Sirius: I'm Just Looking

Sirius felt uncomfortable being stared at. He looked down at himself, tugged at his collar, then patted his shoulders, and tried to pull out the hem of his robe, but couldn't get anything out.

He raised his head again and bared his teeth at Regulus.

Regulus stopped looking at him, now certain that he was serious.

Then he raised his right hand, pointed his index finger at Sirius at random, and Transfiguration.

Sirius's robes began to change.

The fabric at the neckline loosened by two inches, the seams shifted, the fabric on the shoulders smoothed out, the crease under the armpit was flattened, and the cuffs were lowered to just cover the wrists.

The robe seemed to come alive, adjusting itself on Sirius in a very quick process, less than two seconds.

Sirius stood there, stunned.

He looked down at himself; his collar was no longer tight, his shoulders were no longer constricted, and when he raised his arms, he felt no pulling sensation under his armpits.

He turned his shoulder, then turned again; the fabric clung to his body, fitting him perfectly.

He looked up at Regulus.

Regulus had already turned and walked down the Corridor.

Sirius's mouth was open, as if he wanted to say something, but he didn't. The expression on his face changed from stunned to enlightened, and then to an indescribable embarrassment. He probably wanted to say, "Oh right, Transfiguration, you can do that too."

He took a deep breath, shrugged his shoulders to shake off the awkwardness, and strode after him.

The two walked towards the Study, one after the other.

The Study door was open.

The fireplace burned with a green flame, burning neither too high nor too low, its light flickering on the wall.

An entire wall of bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling, densely packed with black hardcover books, the gilded lettering on their spines occasionally flashing in the firelight. On the top shelf were several Silver Instruments, an Astrolabe, and a Metal Ball of unknown purpose, gleaming dimly in the green fire. Stacks of documents and files sat on a low cabinet next to the bookshelves, sorted by year and adorned with bookmarks bearing the Black family family crest.

The air in the Study had a sinking feel to it—quiet, enclosed, as if the outside world was shut out once you entered. Orion sat behind his mahogany desk, several parchment sheets spread out in front of him, looking at what appeared to be voting records from Wizengamot.

A Magic Lamp sits on the corner of the table, its light gathered in the lampshade, illuminating only the area around the tabletop.

He held a quill pen in his hand, making annotations on the edge of the file, the quill tip making a soft sound as it scratched across the parchment.

Hearing the door open, he looked up, put down his pen, and leaned back in his chair.

"Sit." He gestured with his chin toward the two chairs opposite him.

Regulus went over and sat down.

Sirius pulled out a chair next to him and sat down more casually than he had at the dining table.

He leaned back in his chair, rested his hands on the armrests, and stretched out his legs, adopting a casual posture.

He remained tense at the dinner table, speaking to Orion as if he were arguing with something.

Now that the initial urge has passed, and I've processed it, I feel much better.

His gaze swept around the Study —the bookshelves, the desk, the fireplace, the Portrait on the wall—all exactly the same as before.

He had been to this place many times.

It was almost always the same. Orion sat behind his desk, while he sat opposite him, separated by the mahogany table and the silence of the entire room.

The father's gaze was calm as he waited for him to approach before speaking, usually a lecture or an explanation of the rules.

He used to sit in this Study, all his thorns standing on end.

For every word Orion said, he mentally retorted.

Family honor is none of my business.

Pure-bloods lineage? Bullshit.

You are the eldest son, and I don't want to be.

On the surface, they sit still, but inside they are in turmoil; their faces are either as silent as stone or with their heads bowed in avoidance.

He hated the Study, hated his father's silence behind the desk, hated the invisible pressure, and hated his own silence even more.

He wanted to overturn the table, smash things, and stand up to rush out.

But he just sat there, mouth closed, eyes fixed on the wood grain of the table or on his hands on his knees.

Here he was tested, taught, and required to be what the eldest son of the Black family should be like.

He couldn't do it, and he didn't want to, but he couldn't put it into words.

Those words stuck in my throat, turned into silence, into resistance, into hatred, into escape.

What about now?

Sirius looked at the open documents on Orion's desk, at the quill pen still stained with ink in his hand, and at the shadow cast on his profile by the green flames of the fireplace.

He tried looking at the room with a different pair of eyes.

Remove Eldest son of the Black family, as a rebel, and as an oppressed.

Like someone who has wandered into the wrong room, or a guest who has been temporarily pulled in, look around with the most ordinary eyes.

The old things are still there—the silence, the repression, all the things that made him want to flip the table are still there.

But that's something the Eldest son of the Black family should bear; he's Sirius, not him.

The Study was large, tastefully furnished but not extravagantly. Everything was in its proper place, neat and orderly, just like the Master of the room. Orion sat there, his hair neatly combed, his expression reserved, looking like a middle-aged man working.

He was looking at documents when he saw them come in. He looked up and gestured for them to sit down.

