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Chapter Text

Voldemort is sitting in Sirius’ comfortable armchair.

Sirius remembers stealing it from a witch he’d had a brief but tumultuous affair with. She’d scratched his bike when he broke it off with her, and in retaliation, he stole her armchair.

It has a pink unicorn painted on the side.

This is why Sirius’ first impulse is to laugh at the absurdity of the image.

He always laughs at the most inappropriate of times. 

Death is close, he reminds himself. Death is sitting in his armchair. 

Sirius doesn’t laugh; he takes his wand out, nonchalantly.

He doesn’t try to attack. He flicks it and the candles on the wall come alive, casting sinister shadows on Lord Voldemort’s face.

Or maybe it’s his face that is sinister and the candles have nothing to do with it. 

I am a Black. I will not show fear.

Sure, he says he’s nothing like them, he disowns them every chance he gets. But so close to dying, there is no point in pretending anymore, is there? He is a Black and Blacks are proud creatures. 

He walks casually, tightens his grip on his wand to stop his fingers from shaking, tucks the other hand in his pocket.

Brown eyes tinged with red follow him.

Sirius stops about five feet away from the armchair. 

A faint smile plays on Voldemort’s lips, turning his face even more sinister. Sirius stares at it-he’d heard descriptions from the few that had seen it and survived the encounter.

It sounded horrific- red eyes, waxy features, hallowed cheeks. And it is, really. It is horrific and yet not monstrous.

Not god-like. Just a man. 

A formidable man. An exceptional wizard. The most accomplished at wielding dark magic.

But still, just a man. Sirius refuses to think otherwise. 

A sick, twisted part of him feels pride at being singled out, deemed important enough, powerful enough to warrant an execution from the dark lord himself. 

Voldemort remains silent, eyes unblinking. 

Silence breaks lesser men, his father had told him, so long ago. Never speak first.

Sirius had discarded that lesson- had been rash and loud and always desperate to cover the silence.

Because in the silence, he could hear the Black blood whispering. 

However, he just decided he will die a Black, so this time he lets the silence do its trick.

Sirius will not talk first. He is not the lesser man. 

A car’s tire backfires outside his windows a minute later and Sirius almost flinches.

Almost. Blacks do not flinch. 

In his last minutes of earth, he thinks of James. He hopes James won’t be the one to find his corpse. 

(He thinks of his mother; if she’ll care. If she’ll show up at the funeral. If she will shed a tear. ‘You are no son of mine.’)

“Sirius Black.” The voice is soft, but Sirius hears the undertone of strength in it.

Sirius smirks, because he wins. 

“Would be awkward if I weren’t,” he mutters when Voldemort doesn’t follow it up with anything else. “You break into people’s houses like a common thief and yet you call yourself a lord,” he drawls, and he feels that vindictive satisfaction he always gets when he riles someone up.

The Black taint is impossible to wash, no matter how hard he tries.

Are you sure you tried so hard?

“What do you want?” Voldemort asks, head slightly tilted, regarding Sirius with interest. 

“You came to me,” Sirius points out, confused.

“To find out what you want.” 

The light plays tricks on Voldemort’s eyes as he leans forward, making them terrifying and strange and mesmerising. Sirius cannot look away, even if the barely contained fear tells him to drop his gaze. “So I can give it to you.” 

He does flinch then, surprise jolting his nerves. 

“You want me to join you?” he asked, astonished.

Voldemort keeps staring. 

Sirius finally gives into his impulse and laughs, because- really! 

People usually have a reaction to Sirius- he’s instantly liked, adored, or he’s instantly hated.

Recently, he’s staring to be feared.

The point is, everyone reacts to him and his inappropriate behaviour.

Voldemort doesn’t. He keeps staring.

He’s like no one else you’ve ever met! Bella said, dreamily, when Sirius discovered the mark on her arm, right before he left his house, in his fifth year. He’ll give us everything we need, Sirius! What we deserve! 

Even if he left, even if he disagrees with his family views, even if he has no inclination to slaughter muggleborns just because they exist, Sirius still thinks he deserves things, simply on account of being who he is. 

Entitled, Remus called him, so many times. 

“I’m a big boy,” he says. “I get what I want on my own, just fine.” And then, stupidly, he adds: “But thanks.” 

Blacks truly are made of pride, it’s at the core of their personalities. And having someone as notorious as the Dark Lord come to him- in person-

It’s not the first time he is courted. 

Bella had tried the hardest. 

Malfoy keeps inviting him to visit Narcissa at his manor. 

At the pubs Sirius goes on his own (down in Knockturn Alley where a voice deep inside insists he belongs), when it gets too much, when being good guy extraordinaire gets tiring, stifling, his drinks are often paid by others. 

When Sirius asks who he has to thank for his alcohol, the bartender nods towards the shadows; Sirius sometimes recognises Rabastan, sometimes Even Rosier.  

He’d always thought it’s Bella’s doing, all of it. 

They’ve been closer than twins, once upon a time, even with the seven-year age gap. 

Bella is… she’s not right in the head. She’d been lonely and pushed away. Sirius had been only a baby-to him, she never seemed crazy, either because of his age, or because he was not quite right either. 

He used to waddle after her, in Grimmauld Place or her father’s estate; she read aloud from her books to entertain him. 

He cried when she left for Hogwarts, every year. 

She taught him hexes and let him practice with her wand, before he was even six years old. 

She calmed him down and kissed his cheek when he’d been eight and he’d thrown a jealous fit, so protective of her, when she went out on a date. 

They don’t matter, they’re just boys. You’re my soulmate, she told him.

He went to her wedding, with a scarlet and golden tie, a lion in a den of snakes. Shy of thirteen, he cornered Rodolphus before the reception and threatened to kill him if he ever hurt Bella. Rodolphus laughed and Sirius reminded him of the many, many books on the Dark Arts, unique exemplars that could only be found in the Black library. 

Is this her doing, too? 

But no, it cannot be. Bella had stopped talking to him for months. 

His letters return, still sealed. 

Traitor, she spat from under her mask, when they crossed paths, on an Order mission gone wrong.  

Traitor, indeed. Sirius never told anyone about her mark. 

He’d never seen Lucius’, but he knows it is there. Yet Lucius is Cissa’s husband, so Sirius says nothing about him, either. 

“How in the hells would he know?” James had snarled at Prewett, when one twin had asked if maybe Sirius has some sort of inside information about Lucius’ increasingly suspicious activity. “He has nothing to do with those people!” 

James is Sirius’ staunchest supporter; James tries to shield him from the suspicious gazes Sirius receives from most people. 

James is a little blind-even with his glasses, he cannot see that no matter what Sirius does, no matter how much he tries to be good, no matter how many times he proves himself, all he has to do is level a gaze, square his shoulders and to everyone else in the Order, his Black blood screams louder than everything he might have to say. 

And to the Blacks, Sirius will forever be a blood traitor. 

Caught between blood and principles, between cousins and friends, hated and distrusted on both sides, Sirius only really has James, the one to truly see Sirius and nothing else. 

There’s Peter, too, he supposes. 

Remus-Remus had never quite gotten over the Incident with Snape. 

Sirius is tired, and he’s reminded of it, pulled back from his thoughts.

Whatever else death will bring, at least he hopes it will bring rest.

“You don’t know what you want, do you?” Voldemort asks. 

There is no Legilimency involved; Sirius is a decent Legilimens himself, an even better Occlumenes. 

Bella taught him from a very early age. 

“I want you dead,” Sirius offers. 

“Do you?” Voldemort smiles. “I wonder why.” 

Sirius opens his mouth but closes it upon further consideration. 

His reasoning will fall flat, will sound empty. 

Because you are a murderer? Sirius is one, too. 

Because you are a dark wizard? Sirius knows and uses enough dark curses when he can get away with it. 

Because you are evil? Sounds childish. 

“James Potter wants me dead,” Voldemort says, and Sirius is truly afraid, for the first time, because he doesn’t want this man to ever speak James’ name again. “You’re just drifting along, because you have nowhere else to go.” 

“Piss off!” Sirius snarls and his wand twitches in his hand, urges Sirius to punish. 

Voldemort stands. 

Sirius is a tall man, used to looking down at everyone. This is an exception. Voldemort has at least two inches over him. 

Sirius hates it. 

“They will cast you away,” he says, softly. “You do not belong with them. You belong with your blood. My Death Eaters have interesting tales about you.” Voldemort’s eyebrow raises. “Dumbledore will not approve of your style, where he to find out. And he will, eventually.” 

Sirius thinks it’s stupid not to use dark magic to counter dark magic. Sirius thinks it’s senseless to allow a Death Eater to live, when they could be dead. 

Sirius drifts apart from his allies in battle, draws Death Eaters further away and deals with them the way he knows. 

Fire with fire. 

Dumbledore would certainly not approve. 

“You cannot contain darkness once it starts spreading,” Voldemort offers. “It will claim you in the end. Embrace it. I will give you free rein to be who you were born to be, unconstrained.” 

“I was born to be a pain in the arse, dear mum says.” 

He’s -he’s uncomfortable. He is uncertain and he doesn’t know how to deal with this, because Black are never uncomfortable. 

Blacks are never flustered. Blacks don’t cry. 

Blacks rage, though. That was always acceptable. Sirius knows how to express anger best. 

And spite. 

He knows how to strike where it would hurt the most.

He remembers his father whispering in the office- 

“It is not wise to oppose Lord Voldemort, Walburga.” 

He remembers his mother, snorting. “‘Lord’, do you hear yourself? He’s only an upjumped mudblood, with ideas high above his station. You should have seen him, in his first year, with his crass accent, his second hand robes; how he was attacked, that very first night in the common room, by his betters. Lord, he says. Never!”

His father insisted. “I remember him having everyone under his thumb, by the time I got to Hogwarts. He is not to be messed with, Walburga.” 

Sirius inquired about Lord’s Voldemort’s identity. But Dumbledore shied away from the question, refusing to disclose a name. 

Why, Sirius doesn’t know- but that’s Dumbledore. He keeps his secrets close to his heart. 

No one else in the Order seems overly concerned with their biggest enemy true identity. 

It drives Sirius mad. But they’re all Gryffindors there- and Gryffindors aren’t known for needing much information before they jump head first into a war. 

“Speaking of my mum, I believe you know her, don’t you?” Sirius asks, filled with anger and venom. 

Voldemort says nothing to that; he doesn’t take the bait, and it’s frustrating, it makes Sirius angrier. 

“You champion your pureblood cause, but observe-” Sirius steps back, gestures at himself. “You are looking at the pinnacle of pureblood perfection. I am the purest, the noblest blood you’ll every set your eyes on. I will not bow to a mudblood,” he spits and yes-there it is! 

Voldemort’s eyes spark, his fingers twitch and Sirius clutches his wand tighter-but at the last second, Voldemort doesn’t reach for his own. 

“You have something against muggleborns?” Voldemort asks, lip twitching up, in a mocking smile.  

Sirius is so chocked up, he can’t even come up with a witty answer. 

Lily would understand, he thinks. Sirius is just trying to insult; not muggleborns-Voldemort. 

“You do not belong there.” 

“You know nothing about me-” 

“They don’t either,” Voldemort counters. “But they suspect. I suspect. We all see the ‘pinnacle of pureblood perfection’. Bella calls you a traitor-she’s hurt, because you betrayed her. And yet, the only one you constantly betray, is yourself. Isn’t it tiring? To always pretend? To play nice? To act as if the world shouldn’t bow down to you?” 

A thousand thoughts race in his head and there’s a voice- the Black voice- whispering in agreement. 

“I know very well how that feels. I, too, had to pretend for many years. To ignore your dear mother and her ilk when they called me a mudblood. But once I was done pretending,” Voldemort smiles. “It is freeing. Do you not want to be free?” 

Sirius does, so very badly. 

He wants the conflict inside him to end. 

But Sirius is better than his darkest instincts; or at least that is what James said, sternly, months after Sirius had tried to kill Snape, uncaring about how it would make Remus feel, uncaring of consequences, just filled with rage. 

He casts a blood boiling curse, learned in the deepest, darkest corners of the Black Library. 

Non verbally, powerful and with perfect aim. 

Voldemort barely has time to block it. 

But he does block it, when none of his Death Eaters had managed. 

The attack does not anger Voldemort. If anything, it seems to please him. 

See? His still there smile seems to ask. No good Gryffindor would know such Dark Magic. 

Maybe he’s reading too much into Voldemort’s smirk. 

Maybe he’s projecting. 

He casts another obscure spell, and another after it. 

Eventually, Voldemort retaliates, but even proud, arrogant Sirius can tell the man is holding back.

That he’d be crushed in seconds if Voldemort truly wanted it.  

It’s the most exhilarating duel of his life. 

It cannot last more than five minutes. His house is in ruins by the end. 

Maybe casting Fiendfyre in such closed quarters wasn’t the brightest idea Sirius ever had. 

But when in the heat of battle, Sirius never cares about collateral victims, or even himself-all he cares, all he chases, is victory. 

He doesn’t obtain it now, ending up flat on his back, his wand in Voldemort’s hand.  

Sirius is not used to losing- he is the best duelist of his generation. 

And sure, sometimes Fabian bests him; Moody certainly does when they train, but only because Sirius cannot use dark magic with them. 

If he were to, he’d win. He senses it in his heart. 

He used it now, more than he ever had before, but he’d been at most an annoying fly rather than a real threat to Voldemort. 

Sirius takes comfort that at least this is the greatest dark lord in history. Surely, it’s not that humiliating to lose to someone of such caliber. 

And, to his great pleasure, he made Voldemort bleed. 

A thin line of blood runs from his temple, over his cheek, dripping down his robe. Voldemort’s eyes look redder, with the blood shining on his face. 

“What did the Sorting Hat tell you?” Voldemort asks, bending over Sirius, who makes a tremendous effort not to cry out in pain, to not break under the vicious grip it has on him, reaching through his body. 

“You do not belong there.” 

The hat had seen it before Voldemort, when Sirius had begged to go to Gryffindor, just to spite his mother. 

“I will find a way to destroy you, if you don’t do as I ask,” Sirius had said, childish and arrogant and so very confident. 

“Such a Slytherin thing to say.” The hat had laughed. “A lesson for you, young Black. When you do not listen to counsel, you will end up the worst for it. GRYFFINDOR!” 

“It said-” Sirius can barley talk, through the pain consuming him. “It said that I should tell you to go fuck yourself.” 

And fuck that stupid hat; Sirius is a Gryffindor. 

No Slytherin would say that to Voldemort’s face. Slytherins have self preservation.

Bella doesn’t. Bella would tell anyone and everyone to go fuck themselves.  

Bella is Sirius, if he’d been a woman. 

Bella is his soulmate. 

Bella is a Slytherin, through and through. 

Voldemort laughs, a deep and surprisingly pleasant sound. 

Sirius is losing far too much blood. 

“What’s your name?” he asks, curious. No one would tell him-the few that must know, refuse to utter it. 

Voldemort performs the counter curse for some of the curses he inflicted upon Sirius, because the pain diminishes. 

“And what’s this curse?” Sirius can’t help himself. It’s a strong curse. Efficient. He wishes he had known it sooner, so he could have used it on certain people.  

“My own creation. I shall teach it to you. I shall teach you everything. I will give you the world, Sirius Black. You only have to say ‘yes’.” 

“No,” Sirius says, because- 

Well, above all else, above the fact that it would be wrong, he says it because he can. 

Because he’s made of spite. He always fucks up his life, just to spite others, doesn’t he? 

“Your name!” he demands. “Or are you so ashamed of it you cannot bear to say it? Too common? Too muggle? It’s Smith, isn’t it? Williams? You’ll kill me in a second. What harm could it do to tell me?” 

Voldemort stands to his full height. “A month. I shall return in a month for my answer.” 

What about Sirius’ answers? 

He tries to stand, but he’s terribly dizzy. The floor is stained red, the only colour amongst the ashes. 

Voldemort walks to the door, places Sirius’ wand on a half destroyed end table. 

“What did the hat say to you?” Sirius asks, just as the door opens. 

His back to Sirius, Voldemort looks over his shoulder. His face in profile is somehow even more imposing than a full frontal. 

“It was a short affair, unlike your sorting.” 

Sirius had sat on that chair for close to ten minutes. Everyone in Britain had heard of it. The fucking Prophet wrote an entire article about the Black scion’s surprising sorting.  

“It only had two words for me.” 

A short pause. Sirius’s heart hammers in his chest; he gets to live for at least another month. He’s groggy and in pain, but he’s never felt more alive. 

His Black blood is singing. 

“Welcome, Heir.” 

The door opens and Voldemort is gone.

He knows how to make a dramatic exit, Sirus thinks, almost delirious.   

Minutes later, the Aurors show up.

Chapter Text

"Death Eater attack," he tells Moody, as he's being treated.

"How many-"

"Auror Moody, do you mind?" A healer snaps at him. "I'm trying to care for my patient-"

"Three," Sirius answers after swallowing some bitter-tasting potion.

"Were they-"

"Out," Marlene says, running into the room. "Moody, out! Now!"

Moody grunts something about waiting in the hallway and backs away.

"'lo, McKinnon," Sirius greets her.

"Can't stay out of trouble, can you?"

"You can leave too," the Healer says, annoyed.

"But I am a Healer-"

"In training! This is advanced dark magic. Out!"

"But I want to learn-"

"Stay here and be quiet, then. Mr Black! Mr Black, open your eyes! Can you hear me?"

"Sirius? Oi, Black! Come on-"

"Get the Head Healer, now!"

Their voices come from far, far away.

(-)

"I swear to God, Alastor if Dawlish enters this room one more time-"

Lily. Sirius groans. What brain dead moron called them?

"… 'm fine," he mumbles.

"Padfoot?"

Sirius opens his eyes.

James is as white as the wall behind him, watching Sirius from the foot of the bed.

Lily's brilliant green eyes search Sirius all over.

"I'm fine," Sirius says again, with more conviction. His side hurts like hell, but he suppresses a wince.

He hates having them worry. They just married a week past, and now he's ruining their honeymoon.

"Go back to Greece," he says, uselessly. "I'm sure they'll let me get home in a minute."

"You're not fine!" Lily throws her hair over her shoulder. "There are traces of magic so dark on you, there's no telling what effects it might have. You're staying for observation, like it or not! Marlene said you almost died!"

"McKinnon tries to pretend she actually knows what she's doing," Sirius mumbles. "James! Stop looking at me like that! I'm not dead!"

James opens his mouth, but there is a ruckus of sorts outside the door.

"… access restricted." Dawlish voice, low and threatening.

"I'm not a bloody Death-Eater; here, check my arm."

Sirius sighs. "You're all making a big fuss out of nothing."

He tries to stand only for James and Lily to fall on him, pushing him back down. He's wearing one of those horrid hospital gowns-

"Did you let McKinnon see me like this?" he asks, struggling with all the arms holding him down. "She won't let me fuck her anymore-"

"She's engaged," Lily reminds him.

Peter comes through the door, having finally escaped Dawlish.

His face relaxes when he sees Sirius.

"If Remus comes through that door next-" Sirius threatens.

"You'll what?" Remus asks, entering the room.

(-)

"You can't go home," James says the next day. "Your house is destroyed. They had to Obliviate half the neighbourhood."

Sirius fumes. "If my leather jacket is gone, I'm going to throw a fit," he says.

"Which one?" Lily asks.

"Don't get smart with me!"

"You're coming home with us, when they'll let you go," James continues.

"Forget it! You are newlyweds."

Sirius will not be going anywhere near their house anytime soon. Not with Voldemort after him.

James knows him far too well, because he runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up.

"There would be three of us, if you will live at our house; even if Death Eaters come again, we have more chances if there are more of us to fight."

Sirius snorts.

There is no chance against Voldemort. 

"Sleepy time," Marlene comes in. "Lovebirds, piss off. He needs rest."

"Can't I sleep here?"

"Potter, go home with your wife and leave Black alone."

Marlene gets them out. She's quite bossy when she wants to. She looks tired as she hands him the dreamless potion.

"How's the pain?"

"Fine."

"Black, I'm a fucking Healer. You can't bullshit me."

He lets her give him some other potion and falls asleep shortly after.

By the third day, he gets restless. Voldemort gave him a month, and Sirius is wasting his last days on earth in a stupid hospital.

"If you don't help me get out of here, I'll just escape on my own," he tells James, who reluctantly agrees to the plan. 

He helps Sirius steal some pain relief potions, and they sneak out.

James wasn't exaggerating. His house is a ruin. It gives him a thrill, remembering the duel.

The destruction is mostly his fault. He's always been messy.

"This looks like Fiendfyre," James whispers. "The Aurors said so."

Sirius makes a noncommittal sound.

"Moody says Dawlish was asking how you'd know to extinguish one. Moody says they might give you some grief over it."

Luckily, Marlene, who knows him well, had snatched Sirius's wand from him before the Aurors could demand it for examination.

Sirius bristles. "Dawlish knows how to control Fiendfyre. Dumbledore knows it, too. But it is suspicious that I know?"

"One's an Auror, they're expected to have faced this sort of thing and the other one-well, he's Dumbledore-"

"And I'm a Black," Sirius says, hotly. "That's why it's suspicious."

James doesn't deny it. "Come, let's see if some of your stuff survived -"

"It wasn't Death Eaters," Sirius blurts out.

(In another world, he'd keep his mouth shut. He'd almost say it, but restrain himself at the last second. In another world, Sirius would stick with his story of three masked Death Eaters, would move to another small house and would wait for Voldemort to return. He would refuse him. After that, he wouldn't be courted anymore. He wouldn't be welcomed in the pubs of Knockturn Alley. Narcissa wouldn't invite him to Malfoy Manor.)

"It was Voldemort."

James immediately grabs him and Apparates him to Hogsmeade. "You ok?" he asks Sirius, brown eyes wide, searching for injuries as if Sirius hadn't just been released from the hospital.

"James-"

"Fuck! Voldemort? You got out alive? I know how good you are with duels, but-"

"It wasn't like that," Sirius says, but James is past listening, already in a frenzy.

"Come, we're going to Dumbledore."

That's why they're in Hogsmeade, of course.

"I don't want to talk to Dumbledore."

"Listen-I understand why you didn't tell the Aurors," James says, and he looks furious on Sirius's behalf. Even if he pretends he doesn't, James knows very well that if Sirius turns up relatively unscathed after a duel with Voldemort, even more people would think him a dark wizard than they already do.

"I don't want to talk to Dumbledore."

This is why he hadn't wanted to tell James. He's not sure what he has against Dumbledore-

It can't have anything to do with how Dumbledore knows Sirius.

"Why did you do it?" Dumbledore asks, looking old and tired and so disappointed, as sixteen-year-old Sirius sits in his office.

Sirius hates to be looked at like that, feels so embarrassed, so guilty, so unworthy of the chances he was offered in Gryffindor. As always, he has no clue how to deal with all of it. He could apologise- he is sorry; not for Snape, but for what he'd almost done to Remus.

But Blacks never apologise.

"Because Snape is an annoying git," he said stubbornly.

"He could have died. Do you understand that, Sirius? How grave that is-"

"Of course I understand!" Sirius doubles down, refusing to be crushed under the weight of Dumbledore's gaze, filled with disappointment and worry. "Why do you think I sent him there?"

Since then, well-suffice to say, Dumbledore gave him another chance, but Sirius knows he's closely monitored. The old professor had taken Sirius aside to talk about how he chooses to deal with Death Eaters only two months before. 

“A dangerous, slippery path.”

James won't relent. "You need protection. My house won't be enough. We need to keep you safe, Sirius-"

"I can handle myself!" Sirius snarls and immediately feels terrible. "Sorry," he says. Black don't apologise, but he's not a Black, to or for James. He's just Sirius. 

"I know you can, Padfoot." James clasps a hand on his shoulder. "Imagine if it were me that Voldemort came for." Sirius imagines it. It's his primary, if not the only reason for joining the Order. To keep James safe, to be able to be around him. "What would you do?" 

"I'd take you to Dumbledore," Sirius says, resentful. 

They walk the way to Hogwarts in silence. Sirius sees the Shrieking Shack and immediately looks away. It's not guilt- the guilt had been brief.

It just hurts, the consequences. Even James had turned his back on Sirius, after. He, too, had been all disappointed and refused to talk to Sirius for over a month; he had taken Remus's side, joined him in his indignant silence. 

Which was fair, Sirius reminds himself, shaking the feeling off. Sirius had gone too far. It was normal for Remus to be upset. It was normal for James to be upset. 

Twenty minutes later, they sit opposite Dumbledore. Sirius meets his eyes, refuses to look away, refuses to fear what he will see once he says the words. 

"He wants me to join him."  

"Fuck!" James exclaims, besides Sirius, as if that's even worse than Voldemort wanting to kill Sirius.

In a way, it is.

"He must want you badly if you're sitting here after you refused him," Dumbledore comments. 

"This is so bad." James stands. Paces. 

"But not unexpected." Dumbledore doesn't look away from Sirius. James stops, turns to stare at the headmaster. 

"Professor-" he says, a warning in his tone. 

"Sirius makes use of questionable, ill-reputed magic. It was bound to be noticed," Dumbledore says simply. 

"So what?" James asks, though if he'd heard of anyone else in the Order using dark magic, he wouldn't be so understanding. Not at all. "Sirius is loyal-"

"I know," Dumbledore says in a soothing way. 

Do you?

(-)

James tells Lily. Because she and James are now basically the same person.

"We shouldn't worry Wormtail and Moony," James declares, but what he means is Remus still hadn't forgiven Sirius fully, still has trust issues. Who can blame him, really? Sirius tried to use him as a murder weapon, not three years before.

(-) 

Sirius tells Peter.

Peter is small and quiet; he thinks before he acts. Peter had known, back in their fifth year, what Sirius was about to do. 

Peter had been the only one to talk to Sirius, after.

"Dumbledore suggested the Fidelius," Sirius says.

Peter nods. Then frowns. "I hope you're not about to ask I do it," he says. "You're my best mate. I wouldn't want to get you killed."

"You think too little of yourself," Sirius hisses, annoyed. 

They are such opposites, he and Peter. One too arrogant, one too modest. One too loud, one too quiet.

"I won't hold well under torture, let's face it. It's just facts, Sirius. Nothing else."

"You would," Sirius insists.

"I'd rather not, to be perfectly honest." Peter shrugs.

"I'm not going to do it, anyway. I'm not the hiding type."

Peter nods, and they change the subject.

(-)

"Send me on my way," Marlene says, still breathing hard. 

"Get on your way," Sirius tells her, grabbing the bottle of firewhsikey from the nightstand. 

But she just curls closer to him, throwing one of her skinny legs over his. 

"My shift starts in an hour," she mumbles. "I hate work!" 

"Same." 

She snorts. "You haven't worked a day in your life, Black." 

"Because I hate work," he says, handing her the bottle. 

She sips at it without lifting her head off his chest. 

It spills everywhere. 

"How long will the gold from your uncle last you?" 

"A lifetime," he says darkly. 

It's not that much gold, but Sirius won't live long enough to spend it all. 

Eventually, Marlene stands and starts looking for her clothes. 

"You ripped off my shirt!" she yells at him. 

"I don't remember you protesting as it happened. Take one of mine." 

"Gideon will notice," she mutters, searching through the trunks on his floor. 

He's been living in the new house for two weeks. 

He still hasn't unpacked. 

He still hadn't bought an armoire. 

He did all that for his previous house. James and the boys had come, right after graduation, Lily in tow, and they worked on it for a week straight, hanging pictures and posters, building furniture the muggle way, Lily bringing him things he hadn't thought of, like bedsheets and pillow covers. 

It looked nice, once it was over. 

But when alone, Sirius had sat on his sofa, and he hadn’t felt at home. 

Nothing ever feels like home. 

So what is the point in trying anymore? 

"You're back with him?" Sirius asks, lighting a cigarette. 

She throws him a look over her shoulder. "You saw us together two nights before. At Dorcas' party." 

Sirius has no recollection of even being there. 

He shrugs. "Take that one; it's new. Haven't worn it yet." He points to it. 

Marlene lifts the Led Zeppelin t-shirt, her nose wrinkled. She pulls it over her head. 

It comes up to her knees.

"Oh, yes. He won't think anything is amiss if I am dressed in a muggle tent." 

Sirius watches her struggling to transfigure it into something that somewhat fits her. 

Only after that, when she goes to the bathroom, she finds a hot pink top. 

Sirius has no idea whose it is or how it ended up there. "Perfect," he says. "You can take that one." 

Whoever it used to belong to will not return to retrieve it. 

Marlene seems displeased about it, as she always is when she finds knickers between his couch cushions or lipstick in his bathroom cabinets. 

Once she leaves, Sirius stays in bed, drinking and staring at the empty walls. 

(-)

"Absolutely not!" Remus shakes his head. "You won't be coming to the next full moon. You're injured." 

Sirius takes a sip of the tea Remus made him. 

"I'm fine," he says. "It was nothing, just a scratch-"

"One day, we'll find you decapitated, and you know what your head will say, two feet away from the rest of your body?" Remus demands. 

"Aren't you morbid?" Sirus asks. 

"It will say, 'I'm fine. It was nothing. Just a scratch'." 

"Have you been watching those zombie movies again?" Sirius inquires, amused. 

"You're not coming, Sirius." 

"Greyback might come after you." 

Sirius had sniffed the other wolf around, ever since the first full moon after Hogwarts. 

He's tracking Remus to take him in his pack, as he does with all those he turns. 

Sirius won't let him. 

Werewolves have a hard time refusing the one who turned them, everyone knows it. Especially in wolf form. 

"He hasn't been there for two months. And if he returns, James and Peter will watch out for me." 

James and Peter won't fair too well against Greyback. James is a decent duelist, but… he is no match for the ancient werewolf. 

"I'll be there. Don't waste your breath." Sirius glares at Remus until he sighs, defeated. "And," he adds. "If you ever find my decapitated head, and it's still talking, send it to Grimmauld. My mum will hang it beside the dead house-elves. I can scream at her every time she comes down to the kitchen." 

(-)

Thirteen days, he thinks, as he races his bike on London's streets. 

It is like an internal clock that won't stop ticking. 

Sirius is determined to enjoy the time he has left, only there is no enjoyment to be had. 

He supposes there might be, that when he's pissed out of his mind, he might be having a good time, only he can't remember much of it when he wakes up. 

I'm just nineteen, he thinks, desperate. How is it fair that he's already so exhausted that nothing makes him happy anymore? 

How is it fair to die before he turns twenty? 

Blacks don't do self-pity, he reminds himself, focusing on the rage the thoughts bring instead, discarding the fear. 

He makes an abrupt turn on an abandoned street, the steel bars on his bike scratching the pavement, sending sparks in the air. 

Sirius checks if he's alone, and then he pushes the invisibility button and lifts the bike towards the sky.

Higher and higher, he races to the clouds until the air becomes so thin, it's unbreathable. 

The stars are his only home; the sky is filled with Blacks, all above him. 

"Where do we go when we die?" Sirius asks his mother after his great grandfather's funeral. 

His feet hurt after standing all day. 

She takes him in his arms and walks with him to the window. 

"There," she points to the dog star. "We become stars. Grandfather is there now." 

Sirius frowns. "But that's my star. If Grandfather Sirius took it, where will I go?" 

She kisses his temple. "There's enough space for both of you." 

"No! It is my star! I won't share it! I don't like to share!" 

He hates having to share her with his baby brother. Ever since Regulus was born, he always has to share. 

"I want my own star! And when I am head of the family, I won't let anyone else use the name 'Sirius'. It's mine! I don't want to be like anyone else." 

She laughs. "You aren't like anyone else. But family is all we have, Sirius. It's the most sacred of things. If their name isn't Black, they are enemies. Remember that, my brightest star." 

Sirius makes a strangled sound and reaches further up until he can't breathe anymore. 

And then he steers the bike down and lets it fall. 

The earth rushes towards him, fast. The wind tries to blow him off the bike, but he holds the handlebars hard. 

Adrenaline chases away anything else, and Sirius laughs.

Every time he does it, he goes closer and closer to the ground before pulling the bike up. 

He used to think that is how he will go, one day. 

That he'll fly close to the stars, drop down to the ground with dizzying speed and when he hits the pavement, he'll just float back up to his family. 

Now is your chance, a voice whispers. 

If Sirius wants to go that way, he should do it. 

Otherwise, all he'll see before his death will be a pair of red eyes and a green light rushing for his chest. 

The buildings are getting closer, taller, bigger, the cars clearer. 

Sirius can see the trees, can smell them-

He pulls up the bike at the last possible second and lands roughly some seconds after. 

He parks it and goes looking for a pub. 

(-)

"Are you sure-"

"Remus!" Sirius hisses sharply. 

Peter and James exchange a look. 

"He said he's fine," James says after a second. 

"Alright, then." 

Sirius is not fine; his side still hurts something awful, he still has to go to St. Mungo for treatment, and he should not transform. 

But it's the last full moon. 

Sirius needs to be there. 

And if Greyback tries to sniff them out again, Sirius will kill him. 

Because he won't be there anymore to keep Remus and the others safe. 

He'll rip the werewolf to shreds, and what if James won't talk to him again? 

He can go ten days without talking to James; he did before. 

And then Voldemort will come, and it won't be a problem anymore. 

James will feel guilty afterwards. Sirius can hear him crying to Lily. "I didn't talk to him, and now he's dead. I called him a deranged psychopath, and now I can't apologise." 

And Lily would say: "You were right to scream at him, James. He killed someone! Besides, Sirius knows you loved him. Wherever he is now, he won't focus on one bad week when you two had eight years of wonderful memories." 

"Mate?" 

Sirius shakes his head. 

"Right," he forces himself to smile at James. "Let's do it." 

Sirius turns first. He has the most sensitive smell, so he is the one to scout the location, every time. 

It hurts terribly. With the transformation, the pain relief potions and the charms on his wound stop being effective. 

“Pain makes you stronger,” his father says, watching Sirius fidget.

Sirius had cried, and he'd been caught. His father didn't want him crying, so he'd punished Sirius to stand all night, alone in the dungeon. He was not allowed to sit or run. Just stay still. 

Hours in, the pain in the small of his back had grown too much for him to ignore. 

His legs burned, and then they went numb. 

“Pain cleanses the weakness,” his father said, when morning came, and he arrived to let Sirius up. “If you learn to overcome it, it can never be used against you.”

Sirius is disappointed when he gets no whiff of Greyback. 

Peter comes scurrying out of the cabin when Sirius barks, once, to let them know it is safe. 

He climbs on Sirius's fur, sinking its tiny claws in it. 

Lazy git, Sirius thinks, barking and trying to shake him off. Peter doesn't budge. 

Sirius doesn't mind it. He knows it's not really laziness. Peter simply can't keep up with a giant dog, a stag and a werewolf. 

He can't protect himself from any predators in that shape, so he always sits on Sirius' back. 

He'll sit on James', the next full moon. 

James comes with Remus, minutes later. 

Remus looks afraid, as always. No matter how many full moons he endures, it never gets easy. 

He pats the stag's head and then heads into the clearing to stand under the rising moon. 

When Remus starts screaming, Sirius howls. 

(-)

"Oh, great," Sirius slurs, getting off his bike with difficulty.

Just what he needs, Dumbledore on his doorstep.

"It's three in the morning," he barks.

"It is actually half-past four," Dumbledore corrects him. "I did not mind waiting. It's been a while since I could just take the time to observe nature."

There is a lot of nature going on around the house. Sirius picked it this way so when Voldemort will come to kill him, there won’t be any neighbours to serve as collateral victims.

Sirius rolls his eyes, stumbling to the door.

"I'm rather tired. And drunk. So-"

"Luckily, I just happen to have a sobering potion in my pocket."

Sirius glares at him.

"A coincidence, I assure you. I am not implying your habits have become so well known, people assume they need to have a sobering potion on them when meeting you," he says, implying it.

Sirius lets him in his house- rather, Dumbledore enters his house and, Sirius has no choice but to follow him.

"What do you want?" he asks, after gulping down the potion.

He hates it. The swift return to a sober state always brings a headache.

"There are less than ten days left, and you haven't made any plan."

"Or maybe I have a plan, and I just didn't share," Sirius says, petulant.

"This isn't a joking matter-"

"I'm not joking. I have a plan."

"Oh, I know you do. But it is not one I will allow you to see to fruition."

"You think I'll accept his offer, don't you?" Sirius can hear the bitterness in his tone.

Dumbledore fixes him with his piercing eyes. "No. I think you mean to die."

Ah.

"Got me," Sirius mutters, searching around the boxes in the kitchen. He has no cabinets. Why would he?

He finds a bottle of rum. Really? Rum? When did he buy it? He hates it. 

Better than nothing. 

"Want some?" he asks Dumbledore, who just shakes his head. 

All for the best, since Sirius doesn't have any glasses. 

"I won't let you lay down your life, for no reason-"

"Ah, but you would if there was a reason, no?"

"Sirius, why do you insist-"

"You think I don't know what you all think of me? How many times have you pulled me aside to warn me about-"

"I worry about you, yes. Besides that, I am afraid it is an acute case of paranoia that makes you think we all distrust you." 

Sirius laughs. 

"Maybe some people worry too- you must admit, you do not make it easy for anyone to-"

"Nothing will make them trust me. I'm a Black."

"It's nothing to do with your blood, Sirius. It's the way you act." 

Dumbledore doesn't seem to understand his behaviour, his blood and his name are all very closely intertwined. They come in a package. Can't have one without the other. 

"What do you want from me, then? Tell me of your great plan to save my life." 

Dumbledore watches him for a few seconds. 

"I want you to join him." 

Sirius hadn't laughed so hard since he ran away from Grimmauld Place. 

(-)

"This isn't a good idea," James tells Dumbledore, later in the day, when he'd come to check on Sirius and found them talking about Dumbledore's plan. 

Well, Dumbledore's been talking. After Sirius stopped laughing, he'd mostly stayed silent. 

Very fast, the idea started to sound appealing. 

For one, Sirius might get to live longer. And-

But he tries not to think about the other part. 

"Besides the dangers, it's Sirius! He'd make the worst spy in existence. Everyone knows that. He's loud, he stands out and speaks his mind -"

That's precisely why he'd work. No one in their right mind would ask Sirius to spy. 

To fight, yes. 

To kill. To protect. But to spy?

"I thought you were warning me of going down the wrong path," Sirius says calmly, once James is done with his fit. "Sending me to Voldemort won't take me off that path." 

Dumbledore takes a long time to answer. 

"You're loyal to your friends. That will always keep you afloat."

"Stop insulting him!" James raises his voice. 

James thinks Sirius cares about the cause, about injustice, about world peace. 

Dumbledore is a far better judge of character.

"I'll do it," Sirius says, shutting James up. "I'll do it." 

Dumbledore searches his face, before he nods, once. 

"Sirius-" James begs. 

But there is no turning back. Sirius wants to. He could see Bella again; it's the main thought that goes through his head. Maybe Regulus will talk to him if he believes Sirius is back on the 'right track'. 

And he's happy to be given permission, for once, to be bad. By Dumbledore.

He can be bad with an excuse. For the greater good, as it were.

James protests. Accuses Dumbledore that he's toying with Sirius's life. Dumbledore is, for sure, but Sirius doesn't mind it so much. 

People forget the old professor might be kind and patient and grandfatherly, but at the end of the day, he's a leader in a war. Eventually, soldiers become numbers instead of people. 

Sirius understands it.

(-)

At their next meeting, James isn’t there.

Dumbledore speaks of the allure of the dark, of the appeal of power. He yaps for two hours, and Sirius pretends to care, pretends to be worried when Dumbledore insists how dangerous this will be.

“You will be tested, more than you imagine.”

“I do imagine,” Sirius answers.

“He is extremely charismatic-”

“Didn’t you call him a bloodthirsty tyrant the other day?”

“Those traits are not mutually exclusive. He will be at his most charming with you in the beginning, to pull you in. Always keep in mind that it is all an act.”

Sirius nods.

“You are a good Occlumenes, and he’ll expect you always to meet his eyes, because you have that kind of reputation. And Sirius, you have to stop drinking. You need your wits about you.”

Sirius nods again, absentmindedly.

Dumbledore speaks for a long time; how Sirius should act, what he should say when Voldemort comes. It goes in one ear and out the other.

Sirius itches for a drink; he’s so excited he can’t stay put anymore, but Dumbledore still talks and talks.

“You are a good man, Sirius,” he says when he finally seems to have said all he had wanted to.

“We both know that is not true,” Sirius counters.

Dumbledore gives him a a somber look.

“I know you have a good heart. I know you can be a good man.”

“Are you a good man?” Sirius asks, standing.

“No,” Dumbledore doesn’t hesitate. “But I am trying. It is a daily effort to do what is right instead of what is easy. Sending you to spy for me isn’t what a good man would do. If you die, and make no mistakes, if he catches on, he will kill you, it will be something I will always have to carry with me-”

“Poor you,” Sirius spits, full of contempt.

“As I carry many of my decisions.”

Sirius delays by the door. Somehow, Dumbledore’s wrinkled face makes him feel some pity.

“I would have died anyway,” Sirius says, but doesn’t wait for an answer, leaving the office.

(-)

Voldemort knocks.

Sirius is a mess of excitement mixed with fear. Buried under his confidence that he can do anything in the world, a tiny voice whispers that he’s nineteen and this is the most powerful dark wizard of all time.

It sounds like Remus. Sirius ignores it.

He opens his door and steps back. All very civilised.

“Tea?” he drawls, making sure to infuse it with as much sarcasm as possible.

Voldemort’s lip twitches, and Sirius cannot say if it’s in amusement or in annoyance.

“I’m not afraid of you.” Sirius half-lies when they’re standing almost face to face in his new living room. “I do not kneel at anyone’s feet.”

Because it wouldn’t be believable if he suddenly shifted personalities overnight.

Also, because Sirius truly couldn’t do it, for anything in the world.

“Does Dumbledore say I require kneeling?”

Sirius blinks. “It’s sort of common knowledge.”

“Is it? I wonder who spreads it.”

Sirius smiles. “Your Death Eaters, on trial. It’s public record; you can check it out.”

Voldemort smiles himself, thin lips stretched but not parted. “I would imagine they think it more probable to be absolved of their so-called crimes if they present themselves as victims, terrorised into submission.”

That sounds like an excellent story. Sirius is sure it’s not true. Dumbledore did say Voldemort will be charming. Convincing.

“However,” Voldemort continues, smile gone. “I demand respect.”

Sirius doesn’t like people demanding things of him. “Then we’re in perfect agreement. I demand the same”

Voldemort looks surprised for the briefest moment. He, too, probably dislikes having people demanding things.

“Treat someone the way you want to be treated, and all that.” Sirius goes on, antagonistic.

Dumbledore had come up with a thousand ways for Sirius to approach this, with reasons he would give to Voldemort for his decisions.

Sirius is not a planner. He’s already far deviated from all of it.

“Rumour is you do not treat people in kind,” Voldemort says, without missing a beat.

Sirius doesn’t. He’s harsh, on occasion, to people that showed him compassion because he believes it’s a form of pity, and he doesn’t want anyone pitying him.

And when someone wrongs him-well, Sirius will give back, tenfold.

“Perhaps not my inferiors,” Sirius says, relishing in it, in not only being able to voice this opinion, but having to. Sirius can be all Black, pureblooded and born in wealth and privilege. It’s expected of him in this circle. “You’re clearly not my inferior.”

Another tight smile. “No? I do believe you called me a mudblood last we talked.”

“I don’t believe mudbloods are my inferiors. It was posturing. Surely you recognised it.” Sirius will not be able to pretend all muggle-borns are dirty, stupid animals for any amount of time.

“Oh, you believe it,” Voldemort says.

“I don’t.”

“Then why join me, ‘champion of pure blood cause’ as I am?"

“Plenty of people follow you for other reasons,” Sirius shoots back. “Power, for one.”

“Indeed.” Voldemort moves, sits uninvited on the couch Sirius had just purchased.

Sirius remains standing.

“You are not one of those people.”

Sirius bites his lip. Why is he so excited about doing this?

It’s not to help Dumbledore or the Order.

No, he’s not as altruistic as that.

“As you pointed out, I’m tired of pretending,” he settles on. It is not a lie.

Voldemort considers him in silence. “Yet you will have to pretend. Surely, you surmised I will ask you to spy on Dumbledore, at least for a while.”

Sirius hadn’t, on his own.

But Dumbledore did, had told Sirius Voldemort will ask for it.

“Yes. But it will not be my entire life.”

That is the crux of the matter-why Sirius accepted this madness. He simply wants a break. Wants to be able to let loose all that pent up anger that is not acceptable in society.

“You will take the mark, of course.”

Sirius wrinkles his nose. Branded with that, for the rest of his life doesn’t sound appealing.

“I do not see the matter; you’re already heavily tattooed,” Voldemort observes. “Dumbledore will expect it.”

Dumbledore does. “Here?” he asks. “Now?”

“Is there supposed to be a ritual, preferably in a cemetery, where we kill a muggle child and eat his heart? I’m sure Dumbledore likes to come up with all sorts of scenarios to make me monstrous.”

Sirius snorts. “Not heard that one, no.”

But he’d heard Voldemort has a penchant for the dramatic, for rituals indeed, for symbolism.

Taking a vow that will forever impact his life in his sparsely furnished living room -

Sirius was never one for formalities, so it doesn’t bother him. It’s just a surprise.

So he strolls forward, extends his left arm, palm up, his stomach fluttering.

He doesn’t expect Voldemort to ask him to kneel, not after their conversation earlier, even if that is how caught Death Eaters says he does it. But he expects Voldemort to stand.

He doesn’t. He remains seated, at a height disadvantage.

Sirius very much likes looking down on him.

Slender, pale fingers wrap around Sirius’s equally pale wrist. He doesn’t flinch, but he had not expected Voldemort to be so cold. It’s immediately chased by fire when the yew wand touches his skin and pain flares.

“Horrid,” Sirius says, refusing to show the pain. “Truly terrible design.”

Voldemort laughs, his eyes shining with merriment. Who’d have expected him to be so cheery?

“I was sixteen when I came up with it,” Voldemort says. “I admit I have many talents, but design is not necessarily one of them.”

“Did you come up with Lord Voldemort at sixteen as well? It certainly sounds like something only a sixteen-year-old would make up.”

Sirius smirks, resisting the temptation to scrub his tattoo, which still burns. “I think you did, and you now realise how silly it sounds. That’s why you’re not keen on people saying it.”

“I don’t mind people saying it. I certainly prefer it over ‘You-know-Who’ or ‘He-who-must-not-be-named’.” His lip twists in a grimace. “They simply grew too afraid to utter it.”

“Pathetic.” Sirius sneers. He cannot abide such weaknesses. What sort of moron fears a name?

“I am sure you realised a great portion of the wizarding world is pathetic.”

Hard to argue with that.

The mark hurts more than he expected. Sirius has the instinct to cut his arm off, just to get rid of the pain.

He’s well accustomed to injuries, but this one seems to reach into his soul, making it impossible to ignore.

Your father taught you how to ignore it, Sirius tells himself. He made you strong.

If Voldemort expects Sirius to express some type of discomfort, he doesn’t show it, letting his eyes trail over the empty walls.

“I’ve just moved here,” Sirius says, just so he can focus on something other than the pain. “Someone destroyed my old house.”

“You destroyed it,” Voldemort says, which is not a lie. “You and Bella are remarkably similar; too much power, too little discipline.”

Mention of Bella goes a long way in fighting the pain. “Neither of us take kindly to discipline,” Sirius says. “Just ask our parents.”

“I am nothing like your parents,” Voldemort points out the most obvious thing in the world.

Sirius nods. “True. You are nowhere near as scary as my mother.”

“No one can yell as loudly as she does,” Voldemort says, face blank but his tone is light.

Imagining his mum yelling at the dark lord is... something.

“Bella insisted you mother is the reason you abandoned your heritage.”

Sirius doesn’t answer.

“Does she know? Bella? That you are here?”

“No,” Voldemort’s eyes are back on Sirius.

How did he get that colour, he wonders. What was the original one?

“I did not wish for her to be disappointed, in case you refused me.”

Does he truly care about her?

Dumbledore says Voldemort doesn’t care about anyone, but Sirius learned to take everything the headmaster says with a grain of salt.

After all, Bella loves- she adores her sisters and once she’d loved Sirius.

Sirius loves.

And they are both terrible, selfish arseholes.

If they care, Voldemort must care about something, too.

Only human, Sirius reminds himself. He is just a man, like any man. Better, but the same, in essence.

“But she will know, right?” Sirius asks, almost desperate. “I understand this implies secrecy and whatnot, but she-”

“She will know, yes.” Voldemort doesn’t seem surprised to hear how much Sirius clearly wants her back in his life.

Voldemort stands, a fluid motion.

“The mark will react badly to any charm or potion meant to alleviate the pain,” he says.

“I have my special potions,” Sirius says.

Voldemort raises an eyebrow.

Sirius points to a table in the corner, with many bottles on it.

“Ah,” Voldemort nods, sharply. “You and Rabastan will get along swimmingly.”

Sirius feels the first flash of irritation of the night. The first sign that this will be hard and taxing.

He wants to point out that Sirius doesn’t need Voldemort to tell him he’ll get along with Rabastan.

Sirius grew up with Rabastan. They tasted their first drink together, at twelve, in the gardens of the Lestrange Manor.

He doesn’t need Voldemort to tell him anything.

Shut up, just shut up. Keep your temper.

Voldemort looks smug and he must be aware of Sirius’s shift in mood.

“I shall leave you to your potions,” he says. “And Sirius? Once the mark heals, when it will burn, I expect you to Apparate where it leads you, without delay.”

“Yeah,” Sirius spits through clenched teeth, struggling not to say anything else.

And this was only the first half an hour in his career as a Death Eater.

The vodka doesn’t help with the pain.

Neither does the whiskey.

Sirius gives up on trying to ignore it and curls on the floor, cradling his arm to his chest.

It starts to dawn on him, what he’d done.

He covers his arm with his sleeve, though it’s ten times worse with even the lightest of material touching it.

But he just can’t stand to look at it any longer.

Chapter Text

His left forearm is still on fire the next day. It never stopped, not even for a second.  

"He marked you sooner than I expected," Dumbledore says, standing and walking to the tall window overseeing Hogwarts' vast grounds. "Usually, it takes some months." 

"I'm special," Sirius spits. 

Dumbledore served him tea. Sirius has the urge to throw it over Phineas Nigellus' stupid face.

"He must have determined it is not wise to give you time to change your mind. Take advantage of this brief period where he will allow you more leeway. Try to gain his favour. With your name and your… predilections for dark magic, you might climb high. And if you can breach that inner circle-it might be what we need to win this war." 

Sirius is more concerned with the way Phineas is looking at him. 

Is that disappointment? Scorn? Pride? 

"But you have to act right, and for that, you need to be sober." 

"People tell me I'm easier to stomach when I'm in my cups," Sirius answers back.

"You should know Voldemort despises drinkers. He doesn't drink." 

"As If I needed more reasons to not like him." 

Dumbledore goes on about something no doubt important, but Sirius uses all his attention to control the urge to roll his sleeve and look at the disgusting mark. 

He resists. He knows what he'll find there, anyway. Skin inflamed, still oozing blood, a day later, that terrible skull with the slimy snake coming out of its mouth. 

You don't need to look at it, he tells himself, over and over, ignoring Dumbledore. It hasn't gotten any worse. Nor any better. 

(-)

James doesn't ask to see it. 

He and James used to compare cock size when they were fourteen, but this feels far more intimate. 

In fact, James does his best not to look at Sirius's left arm altogether, even if the mark is covered. 

Lily knows. 

But that is all. 

Sirius tells Peter Voldemort came, Sirius refused him, and that was that. 

"Lucky," Peter says. "It could have gone worse." 

"Yeah, it could have." 

(-)

On the fifth day, Sirius wakes from a drunken stupor, and he doesn't know what's wrong. 

It takes some seconds to sink in that there is no more pain. 

The skin is smooth around the black lines, and there is no blood.

It healed. 

Sirius will never heal. This is only the beginning. 

