--the dog star

IN CHARACTER INFORMATION

Full name: Sirius Orion Black

Age & birthday: 24, November 3

Blood status: pureblood

Occupation: Bartender at The Hog’s Head

Former House: Gryffindor

CHILDHOOD & HOGWARTS

Childhood growing up at Number 12 Grimmauld Place was never one filled with endearment, or hugs and kisses, or, really, affection of any kind. Grimmauld Place had very strict rules, and a strong-willed, energetic young boy always had difficulty following them. He was meant to stand a certain way, to get rid of that “horrendous” London dialect and speak eloquently, to be poised and elegant and graceful. Politeness was taught and etiquette was a requirement. All in all, a Black was meant to be the face of what a good, strong, respectable pureblood should be. There was a reputation to uphold, after all.

Sirius Black always found these rules difficult to follow. 

He was energetic, exuberant, always wanting to play in the square with his little brother, tracking mud into the house without any regard for the extra work this would mean for the house-elves. He slouched, he rocked back and forth on his heels, he hid upstairs at family parties to gawk at all the people and make up scandalous stories. Of course, Orion and Walburga would never reprimand him at such events, that would be rude, but words and blows were dealt with properly, as they should, in the comforts and confines of their own home. 

However, growing up around all purebloods, being entrenched in their fair society, Sirius grew up prejudiced. Of course muggleborns were lesser than he was; he could trace his lineage on their dining room wall, could trace the decades of magic that allowed him to even exist. There was no doubt that, despite their rules and regulations, his family had the correct ideas about blood purity. 

That was, until the age of ten, when his darling mother, Walburga, introduced him to a charming pig-tailed girl and told him that he ought to get to know her now and be very nice to her at Hogwarts, because they were to be married in just a few years. Married. The idea of it shocked him. He didn’t know this girl. He didn’t care about this girl. But the idea of his life being arranged for him, the idea of spending it with a stranger, baffled him. Protestation was not allowed, not with all the onlookers, not until they were home. But this was the first straw, the first hint of wrongness, the first hint that maybe, just maybe, things were not as cut and dry as The Most Noble and Ancient House of Black made them out to be. 

The chaos had all begun on the first of September. His mother had sat him down and told him that being in Slytherin was the family legacy and that he, as the eldest son and carrier of the family name, wouldn’t do anything to tarnish their sparkling legacy. Then, she’d dressed him up nicely and brushed his hair so it wouldn’t fall into his eyes. And that had been the closest thing to affection she had shown him in years (even if it was for her own benefit, she couldn’t have an unruly-looking son running around the platform where people of all sorts could see), and it would be the last time, as well.

Sirius had ended up in a compartment with three other first years: James Potter, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew. From the very beginning, the four of them had instantly clicked, though it had come as a real shock to them that all of Sirius’ family, dating far back into history, had all been sorted into Slytherin. Not a single person bearing the surname of Black had been an exception. Ever. At the tender age of eleven, he was terrified to not be put into Slytherin -- didn’t want to suffer the repercussions of breaking tradition, didn’t want to stick out (though he supposed he already did). His entire family had been in Slytherin. He was a Black. It was what was supposed to happen. It was law. But, a small inkling in the back of his head, sitting in that scarlet steam engine, was that these three perfect strangers already seemed to be nicer to him than his family ever had, that they laughed with him and joked with him and treated him just like everyone else. 

But, the decision wasn’t up to him. The Sorting Hat was placed on his head, and he had sat there for what seemed like hours (though was probably five minutes at the most) hearing the voice of the sorting hat going through his mind. He was ambitious, that much was certain. That ambition would serve him well in Slytherin. But, after sifting through his brain, was it really ambition? No. It was approval. He simply seeked approval from his parents, he wanted to be loved, but knew, even then, that was a standard he could never live up to. Knowing that he could not reach those standards, at age eleven, was a brave thing to admit to himself. Bravery, the hat knew, bravery is what that kid had. He needed a place that could embrace that courage and make it stronger. A place that would welcome him and bolster his confidence and self-worth. So, that’s what made Sirius Black different from day one. He was the first Black on record ever sorted into Gryffindor House.

The other boys from the compartment he’d met had also ended up in the same House and, coincidentally, in the same dormitory as well. Even from the beginning, there was a streak of mischief in all of them, however James and Sirius were the forerunners. They wreaked havoc around the castle and wound their way through secret passageways that were only accessible on Fridays, or when it was raining, or had to say an incantation in just the right volume. The four of them knew the ins and outs of the castle more in their first year than most students had in their seven years at Hogwarts.

