Just Another Word

Just Another Word

Sirius doesn't care about the woman in the casket. Part of his mind hears the voice droning -- some old Ministry official who looks like he's got one foot in the grave himself -- but he catches only scattered words and phrases. The Black family mausoleum looms before the crowd of mourners; its polished dark stone manages to gleam despite the dull grey sky and whirling snowflakes.

About fifty witches and wizards gather around the coffin in formal robes and sombre hats, fur-lined cloaks and smooth leather gloves. Aunt Elladora stands apart in her odd tricorn hat. She wears it to hide her horns, Sirius had solemnly told Regulus years ago. One week's punishment under Silencio had almost been worth the look on Elladora's face when six-year-old Regulus innocently asked whether Auntie's horns were curved like a bull's or straight like a unicorn's.

"...a respectable and well-liked society matron..."

He bites his lip to keep from snickering; there isn't a single person at the funeral who cares that the old bat is gone. It is simply another social roll call for the pureblood families, another chance to prove that their customs and traditions hearken back to the fourteenth century. They all know the dead woman never did anything in her life except marry a wealthy man who had the decency to die young, and dedicate her considerable resources as well as her less-then-considerable intellect to bombarding the Ministry with mad ideas for anti-Muggle legislation. The proposal to sterilise Muggles who impregnate innocent witches? That was Cousin Araminta. A crusade to legalise Muggle-hunting, for the "preservation and protection of the purity of the magical race"? One of Araminta's finest ideas, to be sure. The hefty fine to be demanded of any magical young person wishing to marry a Muggle -- well, that one was nearly passed, defeated by a narrow margin, and to this day Sirius' relatives will still click their tongues and shake their heads, saying regretfully, If only the Meliflua Marriage Bill had passed, we wouldn't be having these troubles.

That's probably how she wanted to be remembered, anyway, as the woman who nearly succeeding in sentencing the wizarding world to generations of inbreeding.

Sirius recognises nearly everyone here. He's related to most of them and will probably be related to the rest in the near future. The entire Lestrange family is gathered directly opposite him, looking like a collection of pewter gargoyles despite wearing the finest garb that money can buy; Bellatrix is standing a few feet away from her husband and his family, staring into space and smiling slightly. She seems to sense Sirius' eyes on her and turns deliberately to stare at him, her smile widening. He wants to squirm and scratch his neck, but his mother is standing to his right with an impossibly stiff posture, as still and proper as a wax figure. Sirius hasn't noticed before, but he is now a good four inches taller than her, despite the heeled shoes that made her wobble as she crossed the frozen grass to the mausoleum. Sirius marvels at the difference in height. He wants to recall it the next time they stand face to face.

"...an admirable dedication to the preservation of the sanctity of magical culture..."

Beside the Lestranges is the fair-haired Bones clan; Juliet Bones catches Sirius' eye and gives him a look of long-suffering commiseration. He rolls his eyes in reply, and she suppresses a smile. He likes Juliet, even if she has broken James' arm not once, but twice, in Gryffindor-Hufflepuff Quidditch matches. He feels oddly reassured that he is not the only normal person stuck spending the first morning of Christmas holidays at this miserable funeral.

"...tireless work in the legislative process, and innumerable contributions..."

Regulus, to his left, is restless, his gaze flicking over the mausoleum and graveyard, barely glancing at the black-draped coffin. That morning, before the funeral, Regulus had come into his bedroom while Sirius was straightening his tie. Grinning ghoulishly, Regulus had said, Six weeks. That's how long it took to find her. Nobody noticed she'd died for six weeks, and when they did find her, she was all shrivelled and dry. Mummified. He had made a hideous corpse-face, dropping his jaw and letting his eyes roll back, his tongue loll out.

Sirius had laughed and folded his collar down crisply. That's disgusting, he replied, grimacing.

But he was thinking: six weeks is a long time for nobody to notice.

"...a great hope for the future of the wizarding world, and the will to see it done..."