(-)

Living is complicated when he keeps waiting for the mark to flare at any second. He does his best not to drink because it would be dire indeed if Voldemort calls him when Sirius doesn't even remember his name. 

He can't stand it. How else is he supposed to pass the time, to drown that anger always simmering under the surface? 

James and Lily are a couple.

Remus is- sometimes Remus annoys Sirius like no one else can, with his knowing, judging eyes. 

And Peter- Sirius loves him, but he has a cautious nature, a voice of reason that points out all the stupid things Sirius wants to do are bad, bad ideas.  

With something akin to horror, he realises he can't even fuck whoever he wants. Not without careful manoeuvring. No one in the wizarding world can see that abomination on his arm. 

"I'm going to start an exclusively Muggle diet," he complains to James a day later. "Nothing else to do." 

Lily rolls her eyes. "Until Marlene comes knocking on your door." 

"What are you talking about? I can say 'no' to McKinnon!" 

"Then why don't you?" James asks him, helping Lily with the dishes. 

"That was a marvellous meal, Lils. What was it again?" 

James and Lily exchange a look, but they don't bother him about Marlene anymore. 

(-)

He's in a terrible mood, lying on the floor of his mostly empty house, staring at the wall, willing himself not to drink. 

He can't take the waiting anymore. 

It's been a week. Just call me already. 

Sirius just wants to do something. Anything.

And then it comes. A knock on the door. 

He glances at the clock. A few minutes before midnight. 

The knocks grow louder, insistent.  

He makes his way down the stairs, but before he reaches the door, it blows off. 

Sirius takes cover behind a wall, wand out, heart racing. 

What the fuck? 

He takes a peek, and his mouth goes dry. 

Emerging from the debris, Bella steps into his house. 

"Sirius?"

She's grinning as her eyes go over the house, searching for him.

He steps around the corner. 

She's somehow more beautiful than last he saw her. Sirius breathes for what feels like the first time in a year. His lungs expand with happiness. 

She sees him, and her grin disappears, replaced by something far softer. 

They look at each other. 

A second. An eternity. Sirius can't get enough. 

And then she's moving, and Sirius drops his wand just as she's jumping on him. 

He catches her in his arms and promptly starts sobbing. 

Blacks don't cry, but she's crying too, so that's alright. 

"Is it true?" she asks, drawing back. "He said it is but-" 

She takes his left arm and almost rips the sleeve in her haste. 

Sirius finds it ugly. A mark of submission. 

Bellatrix sees something else in it, because she smiles. 

She hugs him again. "I always knew you'd see sense. I knew it! I told everyone, but they thought me crazy. I told them you are just young and rebellious." 

She takes his face in her hands and presses kisses on his temples, on his nose, his lips.

"I always knew you'll come back to me." 

Sirius had never considered how hard lying to Bella would be. Impossible, really. She'll see through him.

He only hoped he will see her again, he's been consumed with thoughts of having her beautiful eyes look at him with love again, so he hadn't contemplated anything else.  

He panics a little, but for no reason. 

She wants it so much to be true; she wants Sirius to have changed his mind, so she will dismiss any other concerns. 

Similar to James. He, too, dismisses many things, refusing to see the darker side of Sirius. 

Bella refuses to see the light. 

"I missed you," he says, voice rough. That, at least, is true. "I did this for you." Also the truth, but not the full truth. 

Deep inside, Sirius isn't sure why he went along with Dumbledore's plan. 

"I know. I told the dark lord that he should be patient with you, as a favour to me. That you'll need time to see his greatness." 

Sirius scoffs. "I'll need a lot of fucking time." 

"He's amazing, you'll see. He's-"

"I don't want to talk about him." 

Sirius doesn't want to see the adoration in her eyes that only used to be directed at him, when she speaks of that git. 

It was the final blow that night two years before. 

His father's illness, his mother's scorn, all the expectations placed on him, the fight with his uncle- and then he'd seen Bella's mark, he'd heard the passion in her voice when speaking of her lord, and Sirius left. 

He couldn't bear it anymore. 

Bella sighs, but she's exuberant, radiating happiness. It hurts him how beautiful she is. It makes him ache. Always did. It makes him want to lock her in a glass cage and keep her there, safe. 

"Why are you living in this hovel?" Her delicate nose wrinkles as she looks around. 

Sirius laughs. It's a three-bedroom, two-story house. Most wizards can afford something like it after years of slaving away at the Ministry. 

Sirius still thinks it's a dump, of course, compared to where he comes from. But at least he's been living long enough with the plebeians, as his mother calls anyone that doesn't sleep on galleons, to recognise it is a nice house. 

Bella hadn't.

"I'm poor," he smirks. 

She shivers in pretend disgust. "Didn't Uncle Alphard leave you all his gold? Your mum blasted him off the tapestry for it." 

Sirius snorts. "Dear ol' mum. In any case, after he spent his life drinking and whoring around, there's not that much left in his vault." 

"I hear you are determined to follow in his footsteps."

"I learn by example."  

She laughs, hugging him once more. "I can't believe I have you again." 

You always had me. I was right here. 

She's the one that refused to talk to him, that sent his letters back. 

But Sirius doesn't say it; for once, he keeps his mouth shut. 

He wouldn't have, had he been drunk. 

Maybe Dumbledore is on to something with his stupid rules. 

"You'll go back home, right?"

"No. Never," Sirius pulls back. "I'm not going back there." 

"It's your home. That awful hag has no right to keep you out or to blast your name off-"

"Bella. I can't go back. I'm a spy. People on Dumbledore's side can't see me going back home." 

"Ah," she frowns. "Yes. Well, then Rodolphus and I will give you gold-"

"I'm good." 

"You live in poverty!" 

Sirius laughs. "You really don't know what poverty looks like, Bella."

"Like this." She points to his empty walls, paint missing in several places. "It looks like this." 

"Then you'll just have to accept me, poor as I am." 

"Hmm," she wrinkles her nose again. 

He takes her to the roof.

His mothers' screams, her father's hate never reached them there. The sky had always been their refuge. 

Sirius and Bella aren't cowards. They stand their ground and fight back. 

"Blacks don't back away. Blacks don't show fear," his father says, holding Sirius' chin firmly. 

And yet, what are Blacks supposed to do when other Blacks wish them harm? 

Who wins then? How does it end when no one backs off? 

Once upon a time, Bella would carry him in her skinny arms, and they'd hide on the steep roof. 

"Andy gets scared when I bring her here. Cissa cries. But you like it, don't you, Sirius? You like it here with me." 

Eventually, they'd go up there even when they had grown old enough to have no fear, when the screams and the hate had become so mundane it didn't bother them anymore. 

He'd tell her of his pranks at Hogwarts, and she'd talk about Lestrange, and he'd threaten to throw her off the roof if he has to hear about him one more time. 

The sky is clearer seen from his small house in the neck of the woods than it ever was from Grimmauld, in London. 

They lie on a transfigured blanket and look at the stars, naming each one, trying to get it right before the other does. 

Eventually, they stop talking, and they just hold each other tightly, in silence. 

It's worth it, he thinks. What he'll have to do, whatever it comes- having Bella close is worth everything.

For the first time in years, Sirius feels at home.  

(-)

"You look good," James says, smiling. "Better than I've seen you in a while." 

"Got my beauty sleep," Sirius winks. "Can't drink, can't get laid. Sleep is all there is." 

James laughs. "We'll go out in the weekend, down to that Muggle pub you like." 

Sirius nods, but he's so full of Bella he doesn't need anything else. 

Lying to James will be hard, too. 

But he can do it. He can do everything. 

Sirius feels optimistic. 

He even focuses on his next meeting with Dumbledore and listens patiently to what the old man says. 

They go over a list of Order members, and Dumbledore decides who Sirius can out to Voldemort as belonging to their vigilante group, and who he can not. 

"It will be a while before he even remotely trusts you around any other Death Eaters. But you're smart; he might make a reference, a detail could slip that will allow you to identify someone." 

Obviously, he doesn't tell Dumbledore he'd spent the night hugging someone in Voldemort's inner circle. 

(-)

"Why is he glaring at me?" 

Peter rolls his eyes. "Because you're fucking his fiance." 

"Oh. So it's Gideon. I thought it was Fabian." 

He smirks at Prewett and gives him a little wave. 

"Stop it! There's no need to antagonise him further. He'll end up cursing you." 

Sirius laughs, loudly. 

People at the closest tables turn their heads to look at him. 

"They broke up," James says. 

"Merlin, again?" Peter frowns. "I just saw them together… last week? 

"Who can keep up? I can't. I can't be expected to know when she's his fiance and when she's not." Sirius smirks. "I have the best intentions and operate under the illusion she's not with him when she's in my bed." 

"Yeah, sure." Remus' voice is dripping with sarcasm. "Like that time when you two sneaked out of Frank's and Alice's Christmas Party, even if she came with Gideon?" 

"I did that?" Sirius raises a hand, signalling Tom that he'd like another glass of firewhiskey. "Well, that was wrong of me." 

"Here you go, Mr. Black," Tom says, coming with the glass. 

Tom likes Sirius. 

He tips very well. The drunker he gets, the more outrageous his tips get. 

"Why do you let him call you Mr. Black?" Remus asks. 

"Because it's my name," Sirius says, harsher than he'd wanted. 

Silence falls. 

"I only meant, it's too formal. He calls us by our first names and-" Remus tries, jaws tense. 

"I don't know, Remus." Sirius downs his glass in one go. "Maybe because I think of him as a lowly servant that should bow for me as I throw money at him. Is that what you want me to tell you?"

"Merlin, Sirius!" James hisses. "Stop it!" 

Peter moves on his chair, looking between all of them. 

Sirius stands. He already feels guilty for snapping, but the anger is still there. 

"I'm heading out." 

"Padfoot-" James stands too, but Sirius doesn't give him the time to come after him. 

He walks fast towards the door that will lead him right to muggle London. 

He bumps into Gideon, standing with his Hit Patrol mates at the end of the pub. 

Sirius can pretend it's accidental, the way he forcefully slams his shoulder into the other man, but he's too angry to lie to himself. 

"My apologies, cousin. I didn't see you," he says, as hostile as he can. 

When Sirius left Hogwarts, and he was so alone if James wasn't with him, Gideon would drag Sirius along when they met at pubs, introducing Sirius as "my little cousin." 

Sirius instantly, viciously hated him. 

Cousin. How dare he? Just because Sirius's aunt married a Prewett didn't mean Gideon and Sirius were anything to each other. 

He grew up with his real cousins, he loved his real cousins, and he did not appreciate this strange red-headed idiot trying to replace them. 

A vein throbs on Gideon's forehead. 

"He's not worth it," one of the other Patrollers says. 

"Ignore him; he's drunk and looking for a fight," another one is quick to add, laying a hand on Gideon's shoulder. 

"Gods, but you're a paranoid bunch," Sirius drawls in his poshest accent. "I honestly didn't see the man; not my fault he's so short." 

Gideon's hand goes for his wand, and Sirius thrills with anticipation.

One of the men steps between them, and suddenly James is also there, interfering with Sirius' fun. 

The pub is silent, everyone looking at them. 

Sirius changes his mind, turning for the Diagon Alley exit instead. People are fast to get out of his path. 

As soon as he's out, he Apparates. 

The house he strolls towards is truly small. Poor, indeed. Bella wouldn't be caught dead inside it. 

He kicks a garden gnome on his way to the door. 

Marlene opens it some seconds later. 

"Black, I have to wake up in two hours-" 

Sirius kisses her, pushing her inside the house. 

"And this strapping young lad is my little cousin, Sirius," Gideon says, introducing him to Marlene. "This is my fiance, Mar." 

He pus a hand over her shoulder, drawing her closer to him. 

"We know each other," Marlene says. 

"Well, yeah, I assumed your time at Hogwarts overlapped for some years," Gideon laughs. "But I figure you wouldn't have interacted much back then." 

"Not much," Sirius says. 

She'd been Head Girl, and he'd been a fourteen-year-old troublemaker. 

Their paths crossed here and there. Head Girl options must have been slim that year because he will never know how she ended up in the position. 

She always let the Marauders get away with everything. And not only them, really. 

Sometimes they'd catch her snogging the Head Boy, while she was supposed to be on patrol to make sure no students were out of bed. 

Later that evening, Sirius overhears Gideon talking to her. 

"I'm trying to look after him; Dumbledore told me Sirius is having a rough time. And my mum said he must miss his family. She missed her parents and brother when they stopped talking to her. You know how Blacks are about family. So I'm trying to make the lad feel better. We can be his family. Our parents are siblings, after all." 

"I ran into your darling Gideon," Sirius snarls between rough kisses. 

Marlene draws away. "If you hurt him-" she says, threatening. 

"I don't need to hurt him, love. You do that fine on your own." 

"Fuck you!" 

Sirius pushes her into the wall. "Nah, I'll be fucking you," he says, crowding her. 

He pins her arms over her head, just so she won't get any ideas of pulling off his shirt.

Some ten minutes later, breathing hard in the cramped, narrow space that serves as an entry hall, Sirius closes his eyes, the anger drained out of him. 

"Let him go. You're not good for him. He deserves better."

Gideon was too good for Sirius, too. 

Sirius couldn't stand his kindness, couldn't stand his pity. Sirius was jealous - Gideon had Black blood, but he also had a brother and a sister; he had his mum and dad, a respected career. No one glared at him; no one was suspicious. 

Gideon had no business walking around with Sirius' blood in his veins but escaping the madness that Sirius inherited. 

"You think I don't know?" Marlene whispers. "I'm trying, but he keeps coming back. And I'm a selfish bitch, I like those moments when it's good when I can pretend we'll marry and have a family and grow old." 

She curls around Sirius. "But then I remember I won't grow old. I'll grow bitter, I'll grow meaner, but not much older." 

Marlene is as self-destructive as Sirius is. A kindred soul. 

Misery loves company. 

"You're already mean and bitter," he says.

"I love you," she whispers. 

He trails his fingers over the giant phoenix tattooed on her side. It moves its fiery wings, lashes its tail. 

"I thought I'd say it before I wake up with some Death Eaters on my doorstep." 

She touches the smaller phoenix he has on his left hip. She can't see it, but she knows where it is, pushing it with her fingers through his shirt. 

They got pissed, months before, and decided it would be a grand thing to have matching tattoos. 

"Don't let Gid bury me in one of those flowery, demure dresses he likes. Dress me in my black dragonhide leather dress. I want to look sexy; if they leave my body intact, that is." 

Sirius snorts. 

"There's no way you're dying first." He opens his eyes and turns to her. "And you look a right fright in the leather dress. You have no curves. It just sticks to your bones." 

"You're such a prat!" Marlene says, but she is amused. "Promise me; the black leather dress." 

"Fine," he says. "With your red shoes, the ones with the spikes on the heel?" 

"You have a good eye for fashion, Black. What about you? What would you like for yourself?" 

"Naked," Sirius declares, making her groan. 

(-)

Sirius expected it to hurt. It doesn't. He feels a pull, centred in his left forearm, a sort of itch that he wouldn't be able to scratch. 

Here we go, Sirius thinks, heart in his throat. 

Voldemort is apparently polite. 

It's seven o'clock in the evening, on a Tuesday. 

Not too late, not early. Slim chances of Sirius being in someone's bed or wasted in some pub. 

As it happenes, he is on his bike, returning from dinner with Peter and his mum. 

He almost crashes into a car when he feels it. 

He pulls on the side of the road, casts a discrete camouflage spell at the bike and hurries to a side street. 

When he Apparates, he finds himself outside of a cabin, in a forest. 

Sirius takes in his surroundings as fast as he can, looking for distinctive marks that could help him find it later. Nothing stands out. 

Except- well, it's already night outside, in full winter. And so far from a city, the stars are bright, the sky clear. 

Sirius is very good at Astronomy. 

He's been watching the night sky since he was a child. 

Later, when he can get his hands on parchment and ink, he'll be able to know a general location, just based on how the stars look from where he's standing. 

He smiles to himself, pleased. 

Bet you didn't think of this, mighty dark lord. 

But then he's forced to consider his next move. Should he wait outside? Should he enter the cabin? 

Should he knock? 

He hates feeling insecure. He hates having to walk on eggshells around anyone. 

So this is how people feel around me, he thinks. 

Fuck it. Sirius Black doesn't walk on eggshells. He stomps on them. Loudly. 

So he walks to the door and opens it, with no more hesitation. 

It's as empty as his house. 

There's a table in the centre of it, four chairs and not much else. 

"Bella comes here?" he asks, eyebrow raised. Even more surprising- Lucius? The man who once sneered at Nott's three thousand galleons curtains because they were 'shabby'? 

Voldemort is already occupying one of the chairs. 

Head of the table, of course. 

"No," he answers. 

"I see. The glamorous Death Eaters get more fancy locations." 

Merlin, can you keep your mouth shut? 

If only; Sirius wouldn't be in such trouble if he could. He'd be home at Grimmauld, sneering at poor people or something like that. 

Dumbledore guessed correctly. If Voldemort is annoyed with Sirius' lack of reverence, he doesn't show it. He'll play nice, for now. 

"We shall see if, with time, you will get access to those locations. Sit." 

I'm not a fucking dog. Thankfully, he doesn't say it. 

But I am a dog, he thinks, and he laughs. 

Voldemort doesn't have a reaction to that, either. He simply watches Sirius as he takes a seat. 

The one closest to Voldemort. Only cowards would choose the one that would place him further away. 

He must be used to Bella, Sirius thinks. She laughs like a lunatic, too. 

And then nothing. 

Voldemort just sits there, made of marble. 

You should join Dumbledore in the club of Men With Piercing Eyes, Sirius thinks. You can go to the park and creep people out every Sunday at six o'clock. 

He stares back. 

"What did Dumbledore have to say about your mark?" 

Oh, he found it as ridiculous looking as I do. 

"He said he didn't expect it to happen so soon." Sirius keeps his tone neutral. 

He feels like he's snitching, even if Dumbledore is fully aware of what Sirius is doing. 

Still, it isn't pleasant.

And Sirius will have to choose for himself in some matters. Voldemort might ask a question that Dumbledore hadn't thought of before, and then Sirius will have to decide what and how much to say- 

"How was your week?" Voldemort asks, and indeed, that was not a question Sirius and Dumbledore went over in their meetings. 

"Boring," he says. 

Voldemort doesn't blink. How is that possible? 

"You do not strike me as boring." 

"I've my moments." 

Voldemort seems to expect more. 

"I painted my walls," Sirius offers. "The muggle way. Now that's boring." 

"Why not use magic?" 

"I wanted to have something to do."

A muggle once told Sirius he clearly has anger issues and he should work them off at "the gym." 

These muggles… Sirius found out what a gym was, and he'd spent hours watching men and women, closed in a cramped room, running on machines, riding fake bikes, lifting blocks of weights. 

Instead of just running out in the park, getting a real bike. 

Lift something else, something that needed lifting. 

But Sirius remembers the advice, and when he gets itchy, he busies himself with an inane task, to take his mind off violence. 

"Wine?" Voldemort says, and two goblets appear on the table, already filled with wine. 

Why ask if you won't give me options? 

"Dumbledore said you don't drink." 

"Dumbledore likes to thinks he knows me very well," Voldemort says. "In reality, he'd known me as a school boy. Of course I didn’t drink back then.”  

Sirius snorts. "Of course? The only good thing about the seventh year was the parties." 

"I was a good student," Voldemort says. 

"Bet you were a Head Boy." 

Sirius will start looking for Head Boys, from the early nine hundreds to his time at Hogwarts. 

Voldemort doesn't answer, taking a sip of his wine. Sirius notices the ring on his finger. 

A black stone, set in heavy gold. There's a symbol on it, but Sirius doesn't have the time to focus on it. Not if he wants to be discrete, at least. 

Sirius takes out a bezoar from his pocket and swallows it with the wine. 

It makes Voldemort smile. 

"If I meant to poison you, I'd go with something that wouldn't be helped much by a bezoar." 

Sirius shrugs. The wine is of quality, even if it is not his preferred beverage. 

"Bella told me you are good with potions." 

Sirius wonders what else Bella told him. He hates imagining them talking about him. 

"In a pinch," Sirius answers. 

"Come, now. I thought you wear your arrogance like a shield. Don't play modest."

Don't tell me what to do! The Black blood screams. 

Sirius grits his teeth, keeps it all in. 

"Eight N.E.W.Ts, four of them Outstanding." 

"Merlin, really?" Sirius snaps. "You got my grades?"

"I've taken an interest in you." 

Clearly. 

"And I don't even know your name. How rude. Dumbledore still won't tell me." 

"I am sure he did," Voldemort says. 

"No. He calls you Voldemort." 

"That is my name. Pity he refuses to use it to my face."  

I'll find out, have no worries. 

"That Dumbledore… he refuses to call me 'Padfoot', too, though I insist on it." 

"An odd nickname." 

"I'm an odd man." 

Voldemort smiles. "Far from it." 

That sounds like an insult. 

"So, should I call you Voldemort, then?" Sirius pokes the beast because he can't help it. 

It's mum's fault, the way I turned up. It must be. 

Lily always says he sleeps around because he has unresolved 'mummy issues'. 

"Are you implying I want to fuck my mother?" Sirius had demanded, outraged. 

"Lord Voldemort." 

Not "my lord" then. Not yet, at least. Which makes sense. Sirius can't imagine Bella or Rodolphus, even Lucius, bowing down and calling anyone 'my lord' from the get-go. 

Still silly. Lord. Sirius thinks to make a jape, how Voldemort despises muggles and yet uses a muggle title. 

But he doesn't want to provoke him quite that badly. 

"If I were you, I wouldn't stop at lord. Why not king? Emperor Voldemort."

"An idea for the future," Voldemort says, mildly, taking another sip. 

Sirius gets another look at the ring.

A House ring; Sirius once had one himself, with his family's coat of arms. 

This one has the Deathly Hallows symbol on it, he can recognise it now. Did he invent a new Noble House? 

The Sacred Twenty Nine sounds just as stupid as the Sacred Twenty Eight. 

"Why 'Padfoot'? What does it mean?" 

"Oh," Sirius waves it away. "A childish thing. Came up with it at sixteen." 

"You truly don't have any sense of self-preservation, do you?" 

"Not an ounce." 

"Your father was like that." 

A sharp pain blossoms between his ribs. No one mentions his father. Few mention his mother to his face, but no one ever mentions his father. 

Not even his family.

Sirius takes a big breath. 

"My father hated you." 

"Unlikely," Voldemort comments. "Orion Black was too cold for something as passionate as hate." 

"My father," Sirius hisses, choked. "Is off-limits." 

Voldemort raises an eyebrow. "Do I have to tell you, or you figured it out?" 

"Got it," Sirius snarls. 

Leave jabs at his names aside, and Voldemort won't go into painful territory in return. 

"Good." He leans back into the chair. 

It's a dingy old thing. 

Voldemort makes it look like a throne. 

"This will be a long game, Sirius. Dumbledore is old. He lacks creativity, goes by the formula. Soldiers on the ground die. And he and I get to play chess. An open double spy, the most used tactic in war. That way, we can feed each other pieces of information. Everyone wins a little; no one really loses." 

"It does sound stupid, I agree." 

Voldemort doesn't like being interrupted. A muscle twitches in his jaw, but he quickly gets it under control. 

"I hate wasting time. And it will take time before I can trust you. I have no interest in whatever information Dumbledore wants me to get from you." 

"Then?" 

"Then we shall move to the practical side. I promised you I will teach you dark magic, did I not? We shall do that until you grow bored and disillusioned with Dumbledore." 

"I am already disillusioned with him." 

Voldemort laughs. 

There’s something off about him, now that Sirius can properly look without fear of impending death. 

He isn’t sure what. Not the eyes, though those are off by themselves. 

Something about his face just doesn’t seem right. On their own, all his features are normal. But together, they speak of former beauty, of experiences that had tarnished it, diminished it to something both mundane but also unique, at the same time. 

"You will find me more to your taste." 

Will I? 

"You didn't tell Dumbledore about Bella. You know she is a Death Eater, you'd known for years. She tells me you must know about Lucius and the Lestrange brothers as well." 

"I do." 

Voldemort regards him in silence, his long fingers taping against the goblet. 

"Your heart is here. And the rest of you will follow, eventually." 

Chapter Text

“Got you,” Sirius exclaims, victorious, when he finally finds the cabin, after four nights of searching around the general area. He refused to sleep, gripped by an obsessive need to figure it out.  

He rarely cares about anything enough to dedicate so much of his time, but on the rare occasions that sometimes gets his interest, Sirius will not tire until it’s done with. He’d been the same with the Animagus process and with the Marauder’s Map. 

The stars never fail him. 

Sirius stands in the small clearing, surrounded by miles upon miles of thick trees. 

He does nothing as foolish as trying to get inside the cabin. There’s nothing there for him to find, anyway. 

(-)

Dumbledore, to his credit, doesn’t look put upon when Sirius knocks on his office door well after midnight. He doesn’t even ask Sirius how he sneaked inside the castle undetected. 

He probably remembers the Marauders were great at sneaking around.

He looks alert, even if he is in his nightgown, which wasn’t a sight Sirius ever wished to see. 

“I know where Voldemort will be next Tuesday,” Sirius tells him, stepping inside the office. “I told you last time we met at a cabin-”

“Yes.” 

Dumbledore invites him wordlessly to sit. A cup of tea appears on the desk. 

Sirius scoffs at it, pushing it aside. 

“And he said we will meet again there next Tuesday, when he calls me.” 

“Yes.” 

“Found the cabin.” 

Dumbledore blinks at him. “How?” 

“Stars,” Sirius says, and Dumbledore frowns but then possibly remembers Sirius’ Outstanding in Astronomy N.E.W.T and his teacher going on an on about him, because his face clears.  

“That’s very creative of you.” 

Dumbledore sits just as Fawkes shows up from somewhere. He’s in his best form, far from birth but far from dying, too, magnificent, vibrant. 

He perches himself on Dumbledore’s shoulder and looks at Sirius with interest. 

“So, what are we going to do?” Sirius asks. 

“Nothing.” Dumbledore doesn’t even hesitate. Sirius can’t say he’s disappointed. He’d sort of expected it. 

Frustrating none the less. There must have been many times during the years when Dumbledore knew exactly where to find Voldemort, the most wanted man in the country. 

And he did nothing. 

“Why not? Everyone says he’s afraid of you. That means you are the superior duellist, no? So why not face him, head on, if you know where he’ll be?”

Dumbledore takes a long time to answer, leaning back into his chair, carefully considering Sirius. 

“I might lose.” 

Sirius appreciates the honesty. 

Dumbledore has a reputation as the most gifted man alive; well deserved after famously defeating Grindelwald and inventing or discovering all sorts of new magical theories. 

And while when he’s angry, a rare enough occurrence, Sirius can feel the power radiating from him, it’s…not the same as being in Voldemort’s presence. 

Sirius understands looks can be deceiving, but Voldemort appears far more capable. 

Dumbledore aged gracefully, but he aged. 

Voldemort, who can’t be a spring chicken either, has an ageless quality to him, a threatening energy clinging to him like a second skin. 

“If even our famous dark lord defeater might lose to Voldemort…” Sirius says, a little taunting colouring his words. 

“Grindelwald and Voldemort are very different people.” Dumbledore’s eyes look glazed for a second, as if lost in the past. “They are both ambitious and power hungry but all similarities end there. I’ve seen Voldemort duel, and even when he was but a young lad in Duelling Club, he had a particular style to him that is very hard to counter.” 

Oh, Sirius knows. With a thrill, he remembers the duel from his house, and the one from Tuesday. 

He doesn’t have words to describe how Voldemort fights. 

Dumbledore does, however. He has words for everything. 

“It looks chaotic, but it isn’t. There is order in that chaos, deliberation behind every seemingly baffling choice he makes. Impossible to predict his moves. I’ve seen him fight by the rules, with elegance and poise, and I’ve seen him in a rage, with no concern for etiquette. He is a phenomenal wizard and I can not be certain of the outcome of a direct confrontation. Too much would be left to chance.” 

Sirius imagines another world, a better world where the consequences of a fight between these two forces of nature wouldn’t be the end of their magical society as they know it. In that world, he’d like to see that duel. 

“He doesn’t fear me as people think,” Dumbledore says. "I do not believe he’s actually concerned I would best him in combat. His pride would not allow for that thought to be given much consideration.” 

“Than how does he fear you?” 

Dumbledore takes even longer to answer this question. 

“He doesn’t feel comfortable in my presence. It reminds him of who he used to be.” 

Who was he? Who is he? But Sirius had asked enough time, and he’d been ignored. 

“It reminds him that once he was a child, under my authority.” 

“Yeah, that’s no fun for anyone to remember,” Sirius says, perhaps unkindly. 

But he hates that office. The chair he’s sitting in, in which he’d found himself so many times, being berated for one thing or another. 

And he knows most of those times, Dumbledore went easy on him. 

Not on the almost murder, though. 

Of course he didn’t. You almost killed someone. What did you expect him to do, give you flowers?

Still, Sirius likes to think there were three parties to blame in that complete mess. 

Snape, Sirius and Dumbledore, albeit indirectly. 

Dumbledore ignored Snape and his fellow budding Death Eaters, even as basically everyone in the castle knew they were dealing with Dark Magic and were having plans to join Voldemort as soon as they were done with school. 

But Dumbledore likes to ignore Slytherins. Sirius imagines it is easier for him- and everyone else- to write the snakes off as hopeless cases. 

And then there’s the way Dumbledore treats Gryffindors, so vastly different. As a thirteen, fourteen-year-old, Sirius was happy for the blatant favouritism.  

It left McGonagall, Head of the Lions, to be impartial between Gryffindor- Slytherin feuds, what with Dumbledore and Slughorn being no help at all. 

The Headmaster was happy to turn a blind eye to the brewing tensions between the Marauders and some of the Slytherins boys, the more and more sinister curses flying between them.

And then, on that night, Dumbledore came down on Snape and Sirius like a hurricane. 

Sirius doubts Dumbledore ever glanced at Snape before. 

As for Sirius, even when his pranks got dangerous, Dumbledore often overturned McGonagall harsher punishments, because “they are just boys having fun”. 

Sirius remembers a moment, in that very office, not an hour after it all came to a head, sitting with Snape beside him. 

Snape was shaking, eyes wide, skin pale. 

Sirius was still, eyes narrowed, blood hot. 

And Dumbledore punishing them both. 

“That’s not fair,” Snape yelled, strangled. “That’s not fair! He almost killed me and we get the same punishment? You hid a werewolf in this school and you threaten to expel me if I ever tell anyone?” 

For a moment, Sirius truly saw his side. It really wasn’t fair. 

But then he remembered just with whom he was agreeing with and quickly lost all compassion. 

“You already knew he was a werewolf, you slimy piece of shit! You knew! I just told you how to go there, and you had to do it, didn’t you? You wanted to have Remus expelled, and you needed proof. I gave you proof. Stop whining!” Sirius rages, before turning to Dumbledore. “McGonagall told you for ages this git was messing with dark magic, that he was obsessed with us, following us around beyond the point of-”

“And I told Slughorn he and Potter curse me every chance they get!” Snape yells at Dumbledore too. 

“Because you are always there, hovering around! We wouldn’t get to curse you so often if you weren’t literally right behind us!” Sirius snarls at him. 

Snape stands, his unwashed hair falling in his face. “Brave Gryffindors, four against one and you did nothing, Headmaster-” 

“Four against one? Are you seeing double? What four? It’s me and James. And I can take you on my own, I assure you-”

“In your dreams, Black-”

Naturally, Sirius pulled out his wand and cursed him. 

Dumbledore did act then, diverting the curse before it hit Snape. And then he’d kicked Snape out of the office, so he could deal with them, one at a time. 

The only reason Sirius hadn’t been expelled was because Dumbledore would have to give a reason for it. And that would out Remus to the world, get him expelled too and also get Dumbledore in quite some trouble. 

All in all, that night, surprisingly, had given Sirius and Snape something in common. A resentfulness towards Dumbledore that is hard to shake off. 

“Anyway,” Sirius says, to get past the awkward pause. “Shouldn’t we at least try to get rid of him, if we have the chance?”

“If I die,” Dumbledore says, “you’ll forgive me for saying it, but there will be no one good enough left to protect our country from Voldemort.” 

And he calls Sirius arrogant. 

But he’s right, of course he is. Without Dumbledore, they’re fucked.

“Voldemort is not the kind of enemy to defeat in combat, Sirius. His knowledge and use of magic is unparalleled. In order to stop him, we need to use our brains, not our brawn.”

“My, my. So we need to be Slytherin about it, is what you’re saying,” Sirius spits.  

Fawkes chirps, and Dumbledore raises a hand to scratch under his beak. 

“Luckily, you have plenty Slytherin in you,” Dumbledore says, and his gaze moves to the sorting hat, displayed on a shelf.

Sirius turns to stare at the hat as well. 

He wonders is the sorting is truly a private matter or if the bloody thing snitches on students to Dumbledore. 

(-)

Gaunt. 

No wonder Sirius didn’t know what to make of  Voldemort’s hideous ring.

But it kept bugging him, he wanted to know who would take the Deathly Hallows as coat of arms so he decided to check. 

And there it is, under the Gaunt name, in a list of the Sacred Twenty Eight. It used to belong to the Peverell family, but after it went extinct in the male line, the Gaunts took it for themselves. 

They hadn’t had a presence in the Wizengamot for centuries, never mind society functions in Sirius’ youth. He couldn’t have remembered it. 

Gaunt, he thinks, looking at the page in “Lineage most pure: A history of Wizarding Excellence”. Salazar Slytherin is at the top of the family tree.  

Of course! There were rumours Voldemort was the Heir of Slytherin, that he’s a Parselmouth. 

He could only be a Gaunt.

Sirius should have guessed it sooner. Only he always hated this Sacred Twenty Eight business and the Gaunts had truly fallen off the face of the earth, their legacy and bizarre snake language forgotten.  

Morfin Gaunt and Merope Gaunt are the last ones, Sirius reads. 

Neither have dates of death, but the book hadn’t been updated since 1928, so they could or could not be alive. 

Naturally, one of them must be Voldemort’s parent.

But that doesn’t get him any closer to a name, to who Voldemort is and why his mum called him a mudblood. 

“Figures I’d find you here,” a voice pulls Sirius out of his thoughts. “Why are you reading that crap? Reminding yourself of your superiority?” 

Gideon. Of course Gideon would find Sirius in Knockturn Alley, reading the Blood Purist Holy Book. 

“Checking if my mum is my first cousin or my second,” Sirius says. 

People always aim to insult him with the rampant incest in his family, so Sirius likes to bring it up before they can. 

Snape loved to call him an inbreed, as if that’s any worse than half-blood. 

Sirius doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with it. 

Only Blacks are worthy of carrying Black children. 

And whom better to marry than someone you grew up with, someone that shares the same family values? 

At least it spares people of the awkward “bringing my boyfriend to meet my parents” type of dinner. 

“I’m just making sure Marlene’s blood is pure enough so we can start procreating,” he says viciously and Gideon’s face transforms with rage. 

But he’s there in Hit Wizard Uniform, clearly on the job since he’s not one to visit Knockturn for pleasure. 

“And, oh, look! What a surprise! She is pure enough.” Sirius slams the book shut. “I’ll send you an invitation to the wedding. We are family, after all. Don’t be bitter, now. I’m sure you understand. She was attracted to the little Black blood you have in you, but then I came along and… really, you can’t blame her.” 

Sirius waits for a second, just in case Gideon decides to be reckless, for once. To take out his wand and curse Sirius.  

He doesn’t. 

“You’re the worst thing that could have happened to her,” Gideon says, fists clenched at his side.  

“Possibly. You, however, are entirely forgettable. Good day, cousin.” 

The next Order meeting will be tense, that’s for sure.  

(-)

“What the fuck?” 

Sirius stops in the hallway of his house, half convinced he’d somehow ended up in another place by mistake. 

The house-elves tremble, bowed so low, their heads touch the floor. 

The very clean floor. 

The place looks nothing like how it did in the morning when he left it. 

“Mistress Lestrange sent us, sir. ‘Make it a home or die,’ Mistress said.” 

“Merlin’s fucking balls!” 

His walls, just pained, are painted again. But that’s the least of it. 

Furniture. Solid wood, expensive looking. 

The cushions on his tall, extravagant couch alone would cost as much as the house. 

“Fuck it, carry on, then.” There is no stopping deranged house-elves on a mission. 

There is no stopping Bella. 

“Would sir like something to eat?” 

“I’ve no food in the-”

“You do now, sir.” 

Indeed, his kitchen, when he enters it, is fully equipped. 

It used to be a muggle house, but it isn’t anymore. The house-elves expanded parts of it. Sirius has a cellar now. With some of Lestrange’s collection wines chilling inside. 

“Tell Lestrange I’m going to fuck Muggles on his precious furniture,” Sirius says, vexed to receive anything from anyone. 

He’s not a charity case.

The house-elves freeze. 

“I was joking,” Sirius snaps at them. “Get out of my sight!” 

They scurry out of the already finished living room. 

He has an office, too, like all important men must have. 

Intimidating desk, all black wood, with basically a throne to serve as chair, the Black coat of arms carved on it.  

Underneath it, Toujours Pur, in neat calligraphy. 

A few fine raven quills are arranged nicely on top of it, besides an ink pot made of gold. 

Bella was never one to take an interest in anything domestic- it was always Narcissa that dreamed of decorating a manor and managing its upkeep. 

Yet he can recognise Bella’s style in every chamber. 

His bedroom is one of the rooms that got magically enlarged, he’s quite certain of it. 

The bed is magnificent. 

Could host an orgy. Sirius never had one of those, at least not from what he remembers, but he plans on it. 

Now he also has a dressing room, which exasperates him and amuses him in equal amounts. 

The elves didn’t throw away his Muggle clothing. They ironed his jeans and his Queen T-shirts, folded them neatly at the very back of a massive armoire. His leather jackets are hanging in the back as well, behind the robes.

Sirius runs his fingers over the new robes, the expensive material familiar to his touch. 

Sometimes, Sirius wakes up with tears in his eyes, remembering big manors, with servants running after him, at his beck and call. A little brother following him around everywhere he goes. 

A delicate blonde girl drawing a picture by a lake. 

Another girl, with brown hair, playing the violin. 

A black-haired girl, brewing potions that would make the dark lord tremble. 

He remembers laughter, large ballrooms filled with elegance. Powerful men sharing cigars over the finest firewhiskey drank from crystal goblets; women gossiping over tea, in fancy dresses, not a hair out of place. 

He dreams of a beautiful woman, with long straight black hair and striking grey eyes holding a hand to his forehead as he suffers with dragon pox. He remembers her voice, singing him lullabies, all night and all day, tirelessly. 

He remembers her fighting for his life; he remembers her smell- lavender and love. 

Sirius has nightmares of that woman turning into a bitter harpy, always screaming. 

“You are no son of mine!”

Sirius dreams of his jewellery, of gleaming diamonds and heavy gold. 

He wakes up with the weight of the Black ring on his finger, even if it is not there anymore. 

He takes his hand away from the robes, a painful feeling in his chest.

You left all that behind. You don’t miss it. 

But now he’s besieged by finery again. 

Bella gave him the robes and the gold cufflinks and expensive watches, all skilfully arranged in a drawer. 

She can’t give him back his mother, however. His father and brother. 

Bella can wrap him in the finest silk, but she can’t wrap him in the security, the cocoon of a strong, large family. 

(-)

“Gideon is telling people he found you in Knockturn, in a shady shop, reading wizarding excellence nonsense.” 

James looks at Sirius, eyebrow raised. 

He’s sprawled on the couch beside his wife. The house in Godric’s Hallow is coming along nicely. 

“All shops are shady in Knockturn,” Sirius answers. 

Lily snorts. 

“Do you have to go there?” James asks. 

“It’s a compulsion,” Sirius says, smiling. “Every week, it calls to me. It’s the hags, I admit. I have weird sexual fantasies.” 

James laughs, shaking his head. 

“Anyway, it’s just Gideon and his jealousy. I just warned you so you know he’s saying those things.” 

“Thanks, mate.” 

“Oh, dinner should be ready, I think.” James checks his watch and hurries to the kitchen. 

He’d been threatening Sirius with a home cooked meal for weeks. 

Cooked by himself; Sirius is a brave man, but he’s afraid of how that will turn up. 

But James departs with a spring to his step, whistling.

Leaving Sirius with Lily and her lovely eyes searching his features. 

“Why do you do that?”

“Sit here and look pretty?” 

“Reading that shit, saying those things to Prewett… why?”

“It’s what he expects to hear.” 

Lily shakes her head. “Grow up, Sirius. They expected me to act like a muggle when I came to school. Some still do. But I don’t. I will always have to prove myself, no matter how long I live here. Blood Purists made sure of that. Should I just walk around in muggle clothes, use muggle expressions, throw it in everyone’s face?” 

Sirius shrugs. “That’s what I’d do.” 

“And what would it accomplish?”

Well, there’s the satisfaction of doing things out of spite, but Sirius doesn’t mention it.  

“I’m done proving myself, Lily. You have the patience of saints. But at least you are not surrounded by those that think you less. Your friends don’t judge you by your blood.”

Lily gets off the couch and comes to sit on the armrest of the armchair Sirius is occupying. 

“The Order- they should be on my side. Yet they judge me. So, fuck it. I’ll give them what they want. They expect a Black, that’s what they’ll get.” 

Lily takes his hand. “Anyone that truly knows you, realises you are not a blood purist. No matter what you are found reading in Knockturn. But you don’t allow people close enough to know you. So…” 

“I don’t care about people. I care about you and James, Peter and Remus.” He snorts. “And Remus would tend to agree with the likes of Prewett-”

“He doesn’t.” 

“Oh, yeah, he does.” 

Remus grows more distrustful of Sirius as the months pass by. It’s not easy for either of them. 

It’s not easy for Remus, who loves Sirius, but he’s been cautious around him since the Snape incident. 

It’s not easy for Sirius to watch suspicion grow in those amber eyes, mixing with the affection that is still there, corrupting it. 

It’s not easy for James and Peter, always trying just a bit too hard to pretend all is fine in their group. 

Lily opens her mouth, but James calls out from the kitchen. 

“Love, I think I fucked it up.” He sounds disappointed. 

Lily sighs. “What a shock.” 

“Go on, grab your coat, I’m taking you out to eat,” Sirius says, standing. 

“Are we taking James with us?” Lily asks, grinning and linking her arm with Sirius’ elbow. 

“If he begs nicely,” Sirius answers. 

(-)

Sirius waits the entire Tuesday outside the cabin in the woods. 

He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t show Voldemort that Sirius so easily discovered the location. 

It is sure to make him more prudent in the future. 

But Sirius can’t help himself. He can’t help showing off. 

He won’t wait for him to call Sirius, to compel him to Apparate there. He’s not a house-elf to be summoned. He’d hate that. 

You can’t avoid it. 

But he’s determined to avoid it for as long as he can. 

When Voldemort pops out of thin air and sees Sirius already there-

His face morphs into surprise. 

Sirius smiles, nonchalantly. 

“I hear you like being waited on, my lord.” 

Voldemort recovers fast. He walks closer to Sirius. 

In the daylight, Sirius can see that his eyes are actually mostly brown. 

A dark brown, with red scattered all through it.

He considers Sirius for some seconds. 

Sirius shrugs, throwing his cigarette on the ground, stepping on it. 

Voldemort is too proud to ask how he’d found the cabin. 

His eyes keep moving to the surrounding area, as if trying to find some clue he had ignored before, something that would have tipped Sirius off. 

But he doesn’t ask. 

“Impressed?” Sirius asks with a smirk. 

“Hardly.” 

(-)

“Impressed?” Voldemort asks, an hour later, mockingly.  

Sirius can’t answer, because he can’t breathe. Who knew learning dark magic from a dark lord would be painful?

It’s hard to be elegant without air, but Sirius refuses to collapse, to make a spectacle of himself, writing on the floor or clutching at his neck. 

He waits, controlling the anxiety, and indeed, shortly air comes back to him. 

“Hardly,” he spits back. 

But Sirius is impressed. 

Power always thrilled him, though he won’t ever say it. 

It reminds him of his father. Of long years when Sirius thought his father was the most powerful man in the world, that nothing was impossible to him. 

It made Sirius feels so safe at his side. 

“My wand,” he snaps and Voldemort throws it back to him.

Before meeting Voldemort, Sirius had never been disarmed in his life.

Dark Magic truly is mighty. Such a refined form of magic. So compelling and decisive. 

He’d been hit with many curses, twisted and complicated and unknown to him. They leave no trace on the outside, but they eat him from the inside. 

Voldemort ends them with a wave of his wand. 

Fuck, but he’s… there’s not even a word for what Voldemort is.

Everything, from his duelling stance, to the swift movement of his wand, to the way he just knew everything Sirius was about to do…

“Than I shall strive to be more impressive, next time,” Voldemort says, a smile playing on his lips. “Hard to please a Black; I know from experience.” 

“Impossible to please a Black,” Sirius corrects him. 

“I accomplished more hopeless tasks in my life.” 

Sirius feels fine; more than fine. He’s achy and tired, but there is no true damage. 

There’s only that buzz, perverse but sweet, that always comes with dark magic. 

The potent call of greatness. 

Sirius walks towards Voldemort, only stops when he reaches him. 

He makes a mental note to wear his biker boots next time, that have a bit of heel to them. With those on, they should be of a height. 

“The stars,” he drawls, pointing to the sky. “That’s how I found this place.” After such humiliating defeat, he wants to remind both of them that Sirius won something, too. “I can always find my way in the dark.” 

Under the moon, with magic flowing out of him in waves, Voldemort’s eyes are back to red. 

“As all dark creatures can,” he answers softly. 

(-)

“I heard we’re getting married,” Marlene says, when he parks the bike in front of his house, after picking her up from her shift at St. Mungo’s. “And we’re having a little one?” 

“Keep dreaming, McKinnon.” 

“That’s not a dream. That’s a nightmare,” she says as they walk to the front door. 

Sirius laughs. 

“I told Hestia that no, you’d never tell Gideon you’ll marry me-” Marlene goes on.

“Thank you-”

“I told her you’d never marry me. Because of that squib I have way back in my family, that ran off and married a muggle. Big no-no for extremists like you.” 

She grins at him. 

“That will help my reputation,” Sirius says and her grin only widens. 

Marlene is not a beauty; not in the traditional sense, at least. Or perhaps Sirius can’t think of women as beautiful anymore, since none hold a candle to his Bella. 

He grew up with her, Andromeda and Narcissa. 

Hard to find anyone beautiful after that. 

Marlene’s too tall, too skinny. Too sharp. 

She is pretty, he supposes, under the heavy makeup she wears.

But there’s something about her- her wildness, her hidden grace, the passion in her eyes, the twist to her blood-red lips; the freedom in her always messed up hair. The sleepless nights in the eyeliner that smudges around her eyes.  

Sirius had many conventionally lovely women in his bed. And none attract him quite as she does. 

“What in Morgana’s name happened to this place?” She stares around his living room once they reach it.  

“Wait till you see the bedroom.” Sirius discards his jacket on one of the couches. 

She narrows her eyes. “What brought this on?” 

“The marriage thing; if I am to become a husband, I need a proper house, with dishes and towels and… stuff.” 

She rolls her eyes. “You’re so weird, Black.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Still got booze, right?” 

“Oh, you shall be wonderfully pleased with the collection.” 

They get drunk on two hundred-year-old firewhsikey, poured in silver goblets, slouched on his new Persian carpet. 

But no matter how drunk he is, Sirius makes sure to remember the shirt stays on, covering his left forearm.

“Toujours Pur,” she slurs, finger tracing the letters on the goblet. 

“That’s me,” he answers with a hiccup.  

“Who would have they forced on you, have you stayed with your family? Who would have been the unlucky woman tasked with bringing a new generation of ‘toujours pur’ around?” 

Sirius shrugs, closing his eyes to keep the room from spinning. “Cissa, probably. She was the closest in age.” 

Marlene laughs, a throaty sound. “That would have been something. She’s so cold and…. perfect. Unreal. Like a doll in a box. She was a year above me, at Hogwarts.” 

“I know, I was there,” Sirius reminds her.

“So polite. With me, at least. Since I’ve got the right blood. Malfoy was polite too, but he had this…” 

Sirius opens his eyes to see her gesturing, as if searching for a word. The goblet is in her hand and it spills some liquid on the carpet. 

“I don’t know. Something. In his tone, in his eyes-”

“Disdain,” Sirius helps her. 

“That’s the one. They make a great couple. I saw the wedding picture in the Prophet. They looked elegant. No smiles though.” 

“Smiling is for plebeians,” Sirius quotes his aunt Druella. 

Marlene laughs, spilling more whiskey on the carpet. But nothing stays dirty for long in his house, Sirius noticed. Bella must send the elves to clean up after him, even if he never sees them around. 

“How do you all achieve the same blasted blank face? Is it in your genes, do you practice in the mirror-” 

“I was never good at it, mum said. Too expressive.” 

“Aren’t you a hypocrite,” his father says, without looking up from his newspaper, as his mother screams at Sirius about his posture. “Your bitterness is showing, darling. You look constantly hateful. I think your face froze that way.” 

“Oh, but you can be like that,” Marlene says, placing the goblet on the floor and throwing her legs on Sirius’ chest. “So many times, in Order meetings or in pubs, it’s like you flip a switch and your face closes off. Quite creepy.” 

“It’s my last brain cell dying, listening to Moody about constant vigilance or to Fabian going on about Dorcas.”

“It happens when you’re angry,” Marlène observes. “That is, when you’re angry but you’re trying to control it. You’re even scarier that way, than when you explode in a tantrum.” 

Sirius doesn’t know what to feel, hearing it. Luckily, he’s too drunk to feel much. 

“Snap a picture next it happens. I can send it to mum. Make her proud.” 

(-)

“Have you told Potter about your new role?” Voldemort asks, after they finish duelling. 

All Sirius’ gratification at learning two new curses vanishes when hearing James’ names in Voldemort’s mouth. 

“I hear you’re quite inseparable.” 

“You hear,” Sirius spits. “No need for the air of mystery; just say Bella told you.” 

Voldemort still doesn’t get angry with Sirius. The fact that he constantly humiliates him in their duels might take the edge off. 

“It is not only Bella,” he comments, handing the wand back to Sirius. 

“I’d rather we don’t talk about my personal life,” he barks, pocketing his wand. 

It does not deter Voldemort. “And I’d rather know who is aware of the mark on your arm. You’ll learn that what I want takes precedence over what you want.” 

There it is. The first overt statement that Sirius is a lowly servant to a superior master. 

If he’d be Padfoot, his hackles would raise. Somehow they still do even if Sirius has no fur at the moment. He feels a growl deep in his chest, threatening to come out of his mouth. 

It doesn’t help that he’s exhausted, having went some nights without sleeping, partying around London with Marlene and Peter. 

The lesson hadn’t helped his tiredness, draining him of all the energy he had left. 

Keep it together, the voice of reason begs him feebly, struggling to be heard in his head over the fury. 

The Remus voice, he calls it. 

It means nothing, you’re just playing your part. 

With difficulty, Sirius curbs the instinct to say something scathing, like ‘oh, but in the world you’re trying to create, a pureblood’s wishes always take precedence over a half-blood’s or a mudblood’s.” 

He’s biting his tongue so hard he tastes blood. 

“I will take your silence to mean that Potter knows. Who else?” 

“No one,” Sirius spits out. 

Voldemort nods. “Keep it that way.” 

Sirius snaps at the order. 

“Oh, don’t worry. I will. See, Dumbledore already served me the speech about secrecy and whatnot. So save your breath. I heard it already. You and him are remarkably alike, you know?”

A muscle ticks in Voldemort’s jaw, filling Sirius with satisfaction. Finally, a reaction. 

“Secretive, conniving, full of yourselves. Why, you even have that dubious parentage in common,” Sirius says, with glee. 

He’s about to add: “at least he doesn’t hide his name, like a coward,” but his breath is knocked out of his lungs as he flies into the nearest tree, his back connecting with it painfully. 

