Intended

[nine]

He tries. He tries his best. He says he will be good, that he will make them change their minds. He writes home and tells his parents that there must have been a mistake and he will sort things out. In return, he gets a note that he is supposed to give the Headmaster, a note that will explain everything. It is armed only with this note and his stubborn determination that he goes to Headmaster Dumbledore and asks that his house be changed, that he be sorted again.

‘The Sorting Hat never lies, my boy.'

‘It must have!' Sirius insists, offering up the note. The Headmaster waves it away, but Sirius continues, undeterred. ‘Sir, all Blacks are supposed to be in Slytherin! Please, can't I just… try it on? Just one more time?'

The Headmaster chuckles fondly and takes down the hat from a shelf. In the light, it looks even shabbier than he remembers it being. But when he slips it on, the darkness inside the hat is just the same as it was on his first night.

‘Oh, it's you again!'

‘I don't want to be in Gryffindor. Put me in Slytherin.'

‘Sorry, I can't do that.'

‘WHY? You said you can see inside me… you know I belong in Slytherin! You must have made a mistake.'

‘I don't make mistakes.'

‘Then…'

‘You are in Gryffindor because you belong there. It doesn't matter that all Blacks have been in Slytherin, you are not like them!'

‘But… but Andromeda... you said she would have been better in Ravenclaw, but you listened to her! You put her in Slytherin! Why can't you listen to me?'

‘I didn't. I said she would have made a fine Ravenclaw, but she was better suited to be a Slytherin. You could have been in any house… yes, even Slytherin… but you fit best in Gryffindor.'

‘But…'

‘No buts, now! I still think you're a fine Gryffindor, and in Gryffindor you shall stay.'

He takes off the hat, utterly disappointed.

‘Well?' The Headmaster is smiling at him, and Sirius finds himself infuriated by the smile. It is almost as if he already knows what has been said, and judging by the twinkle in his eyes, he is highly amused by it. Still, he can't help but answer, his voice dull, almost devoid of emotion altogether.

‘It refused to put me anywhere else.'

‘Sirius, sometimes we don't know ourselves. We think we are wise or cunning or courageous or true. But it is not always so. Sometimes… we need someone to tell us who we are, to help us understand ourselves.'

He nods, not willing to believe the Headmaster, but not knowing what else to do. He had fully expected that he would be restored to his rightful place in Slytherin, as the heir of the Blacks; that he would have been given a second chance at being who he was trained to be. He had not prepared himself for any possible let down should his request be refused. Now he is lost, incomplete, dejected, unable to understand what to do next.

‘Now, by my understanding, you think you should have been in Slytherin. I might have thought so too…'

His head snaps up, his heart beating faster with certain hope. The Headmaster has the power to change things… of course, the hat must be a fake, just a trick to make the children believe they have been chosen for some special quality they possess. It's not possible that a stupid old hat could have such power… yes, the Headmaster chooses the houses… surely, he will change his mind…

‘… but I am sure that you have been placed in Gryffindor for a reason. We may not know it now, Sirius, but I have great faith that we will see why, and hopefully in the near future.'

Sirius leaves the office even more dejected than before, dropping the unopened note, his last hope crumpling like the parchment beneath his feet.

*

[ten]

If you must stay in that awful house, be careful you do not make friends with the wrong sort. Seek out your cousins in Slytherin; they will tell you what to do…

The letter is an instruction, a last attempt to save him. But everyone in Gryffindor seems to be the wrong sort. He is surrounded by tainted blood and those who support it. Most of the students avoid him anyway, wary of him and his family, refusing to talk to him at all. He pretends that he doesn't care, that it's better this way because then he does not have to stoop to conversing with Mudbloods, but he cannot lie to himself that he does not feel lonely. His cousins have brushed him off, declaring him unworthy of their company. Only Andromeda pays even the slightest bit of attention to him, and even then she cannot stay long, always busy with her own schoolwork and her prefect's duties.

‘You need to make friends, Sirius,' she tells him, exasperated after she catches him following her to the dungeons. ‘You know, friends of your own age, in your own house.'

‘None of them want to talk to me. Besides, they're all Mudbloods and stupid Muggle-lovers anyway.'

Andromeda glares at him. ‘Don't talk like that! They're not all that bad. Have you even tried talking to any of them?'

‘No, but-‘

She sighs and stops walking, turns around to face him. ‘Sirius, you've got to stop thinking about people as purebloods and Muggle-borns or Half-bloods. There's nothing wrong with them, understand?'

‘But Mother said I shouldn't mix with the wrong sort.'

‘Auntie would say that,' she mutters. ‘Look, Sirius… there's no such thing as the wrong sort of people. They… our families… they think that being a pureblood is the most important thing in the whole world-‘

‘But isn't it?' Sirius interjects impatiently. ‘I mean, we can't mix-‘

‘Sirius, those are lies. I've told you before, they don't mean anything.' Andromeda sounds as if she is struggling to say the words, her voice low and her manner tense. She looks around, then back at Sirius. He notices how tired she looks and how her hands flutter nervously before her as she reaches out to take him by the shoulders.

‘Do you remember that day… I know you were really young, but do you remember when we went down that hidden corridor and found the portrait? Of that other Sirius?'

She had told him to forget, and he had tried, he really had, but he still remembers. He still remembers asking his father about that other Sirius and being scolded for going where he was not supposed to be. He still remembers watching as the corridor was bricked up and sealed, his parents whispering to one another but refusing to tell him anything. He still remembers the look in the other Sirius's eyes, even if the words about blood have faded to almost nothing.

‘I think I remember… kind of…'

‘He said something that time, and I thought that he was probably mad to be saying it, so I was scared. But the thing is… he was right. Our blood… it doesn't mean anything at all, Sirius,' she whispers. ‘If someone is a Mud- if they're Muggle-born, that doesn't make them any less of a Wizard than you. These are just stupid ideas that our parents put in our heads, stupid ideas that blood means power and Muggles have dirty blood…'

He isn't convinced. He is sure that she has been bewitched, that perhaps, she is under some sort of curse that makes her speak out against the values they have both been brought up to believe in an uphold. There is something odd about Andromeda, something he can't quite understand. He does not recall her ever being so emotional, remembering her tears in the bathroom; he has never seen her so anxious, glancing nervously over her shoulders as she does now. He shakes his head.

‘But… but…'

‘It doesn't mean anything. Nothing, nothing, nothing at all. Get that into your head before it's too late.'

And with a quick kiss on his forehead, she is gone, leaving him to ponder over her words and ignore the disturbing thoughts that force their way into his head. Mudbloods? As friends? There must be something very, very wrong with Andromeda, Sirius decides. Still, he cannot ignore the feeling that creeps up within him, clawing its way up from somewhere deep inside his stomach, a tiny little voice that tells him: she might just be… right.

No. No, no, no.

There's no harm in trying… is there?

But what would Mother say?

What would she say? She would be horrified.

For some reason, though, this thought doesn't scare Sirius as much as it should. It is the realization that he feels less threatened by his Mother's disapproval than he should that makes him stop, makes him wonder if he, too, hasn't been cursed; is there something so terribly wrong with him that first he gets Sorted into Gryffindor, and then imagines it might be all right to associate with those he has always been warned against? There must be something wrong with him…

… or has he really been lied to?

Really. What's wrong with them?

Their blood.

Does that matter?

Yes. No. No. Yes. I don't know.

*