He hadn't intended to set his mother on edge first thing in the morning. Sometimes, of course, he did it on purpose, but not this time. All he'd done was ask why they always travelled about in the great rattling coach drawn by four foul-tempered Aethonanian stallions who must be Disillusioned and hexed into submission before they can even turn the corner of Grimmauld Place. Standing on the front steps, looking at the restless horses with their wild eyes and stamping hooves, Sirius had noticed the way they strained against the reins and simply remarked that a car would be much easier.

There is no call for such impertinence, his mother said calmly, pulling on her long black gloves. His father had held out his arm to help her into carriage. Sirius could see the lump of her wedding ring under the black silk, as well as the ridge of the diamond bracelet she always wears. His father didn't say a word.

One of the horses whinnied shrilly, and the cry was quickly muted by a Silencing Charm from the driver's wand. The horse continued to snort hot bursts of steam into the winter morning.

His mother said nothing during the drive to the graveyard, but she sniffed delicately and refused to look at him when the carriage lurched awkwardly around a corner.

He shifts his weight and feels his mother's quick, hard glare. There are a few hundred things Sirius would like to be doing today, and standing in a frozen graveyard watching Narcissa yawn behind her dainty white handkerchief is nowhere on the list. A blue ribbon tied into Narcissa's pale blonde hair is the only spot of colour in the graveyard; Sirius focuses on it and tries to think warm thoughts. His feet are starting to feel the cold through the thin dress socks and leather shoes, and he hadn't been able to find his gloves that morning.

"...protection of the wizarding world from destructive non-magical influences..."

Sirius stifles a snort and feels his mother's glare again. He is willing to bet -- if there was anyone here who would take the wager -- that half the people gathered around Araminta Meliflua's ornate coffin can count on one hand the number of Muggles they've met in their lives. He wonders if Regulus knows any Muggles at all. He can't think of any time or place in which his younger brother would have met anybody who isn't a wizard.

Then Sirius frowns as his maths catch up with him, and he realises that he can count on one hand -- well, one hand and a few fingers, almost two hands really -- the number of Muggles he's actually met in person. He's been introduced to a few clueless parents in Diagon Alley, amused at the way they gape stupidly at the storefronts and stumble over goblins while their children blush in humiliation. And he knows that some of the people he has met at Remus' house during summer holidays are Muggles. At least Remus insists they are, but Sirius can never tell who is magical and who isn't.

That first visit, during the summer after second year, when he and James and Peter had still been a little awed by their werewolf friend and more than a little wary of the steel cage in the garden, the boys had sprawled on the grass behind the house, talking and playing cards, while Mr. Lupin's and his friends sat in the kitchen drinking and laughing late into the night. Sirius had surreptitiously checked his pocket watch every twenty minutes or so, his anxiety growing as ten o'clock passed, then eleven, then midnight.

Finally, he'd cleared his throat and asked as casually as he could, Won't your dad be angry that we're still out here?

Remus had laughed and said, No, of course not, why would he?

In that moment, lying on the cool, prickly grass, surrounded by the sounds of the night-time and the voices filtering through the window, Sirius decided that he would never invite his friends to visit during the holidays. Even if he lied to his parents and told them Remus wasn't half-blood, even if James could manage to stifle his laughter when he walked past the house-elf heads on the wall, even if Peter promised not to improve the Black family portraits with pink ringlets and purple parakeets as he had the paintings in the second floor corridor at Hogwarts...it wasn't enough. They went to Remus' house, where Mr. Lupin let them do whatever they wanted at any hour of the day or night. They went to James' house, where Mrs. Potter baked dozens of biscuits and Mr. Potter helped them set up a Muggle camping tent in the back garden. They went to Peter's house, which was always shifting, changing and growing because Peter's parents were Pettigrew & Pettigrew, Magical Architects, and where Mr. Pettigrew's jokes kept the boys howling and gasping for breath all through supper.

