ARCHIE for the role of SIRIUS BLACK, using the faceclaim BLAIR REDFORD.
Your application for Sirius is stunning, and incorporates lots of little details which flesh out the character wonderfully. You’ve portrayed the complexity of Sirius’ current situation so well, and there is some truly beautiful writing here. I am very excited to welcome you to Quartus Bellum!
ooc details
Name: Archie
Age: Twenty five
Pronouns: She/her
Activity Level: I’m a current PhD candidate, so my time is pretty strapped. I am also coming out of a writing hiatus, so I’m a little rusty, but this game was so alluring I just thought I’d be an idiot to pass up some world building and exploring. I can probably be online a few times a week, but I can promise lengthy replies in lieu of my absence. I hope that’s okay. I would definitely like to keep the mod team updated on things if I’m away for whatever reason, just so we’re on the same page and everything!
Other: No triggers! But thank you very much for asking. I’m just extremely motivated and intrigued by this plot, so I have to give major kudos to such an arresting idea. Please also note that I am applying from a mockblog I have created for the purpose of this application.
Acknowledgement: I acknowledge that the themes of this game may include triggering elements. I also acknowledge that my character may be harmed, coerced, or even killed (with player’s consent) during paras/events or may cause harm to or kill others during paras/events.
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general ic details
Name: Sirius Orion Black
Age: Twenty one (November 3rd, 1959)
Ships: Chemistry. Full disclosure, the biography given for Sirius gave me a lot of Sirius/James feelings (like, a lot), but I also really ship Sirius/Remus. I write Sirius as gay, but overall I’m pretty relaxed about writing relationships provided they’re realistically depicted and well-paced.
Gender/Pronouns: Genderfluid (he/him or they/them)
Face Claim: Blair Redford (x), Luke Pasqualino, Sean Teale * * I’ve gone back and forth between these three for ages... Ordinarily I write the Black family as POC, so after a Great Struggle™ in which I seriously admired Luke Pasqualino in “Snatch”, I decided to do something different and go with Blair Redford. Now, I do have a possible headcanon around Sirius and Regulus being half-brothers, so that can give the Regulus player some freedom around choosing a faceclaim, as I know matching ethnicities can be tricky (especially as Blair is half unspecified Native American). I will say, however, that I am open to discussing Sirius’ faceclaim, so if you’re unsure I’m happy to talk about it with you.
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biography:
Sirius wasn’t supposed to live past twenty one.
It’s a morbid, private thought, one best left for murmuring into the black velvet of late nights, supine with firewhiskey and muggle cigarettes. See, Sirius never expected to make it to sixteen, but then a certain shaggy-haired idiot named James F. Potter happened, and Sirius’ fears went out the window (literally – have you ever tried to pry open the latch of a very old semi-sentient house that doesn’t want its heir to escape? Harder than it looks). When the war started, Sirius accepted the likelihood of his imminent death with little fanfare. It was easier, anyway, to throw himself into missions and the gutsy bravado that gripped 1979 like a fever. The city was alive: subtropical clubs; the tongues of strangers; heady muggle music; the Order laughing, packed into some tiny apartment, drunk off their tits. And even before that haze dissipated, they all felt immortal. The war was real, of course, but so were they, and Sirius was young, and dumb, and he was one of the best duelers by far, so why shouldn’t he take to the streets, Doc Martens smacking the pavement, dodging after some Death Eater? The Black household was one shrouded in death, what with the dusty portraits of forgotten ancestors, their eyes following you in the gloom, and his own mother’s obsession with mortality, as if the Pox that claimed their father was a mere token of magic’s cruel whim to give and take away. The Marauders filled him with hope; the Order stoked those embers to flames. But there was always something within him, some stoic knowledge, that this was too good too last. He was a Black: his blood ran thick as oil.
If anyone asks (which they don’t, because despite his newfound control, Sirius can still be frightening), losing James was more than a sucker punch to the gut. The Order had lost so many brave witches and wizards at the height of the war, but those terrible deaths were nothing compared to James’ disappearance. No, not disappearance. Kidnapping. Theft. They stole Prongs from Sirius’ useless fingers, swept him away for good, and Sirius was powerless. Maybe that was what hurt most of all: knowing that no matter how deeply he felt for James, how fortifying and achingly tender their friendship was, it just wasn’t enough. Sirius thought he was incapable of love before he met James. But where did that get him? The yawning dark of an empty flat; shaking hands in the cold dawn light; the blood-pound of fear in his jugular, drumming hard enough to make his eyes spot black. Sirius didn’t give himself a chance to mourn, to wonder, to do anything other than drown himself in the rescue effort. The loss of Dumbledore was similarly shattering, but Dumbledore was more figurehead than individual: a manifestation of everything the Order wanted to be. James was real: he was blood and bone. He was laughter and the glossy gold of a snitch, he was private jokes and intense bravery. He was Sirius’ counterbalance. And then he was gone.
