Intended

[one]

When the baby arrives, there is no cooing and clucking over the tiny infant. No little baby chuckles rent the stale air of the house, and there are no straggling bits of wool, leftovers from baby blue booties.

There is only the calm, dignified woman sitting on the sofa and her equally calm, equally dignified husband sitting on the chair. The calm comes from knowing that it is all over. The dignity comes from knowing that, as tradition demands, an heir has been produced. The intended heir to the line of Blacks.

They do not notice the young girl peering in through the living room door, a newly born babe swathed in black in her arms and pride in her eyes. Her hair drapes itself over her shoulders and over the baby's swaddling cloths so that it looks like the boy is wrapped in nothing but the girl's beautiful hair, shiny and black, like her name. The child is asleep, his dark lashes resting against his baby skin, and the little flush of color in his cheeks is so vivid against all the black that surrounds him that for a second, the girl forgets everything and with a finger, she strokes his cheek as if she is making sure that he is real.

Only when he whimpers in his sleep does she remember who she is and what she is doing. She tries her best not to wake the child, taking no heed of the house-elf sulking behind her and muttering under his breath about ‘nasty little brats who have no respect for tradition.' He knows that she is not supposed to touch the child, but he cannot do anything but obey the girl who might one day be mistress of this very house.

And only when the little boy lets out a cry does the house-elf know that for his obedience, he will be decapitated tonight.

*

[two]

Family ritual dictates that the grooming of an heir begins right after birth, with the naming ceremony. No ordinary name will do… whoever heard of a prince called Tom, Dick, or Merlin forbid, even Harry? It is paramount that the right name is given to the child for they believe that a name can shape destiny.

Look at Orion, look at Mars; look at all the great men of the Black family, remembered for their powerful wizardry and for their deeds, for the names that even Muggles whispered with reverence in times gone by. But they cannot simply choose the boy's name, no; the ceremony will decide what he should be called, what his fate holds.

The naming ceremony itself is a solemn affair, one that is witnessed by all in the family. Even Alphard, the lonely wanderer, is invited. The child is placed before the family tapestry, the gold thread that runs through each name drawn out and extended so that it wraps around the child's tiny wrist. The Black brothers cross their wands over the crib as they solemnly repeat the required incantation, their voices rising as they think of all the possible names for the child. Ribbons of light flow from their wands, flashing over the child's face. Gold and silver reflect in his eyes as they curl around him, illuminating his bassinet for all of one precious, blinding second. A loud crack sounds over the heads of everyone gathered, severing the thread from the boy's hand and suddenly the tapestry seems almost alive, weaving a new name into itself as everyone watches.

When the light dies away, they see the name that has been chosen: Sirius.

And what a name it is. Sirius. The brightest star in the sky. It is a fitting name for a prince, a name that tells of the boy's hidden power and strength. It is a name that tells of great things for Sirius, for their noble heir.

But it does not explain the brief flash of worry that crosses his father's face, or the way his mother's eyes stray to a burn mark on the tapestry, three generations before her own.

*