“Never put away your wand while your adversary still has his,” Voldemort says, and he’s aiming for a casual tone, but failing. 

He’s trying to pass the attack as a continuation of the duel; possibly  because he realises Sirius is boiling.

You goaded him into it, Remus says in his head. 

Sirius lets it slide, he pretends that indeed this is just another lesson, because what are the alternatives? 

To accept he might get ‘punished’ for opening his stupid mouth is inconceivable. 

Not when Sirius can’t do anything about it. His mother used to punish him, but Sirius would fight back. When he was young, he’d just run to his father or grandfather to overrule her; when he’d been older, he simply refused to back down and she couldn’t make him do anything he didn’t want. 

At school he looked at detention as slaps on the wrist, an amusing effort by McGonagall to keep him contained. 

The only man to have ever punished Sirius and got away with it had been his father, and Sirius hates being made to feel a small child again. 

He gives it his best in the duel, that gets far more heated than the ones before, but his best isn’t enough. Not even close. 

By the end, he’s far too drained to summon any energy for his anger.

He gets home, crawling up the stairs, barely making it to his bed.

Tuesday nights are starting to become the only nights he can sleep without getting drunk first. 

Tuesday nights are the only nights when he’s far too tired to dream. 

(-)

“How’s the second most beautiful girl in the world doing?” Sirius asks Andromeda, dropping a box of chocolates and a bouquet on the table. 

Andromeda gets a pained look on her face and instantly Sirius knows she’s thinking he meant the first one is Bella. 

Which she is. But he hadn’t meant to make Andromeda think of her sister. 

“And here is the number one beauty,” he hastily adds, when Nymphodora runs to him. 

She jumps in his arms and he twirls her around, making her giggle. 

“What did you bring me?” she demands. 

“Is that all I am to you?” Sirius asks her. “You wound me so, darling.” 

“Cut it! Gimme!” Nymphadora is nothing if not persistent. 

Sirius pulls the miniature enchanted bike from his pocket. It looks like his own, parked outside. 

She loves it when Sirius convinces Andromeda to let him take her for a quick ride around the house. 

“You spoil her,” his cousin says. 

“Someone has to,” he answers, sitting on the couch, Nymphadora in his lap, examining the toy bike. 

Her house is clean, but cluttered. The furniture is second hand.

Sirius wonders if Andromeda has dreams like his, where she’s back home, in luxury. 

She must, because while everything is on a budget, her clothes are of the finest quality available to her. 

They don’t talk about home. 

They don’t talk about Bella or Cissa or Regulus. 

They don’t talk much at all, actually. 

But they’re family, they only have each other, so Sirius visits once or twice a month and sits there in silence, if Ted or Nymphodora aren’t around to fill it. 

He wonders if it hurts Andromeda that her daughter has Bella’s long eyelashes, the shape of her eyes. Narcissa’s button nose. 

It must. 

It hurts Sirius. 

That’s why he always encourages her to use her Metamorpmagus skills when he’s around. 

He usually comes midday, but he lingers long enough that visit, playing with his little cousin, and Ted arrives from work early, insisting Sirius stays for dinner. 

It is so strange to see this child, with Black features, laughing at the table, eating with pink plastic spoons, dressed in her day clothes. 

Sirius and Andromeda don’t speak during dinner. 

They never were allowed to, as children. 

Used to sit there silently, in formal wear, changing silver cutlery with every course. 

Until Sirius hit puberty. Then their dinners were filled with screams. 

On Sirius’ side of the family, it was he and his mother. 

On Andromeda’s side, it was Bella doing all the screaming. 

For his last dinner with the Blacks, it was Sirius and Bella.

Andromeda had abandoned them already. 

His father was gone, severely ill, only his husk lingering in his bedroom. 

Gaping, painful, impossible to heal wounds left behind them; the absence of two of their own that would never be coming back. 

Sirius can’t remember how the fight started. He can’t remember much about the days following his fathers’ abrupt decline. 

It must have been something Cygnus told Bella and set her off.

And then the screaming started. 

Sirius remembers Bella standing, face red with anger. 

Cygnus standing.

Sirius standing. 

Louder and louder, shrill noises ringing in his ears as both Bella and his mother outdid each other, sharp voices blending together until they became one continuous shriek. 

He remembers Cygnus reaching for Bella, as if to grab her arm. 

Sirius remembers smashing a plate filled with salmon and broccoli on his uncle’s head. 

He remembers pain somewhere in his temple as Cygnus fought back; Bella screaming bloody murder, grabbing Narcissa and throwing her out of the room, before trying to place herself between her father and Sirius. 

He remembers his mother. 

It’s all unclear, but he remembers her cursing Cygnus, when the hands around Sirius’ throat squeezed so tightly he couldn’t breathe anymore. 

And Cygnus had let him go; he tuned to his sister, wand raised, and Sirius remembers seeing red when the cutting hex takes his mother in the shoulder. 

He remembers a knife, the weight of it in his grasp; he remembers how easily it slid in between Cygnus’ ribs. 

He remembers the blood spilling, ancient pure blood, all over the floor. 

Even though he wasn’t the one bleeding, Sirius still felt like he was, like all the pain for a father they didn’t allow him to mourn- Blacks don’t cry, Blacks don’t show weakness- spilled out of him.

He’s not quite sure how it stopped- some vague recollection of Bella aiming her wand at all of them, Sirius and Cygnus finally pulled apart. 

Everything is blurry. 

What Sirius remembers very clearly, what he sometimes sees when he closes his eyes trying to sleep, is Regulus, siting at the table, head bowed, thin shoulders shaking. A piece of broccoli had landed in his hair. 

He just sat there, terrified to attract attention. 

Forgotten, as always. 

And Sirius left his house hours later, scared and furious, Bella’s Dark Mark burned under his eyelids, her whispered fevered promises the dark lord would fix everything. 

He left with the knowledge Bella would abandon the family too, lured away by a man like her sister before her. 

None of that would have happened if his father had been present. Andromeda would have never dared run away, knowing Orion Black would have hunted her down anywhere in the world and drag her back home.

Bella wouldn’t have taken the Dark Mark. 

There would have been no curses flying at the dinner table, no Black spilling Black blood. 

“I keep this family together. I am the shield upon which our enemies break. But I am dying. Now you must be the shield,” his father says, as stoic as ever and he pulls the Black ring off his finger. 

Sirius steps back, shaking his head. He’d never seen his father without his ring. It’s a part of him, a symbol of his power and pride. 

Without it he doesn’t look like father anymore. 

“Take it. You are my son, my firstborn. You are strong.” 

“Father-”

“No matter what your mother says, you are my legacy. You are what I leave behind. Take it.” 

“Dad-” Sirius’ voice breaks, his soul shatters to pieces. He tries to ignore his father’s illness, to pretend it isn’t actually real. But it becomes very real in that moment. 

He doesn’t know this frail man that struggles to walk towards Sirius, leaning heavily on a cane. 

The hands that take Sirius’ own seem old, all of a sudden; they shake, lacking the sureness and strength they held only days before. 

His father slips the ring on Sirius’ finger. And then he grabs Sirius’ chin and wipes a tear off his cheek. 

“Blacks don’t cry, Sirius. Blacks endure.” 

When he ran away from his home, just a couple of months after that last talk with his father, Sirius took the ring off. 

It felt too big for him, anyway. 

Sirius failed. He didn’t keep them united. He was no shield. Andromeda fled from the house not a month after his father got too sick to stand; Cygnus started interfering in Regulus’ life not a week after his father was incapacitated. 

Bella showed up with a Dark Mark. 

Sirius is not his father. He is no head of family. 

He left the ring behind on his father’s nightstand and snuck out of his house in the dead of night. 

He once again forgot about Regulus; Sirius was too wrapped in his suffering, in his rage and impotence. 

He was sixteen years old, and he had lost everything.  

“Why are you sad, Padfoot?” Nymphodora asks, and Sirius shakes his head.

He’s shivering, a cold in his chest that has no place in the brightly illuminated kitchen, with the merry fireplace burning a few feet away. 

“I’m not sad,” Sirius says, and he forces on a smile. “Blacks don’t get sad.” 

Ted laughs, because it’s funny to him, meaningless words, bragging words about their noble blood. 

Andromeda doesn’t laugh. 

“Don’t teach her that crap,” she hisses at Sirius, face blank, shoulders straight, all of her pain and misery buried deep, deep inside, because that is how they were taught. 

It was never just words. It’s an oppressive lesson, drilled into them from birth, a rigorous set of rules on how they should conduct their lives. 

Sirius ran away, Andromeda ran away. But the lessons stay with them, engrained in every cell. 

Chapter Text

“You put too much effort into trying to predict my next move,” Voldemort says, handing back Sirius’ wand. “Why do you persist with this tactic if it so obviously fails, time and time again?” 

He’s not quite correct. It fails most of the time. But Sirius guessed right once or twice. 

Not that it helped him much, in the end, but it did happen. 

He doesn’t point it out. There’s no reason. Voldemort knows it and he can pretend he doesn’t all he wants, he’ll still know it. 

“Because I am insane,” Sirius says, conjuring a goblet of water, gulping it down. “A muggle said that’s what insane is, doing the same shit over and over again, expecting different results. A singer I think.” 

Voldemort blinks, something he rarely does. “Einstein,” he says, as if he can’t help himself. “He wasn’t a singer-never mind.” 

Sirius smirks. It is so obvious Voldemort is intimately familiar with Muggles. 

Sirius doesn’t point that out either. 

“You aren’t insane. You’re stubborn and inexperienced-”

“I am quite experienced. I’m fighting in a war.” 

“You are used to weaker adversaries. Or people that you know. In both instances, you can predict their behaviour. That won’t be the case with me. Desist. Focus on deflecting when I already made my move.”  

“It’s too late by then.” 

“Yes, because you are a step behind, you attention spread thin.” 

“Fine,” Sirius agrees sharply. 

He’d never been particularly receptive to criticism. 

And he’s in a hurry. 

But Voldemort catches on to it; he noticed Sirius’ heart wasn’t in it the last half an hour. 

“You’re meant to be someplace else?” 

Sirius’ eye twitches. “No.” 

The full moon shines brightly above them. 

“You may leave,” Voldemort says and Sirius cheers up. He can make it- he missed the transformation, but he can still be there- “I understand if you are too exhausted to continue. No man can keep up with me.” 

Sirius clenches his jaws. 

The fucking bastard. 

“I’m fine,” Sirius growls and aims his wand at Voldemort. 

There will be other full moons. 

(-)

“Where were you?” Remus asks, voice weak. 

Sirius enters the abandoned house just as the sun starts to rise. 

James and Peter are shirtless, trying to give Remus water and some chocolate. 

Peter looks over his shoulder at Sirius, one eyebrow raised. 

James knows very well where Sirius has been, but it’s not like he can say it. 

“Why Moony, aren’t Peter and I good enough?” He attempts to joke, holding a glass at Remus’ mouth. “We can manage without Sirius for one night.” 

“That’s not quite true.” Remus isn’t in the mood for jokes. He never is after the full moon. “You know you have the best chance to stop the werewolf.” 

His eyes, still a bit yellow so soon after the moon, stare right into Sirius’. 

Padfoot is big enough, agile enough, teeth and claws sharp enough to keep the werewolf in check. 

“Something came up,” Sirius says, which is the stupidest excuse he can come up with. 

But there is no other- Remus knows no matter how Sirius likes his drinks, he’d never get drunk on a full moon. Not after the Snape incident. He knows Sirius would never miss a transformation for some bint. 

Sirius can practically see the suspicion sinking in Remus’ mind, like poison. 

(-)

“Here, let me,” James says, shoving Sirius aside and putting on a kettle. 

All in silence. Lily is still sleeping, and it’s never safe to wake her so early. 

“Oh, shut up. I wasn’t the one running with a werewolf all night. Let me do it-”

“First of all,” James says, pushing Sirius into a chair. “You make the worst tea ever. Secondly, you were running around with Voldemort last night. I wager that’s more tiring than a werewolf.” 

“I make the best tea,” Sirius insists. 

“Well, I don’t take my tea with vodka first thing in the morning.” 

Sirius gives up and sits on a chair, balancing it on its back legs. 

“How’s that going?” James asks. “I know you’re not supposed to tell me anything, at least Dumbledore seems to think I shouldn’t know-”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Sirius says. “Still just duels.” 

“I don’t like it,” James says, pushing his glasses on his nose as he searches through a cupboard for his favourite tea blend.

I do, Sirius thinks, but doesn’t say so. 

“Could prove useful, though. I’m learning how he fights, his weak points and all that.” 

Voldemort has no weak points, but Sirius feels the need to give some hope to James. 

“Yeah, you’re learning it along with dark magic.” James puts the sugar down and turns to look at Sirius. “I don’t like it,” he repeats. 

“I always knew dark magic,” Sirius says, cautious. 

James waves it off. “A curse or two from the library in Grimmauld; that’s nothing compared to what Voldemort probably shows you.” 

Sirius bites his lip but doesn’t correct James. It would be useless, anyway, to insist Sirius knew more than ‘a curse or two’. 

James is aware, deep down, that it is more than that. 

It’s just better left unsaid. 

“It’ll be alright, Jamie. Don’t fret.” 

“Don’t call me Jamie.” He sighs, returns to his tea preparation. “Of course it will be alright. I know that. I just hate that you have to go through it.” 

“Who’s Einstein?” Sirius asks to change the subject.

“Huh?” 

“A muggle that had this famous quote. I thought he was a singer, but apparently not. Lily drags you to enough dinners with her parents and movie nights and all that. Maybe you heard of him.” 

“No idea.” James puts a cup of tea in front of Sirius. “Lily got rid of all the alcohol in the house after you got Peter drunk and he threw up in our laundry basket. So you’ll have to take it straight.”

“An awful way to start the day.” Sirius wrinkles his nose but takes a sip. 

“You want me to make you breakfast?” James asks, eager. 

Sirius shudders. “No, thank you. You know you’re not supposed to cook unsupervised, lest you burn down the house.” 

“You can supervise me.” James wiggles his eyebrows. 

“James, we’re two pureblooded rich kids. We haven’t seen a pan until Lily showed us one. I don’t think I count as supervision.” 

“I resent that! I did use a pan before! I used it to kill a spider when I was twelve.” 

(-)

He hears the door opening and then slamming shut. 

“You better be ready!” Bella’s voice floats up the stairs. 

Sirius takes one last look in the mirror, a conflicting feeling in his heart. 

He doesn’t remember the last time he wore a robe- not this sort of robe, with an intricate design, tailor made, golden chains fasted around it. 

His hair is tied neatly with a black ribbon. 

If it weren’t for the dragon tail peeking from under his collar and lashing around Sirius’ neck, he could look like his father. 

“Stop it,” Sirius hisses at the tattoo, pushing it with his finger, until the tail disappears back under the robe. 

“Is that my grandmother’s coat rack?” Lestrange’s voice. He sounds suspicious. 

“So?” Bellatrix snaps at him. “You hated that old bitch. We hardly needed it.” 

Sirius breathes in deeply and gets out of his bedroom and down the stairs. 

Bella always dresses well, but this time she’s more elegant than usual. More modest too, no corsets to squeeze her chest and put her breasts on display. 

Sirius rather likes the corsets. But Narcissa probably wouldn’t appreciate her sister flaunting her cleavage in front of her husband. 

“Look at you,” Bella coos when she sees him, instantly at his side. “So handsome.” 

She kisses his cheek and puts her hand around his elbow. 

“Is this the firewhiskey I brought from Peru?” Lestrange demands, coming out of the living room, holding a bottle Sirius had emptied the night before. 

“It was,” Sirius drawls, narrowing his eyes. 

Lestrange is an enormous brute. Sirius remembers a time when he’d just come up to the other’s shoulder. 

But Sirius is not a kid any longer. He’s just as tall now, and almost just as wide. 

“There he is, the Black sheep.” 

Sirius opens his mouth, but Bella squeezes his elbow. 

“Now, now. Play nice. Cissa will be upset if we come late and bloodied.” 

“We wouldn’t want to upset dear Cissa,” Lestrange says, sarcastic. 

“No, we wouldn’t,” Sirius and Bella answer at the same time. 

Lestrange looks at them for a second. They stare back, with probably identical expressions. 

“Merlin, give me patience,” he mutters. 

“Merlin should give you some brains, you’re sorely lacking in that department,” Sirius says, and before he can get an answer, he goes on. “Shall we?” 

“Yes,” Bellatrix says, and they head to the door, Lestrange trailing behind them. 

“You should hold my arm, darling,” he says, a minute later, when they all materialise in the garden of Malfoy Manor. 

Bellatrix ignores her husband. “Remember when I broke Lucius’ nose? Right there under the willow?” She points to a tree in the distance. 

“I remember,” Sirius assures her, smiling down at her. 

“And he tried to curse me back, but you bit his leg,” Bella laughs. “You were an adorable toddler!” 

“Well, it was the only part of him I could reach.” 

Lucius kicked him in the face afterwards and then their house-elves broke the squabble off and they were all dragged to their respective fathers. 

Bella was punished. Lucius was punished. 

Sirius’ father took Sirius in his lap, gave him a pat on the back. 

“Well done,” he whispered as he healed Sirius’s bruise. “You always stand up for family.”

“Sirs, Madame,” a house-elf bows when they reach the door, after climbing the steps. “Master and Mistress will receive you in the living room.” 

It’s not Lucius’ crazy elf, Sirius observes, disappointed. That one was a funny creature. Dizzy, Dorry, something like that. 

The Manor changed since last he saw it; of course, back then Narcissa hadn’t married Lucius. 

It’s redecorated in a more modern way. Sirius observes the wallpaper has flowers now instead of skulls. 

The Malfoys- and doesn’t Sirius hate thinking of his cousin as a Malfoy- stand when the little group enters the opulent room. 

Lucius’ cold eyes zero in on Sirius, calculating as always. 

Narcissa, whose reaction Sirius had feared the most, acts like she just saw Sirius the other day. 

She allows Lestrange to kiss her hand, and then she comes to Sirius and kisses his cheek. 

“Cousin,” she says, no inflection in her voice. 

Bella forces the three of them into a group hug. “It’s so nice, isn’t is?” she whispers. 

Narcissa extricates herself from the hug. 

“Please, have a seat.” 

“Sirius,” Lucius extends his hand and Sirius takes it, shaking it once. 

And then they’re all sitting. Lucius with his wife, Bellatrix with Sirius on the other settee and Lestrange on an armchair. 

An awkward silence follows. 

Sirius never imagined he’d be back at Malfoy Manor. Several memories from his childhood play out before his eyes; running through that same living room, Lucius helping him with his tie, Andromeda snogging Yaxley and Regulus keeping watch so no one would find them.

“There he is!” Sirius exclaims, when the strange elf makes an appearance, carrying a tray. 

“Sir Black!” He squeaks, delighted. 

“I thought you’d have killed him by now,” Sirius tells Lucius, as the elf serves them drinks. 

An extremely peculiar creature. Sirius always believed his days were numbered. 

“I get the urge, believe me,” Lucius sneers, and the elf shudders. “But Narcissa took a liking to it.” 

She would have; all the Black girls were practically raised by Kreacher. Their mother was always depressed and their father wanted a boy. 

They’ve grown uncomfortably close to Kreacher and developed an undue fondness for elves, in general. 

“What’s he called? I forgot.” 

“Dobby,” Lucius answer as Dobby presents the tray to Sirius and Bella. 

And there it is, Sirius’ favourite French brandy. 

Nothing is a coincidence with this lot. If he were just another guest at the Manor, he would have been asked first, for his preferred drink. 

But he isn’t. He’s family. And you never ask family what they want, because you’re supposed to know already. 

Something warm spreads through Sirius, and it’s not the liquor going down. 

Bella caught on to the gesture as well, and she smiles at Sirius, holding her own drink. 

“The house looks great, Cissa,” Sirius says, because he’s supposed to. 

All those lessons in etiquette are implanted in his head, even if he seldomly makes use of them. 

“Thank you,” she answers politely. 

And so it begins. Sirius relaxes slightly as the visit goes on.

Rodolphus and Lucius don’t talk about Ministry business, nor do they brag too much about their independent financial investments, as men are supposed to at these gatherings. 

They don’t do it so Sirius won’t be left out. 

Again that warmth, that he doesn’t want to feel, and Sirius downs his glass in one go. 

He’d expected he’d be shunned. And no one can snub people like a bunch of rich purebloods. He’d expected all the little jabs at him from the get go. Mix up with the drinks, talking about things he has no idea about- all of it. 

It would have been easier to bear than this gracious hospitality. 

They talk about Quidditch instead. They still bring gold into it- just no way to avoid it with Lucius. The man can’t help himself. He’s sponsoring the Falmouth Falcons- Sirius remembers seeing a game with them, before he even started Hogwarts. 

“One day, I’ll buy the team,” Lucius told Andromeda, who just rolled her eyes at him. 

“I slept with the Seeker’s wife,” Sirius says, pressed to find something to add to the conversation.

Narcissa pretends she hadn’t heard, but Bellatrix laughs. 

“Rabastan has been trying to get her for ages.” Lestrange laughs, too. 

“I know, I saw him lurking around at her concerts.” 

“She sings horribly.” Bella wrinkles her nose. 

“It’s not her voice that drew my attention,” Sirius says, wiggling his eyebrows at her. 

Lucius, who had quite the reputation as a Casanova before he married, clearly wants to say something, but cannot, with Narcissa sitting beside him. 

They spend some time gossiping about several people. 

Lucius is vicious with his tongue and Sirius always secretly enjoyed hearing him put people down; it’s more entertaining when the people in question are present, but he still has a laugh or two before they are called for dinner. 

Sirius can’t help but notice that Lucius didn’t bring up none of the people close to Sirius. Not even Dumbledore- and everyone likes to say something scathing about the Headmaster at these sort of gatherings. 

They’re all too nice. Sneaky Slytherins. 

At the enormous dining table, the conversation turns sparser. 

Sirius makes sure to use all the proper cutlery, complimenting Narcissa over every meal, as he should. 

He’d never bothered with manners while he was still at home, determined to piss off his mother and all the people she forced him to visit, but he wants Narcissa to accept him. 

She doesn’t. 

Oh, she’s all smiles, and ‘thank you’, but he knows her well enough to realise it’s all fake. 

He has to suffer through four damned courses before they are officially done, retiring to the living room for another drink.

Narcissa excuses herself at some point, going to check on the house-elves and the dessert. Sirius goes after her. 

“That’s not a good idea,” Bella says, right behind him. 

“I never had a good idea in my life.” Sirius gets lost for a second, after taking a wrong turn. 

He rectifies his course. 

“She’s still a bit… ah… upset,” Bella whispers. 

“You don’t say.” 

“It’s your funeral,” she sighs and doesn’t pester him anymore. 

“Dobby!” Sirius snaps, frustrated when he can’t find the damned kitchen, because it wasn’t a place he often visited. If at all. 

And Bella is equally clueless. 

“Sir Black!” Dobby pops out of thin air, ears flopping around. 

“Take me to the kitchen.” 

And so he does, leads them to a door in the eastern wing. 

Sirius breathes in, squares his shoulders and goes in. 

“You’ve got a lot of nerve to show your face,” Narcissa says in a frosty tone. 

She’s been waiting for him, seated at a long table, arms and legs crossed, eyes sparkling. 

Two other house-elves are hustling around her. 

“You invited me,” he offers. 

“Lucius invited you. I could hardly say no.” 

Because Blacks don’t show dissent in front of others. Which was why Bellatrix arranged for a dinner with Lucius and Lestrange there, knowing Narcissa won’t say anything in their presence. 

Bella comes to stand beside Sirius, clinging to his arm. 

He doesn’t really know how to deal with Narcissa. No one really knows, besides Bella. 

She’s the only person in his family Sirius never yelled at; it’s just impossible to raise his voice at her when she answers with that cold, unaffected voice, no expression on her face. 

“He was very young,” Bella says. “He’s older now, wiser, and he came back.” 

“Regulus was young, too.” Narcissa doesn’t look at her sister, pinning Sirius with her icy gaze. 

“You know it wasn’t really a choice, Cissy,” Bella insists. “You were there that night, and after the fight with father-” 

“Yes, I was there! Regulus was there! You were there. And we didn’t leave, did we? I suppose you got to go to your Manor. But me and Reggie stayed there. Alone with father and aunt.” 

“You weren’t under the same pressure I was,” Sirius says, getting heated. Narcissa had her own burdens, and while Sirius acknowledges the order to ‘be silent and smile’ isn’t an easy one to live with, it’s not the same with the things that were demanded of him. “You knew the time will come soon for you to marry and leave-” 

“You do realise, do you, that after you took off, all that pressure was placed on your brother? Who was even younger than you?” 

It’s like a knife in the heart. 

Sirius knows. He knows it very well. 

“Regulus has a better temper,” he says, clinging to the excuse. “And mum loves him-”

“Not only you didn’t care, but then you mocked him at school, sneering at him he won’t ever suffice as heir apparent.” 

Seeing Regulus with Sirius’ ring, with their father’s ring, had not been easy. 

He knew it wasn’t Regulus’ fault. He knew the ring only went to him because Sirius left; that Regulus, unlike many other second sons, had never wanted to take it from Sirius. 

He knew, but knowing never helped Sirius control his anger and his pain. 

It didn’t matter Regulus had no fault. It didn’t matter Snape and Remus had no fault. 

He just wanted to get rid of his misery, and it felt better to unload it on others, to make them hurt, too. 

“The mess you left behind… No, of course you didn’t care. The consequences of Sirius’ Black choices are always someone else’ problem, never yours. You and that whore,” Narcissa spits, finally some emotion colouring her tone when she references Andromeda. “You never cared for the rest of us. And now you have the nerve to stroll back in, like you never left at all.” She stands. “Just five months after we buried your father. What a coincidence you show your face now-”

“Enough!” Bellatrix snaps, when Sirius goes rigid. “That’s quite enough, Narcissa.” 

She stands in front of Sirius. 

“This is my house, you don’t get to-” 

“I raised you. I took care of you. I get to do whatever I want. Pull that stick out of your arse! I get it, you’re upset with him. But he’s back. We stick together from now on. And that’s final.” 

“If she doesn’t want me here,” Sirius tries, but Bella cuts over him, too. 

“None of that. Of course she wants you here. She missed you. Now kiss and make up. Quick, before I get angry with both of you.” 

Narcissa retreats under her ice shield, everything about her cold, no trace of the emotion before. 

Sirius gets past Bella and gathers Narcissa in his arms. She allows it, but remains stiff as a board. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers in her ear. “You’re right, about everything. I’m sorry.” 

She softens, if only a little. 

She knows saying ‘sorry’ does not come easy to Sirius. 

“You’ll have to work hard to make up for it,” she says, still not hugging back. 

(-)

The headache wakes him up. Sirius opens his eyes lazily, bothered by the sunlight. 

He doesn’t recognise his surroundings. 

It’s not like it never happened before. 

He’s in a bed, and there is a warm body pressed into his side, covered by blankets. 

Sirius carefully manoeuvres his arm from under whoever it is and then lowers the blanket to take a peek. 

It’s Marlene. 

He nudges her with his elbow. 

“Piss off,” she mumbles, turning on her other side. 

“I’m already disappointed to wake up beside you instead of a curvy blonde,” Sirius tells her, elbowing her again. “The least you can do is tell me where we are.” 

Marlene turns back and punches him in the stomach. “You almost woke up beside a blond. He was basically sitting in your lap. He wasn’t very curvy, though.”

Now that she mentioned it, he thinks he has a hazy memory of a smiling man with blue eyes, somewhere at a Muggle party. 

Marlene looks at him, eyeliner and mascara smudged around her eyes. 

He doesn’t know what to say about the blond. He’s not supposed to like men. 

It’s generally acceptable in their world, unlike the muggle one, but not for someone like Sirius. 

He still wants to hide in a narrow hole in the ground when he remembers the first time he kissed a boy. 

Sirius was fourteen, and Rosier’s French cousin was handsome. Rodolphus and uncle Alphard gave them firewhsiky when none of the other adults were paying attention. 

He can’t remember how and when they decided to go on their own- something about showing the foreigner around the house. 

They didn’t get very far. Sirius felt the need to kiss him and he was never one to keep himself from doing as he pleased. 

His mother caught them, bursting into one of Avery’s guests’ room. 

“Of course you’d be one of those people,” she screeched at him. “You can’t do anything right, can you? I can’t wait to see your father’s face when I inform him!” 

She mercifully allowed Rosier to leave the room, but she stayed there and preached at Sirius about duty and heirs and shame for close to half an hour. 

Since then, every time he happens to find a man attractive, Sirius hears his mother’s screams in his ear. 

Unless he’s very, very drunk. Then he doesn’t hear the screeching.

“You look like a racoon,” he says, trying to wipe some of the black around Marlene’s eyes, but just making the situation worse.

“You look like an idiot.” 

“So we’re both our usual selves.” 

Sirius stands-or tries to. His jeans are lowered around his thighs and he almost falls on his face. 

Marlene laughs at him. Cruel woman. 

“Did you spell your shirt or something? I couldn’t get it off.” 

As a matter of fact, he did spell his shirt so it wouldn’t come off. Sirius is particularly happy about that lucky foresight. He’d planned to spend the night amongst muggles, but he knows that sometimes he ends up far from where he meant, so he thought to take precautions.

He’s painfully aware of his Dark Mark and the need to hide it. 

“James’ idea of a joke,” he mutters. “The prat. So where are we?” 

“Somewhere in Leeds,” Marlene answers, standing. She is still dressed, but she seems to be missing her knickers, because she pulls out her wand and tries to summon them. Nothing happens. “One of the muggles from the pub, a student or something, offered to take the party to their house.” 

“A student?” Sirius asks, horrified. 

“Don’t be an idiot, one of those older students they have. For that grown up school.” 

Ah, right. University. Sirius calms down. He doesn’t have many morals, but he draws the line at sleeping with teenagers. 

“You were harassing people all night about someone called Einstein. You demanded to know who he was.” 

“Did they tell me?” 

She shrugs. “They seemed to think you were an idiot for not knowing. Apparently, everyone knows who he is. One girl had something to say about you ‘he’s dumb, but at least he’s handsome’. A sentiment I agree with wholeheartedly.” 

“Hilarious, McKinnon.” 

She sticks out her tongue. “See you around, Black,” she says and then Disapparates. 

Sirius does so too, a moment later.

(-)

“Thank God you’re here!” Lily’s eyes are red and puffy. She sniffles and hugs Sirius, her arms trembling lightly. 

He pushes her away. “Where is he?” 

“He’s getting dressed. Remus is trying to talk some sense into him-”

Sirius runs up the stairs, knocking over a small table in his haste, shattering a vase. 

“-and I know it’s hard, but you have to consider the circumstances. It’s not just you, you’re putting Lily at risk-” Remus trails off when Sirius enters the room. 

James looks fine for a second. He has that stubborn expression on his face, the focused look in his eyes. But as soon as he sees Sirius, it melts away into pain.

Fuck.  

Sirius doesn’t know what to say. Nothing would help, in any case. No words would have soothed Sirius’ pain when his father died, and none will soothe James. 

So he goes over and hugs him. 

“They won’t let me see mum,” James says, gripping Sirius so tightly he almost crushes his ribs. “But I’m going, anyway.” 

“Of course.” His voice comes out feeble and low; Sirius winces hearing it. He tries again. “Of course we’re going.” 

“Sirius-” Remus says. “They have-” he swallows, a pained look on his face as well. Every single one of them loved Fleamont Potter. “She has dragon pox. A particularly lethal strain of it.” 

It must be bad if it killed Mr Potter in less than two days. He was old, is true, but Sirius’ grandfather had dragon pox just a couple years past and he was fine, even if far older than Mr Potter. 

“Where is she?” Sirius asks, when James finally lets him go. 

“They took her to St Mungo’s. The Healer floo-called to let me know I won’t be getting in- Sirius, I have to see mum.” 

Sirius nods. “We’re getting in.” 

He doesn’t know how, yet, but they will get in. 

(-)

It’s rather simple. Once at the hospital, Sirius does his best impersonation of his father. 

The straight back, the sneer, the look of derision.

“My family built the wing we’re standing in,” he hisses at the Healer. It helps that a portrait of his great grandmother is right there on the wall. “We donate quite a substantial amount of gold every year, I’ll remind you. Step aside, sir, or we’ll have a problem.” 

The hate and disgust is clear in the man’s eyes, but Sirius is long used to it.

“They all envy us. They fear us. Everyone that is not us is our enemy”, his mother says when Sirius asks her why people don’t seem to like them very much. 

“You don’t have to-” James suggests, as they walk alone through the hallway of the Infectious Wing.

“I’ve had it as a kid. I’ll be fine.” 

Even if he hadn’t had it already, there would be no stopping him from going in with James. 

As soon as he sees her, small and frail in her bed, he knows Mrs Potter will soon follow her husband. 

“James, no-” she moans, her voice hoarse. “No, no. Get out! Sirius, get out!” 

“He’ll stay at the door, Mrs Potter,” Sirius says, begging James with his eyes. 

James hovers at a distance, clearly not wanting to upset her further. 

“I’m immune, I can sit with you.” 

So he does. He sits at her side, holding her hand in his own. He abhors it. He never knew how to deal with sick people. 

It reminds him of his father and-

He shakes his head. He needs to stay strong for James. 

“Is it true? Is-” she wheezes as she tries to breathe. “Fleamont- is-” 

“He’s sick, mum. Has a room right next to yours,” James lies. 

“Oh!” She puts the hand that Sirius isn’t holding on her chest. “Oh, I thought- I thought-”

“You’ll both be fine,” James states, coming closer. 

“You will,” Sirius lies, too. 

“Boys,” she says, her eyes almost closing, her fingers weakly clutching at Sirius’ own. “I don’t think I’ll-” 

“You’ll be fine, mum!” 

Voices come from the corridor. Someone is highly upset they’re there by the sound of it. 

“How could you let them in?”

“- what did you want me to do, he’s a Black-” 

The door opens soon after, three Healers walking through. 

A short fight follows, James yelling at them as they try to reason with him. 

When one of them grabs James’ elbow, Sirius stands, ready to take out his wand. 

“Sirius.”

She won’t let go of his hand. 

He looks down and meets her eyes. 

“You’ll take care of my boy after I’m gone, yes? Promise me.” 

Sirius was always jealous of James and what an extraordinary mother he had. 

She is motherly, loving, kind. She cooked for James, laughed with him and helped him with his homework. 

And how is it fair she’s dying when there are far more terrible mothers out there in the world?

“-she’s my mother, you heartless monsters-”

“Mr Potter, really-” 

Sirius bends, kisses her forehead, gently-

“Look at that lunatic!!! Don’t touch her, Mr Black.” 

“I swear it,” Sirius whispers, and when he lifts his head, she gives him a small, tired smile. Her skin is already scarred, getting greener and greener right under his eyes. 

“Go now, get out. I want to rest. Go, James!” 

(-)

James breaks when they leave the Hospital. 

He doesn’t say anything, just sits on the pavement and cries. 

Sirius sits beside him, a hand over his shoulder. 

“You’ll come to my place. Just in case- not to expose Lily,” Sirius says, what feels like hours later. 

“I need- dad is still home.” And that sends James crying again. “Fuck, I can’t- I can’t believe he’s gone- and mum-” 

Sirius hugs him, holds him close. He knows that pain and he’d do anything to spare James of it. 

He has Lily, Sirius thinks. He has a family of his own. That will help. Surely, it must help, at least a little. 

And he has Sirius, Remus and Peter. They’ll be there for him, they all understand. 

After all, they have experience. Peter’s father died in their third year at Hogwarts. Remus’ mother just the past year. 

They all know what to do. They are used to sleepless night, to kind words and lots of hugs. They did it for each other already. 

They didn’t do it for you, a small voice says inside his head. 

“I’m sorry,” James said, uncomfortable, when he read in the newspaper Orion Black was dead. 

“I’m here if you need me.” Peter couldn’t meet his eyes. 

“My condolences”, was all Remus had to offer. 

Stop it, he snaps at himself. It was different. It wasn’t their fault. How were they supposed to know how much it hurt him, when Sirius never talked about his father?

A muggle passing by yells something in their direction. His mates, about five of them, laugh loudly. 

Sirius thinks it’s a derogatory term used for same-sex couples in the Muggle world and that’s all it takes. 

As he lets go of James and heads to them, he’s almost relieved, almost thankful for the idiots. Because the spark of anger chases away any other feelings, leaving behind only fire. 

And someone to get punished for all the injustices happening around him. 

(-)

Sirius and James still have visible bruises at the funeral three days later. 

A double funeral. 

Mr and Mrs Potter were both admired. The eulogy in the Daily Prophet is almost two pages long, but few people show up, afraid to contract the disease. 

James stands between Lily and Sirius, with Remus on Lily’s other side, and Peter beside Sirius. 

They all cry. 

All except Sirius, of course. 

“You don’t have to bottle it all up, son,” Mr Potter told him that fateful summer, when he found Sirius punching walls in their basement. “It’s alright to be sad. It’s alright to cry.” 

“I’m not your son,” was all Sirius said back. 

Even after that, Mr Potter still spoke affectionately to him, still opened his door for Sirius, any time he needed it. 

They all go to Godric Hollow’s with James and Lily, after Marlene assures James he’d have developed symptoms already if he had contracted dragon pox. 

James is catatonic, sitting on the sofa and staring into space. 

Remus is quiet, too. Peter fidgets around the room, sniffling and playing with the sleeves of his robe. 

It’s Tuesday and Sirius is terrified of the moment when the mark will burn and he’ll have to leave. 

“It’s alright,” Lily whispers in his ear, knowing where he goes every Tuesday. “We’ve got him.”

But the hours pass, night comes, then dawn and Sirius’ mark doesn’t burn even if for the past almost four months he’d seen Voldemort on Tuesdays with no exception. 

(-)

Neither mention it the next Tuesday. 

Sirius waits at the cabin, as it’s his custom, and when Voldemort shows up, they don’t speak of the missed appointment. 

Sirius should thank him. 

And he would, if he were any other man. But it’s Voldemort. He didn't do it out of consideration. 

He did it to charm Sirius, to manipulate him, prove he’s not as monstrous as Dumbledore claims; that he cares Sirius was obviously having a bad day. 

Sirius won’t fall for it.

He is my enemy, he reminds himself. He seeks to take people like Lily out of our world, take away the only comfort James has left. 

(-)

When he opens the door, hangover and in just his underpants, he doesn’t expect to see Narcissa standing on the other side. 

She scoffs at his dishevelled sight. “Is this how you greet your guests?” 

Sirius might have no issues opening his door while he’s mostly naked, but he never leaves his wand behind. 

He waves it and a robe covers him, in less than a second. 

“No,” Sirius answers. “I usually get dressed if I’m expecting someone over.” 

And he did not expect her. 

“Are you going to invite me in?” she asks, an eyebrow raised. 

He steps away and gestures to his hallway. 

She comes in and Sirius slams the door behind her. 

“I think I have water, or firewhiskey-no, you don’t drink that-ah, I’ll find some wine,” he mumbles, trying to remember his manners as a host. 

He doesn’t have many. 

They taught host duties to the girls. 

He was taught curses. 

Narcissa rounds on him as soon as they are in his living room. 

“Have you talked to your brother?” She goes straight to it, which is not something she usually does. 

“No,” Sirius says, not meeting her eyes, an intense pain stabbing in his chest. “I will,” he goes on, but his mouth is dry. 

When? 

“When he’s done with Hogwarts,” Sirius answers himself, out loud. 

There are only a couple of months left until summer, after all. 

“You have to talk to him before that,” Narcissa says. Demands, almost. 

He meets her eyes. Her serious tone sends shivers down his spine. 

“Why-”

“When you left, all of your duties fell onto him.” 

“He’ll be good at it. He always had more patience with papers and-” 

“I’m not talking about handling the estates and the fortune,” she cuts over him. “Other things were expected of him. And not from the family.” 

Sirius gets it a second before she spells it out for him. 

“He’s Marked.” 

It’s Sirius’ worst nightmare. 

It was something he’d often thought about; if one day, once his brother is out of school, they’ll run into each other on the battlefield.

Narcissa studies his face. “I was sure Bella didn’t tell you. Not yet. She must have known you’d react…. poorly.” 

The shock is wearing off, and anger is quick to replace it. A muscle twitches violently in his jaw. 

“And while I respect the cause,” Narcissa says, as mindful as ever with her words, “while I understand- Regulus isn’t built like you and Bella or Lucius. He-” She bites her lip, gently. “He’s not-” 

“Stop it,” Sirius snarls at her. “Speak your mind. Or do you think I’ll run and tell Voldemort that you chose a misfortunate word when speaking about him and his cause?” 

“The dark lord,” Narcissa says, narrowing her eyes. “Death Eaters call him ‘the dark lord’”. 

Right. That’s true. Sirius can’t slip up with that. 

“Regulus doesn’t understand what he’s gotten himself into. He doesn’t realise what will be demanded of him. While I can’t claim that I know, I’ve seen enough, I’ve gathered enough to suspect this is not a place for him. Bellatrix is no help. I can’t talk to her about it; she’s just proud of him. She- she won’t hear a bad word about… you know… about anything.” 

Sirius’ head is reeling, blinded by rage. 

And fear. 

Guilt. This is my fault. I wasn’t there to keep him out of it. 

Voldemort wanted the Black heir to his collection and while Sirius was busy playing Order with Dumbledore, Voldemort got his Black heir. 

“I know the Mark is for life. But if you convince Bella to speak up for Regulus- or maybe if you have enough standing with the dark lord yourself- perhaps there’s a way to get him out of it.” 

Her voice lowers, becomes softer, her eyes wider. 

It could be a ruse. Narcissa learned, early on, that while she held no power over men, not in a traditional way, she had another power. 

Her beauty and feigned vulnerability never failed to make men do what she wanted. 

It even swayed her demented father, on occasion. 

And she does look vulnerable as she stands before Sirius.

“He doesn’t belong there. You know it. Help him.” 

(-)

As soon as he sees Voldemort, hate ignites inside Sirius. 

It’s been there all weekend, but he’d struggled to contain it. He swore to himself he’ll be smart about it. 

Yelling at Voldemort or attempting to strangle him won’t help with anything. 

It won’t help Regulus. 

But he just wants to punch the man. 

Or destroy something. 

‘Use your words, Sirius’, his mother said when Sirius was five and had a tantrum. 

‘Use your anger’, his father said when Sirius was fifteen and had a tantrum, because he just couldn’t learn a complicated curse, meant for people much older than him. 

He stands there, frozen in indecision, his mother and father whispering in his ears conflicting advice. 

Voldemort takes in Sirius’ demeanour. 

“Is something the matter?” 

“You marked my brother?” The words come out of his mouth before he has a chance to stop them. 

Nothing changes on Voldemort’s face. 

“Who told you?”

Fuck. He just then realises that he wasn’t supposed to know, and there are only two possible candidates that could have told him. 

Bellatrix or Lucius. 

And the glint in Voldemort’s eyes assures Sirius someone will get punished over this leak. 

“No one,” he answers. “I figured you’re recruiting all the scions of the Twenty-Eight that you can get your hands on. I was asking you. But I guess you answered.” 

No reaction. Sirius can’t be sure the lie was convincing. In fact, he’s pretty certain it wasn’t. 

“So?” Sirius demands, when Voldemort doesn’t say anything.

“Are you asking me to explain myself to you?” Voldemort’s voice is infused with both amusement and irritation. 

“He’s a child, for Merlin’s sake! He’s still in school-”

“I don’t usually Mark children.” Voldemort steps closer to Sirius. “But then I saw how well Dumbledore is doing, recruiting his students. He’s filling up his ranks quickly. A good strategy. After all, children are foolish, easily manipulated.” 

It’s a very clear jab at Sirius. 

“I wasn’t manipulated into anything,” he snarls back. “And while Dumbledore asked us to join the Order in the last month of our seventh year, he made it clear we’ll only be helping after we are done with Hogwarts.” 

Voldemort nods. “Your brother isn’t serving. Not actively. He’ll join us in earnest when he’s done with school.” 

“No,” Sirius says. “He won’t.” 

Voldemort’s eyebrow raises, just barely. He comes even closer. He must often use his height to intimidate others. He must like to loom over people until they cower and bow their heads. 

Or maybe that’s just something I do. 

Sirius is almost as tall. He doesn’t even need to lift his chin to stare into those red-brown eyes. 

He attempts to soften his tone. “He’s not a fighter,” Sirius tries. 

“I’ll make him one,” Voldemort says. 

Hurt him. Gauge his eyes out. 

Sirius banishes the voices, fighting to keep himself in check. 

“He isn’t a fighter and he will never be a fighter. It’s not in his nature.” 

“He is a powerful boy. He was eager to join me. I understand he does very well in school, better than you did-”

“Yes, because he’s a studious lad. I spent my time at Hogwarts doing anything but studying. He likes books and history and papers. He’s not-” Sirius breathes in. “You’ve got me. So you don’t need him. Whatever you wanted him for, I can do it in his stead.” 

“Can you?”

“Yes.”  

“But he wears the Black ring. He will claim the Black seat in the Wizengamot, now that he’s of age and your father is dead. And I need that seat. I need his vote. Will you claim it for me?” 

Sirius’ heart goes wild in his chest. 

He pictures it for a second. Taking the ring back, getting the seat-

“I-” he stutters, unsure. He hates it. He hates how weak he feels. 

He’s more afraid to go back home than he is to stand there with Voldemort. 

“I can’t take the seat. I-Dumbledore, the Order- They’ll know I’ve joined you if I go back home-” he tries to think of excuses. 

Voldemort smiles. “Indeed. So you see, you can’t do what Regulus can achieve for me.” 

Sirius snaps.

“He can have that gaudy ring on his finger, but while I am alive, he will never be the head of the Black family. My father-” Sirius’ voice breaks, just a little. He coughs, to hide it. “He left all of it to me. The gold, the house, the ring. I can take them back.”

He’d been tempted on occasion. Fantasised about going home, kicking his mother out, telling her he’s taking all the galleons. 

You’re no son of mine, she screamed at him and it hurt. It still hurts. 

If you’re not my mother, you have no place in my house, spending my money, he’d say. 

But it’s just a fantasy. Sirius could never do it. 

“I can claim the seat.” That, he could do. And it is his. The Wizengamot doesn’t care about his mother’s opinions, just like his father hadn’t cared. The law is clear: firstborns have priority. “I don’t even have to use it. I’ll just block it. Regulus won’t be of any use to you if I block it.” 

Voldemort laughs, a sinister sound that raises the hairs at the back of his neck.

“Are you blackmailing me, Sirius?” 

“No,” he says, fast. “I-” fuck. 

Silence falls as he tries to find the right words. He doesn’t. 

“You’re asking for a favour,” Voldemort tells him, after some seconds of silence. 

“Yes,” Sirius spits. 

Blacks don’t ask for favours, but fine. If that’s what Voldemort wants to hear…

“I grant favours, especially of this magnitude, to my most loyal Death Eaters. Those that have been with me the longest. Those that proved themselves.” 

Sirius closes his eyes, briefly. 

“I don’t know where your loyalties lie. You don’t know that very well yourself. You did nothing to deserve a favour.” 

Merlin, how he hates Voldemort. 

“What do you want?” Sirius spits, because Voldemort wants something, undoubtedly. 

Voldemort examines him, his eyes trailing over Sirius’ face. 

“If you want me to reconsider your brother’s involvement, you owe me another seat in the Wizengamot.” 

Sirius frowns. “I don’t know how I could give you another seat-”

Voldemort gets out of Sirius’ space, walks calmly to the small table. He sits, unhurried, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Oh, I do.” 

Chapter Text

Voldemort knocks at precisely eleven o’clock on Thursday, like they established.

Not a second late, not a second early.

Sirius left the door open for him, but he knocks instead.

Sirius wonders why Voldemort didn’t simply summon him to wherever they’re supposed to go.

He knows you hate the thought of being summoned. He must know that is why you always wait for him at the cabin.

And he’s already doing something Sirius abhors.

“These are yours,” he says, handing Sirius a simple black robe, folded perfectly. On top of it, a silver mask.

A Death Eater mask.

Sirius noticed all the masks are similar, but some have distinctive markings.

He recognised Rodolphus on the battlefield plenty of times, even if the mask covers his face entirely. But Sirius knows how he fights, grew up around him and Rabastan, so he always recognised them.

And Rodolphus’ mask is the most peculiar out of all of them, with a complex design.

Sirius wonders what it all means.

His is not plain either. A skull slashed by two lines is carved into the right cheek, underneath the eye socket.

On the left side, the wings and the alicorn of a unicorn.

The oldest symbol for purity.

When regular people think of unicorns and purity, they imagine untainted souls, children, goodness.

For other people, it is the symbol of the grace and strength of blood purity.

“You won’t need them tonight, but there will be times when you will.”

Sirius will hate wearing a mask, he knows. He hates just touching it.

“In some cases, it is a futile endeavour to keep your identities secret amongst yourself.”

Sirius snorts. “I’ll say.”

“But not all my Death Eaters grew up together. Not all of you went to Hogwarts at the same time, so you won’t know each other by your wands or fighting style. Yet there is a hierarchy, to avoid chaos. In battle, you will take orders based on this.” He points to the skull. “A plain skull represents the lowest rank; they have to always follow, never lead. Then you have the skull with one line slashing across it. Even higher, two lines. And then three lines.”

Sirius is instantly, absurdly, upset he only has two. He doesn’t take orders from anyone. It’s enough he has to obey Voldemort- but at least it’s Voldemort.

“Above all, there is the green skull, with the snake around it. The ultimate authority in my absence.”

“Rodolphus, you mean,” Sirius spits, remembering the only mask with colour.

Voldemort smiles. “Of course. But not all my Death Eaters know that is Rodolphus.”

Sirius wants to ask who has three lines. Whom he will have to take orders from. He won’t get an answer, but he’ll find out in time, anyway.

“The wings and alicorn-”

“Only for purebloods,” Sirius says, impatient. He’s not an idiot. He knows symbolism.

“Only for old blood,” Voldemort says, just so he can correct Sirius. “Not everyone should have the right to bear that mark. Not a first generation pureblood.”

Sirius snorts. “I always found my mother ridiculous when she’d go on about pureblood superiority. But I could ignore it when it was aimed at muggleborns and half-bloods. Yet when she went on about how even certain purebloods are less than others…” He shakes his head. “Why in the world would you take this as your sign when you’re not even a pureblood?”

“I don’t wear a mask,” Voldemort points out. 

“Still-”

“I had to find something enticing for some of you of the superior breed, you understand.” Sarcasm drips from every word. “How can you convince proud Lucius to put on a mask if it doesn’t have something special on it?”

“Merlin’s beard,” Sirius mutters. “Wait!” He adds, realising something. “Rodolphus can’t have the wings and alicorn, if you adhere to those ancient rules.”

Rodolphus is old blood. But not pure enough. A muggleborn incident, some centuries ago. He is eight or nine generations pure. Sirius can’t recall exactly. But one needs ten to be noble. And the Lestranges haven’t reached that point again after the mudblood stain, as his mother calls it. 

Sirius hates that he can remember something so absurd. But growing up in those circles, the Sacred Families always liked to take digs at each other, all trying to be the purest, the oldest. 

“They all have a mudblood or a half-blood in their distant past. Some more distant than others,” Sirius’ father whispers in his ear, as they are sat at the high table, honoured guest at a wedding, observing Abraxas Malfoy turning all the shades of red when Avery not so subtly brings up a certain Muggle royalty that crossed paths with a Malfoy, long before. “All but us.” 

“But-” Sirius doesn’t like to contradict his father, so he stops in time.

“Go on,” his father encourages him. 

“The burns on the tapestry-” 

“They are no longer Blacks. They do not carry out name. The women that defiled our ancient blood do not pass our proud name to the abominations born of them.” 

“And the men?” Sirius inquires, softly. 

His father hesitates. It shocks Sirius. His father never hesitates. 