Sirius isn’t the same. None of them are. Everything they’d fought for was extinguished in twenty four hours. That might partly explain Sirius’ habitual visits to the muggle world. Disguised as Padfoot is as good as being invisible. He can slip through their ordered, ordinary world, and feel, at least for a few hours, that his pathetic excuse for an existence hasn’t been obliterated close beyond repair. Sirius tells himself they’ll claw it all back. Dumbledore, James, the Ministry. There is a terrible anger within him that is beyond anything he has ever felt. It is cavernous, infinite, far darker and bruised than any reservoir of loathing for his family. It is so intense that he cannot even speak about it. Sirius has always been a little frightened of how deeply he feels, but this redraws those boundaries. That feeling that his life is on a countdown has compounded. Sirius is willing to do anything to take back what is rightfully theirs. He spent his youth at war. It makes sense he’ll die at war too. He’s ready to throw open his arms and embrace the abyss, laughing in delirium, Is that all you’ve got? Well come on then!
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my character is:
HOW IS YOUR CHARACTER LYING TO THEMSELVES (AND HOW IS THIS SHOWN EXTERNALLY)?
Everything is fine. Everything is, of course, not fine, and is in fact irreparably fucked. But the alternative to Sirius’ externally calm demeanour is Sirius totally losing his bottle, and no one can have that, mainly because it would be the least useful thing he could do for the cause. Sirius is used to being someone people admire – there was no shortage of that in school, and even in the early period of the war: someone catching his eye hopefully, waiting for his go ahead; the mere recollection warms him with a rare, near-forgotten sense of purpose – but it’s quite another to have the final say in something. Sirius doubts himself so much. He’s not exactly a rational thinker. His vengeance is cold and cruel, that is certain, but even that type of behaviour is inherently emotional. Sirius revels in disorder: he enjoys feeling unmoored, likes not knowing. He’s not like Moony or Peter, who needed some semblance of routine to feel comfortable. Sirius quite likes feeling out of his depth; discomfort demands action. But he’s not good at communicating that, and he struggles with giving solace to someone who very badly needs to know that things are under control. Sirius hasn’t quite stooped to going, “There, there,” and patting someone awkwardly on the shoulder, but it’s close to it. He’s the first to loudly suggest a drink at some muggle pub after a disastrous mission, and he’s the last to leave, still nursing his beer long after everyone else has straggled home. Sirius isn’t eloquent like James; he isn’t calm like Moony. Hell, he doesn’t even have Wormtail’s pragmatism (before he betrayed them all, the absolute fucking bastard). Sirius is waiting for someone to catch him out. He’s not built to be a leader. The only thing he’s good for is a shag and a fun time. Right? He’s not… he’s not what they think he is. He’s useless. He’s a joke. It’s a joke. But it’s a fine joke. Ergo: everything is fine. It has to be. Otherwise he’ll drag everyone else into the flames with him, and if there’s anything Sirius is truly frightened of, it’s someone else recognizing just how deep the streak of darkness within him runs.
YOUR CHARACTER’S JOB (WHAT DO THEY DO AND HOW DO THEY FEEL ABOUT IT?)
Sirius is dedicated to the Ashen Phoenix. Even when the Order of the Phoenix still existed, when it was little more than a ragged group of idealistic Hogwarts graduates and wayward aurors, when Dumbledore’s vague effluence alternately inspired or infuriated them, back when the war seemed – well, not winnable, but certainly surmountable – even then, Sirius was too much. Too brash, too rough, too much of a muchness that made people like old Mad Eye growl under his breath about upstart sprogs. There was something to be admired in Sirius’ explosive determination, even as his reckless behaviour and breathless duels with Death Eaters was more exasperating than useful. “What?” he’d retort defensively, to a room of tired Order members. “They were asking for it.”
