The Harder They Fall

Old Fiat

Disclaimer: Sorry! I don't own Harry Potter. I also don't own "Psalm of Life" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Shout-outs: As always, my writing partner, Old Fiat northern France, who has helped me with every single story I've ever written and inspires me often; Avada-in-the-Skies, who writes Sirius' part in the story 1971 and who really inspired this story (especially given the fact that I wasn't particularly interested in writing or reading anything about Sirius before); Ms James Potter, who wrote the story Outcast, many lines of which still run through my head; and last, but certainly not least, my older sister, who liked the character of Sirius the moment he was introduced (unlike me, who only started caring about him at the end of the fourth book and only started finding his character interesting long after Avada-in-the-Skies and Idiosyncratic-Silence managed to make me understand the actual conflict the character might have). Also my mother, who I love.

Music Listened To: "Her Diamonds" by Rob Thomas; "What Becomes of the Broken Hearted" by Jimmy Ruffin; "Miss You" by the Feeling; "Poison Ivy", "Paranoid", "Don't Speak" and "Fly With Me" by the Jonas Brothers; and "21 Guns" by Greenday.

Further Notes: In case you didn't read the disclaimer, the poem used in this is "Psalm of Life" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. I love this poem. I find it really inspiring and beautiful. I added it in after the story itself was written, so I hope it works. This story is chock-a-block with themes (which I love working with almost as much as I like working with parallels) and actually has some symbolism! I know! I'm just as surprised as you are! Ha ha! Anyway, I hope you all like it. :)

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Tell me not in mournful numbers,
"Life is but an empty dream!"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

---

---

Sirius pulled himself onto his tiptoes to try and look at the tiny baby which lay in the arms of the nursemaid, leaning over the arm of the chair and straining to see over the puffed sleeves of her dress. Suddenly, he was lifted up from under his arms and he recognized the feeling of his father's large, strong hands on his ribs. Now he was looking down on the nursemaid. He could now see the baby—tiny and pink, its face scrunched up as it drank from the bottle held before it.

"He's so small," Sirius breathed, turning to grip his father's dark crimson collar. His father chuckled softly, shifting his arms so Sirius was held more securely to his chest.

"Yes..." Sirius could hear the smile in his father's voice as he spoke. Sirius looked at his face—his warm, happy eyes, his small, closed-mouth smile. "That's your little brother, Regulus..."

"Where's the other one?" demanded Sirius, still looking up at his father. "Weren't there going to be two?"

The smile did not leave his father's face, but his eyes became oddly blank as he looked past Sirius into the bright fire that flickered cheerfully in the grate.

"No..." he breathed, the flames reflecting in his light, hazel-green eyes. "No, there weren't..."

---

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
Was not spoken of the soul.

---

"Sirius Prometheus Black—stand up straight."

Sirius put his shoulders back and brought his chin up so that it was parallel to the floor as he strode down the corridor of the train, following his cousin, Narcissa, and her boyfriend, Lucius Malfoy.

"Always be courteous, even if you loathe the person."

"Thank you," he murmured to Lucius as the blond held the door of the train open for him and Narcissa. Lucius was a prat and Sirius could honestly not understand what on earth Narcissa saw in him. He was a Malfoy—one of the many wizarding families of which his parents did not approve, saying they had 'a lot of money, but absolutely no class'—and, in Sirius' opinion, they were entirely right to do so, as Lucius appeared to spend much of his time figuring out new, not-so-subtle ways to feel up Narcissa in public places.

"No problem," said Lucius, wrapping his arm around Narcissa's waist as he stepped on to the platform. Sirius tried hard not to raise an eyebrow in disdain.

He followed the couple as they walked towards the carriages until Narcissa stopped him.

"Sirius, you're supposed to stay on the platform with the other first years," she explained, looking down her straight, yet turned-up nose at him. She and Lucius walked away and Sirius just stood there. His nose was beginning to feel a little numb from the chill, early autumn air. A drop of nervousness fell into the pit of his stomach as the rest of the older students moved around him. Why weren't first years allowed in the carriages? His parents hadn't mentioned anything about this. Maybe they had forgotten...

"Do not speak to or associate with people who are beneath you."

"Alrigh'! First years, follow me!"

Sirius jumped as a loud, deep voice boomed behind him. He spun around to see an enormous man standing on the platform, a bright lantern in one hand, a bent, pink umbrella in the other. He must have been at least half giant. There could be no other explanation for his monstrous stature. He towered over the students in a filthy coat that appeared to be made out of mole skin, his face hidden by a mass of thick, dark hair and beard.

A half-breed. Definitely far below the noble and most ancient house of Black.

He passed by the giant man without speaking and, when he attempted to aid Sirius' descent into a small dingy, snatched his hand away from him. He almost tumbled into the black water of lake, but he couldn't bear to be touched by him.

Disgusting...

"Keep your mouth closed unless you have something of any use to say."

The collection of first years gasped as Hogwarts castle came into sight across the smooth, dark surface of the water. It stood before them—a great, black silhouette against the aphotic indigo sky. Each window appeared liked a warm, golden slit. The towers spiraled and stretched up towards the heavens, their tops appearing to almost touch the silvery stars.

"Wow..." breathed a small, dark haired boy, his mouth hanging open in shock as his glasses slipped dangerously close to the end of his lightly turned-up nose.

Sirius had never been truly awestruck before. His mother had often reprimanded him for holding his mouth open all the time, but it was because his teeth and tongue would sometimes feel too big for his mouth; a fact his mother had never understood. However now... Now he was truly awestruck by the sight of the castle. Its grounds were spread out around it, appearing limitless in the dark, and the silhouettes of hundreds of trees could be seen even through the light fog that rose from the lake.

It was beautiful. Somehow his father's descriptions and blurry photographs of the school had never managed to portray the beauty of the structure. Even in the inky blackness of the small sliver of waxing moon, it seemed warm and welcoming. It looked... It looked...

He snapped his mouth shut as he became suddenly aware that it had fallen open in amazement.

"Children are meant to be seen, not heard."

