Chapter Text
PART III:
We worked for another full hour that felt like three.
Placing fairies that bit and squeaked insults. Hanging delicate crystal ornaments with careful levitation spells because if you broke one, Aunt Druella would probably cry and we'd have to hear about it for the rest of the night. Wrapping more golden garlands around literally every available surface.
My arms ached. My neck was stiff from constantly looking up. My fingers had tiny marks from the teeth of particularly aggressive fairies.
But finally, Aunt Druella took a step back and declared the tree "acceptable" in a tone that suggested she would never be completely satisfied but had reached the limit of how much more she could perfect it without going completely mad.
By the time we finished, the living room glowed as if a Lumos spell had exploded on every available surface.
It was utterly ridiculous.
My grandmother Irma then appeared from the direction of the kitchen, moving with those small, careful steps of hers, carrying a large silver tray, a proud expression shining on her face.
Oh no.
Oh please no.
I knew what was coming before she even opened her mouth.
"Cookies!" she announced with genuine enthusiasm, lifting the tray slightly as if she were presenting a priceless treasure. "I made my special cookies for everyone!"
My grandmother Irma's cookies.
Gingerbread cookies with who-knows-what else mixed in. Cinnamon, probably. Maybe nutmeg. Other spices I couldn't quite identify.
The exact same recipe. No variation. No innovation. No experimentation.
Every single time.
For decades, probably. Maybe since before my mother was born.
They were good, I had to admit. They really were.
The first time you tasted them, they were delicious. Maybe even the tenth time they were still good. Maybe the twentieth if you were lucky and didn't eat them too often.
But after years—literally years—of eating them at every family gathering without fail, every celebration no matter the occasion, every remotely festive event, every time my grandmother bake and insisted you try "just one," which turned into three because it was rude to refuse... I was so sick of those damned cookies that I honestly could have screamed.
I could have thrown them out the window.
I could have sworn to never eat another gingerbread cookie for the rest of my life.
But I couldn't say that. I couldn't even hint at it.
"Have one, Sirius," my grandmother said, walking straight toward me with the tray outstretched, offering it with that sweet, hopeful smile that made refusal impossible.
Her gray eyes shone with genuine hope that I would enjoy her cookies as much as she enjoyed making them.
There was no way to refuse without being incredibly cruel.
Absolutely no way.
And my grandmother Irma was literally the only person in this entire family who was genuinely good and kind without any apparent ulterior motives.
Or so it seemed, at least.
Because honestly, being married to my grandfather Pollux for so many years—decades of living with such a cold, controlling, and critical man—made me deeply suspicious that she wasn't really as completely good as she projected.
No one survived that marriage without developing some kind of defense mechanism or duplicity.
But if she had a dark side, she hid it exceptionally well.
"Thank you, Grandma," I said, forcing enthusiasm into my voice as I took a cookie from the tray.
I bit into it, the familiar flavor instantly filling my mouth.
It tasted exactly as I remembered.
Not so sweet that you'd feel sick after two. Not so flavorful that it stood out in memorable ways. Not so dry that you needed liquid to swallow them.
Perfectly mediocre in its absolute consistency.
Like all the food my grandmother made, honestly.
Never terrible. Never exceptional. Just... adequate. Functional.
Predictable to the point of boredom.
"Delicious, isn't it?" my grandmother asked, leaning slightly toward me in anticipation.
"Absolutely delicious, Grandma," I lied softly without hesitation, because I was excellent at lying after twelve years of constant practice in this family, and my grandmother deserved to be happy even if it required white lies about her mediocre cockies.
"Mother's cockies are the best," Uncle Cygnus agreed, taking one from the tray my grandmother was now offering him. "Absolutely the best I've ever tasted."
His facial expression, however, clearly suggested that he shared my profound weariness with the eternally repeated recipe.
He was lying, too.
Shamelessly. We were all lying.
The whole family participated in this silent, tacitly agreed-upon conspiracy to protect my grandmother's feelings about her cookies.
No one ever, under any circumstances, admitted to being tired of them. No one suggested different recipes. No one mentioned that maybe she could try making something else occasionally just for variety.
We just smiled and lied and ate the damn cookies.