Sirius had always been too much. When everything – when James – when it all went to utter shite, it’s probably no wonder that Sirius lost whatever loose grip on sanity he’d ever had, and tossed it all in to band up with Mary and Lily. Lily, whom he could barely stand on a good day, who suddenly became one of the most important people standing stalwart against the uncertain scaffolding containing his so-called life. Was it really that surprising? Sirius has always privately regarded his grip on reality to be tenuous at best. Combine that with a deep, unwavering streak of hatred for blood purists, and you’ve got a terrible combination. Successful, sure; but dangerous. He can’t afford to be the rambunctious “upstart” that once semi-terrorized the Order of the Phoenix, nor can he sit about on his laurels, skulking in espionage or plotting elaborate shadowy schemes. Sirius’ patience runs thin at the best of times. No, instead he’s squashed himself into a rather uncomfortable box between “probably could be classified as a war crime” and “slightly morally questionable but still alright enough to make Evans begrudgingly admit that was a good idea”. It’s not a comfortable fit, and Sirius still isn’t sure how he ended up growing up so bloody fast, but he’ll do anything to turn back the tide of the darkness that now laps menacingly against their throats.
Aside from that, he spends quite a lot of time inadvertently posing as a muggle homeless person. Or a big shaggy dog. In comparison to being a magical fugitive, it’s almost like going on holiday.
ADDRESS THE DIFFERENCES BETWEEN WHAT YOUR CHARACTER IS CURRENTLY DOING AND WHAT THEY WOULD PREFER TO DO.
Sirius does not like responsibility. It smacks of adulthood, and Sirius never thought he’d live to see that, let alone become a ruddy pillar of virtue. It’s not that he intensely dislikes fussing over details for the Phoenixes, but it does not come naturally to him – he’s no James, put it that way (James, who was forever buzzing around them all in a manner simultaneously carefree and watchful, who’d jokingly suggest you get a jumper otherwise you’d get a cold, you bellend, so just go grab one, oh, and would you get him a chocolate frog on the way, thanks). Sirius actually doesn’t like people looking up to him. What does he know? He’s just some irresponsible dog who’d much, much rather zip away on his motorbike to blast You-Know-Who’s bits off, and sod the consequences. If he didn’t have Mary and Lily keeping him in check, Merlin knew where he’d be. Probably sharing a cell with Dumbledore. Knitting scarves and gossiping. Some lark like that. Instead he’s relegated to asking mundane questions like, “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” and, “Wait, try this healing charm.” Sirius listens to his own blather and wants to be sick. He feels the words can no one see I don’t know what I’m doing! burning every inch of him, pounding against the underside of his skin, flaring across his pained expression. “I want James back,” he said (thoughtlessly) to Lily once; and she’d shot him a look and said, “We all do.” You don’t get it, Sirius thought. I want him back because I need him. I can’t do this on my own. I need him.
Sirius does not want to turn back the clock. Despite his irreverent mindset, Sirius isn’t a fantasist. He’s emotionally charged and often irrational, but he doesn’t indulge in make-believe. There is no way things are going back to normal. There’s not even a fragment of what they left behind: those few months after school ended and before the war began, when London was besieged by an oppressive summer humidity, and the Marauders tumbled in and out of parties, drinking and laughing, carefree and stupid; the sanctity of Hogwarts, and how innocent they’d been; even old Regulus, with his pinched, shrewd expression, but the way his eyes would loosen and warm whenever Sirius ruffled his hair and affectionately called him a tosspot. Sirius cherishes these slivers of the past, counting them out like his last coins, weighing their treasure in the palm of his hand. The memories he makes now are bleak. Undernourished effigies of a world devolved. Sirius might feel beset with fear about the future, but he is still… adaptable. He was at sixteen, when he left home on a wing and a prayer, and he is now, at twenty one. No more clever, and a great deal more out of control, but able to adapt, change, mold, mend. Sirius recognizes the strange surrounding landscape and has vowed, if silently, to learn its routes, to memorize its violent topography. Survival. That was what his parents had always taught him, right? That pure blood dominates. The Marauders taught him that too, albeit in compassionate terms of friendship and trust, things Sirius had to re-learn at eleven and still is, in a way. The Order drilled him in guerrilla warfare. Dumbledore’s capture stripped him of complacency. And James… Well, survival demands vigilance. Survival turned him into something else: someone sharper, more serious, blackened around the edges. Sirius doesn’t want to turn back the clock because that would mean leaving this new version of himself behind. And like it or not, this is the only version of Sirius sodding Black that could ever make it out the other end. So, tits up to you, Voldy. This bitch ain’t going nowhere.