Both of his parents must have said this to him at least a thousand times—but especially his mother—and it was probably the only thing keeping him silent as he entered Hogwarts with the other first years. He kept his mouth shut and looked up past the criss-crossing network of staircases, straining his eyes to see the ceiling high above them. His stomach flipped and he found his head feeling a bit light, dizzy from the mere idea of the height. His peers pushed past him rudely, talking loudly to each other as they followed Professor McGonagall—a tall, slim woman with graying brown hair which was scraped back in a bun whom he seemed to recall his mother mentioning with distaste from her school days when he received his letter—into the Great Hall. The dark haired boy from the boat was telling a short, pudgy, fair-haired friend at what had to be approaching the top of his voice about a secret passage his father had told him about and Sirius tried his best to block out the sound of his voice as he looked around the long room.

He spotted Lucius and Narcissa at the Slytherin table. Narcissa gave him a small smile and Lucius—for no apparent reason—winked at him. Sirius felt a wave of nausea and disgust and turned away from his cousin and her embarrassment of a boyfriend. His eyes then fell upon the Sorting Hat.

"All the Blacks have been in Slytherin since Hogwarts was first built."

It wasn't necessarily a correction, but something his mother had told him on countless occasions, comfortably surrounded by the other urges to stand up straight and be silent. It wasn't a correction in reality, but he had long since learned to read between of the lines of his mother's speeches. It wasn't just a fact, it was an expectation. Everyone in the Black family before him had been proud, determined creatures, their hubris and ambition far surpassing any of their other qualities. He was supposed to be ambitious. He was supposed to be pompous, presumptuous and self-obsessed. He was supposed to be determined. His mother corrected him so that he could become such a creature, but as far as he could tell it had only made him self-important, uncertain and subservient to the commands of the formidable Mrs. Black. Still, he would be a Slytherin. There was no question.

"Don't argue with me, Sirius. I'm your mother."

He was the second student to be called forward to the stool. He felt his lip curl as he looked at it. It seemed to be made of some sort of cheap pine then stained to looked more expensive. He sat on it, careful to bring his robes smoothly under his legs so they wouldn't crease. The hat was placed on his head by the same Professor McGonagall and it fell down over his face, covering his eyes and blocking the other students from view.

Another Black! it said and Sirius could've sworn he heard a note of annoyance in its voice.

Yes, he thought, trying to seem courteous which was a bit difficult in his head, especially when the hat stank of dust and mothballs. Sirius. Sirius Prometheus Black.

You want to be in Slytherin, don't you? It asked, but continued before he had time to start a mental response. But you would never make a good Slytherin.

What the hell are you talking about, hat? Sirius silently asked, but it didn't seem to hear him.

Yes, yes... I can see it here. It's what your mother wants from you, but she was right when she gave you the middle name 'Prometheus'... Ha! She's been trying to make you a model Slytherin, convince you that you're better than everyone else... You're sick of being blamed for everything, aren't you?

Have you gone daft? he mentally cried. Once more, it ignored him.

You're sick of having to be perfect. You want your brother to be yelled at once in a while—punished when he does something wrong. My, my... You're quite conflicted on the subject of your brother, aren't you?

Sirius felt his face grow hot. What gave this hat the right to be digging through his thoughts? Why did it have permission to tell him what he thought of his brother? He felt a strong urge to wrench it off his head and throw it through one of the windows at the other end of the Great Hall.

Don't even think that. You can't avoid being sorted.

Then hurry up! he insisted, his face flushing.

You're definitely not a Slytherin if that makes you feel better.

What?!

No... Definitely not an option... You're too spontaneous and opinionated for a Hufflepuff. Too rebellious for Ravenclaw. They wouldn't be too keen on your short attention span either, You're certainly smart enough for them, though, but far too stubborn with those outside your family...

If you dare do what I think you're going to then I will rip you into a thousand tiny pieces. There's no way. No way—

The hat chuckled, a weirdly ominous sound.

You'd make a very prejudiced, irritating Gryffindor at first, but you'll be brave one day, it told him—a hardly comforting statement. You've already second-guessed your parents several times, which is quite daring seeing your mother's... condition, but you'll be outwardly brave eventually. I think it's time to make you stand up straight without your mother's... strange chidings...

No. Don't. You can't...

It's time for you to be proud of yourself, Black, and not your family.

And with that he felt it lift up its top to pull open the rip near the brim and cry:

"GRYFFINDOR!"

And a stunned silence fell over the Great Hall.

---

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us further than to-day.

---

"Don't act so surly, Sirius."

Sirius stared at the baked chicken, mashed potatoes and mound of corn that sat on his gold plate for once ignoring the voice of his mother which shrieked eternally inside his head.

He could feel Narcissa's gaze on his back, but couldn't bring himself to turn around and look at her. He couldn't even bring himself to lift his head and sit up straight. He was acting surly and he honestly didn't care. Generations of Black ancestors were pressing against him, pushing their shame upon him. His eyes stung and once or twice he felt close to tears. A strange pressure was building in his sinuses and every now and then he would take a deep, shuddering breath. He hadn't heard the rest of the sorting, preferring to sink further and further inside himself.

How could this have happened? He had been everything his mother had told him to be. He had obeyed every order. Had he not been determined enough? Maybe it was a fault of his ambition. He didn't know what he wanted to do once he left Hogwarts except inherit his parents' money. It had to be his fault. It was always his fault.

The words the Sorting Hat had said to him were echoing in his head, mixing with his mother's constant reprimands.

You're quite conflicted on the subject of your brother, aren't you?What had the hat meant by that? He loved his brother. He just didn't understand why Regulus could stand around picking his nose and throwing tantrums without his parents even saying anything.

Maybe this was a punishment for second-guessing his mother and father's opinions and parenting skills. Sirius had never really been too certain what he felt about God. Wasn't one of the rules to obey your mother and father? Maybe He did punish people who disobeyed Him, the way his mother punished him when he disobeyed her, however unintentionally.

"Can you pass the sausages?"

He sat up, shocked at the third voice that now broke through his thoughts. For a moment, he thought he had imagined it, but as he turned to his left he saw the loud, gaping, bespectacled boy, who was sitting beside his chubby friend. The former was looking at Sirius expectantly.

"Who are you?" asked Sirius and, to his horror, his voice sounded suddenly weak and high-pitched. He raised one eyebrow in an attempted facade of rancor to make up for the way his voice had cracked as he'd spoken.