Sirius Black’s first term had brought him into a world that he had never known before. A world where there were people who would stand up for him and with him, he was a star of the first year, with top marks in the majority of his classes (he never could quite get the hang of potions and History of Magic bored him to tears), and quite a lot of detentions under his belt. He would have said that it was a success if he’d ever seen one. 

Though, his feelings of grandeur had deflated inside him like a balloon as soon as he had stepped off the train for the winter holidays and had seen the look on his mother and father’s faces. They hadn’t said a word to him as they swept him off the platform. Those were the Blacks in a nutshell, speechless with anger but too much dignity to make a scene in front of everyone.

His brother had run upstairs as soon as he possibly could, not wanting to get caught in the middle of everything. Regulus had been like his father in that way–quieter–because Sirius, though he would never admit it, was like his mother. Loud and confrontational and never one to back down from a fight. But Sirius had just stood there, for once, his hair long and unruly, his face a smile, bursting to tell his parents everything that had happened at school. Because, though he had known they would be upset with his sorting, he’d hoped his 111% in Transfiguration would help them to see that he was not besmirching them.Despite their lack of warmth and affection, he still craved approval from his parents. But, as soon as he had opened his mouth, his mother had opened his trunk, and a pair of Gryffindor robes were thrown at him, followed by his mother’s hand cracking across his face. She told him he was a disgrace upon the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, how dare he allow himself to be sorted into any other House besides Slytherin. She had spit the word Gryffindor at him like a curse, but told him he would have to come home at holidays because the Black Family had an image to uphold, even though he threatened to tarnish it. Orion had stood there, arms crossed and looking furious, but not uttering a word. 

Then, they’d sent him upstairs with his trunk, and locked the door from the outside. That was when the whispers and thoughts from Kreacher had begun; every time the elf brought him a tray of food, he’d mutter about what a disappointment his Mistress had raised. Sirius despised him for it. 

Sirius had cried and cried, until the only thing left in him was emptiness. So, he’d put everything he had into his winter work. The homework was checked over once, twice, three times before he claimed it finished; each potion ingredient was written in the most careful handwriting; each charm was pronounced perfectly, then a separate wand movement to accompany it. He’d had objects moving around the room with a swish and flick of his wand. But, before he left to go back to Hogwarts, he’d stuck a Gryffindor pennant to the wall behind his bed. There was still a part of him that hoped to impress them, that good marks (despite the numerous detentions) would put him in their favor, that he could still live up to his family name. 

He had never been happier to be out of that house again, and back at Hogwarts, where he had friends that were his family. His marks were impeccable, though he was there around every corner, with all four of his quartet, waiting with a clever ruse. It was Minerva McGonagall who had penned the name, referring to each outing as a maraud, and that there was nothing that she could do to stop the raids (though that didn’t stop her from putting them in detention every other day).

His first four years at Hogwarts passed in a blur of happiness. Love and havoc and top marks, and going home and being banished on holidays, each time he was home, he brought more and more Gryffindor decorum to enhance his Grimmauld Place lodgings (and trying to sneak out to the Potters’ whenever he got the opportunity). Grimmauld Place was the opposite of Hogwarts’ loud and raucous atmosphere, and was instead greeted by house-elves and occasionally punctuated by (though he never acknowledged these) a sweet or note or particularly interesting Daily Prophet article, left for him by his little brother. If he was still in the heart of London, owls would be constantly swooping in and out of his window, though he was usually at the Potters’ during the majority of breaks; they treated him like a second son.

 He still feared his family, feared their hold on him and place in society. He disagreed with their ideologies, now, that muggles and muggle-borns were lesser. Hadn’t he met perfectly nice muggle-borns? Hadn’t Lily Evans always been neck and neck with him and James in classes? He was beginning to think for himself, and the shouting matches between he and Walburga were enough that they could shake the rafters (though, on occasion he might discuss the Daily Prophet with his father). 

It was the summer before sixth year that had done it, that had been the breaking point. He’d received his ten outstanding OWLs (and an acceptable in Potions but he wasn’t going to talk about that) and there was a glow of pride in him. He still clung to that hope, though the rational part of him knew that it wasn’t ever happening, that he could impress them. That Walburga would finally treat him the way she did Regulus – because, of course, he was their shining, shimmering golden boy – that maybe his successes could negate his blood traitor, Gryffindor ways. That, however, was never going to be the case. 

