Sirius could remember, with excruciating clarity, the very first time he'd used a wand.

It had been late morning one summer Sunday, Sirius's least favourite day of the week. Sundays were the days that relatives would come to visit; loathed occasions in which he was expected to sit quietly and talk politely when spoken to, all whilst wearing whichever itchy, formal robes his mother had chosen for him that day (and more often than not, wrestled him into). Sirius had detested these boring afternoons ever since he had been deemed old enough to begin joining his relatives for the weekly gathering, several months ago.

It wasn't fair. Regulus didn't have to sit through the boring adults talking for hours about politics and family matters. He could hide away up in his bedroom until he was summoned down at the very end of the gathering, for the sake of making an appearance. But then his little brother was barely six, and at seven years old, Sirius was far more grown up, not to mention more important, as the heir. Which meant there was no way he could wriggle out of it.

The only thing driving Sirius through the dull tedium of sitting through the grown ups' conversations, and grandfather Arcturus's weekly demand for Sirius to recite what lessons he had learned that week, was the promise of a slice of cake at the end of the afternoon tea.

A particular lover of sweet treats, Sirius's mother had learned early on in his involvement with the weekly tea parties that it was best to withhold cakes from her son until he was safely out of his expensive formal robes, after an unfortunate and undignified incident in which he had ended up wearing more icing than he'd eaten, drawing disapproving looks from his grandparents in the process.

And so, cake became a weekly treat which would only be awarded to him if he had behaved impeccably throughout the whole afternoon. His mother would hiss in her son's ear as she straightened his robes, pulling Sirius firmly back into place every time he sulkily tugged himself free from his mother's grasp, that any leg-swinging, fidgeting or attempts to trip up Kreacher as he served the tea, would mean no dessert until next week, when he would be able to try again.

As boring as the weekly afternoon teas were, particularly for a child as restless and fidgety as Sirius Black, they were the one occasion during which he could (usually) be trusted to behave himself. Months of practice had taught the young wizard that so long as he sat still, answered all of Grandfather's questions correctly and kept his eyes fixed on the layered cake sitting heavily on the silver cake stand in the centre of the table, his insatiable sweet tooth would be indulged once the extended family had finally retreated back through the grand drawing room fireplace from which they had emerged.

The Sunday morning in question happened to be a particularly grim one. Sirius sighed as he watched the rain pelt the roofs of the Muggle houses across from his bedroom window, the gloomy sky a shade of deep grey. It shouldn't be allowed to rain in July. It wasn't fair. He'd put up with a whole winter of being cooped up inside the house, away from the cold and rain, unable to play outside in their little courtyard (obscured by charms and wards from the view of their Muggle neighbours, naturally). Why should he have to put up with the boredom of being stuck indoors during summer as well?

Sighing miserably, the bored seven-year-old boy clambered down from where he sat on top of his desk by the window (something he was expressly forbidden to do, but how else was he supposed to enjoy the sight of the Muggles outside going about their lives when the desk was in the way?) and aimed a half-hearted kick at the corner of his bed. He had precious little time to amuse himself on Sundays before his mother would come to force him into whichever set of dreaded formal robes she had selected for him to wear that afternoon, and yet no decent way of enjoying it.

Without so much as a second glance at the many toys and books scattered untidily about his bedroom floor, Sirius sighed and flopped down onto his unmade bed in boredom.

Suddenly, there was a loud crashing noise, which sounded rather like a large pan being dropped, which Sirius supposed must have come from the kitchen.

Sirius sat up immediately, the single loud noise in a house full of silent dullness capturing his curiosity instantly. He knew very well that he was supposed to remain in his bedroom at this time, out of the way of the preparations, but the temptation was simply too much to resist.

Scrambling to his feet and rushing to his door, Sirius strode out of his bedroom and trotted off down the corridor to investigate.

He tiptoed down the staircase, past the disapproving portraits of his ancestors shaking their heads at his sneaking about the house unattended, until he found himself hiding behind the door frame of the kitchen, peering through at the sight of his mother, already dressed in one of her best Sunday gowns, dictating orders to the flustered-looking house elf dashing to and fro in an effort to clean up the mess on the floor - a large metal saucepan lay on it's size, a large quantity of soup spilled across the kitchen floor.

"Clumsy little idiot, are you incapable of even the simplest of tasks, now?" Walburga spat angrily at the elf.

"Kreacher is sorry, Mistress, Kreacher did not mean to slip. Kreacher will clean it up and make a new batch in time, yes Kreacher will"

"I should think so" Walburga replied coldly."And you'll fix the rest of your errors as well"

She brandished a slip of parchment from her robes pocket, the menu she prepared every Saturday afternoon for the weekly Sunday tea. She waved it in front of the elf's stricken face sharply.

