The Parlor

The Parlor

Sometimes, Sirius thought, if you stared at a stuffed house-elf long enough, you could be sure it blinked. Just something he'd noticed, standing on the landing in front of the parlor, listening to the idle chatter and the tinkling of his mother's laugh and the china. A house-elf's head, he thought, perhaps, one day, years after it's dead, will get the insatiable urge to blink.

A twelve year-old is apt to notice these things, particularly when he is standing on the brink of what he would consider a relative safe area and another room the complete opposite. They're the kind of things that seem to pop out at a twelve year-old to serve as a adequate distraction from that place he's avoiding. At that moment, it was a solid fact, Sirius, a preteen who fitted this description, would rather go into a room full of half-starved manticores rather than the parlor where his mother and her friends were having tea, but this was probably an exaggeration on his part, another thing twelve year-olds are apt to do.

Sirius probably would've only settled for normally-fed manticores.

His mother had instructed him to wait outside until she called him in. When he'd asked why, she'd explained in a sarcastic sweet voice that made him cringe somehow, "Because it's only proper that company should see our oldest son after his first-year. To see what a nice respectable boy he's becoming."

Ah, yes. That. The respectable part. She'd put special emphasis on it, mostly because, for some reason, and he couldn't imagine why, it was something he seemed to be failing at. He dreaded coming into the parlor to show them all, his mother's friends, their husbands, and his father, how very much he was lacking in this specific trait.

The parlor was his mother's pride and joy. Most of it might be stuffed (like the house-elves heads, Sirius would think grimly) with relics from his father's family, but by all intents and purposes it was hers. The carpet was a beautiful gray color that seemed a crime to step upon at all, the various shelves, the cases, and the things that sat on and in them were always dusted and impeccable, she made sure of that, and somehow the room seemed to convey an icy, beautiful feeling that made Sirius' skin crawl. Though no one, else's, apparently. In fact, Celeste Malfoy had admired it, cooed over it to his mother. (Sirius personally thought that one of the worst sounds in the known universe was that of a Malfoy cooing over something. It sounded a bit too much like those manticores he craved to be in the company of.)

At school, Sirius liked to think he had found his niche. He had friends, intelligence, certainly enough to be respectable, though apparently not enough for his mother. Or perhaps it was the wrong kind of respectability. He couldn't be sure anymore.

If the school was where Sirius belonged, then the parlor at his home was where he did not (curious, those children who felt the other way around). In the parlor, you sit up straight. You do not fidget. You do not place your hands on the gleaming furniture, lest you smudge it or, worse, break something that is on top of it (you'd think Reparo had never been invented from the way his mother acted). You do not speak until spoken to. You do not speak too loudly or laugh too deeply. All this must be remembered as you sit in the parlor. Sirius, obviously, had a short memory when it came to all this.

Company in the parlor was certainly bad enough, but when he was alone inside with his mother he found it even worse. She would invite him there so they could speak with each other. His mother would sit in her silver chair like a throne, where she fit in with the background nicely. He knew, even as a twelve year-old, that his mother was very beautiful in a cold, sterile sort of way. She was not young, he knew that, but was as of yet unmarked by the years that would eventually make her nearly unrecognizable (Sirius did not know at the time that he would follow much the same course.) In the parlor she would sit slowly sipping from a teacup while they discussed at great length Sirius' character, which always seemed a trifle unworthy, Sirius' ambitions, which always seemed a bit inadequate, and Sirius' faults, which always seemed one or two too many. The silk sofa he was always forced to sit on was so slick that he had to place his feet firmly on the floor to keep his bum from sliding off its smooth surface. Sometimes, in the parlor, it was better to just stare at the floor that seemed such a shame to tread upon, rather than at the woman who sat sipping her tea who seemed to be tut-tutting, rather than at the tapestry full of all the family you seemed to be disgracing, rather than the photographs of people who seemed to be leering.

The house-elf blinked again and Sirius sighed. Though he was not inside he could almost see these images in his mind and it discouraged him probably even more than if he was seeing them first-hand. Perhaps he should focus on the blinking house-elf again.

"Sirius!" called the high voice of his mother from the parlor. "Sirius, darling, do come in here. We all want to see you!"

He was definitely better off with the house-elves, this was shown by his mother calling him "darling." Some might see it as an endearment, but among them was not Sirius. The acidity of how his mother was feeling could often be measured by the sweetness of her voice. Bit ironic, that.

He put one foot on the stair, then another. He placed a finger on the railing (which was carved to look like a snake slithering) and ran his finger along it's many curves until he reached the first floor, the door behind which his parents and their friends.

At Hogwarts, he thought, there was a boy who could laugh and play tricks with his friends better than anyone, who knew suddenly who he is and where he fits in. And back at home, back in the parlor there is a quiet little impish creature who can only stare the gray carpet and wish he had gallons and gallons of red wine to pour on it in a wholly wistful manner.

Sighing again, he pushed open the door.