The Black Brothers

***

Dorian sat at the edge of the family library, the smell of musty old books and leather binding filling the air. The dark mahogany walls lined with portraits of their ancestors, glaring down with haughty expressions. Each face seemed to judge him, silently admonishing him for every choice he had made—choices they could never understand, not in their stagnant world of tradition and honor. The Black family crest was emblazoned across the marble floor, a grim reminder of the blood that ran through his veins.

"Half the Blacks went mad, didn’t they? What’s the saying?" Dorian whispered to himself, running a finger along the spine of an ancient tome. His voice echoed faintly in the quiet room, bouncing off the oppressive silence that seemed to follow him wherever he went. "Every time a Black is born, the Gods flip a coin..."

He thought of his family—each one a product of their lineage, a puppet to the twisted ideals of blood purity and superiority. Dorian had seen it happening all around him, had felt the pull of that madness. Some in their family resisted, others embraced it wholeheartedly. And for the Blacks who couldn’t choose, the coin decided for them.

"We’re all going to go mad if this doesn’t end," Dorian muttered, eyes narrowing as he stared at the empty fireplace. The embers from a fire long gone still smoldered, reminding him of something fleeting and inevitable—like hope, like sanity. "Always pretending to be the perfect rich family... When in reality, we’re just breaking apart by our own relatives and beliefs."

The truth was inescapable, like a plague running through their bloodline. The Blacks—once revered, feared, respected—were slowly disintegrating from within. Their ideals, their obsessions, their cruelty—it was all tearing them apart. Dorian knew this, had known it for years, but admitting it now felt like an irreparable wound had finally been sliced open.

"This family is out of their minds," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

His mind wandered to Sirius. His first younger brother, rebellious and defiant, had always been brave enough to stand against their parents. In a way, Dorian admired him—Sirius had never hesitated to challenge their father’s wrath, their mother’s venomous words. Sirius could be reckless, certainly, but there was an honesty to his defiance, a courage that none of the others could quite muster.

"Sometimes too brave for his own good," Dorian murmured, remembering the bitter arguments that had echoed through the halls of Grimmauld Place. Sirius, storming out, rage flickering in his eyes like wild fire. He always came back for more, despite the constant fights, despite the punishments. Dorian wondered how much longer Sirius could take it before even he snapped. But at least Sirius had that fire, that will to fight back.

And then there was Regulus. Dorian’s younger brother. So different from Sirius—so quiet, so obedient. Where Sirius had been vocal in his opposition, Regulus had silently accepted the family’s ways. He never questioned, never resisted, always falling in line, driven by duty or perhaps by fear. Dorian couldn’t tell anymore. But he knew Regulus wasn’t a coward, not truly. It wasn’t lack of bravery that kept Regulus quiet, but something else—something darker, deeper, like a sickness that ate away at him from within.

"Regulus isn’t brave enough to say anything," Dorian thought aloud, clenching his fists at his sides. He could almost hear his mother’s voice now, sharp and full of scorn, whispering into Regulus’s ear about honor and duty, about the purity of their blood. Regulus had bought into it, or maybe he had just been too afraid to fight back. Either way, it broke Dorian’s heart to see his brother wither under the weight of their family’s expectations.

Dorian shook his head, clearing his thoughts. "Our parents," he said bitterly, the words like poison on his tongue, "horrible and unloving."

He could picture his mother, Walburga, with her cold eyes and sharp tongue, her expectations a constant burden pressing down on her children. And Orion, his father, distant and cruel, a shadow of a man too wrapped up in tradition and power to show anything resembling love. They spoke of family, of loyalty, of duty, but Dorian knew better. The Blacks weren’t a family—they were a prison.

Dorian exhaled slowly, the weight of it all settling heavy on his chest. "All of this is family duty," he whispered, the words hollow.

He had heard that phrase too many times growing up, had it hammered into his brain by the endless teachings of the Black family. Duty to their blood, duty to their name, duty to uphold the very traditions that were destroying them. It was suffocating. The walls of the library seemed to close in on him, the portraits glaring down more intensely, the oppressive weight of generations bearing down on his shoulders.

