(no subject)
This is the first part of Anything But Temptation, a great big (mostly unrelated) collection of stories centered around lines by the ever-quotable Oscar Wilde. I am also working on Things That Never Were, which is roughly the same, but draws on quotes by George Bernard Shaw. If you have a particular quote you’d like me to use, feel free to suggest it, and I’ll see what I can do.
For the record, I really didn't want to give names to Mr. and Mrs. Black. But it couldn't be avoided. So suck it up.
i.
Altair Black is not running late.
A Black is never running late. A Black never hurries, or rushes, or frets over the hour. A Black is always perfectly on time.
Altair himself is always precisely where he intends to be. At the moment, he intends to be standing in the doorway of his eldest son’s bedroom, watching Sirius adjust himself in the dresser-mirror.
He watches as the boy pulls back his hair, tying it neatly at the nape of his neck. One of the house-elves must have helped him to lengthen it. His hair is a nuisance at its regular length, Sirius claims, because it falls into his eyes and distracts him while he’s fencing. Altair suspects his son simply enjoys the change, but this particular hint of eccentricity is harmless enough. And the boy is dedicated to his fencing.
Sirius favors his father in most respects. His boyish face is already chiseled with the sharp lines of aristocracy; he has Altair’s mouth, his nose, his strong jaw. His eyes are his mother’s, wide and pale, edged with long dark lashes that hint at innocence and fragility. A liar’s eyes, Altair thinks, a bit cynically.
Those eyes have spotted him in the mirror. Altair moves to stand behind his son, never turning his gaze from their reflection. “Are you prepared for the tournament?”
Sirius nods, quicksilver eyes darting to meet his father’s in the mirror. “Yes, Father.”
Of its own accord, Altair’s hand moves to tuck back a wayward strand of his son’s hair, then comes to rest on Sirius’s shoulder. The boy is thin still; Altair can feel the definition of the bone. He will have another growth spurt within the year, perhaps two. Altair supposes his son will have his own build, broad and muscular. Someday he’ll make an excellent Beater for Slytherin. Altair nearly smiles to think of it.
“You’ll be taller than your mother, soon,” he says, surprising himself. Sirius nods again; Altair can see him processing.
He glances at his son’s fencing equipment, gleaming where it lies waiting on the bed. Noting the swords Sirius has laid out, he amends his earlier statement. “Provided you survive your brother’s wrath when he realizes you’ve stolen his best rapier.”
Blood rushes to Sirius’s face, flushing the high cheekbones.
(His emotions are forever writ large upon his countenance; Altair makes a note to address this in the future.)
Culpability thus betrayed, Altair is satisfied to see that the boy does not speak to defend himself, nor does he look away from his father’s steady regard.
Altair allows himself a brief moment of pride in his son-in his heir, with his flawless manners and confident comportment and exemplary skill with a blade. They have raised him well, priming him for the role he will play as the heir to the House of Black. Slytherin, yes-a Beater and a prefect, no doubt. Perhaps Head Boy.
He does smile, then, and briefly tightens his fingers on his son’s shoulder before releasing him. “Come. We wouldn’t want to keep your competitors waiting.”
ii.
“This is madness. You’re all barking.”
“Barking, am I? You’re the one who shows no respect for your own blood! Honestly, it makes me sick the way you run around with those mudbloods-you and your band of half-breeds and blood traitors-”
“Those half-breeds and blood traitors are better wizards than most purebloods could ever dream of being!”
Altair chooses this moment to make his presence known.
“Sirius. Regulus.”
His sons whirl to face him, stunned into silence at the severe command underlining their names. Shame immediately dampens the anger blazed across Regulus’s face. Sirius’s face is, unsurprisingly, inscrutable.
“What is going on here?”
The brothers spare each other a quick look.
“Regulus and I are having a bit of a dialogue.” Sirius seems to be testing the boundaries of impenitence.
“I see.” Altair arches a dark brow. He notes that this sign of his displeasure still has an effect on both of his sons. “If you two dialogue any louder, you’re going to disturb your mother, and no doubt half of London.”
The boys glance up the staircase, to the darkened upper floors of the house.
Altair represses the urge to sigh. “Regulus, you are excused. Sirius, come with me.”
He knows without looking that the boy will fall into step behind him as he begins to ascend the stairs. He traces the path to his study from memory, contemplating the situation with his sons.
Sirius has become intolerably defiant. His every word is colored with insolence, his every action laced with insubordination.
