Just Another Word

Sirius s lams the door behind the house-elf and throws himself onto the bed. Fury trembles through him, but he moves only to stuff the pillow into a more comfortable position. He doesn't know what he expected -- his mother to wave her hand and say, 'Yes, you may go'? I should have known, he scolds himself angrily, She hasn't changed her fucking mind in about twenty years. Doesn't even know how, does she? Thinking isn't part of the pureblood training. Merlin knows we don't want anyone getting ideas.

It never changes. Lips move, voices sound, words float across the dining room table, disturbing the Ever-Burning Candles but passing the people without so much as a pause, without a flinch of acknowledgement or recognition. They might be talking to the walls, to the house-elf heads, to the silver goblets and bitter wine, for all the good it does to talk to one another.

It never changes, nothing in the house ever changes, because even when Sirius fights, even when his mother's eyes flash wildly, even when they shout themselves hoarse slinging insults and demands past one another, it always ends with an abrupt silence, falling like a cashmere cloak, stifling the fight in its folds.

Rolling over, Sirius feels the crinkle of his letter to James in his pocket. He pulls it out and looks at it for a moment. He considers adding to it, telling James what his parents have said. The way his mother's mind works, she might just write to the Potter's for confirmation about the party anyway. But Sirius decides to send the letter as is; he isn't quite ready to admit his parents have won. And it's Remus I should tell if I can't go. The thought makes his chest tighten uncomfortably. He wonders if Remus will believe that he actually tried, that he isn't just backing out because something else came up, something more fun or more important. Sirius can't remember if he's ever told Remus about the way his parents act, about the things they say, the demands they make anything that really matters at all, and he feels the beginnings of panic. I have to go. Fuck my parents. Fuck Aunt Elladora. I have to go.

He'll owl James. He'll be quiet and polite tonight before the guests. He'll change his clothes and trim his hair and be the bloody good son they want and -- they won't change their minds. They never do. But Sirius sits up and pushes the thought from his mind; he has almost two weeks, after all. He'll think of something.

In the hallway, as he's going down to the garden where the owls are kept, Sirius meets Regulus.

"Going out?" Regulus asks cheerfully.

"Why? So you can tell her?"

"One would think you have secrets to hide, the way you carry on."

"You should keep your bloody mouth shut about things that have nothing to do with you."

Regulus laughs. "Merlin, Sirius, what the hell's your problem today? Just because they won't let you go to some stupid party?"

"It's not just some stupid party," Sirius snarls. "It's -- didn't you even hear what he said? Utilise my friends?"

Waving a hand dismissively, Regulus rolls his eyes. "He wasn't talking about your real friends. Just the Mudbloods."

"Don't you dare--" Sirius takes a menacing step toward his brother. Regulus steps back, bumping his elbow into the wall, and Sirius laughs humourlessly. "God, you're just like them. You know which ones really don't matter? Mudbloods and second sons." Sirius turns away and leaves Regulus standing in the corridor.

The afternoon is dark and bitterly cold. Sirius hurries across the garden to the owls. It still isn't snowing properly, just a few dry flakes swirling around. He wakes one of the less bloodthirsty birds and gives it the letter, wincing at the grumpy nip to his fingers. The owl takes flight and disappears over the high, leafless hedges that surround the garden.

Sirius walks slowly back to the house, noticing that the weeds have pushed apart the bricks in the path, and moss has stained the base of the white stone bench under the willow in the corner. A bright memory flutters at the edge of his mind: his mother in a wide-brimmed hat and white gloves, kneeling beside a bed of brilliant red and yellow tulips. A green blanket spread on the grass, a giggling, crawling, drooling Regulus in blue and white stripes, and the warm smell of sunshine, baby and freshly-turned earth. He remembers solemnly digging a hole to bury his gobstones, drawing a treasure map on a scrap of parchment, carefully labelling the landmarks of the garden: Flowers. Tree. Bench. Mum. Owls. A fat black X, a winding trail, a skull and crossbones.

Mum, where's Bar -- Barb--? That place where the pirates go?

Barbados, dear. It's in the Caribbean. I'll show you on the globe when we go inside.

