Chapter Text
Sirius hates galas. It’s all arse-lickery and false compliments and fake smiles. His tie is pulled too tight and he itches to loosen it. He doesn't. His mother will send him one of her signature death stares across the congregation of very important people and he’ll know he’ll have to bear the consequences later. At home, when the masks of politeness disappear and reveal the monsters beneath.
Monsters that smile and exchange niceties just as easily as they raise hands in anger, ready to strike.
He presses his lips together and takes a glass of champagne from one of the trays that waiters carry around, just to have something to hold on to. At least the booze is free, he thinks drily.
He scans the room, unsure of where to go. He’s already talked to the Rosiers—Evan was as insufferable as ever, and when he and his father started talking about hunting deer on their estate in way too detailed glee, Sirius excused himself with the taste of bile in his throat.
His parents urged him to talk to people, to smile and charm and represent the Ancient and Noble House of Black in all its glory.
Glory. He rolls his eyes.
He searches the giant ball room for a light blond crown of hair. Evan’s sister Pandora is the only one that’s sort of acceptable out of the people gathered here, and they always share a cigarette out back.
But she’s not here today. Good for her.
Sirius wishes he wasn’t here either.
His eyes fall on the Malfoys, Lucius and his parents, eternal sneers on their faces that morph into curt, fake smiles when they shake hands with others.
No. He can’t be part of a conversation about the manifold loopholes of underpaying workers again. He feels anger rising in his chest just thinking about it.
Infuriatingly calm elevator music streams from speakers around him, and Sirius would like nothing more than to rip down every single one of them.
He reminds himself that he cannot make a scene this time. Not after what happened at the last gala-slash-networking event his parents dragged him to, which resulted in a shouting match between him and none other than Antonin Dolohov; a man as bigoted and populist as they come.
“Oi, Black,” Dolohov prodded, his face split into a vicious grin. “My father’s trying to get a referendum in order to ban your filthy queer clubs once and for all—”
Sirius shudders at the memory, feels the cold grip of dread wrenching his heart whenever he thinks about the man.
He got one punch in before Regulus dragged him outside to calm down. Blood spluttered out of Dolohov’s nose in satisfying bursts.
He still carries the conversation with his brother in the very marrow of his bones, remembers it with every step he takes.
“Calm the fuck down,” Regulus hissed. The grip on his arm was iron.
Sirius was still fuming. The rage he felt resembled a small hurricane and the biting night air did little to cool his heated face. He massaged his knuckles.
“Reg, have you fucking heard what he said? You can’t expect me to witness the phrase ‘gay people belong in hell’ and be fucking fine—”
Regulus interrupted him. “He knows how to push your buttons. And you absolutely cannot give him the satisfaction of letting it work.”
“These people make me sick, Reg,” Sirius said, and then found himself blinking back tears. He ran both his hands through his hair, messing up the high bun his parents insisted he wear to events like these—it was either this or cutting it all off.
Right now, he couldn’t care less about a ruined hairstyle.
The upper class and its expectations weighed heavy on him. He tried not to let it show, but recently he’d found his mask of nonchalance slipping more often than not.
“I know,” Regulus said. “But you don’t have a choice.”
“I don’t want this life, I never chose it,” Sirius said. The words sounded childish out of his mouth, not like something a twenty-something would share with his younger brother.
“We can’t change the cards we were dealt,” Regulus said, and his eyes took on a soft quality for a moment.
Ever since he’d been old enough to understand British society, he’d wanted to change his cards. He’d take anything.
Regulus sighed, as if he’d read Sirius’ thoughts. “God, Sirius. Just keep your fucking head down.”
It felt weird, being consoled by the younger brother that knew more and saw more than he let on. Regulus had always been better at playing this game of the upper classes, navigating their convoluted politics and hierarchies. Always knew what to say and how to say it. And when to bite his tongue and not say anything at all.
Sirius had never cared about these things. His parents’ friends were all right-wing talk and zero regard to human rights, and they disgusted him. Every single one of them. And if faced with the situation, he’d rather spit into their uptight faces than swallow his opinions like the accommodating Black heir he was supposed to be.
Regulus always managed to stay below the radar, while Sirius had the tendency to put himself center stage, again and again and again. He had to—for his own conscience, the friends his parents sneer at, the families he sees on bus rides and at tube stops.
And how could he not? He felt something brewing on the horizon, a shift in leadership, like invisible goosebumps on his arms. And he didn't need to guess who was going to come out on top, or who was going to pay the price for the sustained wealth of the upper classes.
But back then, he’d looked into his brother’s eyes, and he’d promised himself to try. For Regulus. Because whatever Sirius did could reflect back on Regulus, too.
His parents found out about Dolohov, of course. The shouts still rang in his ears to this day. About what a disgrace Sirius was to the House of Black. How his viewpoints tainted the whole family’s reputation.
He still remembers his mother’s face, her cheeks flushed in anger, the words she spat at him.
There are ways, Sirius. And we will not hesitate to take measures into our own hands. We won’t be lenient for much longer.