When asked about his own home, Sirius only said dismissively, Nah, it's no fun. Just a bunch of stuffy rooms and breakable things. In his mind, he heard his father talking about the pride of the Black family, the respectable heritage and proud, pure history, the name that Sirius is destined to carry and the home he is to inherit and maintain for his children's children. I swear, all the furniture's about a million years old and the house-elves scream like banshees if you even look at a floor they've just cleaned. His friends hadn't asked again.

Regulus touches his arm and Sirius starts. The funeral is over. The pallbearers are carrying Araminta Meliflua's pre-mummified corpse into the mausoleum. Narcissa is leaving the graveyard on the arm of her fiancée, Lucius Malfoy. Bellatrix trails behind them; she turns and winks at Sirius. He scowls, then follows his parents to the carriage.

The grey and dirty London snow collects in patches on the ground and dusts the tops of the tombstones. A carved white angel smiles serenely and reaches upward. Sirius glances up, without meaning to, but frowns. She isn't reaching for anything except the barren branches of an oak tree.

In the carriage, Sirius slumps against the leather seat, ignoring his mother's disapproving frown, and watches London through the window. The carriage is charmed to move through the Muggle traffic unnoticed and unimpeded. He wonders what would happen if the charms failed -- the squeal of tyres, shouts, broken glass, stampeding winged horses, probably even a photo in the Prophet tomorrow morning under the headline 'Black Family Disobeys Two Dozen Secrecy Statutes.'

Sirius smiles to himself.

"Elladora is having a ball for the New Year," his mother says, slowly removing her elbow-length gloves. "I have assured her that we will attend."

Sirius doesn't bother to wonder where his mother found time to receive and accept an invitation during the funeral. It is one of the many secrets of socialising the women of the Black family are born knowing.

His father isn't listening, but he replies promptly, "Yes, of course we will."

"Regulus, those robes are dreadfully outdated. Why did you not mention that you need new formal robes? We will send one of the elves tomorrow."

Regulus looks down at his attire and frowns. He glances at Sirius, who shrugs. He can't see anything wrong with the robes, but their mother's pale blue eyes can spot a speck of dust on fabric from one hundred paces.

"And Sirius, you must trim your hair. You look like a Muggle-loving hooligan. It is disrespectful and unbecoming."

Sirius reaches up automatically and brushes his hair back from his eyes. He's never understood why, in his mother's eyes, venerable old wizards can have long, scraggly cave-man hair, but if young wizard has so much as a lock out of place, he is a disrespectful, Muggle-loving hooligan. Sirius almost grins, remembering the upturn of his mother's nose and the delicate way she lifted her eyebrows after meeting James and Mr. Potter for the first time in Diagon Alley. If tidiness of hair is any indication, then Mr. Potter and his son are the King and Heir Apparent of Disrespectful Muggle-Loving Hooliganism. And, Sirius thinks, they would both revel in that title. He makes a mental note to write to James when he gets home.

Then his mother's words register in Sirius' mind. "New Year's?" he blurts.

"Yes, that is what I said."

"I can't. I have -- I already have plans."

"Oh?" His mother raises a single sculpted eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"Yes," Sirius snaps. "That is so." He feels rather than sees Regulus turn to look at him. His mother's other eyebrow goes up, and his father slowly looks away from the window. Oh, bollocks. "The Potters are having a New Year's party," he explains quickly, unashamed of the bald-faced lie. He reminds himself to warn James of a possible request for verification. Mr. Potter is good about things like that; he never hesitates to join in schemes against Sirius' family. Sirius feels guilty about asking him, but there is no way in hell he's going to even mention Mr. Lupin -- who is actually having the party -- to his parents.

His mother is examining one long polished fingernail. The pale winter sunlight coming through the carriage window highlights the silver in her blonde hair. "One would suspect that you value these Potters more than your own family. Surely they can survive one holiday evening without your gracious presence?"

Sirius opens his mouth to retort, then stops.