Something moves in one of the upstairs windows. Sirius looks up, expecting to see his mother, but it is only the edge of a curtain shifting in one of the unused rooms on the third floor. The house-elves keep those rooms clean for guests, but there haven't been overnight guests in the house since his mother's cousins visited for Christmas four years ago.

The cold iron doorknob stings his bare hand as he pulls the door open. In the dim hallway at the back of the house, Sirius shivers and rubs his arms energetically. A pair of large round eyes watch from a shadowed doorway. Sirius glares at the house-elf, and it vanishes into the dark room.

He walks slowly through the house, pausing at the bottom of the stairs with his hand on the banister. The portraits on the surrounding walls are hushed and still, lit only by the meagre light of the serpentine chandelier. Eyes blink, hands shift, heads tilt, but the portrait occupants barely move, and they never speak. They are still posing for the artist, years after the paint has dried. His mother looks down imperiously, young and elegant in a blue dress, her blonde hair twisted in an intricate knot beneath a black cap; her pale eyes follow Sirius and her mouth twists distastefully. An old man in a pointed gold hat dozes by a tall, dripping candle, the hairs of his grey beard and the flame stirring in a slight breeze.

Another painting depicts the four members of Sirius' immediate family. His mother is wearing dark green and sitting in a wing-backed chair, frowning slightly and looking at something just beyond the edge of the painting. His father stands behind her, his hand resting on the chair, tall and imposing in tailored robes, his black hair streaked with silver. He, too, is staring at something outside the painting, blinking thoughtfully but otherwise perfectly still. Sirius and Regulus stand beside their mother's chair; Sirius is fidgeting restlessly, shifting his weight and tugging at the sleeves of his robes, looking around and opening his mouth to speak but silently closing it when his mother's grip tightens on the arm of her chair. Only Regulus looks pleased to be in the portrait, his five-year-old self drawn up as tall as he can manage, bouncing slightly on his toes in an attempt to be taller. He's grinning widely, as if he's about the burst with some grand little boy secret. But Regulus, like Sirius, remains quiet, too aware of his mother's long fingers on the brocaded arm of the chair.

Sirius raps his knuckles against the dark wood and runs up a few steps, then stops mid-stride and changes his mind. He grabs his cloak from the alcove off the entrance hall; the spindly wooden fingers of the coat rack release the fabric and curl back into a knotted fist. Opening the front door quietly, Sirius listens for any sound from within the house, but hearing nothing, he steps into the cold and closes the door softly behind him. The serpent knocker hisses.

Pulling the cloak over his shoulders, Sirius walks away from the house, resisting the urge to glance back and see if his mother is watching from her drawing room window. He doesn't want to add 'excursions into Muggle London' to the list of his transgressions growing ever longer in her mind, but the silent afternoon stretches before him, blending into the night, the dinner party that is certain to be less than pleasant, and the two endless weeks ahead.

He exhales, breath opaque in the crisp winter air and kicks at a crack in the pavement. Grimmauld Place used to be respectable and distinguished. The row houses are large, with ornate facades and tall windows, but the grandeur has gradually given way to grime and decay. The old wizarding families left, and the Muggles moved in, filling the streets with cars and the houses with buzzing electronic gadgets. No one cares for the gardens anymore; the hedges are untrimmed; the paint is peeling; the windows are smudged. But Sirius' parents refuse to leave the ancestral home. Instead, they layer charms upon wards, illusions upon protections. They keep the curtains closed.

He turns the corner, allowing his feet to lead him aimlessly. Their mother may not have acknowledged Regulus' comment at lunch, but she heard -- she always hears -- and she will remember. She will remember that Sirius lied and fumbled; she collects his slips, like the dried flowers and silver daggers in her drawing room. He just wishes that Regulus would learn to keep his bloody mouth shut. The kid spouts off whatever's on his mind--

You have to think, Sirius. You never think.

--and he says the stupidest things, all the time. Not your real friends. Just the Mudbloods. Sirius remembers vividly the moment he learned that was not a word one used casually. He rubs his jaw and smiles ruefully. He considers himself lucky that eleven-year-old James didn't know any decent hexes; a punch in the face is quite a mild reprimand in the James Potter School of Teaching Somebody a Lesson. But it had worked, and Sirius had known. Two years later, when Regulus came to Hogwarts, Sirius tried to impart that knowledge to his younger brother, but Regulus had just given him the look of somebody who didn't want to be a kid brother anymore and replied, It's just a word. Who cares?