Instead, with a quick flick of her wand, the exam results burst into flame and crumpled to ash. She said that nothing he could ever do would repair things, that he’d embarrassed them, that he hung around with people unbefitting to his status, though his status then was even laughable. Hot, unadulterated rage had erupted inside him, anger so strong that, for once, he was left speechless. So he summoned his trunk, walked to the fireplace, and in a rush of green flames, he never looked back. 

He no longer acknowledged any of them, even Regulus. At school, he’d occasionally jeered at his family, poking fun at them as if it were all a big joke, but stone cold silence, he felt, was how it had to be done. His last two years at Hogwarts did their best to put his familial situation from his mind, after all, he now had three brothers instead of one who couldn’t stand to be in the same room as him. 

He’d made a name for himself despite, and in spite of, the disappointment from The Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. 

BARTENDING BANANZA

Sirius still isn’t quite sure how he secured a position at The Hog’s Head. It went like this:

Aberforth: You’re here so much you might as well work here.

Sirius: Alright

And he never left. It’s now been four years and he’s become mildly infamous for giving away free drinks to attractive people, claiming its their birthdays, standing atop the bar while using a summoning charm to refill patrons’ drinks, and getting distracted talking to his friends while he’s on the clock. But, he cleans, and so glasses are covered in much less dust, and he’s gotten a younger crowd in, so Aberforth tends to keep him around. Plus, Sirius suspects the old man has a soft spot for him (they have an estranged brothers bond that neither one has spoken of but Sirius knows he feels it too).

Sirius’s time is split between the dusty old pub and Order duty – he does a lot of good undercover work as Padfoot.

RANDOM FACTS & TIDBITS

HEADCANONS

Padfoot is a Newfoundland. An absolute bear of a dog that doesn’t know any form of personal space. He often sleeps in his animagus form because his human thoughts dull ever-so-slightly when he’s a canine. (He also makes a lot of werewolf jokes when he’s not within Remus’ earshot that he already turns into a dog and so being bitten by a werewolf would give him double dog superpowers).

Sirius joined the Order right out of Hogwarts. He wanted his own say, wanted to make a difference against Death Eaters (and his family) but now, with the werewolves in control, he feels more guilt at fighting them.

After his sixth year, since he was of age, he began work on an old motorbike. It was a piece of junk, to begin with, found somehow in a muggle junkyard and picked up by a particular wizard who felt as if the rules didn’t apply to him. So, he’d somehow fit parts back together (a bit of Reparo here and there), then, with all the intelligence and fancy wand-work he possessed, enchanted it to fly. It was an all summer project that he worked on in between doing his work. He would have ridden it to Kings Cross to show off, but he couldn’t imagine just leaving it there for who knows how long. Instead, he just bragged about his ‘baby’ to anyone who would listen.

Sirius is a walking oxymoron. He’s loyal yet deceptive; he’s selfless, yet has a hell of an ego; he’s reckless yet- no, just reckless. But how can this be? Oxymorons don’t make sense! To the people he cares about, Sirius will stick with them 100%, no questions asked. He’s a huge believer in one-for-all and all-for-one, no man left behind. He’d go over a cliff, for any of those he loved without hesitation. Yet, to those he’s not so fond of, the deception comes in. He could lie, cheat, and steal his way to the ends of the earth, so long as his people were out of the way and unharmed. At the same time, there is no question that Sirius thinks he’s the greatest thing since sliced bread which is saying a lot because he loves sliced bread. However, there’s also that hidden vulnerability that his ego tends to hide. He struts like a peacock, but those feathers are all truly for show. And, though he sometimes doesn’t have the most tact in the world and may say the first thing that comes to mind – he truly does put others before himself. Except people he doesn’t like - then he’s going to upset them; he’s going to mean it and they’ll have deserved it. 

Sirius is messy. He always, always has been. In a house that was ordered and regimented to a fault, this was once again a flaw that he had in which others, if they had it, could hide. He’s messy in the “that sock is right underneath that shirt which is stuffed behind my dresser” way that he knows exactly where everything is, but to an onlooker it would be pure chaos. It drove his dorm mates nuts, because whatever he touched seems to just explode, and his tie will end up hanging from Peter’s bedpost and a shoe will find its way into James’ trunk. 

