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Sirius glanced at the sinister-looking hall clock: ten thirty.
Late enough.
He trudged down the stairs and into the kitchen, snatched the half bottle of firewhiskey off the counter, and flung himself hard into the nearest chair. Hm, this was the last of it. He’d have to send Dung out for some more.
Too listless to summon a glass, he threw his head back and poured some of the smoking liquid down his throat. Didn’t even burn anymore. Just warm, almost soothing, like butterbeer used to be....
He sighed and slammed the bottle down. What a Bloody Miserable Excuse for a Life. He'd been here, what, almost a year now? Trapped in this loathsome house, with nothing but a rotten house elf and the ghosts of his past for company most days. In Azkaban he'd warded off the demons by turning into a dog. Here, he preferred getting firebombed out of his mind.
At least some of the Order were coming over for dinner later. Otherwise the only person he'd seen these past few days was Snivellus, who had swept in, dropped off a message for Fawkes, and swept back out without a word. This was his new way of taunting Sirius — acting too busy and self-important to stop and taunt him properly.
As usual, the sight of Snivelly made Sirius's wand hand itch badly. One hex, one harmless little bat bogey hex, would've done wonders for his mood. But Harry’s voice had cut in: he just attacked Snape for no good reason, just because — well, just because you said you were bored.
Well, provoking Snape drunk would've been a bad idea anyway....
Sirius tilted his chair back on two legs out of habit and stared at the fireplace. When Harry’s agitated head had Floo’d in a few weeks earlier, he'd half hoped it was there to complain about Snivelly — give him something to do, go set the greasy git straight. He’d been caught totally unawares when his godson complained instead about how James used to mess with Snivelly at school. The kid had looked so bloody crestfallen, and Sirius knew how much he hated Snape. Clearly James had just fallen from grace in his son's eyes, and nothing either he or Moony could say seemed to change that.
It wasn't fair. If only Harry could've known James, could've seen for himself what a great man his father was....
The boy had a good heart though. Lily would've been proud.
Sighing heavily, Sirius downed some more firewhiskey. He'd been hitting the bottle so hard lately it wouldn't surprise him if he could drink Hagrid under the table. There was really no point in staying sober now — but he promised himself he'd stop when Harry got back for the summer.
That was still a month off at least, though Harry must've been sitting one of his final O.W.L.s this very moment. Despite several heated arguments — heated on Sirius's part at least — Dumbledore had insisted the boy spend time at his Aunt and Uncle's house before returning to Grimmauld Place. Sirius hoped, rather viciously, that wherever the Headmaster was now, he was getting a taste of what it felt like to be trapped and isolated.
He hated the thought of sending Harry back to those people. What they did to him, Sirius didn't know, but it must've been bad to make Harry so desperate to leave. He'd tried to wrangle details from Arthur Weasley, but Molly had shut her husband up with a glare that plainly said he'll do something stupid if you tell him. Which in itself had been a pretty big clue that old horse-faced Petunia Evans — or Durbsey or whatever she was now — was as foul as he remembered her.
Sirius sighed again and took another swig from his bottle. He knew too well what it was like growing up in a house where no one loved you. It killed him — really killed him inside — that he hadn't been there to do for Harry what Harry's grandparents had done for him. It was thanks to them that he had any normal, happy childhood memories at all.
He'd met James — they must've been about five — at some wedding, he couldn't remember whose. James had helped him catch a toad and slip it in his cousin Cissy's dress robe pocket. Instant friends. And boy did she scream. So earsplitting... so satisfying....
Sirius folded his hands behind his head and smirked at the kitchen ceiling. It had been the start of a long and highly distinguished career in mischief-making.
Lucky for him, James had been an only child whose parents worried about him getting lonely, and they used to invite Sirius over all the time. Lucky too that in those days his own mother never suspected them of blood treachery, and was delighted to get her boisterous little son out of the house whenever possible.
