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

Group Therapy

"it is not fair

how I have to pretend it doesn't hurt.
I am ok.
I am strong.
you don't mean a thing
we were just a moment in time.
it is chaos.
It is chaos within me.
And you get to be still.

and it is not fair."
-via m. grace

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Ministry of Magic, January 1976

Sirius hated the government. Plain and simple. He hated its clauses, acts, prejudices, scrutiny, and its cruel and unusual forms of torture. More importantly, he hated the Ministry of Magic and everything about it. 

He hated how it was dark and dank yet excruciatingly bright to the point his eyeballs burned. He hated how it smelled like parchment and despair, lost hopes and crushed dreams. He hated how everyone around him was somehow running late to any and everything they had scheduled for the day. But he especially hated how the chit chat around every corner reminded him oddly of some suburban life he'd been destined for now that he'd been kicked out of the Ancient and Noble House of Black.

If he heard one more comment on how awful the weather had been, Sirius was going to light himself on fire, and he meant it. 

Euphemia and Fleamont Potter had made an appointment with an old friend of theirs in the Social Services Department of the Ministry. The two decided this would be best after a rather vulgar Howler had been delivered in the early hours of the morning from Walburga Black that included a rather colorful vocabulary and a long list of unprintable words, some of which Sirius had never heard. 

Her Howler stated that Sirius had been blasted off of the family tapestry, an act that hadn't upset him much to begin with, and he'd been forbidden to return to Grimmauld Place. His things would be burned, and his name forgotten for the remainder of her days. He was not to associate with his own brother, and the Malfoy's would have nothing to do with him after their wedding. As for Bellatrix, if word spread of the events that had unfolded over Christmas Holiday, Walburga would see to it that she finished the job. Sirius didn't doubt this threat.

Walburga's threat had been the last straw for the Potter's; they made their appointment as soon as possible with a woman named Joycelin in the Department of Social Services. Sirius and James both agreed that the parents of this young woman – or perhaps it had been an old woman – needed to take a standard spelling class because that was not the proper spelling of Jocelyn. The department itself must've been quite small, as neither Sirius nor James had ever heard about it in any of their lessons in school. Orion never mentioned anything about it, either. 

The waiting room of said department wasn't much to fuss over. James pointed out it looked similar to a Muggle waiting room minus the decorative fish tank. Instead, there was a small tank of Plimpy's and Grindylows. Sirius seriously questioned if it was appropriate to have the latter feasting on little Plimpy's in front of children.

There was obscure, wizard art that could never hope to compare to Georgia O'Keef, month-old copies of the Quibbler and the Daily Prophet. James had already stuffed his nose in the latest copy of Seekers Weekly; he hadn't read it in months! Euphemia was catching up on Knitter's Own while Fleamont marked up some papers from his briefcase. Judging by the look on his face, they had to do with today's meeting with Joycelin. 

To Sirius's knowledge, Fleamont had brought along Walburga's Howler for good measure and a few other things he said would "prove to be of great importance" to their case. Sirius wondered what case there was given that his own father was one of the most powerful members of the Wizengamot since 1943 – not as long as Dumbledore, however, so jokes on Orion.