I preferred my other grandmother, I thought suddenly as I chewed mechanically.
Grandma Melania.
She had died when I was six, but I remembered her vaguely.
A woman with a warm, genuine laugh that filled rooms. With clear eyes that sparkled with real humor when she looked at us.
She used to sit us on her lap—Regulus and me when we were very little—and tell us elaborate stories about the constellations. About how Sirius the star was the watchdog of the sky. About how Regulus guarded the lion's heart.
She made us feel special. Important. As if our names meant something more than simply continuing boring family traditions.
She brought us sweets from her travels. She let us be real kids instead of mini-adult Blacks in constant training. She let us laugh loudly. Run around inside. Make noise. Be messy occasionally without immediate consequences.
She was the only one who consistently stood between my mother and me when mother decided I needed "correction" for some inappropriate behavior. The only one who said, "Walburga, they're kids, let them be kids," with enough authority that mother actually listened.
And she made better cookies, honestly.
She was an amazing cook in general. Complete meals that made everyone genuinely ask for seconds instead of just politely.
It didn't surprise me that she'd gone to Hufflepuff when she was a student.
Bellatrix had once told me that Grandma Melania's death was the main reason why my grandfather Pollux was effectively the patriarch of the family now, instead of my grandfather Arcturus.
"Technically, the title belongs to Arcturus as the eldest heir," Bellatrix had explained conspiratorially, as if she were sharing important family secrets. "But after Melania died, he simply didn't care enough to lead anymore. And Pollux took control because someone had to, and Arcturus wasn't interested in fighting for it."
She had paused, her expression softening in ways I rarely saw from Bellatrix.
"They married for love, you know," she had added. "Arcturus and Melania. A complete anomaly in this family. It wasn't arranged. It wasn't for political gain. They just... genuinely loved each other. And when she died, something in him died too."
Which explained a lot about my grandfather Arcturus.
The front door then swung open with a dramatic bang that made several of us jump.
"DEAR FAMILY!" announced a cheerful, loud voice, completely out of place in a house as serious and controlled as ours. "Your prodigal son has returned from distant lands and exotic adventures!"
Uncle Alphard.
Of course.
He'd probably be late to his own funeral.
He entered the room with that characteristic nonchalant smile, his hair currently a reddish-brown hue that was definitely not natural because Uncle Alphard was a Metamorphmagus and constantly changed his appearance according to his mood. His robes were wrinkled as if he'd pulled them from the bottom of a trunk, and there was what looked like a stain on the sleeve.
Grandpa Pollux glared at him with an expression that could have melted steel.
"Alphard," my grandfather said, his voice low.
Dangerously low.
The kind of tone he used when he was genuinely angry but holding back his temper through sheer willpower. The kind of tone that made everyone in the room automatically straighten up and pay attention because they knew something bad was about to happen.
"You're two and a half hours late."
"Only two and a half hours?" Uncle Alphard dramatically clutched his chest in exaggerated surprise that was clearly theatrical. "Really? I must be working on my punctuality skills then. Last week I arrived five whole hours late to a tremendously important meeting in... where was it? Prague? Or was it Vienna? Maybe Budapest."
He paused as if genuinely trying to remember.
"Honestly, all European cities blend together after a while when you travel so much. The old buildings and squares start to look the same."
Several family members exchanged awkward glances.
"This isn't funny, Alphard," my grandfather said, and there was real steel in his voice now. "This is a family Christmas gathering. Your punctuality was expected. You showed complete disrespect to this family by arriving late without even deigning to offer an explanation for your tardiness."
Uncle Alphard opened his mouth to reply with something that would probably be sarcastic, but my grandfather wasn't finished.
"It's not the first time. It's not the second time. It's every damn time, Alphard. Every meeting. Every event. Every important occasion. You're either late or you don't show up at all. And frankly, I'm exhausted by your creative excuses and your lack of respect."
"Respect," Uncle Alphard repeated, and some of his smile finally faded from his face.
His expression grew more serious, harder. His eyes—which had been light blue but were now changing to their natural dark color—fixed on my grandfather with an intensity he rarely displayed.
