The twelve-year-old Black heir was not looking for trouble, though it seemed that he was always in some kind of situation. He had merely gone into his Transfiguration class for his lesson and sat there, minding his own business as he listened to Professor McGonagall talk about pincushions and feather dusters and whatnot.
Braen Black was in his second year at Hogwarts, his little brother in first year, and the Second Wizarding War was raging all around them. Death Eaters teaching, Snape the Headmaster, and nearly everyone in danger, the boy was doing his best to keep his head down and not draw attention to himself.
First year, he had lots of fun teasing and annoying some of the older students, but since the Death Eaters had taken over the Ministry and Dark Arts were widely practised, Braen had learned to mostly keep his mouth shut unless he considered the suffering worth it. People were always telling him that he acted like his disowned uncle, but this year, the number of times he had heard that was considerably less. Braen did not know if this was because he had jinxed a few of them, or because he was acting much more calm because his little brother was at school and could help ground him.
It wasn't easy being the son of a Death Eater–especially one that everyone thought had defected. Braen's father had dreamed of being a Death Eater when he was a young boy, but when he had attained this...well, as he had told Braen and Mordor, his other son, "It's not nearly as fun, nor as easy as you might think. I wasn't very smart at sixteen."
Braen had observed, very painfully, how much people distrusted their family, especially his father, but these instances had only made him angry. His father was the best, the most kind, fair, encouraging person that Braen knew, and he couldn't understand why people would hate their family simply because his father had disappeared to preserve himself and his family name.
Bellatrix was one of the worst about this. She was a cousin of theirs, a Black by birth, but she was strictly loyal to the Dark Lord and spared no one, no matter who they were, if they fell ill of the Dark Lord. She had tried to curse him a couple times, but his father had stopped her and warned him not to test her because he wouldn't always be able to stop her. Braen was sure of that: the bitch was crazy.
"Black!"
The young boy gave a start of surprise: McGonagall was frowning at him. "If you're finished daydreaming, Black," she said sternly, "kindly retrieve the tin of matchsticks from the cupboard next to you."
"Oh, of course," Braen said quickly, getting to his feet and approaching the cupboard amid sneers from the few remaining Gryffindors that were in their joint class. Many students no longer attended Hogwarts because of the crackdown on Mudbloods by the Ministry.
Braen flung open the cupboard, looking around for the tin, but before he had even spotted it, he leapt back with a yell of shock as the figure of his father appeared with acrack! Regulus Black was glaring at his son in some kind of suppressed rage.
"Disgrace!" was the first word out of Regulus' mouth, and Braen let out an involuntary whimper. "Father?" He backed away as the man advanced on him.
Everyone was staring, and even McGonagall looked shocked, though she quickly realised what was going on as the figure of Regulus advanced and continued to shout at the boy. "Why can't you be more like Mordor? He's never been as much of a problem as you have! I'm absolutely shocked you're not in Gryffindor: you act just like them. Where we went wrong with you, I'll never know. Terrible excuse for a Black–awful representation of our family. You, and Sirius–"
A cry of anguish escaped Braen, but Regulus wasn't finished. "Your brother will take your place as I took my brother's place," the figure said. "You're no son of mine."
Braen's scream of horror echoed in the classroom as Professor McGonagall shouted, "Riddikulus!" and the figure of Regulus Black exploded. Braen could not take his eyes off the spot where his father had been, shaking from head to toe. He barely heard McGonagall tell him to take his seat, his feet refusing to move as his legs trembled, his left hand gripping onto one of the chairs so he would remain standing.
"Braen," Professor McGonagall's voice broke into his thoughts after a moment, and he looked up, his face absolutely white. "It was a boggart: it wasn't real."
He barely had the strength to stumble to his seat and collapse into it, completely spent. He didn't notice as she summoned the tin of matchsticks from the cupboard and the rest of the class began to work on their Transfiguration. Braen Black could not even begin to try concentrating on what she was trying to teach them when he had just witnessed what he feared most in the whole world: his father Regulus, angry and disappointed, disowning him just like Sirius had been.
Braen sat motionless until the bell went off, signaling the end of the lesson, then began to put his notes, quill, parchment, and textbook into his bag. He didn't notice when everyone else had gone, moving in slow motion.
"Black," came his teacher's voice from far away, and he barely acknowledged it. "Are you all right?"
"Y–yes," Braen breathed, even though he definitely wasn't.
"You are aware how boggarts work, Mr Black?" she questioned him.
"M–mostly," he answered, still shaking slightly.
"They like dark spaces, and when disturbed, will turn into what you fear the most," Professor McGonagall said gently. "Nothing that image said, is true." She gave him a firm look. "It did not happen."
Braen half-heartedly picked up his bookbag and got to his feet. "No," he muttered, hoping his legs wouldn't betray him and continue to carry him out of the room and on to his next class.
She was gazing at him thoughtfully, and he scowled, stopping when he was almost at the door. "What?" he asked her. "Hoping Iwillturn out like Sirius?"
Professor McGonagall frowned. "You are similar and different," she answered after a moment. "Where his family meant nothing to him, your family means a great deal more to you. But whether you act one way or another isn't necessarily enough to put you in any House."
Braen stared miserably at the door handle. "The Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Gryffindor," he whispered. "Father told me it probably would."
"But you're not, are you?" she asked quietly. "Sirius made his choices, and you're making yours. We're not like any one exact person, Black. And if two people share some qualities, like your ability to make people laugh and your love of pranks, that doesn't mean you'll end up the same way."
The boy lifted his face. "I definitely won't," he said, a determined look on his face. "I know there's...things that people see in me, but I'm not about to wander away from my family like some great prat. And I'm staying out of Bella's way, too."
Professor McGonagall's mouth quirked as if she were going to smile, but she did not. "I have no doubt that you will make your own choices and your own reputation," she said to him. "Now then, Black, are you sure you'll be all right?"
Braen's face cleared of his inner turmoil. "Yes, Professor," he said, pleased as he seemed able to breathe and think again.
"Run along then, or you'll be late for your next class," she said briskly.
"Thanks," he said quietly, then opened the door and left the classroom.