Chapter 16
His parents were waiting just beyond the barrier, their presence unmistakable. Walburga Black stood rigid, her expression unreadable. Orion was beside her, silent and still.
Sirius stopped a few feet away. James, Remus, and Peter lingered back near their own families, watching. He didn’t turn around.
No greetings. No words.
His father reached for his arm, gripping it tightly. The pressure was firm, final.
"Tiens-toi bien." (Hold on.)
A sharp pull yanked at Sirius’s stomach, and the station vanished.
They landed in the entrance hall with a crack, and Orion let go of Sirius’s arm as if he were something filthy. His trunk hit the floor with a dull thud. Kreacher scurried by, sneering at it before disappearing into the shadows.
Sirius barely had time to steady himself before Walburga’s voice sliced through the silence.
"Tu nous fais honte." (You shame us.)
Sirius stood still.
"Gryffindor." The word was spat like venom. "Une disgrâce. Une trahison." (A disgrace. A betrayal.) "Comment oses-tu? Comment oses-tu souiller notre nom de cette façon?" (How dare you? How dare you tarnish our name like this?)
He swallowed the sharp retort that almost slipped from his lips.
She took a step closer. "Tu es un Black. Un fils de cette maison. Un héritier de ce sang." (You are a Black. A son of this house. An heir to this blood.) "Et tu nous as tourné le dos." (And you turned your back on us.)
A crack rang through the hall as Walburga struck him.
His head snapped to the side, and a sharp, burning pain bloomed along his cheek. He stayed still, jaw tight, refusing to react.
Her voice shook with fury. "Je vais réparer cette erreur." (I will fix this mistake.)
Her wand was in her hand in an instant.
"Lacerio."
A white-hot pain slashed across his chest, splitting fabric, slicing skin. Blood welled up immediately, soaking into his robes.
Sirius’s breath hitched, but he stayed upright.
Another strike.
Then another.
Each lash of the spell cut deeper, the wounds stinging and burning. Blood ran down his arms, dripped onto the floor. His knees buckled slightly, but he locked them in place.
"Tu apprendras." (You will learn.) Another slash.
His back arched at the force of it, a strangled sound escaping before he could stop it.
"Tu comprendras ce que signifie être un Black." (You will understand what it means to be a Black.)
Another cut.
The pain was everywhere now. His robes were sticking to his skin, wet with blood. His vision blurred at the edges.
His mother spoke again but Sirius barely heard her. His mind was drifting, focusing on anything but the agony coursing through him.
"Tu es une honte pour ton sang." (You are a shame to your blood.)
Another slash.
He barely flinched.
That only seemed to make her angrier.
The next one sent him to his knees.
His hands hit the floor, fingers slick with blood. He breathed heavily, his body trembling. Orion growled, stepping closer, the firewhisky sloshing slightly in his hand. “You’ve humiliated us. A Black in Gryffindor. Do you know what people are saying?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Didn’t mean?” Orion sneered, slamming his glass down on a side table hard enough to crack it. “You brought this on yourself. Consorting with blood traitors and Mudbloods—and you didn’t mean to?”
“I—I didn’t want…” Sirius tried, but Orion was on him in seconds.
He grabbed Sirius by the collar and threw him hard against the wall. The back of Sirius’s head cracked against the cold stone, sending a wave of dizziness through him.
“Say you’re sorry,” Walburga demanded, her wand still raised, her face twisted with righteous fury.
“I—I’m sorry,” Sirius whispered, hating himself for the words, for the fear in his voice.
“Louder!” Orion shook him violently, his free hand slamming into Sirius’s cheek.
“I’m sorry!”
“For what?” Walburga pressed, her eyes alight with cruel satisfaction.
“For being a Gryffindor,” Sirius choked out, the words burning more than the wounds.
“You’re weak,” Orion muttered, shoving him back against the wall, hard enough that Sirius saw stars. “A disappointment. Maybe a few reminders will teach you some respect.”
The knife appeared then, as it always did. Sirius didn’t know where Orion kept it, only that it seemed to materialize whenever he was drunk and angry, which was often.
“Please,” Sirius whispered before he could stop himself, his voice hoarse, but Orion only sneered.
“Begging now?” Orion taunted, the cold blade driving into his side, not deep enough to be fatal but enough to make Sirius scream, the sound raw and broken. Orion pulled the knife free and, with terrifying ease, slashed it across Sirius’ ribs, then his thigh, then his forearm.
“Please,” Sirius sobbed, his voice barely above a whisper now.
“Disgusting,” Walburga said coldly. “Get out of my sight.”
Sirius staggered to his feet, clutching his bleeding side as he climbed the stairs to his bedroom, his vision blurred with tears. His legs felt weak, and every step was agony, but the thought of staying down there was worse.
The bathroom was cold, the tiles icy against his feet as he stripped off his ruined shirt, revealing a patchwork of scars, some old, some fresh. He turned on the shower, the scalding water biting into his torn skin, but he welcomed the pain, letting it wash over him like a form of comfort.
Blood and soap swirled down the drain in pink rivulets, and Sirius bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, determined not to make a sound. He stared at the cracked tiles, trying to breathe through the pain, trying to push the rage and despair back into whatever dark corner of his soul he kept them in.
When he finally crawled into bed, his body was shaking, each movement a fresh wave of agony.