You have to think, Sirius. You never think.

He closes his mouth, his stomach twisting in a guilty knot. After a tense moment, he mumbles, "They invited me ages ago. I've already told them I'll come."

"Even so--"

His father interrupts, "We shall discuss this at home."

The remainder of the journey is silent. Sirius stares out the window, peering through front windows to see warmly lit dining rooms and families sitting down to Sunday lunch. A solitary walker is startled when the carriage passes, and Sirius imagines the look of confusion on his face when he looks up to see nothing on the road. He wishes he were out walking in the cold grey afternoon, wandering the streets with no purpose but to stare through windows at trees, garland and fairy lights.

He tries to formulate an argument, contemplates feigning illness or a disfiguring haircut, anything to convince his parents to set him free for New Year's, but his mind is spinning and tripping over itself, constantly returning to a single desperate thought: I have to go. I have to. I can't miss this. I have to go.

The invitation had been a surprise, the brightest spot in the bleak winter. Even after the terrifying conversation in which Remus finally forgave him, Sirius held his breath for the last three weeks of the term, too afraid of disturbing the fragile peace, too scared that Remus would change his mind and decide that keeping Sirius as a friend simply wasn't worth the effort.

Sirius waited, though he didn't know what he was waiting for, and he watched. He collected little gestures and words, tokens of the return to normalcy -- Remus borrowing his quill, sitting next to him in Charms, joining in as they teased Peter about his pretty new girlfriend, rolling his eyes when James got into yet another fight with the Slytherin Quidditch captain -- until one afternoon James had smacked him on the head -- literally -- and said, Padfoot, you can let it go now. Moony doesn't hate you.

But he hadn't believed it, not really, until he found Remus studying in the library one day, tapping his foot and singing quietly to himself while he read. Sirius froze between the stacks, staring in amazement. He didn't want to disturb his friend, but his heart raced as he strained to listen.

And feeling good was easy, Lord, when he sang the blues.

One of those Muggle songs, probably, the songs that Remus knows by heart and plays on the record player his father has charmed to work at Hogwarts.

You know feeling good was good enough for me.

This singing to himself, this is something Remus does only when he is relaxed and absolutely certain nobody is watching. Sirius had forgotten what it was like to see Remus completely at ease, slouched in his chair with his feet up on the table, his hair sticking up almost as badly as James' in its usual end-of-term disarray, reading and writing at the same time so his notes are scrawled illegibly across the parchment, ink stains on his fingers, singing under his breath: But I'd trade all of my tomorrows for one single yesterday, to be holding Bobby's body next to mine.

What song is that? Sirius had asked.

He hadn't realised he'd spoken aloud, too loud, until Remus jumped, and Sirius wanted to turn and flee through the library. But then Remus smiled and launched into a story about a Muggle singer, some American woman who died, and Sirius sat down on the other side of the table, hesitant and stunned with relief. He only half-followed the story, reminding himself silently, This is Remus. No reason to run scared. This is just Remus, you bloody fool.

Then suddenly Remus had said, Dad's having a New Year's party. You're going to come, right?

Sirius considered, for the briefest second, telling Remus that he was mistaken. There was no way Mr. Lupin would have invited Sirius. No way on earth. But Remus probably didn't know what Mr. Lupin said to Sirius in the antechamber of Dumbledore's office, didn't know that Sirius had waited there, sick and scared and furious, leaning against the wall, listening to the muffled voices, not daring to look up when the door opened and he saw a pair of beat-up trainers stop just in front of him.

Sirius flinched when Mr. Lupin gently lifted his chin and looked at him with those electric blue eyes -- Remus must have his mother's eyes, Sirius remembers thinking ridiculously -- and said, in that quiet, calm voice, I hoped you were different. With all the vile and hateful people in the world, do you think he needs his closest friends to treat him like a monster? I thought you were better than that.

The carriage jerks to a stop in front of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, and Sirius climbs out with renewed resolve. Mr. Lupin is one of the few adults that Sirius actually likes, and he's not going to let his parents ruin this chance.

