tartanfics

Title: Being Eleven
Rating: PG
Prompt: # 10 at

barefootboys
Word Count: 1040
Summary: Sirius is eleven years old.

August 10^th, 1971 through September 2^nd, 1971

Sirius is eleven years old and he has just gotten his very first letter from Hogwarts. Dear Mr. Black…. The handwriting is dark and confident and practised, like the writer has written this letter a hundred times over. Which, really, she probably has. It seems late in the summer to be receiving this letter, especially since he has been eleven for several months. He (and his mother) have been checking the post every day, horrified at the thought that they might have forgotten to send a letter to Sirius Black, of all people. Sirius Black, who exhibited his first sign of magic at the age of three, when he sent the entire wall of house elf heads crashing to the floor in a fit of temper.

He spends the day sitting at the top of the kitchen staircase, reading his letter over and over again. Hogwarts is going to be brilliant. He has no doubts about this fact, or about how well he will do there. He is a bright child. He learns quickly, and knows it. He is heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. He will be sorted into Slytherin, like his mother and father, like his cousins, like all the relatives that have not been blasted off the family tree. He will make his parents proud.

He can’t help hoping he will make friends. This, though he does not know it, is not really a characteristic of most boys hoping to be in Slytherin. Most of them only want accomplices. But he has always been a little lonely, in this vast, grand, and cold house at Grimmauld Place.

“Sirius!” his mother calls from the parlour. “Put your cloak on, we are going to buy your school supplies.” Hastily, he stuffs his letter into his pocket, and obeys her command.

Sirius is still eleven years old, but being eleven years old and getting on the train to Hogwarts is different than being eleven years old and receiving his Hogwarts letter. He imagines he has grown up a lot in three weeks. He holds himself regally, looking around Platform 9¾ with an interest barely concealed behind a carefully learned air of superiority. He already has his robes on, and they are rather stuffy and a little too long. The train station is crowded and hot, and August still lingers in the air. His mother kisses him on the forehead and pushes him toward the train, telling him to send an owl when he gets into Slytherin. He does not know, then, that this is the last time his mother will show any trace of affection for him. And he is too excited to notice the brief brush of her lips.

“I’m supposed to be a Slytherin,” Sirius says stubbornly, sitting on his bed. The curtains around it are scarlet and gold, and he wishes he knew enough magic to make them a different colour. “The stupid Sorting Hat got it wrong. Blacks aren’t Gryffindors. It just doesn’t happen.”

“Sorry, mate. You are what you are.” James Potter shrugs, pulling on Gryffindor coloured pyjamas by the bed across from Sirius’.

“I’m not sure that’s really a helpful thing to say,” mumbles a skinny brown-haired boy whose name Sirius would remember to be Lupin, if he cared to remember.

“I reckon the Sorting hat knows where we should be better than we know ourselves,” James Potter continues. “’Course, I knew I’d be a Gryffindor. Sort of inevitable, really.”

“I was inevitably going to be a Slytherin,” Sirius says through gritted teeth. He glares at Peter Pettigrew, who looks worried and a little lost, like he is not sure quite how he got where he is. “And that didn’t happen.”

“Yeah, well. Look, go to bed. It’ll look better in the morning.”

But it doesn’t look better. It looks just as bad, at least until the morning post comes, and Sirius sees his parents’ large grey owl swooping towards him, red envelope clutched in its beak. Then it looks worse.

As Walburga Black’s voice rings through the Great Hall, Sirius tries to wrench off his red and gold tie, and finds himself nearly strangled by it, pulling the wrong end. Fine. He’ll keep the damn tie.

The morning break finds Sirius climbing a tree by the lake, where he sits twisting his tie back and forth in his fingers. Presently he hears rustling near the base of the tree, and Remus Lupin’s head appears between the branches, watching him warily. “What?” Sirius snaps, twisting his tie viciously. Remus winces as he hears stitches splitting.

“I, er, brought you some chocolate biscuits. Since, you know, you didn’t eat anything at breakfast.”

Sirius stares at him. He isn’t sure he’s hungry, but he takes the biscuits anyway. Lupin continues, “Look, I know you don’t want to be in Gryffindor, but you should get used to it, since that’s where you are. And probably not glare at all of us and look wistfully at the Slytherins, ‘cause that’s just not Gryffindor behaviour. And like it or not, you’re a Gryffindor.”

Remus thinks how Sirius has an impressive glower. If he had not seen the teddy bear Sirius was clutching in his sleep this morning, Remus might have found it frightening. “Do you always sit in trees to sulk?”

This startles Sirius into speech. “I am not sulking!” Remus smiles understandingly. “I’m going to hate you now. Do you mind?” Sirius says with false politeness.

“No, I don’t mind, though it seems a little ungrateful considering I just brought you chocolate biscuits.”

Sirius looks at the biscuits, having forgotten they were there. He takes a bite out of one, and is surprised by how good it is, and how hungry he is. “Where’d you get these?”

“Kitchens,” Remus says a little smugly.

“You know where the kitchens are?” Sirius asks with interest.

“My dad told me. I can show you, if you like.” Remus slips down through the branches of the tree, taking it for granted that Sirius will follow. Lupin, Sirius thinks. His name is Remus Lupin.

Sirius is eleven years old, and he has a friend named Remus Lupin.

Day Eleven