DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter.

This story contains scenes and ideas from my other story, Always. This fanfic won't be nearly as long and it'll move a lot more quickly through the years since I'm choosing a few select moments. For the most part, the chapters will be shorter too since I want this to be less novelesque than Always. I was a little doubtful about starting this, but something about the character of Sirius Black made me want to write his story. Someone once asked me who I thought was the most tragic character in HP and, immediately, I thought of Severus Snape. But then that someone told me she thought it was Sirius and she explained why. I'm still leaning toward Snape, but I won't deny that there is something unbelievably tragic about the life of Sirius Black.

Chapter One- The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black

1969

There was something oddly mesmerizing about it.

The tapestry may have faded, but the strands of gold still glittered. The embroidery should have dulled with the centuries old material, but it refused to wane. Instead, the rich gold threads stood out, haughty and unrelenting, as if daring time to age them. Time wouldn't succeed. The gold would always triumph, just as the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black would.

He should have felt pride. But all nine-year-old Sirius Black could feel was resentment.

Sirius tilted his head back as far as he could to read the words that loomed far above, but he didn't have to. The words were always there, at the back of his mind, and if he ever forgot, his mother would be there to remind him. "Toujours pur."

"Always pure," eight-year-old Regulus recited from beside him like the dutiful Black he was.

"Shut up, Regulus."

Regulus sulked, but Sirius pretended not to notice. His pale gray eyes flickered to the very bottom of the tapestry. It was his name, but it wasn't him. He did not belong there. There were seven centuries of Blacks on that wall. He knew the history of each and every one. He knew their strengths, their victories. And at even at the age of nine, he knew that he was not one of them.

"Can we go outside now?" Regulus complained.

Sirius tore his eyes away from the tapestry, unable to keep his mouth from twisting in the slightest of frowns. He knew that he should have felt ashamed that he didn't belong there, but the tiniest part of him was glad. "Yeah," Sirius said, already feeling lighter now that the gold embroidery no longer taunted him. "We can try out Dad's old Nimbus."

"But Mum said we weren't allowed-"

"Mum won't know if we don't tell her," Sirius grinned.

Regulus looked worried for a moment, but he eventually grinned back. He may have required a little coaxing, a white lie or two, but Regulus always went along with Sirius's ideas in the end.

"I'm older so I'll go on it first," Sirius told Regulus as he sauntered out of the drawing room, his brother tagging along at his heels. "You can watch me and copy what I do."

"But you've never flown a real broomstick before," Regulus reminded him.

"Of course I have," Sirius lied.

"Really?" Regulus looked doubtful.

"Sort of."

Regulus opened his mouth to respond, but before any words could come around, his elbow collided into a vase that resided on a corridor side table. He and Sirius froze, wincing at the inevitable sound of glass shattering. Braving a look, Sirius was not surprised to see that the vase had smashed into thousands of shards.

Regulus peeked around Sirius's shoulder and shrank back at the sight. He swallowed audibly, looking sick to his stomach. "She's going to kill me, isn't she?"

From a distant room, a shriek could be heard, so shrill that Sirius was certain that if Regulus hadn't broken that vase, that scream would have. They exchanged wide-eyed looks. Easily repaired by magic or not, Black family heirlooms were precious to Walburga, and even the smallest scratch, a temporary one, would lead to a hideous rage.

"WHAT IS GOING ON?"

Sirius and Regulus cringed. Their instincts may have been screaming at them to run, but they had learned long ago that there was no use in hiding from her. Sooner or later, she would find them, and there would be hell to pay. Half a second later, Walburga Black materialized in the corridor, red-faced among her flurry of dark robes. Almost immediately, she spotted the broken glass, her nostrils flaring. There was a mad glint in her eyes as she drew herself up to her full height, towering high above them.

"Who is responsible for breaking that vase?"

Neither Sirius or Regulus dared to speak.

"That vase belonged to Phineas Nigellus Black," Walburga said haughtily. "Your great-great grandfather. The first and only Black Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The first and only with enough sense to forbid the attendance of Mudbloods."

"Yes, Mum," Sirius and Regulus chimed in together, all too familiar with their family history lectures. While Regulus was avidly listening, his head held high, brown eyes earnest, Sirius fidgeted, wondering when it would ever end. He only wished that he could forget who Phineas Nigellus Black was, but the portrait of that particular ancestor refused to let him. He seemed to harbor a certain grudge toward Sirius, ever since Sirius had been foolish enough to land himself in an argument with the painting, and constantly hurled sarcastic remarks his way. Sirius was only grateful that Phineas's portrait was noticeably absent that day.

"He was highly unappreciated then and evidently now. Which one of you was daft enough to defile a relic of Black history?"

Regulus gulped loudly. Walburga's punishments were fierce, even more so when it involved tarnishing the Black honor. Both brothers still bore the marks of many previous family heirloom accidents. Sirius looked at his ashen face and quickly interjected without thinking twice.

"It was me, Mum."

"I thought as much," Walburga sniffed. "Come with me."

"But-" Regulus began, but Sirius immediately shook his head, signaling him to quiet. He was the stronger of the two; he would be able to handle it better. Regulus hung his head, looking ashamed.

But even as Walburga continued to mutter curses beneath her breath, Sirius knew that he had done the only thing he could have done. Regulus was the youngest and it was Sirius's duty to protect him. Especially from the wrath of Walburga Black. They were brothers after all. Even in a family as twisted as the Blacks, that meant something.