"Interesting word coming from—"
"Alphard, dear," my grandmother Irma said quickly, moving with surprising speed for someone her age.
She approached him with that gentle but firm smile she used when she needed to prevent situations from completely exploding.
"Son, you've just arrived from a long trip," she continued in a calm, motherly voice. "You must be exhausted. Why don't you have a cookie? I made your favorite recipe specifically with your return in mind."
"The only recipe you know how to make, Mother," Uncle Alphard said, but he said it with such genuine affection, with such tenderness in his voice, that my grandmother only laughed softly instead of being offended.
"Perhaps," she admitted with a small smile. "But I make it well, don't I?"
"You make it perfectly," Uncle Alphard agreed, taking a cookie and biting into it.
But my grandfather Pollux wasn't about to let the matter die so easily.
"Alphard, don't dodge the subject," he continued, his voice still tense with frustration. "Your consistently irresponsible behavior is unacceptable. Completely unacceptable for a Black of your age and position."
"Irresponsible?" Uncle Alphard turned to my grandfather, the cookie still in his mouth, chewing as he spoke in a way that would have definitely horrified Aunt Druella if she'd been paying attention to etiquette at this moment.
As he spoke, his hair changed from auburn to jet black in a matter of seconds.
"I work hard for this family," he said, his voice controlled but strained. "Very hard. Just because my job isn't sitting in the offices of the Wizengamot or managing investments from a mansion doesn't mean I'm not contributing."
"Your job—" my grandfather began dismissively.
"My job is important," Uncle Alphard interrupted. "And you know it."
"At your age," my grandfather Pollux said, his voice rising now, echoing through the parlor, "you should be married. Settled. With at least one heir to continue your line. Not wandering the world aimlessly, drinking in taverns with who-knows-who."
Ah.
Therein lay the real problem.
It wasn't just about being late. It was about the fact that Uncle Alphard still had no children and flatly refused to marry, rejecting every marriage arrangement my grandfather had probably tried to arrange multiple times.
To my grandfather, that was an unforgivable sin. Worse than being late. Worse than being irreverent. Worse than practically anything else.
"It's my job to travel, Father," Uncle Alphard said with forced patience, as if he'd had this exact conversation multiple times before. "It's literally part of my job. I can't do what I do sitting in London."
"Then get a different job," my grandfather snapped. "A job that allows you to fulfill your family obligations instead of constantly avoiding them."
"I'm not avoiding anything—"
"You're a Black, by Merlin sake!" roared my grandfather Pollux, finally losing his carefully maintained composure.
His face was turning slightly red, his hands gripping his cane so tightly that his knuckles were white.
"You bear one of the oldest and most respected surnames in the wizarding world! And yet you behave like—"
"Pollux. Alphard." My grandmother's voice cut through the room with surprising firmness.
She physically positioned herself between them, her body forming a barrier between father and son.
"Enough," she said, her voice brooking no argument. "Both of you. Stop right now."
She looked at each of them with an expression that conveyed clear disappointment.
"It's Christmas. It's a family celebration. And you're ruining it with arguments about things that can—and should—be discussed at another time when emotions aren't running so high."
"Irma—" my grandfather began, clearly not ready to let go of the subject.
"Pollux," my grandmother said with absolute firmness, turning completely toward him and looking him straight in the eyes without blinking. "Enough. Right now."
My grandfather Pollux clicked his tongue shut.
He looked extremely dissatisfied—his jaw clenched, his eyes still flashing with frustration—but he didn't argue further.
My grandfather hated being questioned publicly. He hated having his authority challenged in any way. But my grandmother Irma was one of the few people in this world who could do it without severe consequences.
Uncle Alphard, meanwhile, had changed his hair again.
It was now a glossy gold with black streaks, perfectly matching the black and gold Christmas decorations in the living room. As he made the change, he deliberately winked at Aunt Druella, who looked somewhere between amused and horrified by the gesture.
Because of course he would.
Of course, Uncle Alphard couldn't resist making a visual statement, even—especially—in the middle of a serious family confrontation.
He never missed an opportunity to be dramatic.
"Thank you, Mother," Uncle Alphard murmured softly, leaning down to kiss my grandmother's cheek with genuine tenderness.