It only lasts a second. 

“Gone,” he says. “Before they could procreate.” 

“Rodolphus doesn’t wear the symbols,” Voldemort’s voice drags him back to the present. “Lucius is terribly pleased about it; in time, you’ll hear all about it, no doubt.”

Sirius feels a little ashamed, because he, too, is pleased about that.

He doesn’t even believe in this crap, but if Rodolphus’ mask is the special one, the authority, Sirius is at least happy he has something Rodolphus hasn’t.

“Your robe is charmed. That is why you have to wear this one, not just any black robe. It has glamorous in it; they won’t allow anyone to guess your height or width properly.”

Sirius frowns. Now that he thinks of it- yeah, they all look strangely alike, the Death Eaters.

“Otherwise Rodolphus’ constitution would be a dead giveaway.”

“True.” Sirius nods. Few men are as tall and wide as him.

“And so would yours,” Voldemort comments, eyes going over Sirius, from head to toe.

While not quite Rodolphus proportions, Sirius definitely stands out in a crowd.

He places the robe and mask on the coffee-table.

“Where are we going?”

Voldemort is still eyeing Sirius up and down, seemingly lost in thought.

If he tells me to change clothes, I’m going to spit in his face.

Of course, he knows he would do no such thing, were Voldemort to demand it.

But Sirius really doesn’t know how he’ll react, to be sent up to his bedroom, like a stubborn child that didn’t dress up for the occasion.

Should have just picked a fucking robe.

But no, Sirius had to go with his leather pants and his Sex Pistols hoodie.

He figured Voldemort is used to his muggle fashion by now; after all, Sirius makes it a point to always show up dressed like that for their meetings.

Voldemort stares for at least another half a minute, before he meets Sirius’ eyes.

“Shall we?”

“Does it have to be a mystery?” Sirius mumbles, heading to the door. “Is it so difficult to let me know beforehand?”

Voldemort doesn’t comment, catching up with him.

They get out of the house, cross Sirius’ unkept garden, until they are finally out of the range of his wards.

Voldemort extends a hand and it just pisses Sirius off, having to be taken places, as if he hadn’t passed his Apparation test.

A muscle goes off in his jaw, but he keeps his mouth shut and he takes Voldemort’s wrist, instead of his hand.

He squeezes harder than necessary.

“You will kill for me tonight,” Voldemort says, softly.

Sirius knows he’s not showing any reaction.

Years upon years of training, since early childhood- his body acts on its own.

He can feel his face closing off.

The shock is distant, muffled, kept at bay by some long ago learned coping mechanism.

There’s some denial there, too. A sense of disbelief, as his mind can’t really envision it.

He understands the words, but he just can’t properly grasp them, not really.

“You will have to do unspeakable things,” Dumbledore says, at the end of their final meeting before the deadline Voldemort gave him to accept his show. “Your mind, your being, your very soul will be tested. Most men cannot live with that burden.”

“I am not like most men,” Sirius boasts, arrogant.

The void of Apparition swallows them. 

(-)

The ancient residence stands tall amongst the trees, long, winding towers reaching for the skies.

Sirius played in one of them, in what seems like another life.

He’d been in that tower, with Evan Rosier and Porus Parkinson, daring each other to jump on a moving broom, circling without a rider in the air.

Sirius almost did. He didn’t fear. He couldn’t fall. He couldn’t get injured. His father was around, and nothing could happen to him with his father nearby, even if Sirius couldn’t see him at the moment.

He almost jumped, but Regulus was crying, grasping Sirius’ robe in his little fists and begging him not to.

The old Parkinson home has fierce blood wards. Not as powerful as Grimmauld, nothing is as powerful as that, but they should still hold any intruders out.

Sirius feels their magic enveloping him and Voldemort as they go through the gates.

It accepts them, welcomes them.

It must be a muggle. They’re keeping a muggle inside the house and Voldemort will make me kill him.

But he knows it’s not that. He knows it in his heart.

The air around him seems to know it, becoming thinner, making it hard for him to breathe.

The night is still as they stroll to the main entrance.

“You promised me a seat in the Wizengamot, in exchange for your brother,” Voldemort comments, lightly, as he just opens the damn door, the door that should stop them, that shouldn’t just allow inside someone who will kill the owner of the house.

“He should be in his office,” Voldemort talks like they’re just going there for a meeting.

The portraits on the walls are silent, as still as the night. As quiet.

Their eyes are unseeing, opaque.

“To the right?” the bastard asks Sirius, with a smile.

Voldemort very well know where the office is. To prove it, he takes the right before Sirius answers.

But he had to remind Sirius that he’d been here as a little boy. That this is someone that welcomed Sirius in his house, fed him, gave him toys.

Parkinson is a blood purist of the worst kind, Sirius tries to hold on to that.

He tries to remember the fight the man had with Sirius’s father.

“We should kill them all. Every single mudblood that steps foot inside Hogwarts should be burned alive, as their ancestors burned our women.”

“Mudbloods are the lowest of the low,” Sirius’ father would say, calmly. “But they are magical, Janus. They are. They belong with us, even if only as a stepping stone for our society. Who do you want to sell you herbs in Diagon? Who do you want to clean tables at the Leaky Cauldron, or pick up Hippogriff shit at the Magical Reserves? Purebloods? I think not. Mudbloods have a place here, and a use.”

But Janus Parkinson would not hear it, raging, red in the face, about stains in their bloodstream, about corruption of magic.

He is such a hard core purist that he’d never stooped speaking against Voldemort. He keeps at it, even years after the fierce Walburga Black learned to shut her mouth.

He gives inflammatory speeches in the Wiznegamot, declaring Voldemort a mudblood.

“And see? This is why we shouldn’t let these people in our world. Look what they become. Terrorists, seeking to dismantle our country, to overthrow our government and take over the Sacred Twenty Eight.”

Everyone keeps their distance. The elected seats of the Wizengamot hate his bigotry and his treatment towards muggleborns. 

The inherited seats fear repercussion from a certain dark lord.

Parkinson is isolated, exiled, but he holds on to his seat and his stance on the matter.

He’d grown paranoid, too, rumour has it.

He only leaves his house to attend Wizengamot meetings.

He’s safe at the Ministry, after all.

And he’s safe in his ancient manor, protected by blood wards.

Not even mighty Voldemort can trample through blood wards that old. Not without leaving terrible destruction behind.

But Sirius can- he is of pure, ancient blood. He used to be a guest, and while Janus Parkinson must have restricted access to Lucius, Avery, Rosier and anyone else he suspects follows Voldemort- apparently he forgot to renounce Sirius’ right to pass through those doors.

And if he brings a guest, well- the wards trust Sirius would not bring someone that intends the master harm.

Light comes from under the office door.

Sirius remembers pressing his ear to that door, trying to listen in to grown up conversations, so eager to grow up himself and be allowed inside.

Voldemort makes a gesture to it, inviting Sirius to open it.

“Do whatever you have to do in order to gain his trust,” Dumbledore says. You can be the key to winning this war.”

Sirius reaches for the knob and turns it.

Janus Parkinson is expecting them.

His old, wrinkled face, older even than Dumbledore’s, is set with indignation.

After all, the wards would have let him know he has guests.

You could have fled, you stubborn old fool, Sirius thinks, hateful.

But he hadn’t, and now Sirius- Sirius will have to-

No, he couldn’t have fled, Sirius realises when the man tries to Apparate and cannot. 

When he calls for a house-elf that doesn’t come to his rescue.

The reality of what’s happening is setting in, his brain catching up with the impending doom.

It makes Sirius dizzy. It makes his hands shake.

“Who betrayed me?” Parkinson demands, realising he’s not getting out. “Who sold me to a filthy, no name mudblood?”

You batty old thing, Sirius thinks. You brave motherfucker.

“Your nephew.” Voldemort kills Parkinson, right there, with only two words.

Sirius can see the agonising pain in those old eyes, ravaged by cataract.

I’m only going to kill his corpse, Sirius tells himself.

“He is not as brave as you, old man,” Voldemort says, viciously. “These young generations…” An exaggerated sigh. “They don’t make them as they used to, do they? While he couldn’t weaken the wards, he at least put your house-elf to sleep and charmed the paintings in place.”

Parkinson grabs his cane and leans heavily on it as he scowls at Voldemort, who won’t stop talking.

“Young Porus seems to have forgotten about family values. Not quite ready to kill you himself, but happy enough to let me do it.”

“Get out of my house, you filthy creature. How dare you? Spilling noble blood left and right and yet saying you care about our ancient ways?”

Parkinson tries to stand straight, with as much pride as he can muster. He must be over one hundred years old, Sirius reckons.

But age never softened anyone from the Sacred Families.

It only makes them harder.

“You don’t deserve to lick the mud from my boots!”

Sirius can’t help but feel a lick of respect.

Parkinson knows there’s nothing left to do but die with dignity.

Voldemort looks at him with a blank face, nothing to be read on it. Even his eyes are impassive.

“I knew you would find it repulsive, someone of my heritage spilling your noble blood in your noble home. However, since I needed Mr Black to get through the wards... surely you won’t protest to him spilling your blood. I dare you to find someone with better pedigree. Should be an honour, really.”

Voldemort could kill him. Now that he is in the house, he doesn’t need Sirius. 

But he won’t. 

Parkinson’s eyes turn to Sirius, for the first time.

“I’d have thought at least you would have the spine to stand up to this impostor.”

Parkinson manages something very few people had before him.

Sirius feels ashamed.

You have to do this.

But does he? Sirius could choose honour; Sirius could turn to Voldemort, spit in his face and die a proud, unbent man.

He could choose that instead of living as a lackey.

I can’t kill him, he thinks, desperate, holding his wand tightly.

Sirius killed before. Once. 

A Death Eater he didn’t recognise, that almost killed James. Sirius lured him away from the others and did what he had to do. 

But that was in the heat of battle. It wasn’t an old man. 

It wasn’t an execution. 

“Your father must be rolling in his grave,” Parkinson says, lip twisted in disgust. “How low the Blacks had fallen. We thought Orion strong, but how strong can a man be if he raises two cowards?”

Turns out, Sirius can kill him.

He takes advantage of the blind fury the words awaken in him; he lets it rule him. 

Every anguish he felt in the past years, every slight to his family name that he couldn’t punish, every injustice that befell him… Sirius lets it out.

Blood splatters all over the office, all over Sirius, as Parkinson’s head detaches from the rest of him.

It happens fast. A second.

Sirius knows he’ll never be the same again.

“Messy,” Voldemort drawls, but his impassive face melts away. He sounds quite satisfied.

It’s for the cause, a voice says, trying to reassure Sirius, to comfort him, calm his racing heart, push down the nausea.

It sounds like Dumbledore, but deep inside Sirius knows it’s not.

Deep inside, Sirius knows it’s a lie.

“He asked for it,” Sirius hears himself speaking, though he can’t feel his mouth moving.

His face is numb. A chill settles under his skin.

“The new head of House Parkinson will not appreciate blood in his office,” Voldemort says.

“The new head of House Parkinson deserves to be burned at the stake,” Sirius spits.

And they call Sirius a blood traitor. He left his family, but at least he didn’t set the scene so someone can murder his great uncle, like Porus apparently did. 

“I can’t say I don’t agree, but Porus will be useful.” He steps over the body, still spraying blood, and bends to look at the head. “This one was much stronger and smarter than the ones that came after him.”

Voldemort does not want strong, smart people in charge of the Twenty-Eight.

He wants men that will bow to him or be bought by him. He wants young men, hungry for glory, easy to ensnare.

Voldemort pulls out his wand and Sirius watches, still numb, still nauseous, as the head knits back together, as blood retreats from the carpet and walls, back into the body.

“A heart attack, I think,” he says, conversationally. “He was quite angry all the time. No wonder his old heart gave up. Watch closely, Sirius. One day you might need to stage a crime scene, if you can’t keep your temper in check.”

(-)

Sirius expects something to happen when he gets back home and he’s alone with his thoughts. When he is finally out of Voldemort’s eyes. 

But nothing happens.

The eery calm persists. He can’t think.

He goes to his bedroom, as in a trance, and sits on his bed.

You should wash. There must be some blood on you.

There must be. Sirius felt some droplets hit his face when… when it all happened.

I have to wash it off.

Only he doesn’t rise.

He sits on his bed, head bent, staring at the floor for hours on end.

(-)

Sirius doesn’t want to tell Dumbledore.

To sit in that office, pinned by those all knowing blue eyes and say that he murdered- executed someone…

Surely, he expects it, Sirius reasons with himself.

“Do whatever it takes” he told Sirius, before sending him off to Voldemort.

Sirius did. Dumbledore can’t complain about it, can he?

Murder was always on the table. After all, what good is a Death Eater that can’t kill?

What better way to trap a man in eternal service than forcing him to murder someone?

Betraying Voldemort after the last night, means a sure Azkaban sentence for Sirius, too.

He shudders; somehow, he’d never thought about that possibility when agreeing to spy.

He’s alright with death. He made his peace with it. But Azkaban, spending the rest of his life having to relieve the worst memories he has…

It won’t get to that, he calms himself. I’d kill myself before that happens.

Dumbledore must have known Sirius will be asked to kill, eventually.

Is that why he sent me to spy, out of all people? Because he knew I could do it?

Sirius expected it, too. But he’d thought it would be a random Muggle, not an old member of the Sacred Twenty Eight.

Would a Muggle have been better? Would he have found it easier, killing a complete stranger, as opposed to a man Sirius can remember since childhood?

All sorts of memories come to the surface, things Sirius never thought of before.

That time when the old man laughed with Sirius’ father, back in Grimmauld Place.

Or the time Sirius spilled pumpkin juice on his shirt, when he was four and he was frantically trying to wipe it off, knowing his mother would throw a fit- Parkinson found Sirius hiding in Nott’s office and he’d used his wand to make Sirius’ shirt pristine, winked at Sirius-

Stop. Just stop.

Sirius tries to remember the sneers, the insults, the patronising way in which Parkinson always talked about half-bloods and muggleborns.

The peace from the night before shattered.

He’s restless, pacing around his living room, unable to sit.

Every time he blinks, he can vividly see the blood spraying.

(-)

“I killed Janus Parkinson,” Sirius says, forcing himself to meet Dumbledore’s eyes.

Sirius had to tell him. If he keeps secrets from him… it’s a slippery slope, isn’t it?

“Oh, Sirius.” 

He looks older than ever. As tired as Sirius feels.

By some miracle, there is no judgement.

Sirius describes what happened. He leaves out the Regulus part; makes it sound like Voldemort just took him to Parkinson and demanded Sirius kill him.

Maybe it would have happened, anyway. In fact, Sirius is quite sure Voldemort was planning on it; the thing with Regulus must have just sped things along, ensured Sirius’ cooperation.

He talks with no inflection in his voice, completely detached from the memory.

Even after finishing the story, there is no judgement coming from Dumbledore. There’s no pity on his face, either, and Sirius is glad for it.

“I know it’s hard,” Dumbledore says, after a prolonged silence. 

“Do you?” Sirius interrupts him. “Have you ever killed someone?”

Dumbledore doesn’t answer.

“Was this your first?” he asks, instead, and Sirius looks away.

Dumbledore knows it isn’t. He must. After all, that Death Eater didn’t just decide to drop dead on his own.

And Moody wasn’t there on that mission, the only other possible culprit.

If there’s one thing Sirius respects about Moody- the man doesn’t hesitate to do what he must.

“Janus Parkinson was a dead man ever since he spoke against Voldemort,” Dumbledore says. “He knew it, I knew it, Voldemort knew it. It was only a matter of time. It’s Voldemort that killed him, never doubt it.”

Convenient, isn’t it? Easy, too.

Dumbledore is not wrong. Parkinson would have died regardless if Sirius refused to do it.

And yet Sirius killed him. He chose to kill him.

There was a choice, and he can’t forget that. Unfortunately.

But he nods, because he doesn’t want his old professor to absolve him.

“If you wish to step back, you only need to say it,” Dumbledore continues.

“No.”

Sirius will not turn back.

His brother needs him, above all other reasons.

Dumbledore spends more minutes sprouting platitudes at Sirius; wise, kind words that don’t help against the chill in his heart.

You can’t just talk away murder.

You can’t sleep it off, either.

Sirius tries, but it doesn’t work. He can’t sleep. 

He’d had a nightmare or two, after the Death Eater; he still dreams of that moment, here and there. But it doesn’t sit nowhere near as heavily on his mind. Never did. 

He can’t even get drunk. He drinks, but he remains depressingly sober- he can still see Parkinson’s face.

James barges into his house, days after Sirius stopped leaving it.

“What’s the matter?” he asks, all worried. “What happened?”

Sirius can’t tell him.

Dumbledore- Dumbledore is practical. Rational. 

He might be-or tries to be- a good man, but he’s a war leader. He understands sacrifices.

James won’t.

“Can’t I have a minute for myself?” Sirius snaps at him, when none of his excuses appease James. “Do we always have to be glued to the hip? Is that the way of it?” 

James doesn’t let the words upset him, even if Sirius never talks to him that way. 

He doesn’t leave even when Sirius retreats to his bedroom. 

For hours, he can hear the other moving around on the first floor. 

James is noisy. Claps and bangs and a string of swear words later, there’s a knock on his door. 

Sirius ignores it, but James comes in, anyway. 

“I made you tea; the way you like it, with vodka. And something to eat.” 

He smiles at Sirius tentatively, showing him a plate of something unrecognisable.  

Sirius accepts it, taking a bite out of morbid curiosity. He half hopes it might kill him. 

He spits it out a second later. 

“Well, I tried,” James says, sitting at the edge of the bed. “Will you at least tell me why you have “toujours pur” on every goblet in the house? Why all…” He looks around the room, pushing his glasses on his nose. “This?”

“It’s expected of me,” Sirius answers, after washing down the awful taste with the tea. “Many things are expected of me now. Please, drop it and just let me wallow in misery for a bit.” 

“Only if you promise you’ll come by tomorrow. We’ll have Remus and Peter over. Lily is going to see her grandma for the night. It will be like old times.” 

Sirius accepts, just to get James out of the house. 

The next day, he drags himself out of bed, not ready at all to face the world. 

But he must. 

He’s not well enough to fake happiness, to force himself to be a carefree idiot, the way he did so many times in the past. 

He can’t force himself to be loud. 

Peter says nothing, just peeking at Sirius when he thinks he isn’t noticed. 

It falls to James to be the clown, for once. To entertain them. 

A hand on his shoulder pulls Sirius out of the hundred replay of the moment Parkinson’s head severed from his body. 

Sirius blinks and he’s surprised to see himself standing in front of the sink in James’ kitchen. The water is turned on. He remembers he’d come to get a glass of water. 

It’s Remus, saying Sirius’ name, softly. 

“Yeah?” He shuts the water off, but doesn’t turn. Doesn’t want to imagine what his behaviour might look like to Remus. 

“Can I-”

Remus doesn’t finish. 

And they used to talk so freely, once upon a time. 

No awkward pauses, no loaded looks. No betrayal, or hurt, or suspicion.

“Are you alright?” 

Sirius snorts. 

“Stupid question,” Remus says, getting even closer. “It’s about the article this morning?” 

Sirius never reads the newspapers if he can help it. He never had a subscription to the Prophet. 

He shrugs. 

“It’s alright to be sad, you know?” Remus says. He turns Sirius around, pulling insistently at his shoulders. 

When they’re face to face, it feels like it used to, for a moment. Like the last years hadn’t happened. 

Remus hugs him. Sirius bites his tongue, hard, until it bleeds, to stop the tears stinging his eyes. 

He clings back, for a few seconds, allows himself the desperately needed comfort. 

You’re letting him hug a murderer. Of course, his mind had to ruin it for him. 

Sirius pulls back. 

(-)

He’d barged into her house plenty of times, so Marlene just turns on her side and goes back to sleep.

Sirius looks everywhere for the damned newspaper, until he finds it under a cup of cold coffee, on the bathroom floor, near the toilet. 

Marlene is such a slob. Just like him. Only now he has invisible house-elves keeping his house clean.

He sits on the edge of the tub and reads it. 

It’s easy to see the Prophet reported on Parkinson’s death the previous days. 

This article barely mentions him. 

Instead- 

‘Are we witnessing the end of the so-called golden days of the Wizengamot?’  

Underneath the title, an old picture, taken years before. 

His father is in it, surrounded by his friends and colleagues.

Sirius swallows, choking. It’s been so long since he’d seen his face. 

Well, he sees it every day in the mirror, but it’s not quite the same. 

The shape of the eyes is a little different. His father wore his hair a bit shorter; he had a slight wave to it, as well. 

Sirius’ is straight, like his mother’s. 

And, of course, his father was always clean shaved. Some days, Sirius doesn’t bother with it. 

Sirius is taller than his father. He must be. 

When- the last time his father was able to stand, Sirius was already his height. 

And he’d grown another few inches since then. 

Sirius knows this rationally, but his father looks so much taller. Larger than life. Sirius is nothing compared to him. 

‘Just months after Orion Black’s death, we bury another member of the Wizengamot. 

Porus Parkinson claimed his uncle’s seat in the early hours of the morning, making him the fifth new addition to the Wizengamot, in just as many years.

In total, seven of the inherited seats are now held by wizards under the age of thirty.

The Black seat, vacant since the unexpected retirement of Orion Blacks, some years before his death, is also guaranteed to go to his son, Regulus Black, as soon as he finishes his education, making him the youngest member of the Wizengamont in history, at just eighteen years old. 

Historians dispute whether this youthful takeover means we will progress as a society, if we will finally distance ourselves from old-fashioned ideas and the discrimination they carried along.

Others are more skeptical. 

“Men as young as that shouldn’t wield so much power. They might have honourable intentions, but youth often means rashness. While their relatives held antiquated beliefs, while it is possible their successors might be more lax, it is also possible they might be more radical, seduced by certain influences that older men know to avoid.” Elphias Doge, long-time member of the elected section of the Wizengamot, is cautious about the future.’

Sirius trails his fingers over his father’s face. 

“Your father must be rolling in his grave.” 

He must be. 

For a second, Sirius is almost glad his father hadn’t lived long enough to see the Wizengamot fall to Voldemort, little by little. 

(-)

“Mr Black, how may I help you?” 

The secretary looks quite frightened to be addressing him. 

Could be because he is a Black, but Sirius thinks it’s more because he must look deranged. 

Eyes red, after not sleeping for so long. Clothes rumpled. 

A twitch developed in his jaw that would not go away. He probably smells of firewhiskey. 

Few wizards and witches are around, so early. Sirius waited outside the Ministry all night, waiting for people to wake up and come to work. 

“How do I file a claim to get my family’s seat?”

 (-)

His mark burns minutes after he arrives home from the Ministry. 

It hurts very little before it settles into a pull. 

Sirius raises the sleeve of his jumper to see it black as ink. 

But it’s Monday, he thinks, stupidly. 

Sirius hurries to the bathroom and washes his face. He combs and braids his hair. 

He can’t look weak. He can’t look bothered. 

He puts on one of the robes Bella got for him and he stares in the mirror until he’s satisfied his face betrays nothing. 

His eyes are still irritated, clearly tired, but there’s nothing to do about that. 

He could cast a charm to make them look better, but that will only attract Voldemort’s attention. 

All in all, some ten minutes pass between the time his mark flared and the time he lets it pull Sirius into Apparition. 

Sirius plans to test Voldemort’s patience one day. To just not show up and see what happens. 

One day, he will. 

When he opens his eyes, he’s standing in the gardens of the Lestrange Manor. 

What now? 

The sun is bright, upsetting his eyes. 

The mark still guides him, like a beacon under his skin, like an unnatural intuition, towards the house. 

He starts walking; on the main path he bumps into Lucius, looking harassed.

“Glad I’m not the only one late,” the blond mumbles.

“You can always count on me to not show up on time,” Sirius tells him.

Lucius walks fast, forcing Sirius to do the same.

He doesn’t like the idea of scurrying to obey Voldemort, but it would be awkward, wouldn’t it, to just let Lucius rush ahead of him.

No elf comes to greet them at the door. They just let themselves in, following the mark’s call. 

Well, Sirius is following Lucius, who seems like he’s been called here before, because he doesn’t hesitate on his way to Rodolphus’ office, all the way in the west wing. 

Some excitement blossoms into his heart. The first meeting with at least another Death Eater. 

Some dread, too. 

He doesn’t know how adding someone else into the mix will change his dynamic with Voldemort. 

As soon as they are in the office, Lucius instantly falls on one knee.

For an absurd second Sirius thinks he tripped. He’s about to laugh when he realises the other people in the room are all staring at Sirius, not Lucius.

Bella gestures with her eyes, panicked.

One of Rabastan’s eyebrows lifts in surprise.

Rodolphus simply looks displeased.

It’s then than it registers to Sirius that Lucius is kneeling voluntarily.

And these people apparently expect him to do the same.

No. His mind rebels at the thought. No way in all the hells, magical or muggle.

I’m a Black, I don’t kneel.

He’d forgotten the stories, he’d forgotten Moody telling them in Order meetings that apprehended Death Eaters say they always have to kneel when seeing Voldemort.

He’d forgotten it because Voldemort dismissed it when Sirius brought it up the night he took the mark.

He forgot because he’d been seeing Voldemort for months and not once was he required to kneel.

Shocked, he ignores the Death Eaters and turns to look at Voldemort.

His eyes are more brown than red, due to all the light around, coming through Rodolphus’ floor to ceiling windows.

However, those eyes are fixed on Lucius.

And before Sirius can panic any more-

“Rise.” 

“I apologise for the delay,” Lucius says.

Lucius Malfoy. One of the proudest men Sirius knows. Kneeling and apologising. To a half-blood.

What did you do to them? 

“Father is visiting,” he goes on, and he takes the free seat next to Voldemort.

Rodolphus is seated at Voldemort’s right, with Bella next to him.

And now Lucius on his left, Rabastan immediately after.

Why do I do these things? Sirius questions himself as he walks towards the other end of the table.

A long table.

What does it serve, really?

Sirius doesn’t know, but he can’t help himself. If he can’t right next to Voldemort, he won’t sit further away, like a lowly servant, the least important guest, the newcomer. 

He sits at the other head of the table, as if he and Voldemort are equals.

He doesn’t care about things like this in Order meetings; he doesn’t care because no one cares there. For them, it’s just seats, meaningless, so everyone just does what they like. 

But here it is different. 

It always was. Unspoken rules. Who sits where, who is served the meal first, and several other seemingly inconsequential details. 

Rabastan’s other eyebrow lifts. He looks like a spooked owl.

Lucius sighs.

Rodolphus refuses to even look his way.

Bella giggles. 

“No matter,” Voldemort excuses Lucius. This time, his eyes are fixed on Sirius. “It isn’t anything urgent.” He drums his long fingers on the table. “I thought it is time we welcome Sirius, officially.”

Are you going to introduce us? Sirius almost asks. Thankfully, he doesn’t. “Such a cold welcome,” he drawls, when no one says anything.

“We’ll crack a champagne open later,” Bella answers him with a smile.

“Lovely,” Sirius spits.

This can’t be the entire inner circle. Sirius is convinced there are more of them.

But these are the Death Eaters Sirius already knew about; he knew, and he kept silent. Voldemort trusts Sirius around them, but not the others.

Not yet. Patience. We’ll get there.

“Since you are here.” Voldemort turns his gaze to Lucius. “Is the matter of the Wizengamot settled?”

“Almost,” Lucius answers. “I am having dinner with Greengrass tomorrow.”

“It is paramount that he accepts.”

“I’ll promise him my firstborn, if I have to,” Lucius assures Voldemort.

Nice family values.

Voldemort smiles. “I should hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Lucius shrugs. “A betrothal between our families wouldn’t be an unwelcome outcome.”

Rodolphus snorts. 

Voldemort turns to Rabastan, who slides deeper into his chair, as if seeking, uselessly, to avoid that gaze.

“The matter we discussed?” Voldemort enquires.

“Going well, my lord. We’ll get…” he sneaks a look at Sirius, fast. “We’ll get it sooner than expected. By the end of the month.”

Voldemort nods, apparently pleased. “Take your brother with you when it’s time.”

“I can go,” Bella volunteers, staring lovingly at Voldemort.

It makes Sirius sick.

Voldemort smiles at her like she’s some amusing pet, but he doesn’t answer her.

And then it’s Sirius’ turn. Like a sick variation of pass the quaffle, only with much higher stakes.

“Was there an Order meeting to discuss Parkinson’s death?”

“No.” 

“Or maybe Dumbledore just didn’t invite you.” Rodolphus speaks for the first time. He’d been friendlier, or as friendly as he can be, when they had dinner at Malfoy Manor.

“Even so,” Sirius barks. “I would have found out from other members, had a meeting been called.” He narrows his eyes. “There was no meeting.”

“Did he ask you in private if you know anything about it?” Voldemort asks, cutting over Rodolphus just as the redhead was opening his mouth again.

“Yeah.” Sirius resists the urge to cross his arms.

“And?”

They’re all staring at him now.

“I told him I killed Parkinson.”

Silence.

“Interesting choice,” Voldemort says. He tilts his head. “You could have blamed it on me.” 

Sirius meets his eyes and keeps his gaze. 

“And what did he have to say about it?” 

“He offered me a lemon drop,” Sirius answers. 

Rodolphus gives a bark of laughter.  

Voldemort is not amused. 

“What you would expect,” Sirius continues. “That it was your fault, that I had to do it to gain your trust-all of it.” 

Sirius draws his shoulders back. “Since we’re all here... I might as well tell you. This morning I started the process to claim my seat in the Wizengamot.” 

They’ll find out soon, anyway. One of Lucius’ spies might be writing to him as they speak. 

Voldemort shows no reaction. 

Lucius seems surprised, but happy. 

“Good. We really needed another vote.” 

“Ahm,” Sirius rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not-I’ll need time to familiarise myself with the proceedings and all. So I won’t be voting for a while. Until I understand-”

Lucius frowns. “Until you learn, I can tell you how- I can teach you how to vote. Explain the-”

“No.” 

“So you’re blocking it,” Rodolphus observes. 

“Why would you-”

“That’s alright, Lucius,” Voldemort interrupts him. “We have Porus.” 

“It’s still going to be tight, Dumbledore has more people-” 

“You’ll make do, I am sure. You never disappointed me so far.” 

No pressure, Sirius thinks as he observes a muscle going off in Lucius’ face. 

“You should have allowed your brother to get it, if you don’t plan to use it.” Rodolphus’ eyes roam over Sirius’ face. 

“It’s mine,” Sirius spits at him. “Not my brother’s.” 

“Speaking of Regulus,” Voldemort starts to say and Bellatrix tenses, avoiding Sirius’ eyes. 

You little bitch. 

“I’ve decided that he is more useful as an informant.” 

Sirius holds his breath. 

“If he takes a job at the Ministry, he will report to you directly, Lucius. And only to you. He’s too young to be involved in more… strenuous activities.” 

Sirius breathes in relief. 

Far too soon.

“For now, at least,” Voldemort adds. 

He’s going to hold Regulus over my head forever. 

Rabastan looks confused. “Regulus is with us?”

Lucius and Bella had gone very still. 

“He is. It was supposed to be a secret. Yet Sirius found out, even if I explicitly forbade it. I wonder how that happened, since he doesn’t talk with his brother and only three of you knew about Regulus’ mark.” 

It is clear he doesn’t suspect Rodolphus, his most trusted man. Brown- red eyes turn to Bella, the most likely culprit and Sirius panics- 

“I let it slip,” Lucius speaks into the extremely tense silence. 

His eyes are hard, closed off. 

Lucius was always sharp. He must know Bella told Narcissa. He might imagine Narcissa told Sirius. 

Voldemort turns to him. 

“You let it slip?” 

Lucius never opens his mouth before he calculates every word. Voldemort must know this. 

“A mistake.” 

Bella isn’t meeting Sirius’ eyes, staring at Lucius. “You fool!” she hisses. 

“I don’t allow mistakes,” Voldemort says, and isn’t it remarkable how much menace he can radiate, even if his tone is so soft. “See to it that there are no more leaks. Or I shall be displeased.” 

“My lord,” Lucius lowers his head. 

Sirius wonders if Bella would sit there so serenely, had she figured out Voldemort is threatening Narcissa? 

Because he is. 

However, Bella seems to accept it truly was Lucius running his mouth to Sirius. 

(-)

“Did you ever kill?” he asks his father. 

Orion Black certainly looked capable of murder. 

He was never violent with Sirius or Regulus. He’d punish them severely, especially Sirius, difficult child he had been, but it was never physical. 

Their mother was the one to slap Sirus. Their grandfather was the one to spank Sirius until Sirius told his father about it. 

“If you ever hurt my son again, I will cut your arm off.” His father spoke in that calm way of his, but the words shocked Sirius, as much as they reassured him. 

They shocked Sirius’ grandfather, too. He never again spanked him.

Sirius never feared his mother, no matter if she’d throw a vase at his head, from time to time. 

But they all feared his father. He never did anything to them, but he always looked like he might. 

And just the promise that was in the air that one day he will lose his composure, was enough to keep them all in check. 

Regulus hid from him as much as he could. 

His mother wailed and slammed doors with too much force, but when his father reached the end of his patience, a word was enough for him and she’d make herself scarce. 

“Darling,” he’d say, warningly, tone low, jaws locked tight, and that would be that. The end of all resistance.

Sirius adored him. And even when he was a bit afraid, he didn’t have the option Regulus had to just hide. 

He was his father’s heir; he was needed at his side, to learn all the lessons he can about what he means to be head of the family. 

Yet he minded his mouth. It was like his father was an antidote for Sirius’ brewing anger and out-of-control temper. 

He always had so much trouble containing it; he never could shut up in fights with his mother, even when he tried. Any slight form her, however small, and he’d lose it. 

There was no temper with his father. There was anger sometimes, rebelliousness, but it was always so much easier to shut up when it was his father reprimanding him, and not his mother. 

“Did you?” he asks again. “Did you ever watch life leaving another man’s eyes?”

The stars don’t answer.

Sirius drinks on the roof, precariously close to its edge.

He imagines his father must be angry. For some reason, he liked Parkinson.

He’d surely protest the most that his son is taking orders from a half-blood.

Both his sons.

“I’ll take care of Reggie,” Sirius promises the fading stars when the sun starts to rise. “I fucked up before, but I will take care of him from now on.” 

They’re vacationing in Greece when three chimeras break loose from a crazed breeder.

In the pandemonium, as the animals wreck chaos through the small magical village, his mother yells, a little further away. 

She’s clasping Regulus’ hand and her eyes frantically go over the crowds.

“SIRIUS!”

And Sirius runs towards her- even if one chimera is dangerously close. His father comes out of nowhere, grabbing Sirius and Disapparating on the spot.

“NO!” Sirius turns, yelling at his father for the first time in his life, when they arrive safely on the beach where their vacation house stands.

“You can’t leave mum and Reg-”

“She’s not an idiot, she’ll Apparate away, too,” his father answers.

Only Sirius worries she might delay looking for him.

She wouldn’t, he tries to console himself. She hates me. She wouldn’t be that concerned.

“We should have stayed together-”

“No. When there is mortal danger, us three have to be separated,” his father says, so calm.

Nothing ever frightens him, nothing seems to phase him and Sirius tries his best to emulate him, to control his panic, to mold his face into that blank expression.

“In case something happens to me, you must stay alive. In case something happens to both of us, your brother must survive, to carry on our name.”

“Is that all we are to you?” Sirius snaps, already failing in his convictions to stay cool and unaffected.

The heir and the spare. We’re also your children, he thinks, desperate.

But he fidgets under that unflinching, icy stare. It chases away Sirius’ anger.

“We must place duty above our feelings, Sirius.”

“I understand,” he says, though he doesn’t. He doesn’t understand how cold someone must be to think so practically, under the circumstances. “But you should have taken Regulus with you,” he dares to suggest. “He doesn’t have a wand. I can look after myself.”

After all, Sirius just got his wand before they left for Greece. And Bella allowed him to use her own, taught him curses long before he turned eleven. 

His father takes his chin between his long fingers, raising his head.

“You are more important,” he says, simply. 

Sirius is upset on behalf of Regulus, but he can’t help but be pleased at the words, too.

After all, Regulus has their mother’s love. It’s obvious.

Sirius always consoled himself that at least he has his father.

Their mother Apparates beside them, along with his brother.

Regulus is crying, clinging to her, and Sirius is invariably jealous when seeing them so close.

But for the first time, his mother pries herself from Regulus’ embrace and rushes to Sirius.

She hugs him. It’s been so long since she did that. “Are you hurt?” 

“No.” Sirius hugs back, fiercely. He can hate her later. 

But he can enjoy that moment.

He wants to whispers that he loves her, actually, that he’s sorry he was rude the other day, that-

“Don’t smother him,” his father says and his mother lets Sirius go, rising to her full height.

“Bad enough you spoiled Regulus until you turned him weak.” He shakes his head, watching Regulus. “Nine years old and crying like a little girl.”

“And what are you turning Sirius into?” his mother hisses and off she goes, lost to her screams, Sirius and Regulus forgotten.

He makes his way to his brother, taking his hand. “Stop crying, we’re fine.”

“I thought I’d die,” Regulus sniffles on his neck. “They were trampling over people and-

“Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”

“You weren’t there,” Regulus says, holding Sirius tightly.

Regulus always feels safe when Sirius is beside him. His little brother’s trust in him never wavers, even when sometimes Sirius is a little cruel and plays pranks on him. 

“I’m always with you.” Sirius draws him away from his mother’s increasing screams and from their father’s silence. “Look,” he says, going closer to the sea. He points to the dog star. “See? I’m always with you, no matter where you are.”

Regulus keeps crying.

“Stop it, you know father doesn’t like it. Blacks don’t cry.”

They sit on the cold sand, listening to the waves, until Regulus finally calms.

Their parents are long gone by then, taking the fight inside their vacation house.

(-)

Regulus sees him from far away, as he’s coming from the path connecting Hogwarts to Hogsmeade. 

Sirius could have snuck up on him, but he decided against it. He wanted to give Regulus time to decide if he wants to speak to Sirius.

Barty Crouch Jr. talks animatedly, not looking where he’s going, holding a newspaper and showing Regulus something in it.

But Regulus is staring at Sirius.

Fuck, but he’s grown. How is it possible he’d grown so fast in under a year?

Last Sirius saw him, before he finished his seventh year of schooling, Regulus was still trapped in that awkward phase between a child and a young man. 

Not anymore.

He’s thin. He always was, but he looks even thinner.

“You’ll never be enough as Heir Apparent!” Sirius yelled at him, shortly before he finished with Hogwarts. “Look at you! Less, in every way.”

Regulus looks like a softer, quieter copy of Sirius.

They were both aware of it their entire lives.

Once upon a time Regulus used to love it, smiling proudly when someone would comment how much he looks like his older brother.

Sirius always hated it. Hated how his mother could just choose Regulus, who looked like Sirius, but was a good boy. A fine replacement.

Bet Regulus hates it now, too. Perhaps that is why he cut his hair short, to lessen the similarities. 

Unsurprisingly, Regulus returns his eyes to the newspaper, though his body is all stiff.

He walks right past Sirius.

Leave, just leave.

But maybe Regulus thinks Sirius is there for some other reason. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t stop-

Yeah, right.

“Regulus.”

His back gets even stiffer, but he doesn’t stop. Crouch does, turning his head, eyes widening when he sees Sirius.

Regulus grabs his elbow and drags him along.

It pisses Sirius off.

What happened to giving him a choice, huh?

He walks fast, catching up with them before they can reach Hogsmeade.

He stops in their path.

Try to ignore me now.

“Piss off,” he sneers at Crouch.

The boy looks between Sirius and Regulus.

“Reg?”

“I said, piss off!” Sirius barks.

Crouch remembers some of Sirius’ curses, because he hesitates for another second and leaves.

“Loyal friends you’ve got,” he tells Regulus. “Always have your back, don’t they?”

Why are you such an arse? You came here to talk to him.

“Oh, like Potter had yours, when he wouldn’t even look at you?” Regulus hisses, a pink hue on his cheeks.

Well, well. He cultivated some venom, his baby brother.

Don’t get mad, don’t get mad.

But he’s already mad, remembering those awful days after the incident with Snape and the Shack. 

So he stays silent, afraid he’ll say something worse.

Regulus stares at him.

He’s not quite as tall as Sirius, but close enough. Closer than he used to be.

“What do you want?” Regulus demands, after seconds pass that feel like hours.

Isn’t that the question of the century?

“I-”

Regulus frowns when Sirius can’t come up with anything.

He knows that never happens.

“I just wanted to see you. Make sure you’re alright,” Sirius answers.

He cringes, inwardly.

Regulus snorts. “You could have seen if I was alright or not, at father’s funeral.”

“Reg-”

“Shut up! How dare you- how could you?! Father!”

“Mum wouldn’t have wanted me there,” Sirius says between clenched jaws.

“Like you ever cared what she wanted. You didn’t come! How could you not come?”

The owl arrived in the middle of the night. It found Sirius at a party thrown by one of Marlene’s brothers.

“Father died. We’ll bury him Thursday. I know… I know it’s hard for you to be there with mum, but please, come. I can’t do this alone. I can’t stand there at the head of the coffin and be the Black Heir everyone expects to see. I can’t.   

I need you, Sirius.

Please.”

“He’s been dead for years!” Sirius says, stubborn.

His father wasn’t there anymore, as far as Sirius is concerned. His father was gone before Sirius ran away.

Truth was, Sirius couldn’t go to the funeral, because he couldn’t be the Black Heir either. He wouldn’t have been able to stand at the head of the coffin, head straight, face blank. He would have broken apart, and all those snobs, all those snakes, would have been glad of it.

He would have shamed his father’s memory.

Because Sirius did break. Even if his father had been as good as dead for years, even if there was some relief that his body finally caught up with his mind, when Sirius read that letter, something in him shattered.

He’d climbed on the roof and wept like a baby, with music and laughter coming from under him.

Marlene found him at noon the next day.

“Maybe for you.” Regulus looks so upset. “You weren’t there to see him struggling to breathe, you weren’t there to change him or hold his hand through the night. He was alive-”

“Stop!” Sirius warns him.

He had been there. For weeks on end, he had been right there at his father’s side, refusing to leave the room, refusing to eat or sleep or part with him. 

Refusing to accept what was happening, hoping against hope his father will just rise some day. 

Regulus’s face is red with anger, eyes sparkling.

“He wouldn’t respond to anything, he couldn’t see us, couldn’t hear us, he couldn’t talk. And yet, in the dead of night, he’d struggle awfully and if you’d bend close enough to his mouth, you could hear it. ‘Sirius’.”

His vision sways. Crippling pain spreads from his chest; adrenaline rushes in his veins, pumping too much blood, too fast, straight to his brain. 

“I have nothing to say to you.” Regulus’ voice comes as if from far away, even if he’s still right in front of Sirius.

Chapter Text

Bright flashes of colour; loud laughter, overcrowded rooms. 

Music, heavy drums, a deep bass vibrating inside Sirius’ chest.

Nauseating perfumes, sweat, alcohol, smoke. 

The taste of iron and salt and pain.

Bodies pressing against him, blurry faces blending together, voices ringing as one. 

Yet he can still see his father every time he closes his eyes. He can hear him whispering Sirius’s name.

So Sirius drinks more, snorts more of that white powder a muggle man gives him.

More, more, more.

(-)

“- bloody outrageous, even for you. Fuck if I know why I put up with this shit. Pettigrew, don’t just stand there!” 

Marlene’s voice comes as if from a great distance. Her skinny arms try to lift him, but fail, and Sirius drops back on what he believes to be a pavement. 

“Marlene, those law-men are heading our way.” Peter. That’s Peter. Sirius is almost certain. 

What’s he doing here? Where am I? 

“Brilliant!” Marlene hisses. “Fucking brilliant; in the middle of muggle London, you complete and utter arse!”

His head hurts something awful.

“I can’t see,” he mumbles, trying to open his eyes, but they won’t. It’s like they’ve been glued shut.

When he tries to lift his hand, he feels pain shooting all over his arm. 

“No, officer, thank you, we’re fine.”

“He doesn’t look fine.” A male voice comes closer. “We’ve had complains about someone that-”

“Confundus!”

“Have a good night, Miss!”

Sirius loses consciousness. 

(-)

He wakes up in his bed. He smells of dried blood and vodka. This time, when he tries to open his eyes, they obey him. 

His head is pounding, and it’s only made worse when he moves it to the side. 

Marlene is curled in an armchair beside his bed, hugging her long legs to her chest.

She has a hard look about her, terribly severe.

It’s not like she didn’t drag me home from shady places before.

Sirius sits up cautiously. His chest is caked with dried blood; he has chunks of memories of fighting with someone, a fist connecting with the side of his face-

He can’t quite remember where or why. The last clear memory he has is his brother’s angry face. Everything that comes after that is fractured, of a hazy quality. 

“Four days, Black! No one could find you for four fucking days.”

His mind is sluggish; he doesn’t know what day it is-

“Is it Tuesday?” he asks, throwing the sheet off his bed. What if he missed his date with Voldemort? That would be bad. 

It dawns on him he’s only in his underpants. Panic grips his heart and for a second he doesn’t understand why; it’s not like Marlene hasn’t seen every inch of him-

He looks down at his uncovered left arm. 

His head snaps up, and he meets her eyes.

“Funny you didn’t suggest we get that tattooed together.” 

Sirius hears the fury in her voice.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He stares at her and she stares right back. 

“I know you’re not the brightest bint in the world, but why would you stay in a room with a Death Eater?” he spits out, because he feels threatened; he’s defensive and for him defence always manifests through hostility. 

He gets out of the bed, quickly. Or as quick as it’s possible with his headache and unsteady limbs. 

She stays where she is.

When he sees she left his wand on his bedside, within his reach, he can’t quite believe it. 

He spots a pair of jeans on the floor; they’re stained with blood, but he puts them on. 

“What’s going on, Sirius?” 

At that moment, he can’t remember any other time when she’d used his first name instead of Black.

“What day is it?”

She doesn’t answer. 

Sirius grabs his wand and casts a Tempus spell.

Tuesday. He’s not late yet; if he Apparates in the next minute, he can make it- 

“Are you going to fucking tell me-”

“Was Peter with you?” Another flash of panic. “I think I remember his voice-”

“Sirius! What is that shit on your arm-”

“Did he see it?”

She stands, unfurls herself from the armchair. In the blink of an eye, she’s in his face. 

“Tell me what the fuck is going on!” she demands, voice shaking. 

“I think it’s self explanatory, really,” he barks at her. 

“It isn’t!”

“Oh, yes, you must be very surprised,” Sirius spits out.

She pushes him hard, her hands leaving red imprints on his chest. “Don’t pull that shit with me! I’m not Hestia or Gideon or whoever else. You are the least likely man in the world to bear that mark!”

It hurts to hear it. The anguish in her voice, her faith in him, it’s painful.

She should run away screaming. He should have woken up in a Ministry holding cell.

“Marlene,” he says, and now it’s his voice that is shaking. 

His mark burns, turns a deep shade of black.

Her eyes are drawn to it.

He’s late. 

He feels the same faint pull he’d felt last he was summoned. 

“I’ve got to go,” he whispers. 

He’s in so much shit. Marlene knows, maybe Peter; he can’t remember the last four days, and now Voldemort is calling him. 

She swallows.

“Sirius, please! Please-”

He takes her hand. She doesn’t flinch away from him like she should. 

“Do you trust me?”

He hears the vulnerability in his tone, and he despises it.

He gave her no reason to trust him, ever. She hardly knows him. They had only gotten closer in the past six months-

No one trusts him besides James and Peter.

“Did Peter see it?”

The mark burns again, harder, comes with sharp pain.

“No, I was alone when I undressed you. He went to tell Potter we found you-”

“Can you stay here?” he pleads. “Can you wait for me to return?”

It’s huge, what he’s asking.

“I can’t do this right now,” he tries to explain. 

“I can see,” she says, coldly, looking at the mark.

“Will you wait?”

Silence. The burn intensifies, pins and needles all over his left forearm. 

Impatient fucker.

Sirius lets go of her hand and he hastily searches through the armoire for a t-shirt.

“I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” he says, looking at her as he heads to the door, pulling the T-shirt over his head. “At worst, I’ll be back around midnight.” 

She’s a tall woman, but she looks awfully small right that second, dwarfed by his expensive furniture, with a desperate expression on her usually harsh face. 

Sirius turns and runs down the stairs.

His Apparition is less smooth than usual. He stumbles out of the air, almost collapsing on the floor of the cabin.

It’s only through a miracle that he remains standing. 

Voldemort is siting two feet away from him, one of his hands resting on the table. 

Sirius doesn’t think he can deal with him, just then. He should say something, offer an apology, but he can’t. He can’t make the words come out of his mouth.

One of these days, you’ll die in this stupid cabin.

“I know you are not one for respectable clothing, but you are more disheveled than usual,” Voldemort offers after a few moments of silence. 

He doesn’t sound angry. Sirius never heard him angry, though, so how would he know how that sounds like?

“I was in a scuffle with a muggle. Possibly more than one. Didn’t have time to clean up properly.”

Voldemort’s eyes travel over Sirius, from head to toe.

“You were healed,” he comments.

It is not a question, so he doesn’t answer it. Marlene must have healed him. 

Sirius thinks he remembers being run over by a car at some point. 

“Those are professional healer charms clinging to you.”

“Yeah,” Sirius says sharply, hoping to cut this line of questioning. “Good as new.”

Voldemort tilts his head to the side, eyes still roaming all over Sirius. 

Sirius feels like he’s about to throw up. He’s dizzy, his head still throbs painfully, made only worse by the Apparition, and he has to talk to Marlene soon. He doesn’t know what he’ll say or-

“Are you aware there are people looking for you?”

Voldemort has this odd expression on his face. Sirius doesn’t know what to make of it.

“Yes,” Sirius answers. He imagines James was, and clearly Marlene and Peter. “But how would you know?”

After all, his friends are all very unlikely to have told Voldemort.

“It was in the paper.”

Sirius blinks at him, surprised. “Huh?”

Voldemort laughs. It looks like he hadn’t meant to; it sounds natural, without that undercurrent of wrongness that usually colours everything that comes out of his mouth. 

“Sit,” he says and Sirius does, because standing does not agree with him at all.

He’s grateful for the glass of water that appears on the table, too.

He is parched. 

He gulps the water down fast, and it refills.

“Potter went to the Aurors to declare you missing.”

“No way!” Sirius stares at him, astonished. “Why would he do something so silly?” Sirius asks himself, but it is Voldemort that answers.

“Because you were missing.”

“Listen, I’ve been ‘missing’ plenty of times before.” It’s certainly not the first time Sirius loses track of time while drunk. “James knows how it goes-”

“Ah, but were you ‘spying’ on me on those occasions?”

Fuck! James must have been worried sick. He must have thought I got murdered. 

Great, as if he needs more reasons to feel like shit. 

“The Aurors know you were attacked by Death Eaters some months before,” Voldemort smirks, referring to their duel that destroyed Sirius’ previous house “so they took your disappearance seriously. Even Dumbledore is concerned, according to my sources.”

“Oh, gods. The sermon I’ll get!” Sirius puts his head in his hands.

He has to face Marlene and fix that mess somehow; James will be quick to forgive him but Dumbledore will never let him live this down.

He told Sirius, so many times that he can’t carry on as he used to, after he agreed to spy on Voldemort. 

“The trouble you cause, without even trying to. Astonishing.” 

“I’ve got talent,” Sirius mumbles.

Voldemort laughs again. He really is enjoying himself.

“At least you weren’t worried,” Sirius says, lifting his head. “I’m wounded.”

Voldemort leans back on the chair, observing Sirius with those sharp, creepy eyes of his. 

“Bellatrix told me she heard from your brother about a talk you two had.”

Sirius tenses. All those words, the pain, Regulus’ furious expression. He can’t deal with it. He can’t.

He’d rather have to worry about Marlene and Dumbledore.

“She seemed convinced you’re out on a drunken rampage.”

“Good to be predictable.”