"I specifically wrote ginger snaps, not ginger bread!" Walburga snapped in annoyance at the elf scurrying about collecting the ingredients needed to hurriedly bake the missing treats for the impending tea party.

The formidable witch's fists were balled tightly, her knuckles white with effort, a sign that Sirius recognised as her attempting to control her famously-short temper.

"Kreacher is sorry, Mistress. Kreacher will make them in no time. Oh yes, he will. Kreacher will make sure the tea is perfect" Kreacher murmured hurriedly as he carried out his tasks.

"Indeed you will" Walburga replied, her voice cold. "I will not stand for such mistakes to occur again. Is that understood, Kreacher?"

Yes, Mistress. Of course, Mistress. No mistakes"

Sirius couldn't help but snicker to himself at the sight of the chastised elf.

Kreacher was always out to spoil his fun, with his annoying habit of appearing during any game or antic he knew the boy's parents would not approve of, such as sliding down the banisters or using his juvenile magic to make the antique suit of armour on the second floor landing wave stiffly at Regulus to make him laugh.

Though he could have stayed to watch the elf's torment further, Sirius rather didn't fancy the risk of being spotted by his mother, who surely wouldn't approve of him sneaking about and eavesdropping on her. Sirius quietly tiptoed away from the kitchen and hurried along the corridor to the drawing room, where he knew that most of the food platters for the afternoon tea would be laid out waiting for their guests' arrival. Perhaps he could pilfer a sugar biscuit or two, or maybe even a finger-swipe of icing from the cake that was always sat in the very centre of the table.

As he carefully pushed open the great, heavy wooden door to the drawing room, Sirius's eyes darted around the great room, relieved to find it empty, as he knew it would be. As he had just seen, his mother and Kreacher were in the kitchen, Reg was upstairs playing quietly in his room, and he knew very well that Father wouldn't emerge from his study until precisely a minute and a half before two o'clock; the exact amount of time it took for him to arrive in front of the fireplace to greet their guests.

Sirius's gaze rested upon the great table draped in it's heavy black table cloth, exquisitely embroidered in shining silver thread with the constellations he had been trained to recite since he first began his lessons. Sure enough, the table was heaving with the afternoon spread, including a spot currently filled by the offending plate of ginger bread.

Tossing his unruly black hair out of his eyes, the boy dashed over to the dining table and leaned up onto his tiptoes to snatch a sugar biscuit from it's silver platter. He quickly stuffed it into his mouth, scattering the crumbs he dropped onto the carpet with his shoe.

Having snaffled up a biscuit and pocketed one more for later, Sirius was all set to clamber up onto a chair to make a swipe at the icing on the magnificent strawberry gateaux in the centre of the table, when his eyes suddenly caught sight of something peculiar resting atop the antique piano in the far corner of the room.

Abandoning his quest for cake, Sirius dashed excitedly across the room to the piano to find that his suspicions were correct. Sitting discarded atop the shining, black piano, it's dark brown wood set out against the jet-black of the instrument, was a wand.

His mother's wand.

A wave of excitement rushed over Sirius. He had wanted a wand since he was old enough to know what they were. He burned with longing whenever he saw his parents and relatives brandishing their wands, capable of making all sorts of exciting things happen with the magic they commanded, far superior to that of the feeble tricks his own juvenile wand-less magic could produce.

Sirius had endlessly begged his parents for his own wand. Every birthday and Christmas, he had demanded one for his present. He'd stamped his foot and protested loudly when they refused him. To his mother's intense shame, the boy had even protested loudly out in public when they'd passed Ollivander's wand emporium in Diagon Alley, after she'd refused to take him inside in search of a wand.

Even when he had switched tactic and tried asking politely, a rarity indeed for the young Black, for for a try of his mother's wand, if he couldn't have his own, he had been refused. On threat of no Christmas present at all if he didn't stop asking for something he knew very well he wasn't old enough to have, Sirius had finally, reluctantly given up his quest for a wand.

But now, here was a wand. Left out, ripe for the taking. The fact that it belonged to his mother was a mere complication to be handled later.

An accomplished piano player, Walburga Black rarely partook in the hobby, citing that it was a lazy indulgence when there were more productive tasks to be getting on with. But when she did play, it was often Sunday mornings; a time for rest and relaxation before hosting the weekly family gathering. Sirius supposed it must have been the commotion from the kitchen which caused her to leave her spot on the still-pulled-out piano bench, leaving her wand behind in her haste.