Sirius rocked back and forth in his precariously balanced chair, still grinning. His happiest memories were of tearing around the sunlit grounds at the Potters' house with James. Riding toy brooms, playing pirates, wrestling in the mud. They'd dare each other to jump from tall trees or eat fat grubby worms. Then Mrs. Potter would catch them and scold them, and brew up potions to heal their bleeding knees or soothe their upset tummies. After dinner they'd go out with Mr. Potter and throw the Quaffle around until it got too dark to see. Or, if they'd been good all day — in other words, if they hadn't been caught red-handed — they would all Floo to Diagon Alley for ice cream.
He tried to picture his own father playing outside with him and Reg when they were little, or Mother brewing them potions, and snorted loudly. He'd only ever seen Father when summoned to his study for a lecture, which was rare, and Mother when he was to be spanked, which was less rare. Otherwise, the surly tutors and scowling house elves had minded young Masters Sirius and Regulus, day in and day out.
Regulus.
Sirius let his chair fall forward with a loud thud. The blood and alcohol were rushing to his brain now, pounding around inside his skull. He closed his eyes and pressed his eyelids.
Oh Reg.... Why? Why did you do it? You were better than that, better than them....
Struck by a sudden need to make some toast Sirius stood up, swaying slightly. Month after lonely month he'd heard his little brother's laughter echoing through the cold dark halls of Grimmauld Place. Sometimes he would turn around, half expecting to find Reg at his heels again... grinning back at him impishly, like a little mirror....
He stumbled into the pantry, taking great care not to hit the door frame. This house was full of miserable memories of course, but he could handle those. Dementors outside his door day and night for twelve years. He was used to it. He was used to finding James and Lily's bodies, to standing in that road splattered with Muggle carnage. Used to picking through the ruins of Uncle Alphard's house, and used to hugging Andromeda to his chest, her tears soaking his robes as she told him Reggie was gone, dead. Dead in the service of the Dark Lord.
Where the hell was that bread? Tonks brought him groceries just last week, it had to be here somewhere....
No, he was too used to his miserable memories to despair in them anymore. Those wounds had bled dry. But the house had other memories too — ones he'd buried so deep, so long ago — that broke his heart in whole new ways.
There it was. He grabbed the bread from the lowest shelf and made his unsteady way back to the kitchen. Got the toast going, put the kettle on.
It was in this very kitchen that Bella had set house elves on fire for his amusement. And he had — he had laughed.
He gripped the counter, knuckles turning white as he remembered the panicked squeaks that had sounded funny to his eight-year-old ears. He hadn't known any better, hadn't understood they were living creatures who felt pain. No, he'd thought Andi a great spoilsport when she had found them and screamed red-faced at Bella. Bella, of course, had just smiled lazily and rolled her eyes.
Sirius collected his breakfast things and sat back down, gulping his tea and brooding on his eldest cousin. Bella had broken out too, hadn't she? Her and nine other Death Eaters. The news hadn't surprised him one bit, except that she'd taken this long to do it....
Well at least he beat her. By two years. Without the Dementors on his side.
He gazed unfocusedly at his tea, then spiked it with a healthy dose of whiskey. Before starting Hogwarts, he used to like Bella. Look up to her, his cool older cousin. She'd been no more fussed about avoiding trouble or acting ladylike than he was. And for a while, she'd been the only Black who paid him attention, didn't find him annoying.
She used to tell him of the excited whispers heard late nights in the Slytherin common room. Whispers of coming war, of a new Dark Lord who would lead some crusade to take back something or other.
"We're one of the most feared and respected pureblood families, Sirius." A favorite saying of Mother's, but coming from Bella it had sounded like some great secret. "You and me, we'll be on the front lines of this war. The Dark Lord will like us best."
She had taught him to duel too, trained him to be a warrior. He'd once told Harry that Snivelly knew more curses coming into Hogwarts than half the seventh years. What he'd neglected to mention was, so had he.
For two summers they had snuck up to the stuffy attic and practiced for hours each day. She would laugh and duck his curses, teasing him in that mocking baby voice, "come on, you can do better than that!" His face would screw up in concentration as he fired off a stream of spells. Then finally one would hit her and it was his turn to gloat.
And that was how he got really good, really fast.
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Sirius Black and the Drapery of Doom by capella_black
Chapter Notes: Disclaimer: I do not own Sirius Black (too bad for him) but I am foolish enough to try and get inside his head.