FIC: Absinthe [Sirius - PG]
Title: Absinthe
Author/Artist: hikarievandar
Pairing(s): None
Prompt: 40 (2009)
Word Count: 711
Rating: PG
Contains: *Angst, Implied future canonical character death*
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Apparently I can’t write happy Xmas fic at all. Thank you, as always, to S for the beta.
Summary: Some things stay the same at Yuletide, and some things change. And some things, Sirius is about to discover, will never be the same again.
When he was little, he remembers thinking that the swirling pattern in his father’s glass was a form of magic. Now that he knows better - that it’s just the sugar dissolving away - he thinks that the only magical thing about his father’s drink is that he can actually stand to drink it. He supposes that someone, somewhere must like the taste of absinthe unless they wouldn’t make it anymore, and that Orion Black is as good a man as any to be that one exception because his father doesn’t drink it to get drunk. Orion Black never gets drunk. He savours it too much for that. He sips it quietly once a year before the fire, when all the guests from their Yuletide celebrations are gone, and when he was younger Sirius would have curled up on the rug by his feet, Reg by his side, and rested his head on his father’s knee.
He’s too old for that now; too proud. His father’s ideals - the ideals of the guests that have just left - are so far removed from his own that the idea of letting his father card gentle fingers through his hair as they recover together from the stress of a formal gathering sends shivers down his spine. He plays chess with Uncle Alphard instead, and watches his father from the corner of his eye and tries not to picture his younger self begging for a sip of his father’s magical drink and then gagging when he got it.
His theory, which he’ll forever keep to himself lest he be disappointed, is that his father started drinking that stuff to be rebellious. That back in the day, when it was illegal, his father had developed a taste for the stuff out of a desire to break the mould. He doubts it’s true, because his father’s all quiet like Reg is, but he wants it to be - it would mean they have something in common.
Regulus is too old for petting now as well. He’s in the corner by the bureau, quill scratching away at a piece of parchment that could be a diary entry or a letter to that blond Hufflepuff freak that Reg hangs out with. Sirius isn’t sure, but he hopes it’s the latter for Reg’s sake; if their mother notices, a letter would be easier to explain. “Blacks don’t require such mundane things as journals.”
She’s not likely to notice, though. Not tonight. Not when she’s deep in conversation with both sets of his grandparents - Aunt Druella, Bella, and Cissa all gathered in that corner as well - and they’re all gossiping over who was the best dressed and which family had what politics and what scandal was the juiciest. Grandfather Arcturus and Uncle Cygnus both look bored stiff to Sirius’ eye - it’s possible that Grandfather is asleep standing, his eyes are so vacant; Uncle Cygnus appears to be giving the coving a thorough inspection - but it’s hard to tell, really. “Blacks never show what they feel” and sometimes those masks stay up in private.
Hell if Sirius doesn’t have enough experience with that himself.
Uncle Alphard’s next move is punctuated by a rattling cough that makes Sirius’ stomach shrivel. He knew his uncle had been sick - hell, Alphard had admitted as much in his letters - but he hadn’t realised it had lingered past November; that it would sound so terrible. He barely even registers his uncle’s bishop smashing his queen into the board. His world has narrowed to the wet sound that his uncle’s chest makes and the sight of red spreading over the white of his handkerchief and soaking into the embroidered coat of arms. He doesn’t realise that he’s not the only one concerned until the dark blue of his father’s robes block his vision and a half empty glass is set down in the ruins of his uncle’s victory.
Absinthe is the colour of the killing curse. One of the reasons it was outlawed for so long is because of its association with Dark Arts and madmen, and Sirius has to suppress the urge to fling the glass to the floor - as if some naive part of him really thinks that it will take away the sudden realisation that his uncle is dying.
Author/Artist: hikarievandar
Pairing(s): None
Prompt: 40 (2009)
Word Count: 711
Rating: PG
Contains: *Angst, Implied future canonical character death*
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Apparently I can’t write happy Xmas fic at all. Thank you, as always, to S for the beta.
Summary: Some things stay the same at Yuletide, and some things change. And some things, Sirius is about to discover, will never be the same again.
When he was little, he remembers thinking that the swirling pattern in his father’s glass was a form of magic. Now that he knows better - that it’s just the sugar dissolving away - he thinks that the only magical thing about his father’s drink is that he can actually stand to drink it. He supposes that someone, somewhere must like the taste of absinthe unless they wouldn’t make it anymore, and that Orion Black is as good a man as any to be that one exception because his father doesn’t drink it to get drunk. Orion Black never gets drunk. He savours it too much for that. He sips it quietly once a year before the fire, when all the guests from their Yuletide celebrations are gone, and when he was younger Sirius would have curled up on the rug by his feet, Reg by his side, and rested his head on his father’s knee.
He’s too old for that now; too proud. His father’s ideals - the ideals of the guests that have just left - are so far removed from his own that the idea of letting his father card gentle fingers through his hair as they recover together from the stress of a formal gathering sends shivers down his spine. He plays chess with Uncle Alphard instead, and watches his father from the corner of his eye and tries not to picture his younger self begging for a sip of his father’s magical drink and then gagging when he got it.
His theory, which he’ll forever keep to himself lest he be disappointed, is that his father started drinking that stuff to be rebellious. That back in the day, when it was illegal, his father had developed a taste for the stuff out of a desire to break the mould. He doubts it’s true, because his father’s all quiet like Reg is, but he wants it to be - it would mean they have something in common.
Regulus is too old for petting now as well. He’s in the corner by the bureau, quill scratching away at a piece of parchment that could be a diary entry or a letter to that blond Hufflepuff freak that Reg hangs out with. Sirius isn’t sure, but he hopes it’s the latter for Reg’s sake; if their mother notices, a letter would be easier to explain. “Blacks don’t require such mundane things as journals.”
She’s not likely to notice, though. Not tonight. Not when she’s deep in conversation with both sets of his grandparents - Aunt Druella, Bella, and Cissa all gathered in that corner as well - and they’re all gossiping over who was the best dressed and which family had what politics and what scandal was the juiciest. Grandfather Arcturus and Uncle Cygnus both look bored stiff to Sirius’ eye - it’s possible that Grandfather is asleep standing, his eyes are so vacant; Uncle Cygnus appears to be giving the coving a thorough inspection - but it’s hard to tell, really. “Blacks never show what they feel” and sometimes those masks stay up in private.
Hell if Sirius doesn’t have enough experience with that himself.
Uncle Alphard’s next move is punctuated by a rattling cough that makes Sirius’ stomach shrivel. He knew his uncle had been sick - hell, Alphard had admitted as much in his letters - but he hadn’t realised it had lingered past November; that it would sound so terrible. He barely even registers his uncle’s bishop smashing his queen into the board. His world has narrowed to the wet sound that his uncle’s chest makes and the sight of red spreading over the white of his handkerchief and soaking into the embroidered coat of arms. He doesn’t realise that he’s not the only one concerned until the dark blue of his father’s robes block his vision and a half empty glass is set down in the ruins of his uncle’s victory.
Absinthe is the colour of the killing curse. One of the reasons it was outlawed for so long is because of its association with Dark Arts and madmen, and Sirius has to suppress the urge to fling the glass to the floor - as if some naive part of him really thinks that it will take away the sudden realisation that his uncle is dying.