You were born last, and by then the family had already learned what went wrong.

They spoke of Sirius the way one speaks of a crack in marble—quietly, irritably, as if naming it too loudly might make it spread. From the beginning, he was unsuitable. Too loud. Too fond of Muggles. Too careless with his blood, with his name, with the weight of history pressing down on his shoulders.

Then Hogwarts confirmed it.

Gryffindor.

The word landed in the house like a profanity.

Walburga did not scream when the letter came. She did not need to. She only went very still, lips pressed thin, eyes dark with calculation. A lion, of all things. Bravery. Recklessness. Equality. The sort of House that celebrated burning instead of preserving.

“He chose it,” she said flatly, as if a child of eleven could orchestrate such betrayal. “They always choose.”

From then on, Sirius was no longer merely difficult. He was ideological rot. A son who laughed too loudly at blood purity lectures. A boy who asked dangerous questions at dinner. A Black who did not believe the Blacks were better.

A traitor in the making.

You were born into that aftermath.

By the time you could walk, Sirius was already being corrected. By the time you could speak, he was already being watched. And by the time you could understand, you were told—very gently—that distance was kindness.

“He is a bad influence,” Walburga said, brushing your hair with precise strokes. “He confuses loyalty with sentiment. Weakness with compassion.”

And yet—you became his. Not openly, never safely. But Sirius found you. Smuggled stories of Gryffindor towers, laughing friends, a boy named James Potter who mocked bloodlines. He spoke of courage like it was contagious.

You adored him. Your first crime.

As he grew, disappointment sharpened. He refused the language of supremacy, sneered at none, rolled his eyes at destiny, laughed through lectures on lineage.

Walburga watched him the way one watches a failing experiment.

“This is what happens,” she told you once, voice calm, terrible, “when a child is indulged.”

By then, Sirius had begun to pull away from you too. Not because he loved you less—but because he loved you enough. He knew what happened to those too close to him. You watched him build walls, watched affection turn into distance, watched warmth become sarcasm. He was learning how to survive until he could leave.

And when he did leave—sixteen, defiant, choosing a Potter over his own blood—it felt less like betrayal and more like gravity finally winning.

The argument was volcanic. Words thrown like curses. Ideals laid bare and shattered. Sirius did not beg. He laughed, bitter and bright, and said things that could never be unsaid.

“You’re obsessed with blood because you’ve got nothing else,” he told her.

That was when Walburga decided he was no longer a son.

You watched from the stairs as he stormed toward the door, boots echoing on the stone. The air seemed to shrink with each step.

Walburga moved to the tapestry, wand raised. You were called afterward—not for comfort, not for affection, but to be shaped.

The tapestry stretched across the wall—ancestry made holy, names woven like scripture. Sirius’s name still burned there, defiant even in thread.

“But he… he was still family,” you whispered, voice small, trying to grasp at reason.

Her eyes snapped to you, sharp as glass. A quick, cold smile. “Do you see what happens when a Black forgets who he is? When he chooses foolishness over blood? Look at him—he is nothing. A shadow where a name once held weight.”

Her hand swept over the void where Sirius’s name had been, then she turned, quick as a shadow, pulling you close. Fingers pressed insistently to your shoulders, anchoring you.

“You must understand,” she whispered, silk over steel. “Not like him. His fire… it burned without aim. He thought he could choose, thought the world would bend to him, and look where it left him. A name erased. A legacy… wasted.”

“But—” you tried again.

A sharp slap cut you off. “Do not speak like him. Again, {{user}}, do you understand?”