"James Potter," said the boy, his mouth stretching into a wide smile and its warmth spread up to his bright hazel eyes as he held out his hand for Sirius to shake, but it fell as Sirius looked at him stonily.

A Potter. The newest spawn of a family of blood traitors. Sirius may have fallen from grace with his ancestors, but he still had his pride.

He turned away from the boy and picked up his fork, but he didn't feel much like eating. His stomach was too tense. What would his mother say? What about his father? He was sitting at a table surrounded by blood traitors and mudbloods. They had probably contaminated his food just by their presence.

Well, it could happen.

He stood up, the blood suddenly pounding in his ears. He felt dizzy again. His head felt hot and before he knew what he was doing, he started striding towards the doors to the Entrance Hall. A few people stared at him as he left, but he ignored them, pushing through the heavy double doors and stepping over the threshold. He couldn't stop. He kept walking—up a flight of stairs and down a corridor, up another set of steps which spiraled up and down against the walls of the tower. He climbed further, ignoring the corridors which periodically welcomed him to the right and left. He climbed until he faced a small wooden door with a tarnished silver handle. He turned it and stepped into the night.

Or that was how it appeared. In actuality, a balcony encircled the tower. Telescopes were placed at intervals around the rough granite banister. The cold air hit his flushed face and he suddenly found that his legs could not support him. He half-fell, half-carefully seated himself at the base of the tower wall, staring up into the sky.

They were going to kill him.

There was no question about it: they were going to throw him out of the family the way they'd thrown Andromeda out the previous year for getting married to a mudblood. He missed Andromeda—not that he'd ever tell anyone in his family—and found, at the time, a rush of doubt for his mother's good judgment. Maybe this was a punishment for that. Maybe it was punishment for the way he had carefully tucked the address Andromeda gave him before she left into his old history book, just in case he should have need of it.

He was a failure.

All of his life, he had been lifted up onto a pedestal. His silk-wool blend suits which his mother made him wear might have been deemed "old fashioned" by some wizards, but he had deserved them. He had deserved his place on the pedestal. He was the eldest son of the Black family, whose noble history stretched back for centuries and centuries. He had shamed them by being a weak, undetermined, secretly rebellious and double-crossing and... and everything else except what he was supposed to be.

Wrapping his arms around his calves, he rested his head against his knees. He still felt ready to cry, but the tears wouldn't come.

"Don't cry, Sirius! For God's sake—you're not a baby!"

You're sick of being blamed for everything, aren't you?

"Look at you, you buffoon—practically groveling! What kind of a son have I raised? What would your ancestors think of you? Stop crying!"

Too rebellious for Ravenclaw. They wouldn't be too keen on your short attention span either...

"Stand up straight! Lord! One would think you were a hunchback!"

Definitely not a Slytherin...

"Stop running! It's stupid and childish!"

You've already second-guessed your parents several times...

"Fix your collar! You look positively squalid..."

It's time for you to be proud of yourself, Black—

"Shut up!" Sirius cried, pressing his hands against either side of his head, trying to quiet the voices which were jumbling together in his mind, each crying at him to do something—anything. It was too much. The pressure of the shame of his long-dead family was making it hard to breathe.

"How would like to deal with Bellatrix instead of me?"

Not Bellatrix. Not Bellatrix. Anything but Bellatrix.

He flung his head back and it slammed against the worn stone of the tower wall. The shock of pain which ran through his system brought a strange relief as it cut through the voices which screamed inside his head.

"Sirius?"

"Shut up..." Sirius muttered through clenched teeth. His eyes were held tightly shut. His whole face was screwed up in concentration and the tendons in his neck stood out, tensed.

Suddenly a hand was pressed on his shoulder and he screamed, his eyes flying open as he struggled to prepare himself for the blow that would certainly come next.

Not Bellatrix. Not Bellatrix...

But the person sat before him was neither Bellatrix, nor his mother. It was an elderly man with a long white beard and matching hair. His nose was crooked, as through it had been repeatedly broken and left unhealed. His pale blue eyes were staring at him from behind half-moon spectacles and his face was wrinkled in a different way than either of his parents. It looked as though he had been laughing for so long that, eventually, his skin just stayed that way. He was wearing long, silvery robes and curled boots which were a shocking shade of blue. He was sitting beside Sirius, his expression a little concerned.

"Hello, Professor Dumbledore," said Sirius, instantly composing himself. He took the professor's right hand, bent down, and pressed his forehead against Dumbledore's knuckles. It was something his father had taught him to do when he was younger when greeting his elders. A handshake was too casual, too informal and one only kissed the person's hand when it was a woman.

Dumbledore chuckled as Sirius let go of his hand. "I haven't seen someone your age do that for a very long time."

Sirius felt his face flush and he could hear his mother's voice in his ear hissing, "Don't blush—it's unbecoming!" He let go of the headmaster's hand and shifted his position on the stone floor so that he was sitting up straight.

"Yes..." he said quietly, unable to think of a response. He looked down at his hands which were now folded in his lap, running one of his fingers over the large, silver ring that he wore on his right hand.

They sat together in silence for a few more moments before Dumbledore spoke again.

"Why are you up here, Sirius?"

Sirius brought his head back up and found himself looking directly into Dumbledore's light eyes. What was he supposed to say? That he was trying to run away from Narcissa's accusing gaze, the mudbloods and blood traitors that sat around him at the Gryffindor table, the dishonor and contempt of the noble and most ancient house of Black and the numerous voices that screamed inside his head? He wasn't all too certain that Dumbledore—a well-known muggle-lover—would appreciate his remarks about those at the Gryffindor table or simply brush off the fact that there were multiple voices in his head.

So Sirius just said the first response that came to mind.

"I just wasn't hungry, sir."

Dumbledore gave a small nod, though Sirius could tell he hadn't bought the excuse, and began to stare at the heavens which were spread out above them. There was another silence—this one broken by Sirius.

"What are you doing up here, sir?"

He said it as politely as he could so as not to seem as though he didn't appreciate the company. Dumbledore didn't turn back towards him but instead continued to observe the stars through his wire-rimmed glasses.

"I came to see if you needed any assistance. You seemed very shaken by the results of your sorting."