Regulus, once devoted to mimicking his brother’s every move, is now his most outspoken critic. While Altair approves of his youngest son’s sentiments, the resulting arguments are becoming insufferable. Hardly a day passes that does not find the two of them quarreling. Their rows have begun to overstep the boundaries of proper breeding, with hissed insults in the dining room and, now, shouting matches in the entrance hall.
Entering his study, he sits heavily at his desk, and takes a moment to brace himself before dealing with his mutinous heir.
Sirius does not sit down across from Altair, but instead stands silently just inside the door. He has grown to be nearly as tall as his father, but leaner, a narrow silhouette flickering against the background of dark cedar and books. His face is narrower than it was when he arrived from Hogwarts
(he loses weight every time he returns home-a faithful diet of disapproval and resentment)
and his features stand out starkly in the candlelight. The last month has leached all but the barest hint of a Quidditch tan from his skin, leaving him naturally pale.
Altair resigns himself to a difficult discussion.
“Sirius.” The boy meets his gaze wordlessly
(always, always it is a shock-Estelle’s wild eyes staring out of his son’s face)
and Altair indicates the empty chair with a curt gesture of his hand. “Sit down.”
Sirius crosses the room and slips into the chair. His movements are those of a Chaser, swift and deliberate. Altair examines him for a moment before continuing. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
There is a long pause. He is beginning to believe that the boy will ignore him
(such rebellion, such unbearable disloyalty in those icy pureblood eyes)
before finally Sirius shrugs, a surprisingly inelegant jerk of wiry shoulders. “Nothing I’ve not said before. I…” He hesitates, looks away. Shrugs again. “I make no apologies.”
Despite himself, Altair bristles at the boy’s impudence. “You would do well to consider it,” he says coldly. “I will not tolerate such disrespect toward your brother or toward your heritage.”
Contempt flashes across Sirius’s face
(a Black does not show emotions-he never, never learned)
blatant and damning in the moments before he recalls his mask of disinterest. “The truth is disrespectful, then?”
“You are wholly ignorant of the matters you presume to comprehend.” He pauses, observing the angry set of the boy’s jaw. “You will not utter your misguided convictions in this house. Do you understand?”
Sirius does not answer. His eyes are closed. His fingers grip the carved arms of the chair-tightening and releasing, tightening and releasing.
Altair is losing patience. “Do you understand?” he repeats, voice harsh in the heavy silence that has fallen.
The boy’s eyes snap open.
“Yes,” he says, his pale face dark with condemnation. “I understand.”
For an instant, Altair thinks he looks a little mad
(Estelle shrieking in her sleep, weeping, fingernails like claws as she lashes out)
with the intensity and the fire in his gaze. Perhaps it is a trick of the light.
iii.
At first, he doesn’t recognize it.
The drawers of his father’s desk are neat and systematically organized. Quills, ink, parchment-everything in its place. Altair Black despised chaos. Sirius supposes that’s why they never got on well.
He doesn’t know what he expected to find, rummaging through his father’s drawers-Dark artifacts, cursed relics, perhaps a boggart or a swarm of doxies. Certainly not an old fencing medal, tucked out of sight beneath a stack of forgotten Ministry reports.
He is surprised to find any reminder of himself remaining in 12 Grimmauld Place. From what he understands, the family eradicated all traces of their disowned heir from the house.
He turns it over and over in his hand, as if daring it to reveal its true nature. Surely his father would not have kept that damn silly medal. Altair was far from being a sentimental man. He would hardly have held on to a worthless fencing medallion as a keepsake of his disinherited son.
And yet, here it is.
Sirius shakes his head, mystified. Perhaps he’s mistaken. Perhaps it’s not his, after all-one of Regulus’s, more likely, except that Regulus was rubbish at fencing and would sooner have swallowed his blade than won a tournament.
(Sirius always attributed this to a lack of the necessary athletic dexterity; of course, that was before Regulus made the Slytherin team and began to display a stunning prowess for breaking his brother’s bones with well-aimed Bludgers.)
Why would his father have kept it? Sirius frowns, absently tracing the engravings with his fingertips. Why, out of the numerous medals Sirius won, would Altair have chosen to keep this one? Why keep any?
Sirius shrugs, finally. Why did his father do anything, really? The man was a mystery-a mad old pureblood enigma. Probably he was planning to curse it at some point, like every other bloody heirloom of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.
Somehow, this doesn’t seem to be enough.