That's just the problem, isn't it? Even the people who don't care, do; they care just enough to scatter the words like leaves and haughtily walk away. And the people who care, who really care, they punch their roommates in the face--

I don't even know what's important to you. I don't know why you act like you do.

--those who go on and on about blood and heritage, about weakening the magical race, when anyone with half a brain can do the maths and see that it doesn't matter if your parents are wizards or Muggles or flobberworms, it doesn't even matter if--

Not human. Not rational. Dangerous, bloodthirsty, ravenous.

Sirius stops at an intersection. He has been wandering aimlessly, and while the streets are familiar he isn't entirely certain where he is. The light has failed, but it still isn't snowing. The air is too still, too cold for snow; the evening seems to be holding its breath.

I don't know what I can say to make you understand. You've seen me, Sirius.

"Oi, nice coat!"

Two children are snickering on the front steps on the ramshackle row house. They're both wearing threadbare jackets with mittens pinned to the sleeves, and neither has a hat. The boy's blond hair sticks up in all directions; the little girl's plaits are tied with ragged red ribbons. Her nose is running rivers, but rather than wiping it she just sniffs powerfully and stares at Sirius.

"You wearing your mum's dress?" the boy, about ten, asks.

The girl giggles, her laughter disconcertingly bright and musical, and sniffs again. Sirius winces at the thought of all those bogeys.

His fine woollen cloak was magically stitched by Adele Fabienne & Co. Superior Attire for the Discerning Witch and Wizard. Paris -- London -- Milan. Sirius' mother will only take her sons to Prospero's Alley when Adele herself is in the shop, peering owlishly from behind her thick spectacles, surrounded by a cloud of threaded needles that dart and flash like fishes in the candlelight.

The kids are still staring.

The boy snorts. "Don't ya have any boy clothes?"

"Don't you have any clothes that weren't dug out of a dustbin?" Sirius scowls at the kids, wishing he had a handkerchief for the girl or a Disillusionment Charm for himself. "Or is that the style these days? Very dashing, those ugly patches and trousers that don't cover your socks."

"Fuck you, you soddin' nancy."

"Fuck yourself, you filthy brat. And Happy Christmas."

Sirius turns back toward Grimmauld Place.

The house is quiet when he lets himself in, although he hears the faint noise of his mother's portrait hissing her disapproval. He goes up to his bedroom and lies on the bed for a long time, not bothering to light the candles or remove his cloak, until he hears the clock strike seven. Then Sirius rises and dresses himself in clean, respectable robes, combs his hair, straightens his collar, meets Regulus in the hallway as they both go down to the sitting room.

There will be drinks and polite conversation when the Dolohovs arrive, thirty minutes precisely orchestrated while the house-elves prepare the dining room. There will be discussion of politics at supper. Regulus and Sirius will speak only when spoken to, and the Dolohovs will praise the meal. His parents will accept the compliments as though his mother had cooked the meal herself, and his father had bottled the wine. After dinner, the men will go into the study, the women will retire to the drawing room, and Sirius and Regulus will return to their bedrooms. Everyone will be poised, calm, gracious and well-mannered.

Sirius will be bored senseless.

He yawns, and his mother glares at him across the sitting room. The only sound is the ticking of the great clock. It is a relief when the door-charm sounds, warning them that the guests are approaching. Sirius hears the scuttle of house-elf feet in the entrance hall, followed by the high-pitched welcome and the click of Lady Dolohov's heels on the wooden floor. The guests appear in the door to the sitting room, and the hushed scene springs to life. The men shake hands, the women kiss the air beside each others' faces. Sirius has always thought Lord and Lady Dolohov are an amusingly mismatched couple; she is tall and reed-thin, her mouth puckered in a perpetual frown, while he is short, chubby and always willing to engage in a cheerful argument about Quidditch.

Sirius and Regulus stand quietly until Lord Dolohov notices them and shakes their hands in turn. "And how go your studies, young man?" Lord Dolohov asks Sirius, as he always does.