What an understatement. Shaken was only the tip of the ice burg where Sirius' sorting was concerned. Astonished and disgusted also didn't suit. Stupefied was probably as close as one could come.

"I was," Sirius admitted, shifting his weight so one of his feet sat beneath him and the other sat beside. He felt strangely young in Dumbledore's presence. When he was with his mother, he was expected to be perfect, but Dumbledore didn't seem to expect anything from him. In fact, he hardly appeared to be thinking about Sirius at all.

Dumbledore said nothing and Sirius began to suspect that he was trying to pull more information out of him with silence. A wave of fury swept over him.

"Sir, why did you really come up here?"

A touch of resentment shone through the polite, curious tone of the question and Dumbledore gave a soft chuckle.

"Sirius, have you ever heard the phrase 'You only get what you give'?"

Sirius felt annoyed. What did this have to do with anything?

"Yes, sir. I have."

"Well," said Dumbledore, still not facing Sirius, but continuing to smile softly. "Until you tell me why you're really up here, then I shan't reveal my reasons."

Sirius' fists clenched on his lap and the next question burst out his mouth before he could stop it.

"Why is that any of your business?" he demanded angrily and the moment it left his lips he felt a rush of dread. He had had this feeling countless times before, when he had said something to his mother by accident. It was instant regret and suddenly, his cheeks began to feel very hot as his heart pumped faster. His shoulders tensed. His eyes shone with terror.

But Dumbledore didn't begin screaming or shooting hexes the way his mother would have done. In fact, he didn't appear angry at all. His smile spread wider across his face and he laughed as through Sirius had just told some sort of a joke.

"I suppose it isn't," he said. His voice seemed to be caught right between a laugh and a sigh. He finally turned to face him and Sirius saw the twinkle in his eye had grown brighter, as though just staring at the stars had given him a bit of their light. "But it is my duty to see that you are properly nourished. Are you sure you aren't hungry?"

"Yes, sir," answered Sirius without pausing to think. He had just gotten away with back-talk for the first time in his life and was still a bit stunned.

Suddenly, Dumbledore was on his feet and Sirius' heart fell.

"Well, if that is the case, I must be off," Dumbledore explained, brushing off his robes with his long, dexterous-looking hands. "I will send Sir Nicholas up here later to show you to the Gryffindor common room. He'll inform you of the password—"

"Sir—" Sirius interrupted, bitter disappointment rising from his stomach. "Are you leaving?"

"Why yes," said Dumbledore, as though it made perfect sense for him to leave Sirius at the top of a tower in the middle of the night. "I need to return to the feast."

"Oh..." Sirius looked back down at his hands, at his reddish knuckles and pale fingers. A few freckles stood out sharply from the rest of the skin, dotting the path of a vein that sat just under it. "Right..."

"Unless you can't provide me with a reason to stay..." In theory, it was the continuation of a statement, but Sirius knew what it really was—a question. Dumbledore was going to worm all of Sirius' secrets out of him, but Sirius was not going to let him.

So let him leave! cried his thoughts. Oddly, they shouted not with his voice, but with his mother's.

But Sirius wanted Dumbledore to stay. He needed to be with someone and who better than Albus Dumbledore—the crack-pot headmaster of Hogwarts, well-known for being a muggle-lover and eccentric? Half of him was sure his secrets would always be safe with the headmaster, though the rest of him screamed the contrary.

"There are very few people you can ever trust, Sirius..."

"Sir," he said, before he could stop himself. "Has the Sorting Hat ever made a mistake?"

Dumbledore didn't pause. The sentence had hardly left Sirius' lips when he said, "Never."

An odd chill settled over his stomach as the disappointment flowed through his body. "Oh," was all he said in response and for a few minutes a silence stretched between him and Dumbledore. Sirius couldn't think of anything to say. Words had failed him in a way that they never had before and part of him rejoiced at the loss.

You shouldn't confide in a man who associates with filth, hissed his mother's voice, and Sirius felt another rush of anger at the sound.

Lord, what was wrong with him?

The words began to fall out his mouth before he could stop them. He had to do something, had to disobey the voice that constantly cried inside his head. He was sick of it—sick of being told how to dress, how to stand and how to speak. He was sick of being told who was good and who was bad. He was sick of being punished for trying to be good. He was sick of groveling; sick of begging; sick of trying to hide from his mother because she would always find him in the end. He was sick of being the eldest son of the patriarch of the noble and most ancient house of Black.

He was sick of being obedient.

"Sir, I can't be put in Gryffindor, I just can't! It's full of blood traitors and mudbloods and all sorts of other... unsavory characters. I don't even know why I was put in there and the Sorting Hat knew how I felt about my brother and my mother and all the rest of my family. Listen, sir, please—being put in Gryffindor means there's something wrong with me on the inside, in my nature, and that there has been all along. Please, sir, I can't go home at Christmas and still be in Gryffindor house. I'll die. They'll kill me."

And suddenly, he stopped. He had run out of breath, but once he regained it, he couldn't continue. His throat was too tight. Tears had welled in his eyes, but they would not fall. He knew they never would.

This time, it took Dumbledore longer to form a response. He seemed to be thinking very carefully and he absentmindedly stroked his beard as he formulated his reply. Sirius watched him, still breathing hard as through he'd run a race. If his mother had been there—or, God forbid, his cousin—she would've already pulled out her wand to punish him. Dumbledore, however, simply stood before him, silent and thoughtful.

"Sirius..." He began, still thinking carefully. "Do you know how the Sorting Hat makes its decisions?"

"No, sir."

"Neither did I until I became Headmaster. I saw the Hat sitting upon a shelf in my office, muttering to itself and I asked how it chose where it would place the students and it told me. We are all of us brave, intelligent, loyal and determined—no one does not hold all of these traits. However, the decision is based upon what the Sorting Hat considers to be the trait that truly defines us or that will define us. It is the trait that it considers to be the one which ought to be honed and nurtured."

"But sir—I'm not brave!" Sirius insisted, his cheeks still flushed. "My mother always says I'm one of the most cowardly, lazy, slovenly people she's ever seen. That's why she's always trying to discipline me. There has to be something wrong with me, Professor. The Blacks have been in Slytherin since Hogwarts was built, sir! What's wrong with me? Why am I always the bad one?"

