New Beginnings
September 1st, 1971
As day broke upon the poor house that was number twelve, Grimmauld place, Sirius Black was positively beaming.
Ever since he’d gotten the letter in the mail, he had been counting down the days, waiting; longing for this one.
Sometimes he would picture what it would be like. On the lonely days, when he was locked in the cupboard or silenced by his mother’s vicious spells. He would imagine the wind brushing against him as he sped the quidditch field, or the countless evenings he would spend surrounded by new friends.
Of course, he would have to keep his mother updated with his letters and perhaps hang out with Lucius once in a blue moon, but other than that, he was free.
He would no longer have to attend the mandatory family dinners, or plaster that polite smile every time Cygnus walked by.
He would no longer need to spend hours practising that damned piano until his fingers bled or study French until his eyes burned with exhaustion.
But most importantly, he would be free of his mother.
And Sirius Black hated his mother.
When he boarded the train to Hogwarts, he would be free of her threatening glares and ugly scowls.
He would be free of her cruel words, and even crueller hands.
He would be freed of the shackles tying him down; flying into the wind, the air gushing behind him. He would be free of the monster that never ceased to haunt him in his dreams.
Finally, he would be free.
A grin spread across his face at the thought.
“Sirius Orion Black!” the booming voice of Walburga Black echoed through the black walls, jarring him back into reality. Even though he was accustomed to his mother’s shrill voice, it never failed to make him flinch.
He mentally hit himself for the thing. It was a foolish reaction; an automatic jerk that Sirius had never been able to shake.
But soon, when he was at Hogwarts, flying across the sun-speckled sky, all of that would be gone. “I’m coming, mother!” he called back.
Taking a last glance in the mirror, he adjusted his black tie. Running down the stairs with his trunk in hand, he found himself missing the feeling of his dark curls bouncing against his neck. Too bad he couldn’t grow it out.
Down the black stairs, Walburga and Orion Black awaited him. His mother gave him a once-over. Her gaze was piercing; sharp like a dagger.
He was launched forward by the collar. He gasped.
“You must learn to fix your tie,” she scolded.
She tied the thing a little too tight over his throat. “You must keep up our reputation.”
“Yes mother,” he choked out.
When she finally let him go, Sirius could have cried in relief.
“You must continue our family legacy,” he declared, as if he were giving a grand speech. “When you are sorted in Slytherin, you must have outstanding grades. And when in doubt, speak with your cousins or the Lestranges.”
He doesn’t dare mention the Lestranges are also their cousins. With all of their family history, Sirius wouldn’t be surprised if the entirety of pure-bloods at Hogwarts consisted solely of his cousins.
But before he could say another word, a strong arm grasped him. Sirius could almost see the bruise forming under his father’s strong grip.
The world blurred before his eyes and everything began spinning.
So, so fast.
The furnished living room was no longer the furnished living room, replaced with a whirlpool of nothingness spinning so fast Sirius thought he could throw up. Sirius fell out of his father’s grip.
As the world blurred into focus, he found himself stumbling across an unknown place. He grabbed a pole for balance, cursing himself for not standing steady.
Across from him, his father stood tall near a lamppost. He glared at Sirius. They were just his first steps across the world outside of his family and he was already tarnishing their reputation.
“Heirs to the noble and most ancient house of Black do not stumble,” he warned.
He placed a hand on Sirius’s shoulder, and Sirius hated that he leaned into the touch. He hated the warm feeling that dissolved in his chest at the feeling of something that wasn’t claws gracing his skin.
“They stand tall.”
He swallowed. “Yes father.”
The place smelled of animal droppings. When Sirius had pictured the place on all those lonely nights, he’d pictured something a lot more interesting than a boring old muggle station and a boring old brick wall standing between train nine and ten.
“You must pass through the border. It will lead you to the train station, where you will be with your respective pure-blood housemates.” his father said the words as if Sirius had already been sorted to Slytherin house.
For some reason, that made his blood boil. “Yes father.”
As he stared into the brick wall, he suddenly noticed how real it seemed up close.
He swallowed. He knew he shouldn’t be afraid of such foolish things. After all, he was the heir to one of the most pure-blooded estates in the world. But the sight still made his stomach jolt.
"What are you waiting for?” his father snapped.
Taking a deep breath, he slammed his eyes shut. His legs ran as fast as they could; speeding through a veil that was supposed to be of bricks.
He could hear it before he could see it. The laughter of children and their parent's tearful goodbyes. The world was bustling and the train was whistling and Sirius grinned at the sight. He was free.
