A boy with messy hair and round glasses has spread himself across two seats of the empty compartment, various sandwiches and sweets littering the floor, so that there is hardly any space to stand without stepping on a chocolate frog or fizzing whizzbee. They seem to be about the same age, and Sirius takes a deep breath, before knocking politely on the glass door.
The other boy jumps slightly, looking up in surprise to where Sirius stands with his belongings.
“Do you mind if I sit here?” He asks politely, “Everywhere else is full.”
It is not entirely the truth, but he knows that Wulfric Mulciber and Thomas Avery will treat him as if he were a prince from one of the old picture books on their library shelf. He can see them now, sitting at his feet, clinging tightly to every word that he says. He can see them now, copying his essays and his wand movements and the way he does his hair. He can see them now, following him unto the ends of the earth.
Because they will be sorted into Slytherin too. He knows this, because it has been written out for them the same way it has been for him.
So, for this moment, he doesn’t want to be known as the Black Heir, or by any other title that may precede him as a tribute to his family name.
For now, he is just Sirius.
The boy grins widely, and quickly moves his collection of sweets so that he can sit opposite him, before reaching out his hand. “Of course! My name’s James. James Potter.”
Potter. He remembers the name from conceited whispers at Sunday dinners. The frowns at garden parties. The fragments of ashen fabric on the tapestry wall, long since burned away by flame. These are the traitors – the evil that stands against everything that the Blacks has ever strived towards.
“There is no greater crime than to turn your back on your family.” His mother had told him this many winters ago, as the shadow of Alphard Black faded into the night. “They are no better than the defectors.”
If only she could see him now, as he reaches out to take this boy’s extended hand. When their fingers meet, neither James Potter or Sirius Black understand that this symbol of friendship will be the beginning of a brotherhood so rare and so beautiful, that only the ancient poets could express it in words.
Ludus, they would have cried, black ink staining parchment that will one day be lost to time, as they carved their story into stone. Philia.
Neither boy knows what it will cost them.
It isn’t long after that a small girl with auburn hair joins them, tears forming little rivers down the side of her pale cheeks. She moves to sit by the window, sparkling green eyes gazing unseeingly out at the English countryside.
She’s already homesick, Sirius realises. He’d read about it once, in a muggle book that Andromeda had given him for his ninth birthday: the longing for a place so dear to the heart, that to be away from it causes an unfathomable grief.
His mouth moves to offer her empty words of comfort, to speak in the same soft tones he’d use with Regulus after a confrontation with mother. As he does so, however, the door slides open yet again, to reveal a tall boy with dark, piercing eyes.
For the first time since her arrival, the girl speaks. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Why not?” A flash of hurt crosses the newcomer’s face.
Sirius quickly loses interest in the exchange after that, and he turns towards the hills, watching as the golden afternoon light dances amongst the wildflowers . He wonders what Regulus is doing now, back in the grey walls of home.
An outraged cry breaks him from his thoughts.
“Slytherin?” James laughs, strong and loud, as if the very thought is so ludicrous, that it’s not worth voicing. “Who wants to be in Slytherin? I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?”
It takes Sirius a moment to realise that the question is directed at him, and discomfort settles in the pit of his stomach. He thinks of the silver and green that line the edges of every painting; the pride drawn from the very traits that the snake represents. To be of value, one must be cunning. One must be ambitious. One must be great.
He cannot bring himself to smile. “My whole family have been in Slytherin.”
I wish they weren’t, he wants to cry out, I wish I had a choice.
But he doesn’t. He lets the silence wash over him, allows the ghosts of a different life to rattle their chains and scream for a freedom that he will never attain. Sirius can only mourn what might have been his.
The other boy’s face pales considerably, and he can feel his heart clenching as the fragments of this brief, wonderful comradeship shatter in the quiet of the little compartment.
“Blimey,” James’ voice is quiet, his eyes flashing with the smallest hint of distaste, “And I thought you seemed alright!”
And though those seven words are no more than an innocent remark, they will remain in his mind until the very end. Each syllable will be the stepping stone to something far greater than either of them are yet to discover, a tragedy that will not only define themselves, but every generation to come.
Because even if he doesn’t know it, the next phrase that Sirius speaks is even more profound – perhaps the fulfilment of some long-forgotten prophecy; a curse that will one day be the downfall of House Black.
He grins. “Maybe I’ll break the tradition.”