OOC QUESTIONS
WRITING SAMPLE:
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EXPLORATION:
A LONG-AWAITED REUNION — One of the major subplots for this group is, of course, the return or recapture of James. From Sirius’ perspective, I think James returning to his life would signal a number of critical things – it might even be a turning point in his characterization. I see Sirius at the moment as barely hanging on. Stress exacerbates his pre-existing feelings of insufficiency and vulnerability, so he is at a stage as a member of Ashen Phoenix where he’s strung out and exhausted, burning the midnight oil, hollow-eyed and discomfortingly stoic. The loss of James was an enormously heavy blow, and that’s no overstatement. If James was somehow returned, I think that would fill Sirius’ sails with the winds of renewal and hope. He and James were a double act; they were shadows of each other. Without him, Sirius feels like a fraud.
PLAYING NICE — Sirius has never been good at pretending. His emotions run close to the surface, flashing in his quicksilver eyes at the slightest provocation. It never used to take much for him to plunge from a euphoric high to a turbulent anger, his moodiness as tempestuous as a tide. But that’s not how you lead people. You can’t expect people to see past your thunderstorm behaviour to the reality of the situation: that Sirius has always felt a split second away from free-fall. Most people aren’t like James, or Moony, or even bloody Wormtail – they can’t see that it’s all an act; that Sirius’ vulnerabilities run swift and deep, and his bravado is just a reliable way to deflect unwanted probing. Since Mouldy Voldy started swinging his shriveled old cock around, Sirius has had an abrupt about-face. It’s never easy, and he often forgets that he’s supposed to be playing nice. In fact, one could make the argument that he hasn’t changed much at all: he’s still a moody bastard. But sometimes he takes a deep breath instead of bursting in rage; sometimes he clenches his fists instead of flying for his wand. I would like to explore Sirius working hard to keep a lid on his temper, particularly given the success of Ashen Phoenix relies, at least in part, on him keeping it together for a little while longer.
THE IMMORTALITY OF REGULUS ARCTURUS BLACK — Reuniting Sirius and Regulus is a massively important subplot for me, and I think it could have powerful consequences in this group. I’m not sure how Sirius will take Regulus’ vampirism – it’ll certainly be interesting to find out. In another context I could see him falling about in horrified laughter, because now Regulus will get to hang around with Walburga forever. But I wonder now if their prolonged absence from each other will stir within Sirius a long-buried sense of responsibility. He’ll probably start worrying about Regulus, terrified that the new Dark Ministry will hunt his brother down and exterminate him. He might even (gasp!) become horribly over-protective, hating himself all the while for needling Regulus about “feeding” and all that dosh (”Shut up!” Sirius snaps as Regulus raises a single eyebrow. “It’s not like there’s a manual about becoming a bleeding vampire, is there?” A pause. “No pun intended.”) No doubt there’s a degree of irony in an ex-Death Eater suddenly becoming the prey of his old buddies, but Sirius isn’t a masochist. As stupid as Regulus has behaved, they’re still brothers. Even before the war turned for the worst, Sirius still missed him. Yearned for him to be back. Regulus was the biggest idiot in Britain, but he was Sirius’ idiot, and if Sirius had heard more than a whisper about his brother he would have probably done something very stupid to rush to his side. Call Sirius a lot of things, but being disloyal could never be one of them.
EXTRAS:
I have created a mockblog for this group, which is the account I am submitting from. You can find it here. I have also written some general headcanons, which you can find below!
Sirius started getting muggle tattoos during the war. The first war, that is, back when they all thought it’d be over by Christmas. He’s got about seventeen, possibly a few more, all in black ink, most of them done in poky muggle tattoo parlours buried in the heart of London, but a couple of them are magical: the dragon across his left shoulder blade, for example, which sneezes fire when you tickle it just right. It’s an eclectic collection that illustrate Sirius’ natural whimsy: a series of ancient runes that Moony told him meant something cool (although Sirius has since suspected Moony was an absolute tosser, and the runes in fact spell “totally gullible gobshite”); an elaborate diagram of the planets in the middle of his back; a broom that zips around his arm (James’ fault, that one); an anatomically dubious pin-up girl (Sirius wanted a guy, but the tattoo artist looked frightening, and Sirius wasn’t in the mood to go toe-to-toe about his sexual preferences); and, for reasons best left alone, ancient constellations scattered most of his chest. There are some other tattoos squashed in here and there – a Gryffindor lion, a protection symbol that Moony literally laughed aloud at when Sirius showed it off – that are mainly impulse decisions. Sirius loves them all. The ink is so black against his brown skin, the magical designs flickering in the corner of his eye, and it all gives the illusion of him appearing alive, ever in motion, an intricate living illustration.
