Despite popular opinion, Sirius was actually quite aware of his faculties.
Most people liked to think that Sirius had no realization of his darker habits, that he had no concept of his more horrible traits. They would be incorrect.
Sirius knew exactly how he acted, how he thought, how it was perceived. More importantly, Sirius knew exactly what those origins were.
Through and through, and come what may, Sirius was Walburga's son down to his marrow.
He carried her face, her voice, the look in her eye, and the curl to her lips. He touched the way she does and inflects the way she does. He despises her and misses her with a fervor that shakes the very core of him and chills the tips of his (her) fingers.
Sirius was sitting on the roof of James’ holiday home, the evening chill seeping into the bones bestowed by his mother. It’s been a year and some since Sirius left his house behind, and the fire finally stopped burning.
Sirius holds onto anger the only way he’d ever known how—with clenched fingers and fire licking at his tendons, so angry the very air pulverizes itself in his lungs. The way he’d been taught.
A year and some, and the embers have begun to smolder, and Sirius can now examine the feelings beyond the deep, seething anger that is eating at his very thoughts.
He misses her. His mother’s son through and through, he threw a tantrum more equivalent to the stampede of bulls and left wreckage and scandal behind. And only after the grass had begun to regrow did he stop to consider it.
He takes a drag from his cigar and blows the noxious green-tinged gas into the air. Thestral-breath cigars were a delicacy he used to share with her. Fitting to smoke them on her birthday, non?
Sirius wondered if she were doing the same before he scrapped that thought. He shouldn’t think of that, of her, but he could never help it. Sirius loved what hurt him, and always did. Whether that manifested in familial relationships or substance abuse didn’t matter.
She was horrible. Truly and deeply, down to her marrow. A writhing mass of malice and spite hidden beneath the visage of a beautiful face. She had a heart as black as her name, and intentions doubly so. From the tips of his toes to the top of his head, Sirius knew that.
Of course, he did. He was the first to know. He learned cruelty at her lap and disdain at her hand. But he missed her. Merlin, did he so.
Because—and Sirius never admitted this if he could—despite how horrid and cruel she was to others, she was never so to him. She loved him. Oh, how she loved him.
It never needed to be said, though she vocalized it anyway. A “my love” greeted him every morning with his favorite tea, Da Hong Pao. A smile and a hand in the crook of his elbow at every event. The proud smile on her face when she presented him to anyone. Look, look at what I made, what came out of me. My son, my love, pride of my flesh and the face of my ancestors.
Of course, that all changed when he left, but Sirius preferred not to think of that now. Not on his birthday, on hers, with her sitting so heavily on his mind.
Sirius had never felt such malice directed at him before. Not before he left. Oh, of course she’d been angry at him before—she’s WalburgaBlack, how could she not? Sirius first felt the warm flood of anger because of and for her, and he had never forgotten it. As much as she doted, she punished. She was his hand that fed and his palm that slapped.
It just had never felt so hateful. Sirius assumes Regulus must be her favorite now, and Merlin, did that sting. He shouldn’t think of her anymore, of Regulus, of any of them really. Not since the words “leave this house” and “shame of my flesh” were uttered. And yet Sirius does, and he yearns for even the smallest touch from her.
“Regulus is bright tonight.”
Sirius jerks his head to the left to see James glancing up at the sky. Sirius huffs a laugh. With her watching, how could he not be?
James looks down at him, his gaze perceptive behind his glasses. He looks rumpled. Euphemia’s art gala had finished hours ago, but it seems he hadn’t changed yet. His cravat was loose and his pince-nez was hanging by the end of his nose. Usually, Sirius never failed to be amused at James’ eccentric collection of glasses, though he couldn’t muster the energy tonight.
“How could he not be?” Sirius doesn’t finish the rest of his thought. James seems to understand anyway.
James looks over Sirius’ surroundings thoroughly, catching the discarded outer robes and rolled sleeves. The forgotten Da Hong Pao with his silver cufflinks thrown on the saucer by his knees. One of the only things he kept from home. Maman had bought them.
