Black values
Kreacher appeared at the doorway of his room, sneering as he croaked, “Master Orion wishes to see you in his office.”
Sirius didn’t respond. He simply stood, the house was silent, but it was never peaceful. When he reached his father’s office, he hesitated for only a second before pushing open the heavy wooden door. Orion Black sat behind hisdesk, his face calm, composed, unreadable. His mother stood beside him. Sirius didn’t sit. He stood in front of the desk, arms crossed, trying to look as if he didn’t care, even though his skin prickled under their scrutiny.
“You know why we’ve called you here,” Orion said, his voice quiet but firm. Sirius let out a sharp breath, already irritated. “No” he spoke.
Walburga’s lips thinned, her nails digging into her own arms. “Don’t act as if this is some minor infraction, Sirius,” she snapped. “Your disgrace is growing worse by the day.”
He didn’t answer.
“Your choices have consequences,” he said, voice measured. “And yet you continue to throw yourself in with the wrong sort, as if you do not understand the weight of your actions.”
Sirius’s jaw tightened. “The wrong sort?”
“Yes,” Walburga said icily.
Orion leaned forward, clasping his hands together. His voice remained eerily level. He smeller like alcohol. “You were sorted into Gryffindor,” Orion said, his voice heavy with quiet disappointment. “You befriend blood traitors. You bring shame to this family at every turn. Do you have any idea what people say about you?”
Sirius tilted his head mockingly. “Something along the lines of ‘Thank Merlin, there’s one Black who isn’t an insufferable prick.’”
The slap came so fast he barely saw Walburga move. Pain exploded across his cheek, but Sirius refused to react, despite the sting.
"You're proving my point."
Walburga took a step forward, voice quieter now, but all the more dangerous for it. “A failed Black,” she said, “is a dead Black.”
The words sent an involuntary shiver down Sirius’s spine.
He forced a smirk onto his face, though his voice came out hoarse. “Then maybe I’d rather be dead.”
His mother stared at him, something unreadable in her gaze, before she moved.
Before Sirius could react, she grabbed his wrist and yanked his arm forward. His father didn’t stop her. He didn’t even move. Sirius struggled, but Walburga’s grip was like iron, her nails biting into his skin.
He barely had time to brace himself before she pressed her wand to his forearm.
A searing, blinding pain tore through his skin.
Sirius gasped, his body jolting with the shock of it, but he refused to cry out. The smell of burning flesh filled the air. The pain wasn’t just surface-level, it burrowed deep, climbing up his arm in scorching waves.
Walburga didn’t let go. “You will learn, Sirius,” she murmured. “Pain is a good teacher”
Sirius ripped his arm free, stumbling back, cradling it against his chest. His vision swam, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps, but he refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing him fall.
Walburga turned away, already dismissing him. “You may go.”
Sirius didn’t hesitate. He turned and walked out, his pace steady, refusing to let them see how much he hurt.
The moment he reached his bedroom, he shut the door and locked it behind him. His hands were shaking. His arm throbbed, his arm was covered completely in third degree burns, raw and red, stretching from his wrist to his elbow.
He stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the tap, shoving his arm under the freezing water. It didn’t help. It wouldn’t help.
He gritted his teeth, breathing through the pain. He didn’t know if he was shaking from the burn or from something deeper,something raw and exhausted and done.
A failed Black is a dead Black.
Maybe she was right.
But he wasn’t dead yet.
And tomorrow, he was going back to Hogwarts.