Dumbledore stayed silent as Sirius spoke and didn't attempt to stop him until Sirius had half-shouted this last question. He didn't know how to make Dumbledore understand his predicament without getting his parents in trouble with the Department for Child Well-Fare at the Ministry of Magic. In fact, he would've be surprised if Dumbledore had understood anything that had just come out of his mouth. Sirius had been the one to say it and even he wasn't sure what any of it meant.

"Sirius," Dumbledore started again once Sirius was finished. The young boy was still sitting at the base of the wall and the chill of the stone was starting to seep through his clothes, but he continued to look up at Professor Dumbledore, in his long, silvery robes, still a little absorbed in his thoughts. "You are not a bad child and there's nothing wrong with you. Sometimes, we don't know why life puts us in certain places, in certain positions. However, once we are there, it is our duty as human beings to move forward from that point, not to stay and wait for someone else to move us. We all have our own tribulations, our own obstacles, but we have to overcome these. They make us who we are."

Sirius looked at Dumbledore, in the pale, weak moonlight, he looked somehow much more mysterious and wise than he had at the staff table. He looked like a man who hadn't only learned by sitting for hours in pensive thought with a book upon his lap, but also by just living his life.

Dumbledore looked straight into Sirius' pale, blue-gray eyes and Sirius thought for a moment he was going to read his mind, but he simply continued speaking.

"Who we are and who we become are sometimes very different things, but we should never forget who we were as we go through life. Or who made us the way we are."

Sirius looked down at his hands, unable to hold eye contact with Dumbledore any longer. Suddenly, his perfectly manicured fingers didn't seem quite so perfect when placed beside Dumbledore's oddly intelligent-looking hands.

"Sirius, if nothing else I have said has struck you, then just consider this—" Sirius looked back up at Dumbledore. "Soon, you will have to make a decision—whether you will stay and wait for the next chance for change or whether you will rise above this grievance and continue forward in life. It is your decision and no one can make it for you."

It's time for you to be proud of yourself, Black, and not your family.

Sirius waited for Dumbledore to continue, but he said nothing more, just stared down his crooked nose at Sirius, who had turned back towards his hands. A few minutes passed and neither one said anything. Finally, Dumbledore sighed and Sirius found that the sound didn't quite suit him.

"Well," he said, turning away from the young boy and towards the worn, wooden door which opened back into the castle. "I must return to the feast. Sir Nicholas will escort you to your common room later. Please remember what I said."

"There are very few people you can ever trust, Sirius...

"...but know that I will always be among them."

Sirius buried his head in his knees once more as Professor Dumbledore reentered the castle.

He didn't know what his decision was.

---

Over a fortnight had passed and the novelty of having an infant in the house had worn off a little for Sirius. He liked Regulus—or, at least, he was pretty sure he did—but he missed his mother. He missed her soft embrace, the way she'd run her icy fingers over his cheeks, humming ancient lullabies softly—half to him, half to herself.

That evening, he sat by his father in the dining room—just the two of them, sitting side by side at one end of the long, oak table. He struggled with his large, silver knife and fork until the nursemaid rushed over to help him, at which point he turned towards his father, ready to ask the question that had been plaguing him for some time.

"Father, when do I get to see mother again?"

His father paused in his careful chewing and it took him a few minutes to formulate his response. Once he had swallowed, however, he looked down at his eldest son and tried his best to explain the truth and lie at the same time.

"You'll get to see her soon," he said, wiping his mouth with his linen napkin. "There was a complication during your brother's birth and she... she..." He struggled for a moment or two, thinking. "She's just tired."

"Oh," Sirius turned back towards his food, which was now cut into small pieces. The nursemaid placed a smaller fork in his hands before retreating once more. "When will she not be tired?"

Orion gave something between a laugh and sigh.

"Soon. She'll be fine again soon. She... She can't wait to see you again. She misses you."

He wasn't mixing the truth with lies this time. This time, there were only lies.

---

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

---

The ghost of Sir Nicholas floated through the door a few hours later and it led him towards the Gryffindor common room, which was not in the dungeons, like the Slytherin common room which Lucius had described, but in one of the larger towers.

"The password," Sir Nicholas told him in his usual fruity tone, which Sirius had begun to wonder if, during their walk through the castle, it had to do with his mostly severed vocal chords or whether it was just to be an annoying sod, "is 'Dyspathy'."

Sirius rolled his eyes as the ghost floated away, humming to himself.

"Freak."

"That's not the password, young man!"

He jumped and turned towards the portrait before him. It was of a large woman in a pink, Renaissance-type dress. She had her arms crossed over her chest and one eyebrow raised. A wizened-looking old witch sat beside her, though he was quite sure that she belonged in a different painting, due to the fact that she was painted in something that resembled more acrylic and the woman in the pink seemed to be painted with oil.

"'Dyspathy'," he said coldly. She nodded and swung open, permitting him access to the common room beyond.

He gazed around the tower. The whole room seemed overly cozy, from the mismatched, over-stuffed armchairs to the dozens of tapestries that hung over the stone walls to keep in the heat. A few older students—four boys, none of whom could have been older than fifteen—sat on one of the rugs near the fire place. One, upon seeing him, gave him a smile and pointed further towards the back of the common room.

"The boys' dorms are right over there, if you're looking for them" he said, and there was something wrong in the boy's warm blue eyes, something off about the cheerful smile that stretched across his dark, tanned face... Sirius suddenly realized what it was. The boy had recognized him from the Great Hall and Sirius could see in his smile that he felt sorry for him. He felt a small flash of annoyance at this realization, but stayed silent. "The ones for the first years should be marked."

"Thank you," Sirius said quietly and made his way towards the small doorway, but the words of the boys' conversation followed him.

"Amos, what are you playing at? That was Sirius Black!"

"So? What does that matter?"

"Knock it off, Jerry. He's not going to get it. His dad's muggle-born."

"So? My dad knows lots of stuff about the wizarding world. Try me."

"It matters, Amos, 'cause the Blacks are known as one of the oldest families in the wizarding world."

"So? Who cares?!"

"Jerry, he's not getting it."

"Amos, they're a bunch of bigots! I don't even know why he was put in Gryffindor house. Maybe the Sorting Hat's lost it."