“You old crazy bastard,” he mutters, staring at his broken reflection in the silver gleam of the medal. “Why’d you do it?” Predictably, there is no reply.
He arches an eyebrow in frustration. It looks familiar.
For the record, I really didn't want to give names to Mr. and Mrs. Black. But it couldn't be avoided. So suck it up.
i.
Altair Black is not running late.
A Black is never running late. A Black never hurries, or rushes, or frets over the hour. A Black is always perfectly on time.
Altair himself is always precisely where he intends to be. At the moment, he intends to be standing in the doorway of his eldest son’s bedroom, watching Sirius adjust himself in the dresser-mirror.
He watches as the boy pulls back his hair, tying it neatly at the nape of his neck. One of the house-elves must have helped him to lengthen it. His hair is a nuisance at its regular length, Sirius claims, because it falls into his eyes and distracts him while he’s fencing. Altair suspects his son simply enjoys the change, but this particular hint of eccentricity is harmless enough. And the boy is dedicated to his fencing.
Sirius favors his father in most respects. His boyish face is already chiseled with the sharp lines of aristocracy; he has Altair’s mouth, his nose, his strong jaw. His eyes are his mother’s, wide and pale, edged with long dark lashes that hint at innocence and fragility. A liar’s eyes, Altair thinks, a bit cynically.
Those eyes have spotted him in the mirror. Altair moves to stand behind his son, never turning his gaze from their reflection. “Are you prepared for the tournament?”
Sirius nods, quicksilver eyes darting to meet his father’s in the mirror. “Yes, Father.”
Of its own accord, Altair’s hand moves to tuck back a wayward strand of his son’s hair, then comes to rest on Sirius’s shoulder. The boy is thin still; Altair can feel the definition of the bone. He will have another growth spurt within the year, perhaps two. Altair supposes his son will have his own build, broad and muscular. Someday he’ll make an excellent Beater for Slytherin. Altair nearly smiles to think of it.
“You’ll be taller than your mother, soon,” he says, surprising himself. Sirius nods again; Altair can see him processing.
He glances at his son’s fencing equipment, gleaming where it lies waiting on the bed. Noting the swords Sirius has laid out, he amends his earlier statement. “Provided you survive your brother’s wrath when he realizes you’ve stolen his best rapier.”
Blood rushes to Sirius’s face, flushing the high cheekbones.
(His emotions are forever writ large upon his countenance; Altair makes a note to address this in the future.)
Culpability thus betrayed, Altair is satisfied to see that the boy does not speak to defend himself, nor does he look away from his father’s steady regard.
Altair allows himself a brief moment of pride in his son-in his heir, with his flawless manners and confident comportment and exemplary skill with a blade. They have raised him well, priming him for the role he will play as the heir to the House of Black. Slytherin, yes-a Beater and a prefect, no doubt. Perhaps Head Boy.
He does smile, then, and briefly tightens his fingers on his son’s shoulder before releasing him. “Come. We wouldn’t want to keep your competitors waiting.”
ii.
“This is madness. You’re all barking.”
“Barking, am I? You’re the one who shows no respect for your own blood! Honestly, it makes me sick the way you run around with those mudbloods-you and your band of half-breeds and blood traitors-”
“Those half-breeds and blood traitors are better wizards than most purebloods could ever dream of being!”
Altair chooses this moment to make his presence known.
“Sirius. Regulus.”
His sons whirl to face him, stunned into silence at the severe command underlining their names. Shame immediately dampens the anger blazed across Regulus’s face. Sirius’s face is, unsurprisingly, inscrutable.
“What is going on here?”
The brothers spare each other a quick look.
“Regulus and I are having a bit of a dialogue.” Sirius seems to be testing the boundaries of impenitence.
“I see.” Altair arches a dark brow. He notes that this sign of his displeasure still has an effect on both of his sons. “If you two dialogue any louder, you’re going to disturb your mother, and no doubt half of London.”
The boys glance up the staircase, to the darkened upper floors of the house.
Altair represses the urge to sigh. “Regulus, you are excused. Sirius, come with me.”
He knows without looking that the boy will fall into step behind him as he begins to ascend the stairs. He traces the path to his study from memory, contemplating the situation with his sons.
Sirius has become intolerably defiant. His every word is colored with insolence, his every action laced with insubordination.