My grandfather Pollux muttered something inaudible but clearly negative as he walked away toward where Aunt Cassiopeia was sitting. I heard snippets about "disappointing children" and "generational disrespect" apparently directed at his sister Cassiopeia, who nodded in agreement as she took a sip of her drink.
Uncle Alphard spotted me then amidst all the chaos.
His genuine smile returned instantly, replacing the tension that had been there moments before. As if he could simply turn emotions on and off at will.
"Sirius!" he said with renewed enthusiasm, striding closer. "My favorite nephew. I heard the absolutely scandalous news. Congratulations on shocking the whole family. Impressive work indeed."
I didn't know how to respond to that.
Especially with my grandfather Pollux still in the room, still clearly furious, still muttering about family disappointments.
Responding with humor seemed dangerous. But ignoring Uncle Alphard also seemed rude.
"It wasn't... exactly intentional," I finally said carefully, choosing my words as if walking through a minefield. "The Sorting Hat decided Gryffindor was more appropriate."
"The best things are never intentional," Uncle Alphard replied with that conspiratorial smile, winking at me as if we were sharing a secret.
As if being sorted into Gryffindor was something to celebrate rather than lament.
Grandpa Pollux made a deep sound of displeasure from his position next to Aunt Cassiopeia, but before he could say anything else, Grandma Irma appeared beside him and literally shoved a cookie into his mouth.
Which would have been comical if it wasn't my grandmother doing that to my grandfather—one of the most powerful and intimidating men I knew.
But it worked. My grandfather stood there chewing with an expression of utter astonishment, seemingly too shocked by the audacity of the gesture to continue complaining.
"Tell me about Hogwarts," Uncle Alphard said more quietly, casually throwing an arm around my shoulders. "Especially the parts that would make your mother faint from sheer horror."
And despite all the drama I had just witnessed, despite all the tension hanging in the air, despite the crushing expectations and constant disappointments, I found myself genuinely smiling.
Because Uncle Alphard was literally the only person in my entire extended and complicated family who had anything resembling a real sense of humor.
The only one who treated serious situations with levity. The only one who cracked jokes. The only one who didn't act as if every moment was a matter of life or death.
He was refreshing in ways I couldn't fully express.
However, before I could reply, my mother reappeared from somewhere deep within the house.
Her eyes landed on Uncle Alphard with an expression that clearly conveyed barely contained disgust.
"Alphard," she said icy coldly.
"Walburga," Uncle Alphard replied in an exaggeratedly cheerful tone, turning to face her directly. "My dear sister. You look as lovely as ever tonight. Absolutely radiant."
He paused, his eyes deliberately scanning her dress.
"Is that dress new? I honestly can't tell, since you always wear the same two colors—dark green and black. Do you have something against other colors? Childhood trauma with red, perhaps?"
I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
The two didn't get along. They never had, as far as I could tell.
Alphard was everything my mother deeply despised: careless when he should have been serious, irreverent when he should have been respectful, with no proper regard for family traditions she considered sacred.
And my mother was everything Alphard found utterly boring: rigid to the extreme, serious with no capacity for humor, completely obsessed with appearances and what others thought.
It was usually Uncle Cygnus who mediated between them. Who intervened before things escalated. Who calmed tensions with his infinite patience.
But Uncle Cygnus was busy comforting Aunt Druella, who still looked upset about the incident with Mother and Aunt Cassiopeia.
"It's new," Mother replied in an absolutely icy tone, each word articulated with cutting precision. "Not that I expect you to notice such details when you clearly spend more time in dubious European taverns than anywhere remotely respectable."
"Ah, but European taverns are terribly educational," Uncle Alphard said with that smile that showed he knew exactly how to irritate Mother and was enjoying every second of it. "You learn so much about real human nature when people have drunk enough to let their social masks fall. It's fascinating, really. You should try it sometime. Maybe you'd loosen up a bit."
Mother's expression hardened dangerously.
But before she could reply—before this escalated into another family confrontation—Mother cleared her throat sharply.
Then, in a voice loud enough for the whole room to hear, she announced,
"Dinner is ready. Everyone, please proceed to the dining room immediately. There will be no more delays tonight."
