No one would sit you down and tell you the story your birth, it was a mystery to you, unspoken. But even as a boy, you were no fool, truly, not blind nor did that cutting word fall on deaf ears. Bastard. Always spoken out of earshot of your mother, and once you learned what that word meant it was no difficult task to deduce what that meant about your birth. Shame, that it couldn’t have changed your blood. You wondered shortly, as a wishful child, what your mother was like, but even for wondering, you paid dearly. When you asked the woman who had raised you, you received a cold slap and you learned never to ask again. And how could you get an answer, to a question you could never ask?
You were only a child, hardly their child, but they saw that as a young mind ripe for sculpting into their dark masterpiece. You can see now that had that been the path you took, you would have likely been the right hand of the Dark Lord today, but no, because you never really could have been. You were born into the Black line but you did not have a Black heart. You were too young to realize your parents were so wrong, and it was a hard truth that changed you. How do you admit to yourself that your parents are not good people? It may have been the biggest struggle of your childhood but once you accepted it, that was all it took to be better than them. You are not sure how you did that, just a kid, all alone, surrounded by serpents. Every step was a question, every cold laugh was a cut. You heard their words and they nudged your shoulder, tussled your hair, but you never joined in, you couldn’t help but notice how narcissistic it all was. It seemed to be less about the muggles and more about their ego, not that any one was really any less, but that they, of course, were more.
You were just a boy, you had never asked for centuries of a legacy placed on your shoulders, had never asked for a life already planned out for you. The other children would run and play and your mother would hold you in her death grip by her side. “They are having a better time then we are.” She had not been happy to hear that, nails digging into your bicep, met with a look no boy should see in the eyes of his own mother. “We are Blacks, Sirius. We do not envy mudbloods.” It wasn’t the first time you heard that word, no it was commonplace in the Black household, likely the first word many of his ancestors had ever uttered. That was the first time you ever thought of that word in a new light, though, an envious light. Perhaps she calls them mudbloods, your young brain rationalized, because they are allowed to get mud on their shoes. It had sent you into a fit of laughter that had sent her into a rage.
Rage. That is the one thing you picked up from them and it would be all they would ever give you. For all your life you would be known as apart from them, but you would also be haunted by the striking similarities. It was their own fault, truly, for placing hatred and anger within you and simply hoping you would chose the same target they had. Never once supposing that anger may turn back on them. It had not always been your plan to abandon your family. When you were young, you slipped up, made thoughtless remarks, but you learned and it was always your mother who taught you, or the one who acted your mother, all of the authority and none of the gentle heart. You stayed silent for years, just a kid with an anger burning inside of you and even then you knew these would be the worst years of your life, you would look back on them with pain and regret and the memories would not be fond. So one day, you stopped trying. If they were not going to put forth an effort neither would you.
You were avoidant, at first, but it didn’t take long for that to turn rebellious. It became a chore to stuff you into their suits or comb your hair or even get you to the dinner table. Perhaps he didn’t see the threat, or perhaps he didn’t care, but your father left you to your own, each of you simply giving up on the other from the beginning. It was your mother that was insatiable, always asking more of you than you could possibly give, more than she would ever give in return. Always insisting you come along to pureblood social gatherings where you would inevitably make a fool of her. Perhaps you were everything she wanted, an utter disappointment, because she just wanted someone to punish. And if you really were not her son, all the better for her, she could toss you aside when she wished, or maybe even drive you away, slowly. You played the bad guy so perhaps her views could have some sort of rationality. It was your brother, of course, who played the darling heir and maybe they would all hate you for leaving, but hadn’t it all been easier for them, in the end?
Regulus. You try not to look back on leaving your family with any regret, but he is perhaps your biggest. You could have tried harder, but every step in that house was walking through a minefield. Besides, it may have been wrong, but things would be easier for him if he stayed the precious Black heir. You still spend empty moments thinking about how much easier your life would be if you had been able to conform. Perhaps you would have, after being chipped away at on all sides with no reprieve, given in. Perhaps, if it hadn’t been for Hogwarts. That was where everything went so perfectly right for you, but so terribly wrong for your family. You had no idea, boarding the train, seated with cousins and family friends, some already sporting the snake of slytherin on their robes, how much the next year would change the very foundation of your life.
You were no stranger to anxiety, but the short moments before your name was called for sorting (just after dear Cissa, Slytherin, of course), you thought your heart might explode under the pressure. The rough material of the old hat brushed your brows and your eyes closed for half a second, a question forming in your brain: Who am I supposed to be? Some part of you must have known the answer because it wasn’t a second more before the hat shouted “Gryffindor!” It was a mixed crowd if you ever saw one. Some of the Gryffindors went up into hesitant cheers, mostly first years, while the others seemed split between shock and disgust. The Slytherins looked defeated and appalled, rage painted each of the Black’s faces. And you, in front of the entire school, finally let out a breath of relief.
It had been easy at first, it had been made easy by James Potter and Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew, your fellow Gryffindor first years and housemates. What had you ever known of family before you met them? A bond formed that very first night, a bond that was stronger than blood, stronger than magic, and would surely last until the day the last one of them took their last breath. It was the first time you ever had anyone to agree with, to see eye to eye on, to respect, not out of fear or because you had to, but because they deserved respect. If there was any doubt in your mind the Blacks were wrong, those doubts died in your Hogwarts dormitory your very first night there. It was more difficult, though, to see the people from your past, which you could not quite let go yet. Perhaps, you had hoped, Gryffindor is a world away. It may have been true enough, easier, if it were not for Narcissa. Andromeda and Bella were too old, frequenting completely different parts of the castle, for you to see them on a daily basis, but Narcissa was your age, your grade and had been the cousin you’d been expected to be closest to.