Sirius used to take this as an order and feel uncomfortable, but now he just doesn't think much of it.

He detached himself from the atmosphere of the Study, stripping himself completely bare.

He was looking at these things as they were, not as he thought they were.

A Study, a desk, and a person.

He doesn't belong here, so perhaps he doesn't hate it.

He just sat there, watching.

Regulus sat down without speaking, looking at Orion and waiting for him to speak first.

Orion closed the file in front of him and pushed it aside.

"Christmas Banquet," he said emotionlessly, "The day after tomorrow night, at the Lestrange Manor."

He shifted his gaze to Sirius, his tone unhurried. "Now that you're back, you must be present this year."

He looked at Sirius with a calm gaze, as if assigning a task, or perhaps casually explaining, "The eldest son of the Black family has missed the Christmas Banquet for two consecutive years. People outside will have something to say."

"With the eldest son standing next to the Patriarch, the family is complete, and we are all on the same page. When those people see you standing there, they won't ask any more questions." After saying that, he waited for Sirius's reaction.

In the past, when these things were mentioned, Sirius would either immediately explode in anger or turn his face away silently, as if he were locked up.

He'd seen both reactions far too many times; he wanted to see which one it would be this time.

Sirius leaned back in his chair and listened. It didn't explode, nor was it locked.

"I know," he said casually, then muttered to himself, "I was going to go anyway."

He wanted to see not only the Black family, but also what those Pureblood families who sided with Voldemort looked like.

Malfoy, Nott, Carrow, Lestrange.

He had heard those surnames countless times at the tea party in Grimmauld Place, and every time Walburga mentioned them, his voice would rise. He wanted to see for himself what these people were all about.

Orion's brow twitched slightly, but he quickly stopped.

He didn't press further and continued speaking.

"Speak less at the banquet, stay by my side, and I'll introduce you to the people you need to meet. Shake hands, nod, and say a few polite words."

He paused, then said, "Bellatrix will take your arm; she's the Master of the Lestrange family, and you're the eldest son of the Black family —that's the custom."

Sirius's face changed.

His lips drooped, then his brows furrowed, his nose wrinkled, and his whole face scrunched up, as if he had smelled something rotten. Bellatrix took his arm.

Just imagining that scene made him feel like that arm wasn't his own anymore.

Bellatrix Lestrange, his cousin, a mad dog who licked Voldemort's heels, a fanatical follower who always talked about that Dark Lord, and whose eyes burned with a chilling fervor.

Her voice, the excited tone of her voice, the light emanating from her when she mentioned Voldemort —all of these gave Sirius goosebumps.

He loathed her madness and fawning, her Pure-bloods fanaticism, her worship of violence, and her glorification of Dark Arts.

Most importantly, she was still staring at Regulus, the way she looked at Regulus was like looking at a piece of wood that could be carved into the shape her the Master would like. He already knew about the Bone Box; it was a gift from Bellatrix on behalf of Voldemort, and those kinds of things...

He didn't think about it anymore.

Just imagining being walked around arm-in-arm with someone like that makes him want to rip the arm off and throw it to the dogs.

Orion added, "After the toasts, stand where you're supposed to stand, don't say anything unnecessary, and don't get into any conflicts with anyone."

"I can't," Sirius finally replied, his voice muffled.

"I was just in case." Orion glanced at him.

Sirius fell silent.

He listened as Orion went through the steps, from greetings and toasts to positioning, walking routes, and who should speak and who should nod.

With each point he mentioned, another layer of unease settled in his heart.

He thought he was well prepared, that coming back to take a look wouldn't be difficult, and that he could handle everything.

But when I actually heard these details, my body reacted before my brain did.

I felt a tingling sensation in my arm, starting from my elbow and moving upwards, as if something was crawling under my skin.

Then came his chest, his stomach churned up—not hard, but the force pressed against his throat, making him want to cough but unable to. He unconsciously leaned back, trying to distance himself from those words.

Just take a look, that's all.

He said to himself.

I came back to see what these things were really like, and to see if I could see them with a different perspective.

Look at how Bellatrix behaves in that situation, look at how those Pureblood families talk to each other, and look at how Voldemort's people actually operate.

He doesn't need to like them, he doesn't need to agree with them, he just watches.

Like an audience member who goes backstage to look at the props and mechanisms, no matter how exciting the performance on stage is, he knows it's all fake.

These were all things he had desperately tried to escape from before.

Now he chooses to go in, neither running away nor making a scene, but simply watching.

Perhaps after reading it, he will understand what he truly hates and what he opposes.

Sirius took a deep breath, and when he exhaled through his nose, there was a slight sound, like a sigh but not quite.

The look of disgust was still on his face, not completely wiped away, but he nodded.

Orion glanced at him twice, then nodded.

His gaze shifted from Sirius to Regulus's face. Regulus didn't speak, but asked a question with his eyes.

Why leave him here?