Sirius still owns his motorbike, although it’s too dangerous to ride it. Some arsehole (Bellatrix, probably) ratted him out, and now everyone and their mother is on the hunt for a sleek black motorbike. He isn’t stupid enough to ride it, no matter how burning the urge, although sometimes he does go out to Clapham, where he’d parked it in a muggle garage, just to linger over it for a few stolen moments. One day he’ll blaze it right over London, preferably in celebration of Balding Voldy’s bloody demise. One day. He will.
Sirius is gay. The revelation came unobtrusively. He’d always known there was… something awry. You’d have to be blind, deaf, and dumb not to be surrounded by all of those posh pureblood birds growing up and feel nothing more than resignation at their proximity (their brothers were far more intriguing). Sirius played along for a bit at school, going out with a few girls, making out with McKinnon at more than a few parties. It was all serviceable, except for the fact it was tremendously boring, and if there was anything Sirius resented, it was feeling confined. He came out (very loudly) in his sixth year (in the middle of the Great Hall; it was quite the gossip for a week or so), and has since been perfectly content with advertising his sexuality at the nearest opportunity. He’s no blushing violet, put it that way. While Wizarding society is more or less accepting of sexuality (his parents notwithstanding: Sirius was still expected to marry and produce an heir; and that thought, of dragging some brat into the world through duty alone, turned his stomach), the fragmentation in muggle society is something else. Sirius is still too enthusiastic about muggle life to ever really fit in – he’s been asked innumerable times if he’s a tourist, which absolutely delights him – but the gay and lesbian rights movements in recent years has captured his attention. He’s kept up with the news about protests, and once apparated into an alley adjacent to a march for queer liberation. We’re here, the muggles chanted, we’re queer! We won’t disappear! The feeling was incredible. Wixen didn’t have anything like this – it was all just taken for granted. But the fight of the muggles. Their determination; their spirit. Their strength in demanding what was theirs. It left him breathless, and for the first time in his life, proud.
Sirius spends a lot of time as Padfoot these days. It’s just easier. He’s a dab hand at disguise charms – had to be, when the war started to turn truly dark and a Black blood traitor head on a spit was a coveted prize – but outside of a handful of people, Sirius’ animagus form is a secret. Lily knows, of course, as does Macdonald, but they have to. Slinking around London as a dog makes for surreptitious travel, even if he’s taken on some bad habits as a human. Fleas genuinely are the worst, alright? He can’t help scratching himself fiercely at the slightest itch.
The way Sirius dresses now is a diluted version of the summer of 1979. Back then, London was a heaving cesspool of cramped, humid clubs, gigs outfitted in leather and gelled spikes, tight chokers, and a casual, careless androgyny that made Sirius’ heart beat fast. Back then he didn’t give a toss. Now, of course, he’s no longer a naive graduate, and the world has grown dim. He usually wears a leather jacket over some band t-shirt, a pair of black ripped jeans, Doc Martens. That’s toned down, for him. While a lot of the jewellery has gone, Sirius’ fingers are still bejewelled with rows of heavy silver rings, and a dragon tooth earring swings from his left ear. His eyes, once glittering with flirtatious humour, are ringed dark with wariness; and his cutting bone structure has sharpened with one too many missed meals. Sirius is probably physically bulkier than he was at school, simply because sleeping rough and hauling arse after a dozen Death Eaters tends to fill you out, but his body is still lean, with an echo of that languid grace that whispered of pureblood ballrooms and charity galas. Sirius’ hair has grown long, and he usually ties it sloppily away from his face, but he stays clean shaven… most of the time. Lily once said he looked like a Lennon on a bad trip after Sirius reappeared after a rendezvous in Dublin for four weeks. He’s still trying to figure out if that was an insult.