DoraTheMetamorphmagus

the-elvish-shadowhunter:

When he hears the door slam open, Sirius is frozen.

He knows it’s one of those nights. Nights where Walburga came home, reeking of alcohol and begging for blood. He can’t stop himself from freezing, that bitter taste of panic rising in his throat as he swallows down hard against it.

He’s 14 years old, and his greatest fear is his mother.

He scoffs at himself, at the cowardice that accompanied the words. He knows that he should do something, that he should move from this goddamn spot in the hallway, but he can’t. For a moment, he feels his gaze draw to the lines of even, white scars on his legs, before he snaps back into the present.

When his mother shouts from the kitchen, he is ready.

He heads down the stairs, each step an eternity. The kitchen is dark, stone blocks absorbing every last bit of light. Sirius notices the glint of the copper pans on the wall, the position of the pots on the shelves, as he turns his attention towards the people in the room.

Regulus is there already, back straight, dark hair perfectly combed, and Sirius scoffs slightly. Regulus had always been the favourite, the prince in name and blood. Sirius was the outsider, the forgotten, bastard heir, broken glass next to his brother’s beauty.

Walburga was there too, pacing up and down along the counter. Sirius leans against the wall, deliberately slouching his shoulders.

They all knew how the night was going to turn out. It would end in screaming and cursing and blood being spilled on those stone floors.

Sirius keeps his head high, even as he leans against the wall. He tracks Walburga’s movements, the way her fingers brushed the handle of her wand. Yes, he had a very good idea of how the night was going to end indeed.

Walburga’s voice is tight when she speaks. “So. Regulus.”

Sirius’ heart jolts as she mentions Regulus’ name. There was no reasoning with her then, no chance of peace. He glances over, sees Regulus’ terrified face.

Walburga continues, her voice clipped. “I just received a letter from school. Apparently, you were hexing Muggle-borns.” She grimaces. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Regulus is stuff, his voice even. “I don’t see why this is a problem, Mother.”

Walburga laughs, her hand brushing her wand once again. “Oh, I’m not mad that you were hexing muggles, Regulus. I’m mad that you got caught.”

Sirius takes a breath, his heart hammering in his chest. He knows how this is going to play out – he’s seen it happen enough. Walburga was furious, her anger amplified by the alcohol. Sirius could already see the spell, the way she would flick her wand to unleash her fury upon Regulus. He glances over at Regulus, noting the tightness of his face, how his skin was drawn and pale. They both knew what was coming, how the screams would echo around the room.

Regulus’ eyes met Sirius’, wide and desperate and pleading. A bitter chuckle escapes Sirius as he looks down. It was the same cycle, over and over again, because Sirius could not leave his brother.

Because no matter how much Sirius hated his family, no matter how much Sirius hated the blood running through his veins, he could not abandon his brother. In the end, they would always protect each other.

So Sirius smirks, shoving the fear away deep inside of him. “Becoming a mudblood-lover, Mum?”

The first thing he sees is Regulus’ face, sees the colour filling his cheeks again. He watched as Regulus slumps back, so slightly, into his chair, and Sirius can breathe again, because his brother is safe.

The relief is short-lived though, as he sees Walburga stiffen, her fingers flying to her wand. And Sirius knows, knows the spells she is going to use, just by the way she stands, by the way she glares, by the way she holds her wand. He’s seen it enough times in his dreams, scars and slashes and bleeding, broken lines.

For a moment, he flashes back, to a conversation he had with Remus, long ago. They were sitting on Remus’ bed, the night after a full moon, as Sirius whispered, “What does it feel like? To transform?”

Remus had sighed, his face dropping. “Shit, Pads. It…it hurts. It’s like…your bones are ripped apart. Your skin is being torn off. Pain is pain, Pads. That’s all there is.” 

Sirius had cursed, low and vicious, as Remus continued. “But the worst part is…is that there is no escape. Like, it’s not even like you are suffering for anything. It just…hurts. And there is no way to escape it.”

And Sirius knows, deep down, that this is nothing. That he may be a broken prince, that he may be a bastard child, but he was still a Black, and that had to count for something. 

So, Sirius bit down, against the pain and the blood and the screaming. The last thing he saw was the dark eyes of the brother that he saved before he fell backwards and the darkness swept in.