35Disclaimer: I…I who have nothing.
A/N: For various reasons, I have become deeply interested in these four boys - there'll be a chapter for each of them - over the years. There's little to no canonical evidence for any of these; they're just a series of imaginings.
This was sparked by both "Falling Down", the Oasis song from which I took the title, and Starkid McFly's fantastic One For Sorrow, which I cannot recommend enough.
"Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them…"
Oscar Wilde - The Picture of Dorian Grey.
Sirius' parents meet at eighteen and twenty-three in a dark drawing room draped in burgundy silks. They don't have much of an impression of one another. They don't have a chance at conversation. They don't have a choice.
They are impossibly beautiful creatures; skin so white it is almost translucent, and hair with the colour and unobtrusive shine of jet. Their irises are the same brilliant silver. Both have high, chiseled cheekbones, thin lips, and long noses. They are pure Black, as their children will be.
They agree on little else than what matters in life - purity, nobility, supremacy. Their children must be worthy heirs.
"Sons are imperative. Sons are stronger. Sons carry on a line."
Walburga Black has changed not her name, but her title. She is no longer Miss Black, the eligible daughter of the most influential pureblood family in London. She is Mrs. Black, the exquisitely beautiful wife of her second-cousin.
"Sons are delightful children," her husband warns, "but they can make willful adults."
But she does not carry a child, son or otherwise, to term. Once almost every eighteen months, she wakes to bloodied bed sheets, her husband, to her sobs. She is driven to obsession.
"But the line," she murmurs. "Three girls on one side, and only Alphard who's out of his senses."
Her husband takes to sleeping a floor above, safe from her screams, her wails of disappointment.
Until March of 1959, eleven years after their wedding, she retires to her room and refuses to get out of bed the following morning. The family House Elf, Kreacher, brings her light meals, and she takes a small walk around the garden in the afternoon. She is smiling genuinely, a glint in her eyes for the first time in years.
The following November, she delivers their first-born; a son. Sirius is her prize, her joy at the end of her suffering, her boy - the heir.
And he is a delightful child.
They play together - the heir and the spare. Both sons, even from a young age, have an innate grace and beauty about them. Neither has any idea of their purpose in life, but she thinks Regulus notices the attention, the attempts at a mother's love, that she lavishes upon Sirius.
Neither is unintelligent, but she ensures Sirius has the best education she can offer him. By the age of eight, he is fluent in French and reads Latin with ease. He can read music, but despite many attempts, he cannot play it and so tires quickly of each instrument she pushes him toward.
She instills in him a great sense of familial pride. He is a Black. He is pure. He is equal to royalty. She tells him he is a brilliant boy.
But for all that, he never tells her that he loves her, and she can't understand why.
It begins the summer before Sirius is due to receive his Hogwarts letter. He is ten when he meets the Muggle twins who live at the end of the street. He is ten when they introduce him to The Beatles. He is ten when he tries on his first pair of jeans.
He is ten when they, and their mother, are killed. Carbon Monoxide poisoning apparently, but he knows better. He's heard his mother talking about Muggle Baiting.
"I don't understand," he says, watching her flick idly through the paper.
"What don't you understand?"
"People have died and nobody notices. Nobody talks about it."
Mrs. Black peers over the top of her newspaper. "What is there to talk about?"
"They weren't poisoned, were they?"
"They weren't your friends, Sirius. They weren't your equals. They have forced us into hiding and if someone has taken it upon themselves to retaliate, then it is our duty as a pureblood wizarding family, to offer whatever support we can. What's not to understand? You are a Black."
He's ten when he realises just what that means.
The four of them Apparate to Kings Cross on September 1st 1971. Regulus hangs back, too used to living in Sirius' shadow to miss him once the train turns the corner.
"Write."
He nods, distracted by the crowds of laughing students, the hooting of disgruntled owls.
Mrs. Black is relieved to have Bellatrix willing to look out for him, spare him a seat at the Slytherin table, and introduce him to the right people. It wouldn't do to have eleven years of hard work come to nothing.
Sirius glances over to another boy he assumes must be a first year too. His mother flings her arms around him and holds him as though letting go means she will never see him again. Sirius isn't sure whether he wants that. He's not sure what he wants at all.
His mother grips his shoulder in a would be affectionate manner, but her nails dig into his skin. He winces and quickly steps out of reach.
"Goodbye, Sirius."
He refuses to speak to her.
Sirius is her prize, her joy at the end of her suffering, her boy - the heir.
And he is quickly becoming a willful adult.