“She recalled a time you got arrested. She mentioned you were sixteen? She had to come and take you out of a Muggle police station.”

“That was fun,” Sirius says, after drinking more water. 

He’s not sarcastic. It really had been fun. Sirius called Lily, using the muggle phone. She wasn’t yet their friend, but she was the only person he knew that had a phone. 

He’d memorised her number by heart because he’d spent a lot of time at pay-phones with James during the summer, who kept calling to hear her voice, the little stalker.

And he’d told Lily he’d been arrested and if she would please contact James, ask him to owl Bellatrix to come get him, because Bellatrix was the only adult that could be relied upon to help him without telling anyone else.

They arrested her, too, when she walked in and demanded they let him go, without presenting any of those documents they use to prove identity. But Bella had her wand and no Trace on it.

They escaped during the night.

“Have you looked in a mirror?” Voldemort asks, pulling Sirius out of the memory. 

“Not recently, no.”

“You’re in no state to duel. Go home.”

Sirius blinks, surprised.

Dumbledore told Sirius Voldemort will be patient with him in the beginning, but surely this is a bit much. And it’s been months already. 

“You’re free to tell Dumbledore you were with me these past few days. Tell him we went to Scotland, and I killed a man named McIntosh. Tell him I retrieved a roll of parchment and a red wand from him.”

Sirius narrows his eyes, suspicious. “Why?”

Voldemort’s lips pull at the corners into a slight smile. 

“I remember far too well Dumbledore’s sermons, as you referred to them. While I cannot say Muggles had ever arrested me, I am sure it is preferable to being berated in his office. You have my sympathies.”

(-)

Marlene is still there when Sirius returns. 

A part of him is very shocked she stayed. 

She’s perched up on the armchair, big dark circles under her eyes, only made worse by her ruined makeup. Sirius feels guilty. 

How did we get so close? When? 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Just a quick fuck, here and there. Just fun. 

Sirius kneels beside the armchair. When he takes her hand, she doesn’t flinch back, just watches him with her hard eyes, though Sirius can see the hurt inside them.

He tells her what really happened that night when he ended up in the hospital, claiming Death Eaters attacked him. 

What followed.

It’s even scarier that the fear in her eyes doesn’t go away when she learns he’s a spy, and hasn’t suddenly turned into a fanatic. 

“I kinda figured it was something like this,” she whispers.

How would she? Why is she the only one in the Order, besides his best mates, to know him?

Even Remus- if Remus saw the mark, he’d jump to a different conclusion than “he’s a spy”.

“Thank you,” Sirius says, which is not something he utters often, unless it is filled with cold politeness or sarcasm. “For waiting and-”

“Fuck, Sirius! You’re such an idiot! What would you have done if you’d found me with a dark mark on my arm, huh? Just throw me to the Aurors without asking for an explanation first? Of course I waited, you fool!”

Sirius knows many others would have done just that. People are so paranoid, the war is getting so vicious, that some seem ready to cast Sirius to the Aurors without even seeing his dark mark. 

He needs to talk with James, with Dumbledore. He needs to talk to the Aurors and let them know he’s fine.

But he doesn’t want to leave her just yet, doesn’t want to let go of her hand.

“It’s fine, don’t look so upset,” he says.

“How is it fine? You’re gonna die!” she snaps, her voice shaking. “And you’re not supposed to die first!”

“I remember. Someone has to be there to dress your corpse in leather and red shoes.”

She slaps his shoulder. “This is no joke-”

“Marlene, we’re in a war. Most of us will die in the next couple of years. I just increased my chances a bit.”

“It’s one thing to - battle, Death Eaters- just- a chance to survive - but Voldemort? I don’t want you to die in some strange room, surrounded by enemies, killed just because you told Voldemort to go fuck himself or something stupid-”

“I already told him that and here I am, alive.”

Marlene closes her eyes, her fingers squeezing around Sirius’, tightly. 

“Sometimes I fucking hate Dumbledore,” she says, after a brief silence.

“I hate him all the time, really. But this isn’t his fault. This is on me. Voldemort set his sight on me and it wouldn’t have ended well, whatever I would have chosen. Dumbledore only bought me some more time to live and be useful. And speaking of the old man, I have to tell him I’m alive.”

“What happened? I’ve never seen you in that state, and Merlin knows I’ve seen you in plenty of states. But this- beaten up, drunk out of your mind, high, bags of that white stuff Muggle snort in your pockets-

“Noth-”

“Black!”

“Regulus. We had a chat about father.”

Marlene bites her lip.

She knows family. She gets family. Marlene comes from a big one; while not as ancient as the Blacks, not as powerful, she knows of pureblood traditions and family magic. She knows how it feels to lose someone that was always there and then isn’t anymore.

Marlene was the one to find Sirius on her rooftop, crying and clutching the letter from Regulus announcing his father’s death. 

She nods, not needing to know more details. 

“Is Lestrange a Death Eater?” 

“I can’t- Marlene, I can’t talk about that.” 

She shakes her head. “Yeah, yeah. I know. But he must be. He just- he has to be a Death Eater.” 

Months before, when they ran into Rodolphus on the streets, Marlene stared at his left arm so intensely, as if she believed that if she looked hard enough, she could see the mark through his robe. 

Rodolphus has a reputation. Worse than Sirius, really, and that’s saying something. 

In those circles, before Sirius reached his teenage years, Rodolphus held the title of problem child. Hot head. Violent.  

Sirius remembers his father and other patriarchs struggling to keep Rodolphus in check, out of Azkaban, covering up his blunders, throwing galleons around to make suspicions about dead muggleborns go away. 

And that was before Voldemort, when Sirius was just a child and Rodolphus an angry, angry teenager, barely out of Hogwarts. 

Even so, the rumours spread and when people first heard of a dark lord gaining power in the shadows, many thought Rodolphus was ‘this Voldemort lunatic’. That was before people grew too afraid to say the name, before Voldemort showed up in a skirmish and killed seven Aurors with one wave of his wand. 

“Be careful, Sirius. Please.” Marlene bends over the armrest, her hands gentle on his face. “I know you don’t do careful, but-” 

“I grew up with these people. I- I know how to handle myself. How to handle them.”

This is why Dumbledore sent him to spy. 

Everyone knows a part of Sirius belongs there, no matter how hard Sirius fights against it. 

“When- if-” Marlene bites her tongue. “If it’s needed, we can run away. I can take my mum, and my nice and nephew and we can just… disappear. If you need to.” 

“I don’t run, love,” Sirius says, softly. “And neither do you.” Otherwise she’d have ran already, like so many others did when things escalated. Or she’d had stayed out of it, like a lot of purebloods do. 

“I’m just saying, you’re not alone, alright?” Marlene shrugs, going for nonchalant and failing miserably. 

It just scares Sirius more. 

Go back to Gideon, he almost says. He wants to draw back and get her out of his house, put distance between them, fast. He needs to. 

Because this can’t end well. This will end painfully and Sirius doesn’t want to get attached to any more people, doesn’t want to go through loss again. 

Stop being a coward, a voice much like his father instructs him. 

Sirius doesn’t throw her out. 

(-)

Dumbledore doesn’t berate him too much.

No, Sirius would have been lucky to get that.

Instead, he gets the silence and the disappointment. The grave look in those usually cheery eyes. 

It gives Sirius a sense of deja-vu. 

The only thing that’s missing is Snape, yelling about injustices.

“You are a grown man, Sirius.” Dumbledore finally speaks. “You do not act like one, but if these are the choices you insist on making, there is hardly anything I can do to stop you. I will ask you, if at all possible, to dig deep inside yourself and try to think of others. Try to think of how worried James was; I know you do not care for yourself, but perhaps if you’d seen the stricken look on his face these past few days, you’d have reconsidered falling off the face of the earth.”

“Noted,” Sirius says, through gritted teeth.

Mercifully, Dumbledore leaves it at that.

“You are full of luck, it seems.”

Oh, yeah, I’m a regular four-leaf clover.

“Your negligence had somehow made Voldemort finally use you as a spy.”

Sirius can choose to be frustrated with Dumbledore, to cling to his irritation, or he can choose to let it go and focus on what is important. So he tries to do just that. 

“Who was this McIntosh he spoke of? And the wand-”

“It is better if you do not know,” Dumbledore interrupts him. 

Sirius shoves his hands in the pockets of his robe, so he won’t do something silly like going for his wand.

“And thank you for not lying that you accompanied him on that endeavour.”

“You can fuck right off!”

The fact that Dumbledore thanks Sirius for not lying in order to escape responsibility is outrageous.

It’s Sirius’ own fault. He should have listened to Voldemort and went with the story. But no, he decided to be honest; he decided it’s more important Dumbledore knows everything that happens on Tuesdays dates. 

He slams the door so hard on his way out of the office, the gargoyles yell at him.

(-)

Sirius spends his morning being yelled at by James in Godric’s Hollow. 

Remus and Peter are there, too. And Lily, of course. 

“I haven’t slept in four days!” James pokes his finger in Sirius’ chest. 

He looks terrible. Sirius can see he hadn’t slept in days. 

Horrible guilt washes over him, in waves. 

“None of us did! We searched for you everywhere!” 

“I won’t disappear again,” Sirius promises. 

For all of Blacks don’t apologise, Sirius asks for James’ forgiveness often. It’s like making up for never saying ‘sorry’ to anyone else, by drowning James in the word, until he forgives Sirius. 

Eventually James softens. It’s always like that with him. He can never stay mad at Sirius long; except that one time with Snape and the shack, he always forgives Sirius in a matter of hours, for anything. 

Remus is not as quick to forgive, and Sirius never apologises to him. He hadn’t, back then, and he certainly doesn’t do it now. Not when he looks at Sirius with suspicion. 

“Even for you, this is… unusual,” is the only thing Remus points out. 

James gets a twitch in his jaw and he turns on Remus. “Stop that!” he hisses, and Sirius realises these two must have had some conversations, while Sirius was away. That Remus must have implied many times this is unusual for Sirius. 

Peter is quiet. When there is a fight, when there is tension inside the group, Peter never wants to interfere. He’s never been good in confrontations. 

But he is on Sirius’ side. He always is. He comes to Sirius after these small fights, and offers his support, in private. 

And this time isn’t any different. 

When Sirius drags himself out of the house, Peter follows him, invites him over for a late breakfast. 

“Lucky Dumbledore paired me with McKinnon, because you really needed a Healer, mate. I wouldn’t have known what to do if I were alone. Looked like a car ran you over.” 

“Might have happened.” Sirius shrugs. 

“Wanna talk about it?” Peter asks, too casually. Isn’t it funny that James had missed this must have been more than Sirius’ usual weekend escapades, but Peter doesn’t?

“I’m good.”

“Alright.”

Peter still lives with his mother, his living room filled with fluffy pillows and old china on display, run down pink carpets, moth-eaten frilly drapes.

Some of the boys in the Order make fun of him for not leaving the nest.

Well, they made fun of him, until Sirius wiped out his wand and gave them more reason to think him a dark wizard.

Peter’s loyalty to his frail mother is not something others would understand.

It shames Sirius, because he couldn’t bare taking care of his father. But Peter is there, doing it, day in, day out.

“I need girl advice, if you’re in the mood. Teach me some of your smooth ways to pull birds. ”

“Always in the mood for that,” Sirius says, accepting a beer from Peter. 

Mrs Pettigrew makes them breakfast, which is never good, forgetful as she is. There’s always something wrong. 

She either fails to salt the food altogether, or she forgets she already did and does it again, making it close to impossible to eat. 

There’s always something burnt. 

But she enjoys it, likes having Sirius over. She fumbles around with her best silverware and makes a terrible mess in the house, which Sirius and Peter clean, when she retreats to rest after a meal. 

She keeps forgetting Sirius’ father died and always speaks of that one time when Orion Black helped her shrink her shopping bags in Diagon Ally, decades ago. 

Sometimes she forgets her own husband died, and that is far, far worse. 

(-)

The next Death Eater meeting Sirius is called to attend is once more held at Lestrange Manor. 

Sirius is the last to arrive, and when he enters the room, he goes to where he sat last, no kneeling involved. Just a polite greeting directed at everyone in the room. 

“Tell us about Dumbledore’s inner circle,” Voldemort asks. 

He acts differently with the others there. More… Sirius isn’t sure, more what exactly. 

More formal, maybe. But that’s not quite right. 

In any case, he’s different. 

Dumbledore prepared Sirius for this question long before; the old man seemed surprised Voldemort hasn’t asked sooner. 

Sirius gives the names he’s supposed to. Moody, McGonagall, the Prewett twins, Dorcas Medowes, the Longbottoms; none are a surprise for Voldemort. 

Benjy Fenwick is a surprise. 

Voldemort doesn’t show it, but Rodolphus does, with a frown. 

“How long has he been with Dumbledore?” Lucius intervenes when silence falls over the room. 

“Not sure; he was there when I came in. Seemed comfortable with missions.” 

A look passes between Voldemort and Lucius. Very short. It raises the hairs on Sirius’ neck. He wonders if he and Dumbledore just sentenced Benjy to death.

“Go on,” Voldemort returns his gaze to Sirius. 

“Emmeline Vance.” Sirius feels terrible about outing her, since they’ve had sex a couple of times. But Dumbledore insisted Voldemort must know already. And apparently he does, because no one reacts. 

“Edgar Bones.” Dumbledore wasn’t sure about Edgar, but to Sirius relief, Rodolphus snorts, clearly well acquainted with Edgar. 

They still stare at him, all of them, and Sirius doesn’t know what to do, because these were all the names Dumbledore considered safe to pass on. 

“Go on,” Voldemort says again. 

“That’s all,” Sirius lies. 

There’s Arabella Fig and Mundungus, but Dumbledore said under no circumstance is Voldemort to find out about them. As a squib and a petty criminal, they are really easy to kill and not even the Ministry would care. 

Elphias Dodge, very high up in the Ministry, who must remain a secret, at all costs. Dedalus Diggle, whom Sirius hates with a passion, but is also working in the Ministry and were Lucius to find he is close to Dumbledore, he’d have him fired before they can blink. 

“I think you’re forgetting some people,” Voldemort speaks softly. Warningly. “Five of them, to be exact.” 

Sirius’ blood pressure goes up, just like that. 

“You want me to say names you already know?” he hisses. 

“Yes.” 

Merlin, how he hates Voldemort. He forgets it, sometimes. Many times, actually. When they duel, when he shows Sirius ancient, lost magic. 

When he seems human. 

But he’s not that. Or not just that. 

Voldemort is the worst. 

He wants to force the names out of Sirius just to make him feel terrible. 

“Sirius,” Bella whispers, urgently, when what seems like minutes pass and he keeps silent.  

The fucking bitch. She’s been hiding from Sirius the past week, but he’ll get her soon. 

“Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew, Marlene McKinnon, Lily and James Potter.” Sirius spits their names out. 

They were on Dumbledore’s list, too. Everyone in Britain knows how loyal they are to Dumbledore. 

Voldemort smiles, amused. 

Sirius sees red. 

“Didn’t McKinnon almost kill you, Rodolphus, when you were trying to assassinate the witness in Wilkes trial? You all know her name.” 

They know of Peter, and Remus, and obviously the Potters. Voldemort just likes to make him feel like a traitor. 

“Please,” Rodolphus snorts. “She got lucky. You both got lucky.” 

When Sirius saw Marlene heading straight for Rodolphus, Sirius’ heart sunk. She didn’t know who she was attacking. It was Sirius’ second battle, but he just had a feeling in his gut Lestrange was behind that decorated mask.

So he rushed to her side, and they were lucky indeed, the Aurors appearing around them seconds later. In the confusion, Marlene got a really nice hit in, taking Rodolphus in the neck. He barely managed to escape the Aurors. 

Marlene and Sirius were arrested, but Moody and Frank let them go, all hush-hush. Everyone in the Auror Department knew about the Order of the Phoenix, anyway. They knew the Order was just trying to help. 

“If the Aurors weren’t there, they wouldn’t even find enough pieces of her to bury,” Rodolphus says, sneering at Sirius. “I’d have spared you, for Bella, but you’d be in a great deal of-” 

“Sirius, sit down.” Only when Voldemort barks the order, does Sirius realise he’s standing, wand already in hand. “Rodolphus, don’t antagonise him. You know he’s quite attached to the girl.” 

Fuck. 

Sirius sits, mostly because his knees feel weak when he realises that yes, apparently Death Eaters read gossips magazines. The Witch Weekly especially has a fixation with Sirius ‘the disowned, devilishly handsome Black’ and likes to print photographs with him in various stages of inebriation. In some of them, he’d been kissing Marlene, outside of the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade, or fighting with Gideon at the Leaky Cauldron, Marlene trying to get between them. 

The articles were even worse, painting Marlene as an ‘unremarkable looking woman with no values’ and pondering if she uses love potions because how else would she make a Prewett and a Black fight over her?

Sirius feels the need to say he is not attached to her at all, to dismiss it, but he realises that will just make it worse. 

There are so many people that can be used against him. His best friends, Regulus, Marlene. 

You’ll just have to stop seeing her in public. That’s all. Let them photograph you with other women. 

Rabastan’s stomach growls, loudly, breaking the tense silence in the room. 

“Thank you, Sirius,” Voldemort speaks and from Lucius’ face it’s clear Voldemort doesn’t thank people often. “You’ll tell Dumbledore you were finally allowed at a meeting. You will tell him it was held here, and that Rodolphus is a Death Eater.” 

“He’ll be shocked, no doubt,” Sirius spits out, trying to calm down. 

“You will say Yaxley was here, too.” 

Sirius nods, sharply. Yaxley is no surprise, either. 

“Good. I’ll take my leave.” Voldemort stands, and the others scramble to their feet as well. 

Sirius remains seated. 

“My Lord, we are about to have dinner. Would you like to join us?” Bellatrix asks him, looking up at him with starry eyes. 

It makes Sirius sick. 

Rabastan looks terrified at the idea, unconsciously shaking his head at her. 

“I’m not hungry.” Voldemort offers her a smile. 

“We aren’t either,” Bellatrix insists, right as Rabastan’s stomach growls again. “We’ll just have some drinks. Would you like to join us for that?”

“If you are sure,” Voldemort allows and Bellatrix’ smile could light up the room. 

“It would be an honour,” Rodolphus says. 

“Enjoy!” Sirius stands, making his way to the door. 

“I am sure Bellatrix would like you to partake.” Voldemort blocks the door just as Sirius reaches it. 

Oh, no. No. Sirius is not having drinks with the dark lord and his lackeys. 

“Of course! Stay, cousin.” 

“I really don’t-” 

“It wasn’t a question,” Lucius whispers in his ear, as Voldemort goes through the doors, Bella right behind him. “If he asked you to stay, you stay.” 

“Maybe that works if you’re a spineless coward, but-”

“Stay.” Rodolphus comes at his side. “You don’t want to make him angry. Just stay and have a fucking drink. It’s not like it’s a chore for you.”

“Merlin, I’m famished,” Rabastan complains. 

“You’ll survive.” Rodolphus pats his brother on the back and leaves the room. 

(-)

Lucius isn’t sure if he’s supposed to stay or leave; he plays it safe and comes along to one of the living rooms. 

He, Sirius and Rabastan are clearly all uncomfortable, as they sit beside each other on one of the couches. 

Bella looks like she’s in some heaven, attention solely on Voldemort, who sits in one of the ghastly armchairs, that looks to be decorated with skulls on the high legs. 

Knowing Rodolphus, those might be real human skulls. 

A terrified house-elf shows up when Bella snaps her fingers. 

“We’ll have some drinks for now,” she orders.

The poor thing only looks at Sirius, though, expectantly. 

“Firewhiskey. Lots of it,” Sirius says. 

“And peanuts,” Rodolphus adds. 

The house-elf leaves, just like that, and Sirius understands she already knows what Voldemort usually drinks, that he is often in Lestrange Manor, along with Lucius. 

Voldemort had wine with Sirius, at their very first meeting. Now, like a boring old fart, he’s served tea. 

Bella snatches the separate tray that comes for Voldemort, before the elf can place it on the small table by the armchair. 

She puts only a dash of milk inside, and stirs it gently, before offering the cup to Voldemort. 

“Merlin,” Sirius whispers, disgusted at this show of servitude, low enough that only Rabastan hears him

Only Bella talks, a mile a minute. Voldemort says a word or two from time to time. Rodolphus is unbothered. 

Lucius tries to look calm and unaffected, but as soon as his drink is finished, he stands and excuses himself, muttering some lies about an ‘urgent appointment’ he has. 

Sirius moves to stand, downing his glass, but both Voldemort and Bellatrix turn to stare at him. 

Am I kidnapped? Why was Lucius allowed to leave?

He drinks more, even though his brain tries to warn him not to get drunk with enemies on all sides. 

Some time passes and Sirius zones out, planning his escape, when Rabastan’s sharp elbow kicks him in the ribs. 

“What?” Sirius demands of him, but Rabastan just jerks his head at Voldemort. 

“I asked for your opinion about the Carrows,” Voldemort says. 

“They’re all cunts,” Sirius says, his filter brought down by the whiskey. 

Not that he has much of a filter when he’s sober. 

“They truly are,” Rodolphus says, surprising Sirius. 

“Alecto is not so bad,” Bella says. “One of the few women that aren’t brainwashed like the rest. She says she’d like to fight.” 

Rodolphus laughs. “Hilarious.” 

“Why is it hilarious?” Bella turns on him, eyes narrowed. “Because she’s a woman?” 

“Because she’s dumb as a rock,” Sirius pipes in, to stop Bella from going on one of her long and winded tirades about women and their many plights. 

“She is a bit… odd. She could improve,” Bella says, calming down a little. 

“Sure she can,” Sirius says, sarcastic. 

“What about her brother?” Voldemort asks Rabastan, who is closest in age with Amycus. 

Rabastan chokes on a peanut in his hurry to answer. “If we need more expendable men, he’d do just fine.” 

Voldemort looks at Rodolphus, who simply shakes his head. 

Dumbledore is wrong. He always says Voldemort listens to no one, dismisses any opinions from those around him. 

Sirius can see that he doesn’t dismiss Rodolphus. 

Eventually Voldemort finishes his tea- which must have gone cold in the past hour- and leaves. 

(-)

Bella walks away quickly as soon as Voldemort is out of the door.

Rabastan instantly starts moaning to Rodolphus that’s he’s starving to death.

Sirius slips after Bella.

He knows her so well, he accurately predicts where she is going. He takes a shortcut, through hallways that he is very familiar with no matter how much time had passed since he walked them, waits for a few seconds, hidden behind a monstrous statue of a wizard stepping on a house-elf neck and when she walks past, he grabs her by the hair.

She yelps, rounding on him.

“I would have told you!” she says, placating, before Sirius can open his mouth.

She doesn’t struggle in his grasp, lets him slam her against the stone wall.

They almost knock over a portrait- it shouts at them.

“When?” Sirius hisses, getting in her face. “When Reg would be caught by Aurors, dragged to Azkaban or killed -”

She rolls her eyes, and he wants to hit her.

“You know I would have taken care of him. Rodolphus and Lucius would have-”

“How could you let him take the Mark? How could you encourage him?” He shakes her by the shoulders, furious with her. “How could you keep it from me?”

She braces a hand against his chest. “The Dark Lord ordered me not to-”

“Is that your excuse? Taking orders from a half-blood-”

She slaps him so hard, his head almost spins.

“Don’t you dare!” she spits, pushing him away, eyes glowing. “Don’t you dare say that -”

“If he’d have a name, I’d call him by it,” Sirius draws his wand when she goes for hers.

She’s past irritated, straight into furious.

Good. The stupid wench, placing his brother in danger-

“He has a name.” Her voice reaches the same level Sirius’ mother used to. “Don’t make me wipe the floor with you!”

“Does he? You never seem to call him Voldemort. Too afraid, huh? Bella Black, fearless witch… cowering before a man.”

He ducks just in time. A bright orange spell hits the wall behind him, scorching it.

He was never good at fighting from a defensive position- not good enough for someone like her, at least.

Eventually, one of her curses gets through all of his defences and takes him in the right shoulder.

“Fuck!” He can’t stop the moan of pain coming from his mouth. If it were anyone else responsible for it, he would have withheld it; but he can be vulnerable around her, he always could.

“You stupid idiot!” She comes to him, breathing hard. “Don’t move.”

“I can’t move,” he complains, leaning on what is left of another hideous statue. “Where did your husband get all this ‘art’? Merlin, it’s appalling.”

“Beats the decapitated house-elves adorning the walls in Grimmauld, any day,” she spits back, her hands gently prodding around his wound. “Why do you have to provoke me so?”

“You’re beautiful when you go crazy.”

She sighs, tracing her wand over the injury, murmuring a counter curse.

Sirius moans again, sharp needles spreading through his arm. “The fuck was that? Teach me.”

She ignores him, focused.

She calms down as she works. The pain recedes slowly, but she’s not as efficient as Voldemort in taking away the pain caused by his own curses. She’s not as good as Marlene at healing, either.

Bella, like Sirius, was never interested in learning how to mitigate the destruction they can cause.

“I am not afraid of him,” she whispers, eventually. “I respect him. He’s the only influential man I know that never looked down on me because I am a woman.”

Sirius imagined that is how Voldemort enchanted her; how he must have guessed Bella’s ire and scorn at the way she was treated all her life.

“He doesn’t lust after me, like the dogs around me. I could be walking naked at his side and he would still only meet my eyes, nothing else.”

“He’s mad, in that case.” Sirius says, after a short break.

But it eases some of the jealousy he’d felt, watching Voldemort and Bella together. It eases some of his concerns.

“You’re not fucking him, then?” he asks, just to be sure.

She gives him a sharp look. “You aren’t so jealous of Rodolphus. And you must know what happens between married couples,” she says, mockingly.

“You don’t love Rodolphus.”

This makes her laugh, incredulity erasing any lingering anger. “I do.”

Sirius stands straighter, pain mostly gone. He waves it off. “Not as much as you love me.”

Voldemort though… she looks at Voldemort the same way she looks at Sirius. Not that she’d ever looked at Sirius with reverence, but she used to look at him like he was her salvation, like he was the only one that mattered. And now she’s staring at Voldemort like that.

“You silly boy.” She stands on her toes and kisses him lightly. “You know you’re my soulmate. Even if you abandoned me, you can never truly turn your back on me. You’ll always come back to where you belong. By my side.”

“I would appreciate it if you keep this cousinly affection out of my house, at the very least,” Rodolphus’ voice echoes in the hallway.

Bella giggles, stepping away from Sirius. “Look what he’s done to your statues, Rod.”

Marble heads are on the floor, pieces of metal swards strewn across the hallway. All her doing, of course.

“And I so loved them, husband.” She smiles, like a shark. “What a pity.”

Rodolphus looks between them, bored. “Dinner is ready. I’m going to instruct the elves to poison his food.” He nods at Sirius. “By the time I’m done with that, I expect you in the dining room.”

“Well, that settles it,” Sirius says in the silence that falls after Rodolphus’ departure. “I’m off.”

“You need some food in you, especially after all that alcohol. You’re staying.”

“Bella-”

“We are your family. Families eat together.” She grabs his elbow and drags him after her. “Family protects each other. I would have protected Regulus, like I am protecting you. Do you think the dark lord suffers your impudence on account of your pretty face? He does it because I asked him.”

“He does it so I forget who he is.”

Bella bites her lip. “I know you’re torn; I do. No matter how much you love me, you love Potter, too. I know you’re loyal and you have a soft spot for the mudbloods.” She stops walking to look at him. “But Sirius, the dark lord would still wage this war, even if you weren’t on his side. Think about that.”

“He had me kill Parkinson. He was a pureblood. A member of the Sacred Twenty Eight. And if I hadn’t done it, he would have used Regulus-”

He might as well be speaking with one of the statues for all the attention she’s giving him. It’s like she can’t hear him, trapped in her devotion for Voldemort.

“He will win. We will win. And because we are on his side, when we take over Britain, we can ask for favours.” She pats his arm, comforting. “Think about that when your stupid little conscience troubles you. Think that you can ask for Potter’s life, once the war is done.”

She smiles up at him.

“You can save your blood traitor friends. If you help the dark lord, if you become dear to him, he’ll grant you their lives. Like he spared Andromeda for me. I made sure she will never be hurt, no matter if her marriage is against all we stand for. I will never speak to her again, but I made sure she will live her treacherous life in peace. You can do the same for others.”

“Only as long as we fuck over all the muggleborns-” Sirius tries, but he knows it is a fruitless effort.

“Mudbloods,” she corrects him. “They don’t matter. Why should we care about them? We only care about family. It is the safest way.”

(-)

He gets a letter from the Wizengamot, just as they are finishing an Order meeting.

Everyone recognises the official Ministry seal.

It’s a thick envelope.

“That’s not good,” Gideon says. “No?” He asks Dumbledore as Sirius takes the letter off the owl’s leg.

Gideon’s father has a seat on the inherited side of the Wizengamot.

Gideon should know more than Dumbledore, who is on the elected side of that ancient institution. 

But, of course, Dumbledore knows everything. “No, it isn’t good.”

Sirius opens the letter. “They want a meeting,” Sirius informs them, skimming over the words.

“Your brother must have disputed your claim.”

Sirius’s jaws clench together so hard, it’s a wonder his teeth don’t crack.

“He must have,” Gideon agrees with Dumbledore. “It was expected he wouldn’t just let you have it. But they can’t stop you. I’ll ask father- but you’re the firstborn. No way they can push you aside.”

Gideon looks at him, waiting for an answer. 

He hates Sirius, but order business is order business.

The greater good takes precedence.

Sirius is not as mature. When he hates someone, he hates them. He can work side by side with them, but he won’t be cordial, even when necessary.

“No, Fabian. They can’t.”

Gideon hates to be confused with his twin. They don’t even look identical. It’s rather easy to tell them apart, if you get to know them, even a bit.

Two seats to the left, Fabian rolls his eyes.

James snickers, beside Sirius, but quickly tries to pass it off as a cough.

“I’ll learn why,” Dumbledore starts to say.

“I will learn why,” Sirius speaks over him. “After all, they want to see me tomorrow.”

The Order was thrilled Sirius claimed his seat. They think Sirius will add his vote to the few in the Sacred Twenty Eight, like Gideon’s father, that are voting with Dumbledore and the elected side.

Dumbledore knows better than that. Sirius informed him he will just block it. He is still happy, though, since a blocked vote is still a vote that won’t go in Voldemort’s favour.

“And what will you say when he orders you to use it?” Dumbledore paces through his office at Hogwarts.

“He can’t order me to use it, just as you can’t. If I support either of you publicly, the other won’t trust me anymore. The perks of being a double spy.”

Sirius has the perfect excuse to never use his vote. Neither Dumbledore nor Voldemort can pester him about it. Not for the foreseeable future, at least.

But what will the rest of the Order think, when Sirius refuses to vote with the' ‘right’ side?

First, you have to actually claim the seat.

Sirius looks around the long table. He sees precious few friendly faces. He’s endeared himself to no one. 

There’s James, Peter and Lily, always on his side. 

There’s Marlene, watching him with concern. 

There’s Remus; whatever suspicions he has, he keeps them in private. In public, he always sticks by Sirius. 

The rest of the Order, the older members, ones that don’t know him so well, do not like him, not one bit. 

Except McGonagall. She spent seven years yelling at Sirius, sending him to detention every chance she got. So he was greatly shocked to discover how fond she is of him, how protective when someone vaguely implies Sirius is not to be trusted. 

“I trust him with my life,” Sirius once overheard her hissing at Dorcas, a day after Sirius was arrested for a brawl he had in Knockturn Ally.  

McGonagall didn’t even want the Marauders and Lily in the Order, Sirius knows. But not because she doesn’t trust them. 

“They’re so young, Albus,” she told Dumbledore, in the very first Order meeting they attended. 

(-)

He’s lead to the Wizengamot meeting room, deep inside the Ministry.

Only members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight are there, since it only concerns them.

Lucius and Rodolphus look at him from their elevated seats.

Several seats are empty.

The Black one, of course. But a few others as well.

Sirius’ eyes are drawn to the Gaunt one, on the back row of ancient throne-like chairs. It looks dusty. 

A pity Alphard is dead; Sirius is certain that he could have found out Voldemort’s real name from him, if he tried hard enough. 

Abraxas Malfoy surely knows it, since he was in the same year at Hogwarts with his mother. Obviously, his mother. Cygnus. But it’s not like they’ll tell Sirius. It’s not like they’ll even greet Sirius if they see him passing by. 

Fudge, the useless waste of oxygen, at least according to Sirius’ father, starts speaking.

“We have a bit of an issue, Mr Black.”

Sirius sneers at him, with all the Black arrogance he can muster.

And he can muster quite a lot.

“What issue, Fudge?” Rodolphus barks at him and Fudge almost jumps out of his seat.

No one wants to be on the wrong side of Rodolphus’ infamous bad temper. 

“Well, see-“

“See what? It’s his seat. Look at the fucker. Sirius Black, eldest son of house Black. Where is the problem?”

“I can speak for myself, Lestrange,” Sirius reminds him.

“Then speak. I haven’t had my coffee yet, and I’d rather not be stuck here for another hour until Fudge fumbles his way through five sentences.”

Many snickers. It is clear Fudge doesn’t enjoy much respect in this place.

But Crouch does. “I will take it from here, Cornelius.”

Crouch is set to replace the current Minister, who is failing terribly at containing Voldemort and his spreading influence. 

Bartemius Crouch is a capable man. Or, at least, Sirius’ father always said so. 

Firmly against Voldemort. But not completely betraying the old ways, the way Ignatius Prewett does, aligning himself with Dumbledore and muggleborns.

“You are the eldest son, but you are disowned.”

Sirius gives him a look.

“My mother burning a name in a tapestry means nothing, Crouch. My father-“

“Your father’s Last Will and Testament remains unopened. His wishes matter more than anything else. But we do not know of his wishes, because you refused to give your consent for the will to be read. It sits at Gringotts, in your vault.”

And his father left instructions that the letter can only be opened in Sirius’, Regulus’ and their grandfather’s presence.

Suffice to say, Sirius never went.

He feels there is still a piece left of his father, in that letter at Gringotts. Something Orion Black has to say that hasn’t been said yet. His voice, in an envelope. Once that is opened, Sirius will never hear it again.

After that, his father will be truly gone, forever.

“I live on in you,” his father says, in his last hour of consciousness.

Sirius knows his father left him everything. He just knows it.

His relatives know it too, hence why no one even tried to insist he allows the will to be read, afraid Sirius will take all the gold and all their properties once that happens.

“In the absence of his written wishes, we have a disowned elder son, and we have the youngest, that wears the Black ring and lives in your ancestral house. So, you can see our dilemma.”

Silence. Everyone is watching Sirius. Some with glee at this humiliation, others with curiosity.

Lucius has his poker face on, as Lily calls it. Sirius understood the expression better after she taught him how to play poker.

Rodolphus, however, looks pissed off.

Just goes to show, Sirius thinks. It would benefit Rodolphus and Voldemort to have Regulus get the seat. He would certainly vote the way Lucius tells him to.

But Rodolphus places bloodline traditions and old practices before anything else.

“It’s his seat. He is the firstborn,” he growls at Crouch.

“To avoid lengthy legal battles in the future, we need the will. But since I have a suspicion that will not happen-“

Fuck you, Sirius thinks, hating Crouch and the patronising way he’s speaking.

“I invited the other possible candidate to assure us he will not fight you over your seat.”

“Regulus is at Hogwarts,” Sirius says. Something in him relaxes when he realises it wasn’t his brother that contested his claim, but rather Crouch, concerned over legalities. 

“Mr Black,” Fudge laughs, and Sirius wants to strangle him. “This is an important matter. We will write to Headmaster Dumbledore, and he will, of course, allow Regulus to come settle this, once we establish a date that won’t interfere with the boy’s studies. 

Sirius does not want to see Regulus. But there’s nothing he can do about it. 

(-)

He’s sitting on an uncomfortable bench in the corridor outside the Wizengamot meeting room, at an ungodly hour, far too early in the morning. 

He’s been waiting for at least ten minutes, and there are few things in life Sirius hates more than being made to wait. 

Regulus shows up, a lonely tall figure in the dimly lit corridor. 

He doesn’t seem willing to get in Sirius’ punching range, so he goes to the opposite wall and leans against it. 

Sirius does his best to ignore him. 

But Regulus has too much of their mother inside him. He can’t leave well enough alone, he has to disturb the silence. 

“Why do you want it?” he asks.

To protect you, you idiot. To stop Voldemort from using you, in any way.

“Because it is mine,” Sirius answers, looking at his dragon hide boots. 

“Will you sit on that chair on which our father sat and vote with Dumbledore? Against everything our father ever stood for?”

“No,” Sirius spits, trying to keep his temper in check.

Regulus must be surprised at the admission.

“So…” he falters. “So Dumbledore didn’t put you up to-“

“When in our lives have I ever done something because an old man asked me to?” Sirius snarls at the boots. 

“Then you’ll vote with us?”

“Us?” 

“I mean Lucius and Rod and the rest,” Regulus hurries to correct himself.

Us, indeed.

“No.” Sirius looks up. It’s always like peering into some charmed mirror that might show Sirius a slightly different version of himself. “We both know what lying megalomaniac, psychotic monster Lucius and Rodolphus support.”

Regulus’ face closes off.

Our father would rather burn Grimmauld to the ground than support a half-blood.

But, of course, he won’t say that.

He won’t pit Regulus against Voldemort. Regulus was too young, too obedient to listen at closed doors, back when Voldemort started gathering power, rising through the ranks of their society.

Regulus doesn’t remember his mother calling Voldemort a mudblood.

And it is best left that way. If his little blood purist brother ever finds out he let himself be fooled by a half-blood, he wouldn’t react well at all.

“It is not wise to speak of such things in public,” Regulus says, voice full of warning. 

“I’m not wise,” Sirius shrugs.

Regulus is tense, looking left and right, probably terrified someone might have heard Sirius and would report him to Voldemort, who would then want to kill Sirius for the disrespect.

Everyone is a little paranoid after Parkinson’s death.

For those with their eyes open, it was a very clear message. Badmouth the dark lord, and you will have a heart attack, too.

“Then you will effectively block our vote,” Regulus says, once assured no one heard them.

“My vote. That’s right. I’ll block it.”

“Why? Why would you-“

“Because it’s mine. Period. Father wanted me to have it.”

“That’s rich!” Regulus makes a derisive sound. “Father wanted you to stay home, I am sure. He would have wanted you to have the seat so you can fight for what he fought. So you would take care of us, and our traditions. If he would have known what choices you ended up making, I assure you, he’d have disowned you himself. “

Sirius gets up, walks until he’s crowding Regulus against the wall. 

“If you put up a fight, I’ll drag us to Gringotts, I’ll request grandad join us and I will open that damn will. And once we hear what we both know is there, I swear to Merlin, I’ll banish mother to one of our houses in Yugoslavia-“

“We don’t have a house in Yugoslavia-“

“Then I’ll raise her a tent there!” Sirius cuts over him. “I’ll send her beloved Kreacher with her, and order him to feed her a bowl of rice a day.”

A muscle jumps on Regulus’ forehead.

“And what will you do with me?”

Sirius opens his mouth but closes it.

I’ll lock you in your room and keep you safe. 

“If you wanted to do that, Sirius, you would have done it. You could have entered our vault any time you wanted. Mother expected you to. But you never did. You never took a single galleon.”

“I don’t want this to get ugly, Regulus. Don’t fight me on this, or it will.”

Regulus sneers at him. “I believe you. For all you hate mother, you are just like her. You are ruled by spite.”

“We are ready for you,” Fudge suddenly opens the door, right before Sirius can disembowel Regulus.

(-)

Regulus assures the Wizengamot that he doesn’t want the seat, that it is natural it goes to Sirius.

He doesn’t look at Sirius again, and Sirius doesn’t spare him a glance, either. 

They wait in silence for Crouch to find some documents that would make it official Regulus renounces all his rights in the Wizengamot. 

Regulus signs them swiftly and then he insists he needs to go back to Hogwarts before classes start. 

“Claim your seat, Mr Black.” 

A knot suddenly forms in Sirius’ throat, some wild emotion twisting his heart as he climbs the stairs.  

When he reaches the magical chair, with the Black crest proudly engraved in the backrest, Sirius cuts his hand, and watches the blood drip onto the armrest. 

The chair glows brightly before it returns to normal. 

“Welcome to the Wizengamot,” Lucius says from the next chair. 

(-)

He’s waiting for an elevator amongst a number of politicians, heart still twisting painfully inside him. 

Sirius ignores the others, staring at his bleeding hand, watches his old, precious, pure blood dripping on the floor. 

“-and we all know that man must be stopped. He’s ruining Hogwarts,” Bulstrode says. 

“Dumbledore,” Burke spits. “He still has that abomination on the grounds, as Ground Keeper?”

“The giant is still there-”

“Is he really a giant? I can’t believe it-”

“Of course he is,” Lucius drawls. “Now, if we can only prove it. You should hear father talk about it. He was a student when Hagrid was a first year and the stories father has to-” 

Sirius’ head snaps up. Hagrid! 

Hagrid went to school with his mother. With Voldemort. 

How did Sirius not think of it sooner?

Hagrid, who is easier to trick than a child. 

(-)

“What a surprise!” Sirius says, when accidentally knocking into Hagrid at The Leaky Cauldron. 

As if he wasn’t the one to convince the menagerie in Knockturn that deals with illegal creatures, owl Hagrid about a possible dragon egg coming into their possession. 

The egg was fake; Sirius wants to learn Voldemort’s name, but he doesn’t want Hogwarts to burn, which would happen if someone gave Hagrid a dragon. 

“What brings you to London, mate?” 

Hagrid mumbles something about ‘Hogwarts official business’. His whole face burns red, or at least what is visible around his beard. 

He’s a dreadful liar. This should be easy. 

“Let me treat you to some firewhiskey. You look like you need one.” 

He would, disappointed the dragon wasn’t real. 

Getting Hagrid drunk is expensive business. Sirius usually drinks along, so he’d never realised how tedious it is to wait for the giant to get drunk. 

Sirius drinks only a little this time, keeping his wits about him. 

He steers the conversation to wands, to school, to teachers, to anything he can think of to trigger Hagrid into talking about his school days. 

But it’s hard. Hagrid is sensitive about the topic. 

Sirius gets some more whiskey in him, before he tries again. 

“Oh, my! I totally forgot! Binns was alive when you went to school, no?” Sirius asks, apropos of nothing. 

Luckily for him, Hagrid is oblivious to manipulation. He’d fall for it even sober. 

“He was,” Hagrid admits. 

“Fascinating,” Sirius says. “Say, did you meet my mum? I think she must have been there around the time you were.” 

“Met her,” Hagrid snorts with such force a few napkins fly off the table. “Not like she’d pay me any notice. With her nose in the air, arrogant like any Black-” 

Why don’t you tell me what you think of us, will you? Sirius almost barks at him, but he keeps his irritation at bay. Now is not the time. 

“That brother of hers- a prick- what was his name-” 

“Cygnus?” 

“No, that doesn’t sound right.” 

“Alphard,” Sirius hisses. Uncle Alphard was no prick. Hagrid is drinking Alphard’s galleons right that second. 

“That one. Mocking me, laughing at my size. They were all terrible, snotty kids. Awful.” 

“Slytherins, what can you do?” Sirius nods him along. “And there was Abraxas Malfoy there too, no?” 

“The worst of the lot. Fucking Malfoys. Can’t stand them.” 

“No one can.” 

How to ask? Was there a creepy Prefect? Creepier than usual? A Head Boy? A muggleborn in Slytherin? Or maybe that was just his mum exaggerating, calling him a mudblood. Maybe he was known as a half-blood-

“No. No. Malfoy wasn’t the worst.” Hagrid corrects himself darkly. 

“Oh?” 

“There was this Prefect-” 

Bingo! Sirius just knows this is Voldemort. Who else can be worse than a bunch of Blacks and a Malfoy? 

“I thought he was fine, you know? We all did. He was civil. A muggleborn in Slytherin-”

Yes! Yes!

“He caught me on his patrol, after curfew. Back when I kept Aragog in the castle-” 

Sirius shudders, momentarily distracted. He’d managed to wipe out Aragog from his memory. 

He’d met the sweet, gentle soul, as Hagrid calls him, on one of his trips as Padfoot. 

His sons almost ate them. They barely got away, James swinging his antlers around, Sirius biting and growling; Moony did the most damage, to be sure. 

But it was Peter that saved them. Peter that recognised the huge talking spider at their centre was an Acromantula, and transformed back to human form, conjuring snakes with his wand, spooking them away. 

The next morning, Sirius asked Hagrid what on Earth was an Acrumantula doing in their forest and Hagrid made them swear not to tell Dumbledore and covered for them on many occasions as payment. 

“He caught me with Aragog, but he didn’t tell on me. He helped me make a more secure trunk for him, down in the dungeons. Told me it is only temporary and I’ll have to release him in the Forest once he grows into his venom.”

Hagrid’s mouth twists, the traces of the famed giant savagery shining in his eyes as the glass breaks in his grip.

“I thought him a friend. But then that whole mess with the Chamber of Secrets happened-” 

Sirius heard a little about it. Rumours that it had been opened had circulated the school when Sirius was young. 

“A hoax,” Binns assured them. “No heir of Slytherin has walked these halls since Corvinus Gaunt, back in the early 1800. It was just a prank gone wrong.” 

“And they were trying to close the school, because they couldn’t find the culprit and a girl died. He convinced them it was Aragog that killed her! Aragog wouldn’t hurt a fly!” 

Right. 

“Besides, Aragog didn’t even have his venom yet. How could he have killed anyone? The bastard. But Dippet believed him and he expelled me. They’d have dragged me to Azkaban if it weren’t for Professor Dumbledore. Great man, Dumbledore. Great man.” 

“The greatest, sure. Listen, what was his name. That Slytherin-” 

“Tom,” Hagrid spits out. 

Tom, really? Sirius laughs, exhilarated. And amused, because… Tom, really. 

“Tom who?” 

“Tom Riddle.” 

Got you.

Chapter Text

“For Merlin’s sake,” Moody grunts when Dawlish escorts Sirius into the Auror’s Headquarters. 

“Top of the morning to you!” Sirius grins. 

Some of the Aurors laugh. He caught them between shifts. The night crew is tired, sitting at their offices, waiting for their replacements to finish getting ready.

“‘lo, Black. Been some months since I’ve seen your mug ‘round here,” Indira says.

“A record,” Scrimgeour mutters, without looking from the stack of papers he’s signing. 

“Missed me, love?” Sirius asks Indira.

She rolls her eyes. 

Frank looks pissed off when he sees Sirius, a muscle jumping in his jaw. 

“Why isn’t he in handcuffs?” Savage demands, coming closer and poking Dawlish in the chest. 

“It’s… Sirius.” Dawlish shrugs. “He never causes trouble when we pick him up.”

“Of course not. I don’t want to hurt any of you,” Sirius slurs with a cheeky grin. 

He smells strongly of firewhiskey. Because he’d poured it all over his robes. But he did not swallow a single drop. 

“At least I hope you took his wand. Black or not, you can’t have a detainee armed in our-” 

Dawlish pulls out Sirius’ wand from his pocket, but before Savage can get his hands on it, Frank intercepts him, ripping it out of Dawlish grasp. 

“I’ll check it.”

He usually does. Frank, Moody or Alice always make sure they get Sirius’ wand, just in case he did something stupid with it, something that can land him in real trouble. 

And there comes Moody. “What did you do this time?”

“Just having some fun. No one told me you outlawed fun!” 

“He started a fight over the pretty- I mean, over the lass that tends the bar at the Lucky Unicorn,” Dawlish answers. “He destroyed some property and wouldn’t calm down, so someone called it in.” 

Peter called it in. But they made sure no one would know that little detail. 

“But why do you want to get arrested?” Peter asks, eyes narrowed. 

“I want another chance with Indira, and she won’t answer my letters. Only way to talk to her is to show up there. Don’t tell James or Remus I did this on purpose; they’ll think I’m an idiot.”

“You are an idiot.” Peter sighs, but he agrees to it. 

“Go on Dawlish, you were out all night. Go, rest. I’ll take him.” 

“Thanks, boss!” 

Moody mumbles an acknowledgment and pulls Sirius by the arm, takes him through a corridor. 

Sirius has been arrested plenty of times- caught driving a flying, modified muggle vehicle without authorisation, assaulting a barkeeper in Knockturn, smashing through a window in Hogsmeade while drunk and so forth.

‘Youthful indiscretions’ Moody called them, before quickly releasing Sirius.

He’s been taken into custody, brought to the Ministry and held for a few hours for so many times, he knows half of the Aurors by name.

Everyone knows Moody would excuse no one for ‘youthful indiscretions.’

The Order of the Phoenix is just as illegal as the Death Eaters, but far more accepted, since they aren’t terrorists; secret as it is supposed to be, everyone somehow knows esteemed Dumbledore is at its head and their only goal is to fight Voldemort. 

The smart Aurors connected the dots; the only thing Sirius and Moody would have in common is their loyalty to Dumbledore. 

“Can I get one of the offices, please?” Sirius asks, making sure to lean heavily on Moody. “I could really use some sleep until you finish that blasted paperwork. If you put me in a holding cell and a cellmate wakes me up, I’m afraid I’ll just cause more trouble. And then you’ll have more paperwork to do.” 

“You’re a pice of work, Black,” Moody barks at him. “Fucking irresponsible kid, you have no business in a war-” 

He cuts himself off as they pass by a couple of Aurors. 

“Hello, Sirius! Nice boots!” Ana winks at him and he winks back. 

Moody grunts, and he shoves Sirius in the Archive room, as he did on multiple occasions. 

The room is large, filled with enormous cabinets, a couple of desks, some armchairs and a couch on which Sirius slept on in the past. 

“You can take the couch. If you throw up, you’re cleaning it. Without magic.” 

“I love you, Alastor! You’re so good to me!” Sirius tries to hug him, but he’s shoved in the chest, hard. 

He falls on his arse. Moody leaves, slamming the door behind him. 

Perfect. 

Sirius jumps to his feet and quickly locates the cabinet labelled “R”. 

They really should throw some of this stuff out, Sirius thinks, when he goes through files, rapidly. 

Some are from the eighteen century. 

It takes at least half an hour before he locates it. 

“Finally!” he whispers, victorious when he pulls the file out. 

TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE. 

Marvolo. Like his grandfather. 

A part of Sirius is surprised he has a record at all; from his understanding, the little snippets gathered from Voldemort and Hagrid, Voldemort had been an exemplary student, Head Boy and all, before he disappeared. 

But he had to check. He wants to know everything he can about Tom Riddle. 

It’s a very thin file. Nothing like Sirius’, who is already thick enough to be used as a weapon, as Alice likes to say. 

He opens it and- 

Fuck me. No fucking way.  

There’s a picture with a boy in a Slytherin uniform; the standard type of photograph all students take before their N.E.W.Ts.

Sirius had to retake his four times, because he kept making silly faces, and McGonagall didn’t appreciate it. 

Voldemort is so still in the picture it’s almost as if it’s a muggle one. The only sign of movement is a blink, now and then, and what must be draft moving his robe around his feet. 

But the most shocking thing is not how stiffly he stands. No. 

Voldemort used to be hot as fuck. 

Sirius stares at the photograph in shock. 

Not important, his mind screams at him. Focus! 

Right, right. Sirius tears his eyes away from it, to read the red ink to the side. 

‘Wanted for questioning in relation to Hepzibah Smith’s missing artefacts.’

Smith. That’s an old family. Ancient, really. 

He reads, heart beating a mile per minute. 

Apparently he’d started as a suspect in the woman’s murder, but a house-elf confessed to accidentally poisoning her mistress. 

Bollocks. No way anyone believed that rubbish. 

But Sirius reads the name of the Auror on the case and- it is a name he doesn’t know. A muggleborn name. 