He mounted the red train. The train was bigger than what it seemed on the outside; filled with what looked like hundreds of compartments built inside. Each compartment was guarded with its own glass doors, and decorated with a maroon curtain.
Sirius sped through the compartments, trying to ignore the hateful glares sent his way.
He ignored the thought that everybody hated him because of his last name or the one that told him that he would never be able to make friends and ran through the hallway.
He didn’t even want to glance at their scowls or the fingers pointed his way. He ran and ran until he reached a dead end.
The last compartment; the one on the left.
For a blissful moment, he thought it was empty. But as he made his way there he spotted a tall boy leaning against the window, his eyes shut.
The boy seemed as though he were in third or fourth year with his height. He situated himself in front of the boy. As he dragged his trunk awkwardly through the glass doors Sirius didn’t think he’d ever hated the thing more than he had then.
The boy’s eyes flashed open. He blinked and Sirius sighed. He knew what was coming next. He's seen it in Diagon Alley and on countless functions.
Of course, the boy recognized him. He recognized him and now he was going to stare and point fingers at him and demand that he leave the compartment. Or worse yet, he wasn't going to say a word.
But whatever that boy with the chestnut hair and startled eyes could have said to him, he would’ve never expected the words that came next. “You’re bleeding.”
Sirius’s stomach dropped. “What?”
“You’re bleeding,” he repeated.
“No I’m not,” he lied. His mother had served him with a beating before he left school; a taste of the consequences that would happen if Sirius dared stepping out of line.
“Lying won’t help you with anything.” He wasn’t from London. He rolled his r’s and spoke in something of a sing-songy accent. Like Italian. If his arm wasn’t throbbing and his heart wasn't hammering in his chest, he probably would’ve laughed.
He scoffed. “And why should I trust you? Just because you’re a stupid third year? Well I’m sorry to tell you but that’s a load of-”
“Look at my tie.”
“What?” he said, looking down at the boy’s tie. Other than the fact it was old, and perhaps in need of ironing, it was also black. It wasn’t green or red or blue or yellow, it was.. black?
He was a first year. Just like him. His cheeks burned. “Oh.”
The boy pulled down the curtains. He didn’t say a word. He opened his trunk and seemed to look for something inside it. His trunk was mostly empty. It carried another set of worn out robes and worn out books and not much besides that.
Sirius wondered what he could possibly be looking for in that mess of junk pilled in the old thing.
“Pull up your sleeve.” His call was so firm, so strong, that Sirius found himself almost doing it.
But he shook his head. Black's didn't let other people boss them around. Especially not poor boys of old clothing and disgraceful posture and weird accents. He swallowed, straightening. “And why would I do that?”
“Because you don’t want a scar," he said simply. “Now, are you going to pull up your sleeve?”
Before, when he was locked in his room, he tried to believe that the bleeding thing wouldn’t scar, but even his mother cursed when she saw the severity of what she’d done.
She’d never leave a scar on her son; the golden boy.
The wound was wrapped in layers of wet, messy paper towels; courtesy of a frightful Regulus. He’d told Regulus that it wouldn’t leave a scar. That he’d be alright. But even then, he knew it was wishful thinking. “How do I know you aren’t poisoning me?”
“You don’t,” he said. He pulled out a small glass jar. It was filled with a mushy yellow sort of thing. “Now, pull up your sleeve.”
Sighing, he pulled up the thing. The towels were damp and stained with crimson. The boy didn’t wince as he peeled off the thick layers and revealed the ugly wounds that painted his skin.
He pushed down the wave of dread curling in his stomach as the boy's tanned hands peeled off the bandages. "Promise you won't poison me?"
He grimaced, muttering something to himself as he dipped his hands into the jar. "Only if you aren't annoying."
Bracing for the sting of the mushy liquid, Sirius closed his eyes. But instead of being met with a searing burn, an icy sort of relief washed over his hand.
The wound was gone in seconds. He smiled. “It’s cold.”
“I know.” The boy’s expression was unmoving as he said the words. He said them with a bored tone, as if he knew from experience.
He dug for something else in his trunk. Sirius watched him as he pulled out a large book. Curiosity getting the better of him, he peeked over the boy’s shoulder.
The words weren’t English. For a moment he thought it was French, but this language was different. It was more like Latin, really. But it wasn’t. “That isn’t French. Or Latin.”
The boy's eyes widened. “Someone’s coming.”
Sirius opened the curtain, looking out the glass doors to an empty corridor. “I don’t think so.”
As if on cue, two boys sped over to the doors. They opened them without asking, bright grins on their faces.
“Blimey.” A brown-skinned boy held out his hand with a smile. “I’m James, James Potter, and this is my friend Peter. But I already know who you are. Sirius Black, right?”
