Intended

[thirty]

He never looks at the wall where the house-elf heads are mounted now. Suddenly he is disgusted by them, by the barbaric way his mother grins as she holds a blade in one hand and the head of a house-elf who had become too slow in carrying tea to the sitting room in the other. Maybe it is the sight of the other servants cowering when his idiot brother tells them to clean up the spattered blood on the already grimy floor that makes his stomach turn. Maybe it is the pathetic shrieking that he hears when the dull blade first hits the back of the house-elf's neck. Maybe it is their unfaltering loyalty to the rest of the family that makes him want to throw up because he can almost see himself being thrown away like a useless rag every time Regulus flings another house-elf across the room in a late-night tantrum.

But he never says anything. He remains in the shadows, and when everyone has gone he slumps against the wall and curses himself for doing the same things a little over two years ago. He is horrified when he feels an odd sense of pleasure, when he feels a little of the Sirius Black of so long ago come back to haunt him, and he flees to his room with its dusty floor and the old broken closet where his school robe hangs. It is only when he slides his arms into the familiar sleeves, when he lets his fingers wander over the lion emblazoned on the front of the robe that he can allow himself to look into the cracked mirror. Otherwise he is afraid that he is going to see that other boy, the unfeeling, proud heir to the Black clan that he hates to think he ever was, staring right back at him.

His face in the mirror is nervous; the expression varies between anger and unhappiness as he hears the voices in his head. His mother, telling him he is completely and utterly useless.

'But I am so much more than you think I am. Your words cannot hurt me.'

His father, lamenting about how years of good breeding have been wasted on him.

'But it has given me strength... it has given me power. Your words cannot hurt me.'

His brother, sneering at him and saying that he knows nothing.

'But I know so much more than you. Your words cannot hurt me.'

He looks into the mirror, and the nervous boy smiles because he knows that now, he will prove everyone wrong. He will use what they have given him, these gifts of rage, and create himself anew.

He will be respected, he will be liked, he will be feared, he decides, because that is what was intended for him... but he will have new beliefs to grasp onto, beliefs that are not shoved down his throat but instead call to him, invitingly. The boy in the mirror stands up, straight and tall, and Sirius stares at the image hungrily, committing it to his memory and pretending that the nervous child of before never did exist. He likes what he sees there; he likes the gleam in the boy's eye that promises power. He likes the arrogant smile, the self-confidence, the aura that surrounds him that is so inviting... but he is a little scared of it too.

He takes a deep breath, steadying himself.

'There's no going back on it now, Sirius,' he chides himself, and he laughs wryly when he realizes that the only thing this Gryffindor is afraid of now is himself.

*

[thirty one]

Sirius no longer plays childish games of hide-and-hex in the corridors in his third year. Everything has changed over the summer; everyone has changed since they returned... including himself.

He sees them a little differently now... there was the boy who merely sneered at him before but now he recognizes the disdain, the hate in his eyes; the words on his lips are no longer mere childish insults but slurs that grab at his ears and don't leave until he is asleep at night.

And Sirius will not settle for merely turning his hair red and gold anymore- why bother with something so trivial when he knows he can do so much better than that? The boy looks so much better with boils all over his face.

There is a distinct pleasure to be found in the humiliation of those who dare to oppose him, a vindictive joy in showing others that he is Sirius Black, and he is not to be taken lightly.

There is also a change in those around him. He can see the admiration in people's faces when he duels in the corridors and he stands that little bit taller; he knows that many are watching him and it feeds his growing hunger for respect when they encourage him. He has learnt to turn a blind eye to the disapproval and only concentrate on what he wants to see. He takes a new pride in his speed with a wand and his step is haughty because he has seen the envious looks that come his way from friend and foe alike.

He no longer thinks that he is not good enough. Those are days he would like to forget. Instead, he tells himself that he is better than most, that he is the best, and why shouldn't he be? He has the power of great wizards flowing in his blood, and he revels in the magic and the manic energy that surrounds him as an impenetrable shield. No one can touch him, no one at all. He rules the corridors and swaggers in the way only one who is so sure of himself can.

To a thirteen year old, the world is a very exciting place, and every teenage boy believes that he is king of all he sees.

To Sirius, Hogwarts is a kingdom, and he was born to rule.

And he intends to make sure everyone knows it.

*