He sighs. Only a muggle-born… 

A pureblood wizard that was raised around elves would know that is impossible. No matter how old, how decrepit an elf gets, their magical vows impede them from even accidentally causing direct physical harm to the family they serve. And this elf wasn’t even old, Sirius discovers as he turns the page. Only a little over three hundred years. 

Kreacher is pushing seven hundred. 

Murder ‘solved’, another issue presented itself. ‘Incredibly valuable artefacts’ had been found missing by the family and reported to the authorities. 

Salazar's Slytherin locket and Helga Hufflepuff’s cup. 

And Tom Riddle is written down as Smith’s last known contact. 

‘Frequent visitor.’ 

Apparently she wrote in her journal she’d showed him her treasures in an effort to seduce him. 

No wonder she tried to seduce him, Sirius thinks, eyes flickering back to the picture. 

Date of birth: 1926 (?)

Parentage: unknown. 

Blood status: presumed muggleborn. 

Place of residence: unknown

Place of employment: Borgin and Burke’s. 

Sirius bursts out laughing. Hot Voldemort worked at Borgin and Burke’s! 

Stop it. Merlin. 

Sirius shakes his head, folds the file in half and hides it in his leather jacket. 

He looks at the clock on the wall. Moody wouldn’t have had time to finish Sirius’ papers. Since I am here, might as well. 

He heads to the “G” cabinet. 

Sweet Merlin, you had no chance, you poor bastard, Sirius thinks when he’s faced with dozens of Gaunts. Murder is in their bloodline. 

Some killed their children. Some killed their siblings. And this only in the past two centuries. 

Finally, he reaches Marvolo Gaunt, because of course he has a file, too. 

Three stints in Azkaban. Eight months imprisonment for stabbing a man’s hand after a game of cards; eleven months for marrying his fourteen-year-old cousin. 

The last one- six months for assaulting five Aurors when they attempted to arrest his son, Morfin. 

Alright, next, Sirius thinks, and he pulls out Mprfin Gaunt. 

Three years in Azkaban for resisting arrest and casting a Boil Curse at a muggle. 

And, Sirus reads, heart in his throat, a life sentence for murdering the same muggle, and his parents eighteen years after the first offence. 

He is reported to have no children, but Sirius already knows now he couldn’t be Voldemort’s father. 

Because the muggles he killed… 

‘Riddle family.’ 

A pity no one revisits these old files, otherwise even the most braindead Aurors might think the Riddle they wanted for questioning might be related to the Riddles Morfin Gaunt killed. 

There is no file for Merope Gaunt. 

(-)

Sirius gets out of bed, quietly, without disturbing Marlene. 

He finds his leather jacket discarded on the floor and climbs on the roof of his house. 

He uses his wand to shine light over the file he stole. 

He’s fascinated by the picture. The more he looks at it, the more he can recognise Voldemort in it. 

His cheekbones are sharper now than they used to be in the photograph, almost cutting through his far paler skin. 

But they are the same cheekbones, with that promise of elegance and aristocracy. 

Sirius saw Morphin’s and Marvolo Gaunt’s pictures, too, and Voldemort does not take after them at all. 

He must take after his father. 

His father, murdered by his uncle. What happened there? 

Where is your mother? Where are you hiding her? 

Sirius is so very curious, what sort of terrifying creature could spawn and raise Voldemort.

The eyes in the picture are a dark, warm brown. The colour is unrecognisable in the current Voldemort, with all the red mixed in it. Yet they hold the same intelligence, the same mesmerising power. 

His lips are the same, only now they have a scar very close to the upper left lip. 

His jaw is not as defined as it was in the picture. Voldemort’s nose is thinner now than his past self had it. 

The hair is still dark, the same colour, only the boy in the picture has it short, styled to the side, a slight curl to it. 

Voldemort wears it longer these days- how long, impossible to know, since it’s always tied back. It lost the shine and the curl from the picture, the thickness of it, too. 

Voldemort is thinner, gaunter, than his younger self. 

But Sirius can see him. He can recognise him, now that the shock has passed. 

(-)

Avery is as white as chalk, his skin making a ghastly contrast with his black robes. He is so lost in his head, he doesn’t even question Sirius’ presence. 

Apparently, Bella made Sirius promise he’ll attend the wedding. He doesn’t remember this, but then he was quite drunk when he had dinner at Lestrange’s Manor. 

“Rod is away with business. I can’t go alone! Someone is bound to irritate me so much I’ll end up torturing them during the ceremony.” She batted her eyelashes at Sirius, insisting he already promised to accompany her.  

But once they got to Malfoy Manor, which Lucius was kind enough to offer for the wedding party, she abandoned him to Rabastan and now he ended up being dragged in a fancy room where Avery is getting ready. 

Lucius and Yaxley, the only married men in the room, watch on in amusement as Avery is getting paler and paler. 

Rabastan keeps offering Avery drinks, before Lucius stops him.

“We need him sober enough to say his vows,” he reminds them.

Sirius has to admit he is having a bit of fun. Just a smidgeon. 

He used to dread weddings when he’d been younger; he couldn’t enjoy the occasional terrified groom, knowing in the back of his head the day will come for him to be in that place.

But now there is no such pressure, so he can just laugh at Avery. 

“If it helps you, I’m sure your little bride is just as scared on the other side of the manor,” Rabastan encourages Avery.

“Why would that help me?” Avery inquires, dazed.

Rabastan shrugs. “I don’t know… at least it’s not just you that’s scared?”

“I don’t want to do this,” Avery says, refusing to stand when the time comes. “I can’t.”

“Sure you can,” Lucius coaxes him. “It will be over soon.”

“I don’t like her,” Avery insists, holding on to his chair, resisting any attempts to get him out of it.

“You don’t need to like her,” Yaxley says, patiently. “You only need to do your duty. If you’re lucky, she will end up pregnant tonight and then you won’t even have to see her that often.” 

“Just lie back and think of England,” Sirius offers, making the others laugh. 

Avery is not amused. “Shut up, Sirius!” he snaps. Then he frowns, and he looks more closely at him. “Wait, what are you doing here? Didn’t you run away?” 

Sirius doesn’t answer. Yaxley keeps giving him suspicious glances. 

“Am I hallucinating him?” Avery asks Lucius. “What did you put in my drinks?” 

(-)

Sirius enjoys muggle parties- the muggle women clad in short jeans, the drugs, the loud rock music.

He enjoys some of the Order parties. Witches dressed in a mix of muggle and wizarding attire, the butterbeer and cheap whiskey. How laid back everyone is.

But this-

Sirius missed this.

The opulence. The elegance. The exquisite dresses and fine suits and robes. The smell of expensive cigars and the gleam of the crystal glasses.

Avery composed himself enough. After a brief attempt to make a run for it, he allowed Lucius to take him to the raised dais, where he’s standing, waiting for his bride to be. 

People are staring at Sirius, more than they’re paying attention to Avery. 

Some even stand to take a better look at him. 

“He went back home?” 

“Why haven’t I heard about this?”

“Walburga didn’t mention anything, and I saw her last week for tea.”

“You know Walburga, she only opens her mouth to insult someone.” 

“I told you, didn’t I? I predicted he’d come home when Alphard’s gold runs dry.” 

Sirius does his best to tune them out. 

Finally, Bella appears and sits at his side. 

“I was with the bride.” She giggles. 

“Poor girl. Not only does she have to marry Avery, she had to put up with you.” 

“I told her in great detail what will happen in her marital bed tonight. I scandalised all the virgins there. Cissa kicked me out eventually.” 

Sirius snorts. “I told Avery to lie back and think of England.” 

Bellatrix laughs. “It’s what mother told me when I married Rodolphus.” 

“I know, I was there,” Sirius reminds her. They tried to kick him out because ‘boys have no place here, us women are helping her get ready’ but no one could keep him away from his Bella.

“Little did she know I was already fucking Rod for a year-” 

“Gross!” Sirius makes a face, and she laughs harder. “Where is your mum?” 

She rolls her eyes. “I assured you father and auntie won’t be here.”

She did. Otherwise Sirius would have never, for anything in the world, not even Bella, placed himself in a situation where he’d have to see Walburga Black.

“Someone broke into the Black estate in Paris. They went to investigate. Mum wouldn’t come to a party without her husband, proper doormat that she is.” 

“I hear he got in trouble with the law. Figures he’d return with his tail between his leg and ask his mother to help him-” 

Sirius clenches his fingers into fists but tries not to react. 

The bride finally walks in, looking like she just had a good cry, her father practically dragging her towards Avery. 

Everyone shuts up and enjoys the circus. 

(-)

Rodolphus shows up some ten minutes after the ceremony. 

“Avery didn’t chicken out, I see,” he remarks, sitting beside Sirius. 

“I think Lucius had him under the Imperius,” Bella jokes. She’s taken off her ridiculously high heels and now her feet are in Sirius’ lap, hidden by the long tablecloth.  

Narcissa, sat on Bella’s other side, slaps her arm. “Don’t say things like that! Someone could take you seriously.” 

“-I saw him, too. I couldn’t believe it,” yet another voice says. They never stop. It’s mostly the older people. The young ones gave him a curious look or two. Some even nodded their heads at Sirius. But the old… oh, they just can’t help themselves. “The nerve to just show up-” 

“If I were Lucius, I wouldn’t receive him in my house-” 

“Blood traitor-” 

Sirius keeps drinking. Nothing else to do. 

“What the fuck are you staring at?” Rodolphus asks loudly, eyes narrowed in the distance. 

Two ancient men seated at a table nearby quickly look away.

“You know what they’re staring at,” Sirius says. 

“They should mind their own business. If they’re surprised to find you here, they can just fuck off.”

“Rodolphus!” Narcissa warns. “I will not tolerate such behaviour in my house.” 

“But you’ll tolerate them badmouthing your cousin, huh?”

“Leave her alone,” Sirius warns him. 

“Rod, behave!” Bella says at the same time. 

“Fucking Blacks,” Rodolphus sighs, taking one of the bottles placed in the middle of the table. 

“They’ll get over it, anyway,” Bella says, patting Sirius’ shoulder. “And if they don’t, well, they don’t matter that much. They’re old and hopefully will do us a favour and die soon.” 

“I’ll drink to that.” Sirius raises his glass. 

“Oh, there’s our French cousin, Cissa! What’s his name again? Didn’t know he was coming.” Bella looks at Narcissa, when a tall, dark-haired man walks through the doors. 

Fuck. It’s that Rosier cousin. The one Sirius kissed. 

He feels the need to duck under the table. But he’s a Black and Blacks don’t hide, even when they want to. 

“Still can’t get over the fact are that you are related to the French,” he says, loudly, to cover the discomfort that settles low in his gut.

“Our motto is ‘Toujours Pur’,” Bellatrix drawls, eyebrow raised.

Before Sirius can tell her Blacks are as pure-blooded brits as they are pure-blooded wizards, that the stupid motto was simply a matter of aesthetic, Rodolphus intervenes.

“Cherie,” he says. “Our motto is certainly not ‘Toujours Pur’. You forget you aren’t a Black anymore.“

“I can’t get over the fact that you married the French,” Sirius jokes and Bella cackles. “Please, do not reproduce. A half French baby is only slightly better than a half-blood.”

“I agree.” She snuggles closer to Sirius. 

Rodolphus just sneers at them. “I was born in Britain,” is all he can come up with.

The Rosier cousin is coming closer. Sirius grabs a bottle and does his best to drink it fast, because he can’t stand the pressure.

Bella sighs, giving him knowing looks.

“I hate your mother,” she whispers.

Because she’s the only soul that knows about the events from that night.

Besides Rosier, his mother and father, that is.

She’s the only one to know that since then, he refuses to acknowledge his attraction to men.

Sirius snorts, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, scandalising Narcissa.

“No, you don’t. She was your hero, growing up. You try to hate her because I hate her.”

“My hero?” Bellatrix readjusts her position so she can stare at him.

“You’re both rabid men haters, going on about oppression, fighting the-“

Bellatrix laughs. “What did she fight? She fought a teenage boy. She’s far worse than an airhead like Cissy-“

“Excuse me,” Narcissa says, but Bella doesn’t pay her any mind.

“- that buy into the ‘men are stronger, we must follow them’ shite. Your mother knew the truth. But she still caved. I am eternally grateful she did, because that’s how you came to be. But a housewife that lived under her husband is certainly not my role model and never was.”

Bollocks.

Bellatrix thought her mother weak and frail; she was disgusted with Druella’s meekness.  

She’d sit at dinners with Sirius’ mother, outdoing each other in scathing remarks about anyone around them. 

“I fucking hate her guts for what she did to you.“

“Bella,” Sirius tries to warn her, between big gulps of firewhsikey.

“And how did you expect her to act?” Narcissa asks, her cheeks pink. “How do you think she felt when her ten-year-old son had more power and respect than she did, in her own house?”

“So that’s how you’ll treat your own son, if you'll have one? With bitterness and scorn?” Bella shoots back. She takes her legs off Sirius, to better face Narcissa.

“No, because I’ll make sure Lucius won’t tell a toddler that he’s more important than I am,” Narcisa responds calmly. “That is not, however, what uncle Orion taught Sirius-“

“Sirius never bought into that rubbish!” Bella is getting flushed, on the edge of her seat, shoulders pulled back. “He never believed women are inferior-“

“He didn’t, but it wasn’t for lack of trying on uncle’s part.” Narcissa lifts her chin, her pretty upturned nose into the air. “And while Sirius never acted his superiority with other women, he did with aunt Walburga-“

“His superiority?” Bella asks, strangled.

“Girls,“ he tries, putting a hand on Bella’s shoulder to calm her.

“What superiority?”

“Don’t answer that,” Sirius begs Narcissa.

“Men have power over women in our circles, whether you like it or not, Bellatrix.” Narcissa says. “I’m not even saying it’s just or deserved, but they have it and that’s a fact. You’re too old to close your eyes and deny it.“

“Well, of course they have power, when women like you aid them in stepping over our heads!”

“Time to go mingle,” Rodolphus says and Sirius could not agree more. He stands and follows the redhead. 

Just in time, too. The Rosier cousin is quickly approaching the sisters, who are now hissing at each other, eyes narrowed. 

Lily told Sirius about the British Women Liberation Movement, and he saw the muggle girls marching around London a few times, with their banners and slogans. 

He wonders if Bella heard what the muggle ladies are up to. 

She’d be a valuable member. 

(-)

Voldemort stops mid duel, with no warning.

He was moving so fast, graceful and effortless, toying with Sirius and then, in the blink of an eye, there he is, standing still, hands by his sides.

It’s so abrupt, Sirius doesn’t have the time to divert the curse he already cast.

One of Voldemort’s finger twitches at his side and the curse flies past him, harmless.

How the fuck does he do that?

Only a handful of months passed since Sirius imagined a duel between the man in front of him and Dumbledore.

He imagined it would be thrilling.

Now, after countless lessons, Sirius is half convinced Voldemort can easily blink anyone out of existence, without even drawing his wand. 

“That’s not fair.” He hears himself complaining, like the spoiled child he is. Was. Whatever.

But Voldemort isn’t even listening. He has his head tilted, eyes roaming over Sirius, a slight frown between them.

“What are you doing?” Sirius asks, growing more and more uncomfortable, especially when Voldemort walks towards him.

His fingers curl tighter around the wand, but it doesn’t make him feel any safer.

A wand always meant safety for Sirius. If he had his wand in his hand, nothing could go wrong.

Until he met Voldemort. Faced with him, Sirius’ greatest weapon is as efficient as any wooden stick a muggle child picks up at the park.

“What are you doing?” His voice gets a little high, which Sirius doesn’t appreciate. At all.

But Voldemort just moves past him. Even worse, a cold hand settles on Sirius’ shoulder from behind.

Even if he’s uncomfortable, it doesn’t cross his mind to move. He stands there like a stupid rabbit, pinned down by a wolf, as Voldemort circles around him.

He finally stops when he’s facing Sirius again.

“Dumbledore and his followers say we are all born the same,” Voldemort finally speaks. “They don’t quantify magic. We all have it in the same way; some of us just work hard to master it better than others.”

A brief pause. His fingers are still resting on Sirius’ shoulder. Not a grip. Not even close.

“Do you agree?”

“No,” Sirius says, speaking with his heart, with the Black arrogance he usually tries to filter through a more rational thought process.

But it’s hard to use that filter with Voldemort acting so strange.

A soft smile. “Of course you wouldn’t. Purebloods insist they are born with more magic. A theory on which they base their superiority. Old blood is more powerful than new blood.”

Their superiority. Not Voldemort’s.

“A theory you endorse,” Sirius reminds him.

Voldemort takes his hand away and Sirius breathes easier.

“I must, in these circles.”

It’s Sirius’ turn to smile.

From all their talks, snippets of conversation here and there, uttered between heated duels, he thinks Voldemort despises purebloods just as much as he does muggleborns.

As any half-blood would, really. He doesn’t belong anywhere.

Sirius knows how it feels to be hated on both sides. Not for his blood, of course. But for his morals. Or lack of morals, depending on perspective.

Too soft for his family, too cruel for anyone else.

“We are not born equals. Some of us have more magic than others.” Another brief pause. “Yet the purebloods are just as mistaken as Dumbledore. I have travelled far and wide. I’ve seen studious purebloods, hardworking and diligent- for all their efforts and lineage, they were average.”

“You don’t need to travel far and wide to see that,” Sirius says. “I could have spared you time and money and just asked you to dine with the Goyles for a night. I’m not even sure they can use a wand to float a teacup.”

A sharp laughter. “I’ve seen remarkable mudbloods, here and there. Rare enough, but they exist.”

“I’ll give you a million galleons if you say that in front of Rodolphus,” Sirius mutters.

“Do you have a million galleons?”

Yes. In his vault, in the bowels of Gringotts, being kept safe by a dragon.

“No.” In his vault, left behind by Uncle Alphard, the gold is dwindling quite fast.

“Magic chooses its vessels. Regardless of blood. Despite of it, sometimes. We are not all the same, and we will never be the same, no matter how much Dumbledore wishes it so. And you, Sirius…” Voldemort tilts his head again, eyes flashing red. “You are special.”

Sirius knows. He tries not to think that way- he really does his best. But he knows it, deep down.

He’d known it since he was a toddler, exploding things at will with incredible precision.

He went to Hogwarts and done better than anyone in his practical tests, even if he rarely picked up a book.

He doesn’t think he’s special because he’s a pureblood. He knows that’s not true. 

Sirius is special because he’s a Black. 

Like little Nymphadora is special because she’s a Black, even if her blood is not pure. 

“I know,” he says, shoulders straightening with pride.

He doesn’t want to care about what Voldemort thinks of him, but it’s impossible.

He can see why Death Eaters are rumoured to fight for his attention, to outdo each other in this man’s eyes. 

Voldemort keeps looking at him. And then, spoken so softly, like a gentle wind on a hot summer day-

“You have no idea.”

Voldemort reaches out for Sirius again. But this time his fingers rest on Sirius’ chest.

“Since you were born, they told you to control yourself. To contain yourself. Blacks don’t scream, Blacks don’t cry, Blacks don’t laugh. Blacks don’t fear.”

Sirius swallows. It is abhorrent to hear those familiar words in Voldemort’s soft tone.

“And then, suffocated, you ran to Potter. To Dumbledore. You sought permission to be yourself. But you didn’t get it. Don’t lash out. Don’t hurt people. Don’t get angry. Am I right, Sirius? Did you hear that, over and over again, from the very people that were supposed to accept you as you are? Quite judgemental they are, for a group that preaches tolerance. ”

Sirius refuses to answer.

“Magic feeds on emotion.”

“I know,” Sirius hisses, uncomfortable.

“But they don’t let you feel. Your family, your friends. Worse of all, you don’t let yourself feel. You suppress yourself. You shove any emotion into a tightly locked place. You shove your magic there, too. Your true potential.”

Sirius just stares at him, mesmerised.

“You remind me of a boy that used to pretend, that tried to lock away his rage. He had no proud father to tell him he’s not supposed to cry or laugh or show any sympathy. He learned on his own. And he was extraordinary.” Another smile, the most vicious one for the night. “But not unique. If you’d comb the world, you’d have found someone else like him, here and there.”

His fingers move, just a little, to the left. Right above Sirius’ heart.

“Only when he embraced himself- when he let go of society, of silly notions about good or evil; when he walked off the beaten path, abandoned his name, his face- only then he became unique.”

Sirius knows that name now. He knows the face, too. But he desperately wants to know more about that boy.

“Your pride comes from your name; the way you are perceived, too. The fear you inspire. Everything I have is my own. Everything you have is given by others. Who are you if I strip away your name? If I show you how to cast aside all the expectations placed on your shoulders- who are you when there is nothing left to hide behind?”

Sirius steps back and Voldemort’s hand drops to his side.

No one can take away his name. Sirius wants to spit at Voldemort’s feet, laugh in his face, say that of course Tom Riddle wanted to get rid of a muggle name. But Sirius is not like that boy. Sirius comes from greatness. 

“You wouldn’t get it, half-blooded no one that you are. Or do you get it? Are you jealous? Is that why you’re offering to free me from the ‘burden’ of a powerful, ancient, noble name?”

By some miracle, some deeply buried sense of self preservation, he says nothing of the sort.

“Your parents allowed you anger, but not fear, isn’t it so?”

“That’s right,” Sirius spits, that anger coming close to the surface. “What? Are you turning into Dumbledore now? He’s the one to talk about conquering fears and-”

“Dumbledore is a liar.” Voldemort’s smile is gone, just like that. “He speaks of conquest, but what he means is acceptance. He wants you to face your fear and make peace with it, not defeat it.”

His shoulders straighten, which Sirius didn’t think possible. Voldemort is already straight as an arrow, but now he becomes even taller.

“Only when you will be free will your magic become pliant, obedient, ready to be called upon, at any given second, with no effort. Without a wand, even.”

He doesn’t move a muscle, but Sirius’ wand flies out of his hand.

“Will you let me set you free, Sirius? Do you want to be extraordinary?”

(-)

He’s in his bed, alone. 

Or, well, with Tom Marvolo Riddle’s picture. He took it off from the file, which is still hidden in his jacket.  

What happened to you? 

It could be dark magic. 

His father always told Sirius that dark magic should be used in moderation.

“All branches of magic are a wizard’s blood right, no matter what these traitors in the Ministry claim these days. But dark magic feeds on us. It can give you power, but it will take something, too. Never get lost in it. Never allow it to control you,” he says, when he hands Sirius a book called ‘The Secrets of the Darkest Art’. “You must learn it, you must be aware of it. You must practice it safely, but do not grow dependent on it. And even dark magic has several branches. This-” he points to the book. “Is not given to you as a gift. This is a cautionary tale of what happens when wizards forget themselves. When power, for the sake of power, clouds the mind.” 

It clearly fed on Voldemort. Dark magic takes, and it took his beauty, it ravaged his body. Dark magic leaves traces on the user, when it is taken too far, and the first sign is in the eyes. 

But the boy in the picture had not yet paid that price. He couldn’t have. It takes decades to get to the point where Voldemort stands now. 

In the picture, he could have messed with dark magic all he wanted. He was still just a boy. 

But there’s something wrong, regardless. Something different. His eyes, unmarred by magic, still hold the secret of something terrible. 

His posture, the way he stares almost unblinkingly at the camera- what happened to you?

(-)

James talks loudly, laugh forced and strained to cover the tension. Sirius stares at Sturgis and Dedalus. He understands what their chilliness means. 

A Wizengamot vote took place last weak, one that ended in Rodolphus’ and Lucius’ favour. Sirius didn’t vote, and the Order isn’t pleased with him. 

Dumbledore tried to assuage their worries, told them Sirius is young and needs time to acclimate himself with the proceedings, but no one accepted the quite frankly ridiculous excuse. 

His recent arrest didn’t help matters, either. Or the fact that rumours are flying about his presence at Avery’s wedding. 

James pretends he doesn’t notice the new wave of distrust. 

Lily’s green eyes spark with dislike when she talks with those that give Sirius suspicious looks. Her tone is harsh. Lily never had much patience. 

Sirius doesn’t like it, wants to tell her he doesn’t need her to get offended on his behalf. It’s a tale as old as time, after all, and he’s heard it his whole life, even when no words were spoken.

Blacks aren’t to be trusted they said, with their mouths or with their eyes.

I could have you dead by morning, Sirius thinks, darkly, with a savage, uncontrolled instinct. He could just slip their names to Voldemort and-

He shakes his head and reminds himself he’s not bothered by their mistrust, he’d dealt with it for a long time and wishing death on people simply because they don’t approve of him would only prove their point. 

(-)

Marlene screams at him and he screams back, in one of the most vicious fights they had so far. 

Sirius hates screaming. It reminds him of his mother. Whenever he raises his voice, something in his head whispers ‘you are just like her’. 

“I fucking hate you!” Marlene is in his space, her face red with fury, or with the strain of yelling for the better part of an hour. “Why are you such a dick?”

“I told you why! I need to be seen in public with other women! Don’t you get it? If they realise there’s something more between us, I’ll make you a target!”

She throws her head back and laughs.

“A target? I am in the Order! I am out there fighting Death Eaters! A known blood traitor! I AM ALREADY A TRAGET, YOU WANKER!”

All this because he’d been photographed with a girl and Marlene had to wake up and see it in Witch Weekly, first thing in the morning. 

“Maybe,” he spits. “But you don’t want to have Voldemort’s attention. I can’t give him another person to hold over my head.”

“I would believe that if you were just seen in public with a lass over a pint of beer. You don’t have to go to their houses and fuck them, though! Or do you take a reporter with you in the bedroom? Did you summon Voldemort to witness your fucking prick in her cunt, huh? Why did you fuck her, Sirius?”

“Because I wanted to! You don’t own me!” 

Sirius had once more spent half of the night staring at that cursed photograph and he’d decided it was quite enough, that it can’t possibly be healthy. 

So he sent a Patronus to Marlene first, he did, only she was busy at the hospital so he just went out and… well. He woke up in a witch’s house. Only the girl was roommates with another witch, that works with Marlene and here they are. 

“You’re scared shitless because you’re actually growing close to another human being and you want to back out! You’re acting like a kid!” She slaps him. “Man the fuck up!” 

“A kid?” He grabs her wrist roughly. “If that bothers you so much, McKinnon, maybe you shouldn’t have fucked a kid.”

(-)

After the fourth glass of fire whiskey at a shady pub in Knockturn, the fight doesn’t bother him anymore.

Evan Rosier finds him and sits at his table, and they spend the rest of the night drinking and bickering about old Slytherin- Gryffindor grudges.

No one told Evan that Sirius is a Death Eater. Clearly, they hadn’t, because when he sees Sirius accepts to drink with him, he keeps trying to subtly-not so subtly recruit him.

“I don’t know what’s bothering you, mate. You’re always bothered by something, Merlin help me, but I know a man that is the solution to all your troubles. He,” Evan says, putting emphasis on the word, ”can solve anything. He can make all your dreams come true, I guarantee it.”

Evan believes it. It’s not sly Lucius lying through his teeth, saying what he thinks his interlocutor wants to hear.

Evan has a passionate look in his eyes when he speaks about Voldemort.

What the fuck did you do to all these people, to have them eating from your hand? Sirius wonders, so intrigued he even forgets about Marlene. 

A distant part of him is frightened, because it knows what Voldemort did. 

What he does with Sirius; the way he speaks, the way he can make anyone feel special, treasured. 

You’re a Black. He can’t fool you. You’ve always been special. 

Yet Sirius is not accepted. Even James, who loves Sirius more than he loves anyone in his life, perhaps with Lily’s exception, never accepted the darker side of Sirius. 

He’d seen it during that Shack incident, and James flinched away, stopped talking to him. 

He’d stop talking to Sirius if he knew how much Sirius enjoys his lessons with Voldemort, how he looks forward to them. 

(-)

She opens the door, but stands in the doorway, a hand on her hip. 

Sirius is too drunk to speak, and he wouldn’t know what to tell her, even if he’d be sober. 

They stare at each other for what feels like forever, before she sighs, her shoulders slouching. 

“Come in, you filthy dog,” Marlene says, moving out of the way. 

She can be a right bitch, she’s self destructive and selfish, but she deserves better than him, even so. 

He takes her hand on his way inside. 

(-)

“Have you ever wanted something that you knew you will never get?” Sirius asks, balancing the chair on its back legs.

They just ended a meeting, a nerve-wracking act for Sirius, navigating Voldemort’s questions about the Order, deciding how much to reveal, trying to say even less than Dumbledore allowed him to. 

And now he will have to decide how much to tell Dumbledore from what Voldemort said to Rodolphus and Lucius, Bella and Rabastan. 

Because Voldemort must be testing him, revealing plans, even a murder plot, most likely to see what Sirius will share with Dumbledore. 

To top it all off, he’d very patronisingly ordered Sirius to stop getting arrested for foolish reasons, since one day an Auror might decide to check for a dark mark. 

When Voldemort dismissed them, Sirius didn’t get up like the others. 

No one dismisses me. 

So they left, and now Sirius is alone with Voldemort, who is looking at him with a raised eyebrow. 

“Lord Voldemort always gets what he wants.” 

Sirius lets the chair drop. He gets up, walking closer to Voldemort. He takes out his pack of cigarettes from his leather jacket and sits beside him, where Lucius usually sits. 

Voldemort seems amused by Sirius’ antics. 

That won’t do. 

Sirius lights a cigarette, waits to be reprimanded for it, but it doesn’t happen. 

“How about Tom Riddle?” he asks, and he gets a sense of profound satisfaction upon seeing that stoney face break, just a little. Not much. A muscle jumping in his jaw, a blink that comes too soon after the last one. “Was there something he wanted and never got?”

He knows he shouldn’t have brought it up. He’d done an excellent job of keeping it to himself for about three weeks. But he can’t anymore. He needs to remind Voldemort he’s not just any fool he can trick with talks of greatness.

Sirius doesn’t need Voldemort to be extraordinary. He was born that way and it is time Voldemort remembers it. 

It is time Sirius remembers it, too. It would be very dangerous to forget. He’d end up like the others, kneeling for the attention of this man. 

Sirius can smell the shift in atmosphere. The air becomes thick with danger. It gives him a thrill.

“Tom Riddle is dead,” Voldemort says, very slowly.

Sirius smirks. “I get why you would want to shed the name. I wonder though, why Dumbledore is making as big of an effort to conceal your identity.”

He’s throwing Voldemort through a lot of emotions. A minuscule frown appears between his brows.

“I do not know,” he answers after a short break. “I never thought about it.” He sounds surprised.

Sirius takes another drag of his cigarette, lets the smoke fill his lungs, keeping it in longer than he should.

“Who told you?”

“Hagrid.”

The frown deepens. “Hagrid does not know what become of Tom Riddle.” Voldemort spits his former name, like it burns his tongue to say it.

“He doesn’t. But Hagrid told me of the Slytherin Prefect that framed him and Aragog. I know you went to school with mum and Hagrid. It was easy to surmise after that.”

“Aragog?”

Voldemort ruined so many lives it’s no wonder he forgot an insignificant spider. 

“His pet Acromantula.”

“Ah.” Voldemort makes a face. “That Hagrid… Is it still alive, I wonder?”

“It sure is. Almost ate me some years ago.”

Sirius searchers through the inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out the file. Voldemort’s eyes are instantly attracted by the big, black letters screaming his old name to anyone that looks. 

He takes it hastily.

His frown deepens before his eyebrows shoot up altogether. He looks terribly bewildered as he reads through the small file. 

“Where did you get this?” Even his usually very controlled voice sounds astonished. 

“That’s why I got arrested. I wanted to see if there was a record on yo- on that name. And there was.” 

“I never knew it existed.” 

Sirius shrugs. “How would you? Lucius could check, but for that, you’d have to tell him whom to look for.” 

Of course, unlike Voldemort, Sirius harbours no illusions that Lucius doesn’t know Voldemort’s name. Even if he didn’t get it from his father- if Sirius discovered it, Lucius would have, too. He just has the good sense not to throw it in Voldemort’s face. 

“And it doesn’t exist anymore. I stole it.” 

There’s a spark in those red eyes, terrifying and possessive as they stare at Sirius. It looks a lot like hunger.

“You are more than I expected, Sirius Black.”

People regularly underestimate Sirius. Loud, brash Gryffindor, prankster extraordinaire. An irresponsible alcoholic. 

“And you are less than I expected, Lord Voldemort.” Sirius says, flirting with that danger.

He’d expected the dark lord to be just that. Vicious, cruel, cartoonishly evil, almost. He’d expected the dark lord to have answers to all the questions, and he doesn’t. He’d expected him to be half a god. But he’s just a man.

“You will never speak that name.” A terrifying man, Sirius corrects himself, when the full brunt of those eyes falls on Sirius, accompanied by the deceptively soft voice. “I know you like to push, but do not push in this matter, or it will be the last thing you do.”

‘Everything I have is my own. Everything you have is given by others.’

A self-made man, down to his name. 

Did he abandon it because he thought he could never be much with a muggle one? Surely not. Dumbledore is their most famous living person, and he’s a half-blood, too. 

Tom Riddle wasn’t just Slytherin’s heir, in itself a reason to boast, but he is so extraordinarily powerful, so intelligent he could have just as easily gather a following with any name. 

Getting people to kneel to someone called ‘Lord Voldemort’ proves that. They kneel because of him, not a bloody name. 

Sirius has a noble name; Lucius, too. Far more respected than ‘Voldemort’. Yet no one kneels for them. 

When faced with his power, no one would have cared he was a half-blood, as long as he parroted pureblood beliefs. At the very least, everyone in his inner circle is aware he’s a half-blood. Bella seemed to know it when Sirius called him one. And they do not care. 

No, it wasn’t for that reason. He didn’t discard Tom Riddle so he could gather an army. 

It must be a personal matter. Something deeply painful since it matters so much. Since it made him look vulnerable for just a second. 

“He doesn’t feel comfortable in my presence. It reminds him of who he used to be,” Dumbledore once told Sirius. 

Dumbledore, Sirius knows, calls him Tom. It would be such a Dumbledore thing to do. 

“You have my word,” Sirius says, solemn, holding Voldemort’s gaze, even if it is hard. 

It’s so bloody intense, like a magnifying lens that can pick apart every tiny detail Sirius tries to keep hidden. 

“So?” Sirius says, to break the tense silence that settled between them. “You never answered. Have you, under any name, wanted something that you never got?”

This time, Voldemort takes his time to answer. 

He extends a hand, long fingered and pale towards Sirius, who barely suppresses a flinch. 

But he only takes the half smoked cigaret from between his fingers.

Sirius watches as Voldemort takes a long drag out of it.

“Yes,” he answers.

“How did you come to terms with it? Because I can’t.”

Sirius cannot let go of things he wants. They become obsessions, keeping him up at night. 

Voldemort exhales the smoke, slowly. It surrounds him, and in the greenish light of the room, it could look like a snake. In that light, Voldemort’s head could look like a skull.

“I suppose I didn’t, now that I think about it.” 

Sirius leans forward, unconsciously, puts his elbows on the table, drawn in.

“Do you still want it?”

“No.” Short. Concise. “I told you, Tom Riddle is dead, with all his wants.”

“What was it?”

Voldemort smiles, puts the cigarette out in an ashtray that appeared out of thin air. “If you manage to figure that out, I will be most displeased.”

“I do love a challenge.” 

Voldemort laughs. It transforms his entire face. It doesn’t make him any less dangerous. Just… different. The smoke around him dissipates.

Lord Voldemort is less than Sirius expected in some ways. In others, he is far, far more.

Chapter Text

Sirius didn’t think the house in Godric’s Hallow could fit so many people inside it.

He shoulders his way through the crowd, and they are quick to part to let him reach his destination.

“Thanks,” Remus mutters, grateful, when Sirius stops at his side, glowering at a couple of drunk Hit Wizard. They scamper off.

“You know you’re not contractually obligated to talk to every motherfucker that wants to, Moony?”

Remus sighs. He’s tired. The full moon just passed. He’s not a party man in general, but especially not so soon after a transformation, when he’s exhausted, very sensitive and just wants to be left alone to enjoy a book and a cup of hot chocolate.

But it’s James’ birthday. He wouldn’t miss it.

“How come you aren’t drunk yet?” Remus asks.

“I’m getting there.” Sirius winks at Remus and pulls a bottle of firewhiskey from his jacket’s inner pocket.

“I read an article in one of those Healer’s publication today,” Remus says, leaning on a wall. All the seats are taken, people mingling everywhere.

Remus often reads Healer publications, hoping one day he will see a cure for lycanthropy.

“And they said they can now easily regrow a liver, from your own blood. That’s good news for you, Padfoot.”

Sirius snorts. He doesn’t think he’ll live long enough for his liver to fail him.

Marlene’s red, messy hair makes an appearance at the front door.

“Snog somewhere else, you’re blocking the entry!” Her voice carries over even with a live band creating an awful ruckus in the garden.

“Fuck,” Sirius mutters.

Remus watches him with an amused expression.

“I’ll protect you,” he teases.

“Nah, I reckon I’ll just get the silent treatment tonight.”

She’s got all the anger out of her system at Mary’s party when she caught Sirius in the bathroom with one of Mary’s coworkers.

He has a scar now, on his right hipbone, dangerously close to his cock. Marlene knows some nasty curses and apparently has no issues with using them in public.

“We promised nothing to each other, you know?” Sirius says to Remus what he’d tried to tell Marlene that night. “I don’t know where this delusion is coming from. We’re not a couple.”

“I think you’re the deluded one. I went to see her the other weak for a pain relief potion and when she opened the dresser- mate, it’s filled with your leather jackets. Your cigarettes are in her kitchen. Your guitar-”

“Shh, she’s coming.”

Remus laughs at him but changes the subjects, starts talking about some harpies wrecking havoc in Northern Ireland.

Sirius nods, pretending to listen-

He was right. Marlene strolls past them without looking in his direction.

(-)

“Kisses for the birthday boy!” James yells in Sirius’ face, making kissing noises.

Sirius is trying his best to keep James on his feet, supporting him in an upright position.

“Jamie, just make it long enough to cut the cake and then you can pass out somewhere.”

“Don’t call me Jamie,” he slurs, pouting.

His glasses are askew, hair messier than usual, face red from the booze and the heat of so many damn people in one room.

“KISS HIM!” someone yells, nearby, between howls of laughter.

“Kiss the birthday boy!”

“Who?” Lily’s voice drifts from another room. “Who’s kissing my husband- Hestia, give me back the tequila! God damn it, I told you, you’re supposed to suck on a lemon after! Here, I’ll show you! Marlene, where’s the salt?”

“I love you, Padfoot,” James whispers and his head drops on Sirius’ shoulder.

“Love you too, mate. Don’t start crying- oh, come on!”

James doesn’t hold his alcohol well. He sniffs in Sirius’ shirt.

“We’re getting old-”

“You just turned nineteen-”

“So old. Remember when we were skinny lads, mocking Snivellius? Oh, to be eleven again.”

“LILY!” Sirius shouts. “The cake!”

She’s left for it some twenty minutes before, but apparently she got distracted.

“She’s wasted, Black,” Mary says, loudly, laughing so hard she’s holding her sides. “She just sat on the cake!”

“There’s no cake?” James sniffs louder. “But I want cake!”

(-)

“Why don’t we chat for a while?” Peter blocks the door.

Sirius takes James’ glasses off his face and puts them on the nightstand beside the bed.

“Let’s chat over something to drink. Now that Prongs is safely in bed, I can let loose.”

“Too loud down there. Let’s talk here.”

Peter’s nervous. Fidgety. 

Which is suspicious. He should be happy, what with the lipstick marks on the collar of his shirt.

It’s almost as if he doesn’t want Sirius to go downstairs.

He easily shoves Peter away.

“At least let’s go to the garden. Fresher air there,” Peter insists. 

When they get to the first floor, he sees Lily on a table, teaching a bunch of witches and wizards the ‘robot dance’, as she calls it.

She always does that when she drinks.

Remus is snoring in an armchair, mouth open, head lolling in an uncomfortable way.

Peter pulls at his arm, insistent. “Come on, the garden-”

And then Sirius sees Marlene in the corner, straddling a man.

Sirius can’t see his face, her hair covering it.

“Now, now,” Peter says, a death grip on Sirius. “Don’t do something stupid! Lily will kill you if you start a duel in her house. Let’s go to the garden-”

“Who is he?” Sirius growls.

“Someone who decided to live a little dangerously,” Mundungus sniggers from nearby. “Kissing Sirius Black’s girl like that… that’s a death wish, if I ever saw one.”

“She’s not my girl,” Sirius says, controlling himself.

Not very well, though. A vase shatters to pieces when his magic lashes out.

Lily falls off the table and Sirius goes to check her over.

(-)

“And what is that one called?” Marlene points to a star.

“Procyon,” Sirius answers, his head on her belly.

“Show me yours again.” Her long fingers are tangled in his hair, lightly touching his scalp.

They are on the roof of James’ house, a transfigured blanket under them.

“See what you’d have missed if you went home with that bloke? What would that stupid mudblood know about stars?”

Sirius realises what he said at the exact time she does. She stops breathing, her stomach hardening under his head, her fingers gripping his hair.

“Shit. Sorry. I- I had a meeting yesterday. With them. It just- got stuck in my head.”

“Unstuck it,” she says sharply, but she relaxes. She sighs. “I hope he’s alright. You didn’t have to be an arse about it-”

“I’m sorry?” He lifts his head to better glower at her. “It was nothing compared to what you did to me at Mary’s-”

“Yes, to you. Not that poor girl I found you with. You didn’t have to hurt him-”

“He’ll survive.”

She sighs again and points to another star. “And what’s that one called?”

(-)

He wakes up choking. Sirius sits abruptly, trying to breathe. 

He’d dreamed of Parkinson again; the blood in that office kept flowing uncontrollably. Sirius tried to stop it, tried to put Parkinson’s head back on his shoulders, but of no use. He was trapped in that room, and the blood kept coming, surrounding Sirius like the sea, until Sirius was submerged in it. It went down his throat and nose- 

He shakes his head and stands up. He’d fallen asleep with the window open and it’s chilly. 

Or maybe it’s just Sirius that’s freezing. 

“It will go away, eventually,” he tells himself after he brushes his teeth, staring in the mirror above the sink. 

The nightmares about Parkinson are not as often as they used to be. He hopes that they will stop when enough time passes. 

“You don’t look so good, darling,” the mirror says. 

Sirius sticks his tongue at it. He takes a long, hot bath, drinks from a forgotten bottle that was lying around the bathtub and he feels better. Warmer. 

He braids his hair; the mirror approves. “That’s more like your handsome self”. 

When he straddles his bike, he feels loads better already. Excited even.

He rides it for a while, waking up properly, the wind harsh against his face. He could Apparate -he will, eventually-only the sun is starting to rise, and it’s such a nice day, a pity to waste it.

He rides more than he intends, lost in thought, just trying to enjoy himself.

He gets pulled over by a police officer. Usually he likes to play, having them chase him through London, but this time the police officer is a lovely woman, also on a motorcycle, so Sirius pulls over.

She scolds him about his speed and demands his driving license. Sirius says he forgot it, spins a story about how he found his girlfriend cheating on him and he left in a hurry.

Her eyes soften, and he asks about her bike, complimenting it.

He is allowed to leave some ten minutes later. She doesn’t try to give him a ticket, either. Sirius would have Confounded her if she insisted on that driving licence nonsense, but he tries not to use magic on muggles, if he can avoid it.

He stops at a gas station when he runs out of fuel- the bike can run without, of course, but magic will never give it the same speed petrol does.

The cashier doesn’t have change for his twenty-pound note, so he insists Sirius buys something. He gets cigarettes and one of those strange foods the muggles have, wrapped in colourful plastic. It looks odd, but it tastes good, as most muggles thing do.

He gets back on the road.

The sun shines brightly high in the sky, close to midday when Sirius decides he might as well forgo Apparation all together. The lady at the second gas station told Sirius the place he’s looking for is not that far away.

So Sirius pays attentions to the roadsigns, and he eventually gets off the motorway.

The countryside grows wilder around him; traffic is almost nonexistent. Sirius gets lost a few times, but eventually he finds himself facing a small sign announcing he’s arrived in Little Hangleton.

Morfin’s Gaunt file only listed “Little Hangleton” as address. And while the village doesn’t seem big, Sirius can’t exactly go door to door, can he?

He will, if he has to, but before he resorts to it, he decides to stop at a pub in the centre of the village.

He gets odd looks. The bike and the leather, the long hair- all things most muggles do not appreciate, he learned.

London is different, but he’s far away from London, in a place the youth seemed to have abandoned, fleeing to bigger cities, Sirius imagines.

He enters the establishment- old, but well kept. Few patrons are around, and they all turn to stare at him.

He makes his way to the bar and when the man behind it doesn’t have the few muggle brands of liquor Sirius knows, he sighs.

“Just give me what you have.”

Not a friendly crowd, all in all.

Sirius slips a generous tip when he’s served his drink. “I’m sorry, sir. I am looking for a family that lives around here. The Gaunt family. Would you mind telling me where I could find them?”

The bartender takes the note, frowning. “Gaunts, you say? Never heard of them.”

Sirius pulls out his cigarettes, frustrated.

He imagines the Gaunts never associated with muggles, purists that they were. They considered most of the wizarding world unfit for their company, let alone muggles.

But still, in such a small village, there must have been some interactions.

He knows there were interactions, since Voldemort’s father was Morfin’s neighbour.

“Gaunts?” A chair scrapes close by and an old man stumbles his way to Sirius. “Did I hear that right?”

Sirius turns to him, excited. “Yes, sir.”

The man sits beside him. “Aye, he-” a nod to the bartender- “wouldn’t know about them. Too young.”

The bartender is not young, by any means, but Sirius doesn’t point it out.

The old man waves an empty glass. Sirius gets the point.

“Please, can you bring the gentleman whatever he chooses? My treat.”

The bartender snorts, but pulls a bottle from under the counter.

“What’s your businesses with that lot?” Half-blind eyes look at Sirius from under bushy, white eyebrows.

“They’re my relatives,” Sirius says.

The man might be drunk and old and blind, but he’s not that blind.

“You don’t look like ‘em. City boy with your posh accent...”

Go fuck yourself, you old geezer.

“I’m from the good side of the family,” Sirius says, evenly. “Different branch. We lost contact long ago. May I offer you another drink?”

“Aye. Leave the bottle,” he tells the bartender, who looks at Sirius.

Sirius nods, slipping him money.

Only after his liquor is secured does the man speak. “Sorry to say it, lad, but they’re all gone. Been gone for a long time.”

Sirius knew it was unlikely to find Voldemort’s mother here, but he still hoped he might.

“Strange people. Very strange.” He leans in closer and lowers his voice. “Some used to say they were Satan worshipers.”

“Oh,” Sirius says, gauging this Satan business is something to be outraged at.

He’s not well versed in Christianity, but he knows the basics.

“Their names, their clothes- must have been a cult. Marvolo- who names a child Marvolo, I ask you? And that boy of his- always with snakes around him. Wherever he went, there was a snake close by. People swore he could control them. Violent and vile, both of them.”

“Was there a girl?” Sirius asks, offering the old man a cigarette.

“There was a girl,” he confirms with a smirk. “People called her a witch.”

Sirius laughs.

Muggles often speak of witches; in the countryside they are still afraid of them. 

In London, a muggle man published a book about something called Wiccans, to Lily’s amusement. 

Sirius met a few of these young girls that call themselves Wiccan and have altars and fake wands and spells. It amuses him to no end, how dedicated they are to fake magic. It pleases him, too- they can babble nonstop about nature and the moon, but they are very interested in what they call ‘sex magic’. There is no such thing as sex magic, of course, but who is Sirius to shatter their dreams? 

“No laughing matter, lad. You young ones don’t know, but-” he looks ahead, lost in his mind for a second, and Sirius remembers most muggles are not like the Wiccans. That they hate magic. “In any case, she was cursed with ugliness, like any witch.”

Don’t spit on him, that would hardly be productive.

“Or so they say, I never saw her face. Meek, thin little thing that she was. Always kept her head down. But she’d sell herbs to some of the old women, read fortunes in tea cups for the young ones. Or so they say.”

“They say a lot,” Sirius huffs.

“Who’s to know? The Gaunts were a mystery, all sorts of wild rumours around them. We had a drought, or a disease? We blamed it on them, devil worshipers that they were. But no one could touch the Gaunt men. Some villagers went up there to drive them away, but nothing ever came of it. We learned to avoid them. But the girl was easy pickings. She wouldn’t fight back when she’d come to the market and people threw rotten fruits at her. No one wanted her around, and we showed it.”

Filthy muggles, Sirius thinks, enraged.

And then, Lily’s voice is in his head, telling him not all muggles are alike and Sirius feels guilty for the internal outburst.

“What happened to them?”

The old man grins, excited. “You saw that big manor up the hill when you came in? Of course you saw it,” he adds, before Sirius can answer. “Impossible not to, innit?”

“Yeah,” Sirius agrees. A grand building, imposing, looming over the village.

“The Riddles. As different from the Gaunts as you can imagine. But just as hated. Of course, no one dared show it. Rich bastards; they owned half the village. Did you know, they were the first to have a car? When they brought it in, children ran after it, all the way up the hill.”

Sirius can’t imagine a time where cars were a novelty. They’re all over London now, a nuisance.

“Bloody aristocrats.” He actually spits on the floor.

Sirius takes offence to that, as well. This man despises witches and rich folk, and Sirius wishes he could-

He’s an old man, he reminds himself. It doesn’t matter.

“Noses up in the air, always looking down at us. Thomas and Mary wouldn’t be caught dead down here, secluded in their small castle. But the lad- Tom-”

Sirius swallows.

“Oh, he came down, alright. He was a handsome devil, entitled, with that posh accent of his-” he gives Sirius a glare. “He deflowered half the young girls in the village.”

Good for him, Sirius thinks. A man after his taste.

“All their fathers were frothing at the mouth. Some even made noise that he should marry one disgraced daughter or another.” He laughs and spits again. “As if! He was engaged to one of his own, a rich girl from the next village. But-” He grins again, rubbing his hands, showing Sirius rotting, yellow teeth. “But then, he deflowered the wrong daughter.”

“The Gaunt girl,” Sirius guesses.

“Right you are! I forget her name. Something silly, like the others. Morfina or- no, that was the boy-”

“Merope.”

“Yes, that’s it. Merope, ha! What a stupid name-”

“It’s from Greek mythology.” You uneducated peasant. “A water-nymph.”

“A what, now?”

“Never mind.”

“The scandal! I don’t know what old Marvolo did to them- no one knows what happened- but Tom Riddle married Merope Gaunt, with only the priest as witness, and then they disappeared. Along with the Gaunt men.”

Sirius remembers Morfin’s first arrest; Marvolo’s third. They didn’t disappear, they were sent to Azkaban.

What would this muggle think if I were to tell him poor, devil worshiper Marvolo Gaunt would consider rich, posh Tom Riddle a vermin, unworthy of his bloodline?

“The maid at the Riddle house said Mary would weep all day in bed, and Thomas would drink all day in his office,” he continues, laughing with pure glee. “They scorned honest men, good men, that came to demand Tom marry their daughters after he ruined their honour, and they rejected them all. And now their precious son married the tramp’s daughter. An ugly witch.”

He drinks some more. Sirius drinks too. That’s an odd love story. Uptight rich muggle with an ugly, poor witch from a blood purist family.

He only knows of Andromeda to come from such a background and marry a muggleborn. But Andromeda is beautiful, and Ted is a wizard. She wouldn’t be caught dead with a muggle. She tells Sirius she’s still uncomfortable when she visits her in-laws, rarely enough.

“Alas, it didn’t last long. Tom returned a year or so later- I forget, but it wasn’t too long. Without his wife. There were rumours Marvolo was sighted around town, too, but no one was sure. Some say he died.” He shrugs. “But Tom was back, even if he rarely left the mansion after that. Maid said he had an awful temper. Doctors came from London to see to him, she said. For what, no one knows, but apparently they were psychiatrists.”

Sirius isn’t sure what that means. He’ll have to ask Lily.

