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

You've Done It

"I am not afraid of fire;
it was fire who taught me how to swim."

-via L.T. Phoenix

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12 Grimmauld Place, Late January 1971

He had done it. Sirius Orion Black had finally done it.

Of course, he'd 'done it' about six times since the Black's annual Christmas banquet. Now that he had the time to think about it, he'd 'done' the impeccable 'it' since he found himself mobile. One must define mobile, and Sirius considered the ripe ability to spite Walburger and her oafish husband, the Onion, as such.

Now, this entailed creeping out of his baby crib deep in the morning to chew on Daddy's unique quills or, maybe, ripping what little clothing their faithful house-elf, Kreacher (the despicable little thing), had left. Though Sirius was older and a great deal smarter, he came to regret that latter decision. Watching the thing roam about the house with his raggedy, crowned jewels dangling mere centimeters above the cloth was much more frightening than any Black relative would ever be to Sirius.

Only because his mother had an unhealthy attachment to the sewer rat, a good spanking was for her oldest son. As stated in far too many lectures, this was to demonstrate 'the principles of being a courteous, young man' to his younger brother, Regulus, who couldn't spell courteous, let alone tell the difference between 'principle' and 'principal.'

It was no secret that Sirius was, in fact, a young God in many aspects, and Reggie would be the first one in line to defend such a controversial statement. Nevertheless, Sirius lived for two things: to be bold and to ensure that Walburga went to bed every night with a growing hernia that would no sooner burst.

This time, what had finally done it, according to the kitchen wench of a woman, was the Doxies Sirius had 'come upon' on their trip to the filthy Diagon Alley. It was an honest mistake, really, or so he'd convinced himself. How could Sirius resist the temptation of a practical joke or two when his parents were much too occupied in buying more potions materials rather than supervise their problem child; indeed, the fault was there. Perhaps if Orion, the simpleton, had trimmed the tarantula thoraxes nesting on his brow bone, he would've noticed the simple slip of the hand and the pocket full of Doxie's entering the threshold of Grimmauld Place.

Much to the young boys' amusement, Kreacher had nearly been mauled to hysteria by a rancid, rather peeved, Doxy. Its body, small in comparison, practically burrowed into Kreacher's long, broad nose; the house, which had been quiet most of the filled with shrill, horrified shouts from Kreacher and petrified screams from the woman of the house. Sirius was accustomed to the latter; a quiet moment was rare in the household, especially if his mother decided it was punishment day.

Blame it on her poor, frazzled nerves, or maybe on the sentiments alongside coddling a house-elf, but Walburga pitched a fit. In all of his years of mischief, Sirius had never seen his mother such a vivid shade of red before. Spit ran down his chin as he muffled the laughter; her eyes bulged from her obtuse skull, looking a comical at best. The boy suggested a bit of elbow grease to remove the Doxy, while his mother suggested a thicker belt to remove the stupidity that plagued his mind. All of this served as reparations for raising such a chaotic child that proved to be the bane of her—yada yada.

Those weren't the exact words; Sirius had heard bits and pieces of the speech and slapped it all together in his rendition. Time and time again, he'd heard it. From what he'd managed to gather, he was shameful, humiliating, dishonorable, foolish, hebetudinous (he had to look that one up), obtuse – the list went on and on, and, as time marched onward, he realized most of them had been synonyms, to begin with.