"Very well, thank you," Sirius answers promptly. He remembers the script. Prompted by his mother's rapid glance, he adds, "How is Antonin these days?" He already knows, more or less, what Antonin Dolohov has been up to since he left Hogwarts three years ago; Mr. Potter told James about an incident -- though he wouldn't share the details -- involving a young witch and an illegal potion. But Sirius enjoys watching Lord Dolohov lie a little.

"Oh, quite well, thank you," Lord Dolohov replies, sitting down and accepting a goblet of wine from a house-elf. "He's been in Romania for a few months now," Where the Ministry can't get him, Sirius thinks, "working with a group of researchers. He was quite pleased," Lord Dolohov turns away from Sirius and faces Regulus, "to hear that Ravenclaw is favoured for the Cup this year."

Sirius opens his mouth to contradict -- there's no way Ravenclaw will beat Hufflepuff in the spring match -- but his mother is glaring at him and he bites his tongue. Lord Dolohov and Regulus begin chatting amiably about Quidditch. Regulus has always been better at small talk with adults than Sirius.

Lady Dolohov is telling Sirius' mother about the Dolohov's holiday in France. "...rather alarming, in fact, the leniency with which some of the old families raise their children. Madame Beauvoir is a very dear friend, but she simply doesn't understand the peril of allowing her daughters to go about with all manner of young men. The people we met in their house! Why, there were young people there who had no families at all."

Sirius' mother shakes her head sympathetically. "It is alarming. But that country has always been more free-thinking," she says the word as if it tastes foul on her tongue, "and we have tried to limit our exposure to such relaxed standards."

"The youngest daughter is entertaining the notion of marrying one of these young men," Lady Dolohov confides, lowering her voice. "I have told Morgaine that she must put a stop to that nonsense, lest the entire family risk being branded blood-traitors..." Lady Dolohov's voice trails off. "Of course," she adds quickly, "if the family makes its position quite clear, the rash actions of the children will be seen as just that -- foolish rebellion. Your own recent troubles, for example."

"Certainly," Sirius' mother agrees. "A swift and unyielding stance is all that is required to deal with untoward elements of the family."

"Yes, precisely. When the unseemly component has been removed--"

"Her name is Andromeda."

Five sets of eyes turn to Sirius.

"She's not an untoward element. She's Andromeda. If you're going to talk about her, you should at least use her name."

After an uncomfortable silence, Sirius' mother snaps, "That was uncalled for. Apologise to Lady Dolohov immediately."

Sirius says nothing.

"You will apologise immediately."

He crosses his arms over his chest and remains silent.

Lady Dolohov blinks and clears her throat. "Do not trouble yourself. Young men are often thoughtless and impertinent. Indeed," she turns back to Sirius' mother, fully ignoring Sirius, "Antonin tells us that, in Romania, there are young men who will become acquainted with -- even court -- young women, without once disclosing that they aren't human! Imagine the horror of being a mother in such a place, where your daughter could take up with someone like that."

Sirius swallows another angry retort and turns determinedly away from Lady Dolohov. His father and Lord Dolohov are discussing finances, as they always do, and Regulus is listening attentively -- or pretending to.

"Now, I have nothing against the goblins, you see," Lord Dolohov says, leaning back in his chair and tilting his goblet thoughtfully. "As an institution Gringotts is respectable, of course, and it has never been otherwise. But I must say, I am alarmed at the current state of things."

"It is an imbalance of power, to be sure," Sirius' father agrees, his expression animated as it is only when he's engaged in conversations about politics and money. "An arrangement entrenched in history, unfortunately, and one that few are willing to disrupt, despite the inherent instability."

"There were--" Regulus begins, then stops abruptly when his father looks at him, as if startled to discover that his youngest son can speak.

"Yes, lad?" Lord Dolohov asks kindly.

"There were other banks, before they consolidated into Gringotts," Regulus says. "After the goblins stopped fighting amongst themselves, Gruvius Gringott, in Berlin, convinced the other goblin leaders that they would benefit from concentrating on forming a single bank." He pauses, then adds, his lips quirking in a small smile, "It was a deliberate consolidation of power. The goblins knew what they were doing."

Well, Sirius thinks, surprised, that brings the number of Hogwarts students who pay attention in History of Magic to a grand total of three.