“No doctor put him back to rights. The Riddles remained up there and spared us of their presence. That Morfin lad came back, though.” He nods to himself. “We’d see him walking about now and them, terrifying the women and the children, always with his snake, his knife and a short wooden stick. His sister never returned, so he had to come down to the market himself.” He shudders. “Disgusting creature. But he’s gone now. He’s been gone for many years. The Riddles are dead, too. Some people say Morfin disposed of them, you know? Because he seemed to vanish right after they were murdered. But who’s to know? He came down to the village so rarely that he might have been gone for months before the murders.” 

“But what did the mugg- what did the police say?” 

Sirius knows Morfin killed the Riddles, but he’s curious what the muggles made of it. 

The man spits again. “Incompetent fools. They arrested Frank.” 

“Frank?” 

“The gardener. Old loyal dog. He was released, and now he’s still taking care of that big mansion. The police decided they had died of natural causes. Bloody fools! As if an entire family decided to drop dead at dinner. Ha! But they said there was no evidence of violence.” He leans into Sirius, conspiratorially. “It was probably a cover up. Perhaps some other rich clown wanted to inherit or something and the police helped them.” 

“Right,” Sirius says. “So Merope never returned? Or her son?” 

“Son? She had a son?” The old man frowns. “Might be she had, why else would Tom marry her? Be careful lad, that’s how women trap you; they get heavy with child and-”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sirius waves it away. “So, no news of a son.” 

“No. She never came back, nor any mention of a son. You’d think he’d have come to get his fortune, if a child existed.” 

Why didn’t you? Sirius wonders. Voldemort would have been seventeen when the Riddles were murdered. Why wouldn’t he claim his father’s money? 

“That mudblood, with his horrid accent, and second hand robes.” Sirius’ mother had said, in the discussion Sirius overheard as a child. 

So why didn’t he come for the money? He was an adult so he could have- 

Adult. No trace. He could do magic all on his own. 

Sirius gets a twisting feeling in his stomach. 

He leaves the pub and looks into the distance, at the immense Riddle Manor. 

(-)

He twists and turns in his bed before giving up on sleep. 

Frank the gardener didn’t want to talk to Sirius. Paranoid man, he’d started making a fuss when Sirius tried to insist, threatened to call the police and hobbled inside. 

When he went for the Gaunt house, Sirius found dark trespassing spells around it, felt them just in time to stop. 

They could have been put in place by Morfin, or by Voldemort himself. Sirius decided not to trigger them, in case it was Voldemort. 

He saw the...it was hard to call it a house. He saw it from a distance, a decrepit, tiny shack. He was appalled that the Heirs of Slytherin ended up in that place. Such a noble bloodline, so pure, so rich, once upon a time- and there the shack was. 

It made him feel deeply uncomfortable. 

He Apparated back to his house and paced around his living room until he grew tired. 

But now he can’t sleep. 

He went looking for answers, but he only has more questions. And no leads on Merope, either. 

Is she dead, too? Did Voldemort kill his father? Did he kill her, too, and Sirius was mistaken to believe he’s hiding her somewhere? 

But he looks so sane, a part of Sirius protests. He’s a killer, he’s ruthless, he’s whatever- but killing one’s parents, that’s a step too far, isn’t it? 

What sane man would kill his parents? 

One a muggle, of no threat. 

What the fuck happened? 

Sirius must know. He can’t stop thinking about it. 

Marlene accuses him of cheating on her, when he refuses to see her two days in a row. But he’s just pacing around his house, mind whirling. 

He can’t let it go. 

(-)

The guards look severely confused to see him there. 

Sirius’ temper is particularly short, already, due to lack of sleeping. The Dementors’ proximity doesn’t help. 

“I am a representative of the Wizengamot,” Sirius barks at them, in an office right inside Azkaban’s entrance. “If I want to inspect the state of this prison, it is my right.” 

The guards exchange looks. They aren’t sure how true that statement is. Sirius isn’t too sure, either. 

“But we received no notice, sir-” 

“It’s a surprise inspection,” Sirius says. “The Wizengamot is interested in knowing if you are doing your duty, or you are just wasting our money. Letting you know in advance would only give you time to prepare.” 

More confused looks. 

“Are you denying me entrance?” Sirius asks, voice lowered, giving his best impression of his father. “You will let me in, or you won’t have a career tomorrow. Or worse,” he spits and lets the threat hang in the air for a bit. 

He’s dressed in the finest robes Bella gave him. He put on a heavy gold watch, too. 

But he doesn’t have his ring, and he feels that if he had it, the guards would comply. 

They do, even without it. 

After a hushed exchange between them, they make him sign some papers and he’s taken on a tour. 

Tour. As if he’s on holiday. 

Sirius grows cold, fast. He despises Dementors. He can hear his father’s last words in his head, on a loop. His mother screaming Sirius is not her son. 

“You’re just like your family,” James says, disgusted, standing over Remus’ hospital bed. Remus has his back turned to Sirius, doesn’t even acknowledge him. “How could you do that? Snape almost died! I almost died trying to save him! Why, Sirius, why?”  

Parkinson’s head flies through the air- 

Sirius shakes his head, and shoves his hands in his robe pockets, to hide how hard they are shaking. 

“I’ll be fine on my own. I want to talk to the prisoners and they won’t answer truthfully in your presence.” Sirius says. 

The guard blinks at him. “They can’t answer any question, I’m afraid. Their minds- most of them forgot their names.” 

Evil. It’s not a word Sirius puts much weight on, but if something was to be called pure evil, it is this. 

Torturing people in such a manner… Sirius would rather die. 

Five minutes in, with Dementors at a distance, and he’s losing it. Some prisoners have been here for years. 

Sirius rips the parchment out of the guard’s hands. “I’ll manage,” he says, forcefully. 

He’s sneered at for his name in the circles he chose to run to. Judged.

But out there in the world, his name opens any doors. People cower before him, and Sirius likes it. 

“All you have is given by others,” Voldemort says. “The fear you inspire.” 

They don’t fear Sirius, they don’t respect Sirius. Just his name. 

But I am a Black, so what’s the distinction, Sirius asks himself, eyes roaming over the list of inmates. 

He locates Morfin relatively fast and starts climbing the stairs to the fourth floor. 

Two Dementors float after him, and it’s so hard to keep his back to them. He was never very sure how much control the Ministry truly has over the creatures. 

Enough for them not to attack the guards, Sirius reassures himself. 

By the time he finally reaches Morfin’s cell, Sirius is numb with cold. He can barely feel his fingers. 

Impossible they would be related, he thinks, staring at the pitiful sight through the bars. 

Morfin is… beyond definition. Sirius had never seen a human being in such a condition. 

He’s unresponsive, and no wonder. No matter what Sirius says to him, he keeps muttering about a lost ring. 

And Sirius saw that ring. Saw it on Voldemort’s long finger. Now, how did the ring end up there? 

Sirius pulls out his wand and compels Morfin to come closer.

“Legilimens,” Sirius whispers, and then he’s in a world of pain and fear. 

So much fear, so cold. Hungry. 

My father will kill me for losing his ring, he thinks. He’ll kill me for losing the ring. 

“Never surrender this,” his father tells him, sternly, giving Morfin the ring. 

Sirius digs deeper, past the trauma induced by the Dementors, past the fear and desolation. 

He kills the filthy muggles. They always bothered him. Animals. 

I should have done it long before. 

He feels nothing when he does it. 

Avada Kedavra, and the man falls. And then again, and the other does. One more time and the woman is gone. 

Morfin is calm. Empty. He has no feelings, no thoughts. 

But he’s gleeful when the Auror comes. He should be gleeful. He must. 

“I killed them,” he brags. “I killed the filthy muggles.” 

Something is not quite right with the memory of the Riddle murders. It’s too clear, crystal clear, with amazing detail, after decades in Azkaban. Unlike all his other memories. 

There’s no thought process to it, no emotion. Sirius pushes hard, wills his magic forward, shoves-

Morfin yells and then- 

Tom Riddle comes through the door and it infuriates him. How dare the muggle come- 

But it’s not him. He speaks the sacred language. And he’s too young to be the muggle.

Sirius watches the memory play out, watches as Voldemort quickly learns his father lives over the hill. 

Then it goes to black. Nothing. And there is Voldemort again. Agitated. He’s trembling all over. Pale, far paler than he’d just been, with a desperate look in big, brown eyes. 

He breathes heavily, and he puts one hand on his chest, as if he’s in pain. 

And then he turns his wand on Morfin and whispers a spell. 

“You killed the Riddles, because they were filthy muggles,” Voldemort says, voice intense. “You will confess to the Aurors. It will be your pleasure. You’ve wanted them dead for a long time.” 

Sirius stumbles back, shocked, heart wild in his chest. 

Morfin stares at him, more aware than he’s been minutes ago. 

“HIM!” He yells. “Him! It wasn’t me-” 

Fuck! Fuck! 

“It wasn’t me! It was him! The boy!”

“Shhh,” Sirius plasters himself to the cell, his hand over Morfin’s, who’s clutching at the bars. 

“I didn’t kill them!” He keeps yelling. “I didn’t kill them!” 

No one will believe him. Surely, a lot of prisoners claim they are innocent. Who will believe him? 

“I DIDN’T KILL THEM!” 

The guards will hear. They’ll hear and come to investigate and they’ll find Sirius there, and Morfin yelling- 

Voldemort. Fuck, Voldemort will kill Sirius. 

“Shut up, shut up!” Sirius says, but Morfin doesn’t listen, only howling louder. 

The two Dementors come closer and closer. Others join them, drawn in by the misery and fear- 

Sirius is panicking, like he never panicked in his life. Morfin won’t stop shrieking. 

“Suffoco,” Sirius says, wand pointed, desperate. 

He has no choice, no choice. 

His father is dying in his head, the Dementors closer and closer in reality. His mother’s screams are sharper and they mix with Morfin’s. 

But Morfin is suddenly silent. Sirius sees him as if from far away, grasping at his throat, trying to breathe. But no air will come through, not if Sirius won’t cast the counter-curse. 

“I’m sorry,” Sirius says, over and over. “I’m so sorry!” 

Morfin collapses on the ground, eyes fearfully searching Sirius’. 

It seems to take an eternity before he dies, but it couldn’t have taken that long. 

Pure terror overwhelms Sirius. 

“I live on in you,” his father says. He’s gripping Sirius’ hand, but he barely has the strength to do it. 

Sirius cries, struggling to breathe. “Please, please- stay with me-” 

His father’s eyes are as calm as ever, even when he’s drifting away. “Look at me,” he whispers. “I will never leave you. I am in your blood, in your veins. I live on in you.” 

Sirius’ world shatters. When his father closes his eyes and lets go of his hand, Sirius knows a part of him is gone. Forever. 

When he opens his eyes, the Dementors are hovering close to him. He’s crunched down by a wall, and he realises he’s hidden his head between his hands. 

He stands on unsteady legs. “Step away,” he orders, but his voice is shaking. 

The Dementors don’t move, and it’s so hard to keep his worst memories at bay with the creatures so close. 

“Get away from me,” he tries again, voice slightly harder, and they finally part and allow him passage. 

Sirius runs from the corridor, but he stops by the stairs. He’s only aware how sick he is when he throws up. 

He leans on the wall, inhaling deliberately. 

Fuck, what did I do? 

You did him a favour. He’s better off dead than in this place. You gave him peace. 

Maybe once he’s out of this hellhole, Sirius will bring himself to believe it. 

There’s also the pressing concern that he killed someone. In Azkaban. If he’s not careful, he’ll end up in Morfin’s cell. 

No. No. That will never happen to me. I won’t allow it. 

He vanishes the spilled content of his stomach, and he thinks it through. 

(-)

“Why is there a dead prisoner in a cell?” Sirius barks at the guards. “Is that how things work around here? You just let them die and rot there? You should notify his family, at least. I know he must be a criminal, but this lack of respect for his relatives will not be tolerated by the Wizengamot.” 

“What? A dead- who?” The guards panic. “We made our rounds this morning-” 

“Up on the fourth floor,” Sirius says. 

Two guards immediately get out of the office and run up the stairs. 

Sirius sits, because he doesn’t think he can stand anymore. He’s still shaking. 

“I’ve never seen a dead body before,” he offers as an excuse. Better they think him weak than the alternative. 

“We are so sorry, sir. I swear, we did our rounds, and everyone was alive-” 

Minutes later, one of the guards return. “Gaunt,” he whispers to the other. “He is dead.” 

They search through files, hurriedly, while Sirius sips from a glass of water that was offered to him. 

“He has no relatives,” one of them tells Sirius.

“So, what happens in that case?” Sirius wonders, though he knows what happens. 

“We just bury him on the island.” 

Sirius nods. There is no reason for them to hand Morfin’s corpse to anyone. 

No Healer will be there to determine if there are signs of magic on him. If it was a suspicious death.

“We are truly sorry, sir. I-” 

“It’s fine.” Sirius stands. “These things happen. He didn’t look like he was dead for long, in any case.” 

They nod, relieved. 

(-)

“You seem unwell,” Voldemort says, some five days later, at the cabin. 

Great. He’s only been there for five minutes and Voldemort already caught on something is off. 

Perhaps because you can’t look him in the eyes. 

Sirius is so terrified, so guilty about what transpired in Azkaban, that he fears Voldemort will know it as soon as their eyes meet, even if Sirius is a good Occlumenes. 

“The burden of having a conscience,” Sirius says, inspecting his nails. “I suppose you wouldn’t know much about it.” 

“Can’t say that I do,” Voldemort agrees. 

The man killed his father. And he didn’t do it to take his money, apparently, since he never claimed the fortune. Even if he desperately needed the money, from what Sirius’ mother said. 

He killed his father, and he sent his uncle to Azkaban. 

Of course he has no conscience. 

Well, you killed Morfin, so maybe you should get down from your high horse. 

I did Morfin a favour. 

He shakes his head. He’s had the argument with himself for days now. 

“Let’s get it over with,” Sirius says, drawing his wand. Maybe a heated duel is what he needs. A little adrenaline, a way to release all that stress inside him. 

“Sirius.” 

No one says his name like that. There’s something alluring, intimate about it, like Voldemort knows Sirius in a way no one else does. Like he sees Sirius in ways no one else does. 

It’s an illusion, of course. Bella knows Sirius, James knows Sirius. His damned mother knows him far better than Voldemort ever will. 

But that’s the problem, the danger, with the dark lord. That he’s made of illusions. Every word out of his mouth, every inflection in his voice, is meant to persuade, to bewitch. 

With each encounter, he understands more why so many people pledged their lives to this man. 

“Yeah?” Sirius answers, tense. 

“These meetings aren’t meant to be a burden to you. I certainly have no pressing need to teach you anything. I do it as a favour to you. I was under the impression you enjoyed our duels. If you aren’t in the right disposition, you are free to leave.” 

Sirius does meet his eyes, then. So very different from the brown ones Sirius saw in Morfin’s memory. 

Voldemort was scared in that memory; he looked vulnerable. He’d just killed his entire paternal side of the family. 

He’s not that boy anymore. He’s collected, eyes steady, posture relaxed. 

“We can put an end to the lessons, if you consider you learned all you wanted to learn.” 

What does it mean? What is Voldemort hoping to gain with these games? Is he so certain Sirius will reassure him that he wants to be there? Is that what he wants to hear?

Sirius is quite certain that if he said ‘alright, let’s end the meetings’ Voldemort wouldn’t be pleased at all. 

“This is a favour?” he asks. “You’re taking time of what is surely a busy schedule just to show me some tricks? How selfless of you,” Sirius spits out. 

A muscle jumps in Voldemort’s jaw, but otherwise his patient facade remains in place. 

“I promised I will teach you the dark arts. You asked for it, remember? When you were on your back, in your old house, interested to know what curse was causing you such pain.” 

He’s so frustrating. He confuses Sirius greatly. 

“You have potential, but if you chose to waste it, if you want to be just another Death Eater, you only need to say it.” 

Sirius thinks of several answers. One more dangerous than the other. He’s caught, as always, between a desire to provoke Voldemort and the apprehension of what might happen if he’s successful in that endeavour. 

One day, Sirius will find out. 

But not that day. 

“I want to be here,” he settles on the truth. 

He likes the duels. The dark magic. 

The promise of power beyond most people’s reach. 

Those hours where he can be himself, where there is no one to judge him, in any way. No politics to navigate. 

Voldemort smiles, satisfied. “Then stop pretending that you don’t.” 

“I’ve had some rough days, is all. I’m tired.” 

Voldemort eyes roam over Sirius’ face. “I hear the Wizengamot is in a frenzy, trying to pick a new Sacred Family.” 

Sirius looks away again, since they’re in Morfin territory. Not even two hours after Morfin’s death, the Wizwngamot called an urgent meeting, happy to be rid of the Gaunt chair, excited to give it to someone else. “Yeah. We’ve been in and out of sessions for close to a week. And they all try to talk to me, hoping I’ll back their choice.” 

Should Sirius acknowledge Morfin’s death? After all, Voldemort knows Sirius is aware Morfin was his uncle. 

But he also told Sirius to mention nothing about Tom Riddle, on pain of death. 

What could he say, anyway? ‘Sorry for your loss?’ 

“Is Dumbledore asking you to support Prewett in his attempt to instate the Longbottoms in the Wizengamot?” 

“Of course he is.” Sirius rolls his eyes. 

“But Lucius says you won’t.” 

“I’ll stay out of it. I said I won’t use my vote, and I won’t. Not for any policy and not for this. I don’t give a fuck about it, in any case.” 

Voldemort doesn’t ask Sirius to back Lucius in the Wizengamot, and Sirius didn’t expect him to. 

Both he and Dumbledore agreed from the start that Sirius won’t vote. But Sirius knew Dumbledore will be the first to try to push him into voting.

He also knows Voldemort will do the same, but not now. Not when he’s still trying to win Sirius over. 

Because that’s the difference. Dumbledore knows Sirius is on his side, so he doesn’t feel the need to tread carefully around Sirius. 

Voldemort, however, is not convinced at all of Sirius’ loyalties. Voldemort is trying to charm him. 

Sirius killed Morfin in a blind panic, without imagining what that would mean. The Gaunts are officially extinct with Morfin’s death, and the Death Eaters are trying to gain the new seat, and Dumbledore is trying to stop them. 

People try to bribe Sirius, Dumbledore says he understands Sirius won’t vote, in general, but- ‘at least this once, too much at stake, we can’t allow Voldemort access to another seat’; even Crouch asked Sirius over for a cup of tea. 

Lucius is running around in circles, with promises of rewards to everyone that would listen- only everyone is rich on the inherited side of the Wizengamot. So Rodolphus goes with Lucius, toying with his wand, in case Malfoy gold proves not to be incentive enough. 

All this because Sirius could not let matters rest; because he’s obsessed in figuring Voldemort out. 

(-)

Sirius is in the process of instructing Lily how to drink a Hungarian Horntail shot without melting her face when an explosion shatters the windows of the pub, located in the middle of Diagon Alley. 

“What the-“ Lily drops the shot when James pushes her to the floor, to protect her from a hundred shards raining over them.

And then the screams start.

“Death Eaters! Death Eaters!”

Sirius jumps over the table, to be as close to James as possible.

“Death Eaters, run!”

“HELP!”

Out the broken windows, he can see a stampede of people running away. He understands that the explosion must be further away than he’d imagined.

A powerful curse, to travel so far.

“We have to help,” Remus calls out over the pandemonium, trying to make his way to the door.

“Yeah- Lily you go home with Peter-“

Lily, getting up, glares at James. “I can handle myself!”

“Prongs, take her home,” Sirius begs, but too late, Lily is already following Remus, James after her.

“Get out of here!” Sirius shouts at Peter, over his shoulder.

Peter’s pale, frozen by the table. 

“Leave,” Sirius orders. Peter is not a fighter. 

Those that know how to Apparate are doing it, a sequence of pop-pop-pop peppered through the screams of those that can’t Apparate.

How is it possible so many wizards never learn to Apparate? Sirius thinks, shouldering his way through the crowds, eyes on James.

You can’t go there, another voice stirs in his head, now that the initial shock is gone. You’re a spy, for Merlin’s sake. You can’t get involved.

Sirius easily discards the thought. No way in hells is he leaving his friends alone.

Another wave of magic makes its way down Diagon, smashing windows as it goes.

An earth splitting curse, Sirius guesses, as the ground trembles underneath their feet.

He can recognise Bella anywhere; even if her voice is distorted by the magic in the mask, even if her shape is concealed, it wouldn’t matter. Sirius recognised her long before he sees her, her magic calling to the magic inside him, familiar, sweet and destructive. 

Besides, few people would be powerful enough to cast such a curse. Sirius can count them on one hand and still have fingers left.

The closer they get to end of the alley, the emptier the street gets.

There- no, four Death Eaters. 

Bella is indeed one of them. Sirius can see her wand, as it holds three Hit Wizards at bay.

Rodolphus and the other two are on the other side of the crater she made down the middle of the street. He’s blocking the door to an old building. The lights coming out the broken widows tell Sirius there are more Death Eaters inside it.

A few Aurors in civilian are there, trying to reach the building, but there is no going past Rodolphus and his two mates. Sirius can’t recognise those.

Sirius takes hold of James’ robe, pulling him back.

“We shouldn’t get involved,“ he says.

Remus throws him a vicious look over his shoulder, and Sirius knows why.

Sirius used to be the first in every brawl, eager to fight. For him to avoid a confrontation now…

“Try to take Lily and leave,” James whispers, understanding Sirius’ position.

Only he doesn’t, not at all. Sirius can’t abandon James there.

Green light blinds them, and one of the Hit Wizards drops to the ground. Bella’s mocking laugh echoes on the street.

His Bella- the sweet girl that sang to him, pushed him on a swing. The girl that made crowns of flowers to place on her littler sister’s head.

He knows, he always knew there is more to her than that. He’d seen that little girl play with lethal potions when she was thirteen, she’d seen her practice the Cruciatus on small animals at fifteen.

But to hear her laughing after taking a life- Sirius shivers.

“Not so eager to play with me anymore?” she taunts the other two Hit Wizards, who back off, shocked.

Her voice is unfamiliar, the magic on the mask making it almost unrecognisable.

Crazy as she is, Sirius intends to drag his friends towards Bella; she knows he will never forgive her if James gets hurt. She’ll abstain from inflicting irreversible damage.

And there is no danger she will get hurt, either. Both James and Remus are decent duellists, but they can never hope to hold a candle to someone like Bella.

It’s the best choice. Rodolphus is even more accomplished in battle and he doesn’t care about James or Remus or what hurting them will do to Sirius; he’d take profound satisfaction in ripping Lily to shreds, especially.

So Sirius points to Bella. “The Hit Wizards need more help!” he shouts, and luckily, everyone seems to agree.

Bella makes a deceptively easy target, alone on the side of the crater as she is.

We’ll all make it through, Sirius thinks.

Prays, really.

A series of cracks pierce the air; Aurors Apparate all over the street. And Bella is alone, a line of Aurors separating her from the other Death Eaters and Sirius’ group. 

At the same time, AntiApparition wards go up to keep the Death Eaters in. Sirius feels the charms settle in place around them. 

“We’ll only get in the Aurors’ way,” Lily says sensibly. “Let’s help the injured. Try to evacuate the rest.”

There are plenty of injured, fallen around, and Remus quickly moves to help.

Go for Rodolphus, go for Rodolphus and the others, please, please, Sirius begs silently, willing the Aurors to somehow ignore Bella-

He’s out of luck. Moody, Scrimgeour, Indira and Savage all head to Bella, while the rest of the team heads for Rodolphus and his friends.

Bella laughs, high and distinctly feminine, charms on her mask or not.

“Oh, the big boys. What shall itsy-bitsy me do now?”

Her wand moves so fast, Sirius can’t follow it. He’s forced to take cover when the lamp posts in their vicinity turn into hideous monsters with big, glistening fangs, descending upon the Aurors, shielding Bella.

Moody swears, but before his words are out, fire reigns around them.

Not Fiendfyre, luckily, but fire nonetheless.

It engulfs everything, fast.

When the Aurors put it out, the amount of smoke is overwhelming.

Blinding and suffocating, only brilliant coloured spells visible through it, Bella’s laugh heard above it all.

Fuck, when did she become so damn powerful?

“Got them!” A deep voice yells from the building Rodolphus is protecting.

“We’ll make a path for you,” Rodolphus shouts back.

The Aurors clear the smoke just in time to see a couple of Death Eaters coming out of the building with two hostages over their shoulders. One of them is a child. She’s crying and she can’t be more than ten years old.

Sirius shouldn’t, he shouldn’t get involved-

But there is a child in harm’s way. 

“Circle them in!” Moody bellows and the Aurors try, but Bella won’t let the ones on her side advance, and Rodolphus shatters any defence before him.

The Death Eaters pass through with their victims and Sirius can’t just stand idly. Especially when James is heading in their direction.

He rushes at them, a few Aurors joining Sirius, yelling at him to fuck off.

“It seems you need all the help you can get, mate!” Sirius shouts.

And who the fuck are you? he wonders, when one of the Death Eaters, the one carrying the adult hostage, sends a nasty curse that Sirius barely sidesteps in time.

The Death Eater with the child waves his wand and Sirius instantly recognises him. Mulciber; the younger one. He and Sirius bought their wands the same day at Ollivanders, many years before.

Sirius curses him, but misses; so does one of the Aurors. It’s hard to get Mulciber, since he’s hauling a child, and no one wants to hit her-

Mulciber cats a spell Sirius doesn’t recognise. It’s aimed for James, and Sirius jumps in front of him, taking it instead, the curse making contact just under his ribs. 

“SIRIUS!” James roars, catching him.

“I’m alright,” Sirius says, surprised. He is alright. There’s no pain, even. Perhaps Mulciber messed the spell up, somehow. 

Even more Aurors show up, all around, coming from the side streets, a sea of red robes, effectively trapping all the Death Eaters inside. Sirius has never seen such a large task force.

There’s no way Bella can make it out of this.

Sirius panics. “Go find Lily! I can’t see her and Remus.” Sirius says, and James is looking around in alarm.

“I think she was helping an injured man, near the apothecary-“

“Go, go, I’m right behind you,” Sirius lies.

“I’m not leaving without-“

A scream pierces through all the other loud noises.

Bella. It sounds pained. Sirius turns, as in slow motion-

Next, Rodolphus’ scream comes, an animalistic, loud growl that sends shivers down Sirius’ spine.

Through the red robes, he sees Bella. She’s injured. 

And that’s that. Sirius pushes James away, and he shoulders his way through Aurors.

A bright orange light passes by Bella’s head, only by a fraction of an inch.

She snarls, twirling between curses and debris, her wand moving fast, absolutely chaotic.

A second curse sent by Moody grazes her side, and Sirius advances towards him. There is no thought into it, no plan, just the need to keep her safe, to get her out of there. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Rodolphus trying to make his way to his wife, casting Killing Curses left and right, lighting up the street with green.

Someone is yelling out Sirius’ name, possibly James, but everything is distorted in his head. The only thing that matters is Bella, blood coming out from under her mask-

“But who are these enemies, papa?” Sirius asks, frightened. His parents always speak of enemies, of traitors, of people that try to destroy their family.

His father holds Sirius’ hand in his much bigger one; the other caresses Sirius’ cheek. “If they don’t have our blood, they are our enemies.”

Everyone on that street that is not Bella becomes his enemy.

“We fight for what belongs to us. We show no mercy, Sirius.”

“Call him!” Rodolphus yells at someone. He is not very far, but to Sirius he might as well be a thousand miles away. 

His only focus is Bella, who will be overwhelmed soon.

“They can’t escape,” Moody shouts. “Scrimgeour, get out of that lunatic’s range,” he points at Rodolphus, who’s losing his mind, fighting at least seven Aurors. “Easy, they can’t escape, crowd them in and be vigilant!”

We’ll all die here, Sirius thinks. Because he will go down with Bella.

At least we’re together.

“Black, get the fuck out of here!” Moody snaps, seeing him. “Who let him pass? Savage, take him away!”

The air warps around them, becomes oppressive, unnatural as the AntiApparation charms bend and snap.

Voldemort stands in their midst, in one of his simple black robes, hair neatly tied back, eyes red burning.

Sirius breathes out.

Strange how immediate the silence is.

All the noises from before, the barked orders, the screams of pain, the groaning buildings and the hisses of curses rushing through the air-

All gone, as everyone takes Voldemort in. 

He so very rarely shows up in public, preferring to unleash his Death Eaters on the population from time to time. It helps with the superstition, the secrecy that surrounds him, the idea that he is out there, yet no one sees him. 

The strange peace lasts only a second before it breaks. 

A ripple of panic goes through the Aurors, more screams coming from the noncombatants trapped in their homes or in the stores.

Sirius only feels relief.

Bella is saved.

The veil of panic lifts off his mind, the street gains clarity, noises don’t come distorted anymore.

He realises he’s come very close to Moody. Extremely close. But the Aurors don’t notice him anymore, their attention captured throughly by Voldemort, who just stands there, as absolutely every wand around turns on him, spitting curses.

Red, blue, yellow, green, orange- they fly in a rainbow, like missiles Sirius saw in muggle movies, only far prettier even if just as lethal. 

Voldemort waves his right, wandless hand, and the curses go up and down, left and right, clashing against each other, smashing into Aurors instead, into buildings and the pavement or flying harmlessly into the sky in an explosion of colours and noise.

With his left hand, he moves his wand in an elegant, unhurried arch.

Oh shit! Sirius uselessly raises his hands to cover his face, in an instinct to protect it from what is coming. He’s fucked, right in the front line-

The blast that comes sends at least nine Aurors flying.

But not Sirius. And not Moody and Savage, who are right next to Sirius. 

Voldemort comes between them and Bella.

James’ voice gets louder, desperate, calling Sirius’ name. 

Moody and Savage attack- all the other Aurors that were dealing with the Death Eaters have now turned to Voldemort. 

Brave, brave men.

Really, Sirius’ respect for them skyrockets.

Voldemort moves his wand again and Sirius alone is flying backwards, away from the Aurors. 

An invisible force picks him up and throws him. The air whooshes past him as he travels impossibly fast through it. Yet it’s nothing like the previous blast that surely killed the first round of Aurors. 

The impact is painful. His back hits something, and he comes to a sudden stop, even if he has to blink several times to make sure he’s actually on solid ground again.

Sirius landed on his back; just really unfortunate he landed on a solid piece of metal. He hears a crack and feels a sharp pain in his back 

It knocks the breath out of him, and there’s James, trying to lift him. They’re at a relatively safe distance, at least thirty feet away from Voldemort. 

In the second it takes for Sirius to stand, another Auror goes flying. Impossible to recognise who, because there is no head attached to the body. 

“Merlin,” James utters, terrified.

Sirius tries to breathe. Definitely cracked a rib or two. “We have to leave. Now.”

Pop-pop-pop.

Sirius turns his head and sees Death Eaters Disaaparate away; no one pays any attention to them, not with Voldemort there. 

Rodolphus is the last to go, Bella in his arms. Before he goes, he points his wand up and the Dark Mark shines brightly in the sky above them.

Once he’s alone, Voldemort cats another spell- the consequences of which Sirius can’t observe, obscured by rows of Aurors.

“Sirius, come on.” James pulls his arm. “We have to go!”

Brilliant green light a little away catches Sirius’ attention. He turns his head.

A dead Auror. Another one, that is. There are many on the ground. Sirius thinks he recognises Indira’s black braid hidden under one of the bodies.

His stomach twists, painfully, and he doesn’t know if it’s caused by Indira, or the curse Mulciber hit him with, or whatever injury he’d suffered in his fall.

He gets dizzy, dangerously so, and crumples to the ground. 

Get yourself together. Stand.

Sirius tries, but he just can’t.

Screams of pain echoes everywhere, and he wants them to shut up. He has a massive headache.

When he moves his head at the right angle, he can clearly see Voldemort.

He is definitely holding back on me, he thinks. He knew that Voldemort was only playing in their duels. That he was only playing all those months ago, when Sirius first met him.

He ploughs through the Aurors that now surround him on all sides. Trained men and women, the wizarding world’s elite forces, and they can’t even land a hit on him; not on their own and not even together.

We’ll lose the war. The thought comes with a certainty he rarely felt in his life.

Sirius knows, watching Voldemort move with inhuman speed, that the war is lost, only most people haven’t realised it yet.

He truly doesn’t look like a man.

He’s a myth come alive from some ancient, forgotten legend.

Sirius was raised with magic. It’s been a part of his life since he was born. He was always amused by the muggleborns with wide eyes when witnessing simple spells, with moving staircases and other mundane things.

He feels like a muggleborn, like he’s only now faced with magic for the first time in his life, as he watches Voldemort perform spells that Sirius didn’t even imagine in his wildest fantasies.

He’s so enthralled by the sight he doesn’t notice James, nor hear him, until he’s shaken.

“Can you hear me? Sirius! Sirius!”

Sirius rips his eyes away from Voldemort and all the pain returns to his body instantly.

“Yeah.”

James is bent over him, hair more wild than usual, his glasses askew.

“Thank Merlin! I thought- for a second I thought- come on!” He pulls Sirius up, again. 

“We have to get you to St. Mungo’s. You’ll be ok, Padfoot. You’ll be fine. Alright? Just a little longer. Just stay awake-”

“‘m fine,” Sirius tries to say, but he only leans more heavily into James.

The street shakes under their feet. A gong like noise goes off and then silence.

Sirius looks around wildly. 

He can’t see Voldemort anymore. 

“Stay inside!” a magnified voice- Dawlish, Sirius thinks- says, when someone looks out of a window. “He might return.”

“He’s gone?” James asks, but there is no one close enough to answer him. “Hey, Sirius! Stay awake!”

“Hmm?” Sirius asks, startled.

“Alright, let’s try to Apparate. Hold on, yeah?! I’ve got you.”

(-)

“I’m fine,” Sirius insists, when James takes him to St Mungo. 

He’s not fine, but it’s so chaotic there, Aurors brought in on stretcher after stretcher, Healers running around. It makes Sirius’ headache worse. 

“They’re busy enough as it is,” he says.

“We’ll wait here patiently until they have time for you,” Remus says. He has soot on his face. He came with Lily a few minutes before James and Sirius arrived. 

Lily is fine, just volunteering to help sort out the less injured people all around the packed reception. 

“This is nothing. I’ve had way worse!”

“Sirius, I heard a crack when you fell,” James snaps.

“Look at how hard you’re working to breathe, you idiot,” Remus backs James up.

“Peter?” Sirius wheezes. 

“He went home. He sent a Patronus to let me know he’s safe,” Remus answers. 

“What’s wrong with him?” a harassed young Healer in training asks, hurrying their way. Her robe is stained with blood. She has a shocked expression on her face, as if she can’t quite believe what she’s been dealing with in the past minutes.

“I’m positive he broke some ribs. He hit his head, too,” James says, holding Sirius in an upright position.

She waves her wand at Sirius. “Head is fine,” she says, surprising Sirius. It feels like his head will split in two, any second. “Rib is broken, though. Someone will have to put it back in place. Don’t move until a Healer has time for you. It could pierce your lung or heart-”

“And he was hit with a curse,” James adds.

“Huh?” Sirius manages to exclaim. “Oh, right.” The one that was meant for James. “Did nothing, though.” 

“Where?” the Healer asks. James points at Sirius’ left abdomen.

She lifts his shirt and frowns. “I can’t see- “ she points his wand at him and performs a complicated movement. “There is something, but I don’t know what.” 

“I don’t feel anything,” Sirius reassures her. “Go, take care of the really injured, will you?”

She takes his wrist, his left wrist. Sirius pulls it back, hissing at her, hiding his arm behind his back.

She’s in such a hurry she doesn’t think anything of it, focused only on her job.

But Remus notices. His eyes move from Sirius’ left arm to his eyes-

She grabs his right arm and taps his wand on his wrist. A faint pink light surrounds it. “You’re definitely cursed with something,” she mumbles. “If you weren’t, it would be green. But pink is not so bad.”

She looks at James. “Someone will come eventually to fix his rib. When there’s time. Wait here. And if that-” she points to Sirius’ right wrist. “turns red, you call out. Red is an emergency, got it?”

“Got it,” James says and then she’s off, making her way through a sea of people crying for attention. 

“Moony, can you get me some water, please?” Sirius asks and Remus goes. “Listen, I can’t stay here,” he tells James. His ribs hurt like hell, make it hard to breathe.

“Sirius, you’re cursed with an unfamiliar-”

“They can’t see this,” Sirius whispers, and nods to his left arm.

“Oh.” James’ goes even more pale than he’s been. “Oh. What do we do?”

“I’ll go home-”

“You’re hurt!”

“And wait for Marlene. It’s just a broken rib. I’d had that plenty of times. Remember when I fell off my broom in that quidditch match?”

“But the curse-”

Sirius lifts his right arm. “If it turns red, I’ll go to Dumbledore. He’ll find me a trustworthy Healer, yeah? He’ll know what to do.”

“Ok,” James whispers, hesitant. “Ok. You should go to Godric’s Hallow’s. We’ll be right over. Let me find Lily.”

“Nah, I’ll be fine home. I’ll wait for Marlene. She’ll heal me once things calm down here and she can leave.”

“No! You can’t be alone, what if you get really sick-” James shuts up when Aurors bring Moody through a fireplace.

James heaves, covering his mouth.

Other people aren’t so careful and they throw up.

Moody is only recognisable by his uniform, adorned with medals. 

Half his face is torn, bloodied. But it’s the eye that almost makes Sirius’ breakfast make its way up his throat.

His eye is hanging loose, dangling around his face like a pendulum.

Dawlish is screaming at some Healers, holding Moody gingerly. The Head Healer himself comes out of a back room, a stricken expression on his features. 

Sirius carefully walks out of the hospital, holding his side, and no one stops him, not even James, who can’t seem to look away from the disaster. 

Alastor Moody, their fiercest fighter, the most accomplished Auror. 

But no one is accomplished enough for Voldemort. 

(-)

Back home, the headache gets worse. Bouts of nausea come and go. He can’t sit or lie down, because of his rib. It’s easier to breathe when he’s standing, only he is so dizzy, he’s staring to see double. 

He leans on a wall, the one closest to the liquor cabinet, and opens a bottle of Odgen’s finest. 

In the silence, that seems so strange after the last hour, Sirius thinks. Or tries to. 

Now that Voldemort isn’t in Sirius’ line of sight, Sirius can think of him as a man again, god-like status put on hold. 

If Sirius does his job right, if the Order and the Ministry have their way and Voldemort is defeated, Bella will go down with him.

He doesn’t understand how he hadn’t realised this very obvious fact before.

Caught up in the fight as he’d been, it was only about the next mission, about rebellion and keeping James safe, surviving through the next day. 

He can’t get the image of her surrounded by Aurors, injured, out of his head. 

Only after he witnessed that it dawns on Sirius that Voldemort’s defeat means Bella’s death or her imprisonment.

Your brother’s, too. Regulus has a dark mark on his arm. Eventually, someone is bound to discover it. Someone would talk and-

Sirius breathes painfully, his ribs protesting at the motion. He takes another sip of firewhiskey. 

He can’t stand anymore, vision swimming. 

He’s lies down on the floor of his living room, consumed by fear. 

And if Voldemort wins, which seems far more likely, it means James and Lily will die. Marlene. Remus and Peter.

“We will win. And because we are on his side, when we take over Britain, we can ask for favours.” Bella pats his arm, comforting. “Think about that when your stupid little conscience troubles you. Think that you can ask for Potter’s life, once the war is done.”

She smiles up at him.

“You can save your blood traitor friends. If you help the dark lord, if you become dear to him, he’ll grant you their lives.”

James is certain to be allowed to live, if Sirius begs enough. And Marlene- her bloodline is old and pure, even older than the Potters.

Voldemort gives werewolves rights, or so he promises; Remus should survive if he joins Greyback’s pack. 

And Peter is a pureblood, too.

James, Remus and Peter didn’t do much fighting yet. The few fights they were involved with- they caused irrelevant blows to Death Eaters.

From all the Marauders, it’s Sirius that did the most damage to Death Eaters in combat.

Marlene, though- Marlene did years of fighting. Her brother is an Auror. Her surviving brother. The dead one was also an Auror. Her sister trained for a Transfiguration Mastery under Dumbledore. 

Well, the sister and brother will sadly have to die. But Marlene-

She’ll be fine. She’s pure, and if Sirius needs to kneel at Voldemort’s feet and beg that she at least be allowed to leave the country, he will do it. 

Lily will die.

Every muggleborn, not just Lily. It will be hell on earth for them. They’ll be hunted, rounded up, executed. 

Sirius’ stomach turns. Nausea and something else, something painful, throbbing. The pink light around his right wrist, left there by the Healer, is turning a darker shade. 

Sirius ignores it, lost in thought. Lily, dead. Lily, hunted-

But if Voldemort loses, Bella is done. Regulus. Lucius- what will become of Cissa? The Lestrange brothers. Not that Sirius cares much about Lestrange, but- half the Sacred Families will be decimated, fallen in disgrace.

Fuck, Sirius thinks and he would panic if he could. As it is, his ribs don’t have the luxury of panic; hard enough to breathe as it is.

(-)

Marlene’s fox Patronus find him in the same place he’d been in since he came home.

“We’re swamped; it’s bad here. I heard you were injured. Please come if it’s urgent, and I’ll find the time. If not, stay put and I’ll come to you as soon as we stabilise the situation here.”

“All good. I’m fine.” Sirius sends a Patronus back.

(-)

The pain shooting up from his left arm wakes him from the fitful slumber he’s fallen into at some point.

Sirius shivers. For a second he’s confused, doesn’t know where he is. It’s dark all around and he’s wet.

Did it rain on me? he thinks, sluggish.

He yells in pain when he tries to move. Everything hurts. He thinks his dark mark is burning, but with all the other pains, it’s hard to be sure. 

I’m home, he thinks, trying to distinguish through the darkness. It didn’t rain on him, he’s just covered in sweat.

The spell the Healer put on him turned black. A solid black, pulsating around Sirius’ wrist.

Mulciber didn’t fudge up the curse, after all. Whatever it is, it’s taking hold, spreading slowly but efficiently inside Sirius.

When he lifts his T-shirt, Sirius can see hundreds of black veins on his abdomen.

Maybe I should go to St Mungo, he thinks, groggy. But he stays on the floor, lacking the energy to move. You can’t go, in any case. They’ll see the mark. Somewhere in his head, he knows this is urgent, but the rest of him can’t feel the urgency. If anything, his bruised or broken rib bothers him far more.

It’s fine. Marlene will come eventually. She’ll fix him up. She always does.

The Healer said to worry if the spell turns red. It’s not red. She didn’t say anything about black.

Sirius tries to keep awake, but he falls back into unconsciousness.

(-)

He wakes again. The pain is horrendous. All his insides feel like fire. He lifts his shirt, and he’s bleeding.

But his blood is more black than red.

Black blood, he thinks and laughs. He chokes and coughs, which only brings more pain.

He’s hot, and his abdomen cramps every other second.

He can’t think straight. His head is filled with Voldemort. With Voldemort in the cabin, talking in a low voice, fascinating knowledge coming out from his mouth. Sirius can’t help but hang on to every word. 

Voldemort drinking tea, smiling at Bella in Lestrange Manor, asking if she’s making progress with the winter garden that she’s so fond of. 

Voldemort in Diagon Alley, laying waste to human life. 

Voldemort from the picture hidden away in Sirius’ nightstand, young and stiff and beautiful. 

Voldemort from Morfin’s memory, scared, desperate. 

Voldemort who is ripping their world into two, who has the power of life and death over Sirius’ loved ones. 

What happened to you? Who made you this way? What is your weak spot? 

Where is Merope Gaunt and what exactly had she done to her son to turn him into… whatever he is. 

Blood oozes out of Sirius’ abdomen, black and thick. Black. It always goes back to family, doesn’t it? 

They can run away, but how exactly does one outrun the blood in their veins?

Sirius has to find out who Voldemort is. Not just his name. But who he is. He has to understand. 

He stands, clinging to the couch. Once on his feet, only his will holds him upright. 

His dark mark is burning; Sirius sees the dark mark over Diagon, the skull and snake reigning above death and pain. 

He makes his way out of his house, slowly, carefully. He’s dying, he thinks, but he won’t die in this strange place, in this not home. 

He won’t die before he finds out about Voldemort. He refuses. 

He Apparates away. 

(-)

The wards embrace him, welcome him, the blood that feeds them, his father’s blood instantly recognises the same blood in Sirius.

Home, home, home, his heart screams in his chest.

But he can feel how weak the wards have become. His father died months before, and it’s been years since he last added his blood to the wards, since before he fell ill. 

Impenetrable, imposing fortress Grimmauld is not as safe as it used to be.

It hurts to be back in that hallway. It hurts because he remembers thousands of times in his childhood standing in that very spot, hanging to his father’s robe.

“Don’t leave, papa! Take me with you!” he would beg.

And his father, proud and tall and dressed in power and wealth, would laugh and say he’d be back for dinner.

“Be good for you mother, Sirius. Take care of Regulus.”

Sirius can almost see his father’s tall shape in the doorway.

He stumbles to the right, knocking over the troll umbrella stand.

The walls themselves shift to catch him, give him something to hold on to, becoming narrower, like a cocoon made of concrete that will not let Sirius fall. 

“Take me to her,” he wishers, lips on the cold stone, and the house obeys. Sirius only needs to walk, slowly, until the walls shift, leading him to an open door. 

And there she is.

The woman that had once been his mother.

Once upon a time, she’d wear her hair free, a cascade of black silk covering her shoulders, framing a younger face. A loving smile.

But it’s been so long ago Sirius thinks he must have dreamed that woman, made her up in his imagination. 

It’s nothing like the woman in front of him.

Bitter, hair pulled back in an elegant but strict style, pulling at her skin.

There’s no kindness in her eyes, no love. No smiles.

“What are you doing here?” she demands, standing up from Sirius’ favourite couch. 

After work, his father would have a glass of wine; he’d sit on that couch and take Sirius in his lap and tell him stories of the past, about long dead family members. Great men and women that built their society. 

She is dressed in black. Dress, robe, shoes- all black.

Black doesn’t show dirt. It doesn’t show weakness. It doesn’t show pain.

“How dare you? Get out!”

Sirius advances, dripping blood all over her expensive Persian carpet. 

“You have to tell me-“ he whispers, holding to his side.

He, too, wears black. It doesn’t show blood as quickly as other colour would.

“How do you imagine you can simply walk into my house, after everything? Get out! GET OUT!” She advances to him but then stops, abruptly. Her eyes leave his face and travel down. “Sirius?”

The room spins around him. The flames from the fireplace paint shadows on the walls, threatening and familiar.

The portraits on the walls all look like his father. 

“You have to tell me about-“ Sirius says, and he stumbles forward. “About Tom Riddle. You have to tell me-“

He must lose a second or two, because she’s suddenly in his face. She tugs at his hand, that is gripping at his wound.

Sirius looks down. His fingers are stained with blood. It’s on her hands now, too.

“Tell me about Tom Riddle.“

“Do not say that name!”

And oh, how Sirius remembers the screaming, the exact pitch of her tone.

Their eyes meet, and Sirius has never seen her so scared. 

Or if she’d been, in the past, it was only visible in the set of her shoulders, in how angry she grew, defensive. The cause was always Sirius’ father. He’d provoke a simmering, furious kind of fear in her.

But it was never like this- never wide eyed, pupils blown with panic, colour draining from her face.

How dare you, you filthy half-blood, Sirius thinks, outraged and delirious. Hare dare Voldemort waltz into Sirius’ world and frighten a Black? This Black.

Sirius’ mother.

I’ll destroy you, he thinks.

“Why did you call him a mudblood?” Sirius insists, resisting her attempts to pull his hand from his wound.

She’s grown frail. Skinny. Her skin is stretched thin over her long fingers, adorned by jewellery. 

There was a time when those hands carried him around the house.

A time where they would smack Sirius, and he’d felt the power behind them.

Now she can’t even pull his hand away.

“Don’t say that!” she screams again.

“Why did you?” Sirius screams right back. “Did no one figure out he was a Gaunt? Did no one see his mother at the Platform-“

“He was an orphan!” she says. “If we’d have known… if he’d had said something… but we didn’t know.”

An orphan.

Sirius was way off with his assumption.

He thought Merope Gaunt was at fault for whatever is wrong with Voldemort. He’d thought that if he found her, he’d figure Voldemort out.

Orphan.

For an absurd second, Sirius feels betrayed. He’d thought he’d had that in common with Voldemort. 

On the other hand, he feels relieved. No, having a shitty mother won’t turn Sirius into a dark lord.

Sirius must have lost another second, because Kreacher is suddenly there.

Sirius kicks him straight in the face, though the movement unbalances him. He almost falls, but it was worth it. 

Hitting Kreacher brings him a vicious pleasure.

The filthy animal, always snitching on Sirius, spying on him for his mother, getting him in trouble. 

All the hate Sirius could not direct at her, he directed at Kreacher.

She’s trying to pull him over to the couch, her fingers in his leather jacket, insistent.

“Let me go.”

“Help me with him,” she orders and Kreacher, always loyal, approaches Sirius again. 

“Don’t you fucking touch me, you foul beast,” Sirius barks at Kreacher. 

“Take his wand.” 

Who’s wand? Sirius wonders, extremely dazed.

It’s only when he sees Kreacher clutching Sirius’ wand that it registers.

He lunges after the elf, but his mother is still clinging to him with one arm. With the other, she takes out her own wand-

And then nothing. 

(-)

He wakes in his bedroom, one of his muggle girls staring at him, straddling a motorcycle, half naked.

For a second, he is horribly, terribly confused. Because he can’t be in his bedroom. He’d left, so long ago-

He shouldn’t be there. His bedroom is no longer his and his dark mark is burning.

He tries to sit, but a hand on his chest stops him.

Sirius looks to his left, and there she is.

Fuck. He’d come home!

And that was fine when he was fucked up, dizzy, on death’s door. But now he’s alive. With his mother there.

There’s a bottle of firewhsikey and a glass on his nightstand and Sirius cringes.

She’ll yell at me for it and it’s too late to hide it-

He shakes his head. He’s not a teenager. He’s not living there anymore. And the whiskey is not his.

His room is intact. The posters on the wall, he understands. They have a permeant sticking charm that would be bothersome to get rid of. Not impossible for Kreacher, but maybe it could be explained away. 

But his muggle tape recorder is on the dresser. His muggle records are all over his desk. He recognises his transfiguration homework.

His Gryffindor tie, on the back of his chair. 

It’s as if Sirius left it there only mere minutes before, instead of four years.

She’s watching him from the armchair beside his bed.

“I did what I could, but you need a professional healer. As soon as possible. I can’t tell what’s wrong.”

Her voice is ice.

She’s staring at his dark mark and only then Sirius realises he’s naked from the waist up.

“What have you gotten yourself into?” she spits.

Sirius stops the impulse to hide his hand. The dark mark is black as ink. Voldemort is calling, and Sirius thinks he’s been calling for a while.

“Thanks and all, but it’s not your damn business.” He sits. His rib is healed, he’s breathing easily, but there are still black veins all over his abdomen. Now that he’s naked, he can see they are all over his arm, too. His chest. 

He’s still very nauseous and his vision has black smudges at the edges.

“I thought you’d be smarter than that,” she says, jaw clenched, still staring daggers at the skull and snake.

“You are aware Regulus has one too, right?” Sirius hisses back. He stands, gingerly. The room spins around him a couple of times before it comes into focus again. He feels weak, unsteady and his side flares with fain, reaching into his chest, up his neck, to the base of his skull. 

He grabs his wand, that was left for him on the other nightstand. 

“You are not Regulus,” she says.

“Oh, I know. You pointed that out often and loudly, my entire life.”

Even the small distance to his dresser weakens him further. But he makes it, opens it and-

All his clothes are there. He takes a random shirt and struggles to put it on. 

“You need a Healer.” 

Sirius leaves the room without another word. 

So many stairs, winding and- 

You’re a Black, you can Apparate straight out. 

