The Boy Who Killed God {Sirius Black | Marauders Era Fanfiction}

Regarding Blood Traitors

SEPTEMBER 2, 1971

Sirius woke early, before sunrise from the looks of it, but that was hardly unusual. He'd always been an early riser. If he actually thought about it, he'd probably say it had something to do with finding sanctuary in the early hours of the morning. Before sunrise, all the responsibilities that rested on the shoulders of the heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black seemed to fade into nothing.

Next to him, separated by a pillow, Remus Lupin snored softly. His lips parted, the top lip nicked by a tiny scar, and his eyes fluttered in a dream. The scars that lined his face seemed paler, too, silvery amongst the splattering of Remus's constellation of freckles. It was mesmerizing, really, Remus's face. More so than anything Sirius had yet seen at Hogwarts.

Despite himself, despite knowing the pain it would cause him, Sirius suddenly found himself wanting to touch, to trace the scars with his fingers, and perhaps once more beg Remus to tell him where they came from.

Shaking his head, mostly to clear it, Sirius stretched and stood, praying Remus wouldn't wake up. Remus didn't stir, so Sirius grabbed fresh clothes and made his way to the showers.

There were seven shower stalls flanking one wall, paralleled by seven toilet stalls on the opposite wall. Against the back wall, seven sinks and mirrors, as well as a closet full of towels. Sirius walked straight to the back of the room and pulled off his robes from yesterday. They were creased and wrinkled from sleeping in them, but they ironed out with a simple flick of his wrist. He unbuttoned his shirt and then stopped, staring at his reflection in the mirror.

Absently, Sirius traced the Toujours Pur, in his mother's handwriting, right above his heart.

He'd cried, when his mother carved the tattoo into his chest with her wand and the blood spell. It hadn't even hurt, but he'd cried anyway.

Eight years old, and he'd been marked for House Black forever.

Even back then, a part of him raged against the fate his parents had already written for him.

Sirius couldn't allow anyone in Gryffindor to see the tattoo. James Potter would know what it meant immediately. Remus, too, on a basic level. Remus spoke French, so although he probably wouldn't understand all the magical implications, a child branded with "Always pure" isn't exactly inspiring.

If he saw the tattoo, Remus would understand, once and for all, that Sirius was cursed and will remain cursed, no matter how much Remus might not want to believe it.

Sirius almost sobbed, but this time, he didn't allow himself to cry. He'd cried enough.

He was Gryffindor.

Now, he had to face the consequences, cursed or not.

When Sirius came back into the dormitory, fully dressed, he stubbed his toe on the poster of his bed. "Salazar's—fuck!"

On his bed, Remus jolted upright. Bleary and confused amber eyes looked about the room, almost on the verge of panic, until they landed on Sirius. His curly hair stuck out in all directions and there was an imprint of Sirius's pillow on Remus's cheek, right between his scars.

Remus blinked a few times. Then, seeming to realize where he was, Remus let out a moan. "Wha' time is it?"

Sirius cast a look at the other beds, praying James and Peter were sleeping in a bit more. Peter, for his part, was curled in the fetal position, snoring loudly, while the hangings on James's bed remained resolutely shut.

"It's about six thirty," Sirius said, glancing at the window. The sky was a pale grey and sun was just starting to think about rising. He'd been up for almost an hour already. "Breakfast won't start until seven."