Sirius, whose first language is French. Who starts hogwarts with a thick accent that curls around his words, and an oddly formal manner of speech for an 11 year old. And itās not stiff, not at all, he speaks in flowing prose, everything he says is so carefully crafted and delicately delivered and Remus Lupin thinks he speaks like an angel. Of course, heās teased mercilessly for it by the other kids in their year, and manages to drop it in a few weeks. Remus pretends he doesnāt hear the boy whispering to himself late at night, practicing making his vowels more English. More harsh and grating. Less pretty.
Sirius, whose first language was French, who learns to make puns and witticism in English, but writes in French when no one is looking, with carefully dotted iās and loopy, curving sās and fās. Remus knows his parents write to him in English, because Voldemort speaks English and the Blacks speak little French nowadays past the harsh lines of their motto. Off course, that isnāt to say they donāt have their own ways of saying things without being understood. They just donāt need French to do it.
Sirius, whose first language, first love, was French. Back when his mother loved him sheād read him poems at night, about the moon, about the stars. She stopped when her stomach began to swell, when she realised she had another chance, when she realised Sirius had taken her words to heart, that he truly believed he could touch the stars if only because he loved them so. Foolish boy. The stars were hers to have and hers alone.
Sirius, who when Remus tells him he loved him, babbles nonsensically in french. Sirius who, as he gets more comfortable, begins to throw around the occasional word, then phrase. And by their fourth year heās speaking in a fluid mix, all elegant poetics and flowing statements, every word so carefully planned and gods Remus loves it, loves the way Siriusā voice seems to catch in his throat and bubble under his tongue and reach into Remusā head. Sirius, who when he cries canāt muster up a word of English. Sirius who, when James dies, canāt muster up a word at all. And when Remus greets him years later with a soft āBonjourā, months after that terrible night in the shack, Sirius just stares tiredly, and whispers back āHelloā.
(He never speaks a word of French again, not until one night when he sees James, no, Harry. And Remus canāt hear a damn thing, but he sees the words on his lips. A farewell too soft to hear. Harry doesnāt notice, doesnāt understand, never knew. But Remus knew. Remus knows, that slight smile, the whispered āAu Revoirā, the faded eyes. He knows he knows he knows. He wishes he didnāt.)