Besides, Sirius thinks, following his mother into the dark entrance hall, a night at the Lupin's is a thousand times better than being stuck at that creepy old crypt of Elladora's.

He remembers playing with Narcissa in Aunt Elladora's music room, a room where the piano is never opened and the sheet music could have been penned by Beethoven himself but nobody would know it. It was a good place to play because the adults wouldn't bother them for hours. They were playing Prince and Dragon -- Narcissa was older and she always made Sirius be the Prince, even though he wanted to be the Dragon -- when they heard a shriek from the parlour, a snap like a whip, the clatter of a tea tray, then saw the severed head of a house-elf roll past the open door.

That's Tunko, Narcissa had said. The head rolled out of sight, and Narcissa lunged at Sirius and bit his arm, growling and giggling, Ha! I win. You're dragon food. Dragon toast!

His mother pauses on the staircase, looking down at her sons as they remove their winter cloaks. "You will change and come down for lunch at two o'clock," she says, then turns and climbs the stairs, the click of her heels echoing in the hall. Sirius' father has already vanished into his study and closed the door firmly behind him.

Sirius goes up to his own room, wishing he had kept his cloak with him; the interior of the house seems colder than the winter air outside. He shuts his bedroom door too energetically and winces, but he hears no footsteps in the hall or scolding voice, so he crosses the room and collapses on the massive bed, staring up at the dark blue canopy for a few moments. The bed, as always, is perfectly made, the corners so sharp they could be turned over knife blades. Sirius squirms around a bit to muss it up. He removes his tie and tosses it on the floor, drapes his formal robes over the desk chair, and kicks his shoes off to a corner.

When he has created as much mess as his current outfit allows, Sirius feels a little better. His schoolbooks have been neatly arranged on the desk by the window, ink bottles and quills in rigid lines. The wardrobe is closed, but Sirius knows that if he opens the door he will see his clothing hanging neatly. Every holiday is the same. He comes back from school and by the time dinner is over, the house-elves have ordered, organised and stored every last item from his trunk. Sirius has known, for as long as he can remember, that he can't hide anything in his room. The house-elves always find it.

There are still twenty minutes until lunch, so Sirius goes to his desk to write to James. He warns James about the impending New Year's party complication but can't think of anything else to say. All he can think, as he leans his chair back on two legs, is how he wishes his room could stay just a little messy, for just a little while. Not like Remus' room, where entire armies could be lost in the clutter, and not quite like James' room, in which Mrs. Potter's penchant for floral patterns clashes violently with James' own preference for garish posters of Quidditch teams and voluptuous Muggle film stars. Peter's room would be grand, with its constantly shifting wallpaper patterns and sconces that sometimes chat amongst themselves in Afrikaans ("Boer sconces," Peter had explained offhandedly), but Sirius isn't sure he could get used to it. There are so many overlapping charms on the walls, furniture and doors that you never know quite what will happen. James never sleeps well at Peter's house, not since that night his bed spontaneously transfigured into a self-locking wardrobe. James spent half the morning trapped inside, pounding on the door and shouting obscenities, while Mr. Pettigrew and the others laughed themselves sick on the outside.

The chair legs thump on the floor when Sirius sits forward. He looks at the few scrawled lines on the parchment, then adds, See you soon, and signs, Padfoot. He blows on the ink to dry it, then folds the letter and tucks it into his pocket.

He unrolls another piece of parchment onto the desk and dips the quill in ink, then pauses, not quite sure whom he intends to write. The ink drips onto the blank sheet and Sirius frowns. He doesn't even like writing letters. Hastily scribbled notes are the extent of his usual written correspondence. The silence of the house closes around him, and he looks up and out the window at the dreary street, the dark afternoon. He can write to Andromeda, he thinks, ask about Dora and maybe promise to visit sometime soon; it will give him an excuse to plan a temporary escape. He can write to Remus and -- what? Went to a funeral today. It was cold. I'm still sorry. Looking forward to the party and your dad's band playing. See you soon.