Each time you saw her, was a dagger through the heart, but you never let it show. You could have been kind and amiable, but you had the confidence of a lion now and try as you might the two of you had never gotten along. And run ins with her always led to run ins with Bellatrix, who had something and more to say about you, your sorting, and these new blood traitor friends. You receive a howler from your mother the very next day, and slip away to listen in privacy to her eerily calm yelling that your house colors do not change your Black blood. Her reminder of what one toe out of line could cost you. An empire of hate and rage, you think bitterly. But it is hard to remain bitter, returning to your friends a smile breaks through and you realize it’s the first time you’ve been overcome with the desire to do so.
But like all good things, your first year came to an end too soon and though the train ride back to King’s Cross with the Marauders contrasted starkly how you arrived, you knew what you would be returning to. You step off the train and loose your friends in the crowd in hopes of sparing them the sight. You see her, in all black like someone’s just died and get the sick sensation that it’s you she’s mourning you, or the son she’d hoped you would be. Little Reg is beside her, only a year younger than you, but he looks so small in her shadow. She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t yell. And perhaps that is scarier. She just takes you by the arm with the same death grip she had when you were five and guides you towards the car. There’s no greeting but a hesitant smile from Reg, who seems unsure how to not upset your mother. “Hey, Black!” A voice shouts, and all three of you turn your heads to see James Potter, who you’d thought you’d lost when you shook off the other two. “See you next year!” And even as your mother’s grip tightens, her mood sours and Regulus shrinks in front of her anger, your smile only widens.
The house becomes a warzone. It is no longer subtle, it is no longer a matter of trying to fit in, you are the black sheep. You put up a Gryffindor banner and your mother tears it down, so you charm it and several pictures of her least favorite things (which you’ve taken an interest in out of pure coincidence, of course) to be impervious to removal. There is animosity in every word spoken and every silence in between. Your father has become a stranger to you, your brother looks at you like you doesn’t know you anymore, like he can’t. And your mother, well, she can hardly stomach the sight of you, can she? She does when she has to, but it’s never pleasant, the two of you going out of the way to upset the other. You once asked if you could go see James over summer break and she spat at the idea. That was when you learned not to ask for permission when you knew the answer would be no.
The next year that followed tested the ties of your new family almost as if fate was daring you to accept this new lot in life. Your friend was a werewolf, another creature your family looked down on with disgust, but they were not alone in this view. Most of the wizarding world held those same views on werwolves, but Remus was your friend, and you made your choice by fighting harder for him than you ever did for a member of your family. It was a year before you figured out how to accomplish this impossible task. You and James worked tirelessly side by side and the summers seemed more bearable with the distraction. Was this when you and James became so close? Perhaps, but James had always felt like someone you had known in a past life. You had never needed to grow close to him, your souls already knew each other. It wasn’t until fifth year that everything fell into place. You became Padfoot, Moony, Wormtail and Prongs and the bond that had been formed that first night was sealed for good.
But as things began to fall together at Hogwarts, they fell apart at Grimmauld Place. Regulus had already entered school, of course, a year behind you and a Slytherin which was hardly a surprise. You suppose you could have bridged the gap between the two of you, but you just need to think back to your sorting to understand where your family’s values lie. The more time you spent with the Marauders, the less you could stand your family and the less they could stand you. You were changing and they were not and though this day had been a long time coming, you did not feel happiness or even relief as you packed everything important you owned with you when you went to Hogwarts for your sixth year. It took all the Gryffindor courage you could muster to ask James if perhaps when the train returned to King’s Cross, you could go home with him and his parents. The answer was an immediate yes, and that was how you left. Your mother and Regulus standing on Platform 9 and 3/4, waiting for you. Your baby brother swearing he’d seen you get off the train just before him. While you slipped through the brick wall with Potters and left your old life behind.
There were consequences. Oh, were there consequences. Most you would hardly bat an eye at them. You’d been blasted off the family tapestry, but you’d always hated that painting of you anyway. You’d lost your inheritance and Grimmauld Place, but all that house ever held for you was nightmares. The Pureblood Socialites were in an uproar about the disowned Black heir, you even saw your name in newspapers, but you had never sought their approval to begin with. The hardest consequences came from the very people you left. Your father died shortly after and you did not attend the funeral, did not visit his grave. You even felt a fool for shedding a tear over any small memory. Couldn’t a boy mourn his father? Bellatrix and Narcissa hardly changed, perhaps they’d always seen this coming. They’d held no love for you and you none for them, but their animosity became verbal, threatening and though you may have been a lion, you found yourself actively avoiding a situation in which you could be caught alone with your eldest cousin. She would never harm a Black, but you were not a Black anymore. Andromeda had always been easier to get along with, she had never been quite so Black, never been so malignant. Leaving her was not so easy and hating her was impossible, she’d done nothing wrong to you and you can’t help but feel like the villain every time your eyes meet and you see the pain behind the mask. You never once heard from your mother again.
But Reg. Oh, your baby brother, Regulus, who you had been born to protect to defend, not abandon. You remember the first time your mother lost her very short temper with them and stormed off leaving you with a mess of a sobbing five year old. You remember telling him she was wrong and maybe that was the only time he ever agreed with you. You may blame yourself, but it keeps you sane to know this blame is not all on you. Each and every Black had a choice to make and if he had been the only one brave enough to make the correct one, perhaps that was why you had been the only Gryffindor. You forged a path so that your brother could have a choice, and he chose wrong, so wrong. If there are feelings of betrayal, this is the only one you feel is mutual.
