The Weight of Legacy
The morning after the gathering dawned grey and cold, clouds hanging low over the castle like a shroud. Fog curled around the turrets and spilled over the lawn, softening the edges of the world. But nothing could soften the edge in Sirius's chest—the blade lodged somewhere between fury and determination.
Sleep had eluded him. His mind had been too loud, filled with the image of Narcissa in silk and silver, and the way she refused to meet his eyes. That refusal hadn’t been born of hatred. No—it had been fear. And that was worse.
He’d seen through her mask. Seen the quiet panic she was hiding beneath her carefully curated grace. They were pushing her, breaking her, and if he didn’t act soon, they would win.
Classes passed in a blur. Sirius went through the motions—smirking, teasing, nodding absently when James rambled about Quidditch. But underneath, his thoughts never left that grand estate and the voices in the dark corners whispering about Lucius Malfoy. About ambition. About power.
Lucius was playing a dangerous game. But Sirius was done playing small.
He was rounding a quiet corridor near the Arithmancy wing—one rarely traveled by the others—when he felt it. The shift in the air. The prickle on the back of his neck.
He wasn’t alone.
He slowed, every muscle alert, and then—
A familiar voice, smooth and sharp like cut glass.
“You’ve grown into your name after all.”
Sirius stopped.
He turned slowly, his face carefully blank.
Orion Black stood in the shadows, as composed as ever, dressed in dark, regal robes that made him look more like a monument than a man. His eyes were cold. Measured. The kind of man who didn’t waste words unless they were meant to carve.
“Father,” Sirius said, voice low.
“I watched you last night,” Orion continued, stepping forward. “You moved with purpose. Finally. For the first time, I saw a son worthy of the House of Black.”
Sirius didn’t respond. The compliment tasted like poison, sweetened only by the fact that it was unearned.
“Don’t mistake me,” Orion went on, his tone clipped. “You’re still flawed. Too impulsive. Too soft in the wrong places. But last night… You showed control. Restraint. That spark—” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “—That hunger. I’ve been waiting to see that.”
Sirius’s jaw tightened. He didn’t want Orion’s approval. Not really. But the door that approval opened? That was something else.
“You’re wrong if you think I did it for you.”
“Of course you didn’t.” A hint of amusement flickered in Orion’s eyes. “You did it for her.”
Sirius’s breath caught.
Orion smiled—cold, pleased, the smile of a man who had been playing the game long before Sirius was born.
“You want to win, Sirius? Then stop fighting your blood and use it. Let the world see what happens when a Black chooses war.”
Sirius said nothing for a long moment.
Then, slowly, he straightened.
“Then let’s give them a war they’ll never forget.”
Orion inclined his head, the approval in his eyes sharp and dangerous.
As he disappeared down the corridor, Sirius exhaled—slow, measured.
He would walk the line. Use what they gave him. Let them think he was becoming theirs, let them believe he was choosing legacy over rebellion.
But in the end, he would burn their entire world down if it meant getting her back.
And he’d smile while doing it.
But Sirius didn’t let him go.
“How are you even here?” he called after him, his voice low but sharp, echoing faintly against the stone walls. “You’re not supposed to be inside the school.”
Orion stopped.
He turned back, just slightly, enough for Sirius to catch the edge of a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“You forget who I am.” The words were quiet, but they rang with quiet menace. “Hogwarts is protected against many things. But it still bows, in small ways, to old names and older magic.”
Sirius’s frown deepened. “So you just waltzed in under Dumbledore’s nose?”
Orion looked amused now, stepping closer again, robes trailing like smoke. “I didn’t come through the front gate, Sirius. The castle remembers those it was built for. You’d be surprised how many doors still open for the right kind of blood.”
Sirius hated how easily that made sense. How deeply the old families were entwined in this place, in everything.
“Why are you really here?” he asked, the words sharp. Accusing.
Orion studied him for a long moment, the weight of his gaze like iron.
“To see if you were worth saving.”
The words hit like a blow. Sirius felt it in his chest before he could stop it.
“Saving?” he repeated, bitter. “You mean shaping. Turning me into something useful.”
“Same thing, in the end.” Orion’s voice was calm. Not cruel. Not kind either. Just matter-of-fact. “You think this is about control, but it isn’t. It’s about survival. And legacy. You’re not a child anymore, Sirius. You made your first move last night—consciously or not. And now there are eyes on you. Eyes that will not be as patient as I’ve been.”
“Then stop pretending you care,” Sirius snapped.
Orion’s expression didn’t flicker.
“I don’t care the way you want me to,” he said. “But I do care about the name you wear. The legacy you carry. And whether you like it or not, that name carries power. You can either wield it, or be crushed by those who will.”
Silence stretched between them.
Sirius’s hands curled into fists at his sides. He hated how much of it rang true. Hated that, for all his rebellion, his father still understood the game better than he did.
“So what now?” he asked finally. “You expect me to become the dutiful heir?”
Orion gave a soft, amused breath. “No. I expect you to be smarter than that. To become something better.” He leaned in, his voice lowering. “You want her back? Then stop chasing her like a boy and start claiming your place like a man. The world doesn’t care how much you love her. But it will care if you become powerful enough that no one dares to take her from you again.”
That landed.
Sirius didn’t flinch, but his chest tightened.
“I don’t need your help,” he said quietly.
“You’ll take it anyway,” Orion replied, already turning. “Because you’re smart enough to know that you can’t do this alone. Not if you want to win.”