His grey eyes glinting mischievously, Sirius reached out and picked up the wand.

His fingers suddenly felt very warm, with a faint tingling sensation running through them. It was the most peculiar sensation, as though the wood had come alive in his hand. Sirius gave the wand an excited wave through the air, grinning triumphantly at the crackling gold sparks which shot out in a long streak before him. Mother and Father were wrong. He was old enough for a wand.

His fun was short-lived, however.

Suddenly, before the sparks had fizzled out, the wand in his hand suddenly felt uncomfortably warm, the tingling increasing to an almost-painful vibrating sensation. Against his will, Sirius's arm waved about wildly with the wand in his grasp. Try as he might, he was unable to stop it. It was as though the wand itself was acting without his consent, harnessing his uncontrollable young magic for its own gain.

Before Sirius could attempt to stop it, the wand shot out more violent sparks in various directions. The flashes of light - bright, electric blue, this time - bounced off the drawing room walls, leaving black scorch marks on the wallpaper in their wake. Several flashes of light eventually found their way to the dining table, crashing into the food platters, shooting small explosions of biscuit crumbs and gateaux cream across the floor, leaving nothing worth eating untouched in their wake.

After several moments, the blue flashes seemed to fizzle themselves out, and Sirius was left standing amid the chaos of the now-destroyed drawing room, rooted to the spot in shock, his legs shaking beneath him. By some miracle, both himself, and the antique piano were unharmed, but the sofas, the carpets, the very walls of the room were scorched and smoking.

The magnificent spread of food lay in ruins across and surrounding the table, which leaned to one side, one of it's legs now missing.

The beautiful silver-embroidered table cloth now sported a vibrant display of icing stains, the effect finished with a large scorched hole in one section, the silver threat unravelling to the floor.

"What in Merlin's name was- Sirius Orion Black!"

Sirius jumped as his mother's shrieks reached him. He whipped his head around to see his mother staring at him from the doorway, pale-faced in shock at the scene before her; her drawing room in ruins and her seven-year-old son stood, mercifully unharmed, in the middle of the chaos, clutching her stolen wand in his shaking hand.

"What in the name of Salazar did you think you were doing?!"

Walburga marched across to the room, snatching her wand out of the boy's weakened grasp.

For once, and quite possibly the first time in his short life, Sirius Black was lost for words. He had no valid argument, no defence to offer. He had been caught at the scene of the most heinous crime, the evidence against him overwhelming.

And even if he had anything to say, he was far too shaken from the frightening experience to utter a word, not to mention the fact that he couldn't resist shrinking a little under his mother's accusing gaze.

Sirius barely resisted as his furious mother grasped him tightly by the arm and pulled him upstairs to his bedroom. The portraits of their ancestors shook their heads once again at the boy as they passed, this time with "I told you so" smirks upon their painted faces. He was firmly deposited inside his bedroom with his mother's advice that he construct a suitable explanation and apology to present to his father this evening, once their guests had left.

Sirius was momentarily relieved at the implication that he wouldn't be joining the family for the afternoon this week - before remembering that, thanks to his own reckless actions, there would be no cake at the end of the day.

"Thank goodness your magic isn't yet strong enough to do anything more than surface level damage" Walburga seethed with annoyance as she vanished all of the numerous toys and books scattered about the room with a flick of her wand, only to be returned once his parents were satisfied he'd been suitably punished.

"We should hopefully be able to repair the damage before your grandfather arrives" the Black matriarch continued, half to herself, half to her son, who now stood looking suitably cowed beside his un-made bed.

"Though how I'm going to explain why his favourite strawberry gateaux is missing from the table remains to be seen. And after I'd promised we'd have it this week! The elf couldn't possibly make a replacement in time, useless wretch..."

With her son's bedroom now looking suitably punishingly devoid of all means of entertainment, Walburga turned to leave the room, giving Sirius a frustrated sigh and shake of her head as she left, locking the door behind her.

With his mother's words about his magic being weak still ringing loudly in his ears, Sirius crawled up onto his bed and curled himself miserably around a pillow, unable to help himself from sniffling at the humiliation of his lack of magical control.

The young wizard was only glad Regulus hadn't been there to witness his failure. His goody-two-shoes little brother had a bad habit of parroting their tutor's argument that neither of them would be ready for a wand until they were eleven years old, and Sirius could think of nothing worse than his little brother being proved right.

But as Sirius had so thoroughly proved to himself, Reg was right. He wasn't yet old enough for a wand of his own.

Until, at long last, several years later, the long-awaited day arrived when he finally was.