Right. Sirius tries to button up his shirt, but last he wore it he was sixteen. It doesn’t fit him anymore, and he simply doesn’t have the energy or limb coordination to try to make it work. 

He’s getting dizzier the more he stands, the pain getting worse. 

Kreacher stares at him from a dark corner. 

“You broke my Mistress heart when you left,” he says. “Half her hair turned white. Ungrateful, bad, bad Master.” 

If Sirius didn’t feel as if he’d topple over, he’d gladly kill the pest. 

As it is, he closes his eyes, and allows the dark mark to pull him to Voldemort. 

(-)

Sirius finds himself in a place he’s never been before. It’s not the cabin, and it’s not Lestrange Manor, who wouldn’t allow Apparation straight inside it.

Not only is he too dizzy and weak to take in his surroundings properly, but the little attention he has is firmly fixed on Voldemort.

Who looks pissed off. A muscle jerks in his jaw and his eyes, redder than ever, are narrowed in irritation.

Angry, but thankfully contained.

After Sirius just saw in Diagon, he’s a tad afraid of Voldemort, in ways he never was before.

I must be really ill, he thinks, distracted. For Sirius to admit to himself he’s afraid... yeah, he’s not doing too well.

“Where were you?” His voice is that dangerous level of soft. “You left the hospital almost twenty hours ago.”

Oh, great. He has spies at St Mungo’s, too.

“I-” Sirius says, but a sharp pain in his side renders him mute.

“You left without getting treatment,” Voldemort informs him, as if Sirius isn’t aware.

Fucking obnoxious, the way he feels the need to state obvious facts, just to show off that he knows everything.

He takes a step toward Sirius and Sirius, instinctively, tries to step back. Pain flares everywhere. His knees go weak and he flounders, losing his footing. He grabs on a high chair, steadying himself.

When he looks up, there are two Voldemort swimming in his vision.

Before he says anything, he’s grabbed by the arm. It’s very different from when his mother did it. A powerful, indomitable grip. He doesn’t try to fight.

“I was indisposed; I couldn’t answer your call,” he hisses. The pain gets worse when he’s manhandled on a table. He tries to stand back up, but Voldemort pushes against his chest and Sirius just gives up and lies on it. He’s too weak to do anything else.

The tip of that pale, creepy wand touches Sirius’s skin, right over where the curse hit. His shirt is opened, impossible to button it.

“Who made this mockery of a healing?” Voldemort snarls.

“It looks like a complicated curse,” he says, unreasonably insulted on behalf of his mother.

“It is. They should have sent you to a Healer. Surely, the Order has some good ones. At the very least, Dumbledore should have seen to you.”

Dumbledore. James. They’re probably looking for Sirius, too.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, black dots dancing in his vision.

“You are hours away from dying.”

Oh. Not so fine, then.

His side burns, as Voldemort traces patterns on his skin. Vials of potions appear and Voldemort alternates between forcing them down Sirius’ throat and using his wand again.

Sirius feels more and more lightheaded, but the pain doesn’t seem as bad, at least. His body relaxes in that unnatural way, only brought about by magic.

“Where’s Mulciber? I’ve some score to settle-”

Voldemort’s eyes spark, full of anger. “Dead.”

Sirius freezes. Their eyes meet.

“You didn’t imagine, I hope, that I’d let him live. He almost killed you.”

Sirius doesn’t know what to do with this information. His brain malfunctions for a couple of seconds. “How- why wouldn’t he try to kill me? He doesn’t know I’m a Death-”

“They were all recently told not to inflict too much damage on your person,” Voldemort says. “As a favour to Bella.”

“It was an accident,” Sirius says, heart thudding. He can feel it in his ears. “He meant to hit James-”

“I do not allow accidents.” Voldemort looks away, back to Sirius’ abdomen.

Bollocks. With Bella in his inner circle, Sirius is certain there must be plenty of accidents.

The intense healing, the potions, the pure exhaustion start to claim him. It makes him pleasantly woozy, as if he’s floating.

He saw his mother. It’s only then starting to register, but it’s hard to truly grasp it in that state.

He went home, faced her, and survived. He closes his eyes, and he recalls her sitting at his bedside, worried. Like she was long before, when she used to love Sirius and he had dragon pox.

Is it possible I hallucinated the entire thing? The thought makes him unbearably sad all of a sudden. No, it would be crushing to wake up later and find out he was only dreaming.

He struggles to open his eyes. Voldemort is so focused above him, eyes fixed on whatever injury Sirius has sustained.

“I am not hallucinating, am I?” Sirius asks. His speech comes out slurred. His mouth is dry, tongue heavy.

“You aren’t.” His voice is grounding, reassuring. No, Sirius can’t be hallucinating. Even his imagination couldn’t come up with something quite like Voldemort. “You should be asleep after the potions I gave you. But apparently you are quite resistant to any mind-altering substances.” He spares Sirius a glance-

Yeah, I can’t come up with something like this. Voldemort is just- too much.

“How are you real?” Sirius asks. How is it possible someone like him exists? Scenes from Dragon Alley flash before Sirius’ eyes. How can one man hold so much power?

And then the memory changes, and he’s back in Grimmauld; with his mother, that takes care of Sirius, watches over him as he sleeps, in a bedroom she kept the way he left it, as if waiting for him to return.

There’s nothing in this world quite like a mother. Even a hateful, scornful mother. 

“Have you, under any name, wanted something that you never got?”

“Yes,” Voldemort answers.”

“Tom Riddle was an orphan,” Sirius says, closing his eyes. “He once wanted a family, but he never got it.”

Because that is the only thing a man like him can’t get. He can gain power, wealth, followers, he can conquer the world, but he can’t get his family. 

Sirius had been somewhat right- he had seen a similarity between him and Voldemort and while he thought it was because Merope Gaunt was a terrible mother, it was actually the fact that Voldemort must have craved for a family at some point, as much as Sirius does. 

Only Sirius left his family. Voldemort’s family left him. 

“It’s not all that it’s cracked up to be,” Sirius mumbles, half asleep.

A deep laugh fills the room. It’s very pleasant. It invades Sirius’ brain and he can’t think anymore.

“What a delight you are,” he hears, as if from far away, right before he passes out.

Chapter Text

It takes Sirius a while to wake up. A very gradual, groggy, return to consciousness. Even when he feels certain he’s cognisant, he still doesn’t open his eyes.

He feels great. Rested. Something that hardly happens to him. And he just knows that once he opens his eyes, all that will vanish as he’ll have to deal with reality.

He knows he’s somewhere with Voldemort, but he’s still in that phase, trapped between dreams and alertness, where his predicament doesn’t seem like such a big deal.

He thinks Voldemort is touching him- the sensations on the left side of his abdomen are too soft to be a wand.

That, too, feels good. 

Open your eyes.

No. Not yet. Why ruin a good thing? In fact, Sirius thinks he can will himself back to sleep, no problem. Avoid dealing with the utter shit in his life for a little while longer.

Open your eyes! The voice sounds like his father.

Sirius sighs and obeys.

He’s staring up at a particularly high ceiling. It snaps into focus immediately, and Sirius only now realises how very ill he’d been before he arrived in that room, how his vision blurred.

“I’ll never take sight for granted again,” he mumbles.

Poor James.

“You take everything for granted,” comes the response, and now Sirius has no other choice but to take his eyes off the ceiling and look down.

Yes, he is touching me. Why? After all, Sirius’ injury seems healed. His skin is back to normal.

It’s then when he realises he’s still under the effect of some potion or another, because he isn’t panicked nor disturbed that Voldemort has his fingers on him.

In fact, Sirius suspects he’s high as fuck, because he just feels wonderfully.

He’s playing with Sirius’ tattoo, he realises, after he inspects the situation for a few seconds.

Pale fingers run over Sirius’ phoenix. It flaps his wings, or closes them, depending on how it is stroked.

“Bet you hate it,” he whispers. Sirius’ left arm, with the dark mark, lays awfully close to his side, right next to the phoenix.

“I don’t.” Voldemort finally stops touching him. “I appreciate Phoenixes. Their intelligence, their grace. Their immortality.”

“You should see it when it catches fire,” Sirius says. “It looks like my entire torso is ablaze.”

“I saw it,” Voldemort says, softly.

“Huh. It was getting kinda old.” Sirius lifts his head somewhat. Yeah, the tattoo is smaller than usual. Just reborn, then.

Marlene’s is more impressive. She wanted a bigger one. Even when at the beginning of a life circle, it paints Marlene from hip to neck, huge wings covering her back and chest.

“You like fire.” Voldemort’s eyes travel to the dragon on Sirius’ other side. Only part of it is visible; most of it is on Sirius’ back. It trashes its tail now, up and down Sirius’ chest-

Wait. He remembers having a shirt on. One that didn’t fit him, true, but there was a shirt. It’s gone now.

“Why am I so calm?” Sirius enquires, because nothing seems to bother him.

“You should be sleeping,” Voldemort comments and Sirius has a flash of memory that he’d been told that already, quite a few times. “But you abuse recreational potions and muggle drugs so much, you’ve become quite resistant.”

“I could sleep,” Sirius guesses.

“Close your eyes,” Voldemort instructs.

No, his father says in Sirius’ head.

There’s no danger, Sirius tries to tell his father.

There is.

Sirius doesn’t like this fight. He wants to be at peace again.

He turns on his side, and only then he feels the pillow under his neck. He’s still on the table, only the table is no longer made of wood. It’s firm, but not that firm, pleasant under him.

Once on his side, Sirius sees the trail of blood on the rug.

“My blood?” he asks.

“No. I often bring people here to disembowel them.”

Sirius laughs. What a morbid sense of humour. Well, he hopes that it’s a joke.

His hair had fallen on his cheek, parts of it in his mouth. Sirius spits it out, to no success.

He closes his eyes. “Bella?”

“In good health.”

“Good, good,” he mumbles. He jerks his head again, trying to get rid of the hair.

Cold fingers trail on his cheek, pushing the hair back.

“Thanks,” he says, and falls back to sleep.

(-)

Next time he opens his eyes, he sees the high ceiling and instantly remembers everything.

The battle, Bella, his mother, and then Voldemort.

Sirius is on his feet in record time, heart in his throat. Where the fuck am I? And where is Voldemort?

He looks around, trying not to panic.

He’s in what appears to be…. a  torture chamber, really. A big, mostly empty room, with no windows.

There’s only the table Sirius was sleeping on, transfigured into an impromptu bed, and a high chair beside it.

On the chair, there’s a glass of water and Sirius’ wand.

He grabs it and feels better for it. He drinks the water, too, cold and soothing when it goes down his throat.

There are bloodstains everywhere, and some look far too old to be Sirius’.

“I often bring people here to disembowel them,” Voldemort said and Sirius’ stomach twists.

But then he sees the cauldrons in the far corners, hidden by the shadows of the candles fixed on the wall.

He goes closer to inspect it and he finds shelves filled with potion vials, herbs, and all sorts of illegal and rare ingredients.

Alright, maybe a brewing room that’s only occasionally used as a torture chamber.

How is that better?

He shakes his head. Doesn’t matter.

He locates the door and heads for it; part of him expects to find it locked.

It isn’t. The handle twists under his fingers, and then Sirius finds himself in a forest.

Night. He’s confused as to how long had passed since the battle, since he went to Grimmauld.

Fuck. Mum.

Sirius shudders. He’s so distraught he Apparates away, without even trying to look at the stars and determine the location he was just in.

(-)

“Why the fuck are you half-naked?” Rabastan asks, after an elf lets Sirius inside Lestrange Manor.

“To bring joy into the hearts of those lucky enough to feast their eyes on me,” Sirius snaps. “Where’s Bella?”

“Resting.”

Sirius heads for the stairs.

Rabastan trails after him.

“Please put on a shirt before you go in. You can have one of mine; I don’t think Rod will be happy to learn you are going into her chambers to begin with, let alone naked-“

Sirius ignores him, taking two steps at a time, and then taking a left turn on the second floor.

When he enters Bella’s room, he slams the door shut in Rabastan’s face.

She’s sleeping in her enormous bed.

She looks like a goddess, lovely and pure. Her long lashes caress her cheeks, her hair covers the fluffy pillows.

Sirius approaches her, his boots making no noise on the soft carpet.

He takes her hand. She’s always so soft, her skin perfect and unblemished.

“Sirius?” she asks, without opening her eyes.

“Mmm.” It’s all he can say, faced with her this way; when he imagines what he almost lost.

“I’m fine. Just need to rest for a couple of days. My lord saw to me right after the battle.”

She tries to pull him into the bed.

“Come, rest with me.”

It is tempting. Bella’s room is much more comfortable than the one he has in his house. It’s grand and beautiful, like his own, only this one holds his Bella. It is not cold and empty.

Sirius would like to stay.

“Can’t. Go back to sleep.” He bends and kisses her tenderly. Once on her exquisite full lips, once on the top of her perfect nose, and once on her forehead.

She giggles and lets go of his hand, turns on her side.

(-)

Oh, bugger.

There are people in his house. That’s it. I’m going to change the wards to not let anyone in, ever again.

He just wants a moment to himself, to process his mother.

He finds James, Marlene and Dumbledore in his living room.

(-)

She wouldn’t care, he thinks, when he’s finally alone. 

It’s all he could think about. He had little patience for Dumbledore, James and Marlene. He knows he was short with them, he feels bad for it.

“I was called,” he’d snapped, when they asked where he was. “And now I’m tired. So I’ll appreciate it if I can get some rest.”

Only Sirius is not tired at all. He isn’t sure if it’s because of Voldemort’s potions and healing, but he rather doubts it.

There’s an energy inside him that has nothing to do with magic.

She would care, another voice insists, as he stares at the blank parchment.

He’s been staring at it for quite some time.

She cared enough to help you.

She cared enough to keep Sirius’ room the way he left it.

So, is it absurd to assume she’d want to know if he survived the curse?

Is she in Grimmauld, alone with that insane elf, alone with the ghosts, pacing in the living room, speculating if Sirius is still alive?

He swallows.

Maybe she is. But what if she isn’t?

Their paths crossed, once, mere days after he was done with Hogwarts.

She was with Regulus, and they were coming out of Gringotts, as Sirius was climbing to the entrance.

They walked right past each other, and his mother and brother didn’t spare him a glance.

Like he didn’t exit.

And truly, he felt it so. He felt there was no reason to exist any longer.

There’s nothing that hurts quite like shunning. There is no violence in it, but it cuts far worse. It cut inside him, hallowed him out, and he kept bleeding, the wound festering. Invisible, but painful.

After she heard he’d joined the Order, Bella wouldn’t look at him, either, not even when he begged her to talk to him, down in Knockturn Alley, when he stalked her to Borgin and Burkes.

Narcissa gave an interview to Witch Weakly, when she allowed journalists in Malfoy Manor to photograph her garden for their ‘Top five magical gardens in Britain’ article.

‘Mrs Malfoy is devoted to her family, which consists of husband Lucius Malfoy, sister Bellatrix Lestrange, cousin Regulus Black and Evan Rosier.’

Sirius went to Andromeda, but she found it too painful to look at him, because he reminded her so much of what she left behind. They sat in silence, only filled by small Nymphadora, and they did not look at each other.

She wouldn’t care, Sirius decides, scrunching up the parchment, throwing it across the room.

You didn’t look at her either, that day at Gringotts, a voice whispers.

But it’s different, isn’t it? He didn’t acknowledge her, just because she ignored him first.

And she had Regulus at her side. They all had each other; it was Sirius that was alone.

He stands, furious and hurt, and heads to his liquor cabinet.

But he’s not as damaged as he was. That wound healed a little when he got his Bella back. He could breathe easier.

And the other night, his mother- his mother took care of him.

“Fuck,” he growls and returns to the table, summons another parchment.

And then he’s back to staring at it.

I can just get out and provoke a scandal in a pub. It’s sure to be reported in a gossip magazine, and his mother would know then he’s alive.

That is much easier that putting quill to paper.

In the end, he remains seated, and he writes.

‘Thank you for your assistance. I appreciate it.

Sirius’

He scrunches up his nose.

Why? It’s good. Short and to the point. Cold, polite, the way you were taught.

But then she won’t answer back with the customary ‘you are welcome’, and Sirius will get hurt again, will wait for an owl for days on end. 

He summons another parchment.

It takes him until dawn to finally send the owl.

In the end, he’d only written ‘thanks’.

It’s enough. And Sirius won’t be waiting for a reply, because ‘thanks’ is rude, undeserving of an answer.

It’s perfect.

(-)

“Sir is to have these potions, Sir!” One of Bella’s elves tells Sirius, almost giving him a heart attack when he wakes up with the little blighter staring down at him.

She has a tray of vials with her. She stacks them neatly on Sirius’ nightstand.

“Here is instructions.” She places a note beside the flasks. “Mistress Bellatrix said Sir takes them or else.”

Sirius grabs the note, and instantly knows that’s not Bella’s writing.

It’s Voldemort’s. Not that he ever saw something written by him, but Sirius just knows.

Plain directions on when to take the potions, according to colour.

“Mistress Bella said I is to make you a meal, sir. What would sir like?”

“Nothing. Go back to Lestrange Manor.”

“But I is ordered to-“

“Leave,” Sirius snaps, and then he regrets it when she flinches.

It’s Kreacher’s fault. Seeing him again reminded Sirius why he hates elves.

“I’m not hungry, it’s fine,” he says, in a gentler tone.

The poor thing trembles, her ears dropped low. “Mistress Bella said I is to feed you, sir. Or else.”

Sirius sighs. “Fine. Make me whatever you think best.”

Relieved, the elf disappears.

(-)

“I was particularly-” Sirius pauses, undecided. He’d came to Hogwarts to apologise to Dumbledore, but the words refuse to get out of his mouth. Blacks don’t apologise.

“I was out of sorts,” he ends up uttering, meeting those sharp blue eyes. “I shouldn’t have been so blunt.”

“Please accept a tea,” Dumbledore speaks after a few seconds.

“Alright.”

Just as he says it, the tea pops into existence in front of him.

“I appreciate you coming here today,” Dumbledore says, as Sirius cradles the cup between his hands. “But it isn’t necessary. I can imagine the pressure you are under. There is no need to apologise.”

I wasn’t apologising, exactly.

“Are you recovered? Do you want Poppy to have a look at you?”

“I’m good. I wasn’t- it was nothing. Just a broken rib.”

Dumbledore watches him attentively. “James claimed you were cursed; that it showed on the diagnostic spell the Healer cast on you, but they weren’t sure what it was. There were no symptoms. In my experience, that means a time release curse. Those are some of the worst.” A short silence. “And amongst the most difficult to get rid of.”

Just fucking tell him. It’s nothing to feel guilty about.

“Voldemort fixed it,” he says, glaring into his tea. He should leave it at that, but he feels the need to keep talking, as if he’s done something wrong and has to explain himself. “He noticed how injured I was and he -well. He healed it. Apparently, I was close to kicking it.”

“He always had a talent for healing,” Dumbledore offers, eventually.

What isn’t he talented at?

A long stretch of silence. Sirius feels he’s being watched, but not only by Dumbledore. Being in that office is a double danger, with Phineas there. Whatever judgment Dumbledore sometimes holds in his voice, it’s nothing to the contempt Phineas has for Sirius.

“The portrait,” Sirius says, still looking at his tea, gesturing vaguely to where he knows his great- great-grandfather is. “He won’t be able to tell mother anything, right?”

“No,” Dumbledore says what Sirius already knew in theory. The portraits are constrained by ancient magic to obey the current Headmaster, but-

“Are you sure? He’s a Black.” Loyalty to the family comes first for Blacks. Or it should. Sirius and Andromeda did not abide by that rule. Not completely.

A snort. Dumbledore is not one to snort, so Sirius knows who was responsible.

“Even so, he is bound to secrecy.”

But would Phineas tell Dumbledore Sirius went home? For some reason, Sirius wouldn’t want anyone to know he saw his mum. Well, he knows why. It sounds so pathetic that when he felt ill, he’d went home to mummy. 

“I was going to visit you soon; I thought to give you a few days to rest, but if you’re well enough-”

“I’m fine.”

“Then I would like to ask you to try to find out about the child the Death Eaters took.”

Sirius totally forgot about that. What kind of person forgets about a kidnapped child?

The bad sort. The selfish sort. Sirius was only focused on Bella, on his mum.

On Voldemort.

He looks up. Dumbledore has a grave look about him.

“Who is she?”

“Her mother is-was- an Unspeakable. There are rumours she discovered some ancient, forgotten magic. And we know Voldemort has spies everywhere in the Ministry.”

Like you don’t, Sirius thinks. Whatever happens in the Department of Mystery shouldn’t reach Voldemort’s ears, but then they shouldn’t reach Dumbledore’s either. That’s strictly the Department’s business. Crouch would be just as pissed off to find Dumbledore interfering, as if he’d be to know Voldemort is. 

“She fled the country two weeks ago; I imagine in an effort to keep her discoveries from falling into the wrong hands.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, pushing up his glasses. “But now she is certain to return when she hears her husband was murdered and her child is held hostage. If you are able, I would like to know if she’s in contact with Voldemort already. If she will come to him. It is paramount that we stop her before that happens.”

Sirius takes a sip of his tea. Something inside him calms.

He’s not the only terrible bastard that dismissed the girl so casually.

Dumbledore is more concerned about what the Unspeakable will give to Voldemort in exchange for her daughter’s safety.

“Has anything of note transpired lately?” Dumbledore asks, after a while. “You had nothing to report since confirming Yaxley and Rodolphus are in Voldemort’s inner circle.” 

And that was over six weeks ago. 

Oh, I found out his birth name, the one you are trying so hard to hide. I also stole a no doubt valuable file from the Ministry and handed it to him. Ah, and I killed Voldemort’s uncle because I freaked out when I violated his mind and found out he was wrongly sentenced to Azkaban for offing Voldemort’s dad. 

But none of that is vital information to the Order, is it? It’s not like it would help them fight Voldemort any better. 

Sirius shrugs. “If there was something, I’d have told you,” he says, a little too sharply. “So not much to report. Unless you want a step-by-step description of the ‘duels’ he still insists we hold weekly.”

“Rumour is he personally trained only a select few of his inner circle. It is a good sign that he is doing it with you, that he keeps doing it. It means he thinks you worthy. He wouldn’t waste his time and talents on someone he has no interest at all in.”

“Such a delight you are.” Sirius isn’t sure Voldemort actually said that, or he dreamt it, in that state he’s been in, in pain and with Merlin knows how many potions in his blood.

“Great,” Sirius says, some sarcasm seeping in his voice. Voldemort’s interest is flattering, he can’t deny it, but it is also uncomfortable and risky.

Dumbledore raises an eyebrow.

“It’s just strange; you were always warning me off using dark magic and now suddenly it’s a good thing I’m practicing it with Voldemort.”

Dumbledore leans back in his chair, hand clasped over each other on his lap.

“Let us be frank.”

Sirius hates those words. An insult is sure to follow them.

“You were exposed to dark magic before you even stepped foot into this castle. Knowing the Arts doesn’t make someone a dark wizard or evil by default. I know them- not like Voldemort, of course, since I have the theory but lack the practice. But I have more knowledge of it than I would comfortably admit to in public. Aurors know that branch of magic and are sometimes forced to use it.”

He considers Sirius for a second.

“Your family is quite famous for it. That doesn’t mean all Blacks are dark wizards or they’ll go on a dark magic fuelled rampage. Phineas,” Dumbledore raises his chin to indicate the portrait as if Sirius needs a visual, as if he doesn’t know who Phineas is and might confuse him for another Headmaster. “Was quite accomplished with it and yet he was an upstanding member of society, for the most part, and a credit to this school. He was a tad eccentric, is true-”

“Like you aren’t,” Sirius and Phineas say at the same time, making Dumbledore smile, lightly.

“The trick is to not get lost in it. And it is hard not to. That is the reason it is prohibited. Power is addictive. Dark Magic most of the times requires hatred or a wish to inflict harm. There are very few people that manage to just learn it, without eventually crossing that line. It feeds on despair and pain and anger, Sirius. It is a loop. The power is an illusion. You think you grow stronger, and you might, magically, but inside you’re growing weaker. Dark magic consumes the user.”

Dumbledore meets his eyes.

“Dark magic destroys, by definition. The caster and those around him.”

If this is supposed to sound repulsive to a twenty-year-old man, Dumbledore is far too old to remember what boys want in their youth. 

He almost makes it sound appealing. 

Or maybe it’s Sirius at fault here, and most other boys his age wouldn’t find the dangerous side of the Arts as fascinating. 

Dumbledore stops to consider his words, which is a rarity. He never needs breaks to collect his thoughts.

“You are reckless. You are impulsive. But I try to believe that you are not as susceptible to become devoted to dark magic. You know it already; you were born and raised around it. You witnessed what it can do to a family-”

“Stop,” Sirius snarls.

Dumbledore doesn’t, but he grows more cautious.

“You are not as in awe of it as some other young, angry boys that are just now discovering it might be, is what I want to say. It is not a novelty for you that would quickly escalate into an obsession. You are not the studious type, to hunt down dangerous texts just so you can learn more. You had those books in your childhood home. You’ve resisted it, more or less, for years.”

“Oh, my. A compliment.”

“I have many compliments for you, Sirius, but you do not like to hear them. It’s almost as if you prefer insults rather than kind words.”

Sirius wrinkles his nose, but doesn’t know what to say.

“Your father was my student, as was your grandfather. Your great- grandfather, too. I was Phineas’ student.” 

By Merlin, this man is ancient. Sirius forgets it sometimes, just how old he is. 

“Our society, as we know, has conflicting opinions about the Blacks in many ways. There are conversations to be had about morality and responsibility, about corruption. But,” he adds, just as Sirius feels a muscle in his jaw twitch. ”No one can deny your family’s strength. You come from a very long line of powerful men. Your father could reduce a room to silence just with one glare. Some men in the Wizengamot would stutter in his presence.” He holds Sirius’ gaze. “You were raised by Orion. It will not be easy for Voldemort to impress you with his remarkable power.”

Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that. 

Is it possible Dumbledore doesn’t know Voldemort as well as he claims? He says Voldemort has remarkable power, but has he ever truly witnessed it? It is, after all, unlikely Voldemort would have let loose in Hogwarts’ classrooms. 

Being raised by the Blacks, by his powerful father, is what makes Voldemort’s magic so inconceivable to Sirius. As Dumbledore noted, Sirius was surrounded by greatness since birth, and yet his mind still struggles to accept someone like Voldemort exists. 

“You have been in his company for many months now and I don’t see that shine, that mad worship in your eyes that I sadly saw in others that were subjected to his influence. I believe your pride might save you from the fate many have suffered. You are unlikely to crumble at his feet and do his bidding blindly.”

Well, that, at least, is true. Sirius won’t ever be eager to serve and bow to anyone. 

“But your pride can also mean your death. Eventually, if you don’t fall for his tricks and what he offers, if he realises he cannot charm you into obedience -he will kill you.”

Sirius is fucked either way.

“Let us hope we can bring him down before that happens,” the Professor says, in a grave tone.

People, including Sirius, often complain Dumbledore is secretive, that he speaks in riddles.

But a candid Dumbledore is more intimidating than his usual self.

(-)

“What happened to that kid?” Sirius asks, bluntly. Subtle does not work with Voldemort. He’d see right through it. “The one your Death Eaters took from Diagon. I wasn’t aware your esteemed organisation is in the habit of hunting little kids.”

Voldemort gives him an amused look. “The girl is safe; she isn’t hurt. Undoubtably frightened, but discomfort is a part of life. She’ll get over it.”

“Why do you want her?”

A smile. “I am sure Dumbledore filled you in; you wouldn’t be asking me about a little half-blood, so beneath your notice, if he hadn’t put you up to it.”

Well, I tried.

“And if her mother refuses to give in? Will the girl be killed?”

“Why waste magical blood?” Voldemort counters.

Sirius frowns. “Because if you don’t deliver on your threats, people won’t-“

“I’ll give her to Fenrir. If the Unspeakable refuses to cooperate and stays hidden, she’s hardly in any position to look after the girl, no? Her father is dead. The child will find a new family in Fenrir’s pack.”

Sirius struggles to keep any feeling off his face. He’s probably unsuccessful, because Voldemort’s smile only widens. 

“As it is, it won’t come to that. You may inform Dumbledore the Unspeakable is already in my care. His efforts failed, as usual.” 

Voldemort looks awfully pleased with himself. He’s leaning on a tall willow, arms crossed over his chest. In theory, this is their Tuesday duelling meeting, only they’ve stopped dueling for at least half an hour. 

They’re just standing there. Talking. Sirius is at his fourth cigarette, because he doesn’t know what to do with his hands if he’s not holding a wand. He was never one to feel awkward in any social situations- and he’s not feeling awkward now, exactly. 

It’s just that he’s being observed so meticulously by those creepy eyes, that he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s in an empty clearing, there’s no chair, nothing to mess around with, nothing to focus on but Voldemort. 

So he smokes. He wonders if he can leave. Voldemort likes to pretend Sirius has choices here, and Sirius likes to pretend that’s the case, too. 

The duel is clearly over; it is very late, so late it’s almost early. He thinks the sun will rise soon. I can say I’m tired and fuck off. 

He says no such thing, of course. He wants to continue to pretend he can leave whenever he wants, and that will be ruined if he says he wants to go and Voldemort says ‘no’. 

“I wonder…” Voldemort tilts his head to the side in that way he sometimes does. “You seem concerned about the girl. Did it occur to you that have I not gotten to the Unspeakable already, Dumbledore would have done his best to keep her hidden? Even if it meant the child would be punished for it?”

“It did cross my mind, yes.” 

“Hard not to, I imagine. He sent you to me with very little regard for your well being, after all. Dumbledore will always sacrifice individuals, if he deems it necessary.” 

Sirius snorts. “So? You want me to believe you won’t, or what? That you care for your Death Eaters or little girls-”

“Of course I’d sacrifice almost everyone to get what I want. But I don’t claim I’m a bastion of morality.” 

“Neither does Dumbledore. Other people claim he’s a bastion of morality. He never does. He’s quick to own his flaws.” 

Voldemort looks a tad displeased upon hearing it. It satisfies Sirius. 

You think you can easily turn me against Dumbledore by pointing out he’s as human as the rest of us? 

In any case, it’s not like Dumbledore would give a child to werewolves or send Sirius to potential death just to have a laugh. He’s put in the position to make these hard choices as a result of Voldemort’s actions. 

“I’m not that concerned about the girl’s safety.” Of course, he’d rather no child suffer, but he’s not a naive idiot. There’s a war out there. He didn’t start it, he’d like for it to end, but the kid means nothing to him, just a general discomfort that he assumes anyone would feel knowing innocents are in danger. “Or my own, for that matter. If I were, I wouldn’t be here,” Sirius says. 

“Of course,” Voldemort agrees, but he’s still ticked off. He walks towards Sirius and-

Blacks show no fear. Sirius lights another fag. 

“Rodolphus told me you refuse to participate in one of their events.” Voldemort stops rather close. Sirius resists the childish urge to blow smoke in his face. 

“Oh, did poor Rody complain to you?” Sirius snaps.

He shouldn’t have given lip to Voldemort, nor defend Dumbledore. This is the punishment, he’s certain. 

Rodolphus wants Sirius to hunt muggles for sport. He didn’t say it in as many words, but the ‘a little get together’, ‘just a bit of fun’, ‘we will be masked, of course’- all clues that immediately confirmed to Sirius that it would not be something he would want to take part of.

So he said no. One time, two times, three times-

But if Voldemort himself orders it…

“I don’t see the purpose,” Sirius says, taking care to keep his voice level and drop the mocking attitude from before. “Torturing or killing random muggles won’t advance the—your cause- the war. It’s mindless violence and I have no interest in it.”

“Some do. A small fraction of my Death Eaters are interested in mindless violence.”

“Well, they can have at it. I’m not gonna stop them.”

Sadly, no one can. Well, Voldemort could, but it’s Voldemort that promised them free rein to commit these atrocities.

“It has a purpose,” Voldemort says, eyes firmly focused on Sirius’ face.

“Does it? Cleansing the world of filth, is it? There are a few billion muggles, killing a couple now and then won’t-“

“As I said, it keeps some Death Eaters entertained. It gives them a sense of the power I promised them. But that’s not why you are invited. That’s not why every new Death Eater has to take part in one of these affairs. You will go.”

Sirius’ jaw clenches. His stomach rolls. He sees Morfin, suffocating.

Parkinson’s head detaching from his body.

He feels nauseous.

I don’t want to go? Sounds childish. And it would be for nothing.

“Just once,” Voldemort says, and he sounds reassuring, the bastard. “You have my word that you will not be invited again after this one.”

“Did Regulus- was he-“ Sirius spits through his teeth.

“He was too young when he took the mark. And since we’ve made a deal that he won’t be involved as long as you obey me, he won’t get invited.”

That wasn’t the deal. The deal was that Voldemort will leave Regulus alone if Sirius kills Parkinson.

But what can he do about it, when Voldemort can make new deals, all the time?

Sirius is perfectly aware Regulus will forever be held over his head.

“It is long overdue. We had a few recruits over the past months, but Rodolphus waited for this… shall we call it… initiation, so you can join them,” Voldemort says and now he’s amused again, brief anger forgotten. “I am told you know one of the new boys.”

Sirius does not like that at all.

(-)

“You alright, Sirius?”

Lily sits on his leg, starling him. He was so lost in his head, the party around him surprises him, when he blinks back into the present. 

“Yeah, love. Why?”

She shrugs. “You look distracted. Quiet.”

“Oh, come on. I’ve been quiet before!”

She smiles, a devious little thing that wouldn’t go amiss on a Slytherin.

“Only when you’ve done something bad, or you plan to do something bad.”

He rolls his eyes. “You’re lucky you’re James’ girl, otherwise I wouldn’t put up with you.”

She throws her hair over her shoulder, smacking Sirius in the face with it in the process. “Where’s Marlene?”

“Why is everyone asking me about McKinnon, I’m not her damn keeper-“

“You fought again?”

“No.” Sirius sighs. “She’s working.”

Lily smiles. “You should bring her to lunch on Sunday.”

Sirius pokes her in the ribs. “Really? You want to do that cute couple stuff? Firstly, we aren’t together, and secondly, you can’t even stand her.”

Marlene and Lily can only tolerate each other when in Order meetings or when drunk. 

“Who does, really?” Lily makes a face. “But she’s with you now, so I’ll try to get along with her.”

Sirius feels something akin to panic. He doesn’t want to do lunches with Lily, James and Marlene. He doesn’t want whatever he has with Marlene to get serious to the extent Lily would offer to suffer ‘that bitter bitch’ just for his sake.

“I’ll pass.”

Lily sighs, standing up.

“You’re the only man that wouldn’t freak out when your wife sits in Black’s lap,” Franks tells James, a little further away.

James laughs, winking at Sirius. “Of course not. But, Lily love, do make sure to shake yourself thoroughly; he has fleas.”

Sirius sticks out his tongue at him, but then he settles more comfortably in the armchair and retreats back into his head.

(-)

“You’re a persistent fucker, I’ll give you that,” Sirius says, when he opens his door to find Lucius standing on the other side.

He ignored three letters, inviting him to Malfoy Manor in the past month. He hadn’t meant to, exactly. It’s just that he always forgets to set an appointment, and when he remembers, there are about fifty things he’d rather be doing that having a chat with Lucius.

He had seen Lucius a couple of times since the letters started; at a meeting with Voldemort, and once at dinner with Bella, but Lucius only made polite conversation in those occasions, so Sirius imagined it was not anything of consequence.

“What is it?” Sirius asks, eyes narrowed. “About my seat? Something else going on in the Wizengamot? I dearly hope not, because I’m done with that shit for the foreseeable future.” 

Even more letters come from those stuffy, old buggers. Sirius doesn’t even open them. He thinks Marlene used some to make funny animal shapes. 

Lucius doesn’t answer, stands there in his doorway with those inscrutable eyes of his.

“Or is it about gold? You want money from me?” From what Sirius understands after some of Bella’s remarks, Lucius is in charge of gathering gold for the cause, harassing rich Death Eaters about it. “I don’t have money, and we are not talking about the Black vault.”

Still nothing.

Sirius is deciding between slamming the door in his face or inviting him in, when Lucius takes out a parchment from the inner pocket of his ornate robe.

He hands it to Sirius without a word.

It looks like nothing Sirius would expect from a Malfoy. Terrible penmanship, crappy parchment; a sort of schedule.

Loads of spelling errors, between times and dates-

“What is-“ he starts to ask, before his eyes fall on his name.

Sirius Black. It’s in a square, beside a date. ‘Ministry inspection.’

It’s a page from the Azkaban registry. 

Sirius looks up to meet Lucius’ icy gaze.

Nothing stays secret in their small world.

“You owe me,” Lucius drawls.

Sirius tries to think. “Owe you what, exactly?”

A blond, raised eyebrow greets him.

“Wizengamot members don’t do surprise inspections without approval from the Minister. Even if we would, you’d be the last person to voluntary take interest in the way our justice system works. And what a coincidence, Morfin Gaunt drops dead on that very same day.”

Shit.

“Piss off, Lucius. Go ahead and tell them. What are they gonna do? Give me a fine for going to Azkaban without authorisation?”

“They’d do nothing, cowards that they are. Crouch would give you a stern warning and that would be that.”

“See, I don’t owe you shit-”

“However, someone else might not be so…” Lucius pretends search around for a word. “Lenient.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Sirius tries to hide behind his annoyance to hide the panic. “Why would someone else mind me visiting-” 

“It’s not the visiting part that he’d take issues with.” 

“That is all there was to it,” Sirius growls. “What are you saying? I had nothing to do with Gaunt’s death, for fuck's sake, that’s ridiculous.” 

“I doubt you had anything to do with it. But see… he might take offence to anyone looking into Morfin Gaunt. He, too, would immediately know you weren’t there to inspect Azkaban. Absurd. Only brain dead guards would buy that excuse. You were there to see Gaunt. You found him dead, but that’s why you went. There’s no other reason for it. You had no business there.” 

“Yeah?” Sirius gets in his face. He’s just a little taller than Lucius and it gives Sirius great pleasure. “And why would I look into Morfin Gaunt, Lucius? After all, he was no one of importance.” 

Lucius calmly stands his ground. “You like to play the fool, but you’re smart. Too smart. We both know very well who Morfin Gaunt was. That is the reason you went to speak to him.” 

“We know,” Sirius accepts. “But does he know we know? After all, if he’d be displeased I looked up Morfin Gaunt, then I guess he’d be equally displeased you know why Morfin Gaunt was important.” 

Something flickers in Lucius’ eyes. It’s gone fast, but it was there. 

“It would mean you, too, got curious about things that you shouldn’t get curious about.” 

Lucius smiles. It looks a bit forced. “Do you think I’m an idiot? I wouldn’t hand him the copy of the parchment you are holding. I would just bring it up in conversation at a meeting. I’d tell Bella how overjoyed I am that you are taking interest in our institutions, enough to visit Azkaban. I’d say ‘and how lucky we are he did, because he was the one to discover Morfin’s body and alert the guards. If he hadn’t, who knows how long it would have taken those incompetent fools to find the corpse. As it was, Sirius did, and now we have a new sacred family that will vote with us in the Wizengamot.” 

Fuck. Voldemort would instantly know Sirius was there for Morfin, but unlike Lucius, he wouldn’t just assume Sirius didn’t kill him. 

He told Sirius in no uncertain terms to stop looking into his past. 

“You owe me,” Lucius says, again, and now the smile looks more natural. 

“Isn’t this treason?” Sirius barks. “Keeping information from him?” 

“Only if he learns about it.” 

Sirius snorts. “What do you want?” 

“A bit of gratitude wouldn’t go amiss. You’re lucky I went and checked the registry. You’re lucky it wasn’t Rodolphus.” 

“How would Rodolphus know that name? How would Bella, for that matter? I assume your daddy told you, but who would tell them?” 

“Who told you?” Lucius asks, eyebrow raised. 

Sirius rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t that hard to learn it, but I sincerely doubt Bella and Rodolphus would dare to investigate it. They’re in love with him.” 

Lucius nods. “They wouldn’t. Your father told Rodolphus. And, actually, Orion told me, too. My father wouldn’t have. He’s too... prudent.” 

Sirius swallows, instantly jealous. Hurt. His father, having these conversations with Rodolphus and Lucius and never with Sirius. 

It must be so obvious on his face, because Lucius softens. “He only told us when there were rumours going around in our circles that we took the mark. He told us to discourage us, to put us off. That’s all. He’d have no reason to speak to you about it. He’d have only placed you in danger. That’s a sure way to get killed, knowing that name. And back then, at your age? Come on, you’d have blurted it out in Hogwarts’ Great Hall.” 

Sirius is still upset. And he resents Lucius for having seen Sirius hurt and insecure. “Voldemort knows I know his name,” he spits, furious. “I stole his criminal record from the Ministry and I threw the envelope in his face, with Tom Marvolo Riddle written in big, bold letters on it.”

There. That’s better. It’s Lucius’ turn to look astonished. He doesn’t show surprise as others would, but just that twitch in his left eye is the equivalent of another man yelling ‘no way!’ 

“You daft idiot,” Lucius whispers. 

“At least I’m not a coward,” Sirius sneers. “I’m not afraid of him.” 

Lucius steps away. “You’re going to get yourself killed, Sirius. It will break Narcissa’s heart.” 

“Narcissa has no heart,” Sirius spits and slams the door shut. 

Why did you have to insult poor Cissa for? Sirius’ brain demands, but the rest of him is still pissed off about his father. 

He tries to admit that what Lucius said was correct. His father had no reason to try to discourage Sirius from following Voldemort around. Sirius did not have any such desires. And even if he would have, he wouldn’t have been put off by the fact he’s a half blood, like Lucius and Rodolphus would have. 

Except they aren’t. 

His father must have been so frustrated. 

Sirius imagines it, all those things that he was too young to notice. How much his father must have tried to keep the young men from the sacred families from going to Voldemort. He wouldn’t have been loud, like Parkinson. He would have tried to be discrete. 

So he wouldn’t outright antagonise Voldemort. 

Impossible. Sirius can’t accept that his father would have been scared of anyone’s wrath, even Voldemort’s. 

He had to watch his cousins and friends and all these kids he saw growing up flocking to Voldemort and he was impotent to stop it. And then as soon as he fell ill, one of his sons joined up, and the other ran to Dumbledore. 

And now I’m a Death Eater, too. 

‘Your father would roll over in his grave’ Parkison said, right before Sirius killed him, one of the few men his father had trusted. 

His father didn’t hold Dumbledore in any regard, but at least he could fight Dumbledore in the Wizengamot; the Sacred Families kept Dumbledore at bay from any real power for a long time. 

While the old professor is a threat to the old pureblood way of living, he is nowhere near the threat that Voldemort is. 

Dumbledore didn’t get any purebloods killed. 

Sirius hates that he was too young to be of any help to his father; not only that, but he was a cause of stress, too. While Sirius’ behaviour wasn’t as bad when his father was still well, he wasn’t the perfect heir he should have been. He wasn’t a comfort to his father, just another thing to be worried about. 

It hurts tremendously that he wasn’t old enough to have the kind of talks with his father that Rodolphus had. 

It hurts that he lost him, and it will never stop hurting. 

Sirius does not like being in pain. He’d rather be in a rage. 

He picks up the keys to his bike and goes out looking for trouble. 

(-)

“Sirius!”

He turns on his side and puts a pillow over his head. “Go away,” he hisses.

“Sirius, wake up!” Marlene takes away his pillow. There’s something off in her voice and Sirius is instantly alert. He stands, grabbing his wand from the nightstand, looking around in alarm.

“What?” he asks, heart beating a mile a minute. Marlene is clad in one of his shirts and not much else. She has an odd expression on her sleepy face, but she doesn’t seem scared.

“Your brother is here.”

“Good one,” Sirius snorts. “What’s going on?”

“Your brother is here,” she insists. “Downstairs. He kept knocking and you wouldn’t get up- I was sleepy, alright? I’m still half drunk so I went downstairs, and I peeked through the window and I thought it was you! That you somehow left and- I don’t know! It’s not my fault! You incestuous little shits all look the same, I swear. I opened the door, and by then it was too late. And I was wearing this!” she says, and she shows him the Padfoot collar James gave him as a laugh. Sirius has a vague recollection of putting it on her the other night while they were having sex. “You fucking arsehole!”

Sirius shakes his head. One, twice. Yes, I’m awake.

“Regulus?” he asks, dumbly.

Marlene gives him an exasperated look, but she doesn’t say something sarcastic like ‘how many other brothers do you have’. She speaks softly. “Yes, Sirius. Regulus is downstairs.”

(-)

Regulus, like Narcissa and Andromeda, took the ‘do not show emotion’ thing to heart. He mastered the blank expression by the time he was nine.

But when Sirius steps into his living room, Regulus’ face slips into a smile. Wide, joyful and youthful.

Alright, so he’s not in trouble. Because that’s what Sirius thought when he realised Marlene wasn’t joking. That something awful must have happened to bring Regulus to his house. That he’s in trouble with the law or with Death Eaters or that their mum died, that maybe Sirius going home gave her a stroke or something.

Regulus was never one for touching, shying away from their mother kisses in public, refusing to hold Sirius’ hand when they went to Diagon for his wand, all the while seeking their father’s approval. Only their father was too busy trying to control Sirius to notice how perfect his other son was behaving.

Yet now he’s in Sirius’ space in the blink of an eye, his arms go around him and-

Sirius can’t remember when was the last time they hugged.

“Kreacher told me you’ve been home,” Regulus says, still hugging Sirius. “And then I nagged mum until she told me about… you know.”

About the mark.

Of course.

Sirius sighs, half disappointed this is what it is about, but alas, even knowing the reason, he hugs Regulus back.

He never thought he’d get to do this again. He grips him tighter; he doesn’t want to let him go. His little brother.

When drunk, when incredibly hurt that Regulus wouldn’t even look his way at school, Sirius would say, loudly, that James is his brother.

James is like a brother- he’s Sirius’ best mate, his partner in crime, his better half. He can communicate with James just with a glance, something he could never do with Regulus. Sirius wouldn’t know how to exist without James.

But he is not Sirius’ brother, and he never will be.

Sirius hated Regulus with an unrivalled passion when he was born, when his mother had to divide her attention between them. Sirius remembers suffering; even if he was so small, he remembers the fierce jealousy he felt whenever his mum would set Sirius aside, to take Regulus in her arms, to feed him, to comfort him when he cried. How he hated it when Regulus grew bigger and wanted to grab Sirius’ toys.

“You have to share,” she’d say, and he loathed it. He did not want to share. Not his toys, and not her.

He’s told he tried to suffocate Regulus with a pillow, shortly after he was born, that his mother found him just in time. Sirius can’t remember that, but he remembers vaguely that he wasn’t allowed around Regulus unsupervised for a while.

“No,” Sirius yells, and it’s scary to scream at father, but he just can’t help himself when his father comes home from work and takes the baby in his arms. “No! Put him down! He already took mama, I won’t let him take you from me, too!”

“Sirius!” His mother snaps, but father is home, so Sirius doesn’t care about her anymore. If she can ignore Sirius to look after the baby, Sirius can ignore her, too, and focus on his father.

His father laughs, but he doesn’t let go of the baby. Instead, he gestures for Sirius to come closer; he helps Sirius climb in his lap.

“Don’t laugh, Orion!” Mother says. “You refuse to understand how badly he’s acting. He’s on a hunger strike now, he won’t eat if I don’t personally spoon feed him. Regulus was trying to take his first step today and Sirius shoved him-”

Father doesn’t pay her any mind, either. He tells Sirius to hold out his arms, instructs him how to do it, and places the baby there.

“I don’t like him,” Sirius says, but he feels better already, there in his father’s lap, with that solid chest at his back.

Strong arms are under Sirius’ own, supporting the baby. “He cries and drools all the time.” And now he’s crawling all over the house, biting Sirius’ toys.

“He’s very little. It won’t be so forever. He’ll grow. You just have to be patient.”

The baby isn’t crying right then. He stares up at Sirius.

“He has my eyes,” Sirius complains. “He stole my eyes, too.”

“He has our eyes,” his father’s voice says, right in Sirius’ ear. “Because he is a Black.”

Bella, Andy and Cissy are Blacks. They’re nice and they smell good. Though Sirius is upset with Andy and Cissy, because they coo over the stupid baby and call him cute. They like to hold him.

Bella doesn’t. Bella tells Sirius that the baby is a changeling, a fake baby, and that she only loves Sirius. She doesn’t even look at the baby, and she never lets go of Sirius’ hand when they are visiting.

“Father, can’t we give the baby to Uncle Cygnus? He wants a boy. And he can give us Bella in return.”

“We aren’t giving Regulus away, Sirius,” his father says. “You’re my heir.”

Sirius knows. He knows he’s the heir. It’s very important. He’s not sure what it means, but he’s told about it often.

“And he is your heir. You have to take care of him, the way I take care of you. One day, when I will be gone, when your mother will be gone, it will be just the two of you. You’ll only have each other. He’s ours, Sirius. A little piece of me, a little piece of your mother, and a little piece of you. Will you promise to care for him? Can I count on you?”

Regulus starts to fuss, but Sirius holds him close for a bit longer.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, right in Sirius’ ear.

“I’m not alone,” Sirius warns, quietly.

“I know. McKinnon let me in,” Regulus whispers.

And Marlene can’t know his little brother is marked. Sirius trusts her with his mark, to keep his secrets, but Regulus… no.

Sirius lets him go. Regulus had time to subdue his face into a neutral expression.

“It’s noon,” his brother says. “Why are you sleeping at noon?”

“Welcome to adulthood.” Sirius pats him on the back. He’d like to hug Regulus again, but that’s too much affection for his brother to handle in five minutes. “You can wake up anytime you want.”

“Not at home,” he mutters.

Breakfast at Grimmauld is served at eight AM, during weekdays. Nine, on weekends.

And it’s mandatory.

“You’re the man of the house now,” Sirius says, though he doesn’t like saying it. “You can change the schedule.”

Regulus rolls his eyes. “Not worth the trouble.”

Unlike Sirius, Regulus knew when to pick his fights with their mother.

“I didn’t expect this,” he looks around Sirius’ expensively furnished living room. “Mum was sure you’d live in a muggle, dirty flat, with just a mattress on the floor, and I must say, I agreed.” He moves closer to the fireplace and picks up the most extravagant looking vase he sees. “It’s nice. I like it. Do you have a house-elf? It’s suspiciously clean.”

“I don’t.” Bella’s still come around when Sirius is asleep or away.

“Good. You shouldn’t get one, you’d treat it badly, the poor thing.”

“Oh, piss off.” Sirius makes a face. He doesn’t treat elves badly; just Kreacher.

But Kreacher is not an elf. He’s a demon.

“Is the rest of the house in an equally good condition?”

How subtle. “You want a tour? We can’t. We might find Marlene naked somewhere upstairs.”

A flush spreads over Regulus’ cheeks. But even that’s subdued, just a delicate, faint pink.

“She wasn’t much dressed when she opened the door,” he mumbles, but doesn’t ask for a house tour again.

Regulus sits, uninvited. Bad form, brother. Where are your manners?

He looks at Sirius defiantly, but he also looks unsure, sitting stiffly at the edge of the couch.

Blacks don’t look insecure, Sirius almost tells him. If you sat, lounge on it. Make it look like you belong there. Blacks take up space, they don’t sit timidly. But that’s Regulus, trapped between the perfect, cold heir and a shy boy.

He’d always been shy; their parents did their best to shake it out of him, and they mostly managed, but not entirely.

“So Witch Weekly got it right? You’re engaged to McKinnon?”

Sirius chokes on his own spit. He coughs violently. “What?”

Regulus shrugs. “That’s what they said. Bella froths at the mouth if someone mentions McKinnon; she’s green with jealousy.”

Sirius gets his coughing under control. He drops on an armchair, regaining his breath.

He knows Bella is no fan of Marlene; she’s amused to read or hear about Sirius’ many escapades, she even laughs when Sirius tells her about his muggle wiccans. But not Marlene.