And just like that, he was gone.
No spell. No grand exit. Just the hush of robes and the faint echo of his footsteps vanishing down the corridor.
Sirius stood still for a long time, the weight of it all pressing in again.
Orion Black had never said more than he had to. But every word had been a carefully placed piece. A move on the board.
And now Sirius realized—he wasn’t the only one playing in the shadows.
But he would learn.
He would learn every rule, every whisper, every secret path through the dark.
Because he wasn’t just going to take Narcissa back.
He was going to build a world where no one could ever take her again.
The corridor felt colder now. Emptier.
Sirius stood rooted in place for a while longer, his thoughts tangled in a web of words that refused to settle. Start claiming your place like a man. Orion’s voice echoed again, not with affection, but with certainty. Like it was already decided.
But Sirius knew something now—his father wasn’t here to punish him. He was here to see if Sirius could play the game their way.
And he had.
He had played it.
That’s what disturbed him most. That small, awful part of himself that felt satisfied last night. Watching Lucius squirm. Catching Narcissa’s barely-perceptible flinch. Learning something real.
The rules of this game weren’t written in bravery or friendship. They were written in secrets, in leverage, in silence and control.
And he was finally beginning to understand them.
With a breath, he turned and began the long walk back toward Gryffindor Tower. The castle was hushed around him, moonlight spilling through tall windows, casting pale blue shapes on the floors. The portraits along the walls whispered to each other behind painted hands as he passed, recognizing the expression on his face and knowing better than to comment.
By the time he reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, the sky was turning the faintest shade of lavender with dawn. She blinked sleepily at him.
“You’re out late.”
“Could say the same to you,” Sirius muttered, voice rough. “Figs and moonberries.”
The portrait swung open with a sigh, and he climbed inside.
The common room was dark and still, lit only by the dying coals in the fireplace. He paused there, staring at them for a long moment, then turned toward the stairs.
He didn’t make it far.
“You weren’t at dinner.”
Sirius stopped.
Remus sat in one of the armchairs, half-shadowed, a book forgotten in his lap and his eyes sharp behind the gentle concern. James and Peter were nowhere in sight. Of course they weren’t. Remus didn’t sleep when Sirius was in this kind of mood.
“Wasn’t hungry.”
Remus tilted his head. “Wasn’t that. You disappeared. Again.”
Sirius didn’t answer right away. He walked to the fire instead, dropped onto the hearth, and let the heat wash over his chilled skin. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Sirius said, too quietly, “Do you ever feel like you’ve been playing the wrong part in your own story?”
Remus blinked. He closed his book softly. “Every day.”
Sirius huffed out a breath that could’ve been a laugh. Or maybe not. “I used to think I was the villain in theirs. The golden boy who rejected the crown. The disappointment. But I don’t think that’s true anymore.”
“No?”
Sirius looked up, eyes glinting with something unreadable. “No. I think I’m becoming something else. And they’re not ready for it.”
Remus didn’t ask who they were. He never did.
Instead, he said, “Just make sure it’s still you, in the end.”
Sirius didn’t answer.
He wasn’t sure it would be.
Upstairs, in the dormitory, while the others slept, Sirius pulled the curtains around his bed and reached beneath his pillow. A slip of parchment. Blank. Untouched.
His quill hovered over it for a long moment.
And then, carefully, deliberately, he began to write:
Cissa—
And stopped.
He stared at the name like it might bite him.
Then slowly, he crossed it out. Started again.
Regulus,
We need to talk.
Regulus Black was used to silence. He lived in it, moved through it, obeyed it.
In the stillness of the Slytherin dormitory, surrounded by emerald drapes and the ever-present sound of the lake pressing against the windows like a ghost at the glass, he opened his eyes.
Something had woken him.
He sat up slowly, the blankets falling from his shoulders. The rest of the dorm remained untouched—no creaking floorboards, no shifting beds. But there, on the stone ledge beside his pillow, lay a folded slip of parchment that hadn’t been there when he fell asleep.
His name on the outside. Written in Sirius’s hand.
Regulus hesitated. His brother hadn’t written to him since the start of the term, not properly. They existed in separate spheres now—Sirius, loud and wild and untouchable, and Regulus, quiet, obedient, good.
But he opened the letter anyway.
Regulus,
We need to talk. Not as brothers. As Black sons. Meet me tomorrow night. You know where. Don’t bring anyone. Don’t lie about it. I’ll know.
—S
The handwriting was hurried, but not messy. Sirius was careful when it mattered.
Regulus stared at it for a long time, then folded it back into perfect thirds and slid it into the pocket of his robe.
His stomach turned.
The last time Sirius had asked to meet like this, they’d been thirteen—Sirius had bruises on his arms and Regulus had a cut lip from speaking out of turn at the dinner table. Sirius had snuck them out to the old family crypt in the forest beyond the manor and made him swear they’d never be like their parents. Never become them.
Regulus had broken that oath a dozen times since.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, padding to the tall window. Beyond the dark glass, the lake stretched black and endless, dotted with faint silver light. Somewhere below, the giant squid moved, slow and unfazed by the drama of teenage pureblood heirs.
Regulus pressed his palm to the cold pane.
Why now?
Why after everything?
Was this about Narcissa? About Lucius? Or something deeper—something worse?
His fingers curled into fists against the glass.
Sirius didn’t write unless he needed something. And Regulus… Regulus always answered the call, even when he shouldn’t.
He would go.
Of course he would go.
But he would go with his eyes open this time.