Sirius has never heard music in this house. If he has, he can't remember it. His parents entertain with cocktails and dinner parties, with only the clink of cutlery and the sound of sanctimonious toasts, leaving the more extravagant balls to their friends and relations. There's a piano in the house, but Sirius is fairly certain it hasn't been played in easily a century; there are probably things living in it. He thinks about going down the stairs singing aloud, choosing some lowbrow Muggle song that will make his mother's eyes widen with shock and his father launch into a lecture about the dangers of overexposure to non-magical culture. Sirius wrinkles his brow in concentration as he tries to remember the words to one of Remus' songs. But they all scurry just out of reach, even the ones Remus that plays over and over again in the dorm.

The idea dies almost as soon as it is born. Sirius can hear, even in his imagination, the sound falling flat from his mouth, withering on the dark wood and crumbling rather than echoing when it strikes the walls.

He watches a man emerge from the house across the street, wondering idly if the man ever thinks it odd that his gaze slides over Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, that he cannot focus on the space between Number Eleven and Number Thirteen though he knows a house is there. The neighbour pulls his coat close against the cold; his face is hidden behind a scarf. He walks briskly away.

The clock chimes downstairs, a mournful tone that resonates through the house. Sirius jumps, splattering ink on the blank page, and curses. He stands quickly, scraping the chair on the wooden floor, and hurries out of the room. Halfway down the stairs, he realises that he hasn't changed and he isn't wearing shoes, but takes the chance that rumpled clothing and sock-clad feet will be excused more readily than tardiness.

His parents and Regulus are already seated in the dining room, his mother and father at opposite ends of the long table. Sirius slides into his chair across from Regulus, aware of their eyes on him. The food appears on the china -- potatoes, asparagus and some dark meat -- and wine fills the silver goblets. Three sets of eyes watch Sirius' father take the first bite while he pretends not to notice they are waiting. After he has swallowed, the others take up their forks and knives in silence.

The next few minutes are filled with only the sound of silverware on china, careful chewing, the faint popping noise that Regulus' jaw sometimes makes.

Sirius' father clears his throat, then announces, "Lord and Lady Dolohov will be here at eight. You will show them the proper respect and greet them promptly." He is looking at his wine goblet as he speaks, and his voice is perfectly neutral, but there is no question that he is addressing Sirius.

Sirius meets Regulus' eyes across the table briefly. Regulus raises an eyebrow in amusement.

Sirius' mother says, "That will be lovely. We haven't seen them in quite some time. Apparently, they enjoyed their stay in France. I do hope you take an effort to tidy your slovenly appearance."

Sirius knows without turning that she isn't looking at him, either. He takes care to chew very slowly; if he finishes before the others, he'll have to sit motionless while they eat, so it is better to be occupied throughout the meal.

He is acutely aware of his mother's rigid posture, the way her hand hovers by her wine goblet for a second too long, and he knows she is preparing to speak again. His stomach churns, and he takes a sip of wine. It is unpleasantly sweet and slightly metallic, the undeniable characteristics of wizarding wine. Before dining at the Potter's, Sirius hadn't even known that Muggles made wine, much less wine that doesn't taste like grape juice used to rinse the inside of a rusty iron vat.

"Perhaps you might explain why you feel it necessary to forgo your familial responsibility for another gathering," his mother says, her voice deliberately even. She isn't eating. Sometimes Sirius thinks that his mother exists on nothing but air and dust, her nearly translucent skin and sharp bones so delicate that a stiff wind would cause her to disintegrate. But the impression never lasts long. Her long, thin fingers grip the goblet like claws, almost the same colour as the silver.

Sirius considers his answer. You have to think, Sirius. Evenly, he replies, "The Potters invited me to their party weeks ago, and I accepted. I didn't know Aunt Elladora was going to have a ball." That sounds reasonable. Hear that, Moony? I'm being bloody reasonable.

