Sirius always knew.
Ever since the day he ran away from home, that day when his mother made the decision to scratch his image off the walls that was wound with the family tree and descendants of the noble Black family, he had always knew.
There was a certain magic upon that room, a certain magic that stirred a sense of foreboding fear to the members of the Black household. This certain magic was their family heirloom, passed down from parent to child. It had protected their house for centuries and preserved their much deserved honour and magical purity.
That piece of magic protected the name of the noble family of the Blacks, and washed away any stains or impurities that threatened to tarnish their reputation.
Everyone in the Black family regarded this magic as their saving grace and held much respect for it– except for young Sirius Black.
And only Sirius Black.
When Sirius Black was born, the family knew something was wrong with their youngest child. He was different from his siblings, mischievious and always looking for trouble. His siblings, well, were diginified, mature and serious for their age.
The family’s worst fears were confirmed as soon as the Sorting Hat sat snugly on Sirius’ dark messy hair. The single word that boomed through the halls “GRYFFINDOR!” was not taken in very well by Sirius’ siblings.
The noble Blacks have always produced Slytherins– never Gryffindors. Gryffindor was their mortal enemy.
It was proven: Sirius Black was the outcast of the family.
The day he left his home to join James Potter and his gang, his mother held back nothing. She had never treated Sirius like a son, and she would never will. She would have to call on the magic.
Call on the power.
Protect the pure Black lineage.
And so with a burning vengeance than a fury, Sirius’ face was ripped from the walls.
Beware, Sirius Black.
The magic had been invoked upon you.
You can never run nor hide.
It is out to get you.
Never shall you tarnish the name of Black ever again.
Sirius remembered the cold tingle up his spine when he slept on the ground of James’ house. That particular tingle which said that his destiny has been written and that death is coming.
But it never came.
Almost the whole Order was wiped.
He was devastated, at the brink of breaking down.
Was this it? The death he’d been looking for?
Harry, son of James and Lily Potter, came into his life.
He’s got Lily’s eyes.
He is so much like his father.
He had been convinced that the magic activated upon him had died out over the years after his family slowly died out, leaving only Bellatrix and Sirius as the lone survivors.
He was swelling with pride that day, standing beside his godson and fighting off the Death Eaters. A flick of the wand, Malfoy was disarmed and then thrown back. They had sent spells, together like a perfect duo in perfect harmony, towards the Death Eater.
And then, a blast at his side woke Sirius from his trance. He stopped laughing and looked at his godson. Harry Potter stared back at him with those disbelieving eyes. He could actually see him pleading: “Please, don’t go.”
Lily’s eyes were staring back at him.
The image of James before him.
James is holding out his hand.
Lily’s smile as radiant as always.
Numbing feeling spread though his body like ice.
Skin meets skin.
Hand grasps on tightly.
And Sirius Black leaves this world.