An icy wave of dread runs down his spine at the memory.
He’s never been good at keeping his mouth shut, especially in the face of bigoted anti-liberalists—of which there are always way too many at events like these.
Regulus’ eyes find his across the crowd, and the look he shoots him is unmistakable.
Behave.
Sirius looks away again.
He should have moved out the moment he turned 18, but there was nowhere to go, and there was Regulus to think about. Sirius could never leave him in this lion’s den of a family, even though his brother had always been the better actor than him.
If his parents ever found Sirius gone, they’d resort to punishing Regulus. And Sirius could never let that happen. He’d always put Regulus first, would always turn the other cheek if it meant Regulus would remain unharmed.
It doesn’t help that he doesn’t have a single penny to his name. While the Blacks are one of the richest families of the entire country, he’s as poor as a church mouse. The money he makes working for the Black Consulting Group goes straight to his parents.
Why would he need his own money when they provide for everything he needs?
So he stays. Keeps his head down. His frustrations bottled up. Plays the charming son that is rumored to frequent the beds of men sometimes. He doesn’t correct them. He sees the way it angers his parents and feels a sliver of victory turning his set mouth into a small smile.
Just then, he notices the way the Carrow siblings make their way towards him from the other side of the ball room. The comments they throw at him—be it about his belief in democracy, his alleged sexuality, or any of his other so-called flaws—are always particularly vile.
Sirius is convinced their only purpose at these galas is to coax a reaction out of him, to have him blow up into their faces and make a scene.
But Sirius promised Regulus to behave today.
His gaze sweeps across the room once more. He spots a young man sitting at one of the tables a bit to the side, alone. Everyone keeps a minimum three-meter radius around him, which makes Sirius wonder.
His wild mop of hair stands in stark contrast to the impeccable suit he’s wearing. The glasses on top of his nose sit slightly crooked.
Even though they have never talked before, Sirius knows of him. The Potters’ son, a family that has nonconformist views according to his parents, which in turn makes the man all the more interesting to Sirius.
Everyone that has a sense of justice that diverges from his parents’ is automatically a friend.
Sirius approaches him before he can rethink it.
“Is this seat taken?” he asks the man.
Potter looks up, no doubt surprised, and then—against all odds—motions for Sirius to sit.
“Suit yourself,” he says, his accent less posh than expected from the people attending this gala. Still southern, but with the quality of someone that wasn’t beaten to tears about the conservative pronunciation of bath or during (Sirius shudders at the memory).
Sirius lets out a sigh. “Thanks. Needed to flee from scarecrows one and two,” he says and cocks his head in the direction of Alecto and Amycus. They look at Sirius disapprovingly, lips downturned in two identical scowls. With relief, Sirius sees that they don’t approach him now that he’s sat down next to Potter.
“The Carrows?” James asks, and Sirius sees him suppressing a smile and failing.
Sirius nods while he gulps down the last dregs of his champagne.
“I’m James, by the way,” James says and holds out his hand.
Sirius takes it. “Sirius.”
“I know.”
Sirius is aware that his reputation precedes him more often than not, but this time, he doesn’t know which one. His family’s? His own anti-bourgeois opinions? Rumors about his sexuality? How he spilled champagne on Mulciber’s shirt once? (He made it look like an accident.)
But then James’ mouth splits into a toothy grin and Sirius’ worries dissipate like smoke. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sirius,” he says.
Something clicks between them, a connection forming, something pivotal. Friendship. Sirius feels it.
Then James murmurs, “While I still can.”
Sirius’ gaze scans the room again, but no one seems to be listening to them. He notices Lestrange Snr. giving him a dirty look, no doubt telling Walburga within the next twenty minutes about the company Sirius was seen in.
Right now, he couldn’t care less. His heart thumps heavily in his chest. This conversation feels important, and Sirius doesn’t allow himself to miss one bit of it.
“What do you mean?” Sirius asks.
“I don’t think I’ll be invited to these events much longer. If you know what I mean,” James’ tone is light, though Sirius feels the things that go unsaid between them.
The Potters have been openly advocating for working class rights and the reinstatement of annulled trade agreements. A more liberal newspaper printed a double page interview with Fleamont Potter just the other day.
Sirius’ own parents are decidedly against the Potters, of course. A rich family wasting their old money on the poor. All false promises and futile causes. No better than the rest of their working-class scum friends. He shudders at the memory.
Sirius only nods. He’s never met anyone mentioning stuff like this out loud, least of all to him, a Black.
James looks around the room, then lowers his voice. The words send a thrill down Sirius’ spine.
“Want to get out of here?”
Sirius watches Regulus shake hands with a group of men he doesn’t know. He sees Evan and Barty with him, sees the ties that are too tight, the suits too crisp and ironed. The bubbling champagne in their hands, golden and ridiculously expensive.
Sirius doesn’t think twice about his answer. He nods.
“Yes.”
He often wonders where he’d be if he’d answered differently that day. He didn’t know it back then, but his whispered yes was what changed his life forever.