Carve Me Open / r.l. + s.b. /

(Lack of) Hope

"Sirius," Orion said, holding his hands behind his back beside his son. "I haven't seen you socializing very much this afternoon. Cat got your tongue?"

"I hate cats," Sirius mumbled, and he denied his father a glance. "I also hate parties. Besides, didn't you tell me that heirs don't socialize? These people are supposed to come to me."

"There are a lot of things I don't like," Orion said, eyes forward and blank. "Nevertheless, I endure them."

"Like what?"

"Your mother," Orion deadpanned, ignoring the laughter bubbling in Sirius's throat. "What? You asked me something I dislike, and I gave you an honest answer, boy."

Sirius let his smile grow upon the twinkle of amusement in his father's eyes, "Yes, but out of everything in England—"

"She's that bad," Orion interrupted him, turning his head to hide the smirk beneath his mustache. "I have an inquiry for you, son."

The light mood died, roadkill on a highway. The elation for a moment finally shared with Orion withered in his chest, leaving nothing but anxiety and an admission of guilt. Despite not having done anything, Sirius prepared for the worst. Why couldn't they just enjoy the good things?

"Yes, sir," Sirius said.

His father looked down at him with a muted expression, "Your Head of House has contacted me with a proposition for you. She seems to be interested in a Quidditch career starting this autumn. Is that correct?"

Sirius, stunned, allowed himself a brief moment to process the words he'd heard. Minerva McGonagall, Head Deputy Mistress of Hogwarts and Head of Gryffindor House, contacted his parents, and he lived to listen to the tale? From none other than his father? That woman must have been something more than magical; last time Slade had tried reaching out to Walburga, a howler was sent in response. But for Quidditch, nonetheless?

Of course, he wanted to join the Quidditch team! It was his dream to play with James on the field. They'd been talking for weeks about try-outs when the new school year began. It was only a matter of getting parental consent forms signed; the entire "we are not responsible for your child" act, he knew all about it. But, of course, Sirius didn't expect his parents to actually sign it; the real plan was to convince Narcissa, who'd be turning 17 in just over a month, to forge his mother's signature like she'd done before. Not for anything important, however, just a disciplinary slip from a professor.

"Yes, I would love to play Quidditch," Sirius lit up with excitement, muscles tensing and joints cracking. "I've been practicing all year long! I know I'd make an excellent beater—my coach said so."

"Who's your coach," Orion asked.

James Potter, technically speaking. Yet, they didn't need to know that.

"Our flight instructor," Sirius lied. "Last year, she made us do a lot of exercises out on the pitch, and she told me I have good form."

Lying to Orion wasn't necessarily difficult. It wasn't as if he dug too deep for the truth. No, one got caught lying to father when they let something slip through the cracks. The twitch of an eye or a stress point pulsing beneath the skin. A single droplet of sweat or a side glance was thrown, and Sirius's plan would've drowned. It's a good thing he knew how to lie. It took years of mastery, but every tell-tale sign was suppressed until it was smothered by that aristocratic mask.

"Yes, that's what your professor wrote," Orion nodded, stroking the salt-and-pepper hairs on his lip. "I'll allow it."

Sirius beamed, face splitting in half with a toothy grin. For the first time, the warmth spreading throughout his bones was not from anger or spite. It wasn't the sting of salt against the raised flesh. Instead, this was ecstatic happiness, absolute joy that wouldn't ever compare. Sirius knew Orion wouldn't understand the jitters racing across the surface of his bones or the energy bouncing in his skull. He hardly believed Orion could manage a smile without a strain, let alone pure elation.