He swallowed. “Yeah.” Of course they knew who he was. It was lucky enough he didn’t recognize the first time. He could even see it in Peter, the blond boy behind James.
Peter flinched at his last name, fear glistening in his eyes. He was already tugging James out of the compartment.
James didn’t seem to notice, though. “Could we sit here? Everywhere else is full and sitting alone is boring.”
He nodded. Sirius and the boy who healed him sat on one side, James and Peter on the other.
“My mum made sandwiches, want one?” he asked. He held a sandwich in one hand, and a magazine in the other. “Mum has a tendency to overpack sometimes.”
By the genuine smile on his face, Sirius could tell that this boy was definitely not planning to poison him. Besides, even if it were poison, Sirius was ready to eat just about anything.
He was starving. Maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t eaten dinner yesterday, but the moment he tasted it, he knew it was the best sandwich he’d ever had.
He grinned. “What is this?”
James took a bite out of his own sandwich. “It's a Dahi sandwich. One of my favourites.”
“It’s brilliant.” He smiled. “If you think her sandwiches are great, wait until you taste her curry.”
“What house do you reckon you’ll be in?” Sirius asked, a sudden dread curling around his chest.
“Gryffindor! It’s the best house.”
“With my luck, I’ll probably be in Hufflepuff,” Peter grumbled from beside the boy. The boy who healed him was silent. His head was buried into that strange book he held before. Sirius found himself wondering what house he would be in.
“Don’t worry Pete, Hufflepuff is great too.” Even with those words of encouragement, Sirius could tell that he didn’t seem as enthusiastic as he did when speaking about Gryffindor.
“What about you?” James asked, looking at the boy with the chestnut brown hair. “What house do you want to be in?”
He looked confused. “I haven’t gotten to that chapter yet.”
James laughed. He really laughed. He laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. Sirius knew he should also laugh. The boy was a mud-blood after all; he wasn’t a part of them. But he didn’t feel like laughing at all. “You don’t know anything, do you?”
“Just because I’m not some weird wizard loon doesn’t mean you guys get to think you're better than me.” The boy scoffed. “Oh, I’m so British and I’m so much better than normal people because I’m a supernatural freak,” he mimicked.
“It’s just science,” James said. “Wizards can do things that muggles don’t. We’re just more powerful than them and we can do more. It’s not our fault.”
Sirius nodded. “It’s just like pure-bloods are more powerful than the others.”
“Science?” the boy stared at them incredulously. “You wouldn’t know science if it hit you in the face.”
“You’re just a smart-ass,” Peter said from beside him.
“Well some people actually need to have a brain to survive here,” he muttered under his breath.
The others didn’t seem to hear the boy, but Sirius did. He wondered what type of things the boy with the chestnut brown hair possibly needed to know to survive. Perhaps to know when to behave or how to play the piano or maybe how to read that book in the strange language that he had just opened.
Pushing the thought away, he turned back to James. “What’s that in your hand?”
In his sandwich free hand, James held something of a newspaper. But it wasn’t the Daily Prophet. Instead of being black and white it was filled with bright colours and colour-filled photos. “Only the best newspaper of all time!”
The cover displayed a quidditch player, soaring through the sky so fast Sirius could barely see him move.
He grinned. “Quidditch.”
“I know we can’t be on the team in first year, but that isn’t going to stop me from trying! I have a quidditch pitch back home, and I’ve learned all the tricks! Dad says that I’m the best quidditch player he’d ever seen at my age! Oh, I forgot to mention, I also have a broom at home. I reckon it’s a lot better than the ones at school, but I’ll manage. Mum says that if I make the team she’ll send it!”
James pauses to take a breath. “Am I taking too much? Mum says I do that sometimes.”
“You’re fine,” Sirius said. He took another bite of his sandwich. “Who’s your favourite team?”
James grinned as if he’d been waiting for that question his whole life. “The Chudley Cannons, obviously!”
Sirius didn’t know much about quidditch. His mother didn’t let him watch many of the games, since many of them included mud-bloods or blood-traitors.
But Sirius had always loved quidditch. From seeking glimpses of the flying things on the Daily Prophet to enjoying the matches at Uncle Alphard’s house when they were children.
Walburga had long ago banned the tradition, but that didn’t stop them. “Yeah, the Chudley Cannons are great! I haven’t really- uh- caught up on their last few games, though.”
He smiled. “That’s alright! I can fill you in!”
But as James rambled about the quidditch team, and all their wins and all of the games, Sirius’s eyes couldn’t help drifting over to the chestnut haired mud-blood reading the strange book in the strange language with the strange healing powder.