"Why have you not mentioned this engagement before now?"

Even if the Potters were having a party, and even if he had accepted an invitation weeks ago, he wouldn't have written to his parents about it. He hasn't written to his parents since third year. But his mother always pretends that this isn't the case, always asks him why he didn't mention this or tell her that.

Before Sirius can think of a suitable lie, his mother turns to Regulus, who sits straighter and lowers his fork carefully. "And you?"

Regulus blinks, his expression plainly asking, And me, what?

But their mother says nothing; she simply waits. At the other end of the table, their father sips his wine.

"I -- " He stops and glances quickly at Sirius, his expression unreadable. "I heard that the Potters weren't having a party this year."

Sirius sits forward so quickly he jars the table. His wine sloshes in the silver goblet, dripping down the side and staining the white table cloth. "Well, you clearly heard wrong," he snaps angrily. Regulus meets Sirius' eyes and sips his wine. Scowling, Sirius leans back and crosses his arms over his chest. "They invited me ages ago."

His mother goes on as if neither of her sons has spoken. "I have assured Elladora that four will attend. It will not do to retract."

"You don't have to retract. It's just me."

"Your father and I have struggled to maintain this family's reputation despite certain...circumstances beyond our control," his mother continues. Sirius knows these words; he recognises this speech. "In these times, our friends and acquaintances are watching. We must share the responsibility of presenting an appropriate appearance to those who will notice any...discrepancy."

"Discrepancy?" Sirius repeats, incredulous. "It's just a party. It's not--"

"There is also the question," Sirius' father interrupts, his voice slow and emotionless from the other end of the table, "of unnecessary interaction with those who offer no advantage. While we cannot monitor your time at school, it is not unreasonable for us to expect our sons maintain relations with only the most suitable peers."

"Unnecessary -- they're my friends." Sirius hears his voice rising, knows that he shouldn't shout, but he can't stop himself. "I don't care about--"

"If, perhaps," his father continues, his tone as dry as dust, "there were some indication that one is willing to utilise one's rather unique position amongst certain unpredictable elements of the wizarding world, this insistence upon rebellious socialisation might be excused."

Sirius gapes at his father. The man is unmoving, wine glass raised in his right hand, his dark eyes fixed at some point in the distance. "I'm not being rebellious," he retorts. "They're my friends. I'm not -- I don't use my friends--" Sirius stops abruptly. He notices that he's picked up his fork and is holding it in his fist, threatening the potatoes or table linen or maybe the candlesticks. He sets it down forcefully, and the plates on the table jump. "Look. It's just a party. That's all. A New Year's party. It's not -- it's just for fun."

"Don't be ridiculous," his mother snaps. Her voice carries a hint of cold laughter that sends a chill through Sirius. "You are too old for childish outings."

"I'm sixteen!"

"You have responsibilities to this family, and it is time for you to acknowledge them. You will start by trimming your hair and attending Elladora's ball. There is nothing more to discuss."

"We haven't discussed anything! You just talked...talked over me." Sirius' voice trails off at the end of the sentence.

The dining room is suddenly silent. His father sips his wine. His mother stares at the candles, two golden spots burning in her pupils. Regulus is still look at Sirius, not quite smiling, but close enough.

Sirius pushes his chair back and stands up.

"You have not been excused from this table," his mother says, looking at him finally. Her voice quavers.

"I don't care. I'm excusing myself!" His voice cracks in the middle of the sentence, and Sirius strides out of the dining room before he can see the flare of anger in her eyes.

He runs up the stairs, knowing that it's immature to stomp on each as loudly as possible, but doing it anyway. Bursting into his room, he surprises a house-elf creeping on the floor by the bed. Sirius glares at the elf and points to the open door. "Get out," he growls.

The elf bows and begins to back away. "Kreacher is just tidying Master's--"

"I don't want you to tidy anything, ever! Get out!"