"Well, it's only, like, a million year old."

"But why shouldn't I be nice to him? The poor kid looked dead upset at the table earlier."

"Give it up, Jerry. You know Amos is just angling to be prefect next year."

"Listen, Amos. If that boy's father knew that you had just spoken to his son, he would cut out your tongue and then use the Cruciatus Curse on you until your brains turned to mush."

"Why should I care about his dad? He's not here!"

"Jerry, he's not getting it..."

Sirius stormed away from them, furious. He'd never so felt so angry before. So this was what the rest of the wizarding world thought of his family? That they were a bunch of close-minded sadists? He climbed up the stairs, back straight and chin held parallel to the ground. He finally reached a door which had a small plaque upon it reading, First Years.

He entered and gave a small groan.

There were two other boys in the room—the sandy-haired fat boy and his loud, bespectacled friend, James Potter.

"Hey!" said James, jumping up from where they'd been sitting, Chocolate Frog cards spread out around them. "So, we're in the same dormitories, right? Cool!"

Sirius just stared at him. This did not appear to bother James, who continued talking, despite Sirius' obvious disregard for anything he was saying.

"You're Sirius Black, right?" he asked, without waiting for an answer. "I saw you go up when the Sorting Hat called your name. Are you, like, actually from the Black family? Like, you know, the wicked old one, or some other family? 'Cause I know a muggle whose name is Richard Black, but I kind of doubt he's any relation."

James suddenly stopped talking, looking at Sirius expectantly for the second time that evening. Sirius looked back at him silently until he realized that the Potter-boy was expecting some sort of response.

For once, no voices sounded in Sirius' head, urging him to make a decision. For once, he didn't linger over the thoughts telling him what he ought to do, what his mother wanted him to do.

He simply acted.

"No, he's not," he said and he felt as though his mouth was moving, but his voice was coming from someplace behind him. "I'm the eldest son of Orion Black, of the noble and most ancient house of Black."

James got an oddly teasing grin when Sirius said this, but he didn't mention it further. Perhaps he knew that Sirius would retreat the moment he mentioned how stupid it sounded to say 'the noble and most ancient house of Black' when describing one's family.

"Want to join us?" asked James, gesturing towards the Chocolate Frog cards on the floor. "We're trading."

"I don't collect Chocolate Frog cards," Sirius said, truthfully. It was a hobby of which his mother had never approved. She barely even approved of Chocolate Frogs, calling them an 'intrusive, annoying excuse to waste money'. She preferred her chocolate to sit still and contain the occasional dried raspberry, but his father liked to give him and Regulus the odd Chocolate Frog every few Christmases. However, his mother aways threw away the cards before he barely even got a chance to look at the faces upon them.

"You don't?" James looked shocked, but didn't stop smiling. "Oh well. I've got doubles of almost every card. You can have half of my collection, alright?"

Sirius wasn't given a chance to respond before James had dragged him back down on the floor and begun shifting through his cards.

---

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

---

Sirius spent the rest of the term carefully avoiding Narcissa and Lucius and running around the grounds with James and Peter. There was one other boy in their dormitory: Remus Lupin, a quiet and bookish boy who wore slightly faded, obviously second-hand school robes and did not join in the loud conversations between Sirius and James. He appeared almost cripplingly shy and seemed to be sick frequently, but he mostly stayed in the background, distinguished only by the light lacing of scars over parts of his face.

However, even though he was spending all his time with half-bloods and blood traitors, Sirius was having the time of his life. He found himself almost adopting the casual way in which James spoke and stood. He frequently thrust his hands into his pockets—an action of which his mother had always disapproved. The voices had been quieter since he and James had become friends. He found himself relaxing, spending less time carefully considering what would be correct for him to do and spending more time just doing what he wanted.

He and James rode the Hogwarts Express home with Peter and the three of them spent the trip playing loud games of Exploding Snap and wizard chess. Narcissa and Lucius never interrupted their activities, though Sirius wasn't sure if it was because of the noise coming from the compartment or that they were also avoiding him. Maybe, they were simply too busy kissing in their own compartment.

James laughed at Sirius when he kissed him on each cheek when they reached Platform Nine and Three-Quarters and Sirius found himself blushing and a bit confused. It was how everyone in his family said goodbye to one another, including all his cousins and several friends of the family. Even Abraxas Malfoy embraced the Black patriarch before leaving Number 12, Grimmauld Place and besides, his lips hadn't even touched his face.

Sirius tried to explain all this, his face flushed and feeling very aware of Peter's befuddled stare. James laughed again at the reasoning.

"Well, that says something about your family, doesn't it?" he joked, though half of the sentence was entirely incomprehensible to everyone except Sirius, who somehow could aways understand exactly what James was saying when he laughed while speaking. "Just kidding. See you in January, poofter!"

Sirius wasn't quite sure what a 'Poofter' was, but he was stopped from asking by the hand that suddenly grabbed his shoulder. He turned and looked up into the face of his mother. Her pale gray eyes were hard and her face was icy as she stared down at him.

"Mother." He took her hand in preparation to kiss it—it was the way he had always greeted his mother: a kiss on the back of her hand and then another on her cheek. However as his fingers brushed the back of her gloved hand she snatched it back. Her expression was still cold, but now it was disgusted as well.

"Take your trunk," she said and the moment his hand wrapped around the handle, she had grabbed his wrist and a moment later, they were back in Number 12, Grimmauld Place.

"Associating with blood traitors..." she said as she pulled him, not upstairs as she ought to have, considering that was where his room was located, but towards the door which led to the cellar. "Embracing half-bloods..." He wasn't sure if she was speaking to him or to herself. Her eyes were no longer icy, but were becoming wild and bloodshot. He had never thought of his mother as someone who was mad, but she certainly looked it now. Her fingernails dug into his wrist and she kept taking short, gasping breaths.

She pried his trunk from his hands as they reached the cellar door and then, without warning, flung him down the stairs. She followed him down as he fell, her wand raised. She swept above him from where he lay on the damp, filthy stone, breathing hard.

"How dare you?" she demanded, pulling him up by his collar. He had changed out of his uniform on the train and, though she was usually meticulous about clothing, she seemed to hold little regard for the black suit and dark green, high-collared shirt as she yanked him towards her. "You have shamed the noble and most ancient house of Black. You've tainted its name and the names of all your ancestors. How could you?" She slapped him across the face and then dropped him back to the floor.