He walks over and sits next to him by the edge. They’re quiet, the both of them. Sirius takes another drag of the cigar and offers one to James, who takes it.
“Aunt Burga’s birthday today, isn’t it?” he exhales through a mouthful of smoke.
James understands. He always does. Mama’s boy in the exact opposite way Sirius is, he understands these things. Sirius knows his mother’s faults like he knows the back of his hand. Has memorized each of her actions like he’s memorized his own knuckles. He won’t hear a word against her though. If anyone would speak on her faults, it would be him and him only. James refuses to even vocalize Euphemia’s faults.
Sirius heaves a deep sigh and looks up, and James takes that as confirmation.
“Doing something about that?” he asks. Sirius feels his gaze on his cheek like a tangible thing, a mole on his flesh.
“No,” he says quietly, after a moment. James nods before he finishes speaking.
“I miss her.”
Another stretch of quiet, and they just stargaze. Regulus is looking bright, and Sirius resents him for it. His chest feels tight.
“I shouldn’t,” he reaffirms, his tone flat.
“Says who?” shrugs James, taking another hit. Euphemia smokes the same cigars; Sirius hopes at least they give James the same comfort they bring him.
Sirius wraps his hands over his knees and quirks his head at James. He left. His family’s horrible, he fought, and he left. What sane person would miss that?
“Says who, Sirius?” he asks again. “You can hate them and still miss them. You can hate her and still love her,” he looks into Sirius’ eyes as if memorizing the divots in his brain, “comes with the territory, I think. Of her being your mother.”
Merlin, does James understand. Better than anyone, he understands Sirius. He leans his head on his knees then.
The silence settles over them, comforting, like Maman’s lace shawl over his trembling shoulders. Suddenly, he feels nine and cold again.
“I think…” Sirius goes silent. Takes a moment to gather his thoughts.
“Quite hard for you, I imagine,” James quips, his lips quirking.
Sirius licks his lips and tries again to put words to what he feels.
“I don’t know who I am,” he whispers faintly, “if not her son.”
James drops the joking facade and reaches over to gently places the cigar back in Sirius’ mouth. Sirius bites.
“Then be her son,” he says simply.
“Don’t go back,” he continues, “That wouldn’t work, and Merlin knows one of you’d be dead by sunrise. But be her son. If that’s what you need.”
Abruptly, Sirius feels the need to move. He straightens up, inhales fast, and pulls the cigar out of his mouth and snuffs it in the teacup.
“I don’t know how,” he says gruffly.
“Keep the good in her. Whatever she passed down that makes you still miss her, even now,” he emphasizes, “you keep that. And the rest we can figure out later.”
“I don’t know if there’s any good to keep,” he says slowly.
“Then keep the memory, and burn the rest. Ignis aurum probat, miseria fortes viros.” Sirius is starkly reminded that Euphemia’s party had ended barely two hours ago, and James must’ve still been drunk if he was breaking out the Latin.
“Burn the rest,” Sirius says quietly, introspectively. He listens to the hiss of the dying cigar. A cricket chirps in the distance.
James truly, deeply understands. He understands the hot anger that flows through his veins, he understands the disdain that plagues him towards family members, he understands the hatred and love that hurts so much. That burns deep. That sinks its teeth into his flesh and tears. Euphemia Carrow’s son and Dorea Black’s grandson, he understands more than anyone. Sirius’ cousin before he was his friend, his brother after he was his friend.
Burn the rest. His mothers son and come what may, Sirius will burn.
“Right. Up, Ovid, I think we’ve both done enough thinking,” Sirius says abruptly. He stands up and holds a hand out for James. The conversation had given him much to think about. The tightness in his chest promised nothing good. Food for thought for another day.
James takes his hand and stands up with a grunt. They cross the roof, and Sirius quietly places his hand into the crook of James’ elbow. James smiles and bumps his shoulder to his.
“Happy birthday, Sirius,” he whispers conspiratorially.
Happy birthday, Maman.