Her tone brooked no argument or discussion.
We moved toward the dining room with that quiet organization characteristic of Black events. Everyone knew their exact place at the table without needing explicit instructions or someone to direct traffic.
My grandfather Pollux sat at one end of the long, dark oak table that could easily seat twenty people. My grandmother Irma sat at the opposite end, separated by the entire length of the table as if that physical distance were necessary to maintain marital peace.
My mother and father sat to Pollux's right, the most honored positions after the heads of the table. My grandfather Arcturus sat to Pollux's left. My uncles and cousins were strategically positioned in the middle of the table according to family hierarchy.
And I sat directly across from Regulus, both of us near Grandmother Irma's side where we could be properly supervised but not so close to my grandfather Pollux as to be under constant scrutiny.
Bellatrix was absent, obviously.
Honeymooning with Rodolphus Lestrange in Romania of all places in the wizarding world.
Romania.
With wild dragons and icy mountains and dangerous forests and absolutely nothing civilized to do. What a horrible honeymoon destination. Most couples went to Paris or the Italian coast or some luxurious magical resort.
Although, knowing Bellatrix and her love for dangerous and violent things, she was probably thoroughly enjoying the brutality of the place.
Maybe she was hunting dragons. Or tormenting local vampires. Or doing who knows what disturbing activities she would consider romantic.
Aunt Callidora was also away tonight, spending Christmas with the Longbottom family since she was married to Harfang Longbottom. And Aunt Charis with the Crouch family for similar reasons.
I'd see them tomorrow anyway.
Tomorrow at the Christmas Eve dinner at Rosier Manor.
The blasted annual pure-blood family dinner that I absolutely loathed with every fiber of my being.
All the important families gathered in one place for endless hours. The Malfoys, the Lestranges, the Rosiers, the Averys, the Mulcibers, the Notts—all of them. Adults talking about boring politics and kids being forced to "socialize properly," which meant standing stiffly, making forced conversation about topics we didn't care about.
Which meant hours—literally endless hours—with Evan Rosier, who would probably spend the entire time publicly reminding me how he humiliated me in our duel a few weeks ago. Rubbing it in my face again and again because apparently winning once wasn't enough for him.
With Bradley Mulciber and Johann Avery, who now actively hated me for being in Gryffindor, as if my Sorting was a personal insult to them.
With all the other Slytherins my year and older, who saw me as a traitor to the natural order and whom I would have to spend hours with tomorrow while pretending everything was perfectly cordial.
Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.
My life was a constant nightmare of awkward social obligations.
At least Frank Longbottom would probably be there too. Frank was a decent person. Boring to levels that defied human comprehension, but decent. I could hide with him in some corner and avoid the other Slytherins as much as possible.
Though I already had enough of that just sharing a room with him at Hogwarts. Hearing his nightly mutterings every night was enough exposure to Frank Longbottom for a lifetime.
The house-elves began serving the meal with that characteristic silent efficiency they had perfected over decades of service.
Kreacher oversaw everything from a corner, his large eyes fixed on my mother, waiting for any sign of disapproval or further instruction.
"Sirius," my father said from his position next to my grandfather Pollux.
It was strange to hear him speak during meals.
He usually ate in absolute silence, completely lost in his own thoughts, chewing mechanically while probably pondering some arcane text. For him to initiate conversation was... unusual.
I sat up instinctively, my attention entirely on him.
"Your mother informed me that your first-term grades were sent by owl a few days ago," he continued, slicing his meat with surgical precision.
Shit.
Of course she did.
Of course Mother had shared my grades with him.
"Yes, Father," I replied, keeping my voice perfectly neutral and respectful.
"Outstanding in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Astronomy, Transfiguration, and History of Magic," Father continued, reciting my grades from memory without needing to consult any papers. "Exceeds Expectations in Potions, Duels and Charms."
"Yes, Father," I repeated, unsure what else to say. "The teachers considered my performance satisfactory for a first-year student."
"Satisfactory," Father repeated, tasting the word as if he were evaluating wine. "I suppose satisfactory is acceptable given that you're in Gryffindor where academic standards are... lower than Slytherin's."