Sirius is a whiz at nonverbal magic. He first really began to learn it due to laziness, but picked it up really quickly. His mind is constantly sharp, so his tendency to show off with nonverbal spells has that much more increased.

AESTHETICS

Sirius Black is fire. He is staying up too late at night, knowing fully well that you have to be up early in the morning. He is laughter - too loud and too frequent. He is vulnerability and talking about the future that he wants to have, but doesn’t think he will. He is spitting his drink out in a fit of laughter. He is taking his anger out on someone due to other issues. He is never wanting to be at home. He is friendship. He is staying inside on rainy days and talking for hours. Sirius Black is the first lightning strike in a thunderstorm, right when the electricity could be felt in the air. 

Adrenaline kicking in, he’s a sprint across a field, feeling as if something is chasing him. He’s loyalty, and the comfort of a dog snoozing in front of a fireplace. Sirius is running late to all Order meetings; he’s cold hands and snow covered cobblestones. Sirius Black is screaming so much you lose your voice. He is collapsing into silent sobs, torn between two parts of himself. Sirius Black is drying someone else’s tears while holding back his own. He is a phoenix, coming from such hurt and sorrow, and flourishing, setting things ablaze in glory. 

Using sarcasm and humor to cover up his inner pain and hurt. Sirius is staying up into the wee hours of the morning, talking about everything under the sun. He’s cracked lips and bloodshot eyes with dark circles underneath. Sirius Black is a hand on your shoulder, steadying himself even more than the other person. He is making a cup of tea in the morning, trying to keep himself awake. He’s the strict use of the buddy system at all times.

Sirius Black is the last call at the bar, a smirk on his lips asking the bartender to come home with him. He’s a tremor in his fingertips as they hold a mug of coffee the next morning to stave off a hangover. He’s the smell of smoke clinging to his skin, his hair, and lingering on his breath. He’s fits of sullen as well as being the life of the party. Sirius is never wanting to be alone, afraid of what his mind will do to him. He’s the ghosts of his past sneaking up on him in the dead of night, whispering, whispering, whispering. 

Sirius is hours upon hours of waiting for the sun to rise. He is begging the ghosts to stay away, not having enough energy to fight. He is night terrors and shouting in his sleep and shaking so violently he couldn't walk in a straight line. He is pain. He is anguish. He is agony.

BITS & BOBBLES

Residence: a flat in Muggle London, walking distance to The Leaky Cauldron

Wand: 10 inches, ebony wood, dragon-heartstring core, surprisingly springy

Patronus: rat terrier

Sexuality: pansexual

Height: 5’10 – he doesn’t want to talk about it

WANTED CONNECTIONS

The Regular – The person who comes into the Hog’s Head on a regular basis, Sirius knows their drink order by heart. They know each other better than they should, considering they’ve never really interacted outside the pub.

Unlikely Friends – Maybe (?) an Order member that is the complete opposite of Sirius. No one expected them to get on as well as they should. 

Family Drama – A friend of my enemy is.. My friend? Someone who knows the Black family, is maybe friends with the others, but it’s kind of awkward but not unkind.

Ex-Childhood Fiance – this one is pretty self-explanatory. I just think it’d be a laugh (bonus points if they ever got together because Sirius would actually hate that his mother would be proud)

Snow had fallen so gracefully upon London. The muggle homes that lined Grimmauld square had bright, twinkling lights and Christmas trees that glittered in their frosted windows. If he listened closely, Sirius could make out the faint notes of ‘I’ll Be Home For Christmas’ playing on their static-filled radios.

He sat on a snow covered bench, his un-gloved hands red with cold, listening to the barely audibly music:

I’m dreaming tonight of a place I love Even more than I usually do And although I know it’s a long road back I promise you

The boy, just eleven, had only been home for three days and was already longing for the warmth of the Gryffindor Common Room, with its fire built up and roaring, or the snowy grounds where he and James and Remus and Peter had made poorly-crafted snow-elves (and then proceeded to have a snowball fight that ended with a snowy-faced Professor Kettleburn and a last-minute detention under all their belts, though it had been Sirius who’d thrown the fatal snowball).

His parents’ greeting at the train platform had been frosty—but that wasn’t entirely unexpected—and Regulus had lurked behind them, ever watching, ever the observer.