Dorian stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor, the sudden noise almost startling in the silence. He needed to leave this place—if only for a moment. The madness was already creeping into his mind, just as it had for so many of his relatives before him. He could feel it in the edges of his thoughts, pulling at him, whispering in that same insidious voice that had claimed them all.

But Dorian wasn’t like them—at least, that’s what he told himself. He wasn’t going to lose himself to this, to the blood, to the name.

He walked to the large bay window at the end of the room, pushing it open and letting the cool night air fill the space. He breathed deeply, trying to cleanse his lungs of the stale, suffocating atmosphere of Grimmauld Place. Outside, the sky was dark and endless, the stars twinkling far beyond his reach.

Sirius had escaped once—and never looked back or never wrote a letter Regulus, however, was still here, his sould at leat, he also left but somehow he could still feel his brother’s soul, still bound by invisible chains to the family name. And Dorian? He wasn’t sure anymore where he stood. He had always been caught between the two, torn between the fiery rebellion of Sirius and the silent resignation of Regulus.

The Gods may have flipped a coin when the his daugther Elizabeth was born, but Dorian wasn’t going to let it decide her fate, he was going to protect his daugther at all cost from the madness of his family and its name. Madness might have taken some of them, but not all. There had to be a way out of this twisted legacy, a way to break free from the chains of family duty and tradition.

Maybe his daughter was the key, after all she was the only child that Dorian had before his wife died, and he wasn’t planing on re marring so Elizabeth was the last Black…he hoped that with her the madness and the obsession with tradition and blood purity would come to an end, since he knew that the moemnt his daugther married someone she would take her husband’s name and making the Black surname die.

Dorian took another deep breath, the cool air filling his lungs, giving him a fleeting sense of clarity amidst the tumultuous whirlwind of his thoughts. The night sky stretched out before him, a vast tapestry of stars and possibilities that seemed to reach out, inviting him to imagine a world beyond the grim halls of Grimmauld Place. But the moment of respite was short-lived. Behind him, the library door creaked open, breaking the stillness of the room. He didn’t bother turning around, knowing who was behind him. And yet, he couldn’t help the slight tension that crept into his shoulders.

He heard little steps and the door slowly carking open, he turned and saw his daughter Eli? hunny what are you doing up he sighed looking at his now 15 year old daughter"I couldn’t sleep," Eli replied, her voice soft and quiet. She padded further into the room, her bare feet making no sound against the hardwood floor. The dim light from the library cast shadows on her face, emphasizing the resemblance she shared with her father—the same dark hair and sharp features. The silence stretched on for a moment before she spoke again. “I should ask you the same question, dada.”

“I’m sorry hun…i just…needed some time alone i guess ”Eli watched her father for a moment, her dark eyes studying him in the low light. He looked weary, the weight of his thoughts clearly taking a toll on him. She could always tell when something was bothering him, and tonight was no exception. "You don’t have to apologize," she said quietly, walking towards the fireplace. "Sometimes we need space to think, dad."
“Elizabeth…” he said, whenever he used her full name instead of “Eli” or any other nickname it meant that he was going to say something important and serious at the sound of her full name, Eli immediately tensed. She knew that tone—she knew what it meant. Her father was about to say something important, something serious. She turned to face him, her expression a mixture of worry and expectancy. He patted the spot next to him “take a seat love” she sat down “yes dad?” he looked at her and caressed her cheek “I ‘m sorry for snapping like that at you…its just theres some things that..well im not proud of..and don’t want you to look at me badly..” he said looking into her eyes “Its ok dad, I ’ll never look down at you” she smiled softly at her, she was to pour for the cruelty of the name their family carried, he knew that she was there for him, just like his wife once did once he was alive, but still deep down he still felt lonely, he didn’t know what but he knew there was something he was lacking, sure he still had some family who was there for him and loved him, but somehow he always feel like he needed more.