There was an awkward silence.
Several family members exchanged glances, but no one said anything.
"And behavior?" Father asked then, taking a sip of his wine without looking directly at me. "Any disciplinary incidents reported by the teachers? Detentions? Formal warnings?"
This was where I had to lie.
Deliberately. Convincingly. Without hesitation.
Because yes, I had absolutely had multiple disciplinary incidents during my first term at Hogwarts.
A whole month of detention cleaning stables.
A few days cleaning books after Potter and I had a duel in the corridor against Evan and Dolohov.
Multiple warnings from McGonagall about "proper temper control" and "behavior that does not reflect well on Gryffindor."
An incident with Peeves that had resulted in... well, best not to think about it.
And those were just the incidents for which I'd been officially caught and punished.
I wasn't even counting all the mischief I'd managed to get away with. The ones no one had discovered or for which they hadn't been able to prove I was responsible.
But Father didn't need to know any of that.
Absolutely none.
"No significant incidents, Father," I said with the practiced confidence of someone who had spent a lifetime perfecting the art of the convincing lie. "The teachers haven't reported any serious problems with my behavior. I've maintained the appropriate standards for a Black student."
The lie came out as smooth as silk.
No hesitation. No stutter. Perfectly calibrated.
When I glanced briefly over at where Andromeda and Narcissa were sitting, they were both watching me too. They knew perfectly well I was lying.
Narcissa had that distinct look of disapproval on her face, her lips pressed tightly together, while Andromeda looked at me with a slightly raised eyebrow, as if to say, "Really, Sirius?"
But they both remained silent.
If Bellatrix had been there, she probably would have given me away.
My father nodded briefly, clearly satisfied with the answer, and turned his attention back to his meat and potatoes.
Perfect.
Successful lie.
Crisis averted.
But when I looked up at where Mother was sitting, she was watching me with those piercing, greenish-gray eyes that seemed to see right through any facade.
She had that small, almost imperceptible expression—that slight raise of an eyebrow, that minimal tightening of her lips—that was her silent way of communicating, "I know exactly that you're blatantly lying, but I'm going to let it slide because it's the socially appropriate lie in this context."
Mother always knew. Always. It was her damn superpower.
Although in this particular case, it wasn't really psychic powers. It was down to Evan Rosier's damn big mouth and his compulsive need to report every little thing to his mother.
And Evan's mother, being part of the endless web of gossip among pure-blood families, had immediately told Mother everything in exhaustive detail.
But for some strange reason, she didn't say anything.
Because sometimes, in the Black family, appropriate lies were not only acceptable but expected. As long as I kept up appearances in public, the private truths could remain buried.
That didn't mean I was going to get away with my transgressions completely.
Mother was patient and calculating. She surely already had my punishment all planned out in her mind, waiting for the right moment to implement it. Probably something creative and awkward that would make me think twice before racking up any more detentions.
But for now, at this moment, during this formal dinner, we would maintain the charade.
"An interesting incident occurred recently near Nottingham," said my grandfather Pollux, changing the subject. "I don't know if everyone read about it in the Daily Prophet."
"Goblins," replied Uncle Cygnus immediately, slicing his meat with precise movements. "Yes, I read the whole article. Quite thorough in its details."
"What happened to the goblins?" asked Regulus with genuine curiosity, leaning slightly forward.
Regulus had always been fascinated by lesser creatures of all kinds. Elves, pixies, centaurs, everything. He read books about them constantly. He asked endless questions about their habits and societies.
It was no wonder he got along inexplicably well with Kreacher, which I personally didn't understand in the slightest.
"An entire family of goblins was wiped out," explained my grandfather Pollux in the same casual tone you'd use to discuss the weather or Quidditch scores. "The whole family. Parents, children, even the youngest. Near Sherwood Forest. No one has publicly claimed responsibility, but it's obviously connected to the current conflict we all know about."
I saw Regulus swallow hard from where I stood across from him. His knuckles were white where he held his fork.
"I don't see why we're discussing this as if it's problematic," Aunt Cassiopeia said, clear satisfaction shining in her eyes, taking a long sip of her red wine. "Those greedy, inferior creatures have been getting a little too bold lately. Forgetting their proper place."
