There is little escape in The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Grimmauld Place was dominated by shadows and cold spaces, darkness seeped out of its walls, and whispers followed you everywhere: it was a living hell.
At 4 years old, Sirius Black sat at the grand piano for the first time. The most esteemed music teacher money could buy sat straight-backed and joyless to his left. Music flowed from the very tips of his fingers as Sirius stared transfixed; awestruck; nervous that he should have to learn to play such a piece himself. He glanced over at his mother, seated at the window, scowling at the street below. She could not feel the music the way he did, he could not remember ever seeing her smile. But he did not care, he was content to watch his teacher and excited to have something to do in this gloomy house.
At 6 years old, Sirius Black looked forward to piano lessons all week long. They came and went quickly and he flourished as a young musician. He would practice at any time he was bored, often shutting himself in the study for long hours to enjoy the time alone. As he progressed, he began to play for his mother, he enjoyed this time with her. She rarely showed any emotion, but she did not reprimand him either. They entertained a peaceful co-existence, and in these moments, Sirius felt as if his mother loved him.
At 9 years old, Sirius Black would play duets with his brother. Their mother would smile and ask them to play after dinner. They’d squish onto the one stool, thighs bumping and hands scrabbling for the keys. Melodies would warm the icy heart of the Black household: no one would shout, no one would yell. Sirius played and Regulus accompanied, and their parents sat silently, the ghosts of smiles dancing in their eyes. They were the perfect children when they played. Music seemed to flow through their veins as their fingers graced the keys effortlessly.
At 11 years old, Sirius Black began to feel the pressures of being the heir. You will be in Slytherin, you must. Whispers would follow him around the house until he was forced to lock himself away playing louder than all his racing thoughts. He didn’t feel like a Slytherin. He had no ambition to follow the rules, become Prefect and then Headboy, take a lovely pure-blooded wife from the Sacred Twenty-Eight, have a couple of perfect heirs and settle down forever. He was 11. He wanted to have fun; have friends his parents hadn’t picked out for him. But where would he be without his family? Perhaps it would be better to play by the rules. ‘And get stuck in another gloomy house for the rest of your life’ muttered a voice in his head. No, maybe it was time to break the trend. He could be brave, right?
At 11 years old, Sirius Black didn’t want to leave his little brother behind.
“Play for me Reggie…when you miss me. I’ll play for you too.” He whispered into his brother’s ear as he held him tight. He hoped Hogwarts would have a piano, if not several.
“Promise,” Breathed Regulus, “Promise you’ll come back?”
“Of course.” Chuckled Sirius, “Can’t leave you to play those duets by yourself now, can I?”
At 13 years old, Sirius Black played as best as he could at his mother’s Christmas party despite the snide remarks and hexes thrown at him. He hid for the rest of the holiday, wishing his musical ability would be enough for his mother to love him again. Wishing he could escape this wretched house.
He withdrew, protecting himself the only way he knew. In his room that break he was scared; Regulus would have to face them alone. But beyond this, he was afraid of himself. The rituals, the meetings, and the sick teachings he’d been raised on bounced around his head so much that he began to lose his grip on the reality he should believe in. Maybe after all this time, he was the problem. His parents were right, Slytherin was the only house he could ever belong in. At his core he was evil, he just hadn’t learnt to embrace it the way his parents and the others did.
Finally returning to school after this hellish couple of weeks Sirius slowly gathered the broken pieces of who he truly was. The holiday felt like a fever dream, but now only guilt encompassed his thoughts. How could he ever believe the narcissistic preachings of his parents? How could he think any differently of the people who had first made him believe in love?
The Marauders were all he had.
At 15 years old, Sirius Black played his own music, loud and arrogant. Forcing his darkest memories into the music, all the passion for who he was and not the fearful child his parents raised. The minor cords echoed around the house and Sirius crumpled in pain as a curse struck his back. His mother had come running, the door hanging off its ancient hinges. She gave him hell.
“I DON’T CARE!” Sirius screamed, “I DON’T WANT TO BE ANYTHING LIKE YOU, CAN’T YOU SEE THAT? YOU’RE VILE, EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU AND I’M SICK OF YOUR BULLSHIT.”
“HOW DARE YOU TAKE THAT TONE WITH ME, YOUNG MAN!” His mother bellowed. Sirius stood breathing deeply in front of the piano as his mother began reeling off her worst curses. The piano’s legs gave way. The keys flew off in various directions, smacking into portraits that wailed in agony, and chaos ripped through the room for several moments.
Abruptly and rather uncharacteristically, his mother stopped. Her breathing was ragged and her jaw set.
“Fine.” She spoke, staring icily at him. “You don’t have to marry this one, I will give you one more chance. You will sit with us, you will smile, and you will be the heir we raised you to be! And when a young pureblood woman presents herself again, you will go, you will marry her, and you will raise your children together. The Black family line must continue.”
Sirius was seething. She wouldn’t listen.
“Do you understand Sirius?” Inquired his father calmly. Sirius had hardly noticed him skulking in the corner.
“No,” Sirius replied. “I will not. I will never love her.”
“It’s not about love Sirius! It’s about duty!” His father shouted.
“I don’t care about your fucking duty! I already have someone I love! And if I can’t spend the rest of my life with him then- fuck.” He finished breathlessly; he wasn’t supposed to say all that.
“What did he say? Him? HIM?” His mother reeled. Mumbling more to herself than anyone else. Sirius backed up into the fireplace, as his parents truly stared at each other for perhaps the first time since they’d met.
His father glanced back at him; disgust written all over his face.
“You are no son of mine.” He announced, “Do away with him Walburga, this cannot get out.”
His mother shrieked, lurching forward and Sirius briefly felt her ornate emerald ring collide with his cheek before ducking into the green flames, screaming for the Potter Mansion.
At 17 years old, Sirius Black dragged his boyfriend to the room of requirement. Remus sat and listened as Sirius played. Awestruck and utterly infatuated. The music was like nothing Remus had heard before, it was light and floaty. A waltz perhaps? Very un-Sirius-like. Sirius’ brow was creased in concentration, his back hunched over the keys as his hands skated deliberately over the right notes. There was precision in his music, Remus observed. Careful contemplation of how to place his hands, how hard to hit each note, how-
Remus stopped pondering as he noticed a tear fall, glistening across Sirius’ cheek. And then another. And another. Until his hands began to shake ever so slightly, throwing his concentration.
“Padfoot,” Remus whispered softly. He had stopped playing. His hands still shook above the keys and his face was scrunched up in anguish, tears tracking his cheekbones.
“Oh, Sirius love.” Remus wrapped his arms delicately around his boyfriend, rather awkwardly from his place next to him on the stool, “As long as I’m here, no one can hurt you.” He muttered into his hair.
“It felt like they were right there.” He sobbed.
Remus held him for a long time.
At 21 years old, Remus Lupin stared at the piano he’d bought for Sirius’ 20th birthday and wondered where it all went wrong.