He heard the sharp shout of “Sirius!” though it was muffled behind heavy oak doors. Of course his mother was calling; he had to look smart for the annual Christmas party. He didn’t move, knowing it would more than likely result in a lack of dinner this evening; he was rooted to the spot. Frozen by the cold? Perhaps. Frozen to the spot because, for once, he craved silence, craved a moment’s peace that was not punctuated by mutterings of “My poor master and mistress, oh my poor mistress. Such a troubled, disgraceful boy.” Or worse, his mother’s shouting and heavy hand.

He still bore a dark welt across his cheek, though three days’ time and basic healing salves had helped it fade to a pale pink. But the imprint of a hand was still visible.

“Sirius?”

He hadn’t even heard the heavy oak door open, hadn’t heard the creak of the hinges or the soft crunching of boots over snow, “Mum’s looking for you.” Of course, of course, it was Regulus. Who else would be able to sneak up on him as easily and noiselessly as a ghost? His little brother was a head shorter than him, and just a year his junior, but he looked as close to a man as a ten year old could get.

Regulus’s dark hair, that same same ebony shade as Sirius’s (though the latter’s was flecked with ever-falling snow) was shorter and perfect styled to be kept out of his face. He wore a child-sized pair of bottle green dress robes—Sirius suspected he had a matching set hanging in his wardrobe—and those luminescent, gray eyes that were too wise for one so small, watched Sirius. Ever the observer.

“Sirius,” said Regulus again, his quiet, high voice tentative as he trudged through the snow, soiling his perfectly polished shoes, “Are you alright?” And there he sat, next to his brother, the snow dampening the seat of his freshly pressed robes.

“Mum’ll have your head if you ruin your outfit, Reggie,” Sirius muttered, his shoulder knocking a bit into his little brother’s. “And ‘m fine, really. Just needed a second. Y’know, before everyone comes in and I’m either the living freak show or a new piece of furniture that everyone ignores.”

A soft, small, warm hand gripped onto both of his chilled ones, holding fast for just a moment, knowing that, really, they didn’t have much time before they’d be parted once more—Regulus, after all, was to be paraded around as if he was Slytherin’s own bosom pal.

“You miss them. You miss being there.” They weren’t questions posed by his little brother, they were statements. He’d always been a little too smart for his own good.

“I miss being anywhere except here,” Sirius’s tone was harsher than any eleven year old’s should have ever been; for a moment he sounded nearly like a man. But those cold words had caused his little brother to stiffen in the slightest, and he sat up straight and tall. “I-“ Sirius’s voice, just a moment ago filled with such resentment, broke, and hot, fat tears rolled down his red-with-cold cheeks. “I just don’t like being back here. They hate me, Reggie. That’s never going away. I-I like it better at Hogwarts than here because… because people at Hogwarts like me,” A watery laugh and a stifled hiccup broke off his sentence.

In a barely audible voice, so quiet that, really, he wasn’t speaking to Regulus, but to himself, he whispered, “Nobody likes me here.”

But that little boy, with his intelligent gray eyes and, the ache in his chest of idolizing his older brother, just squeezed Sirius’s hand once more, and whispered back, “I still like you. You’re my brother. I’ll always like you.”

But the door opened—crashed open—and there stood Walburga, her dark hair elegantly done up and dolled up in a dress that matched Regulus’s plumage, her face white with anger.

“Regulus Black! Get up this instant, you’ll ruin your clothes!” And she took his free hand, and pulled him up and briskly, efficiently, brushed the snow from his robes. She send the younger Black inside, and he went obediently, with only one backward glance towards his brother.

Then Walburga turned her steely eyes to Sirius. “Get inside, I won’t tell you again.” For once, she was not yelling—it seemed her fury had surpassed even that—but her tone was deadly quiet. When Sirius didn’t move, just looked at her with red-rimmed eyes and a snow cold face, she walked and clasped his face with one taloned hand, so tight he couldn’t have moved his jaw if he’d wanted to. “Inside, boy. I will not tell you again.”

But Sirius’s quiet-for-once defiance, his heartsickness, left him still immobile.

“Fine!” His hard-lined mother shouted, inches from his face, that one syllable echoing and bouncing around the square. He flinched. “Fine! Stay out here all night! Freeze to death! At least this way, no one will have to look at the boy I raised and see what you’ve become.” She turned on her heel and walked back into the house.

He heard the click of the lock on the heavy door, and knew that, now, it would be no use trying to get back inside for a while.

He closed his eyes, ears listening hard, and heard it once more, so faintly, taking him to a large stone castle with suits of armor and pesky poltergeists and friends.