She sliced her meat with precise movements.
"Thinking they deserve the same rights as wizards. Demanding formal representation in the Wizengamot. It's utterly absurd."
"Utterly absurd," Grandfather Arcturus agreed firmly. "Goblins have their place clearly defined. They should manage Gringotts under appropriate supervision. Not make ridiculous political demands as if they were our equals."
"Exactly," said my grandfather Pollux. "Someone is finally reminding them of their proper place. It was necessary."
"According to the article I read," Aunt Druella mentioned, spearing a vegetable with her fork, "there were three goblin children among the victims. Small ones. The youngest was apparently only six years old, according to the Ministry investigators."
Her tone didn't sound particularly affected. Rather like she was reporting an interesting detail she'd noticed.
"Goblins," Aunt Cassiopeia repeated as if that single word explained everything. "It's not comparable to actual magical children. Inferior creatures reproduce differently, think differently. Applying our standards to them is ludicrous."
Everyone around the table nodded in agreement.
I nodded appropriately, too.
Goblins were inferior creatures after all. They are obviously inferior to wizards in many important ways. They obviously didn't deserve the same rights as wizards. The idea that they should have representation in the Wizengamot—that they should be able to vote on laws affecting wizards—was ridiculous and downright dangerous.
What would come next? House-elves demanding wages? Centaurs wanting cities? A world turned upside down with inferior creatures ruling wizards?
Absurd.
If the inferior creatures became too bold, too demanding, too forgetful of their position, they needed occasional reminders of reality. Reminders of who was really in charge.
But was the murder of children really justifiable just to "teach them their place"?
I glanced at Regulus. My brother was eating mechanically, his movements stiff. His brow was furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line. His knuckles were white where he held his fork.
Regulus had always been more sensitive than me. The one who cried when we found dead birds in the garden when we were younger. The one who worried about the house-elves even when explicitly told not to.
"The Ministry needs to take a stronger stance," my grandfather Pollux continued. "They should be implementing stricter measures against any creature that forgets its proper place."
"Absolutely," my father said. "That's exactly what I've been discussing in my meetings at the Ministry. Lesser creatures need clear boundaries and immediate consequences when they cross them. Permissiveness only leads to more insubordination."
"The goblins have had far too much autonomy," Aunt Lucretia added. "Gringotts has given them ideas beyond their station. They think that because they handle our money, they deserve respect as equals."
"There should be more wizard supervisors at Gringotts," Uncle Cygnus suggested. "To ensure that the lesser creatures don't become too independent."
Everyone nodded in agreement.
Even my Uncle Alphard seemed to fully agree.
He told a story about a bad experience with arrogant goblins during one of his trips to Bulgaria. About how they had openly disrespected him. About how he had had to "remind them of their place."
I ate in mechanical silence, chewing without really savoring the food.
Nodding appropriately at the socially correct moments when someone looked in my direction.
Maintaining the perfect facade of an obedient and proper Black heir who fully understood and accepted these obvious truths.
Even if I was in Gryffindor.
Even if something small, something barely perceptible in the back of my mind, felt increasingly... wrong.
But I couldn't quite put my finger on what that feeling was.
And I definitely couldn't voice it aloud.
Yes, goblins were inferior creatures.
But did that justify their murder?
The thought bothered me in ways I didn't fully understand.
Aunt Cassiopeia had made it clear. The same standards couldn't be applied.
So why did it bother me?
That night, after dinner finally ended with everyone dispersing to different parts of the house, I escaped to my room.
My sanctuary. The only place in this entire house where I could breathe without feeling the constant weight of expectations and judgments.
I collapsed onto my bed, mentally exhausted more than physically.
Completely drained. Exhausted from maintaining flawless masks, without a single crack. From saying exactly the right things at the right times. From nodding appropriately when expected. From pretending that absolutely everything they said made perfect logical sense, without a single ambiguity.
I stared at the high ceiling of my room, automatically counting the small, familiar cracks in the decorative plaster that I had memorized over years and years of sleepless nights lying exactly like this.
I closed my eyes tightly, blocking out the dim light in my room.
Tomorrow would probably be significantly worse.