"Mother, I—"

She cut him off, raising her wand and then slicing it through the air.

For a second, he felt as though he were on fire. He was sure he was on fire, but he was cold, too. His skin was contracting, his eyes freezing over. He couldn't scream. He couldn't even breathe—

"I should have known you wouldn't have been a Slytherin!" she shouted, pulling him up once more and gripping him by the base of his neck. "You were always too weak, always too stupid!" She shoved him against the stone wall and he felt his head hit the rock as he fell to his knees. The world was knocked out of focus as the pain shot through his body.

"Mother, please..." he begged, falling forwards and pressing his forehead to her high-heeled, lace-up boots. He was groveling, pleading. "Mother, please, forgive me. I'm sorry—"

She kicked and he fell back again, but was soon pulled up once more, this time by his wrist. She brought his face close to hers.

"Blood traitor," she hissed before shoving him back down to the floor.

He didn't see sunlight again until the day before he had to return to Hogwarts—only the multicolored flashes of curses.

---

When Mrs. Black finally exited her chamber, she was not the same woman.

She was thinner, her face was drawn and her once warm gray eyes were now icy like her fingertips. It was as though she had aged ten years in three weeks.

Sirius didn't notice at first. He ran up to his mother and wrapped his arms around her stockinged legs, pressing his face into her skirt and enjoying the soft, floral smell that always accompanied the Black family matriarch.

A second later, however, he was on the ground, a meter back from his mother. Laughing, he got back to his feet and ran towards her once more.

"Get him away!" Orion Black rushed to her side and she clutched the front of his shirt, wrinkling the stiff linen. "Get him away from me!" Orion wrapped his arms around her, pressing her face to his chest, but she pulled away. Her face still hard and cold as she shrieked.

"I want that boy out of my house!" she shouted, pointing one of her long, spider-like fingers at him. "I want him out, Orion! I want him away from here! He killed Arcturus! He killed him!"

Sirius stumbled back a bit, staring into his mother's cold face. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but her eyes stayed stony. No emotion showed on her visage. No warmth could be found in her eyes.

"Leave, Sirius." It was an order, not a request, and the moment it left his father's lips Sirius ran from the room.

His mother had gone insane, but he didn't know that at the time...

---

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act—act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

---

It was his mother who brought him to the station and who apparated back home almost instantly. Sirius slowly made his way towards the train, other witches and wizards pushing past him, knocking him this way and that.

There were no voices in his head now, just silence.

He mounted the train, found an empty compartment and placed his trunk, with some difficulty, in the rack above the chairs, then sat down and stared out the window.

He wondered briefly if he should join Lucius and Narcissa, but decided against it. He didn't need to be chastised by Narcissa and her dope of a boyfriend. He had already taken enough from her sister...

So he sat by himself in silence, struggling not to look at the shadows under the chairs or to blink at all. He didn't want to see the dark.

He looked down at his hands, he realized that he was still wearing his family ring on his right hand. He stared carefully at it now, feeling suddenly as though he were seeing it for the first time. It was silver and set with black stone. The words Toujours Pur were engraved around the setting and around the band was carved part of his full name. As Sirius looked down at the ring, he felt a sudden surge of repulsion. It was such a large, ugly ring and didn't suit his hands at all, though it had been made especially for him when he was born. It was even enchanted to grow along with him so it would always fit, but he hated it now. He hated it.

The compartment door slid open and James came in, Peter close behind him.

"Hey Sirius!" he said, beaming happily at the pale, skinny boy. His smile faded as he took in Sirius' face—his blank, bloodshot eyes and the bruise that burned angrily on his left cheek (a final warning from his mother before they left Number 12).

"Go away," he said softly, not looking up from the ugly ring that rested upon his right hand. James paused for a moment, looking at Sirius as though carefully considering him.

"Peter, can you go sit with Wood? I'll join you guys later."

Peter scampered off and James moved further into the compartment with his trunk, carefully shutting the door behind him.

"I said, 'go away'," repeated Sirius, his voice slightly stronger, but just as emotionless.

"Yeah, I heard you," said James, sitting beside his friend, who he now realized appeared to have lost a lot of weight over the holidays. He grabbed Sirius' hand, causing the other boy to oddly stiffen, and looked at the ring.

"What's this?" he asked, turning Sirius' hand so he could see around the band. "'Sirius Prometheus Black'?"

"It's my full name," explained Sirius in the same emotionless tone as he let James examine the ring. "Part of it, anyway. There are about six more names in there."

James felt a smile tug at his lips as he heard the note of familial annoyance creep back into Sirius' voice.

"Six more? Let's hear it," he said with a grin.

Sirius rolled his eyes and James noted that the skin around them was red.

"'Sirius Prometheus Tybalt Gray Hesiod Gonzague Adolf Emygdio Black.'"

James raised an eyebrow.

"'James Anthony Felix Potter.'"

"Lucky you."

"So, what did you do over the holidays?" asked James, leaning back against the carpeted seat.

"Nothing."

James rolled his eyes. "Exciting."

"Yeah, well, my mother was pretty angry with me because of... stuff..." Sirius pressed his lips together as he bit his tongue. He still hadn't properly looked at James yet, because he was sure if he did, the two of them would immediately start up from exactly where they had left off last term and he couldn't do that. He couldn't.

"What kind of stuff?"

"She's angry with me for associating with blood traitors like you and for being in Gryffindor and for... for lots of things..."

But, of course, the last part was a total lie, because those two things appeared to be the only reasons for his mother's loathing for him. She hadn't hated him before. She had just tried to move him in the right direction and what had he done? He'd failed her. He'd been puffed up and overly-proud. He had been placed on a pedestal and now had fallen from it.

His father's smooth, warm, baritone voice spoke in his head and Sirius could picture his father's oddly cold, pale green-hazel eyes reflecting the light from the gas lamp that always sat upon his desk.

"The higher they are, the harder they fall..."

And Sirius had been up very high. So high, in fact, that he was quite sure that he still hadn't reached the ground yet.

James raised an eyebrow and looked a touch annoyed. "So I'm a blood traitor?"