Lord Dolohov is nodding in agreement, his head bobbing on a thick neck. "Quite right, quite right. The boy's got a good head on his shoulders," he says to Sirius' father.

"Yes," their father says slowly, looking from Regulus to Lord Dolohov. "But that merely emphasises the danger of allowing a single institution or ideology control so significant a portion of wizarding society. Goblins are creatures of greed; that is their primary characteristic. They have deliberately upset the economy before, and they will do so again. Their interests have been aligned with ours in recent years, but to trust that such a state will continue unchanged is to ignore their very nature."

"Quite right," Lord Dolohov says again. "But it would take quite an upset for the influential families to place their trust in an institution other than Gringotts."

Bored, Sirius tunes out the conversation. It has always been his greatest failing as a son of the House of Black, he muses, that he finds talk about money dead dull and would rather wrestle a graphorn than spend any time debating politics. But I am behaving, he tells himself, sipping his wine. I'm behaving so bloody well you'd think I was one of those Malfoy creeps who memorise etiquette books for fun. Just a couple more hours of pretending that I'm deaf and dumb, and everybody's happy, right?

"...she will make a lovely bride," Lady Dolohov was saying, touching a bony hand to her neck and sighing. "So fair and dainty, she does take after her mother."

Oh, Merlin, Sirius groans inwardly. Narcissa's wedding. It is the other topic of conversation that makes him gnash his teeth and imagine hot pokers driven into his eyes, because that is far more pleasant. Clearly Lady Dolohov has never played chess or gobstones with Narcissa. "Fair and dainty" aren't exactly the words Sirius would apply to his cousin who still resorts to drawing blood with her fingernails when a game isn't going her way.

"Yes, it will be the event of the season," Sirius' mother says. She is looking at the fire, not at Lady Dolohov, and her voice is completely devoid of emotion.

"Just what the London society needs in these troubled times," Lady Dolohov adds. "The joining of two great families, a symbol of solidarity in the face of recent...disturbing trends." Her glance at Sirius is quick, but he sees it and scowls. Lady Dolohov adds pointedly, "It is reassuring to see young people demonstrate a respect for tradition."

"We do try to instil in our children the importance of such respect." Sirius' mother looks at him directly. He meets her eyes and does not respond. "Just this afternoon we were discussing Elladora's upcoming ball, and we have agreed that we shall attend as a family, as is proper."

"Alas, you are a rarity, as we learned whilst travelling abroad." Lady Dolohov purses her lips distastefully. "I am grateful that our own Antonin understands that there are tenets of polite society that simply cannot be compromised. There are far too many modern families abroad -- parents and children alike -- who have no appreciation of proper boundaries."

The men are listening to the conversation, and Sirius sees Lord Dolohov shift uncomfortably and lower his jowly face to sip his wine.

"I fear," Sirius' father injects solemnly, "that there are many who would see England become such a place."

"Why, yes," Lady Dolohov say. "Yesterday I received a letter from Antonin. His work and his very important experiments are forever delayed by these ridiculous Romanian notions about the rights of creatures and the Romanian Ministry--"

"Indeed," Lord Dolohov says loudly, sitting up and clearing his throat. Raising his goblet expressively, he continues, "Just as it is in England, this continual quibbling about 'beasts' and 'beings'. I fail to understand why there is a debate at all. An animal is an animal, a man is a man -- oh, careful, you'll spill your wine."

Sirius sets his wine glass carefully on the side table and wipes his hand on his robe.

"Oh, I could go on about this nonsense in England!" Lady Dolohov exclaims, oblivious to her husband's look of relief that the subject had been successfully shifted away from Antonin and whatever he was or wasn't doing with the Romanian Ministry. "It would be much simpler if the Dark Creature Registries were made public. I am so very uncomfortable travelling through the countryside not knowing which estates belong to vampires. And there are days I simply cannot stomach a stroll through Diagon Alley; I never know if the appalling man beside me in the shop is a part-giant, or a werewolf, or simply a slovenly Mudblood. Frankly, it is both distasteful and disconcerting, to not know whether these creatures are properly kept. Mandatory identification would solve so many problems."

"Solve what problems?" Sirius asks angrily. "Just because you--"

"Quiet!" his mother snaps. She sets her goblet down with a thud.

He ignores her. "Just because you find them distasteful?"

