from the Quills too," he informed them, self-consciously stuffing his hands in his pockets.
"I have a record of my students' detentions, Potter," McGonagall said softly, nodding at Harry. Sirius pondered how odd it must've felt to have your teacher address you that way. It had certainly taken him quite a long time to get used to McGonagall referring to him as 'Sirius' and to start calling her 'Minerva' instead of 'Professor'. Although, both he and James had tried to call her 'Minnie' after joining the Order but had ended up getting Transfigured to tables for a week. He smiled at the memory, even though standing up (and moving in general) had been hell after the experience. "You can ask the other Heads of House for their students' records as well and see if they're ready to help." She smiled weakly at Harry before wishing them a Merry Christmas and a good night and leaving, brisk footsteps echoing through the thick walls. Dumbledore soon followed suit after telling them he'd notify everyone when the time to file the case against Umbridge came, gingerly closing the door behind him.
Sirius cleared his throat uncomfortably as the air around them shifted, the room feeling suddenly all too old and dusty. He looked at Harry, whose shoulders had sagged, whether from exhaustion or relief, he couldn't tell.
"You should really get to bed. I don't think Ron and Hermione will sleep until you tell them what happened," he advised, remembering Molly's cross expression when he'd run into her after she'd emerged from Ron and Harry's room, clearly upset. "Molly will clean the cut up for you. I could get you some Murtlap Essence but I'm really hoping you won't need it now." He raised an eyebrow at Harry, who shrugged in response.
"You can never tell with Umbridge," he grinned darkly.
"Ugh," Sirius irritatedly patted him on the back. "You sound like James. He was up to his chin in dark humour sometimes." Harry's smile widened to a real one.
The seconds flew by as Harry returned to his room and Sirius thudded onto a couch, black hair attaching to the velvet material immediately, his back facing the hideous family-tree to stare at the ebony grandfather clock instead. Constellations shifted and twisted on its frame and Sirius couldn't help but thank the stars it didn't shoot lightning bolts like the one they'd confiscated in the living room; he'd liked the clock as a kid and it was nice to have a reminder of his childhood that didn't make him want to claw his eyes out.
Yawning, he raised his left hand to look at his palm, a thin white scar marring the callused skin: Blood traitors have no family.
Well, Sirius thought serenely. There's more to family than blood.
He stood up and left the tapestry room, not thinking, for once, about the burn mark where his name had been stitched on at some point in the past. He wouldn't do so for quite some time.
———