"Well, yes," said Sirius, unabashedly, finally turning to face his friend and looking straight into his warm, hazel eyes. "And now so am I..."

James just watched Sirius, who was now shaking uncontrollably. He looked as though he wanted to cry out, but was swallowing his screams for another time. His eyes were held wide open and he clenched his teeth together. The corner of his mouth twitched as the bruise stung from the movement and his hands gripped each other so hard, James was sure that they would soon be bruised too.

"I'm a blood traitor," he said, disbelief etching his every word. His lips moved as though he were struggling to find a way to explain himself. "I'm a blood traitor, James..."

"No, you're not."

Sirius looked at James, his face contorted with incredulity.

"Are you serious?" he half-shouted, jumping up from the seat.

"No, you are."

"Don't be stupid, James!" he cried, flinging his arms down. "I associate with half-bloods and blood traitors. That's the definition of a blood traitor! Who knows—maybe next I'll be talking to mudbloods!"

James stood up too. He looked truly furious now, the blood rushing to his cheeks in angry red patches. He pushed his glasses further up his nose and wrapped his hand around the handle of his trunk.

"Don't use that term!" he said, firmly. Sirius stared at him with his cold gray eyes that were so like his mother's. He too was flushed and his face still wore an expression of total shock. "Who cares who you talk to, Sirius? You're not any better than the rest of us! You walk around going, 'I'm Sirius... Orion... Whatever Black! Lick my boots, please!' I thought you might actually be decent last term, but you're just as bad as you were on the first day. Worse, actually! What the hell is wrong with you, anyway? Who cares about people's families as long as they're nice people and I actually wanted to be your friend, Sirius, but I guess I can't because I'm a blood traitor! So I'll see you later, Sirius. Have fun with yourself."

He turned to leave.

"If nothing else I have said has struck you, then just consider this..."

Sirius watched James as he pulled open the compartment door and felt as though his heart had jumped into his throat. This was the moment. This was his moment.

"Soon, you will have to make a decision..."

James tugged on his trunk and dragged it along the ground behind him, making marks on the floor of the train itself. Sirius just stood, completely still, aware only of the dull throbbing in his cheek.

"It is your decision..."

Sirius watched James struggle with his heavy trunk in silence, unmoving, unsure.

"No one can make it for you..."

And suddenly, Sirius could see Dumbledore's face—his twinkling blue eyes and oddly lopsided nose, his face which appeared to have frozen while laughing. He could feel the wisdom radiate from his mere memory. He could see those half-moon glasses catch the light from the stars above. He could hear his voice, feel his hand upon his shoulder.

"Who we are and who we become are sometimes very different things, but we should never forget who we were as we go through life. Or who made us the way we are..."

The higher they are, the harder they fall...

And Sirius had finally hit the ground. There was no way back up except to climb, slowly and painfully. But Sirius didn't want to climb. He was sick of struggling. He was sick of being to told how to stand and who he could talk to. He was sick of trying to be perfect.

Or maybe he had never been that high up to begin with. Maybe he had only just realized it now. Maybe he had never been put up on a pedestal, but instead had been told to put himself upon one and instead, had been putting someone else up on a pedestal—his mother.

Maybe he finally knew what he was supposed to be:

A blood traitor.

After all, his first middle name was Prometheus, the same name as the Titan who stole fire from the gods who were his family and gave it to mankind. Perhaps, Sirius was a Prometheus. Perhaps, he too was meant to turn away from his family and be a champion for humankind.

Perhaps, he too was meant to change history.

Sirius stepped forward as he took a deep breath. "James..."

James looked at him, anger still apparent on his features, though the blotchy patches of red on his cheeks had died down a little.

"James... please... I'm sorry..." Sirius took another deep breath. "I... I don't know what's going to happen next, but I know that I want to be friends with you... Please..."

It didn't feel like groveling or begging, Maybe, part of him knew that James would forgive him. Maybe, he just didn't feel the crushing shame of all of his ancestors of the noble and most ancient house of Black, but simply guilt—guilt at hurting his friend's feelings.

And guilt required no punishment—just forgiveness.

James hesitated for a moment as though weighing the apology's sincerity, but then smiled.

"Alright," he said with his usual grin. "Come on, let's go join Peter and Wood. They're waiting for us. Well, for me anyway. I suppose they won't mind you being there too."

Sirius laughed, pulled his trunk down from the luggage rack and walked down the corridor with James, who began laughing hysterically when Sirius pointed out Lucius and Narcissa's compartment as they passed where the two of them were too busy passionately kissing to notice anything going on around them.

--

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime...

---

As he lay in bed later that night—after eating with James, Peter and James' apparent friend, the muggle-born Christopher Wood, a Ravenclaw third year, and then staying up in the dormitories with James until midnight, trying to teach him how to actually play wizard chess—he remembered a time which had long since passed. From before his mother had given birth to Regulus; from before he had needed to be perfect; before her third born son had died in her arms, finally ridding her of what sanity had remained after numerous miscarriages. It was back when she looked down at him and smiled, back when she was proud of him, back when he was truly her son. It had been back when she loved him.

-

And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;

-

He remembered being wrapped in his mother's arms as the rain poured down outside, pounding gentle rhythms against the glass panels of the window. He had been almost asleep, his head tenderly supported by her right hand and her left holding his back, to keep him turned away from the glass. He looked up at her and through his bleary eyes his mother had almost seemed to glow in the orange firelight. She smiled at him and ran a finger over his cheek.

"There are very few people you can ever trust, Sirius, but know that I will always be among them."

-

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main...

-

It had been so warm, so peaceful, so safe in his mother's arms; back when his mother's eyes were a warm gray; back when she had loved him.

Back when he had believed anything she said.

-

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

-

As Sirius stared up at the scarlet velor top to the canopy bed, he knew that, as a Prometheus, he would always keep that memory safe inside of him.

Because, he knew that, as Sirius Black—the eldest son of the patriarch of the noble and most ancient house of Black—nothing would ever be the same again.

---

"The higher they are, the harder they fall..."

---

---

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

---

"Life is but an empty dream."

----------

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Okay, this story is ridiculously long. If you've read all the way through, I greatly admire and thank you. Please review!

-OFsI