Regulus, once devoted to mimicking his brother’s every move, is now his most outspoken critic. While Altair approves of his youngest son’s sentiments, the resulting arguments are becoming insufferable. Hardly a day passes that does not find the two of them quarreling. Their rows have begun to overstep the boundaries of proper breeding, with hissed insults in the dining room and, now, shouting matches in the entrance hall.
Entering his study, he sits heavily at his desk, and takes a moment to brace himself before dealing with his mutinous heir.
Sirius does not sit down across from Altair, but instead stands silently just inside the door. He has grown to be nearly as tall as his father, but leaner, a narrow silhouette flickering against the background of dark cedar and books. His face is narrower than it was when he arrived from Hogwarts
(he loses weight every time he returns home-a faithful diet of disapproval and resentment)
and his features stand out starkly in the candlelight. The last month has leached all but the barest hint of a Quidditch tan from his skin, leaving him naturally pale.
Altair resigns himself to a difficult discussion.
“Sirius.” The boy meets his gaze wordlessly
(always, always it is a shock-Estelle’s wild eyes staring out of his son’s face)
and Altair indicates the empty chair with a curt gesture of his hand. “Sit down.”
Sirius crosses the room and slips into the chair. His movements are those of a Chaser, swift and deliberate. Altair examines him for a moment before continuing. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
There is a long pause. He is beginning to believe that the boy will ignore him
(such rebellion, such unbearable disloyalty in those icy pureblood eyes)
before finally Sirius shrugs, a surprisingly inelegant jerk of wiry shoulders. “Nothing I’ve not said before. I…” He hesitates, looks away. Shrugs again. “I make no apologies.”
Despite himself, Altair bristles at the boy’s impudence. “You would do well to consider it,” he says coldly. “I will not tolerate such disrespect toward your brother or toward your heritage.”
Contempt flashes across Sirius’s face
(a Black does not show emotions-he never, never learned)
blatant and damning in the moments before he recalls his mask of disinterest. “The truth is disrespectful, then?”
“You are wholly ignorant of the matters you presume to comprehend.” He pauses, observing the angry set of the boy’s jaw. “You will not utter your misguided convictions in this house. Do you understand?”
Sirius does not answer. His eyes are closed. His fingers grip the carved arms of the chair-tightening and releasing, tightening and releasing.
Altair is losing patience. “Do you understand?” he repeats, voice harsh in the heavy silence that has fallen.
The boy’s eyes snap open.
“Yes,” he says, his pale face dark with condemnation. “I understand.”
For an instant, Altair thinks he looks a little mad
(Estelle shrieking in her sleep, weeping, fingernails like claws as she lashes out)
with the intensity and the fire in his gaze. Perhaps it is a trick of the light.
iii.
At first, he doesn’t recognize it.
The drawers of his father’s desk are neat and systematically organized. Quills, ink, parchment-everything in its place. Altair Black despised chaos. Sirius supposes that’s why they never got on well.
He doesn’t know what he expected to find, rummaging through his father’s drawers-Dark artifacts, cursed relics, perhaps a boggart or a swarm of doxies. Certainly not an old fencing medal, tucked out of sight beneath a stack of forgotten Ministry reports.
He is surprised to find any reminder of himself remaining in 12 Grimmauld Place. From what he understands, the family eradicated all traces of their disowned heir from the house.
He turns it over and over in his hand, as if daring it to reveal its true nature. Surely his father would not have kept that damn silly medal. Altair was far from being a sentimental man. He would hardly have held on to a worthless fencing medallion as a keepsake of his disinherited son.
And yet, here it is.
Sirius shakes his head, mystified. Perhaps he’s mistaken. Perhaps it’s not his, after all-one of Regulus’s, more likely, except that Regulus was rubbish at fencing and would sooner have swallowed his blade than won a tournament.
(Sirius always attributed this to a lack of the necessary athletic dexterity; of course, that was before Regulus made the Slytherin team and began to display a stunning prowess for breaking his brother’s bones with well-aimed Bludgers.)
Why would his father have kept it? Sirius frowns, absently tracing the engravings with his fingertips. Why, out of the numerous medals Sirius won, would Altair have chosen to keep this one? Why keep any?
Sirius shrugs, finally. Why did his father do anything, really? The man was a mystery-a mad old pureblood enigma. Probably he was planning to curse it at some point, like every other bloody heirloom of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.
Somehow, this doesn’t seem to be enough.
“You old crazy bastard,” he mutters, staring at his broken reflection in the silver gleam of the medal. “Why’d you do it?” Predictably, there is no reply.
He arches an eyebrow in frustration. It looks familiar.