"Young man--"

Talking over Lord Dolohov's exclamation, Sirius sits forward and sneers at Lady Dolohov's shocked expression. "What, are you afraid that some -- some person will decide to rip your arms off while he's out doing his shopping? Why don't you just shut yourself in your house, then, and--"

"Silence!" His mother stands up, her pale eyes flashing, and takes a step forward.

"You will not speak to our guests like that." His father's voice is stern and cold.

Sirius looks from one parent to the other in the sudden silence; both of them are glaring at him fiercely, anger barely contained behind iron composure. He pushes himself to his feet. "Why the hell not? I don't want to listen to this fucking rubbish. If you people think it's so dangerous and distasteful, why don't you all bugger off and build a sodding colony for pureblooded idiots where--"

"Young man, you are being irrational," Lord Dolohov's rumbling voice adds. "We are merely expressing our opinions. If you wish to defend monsters and Mudbloods--"

"--you will not do it in this house, and not before our guests," Sirius' mother interrupts. "This was a civilised discussion until you began acting like a child. You are not permitted to speak such nonsense--"

"Nonsense? Talking about people like they're people is nonsense?"

"Well, they hardly qualify--"

Sirius spins around and glares down at Lady Dolohov. "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about! How the hell do you know who qualifies as people if you're too bloody stupid to--"

"That is enough! Your behaviour is appalling."

Sirius meets his mother's cold blue eyes and opens his mouth to reply.

"You do not believe what you are saying," his father says, standing as well. "And your self-indulgent tantrum has no place in polite conversation."

Sirius gapes at him. "My -- I don't believe? How the hell do you know what I believe? I don't care about bloody polite -- I don't care about--"

"You will be silent!" his mother shrieks, her self-control finally breaking. She takes a step forward and Sirius flinches back. Her hands are in fists at her side. She doesn't have her wand, he thinks wildly.

Sirius steps back again. She doesn't have her wand and I'm taller than her and this is so bloody ridiculous and--"I don't fucking care," he snarls, then wheels around and leaves the room.

He runs up the stairs to his bedroom. Slamming the door hard enough to make the walls tremble, Sirius stands in the middle of the room, breathing heavily. He runs a hand through his hair and notices that the room has been tidied again; the duvet is smooth, the quills stored away, and the pile of clothing on the floor has been removed.

"I'm thinking," he says quietly. Sirius exhales slowly. "Fuck. I'm thinking."

He wrenches the wardrobe open and pulls his duffle bag from where it's stored on the shelf. "So I don't know what I fucking believe, do I?" he mutters. He piles his school things into the bag with one sweep of his arm, then tosses his clothes atop the mess of books, quills and parchment. "Go ahead and say it -- Mudblood-lovers, beasts and monsters and fucking traitors -- it's just words--" His broom is leaning in the corner; he grabs it, then takes his wand from his bedside table and shoves it in his pocket. He looks around the room. He thinks of things elsewhere in the house, tries to remember if there's anything he'll miss. "I don't care," he whispers. "I don't fucking care."

Sirius drags his bag from the room and down the stairs, his books thudding noisily on the wooden treads. The bumping racket stirs the portraits in the entrance hall, and they begin to point and whisper.

"Where are you going?"

His parents stand in the hallway, outside the sitting room. Regulus and the Dolohovs are just behind them, three faces watching in shock.

"I'm leaving," Sirius replies. He pulls the front door open.

"Don't be ridiculous," his mother says sharply. Her nostrils flare as she inhales.

"I'm leaving."

"If you leave this house," his father begins. Sirius pauses and looks back. He has never heard his father's voice shake like that before. "You will never come back."

Sirius waits, but his father says nothing more. "Works for everybody, then, doesn't it?" He pulls his bag through the door without looking back.

The door slams shut behind him, and the silver snake hisses.

Sirius drags his duffle down the walkway and starts up Grimmauld Place. Two houses down, he pauses to remove his robes and put on an old jumper that will pass well enough for Muggle. He zips the bag closed, then looks back at Number Twelve. No light shines from the windows, not even a glimmer through the heavy curtains. He shoulders the duffle, picks up his broom, and walks away.

As Sirius turns the corner from Grimmauld Place, the snow begins to fall.