Post by childoftheuniverse on Jan 20, 2011 20:57:41 GMT 1
Nickname: Emily
How You Found Us: Ad-hopping.
Contact Via: PM or email.
How You Found Us: Ad-hopping.
Contact Via: PM or email.
What can be found in a name:
Sirius Orion Black
When the day I was born:
11/12/1959
The Angels screamed:
Orion and Walburga Black, with little brother Regulus
And Hell shut its doors:
N/A, unless Kreacher counts
While creatures retreated:
Pureblood
To depths unknown:
Gryffindor
I hide from them:
The Gryffindor common room, by the lake, Zonkos, Three Broomsticks, the Hog's Head, the kitchens... anywhere non-academic.
Be who they want to see:
Sirius Black had always been considered good-looking. He has dark brown hair which always seems to fall perfectly into place, warm brown eyes which are always alight with mischief or humor, a lopsided grin which hints at his straight white teeth, and the trademark Black nose-- which thankfully wasn't one of those embarrassing kinds with bumps and warts and hair and the like, but a regular, well-proportioned one. His whole face is open and friendly, and matched with his tall and lean frame, though he's not quite sure where that came from-- he eats like a pig and doesn't even play quidditch to make up for it.
It's probably a good thing that he was blessed with natural good looks, as he wouldn't have them any other way. Sirius regards fashion as a useless thing, normally rolling out of bed (often literally) and throwing on the first clean outfit he can find, then leaving without even running a brush through his hair. Miraculously, he typically looks fairly presentable anyway-- not in the perfect, stick-up-the-arse way as the rest of his family, but in his own more relaxed style. In keeping with the theme of rebellion, he just recently got a tattoo of the Gryffindor lion that wraps around his bicep and roars at the touch of a wand.
Of course, for dates and the like, he puts a bit more effort into his appearance, but for the average school day, he's found in a more comfortable version of their uniform. Whenever he can get away with it, he has his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, shirt unbuttoned (atleast the first few), tie loose around his neck. The bottom of his slacks are typically frayed from constant activity, but they're nothing compared to his trainers, which were, at one point, white, but are now disguised with various scruff marks and stains from dirt and grass... and something purple, which was probably from one prank or another.
But that leaves no one:
To discover that inside:
MARAUDER.
The word seems to have been created for the sole purpose of describing Sirius. It stands for his group of closest friends-- who are more than just friends, really, as they're his family, his entire life, basically. Around the Hogwarts corridors, the word "marauder" has come to stand for popularity, charm, impulsiveness, adventure, and, most importantly, mischief. The Marauders' Map? His idea. (Okay, so he'd only mentioned how cool it would be to know where everyone is one time in detention, and Moony and Prongs had made it happen. It was still technically his idea). He's defined by the company he keeps, so he is, first and foremost, a Marauder.
PRANKSTER.
It comes as no surprise that, after hours upon hours of his life were spent muttering in his room about what he'd do to his family if such things were legal (or at least if he knew the spells...), Sirius knows his fair share of offensive spells. His favorite ones are flashy and basically harmless, but he has been known to have a bit of a mean streak (probably inherited from his parents), particularly in regard to Snape. A lot of his time, especially in boring classes, is spent dreaming up new prank ideas with James. And he wouldn't be classified as a Marauder if he didn't spend his time scheming and carrying out pranks he personally finds hilarious. No one can escape his wrath (except Evans, from time to time, because James already doesn't stand a shot with her, and Sirius doesn't want to sabotage it ever further).
FLIRT.
Sirius' careless attitude, paired with his natural good looks, has made him an ideal candidate for girls' affections; unfortunately, he's fully aware. When he's not around his friends (and sometimes when he is), he often spends his time chatting up one pretty girl or another in the corridors. He's been known to be rather charming when he wants to be-- but is fairly clueless if a girl actually falls for him. The fact that he flirts is, of course, coupled with his ego; he feels he can get anyone to fall for him, should he actually feel like putting in the effort of talking to them.
LOYAL.
As stated from the beginning, Sirius' friends are his family. Through thick and thin, he's with them 'till the end. Thus, he doesn't consider most people friends-- they're all acquaintences, or people he gets on with, apart from the Marauders and one or two choice others. He would honestly, willingly die for them. There is a reason his animagus is a dog, after all.
ATTENTION-SEEKING.
Sirius loves having all eyes on him and his mates, and feels that they should be. Usually he gets a fair emount of attention from his pranks and sense of humor (and dashing good looks, he likes to think), but from time to time, someone not in his group of friends does something noteworthy and steals away the spotlight. Whenever the limelight is drawn away from him and his mates for too long, however, he does something to fix that and put it back in its proper place.
IMPULSIVE.
Why think when you can do? That's Sirius' motto, and it's gotten him into more detentions than are probably possible to fit into his school career. He finds that thinking things through only wastes time. So, more often than not, he's on one stupid adventure or another, or making a fool of himself in public. Thankfully, he's not one to get embarrased easily.
This soulless being:
Spending time with his friends, James' family, girls, pranks, adventures, attention, making Snape's life a living hell, well-placed humour, convincing Peter to do one ridiculous thing or another, getting himself out of trouble, dogs (he has a certain fondness for them now that he knows what it's like to be one), sunny days, motorcycles.
Is just as lost:
His family, Severus Greasy-Git Snape, most (read: all) Slytherins, people with no sense of humor, commitment, detentions (though he's getting used to them), doing lines, homework, girls who get really possessive/controlling, Kreacher, rules (as they're only made to be broken).
As everyone else:
Making people laugh.
His loyalty.
Intelligent when he wants to be.
Flirting.
Distracting people.
Talking himself out of trouble.
In a world that knows only hate:
Pretty girls.
His lack of care about other people, apart from his friends.
His impulsive nature.
Firewhiskey.
His obliviousness.
And causes pain for the soulless like me:
The fact that he jumps around from girl to girl is due to his fear of commitment, and there are two subjects that constantly flare up his otherwise nonexistent temper: insults against his friends, and any comparison of him to his family.
They left me to die:
Too many to mention, really.
On a bed of roses:
The cousins he regularly sees (Bellatrix, Narcissa and Andromeda) and basically the entire pureblood population.
Blood seeping through:
Not something he would know.
The satin sheets of fame:
Rich.
What a bitter story of love:
On a cold December day in the usually immaculate Black residence, nothing at all was in its place, and Orion Black was furious. He'd just come home from a long day of work, and stepped foot into the place to find his wife seated on the couch, doubled over her knees (a feat in and of itself, as she was fast approaching her ninth month of pregnancy), eyes shut tight, face stretched in obvious pain. Just as he raised a hand to slap her for not greeting him at the door, as was expected of her, she let out an earth-shattering moan and, with effort, turned her face up to him. "He's coming." And Sirius was born.
On the plus side, the relationship between husband and wife improved tenfold with the birth of their child. The bad side? The agression, still prominent in both of them, was now directed toward their son. Was Sirius drawing with ink on their pure white walls? Was that boy Sirius was chatting with across the street a muggle? Why the hell was their son chanting "noodles!" at the top of his voice in the middle of Diagon Ally?
Needless to say, Sirius learned the rules of the house very quickly. Keep your head down, mouth shut. Don't ramble on about your day-- no one cares in the slightest. Don't do anything to disgrace the honorable-- and often fear-provoking-- Black family name. And, most important of them all: never associate with muggles.
It was a shame that he'd never been able to follow the rules. His curiousity was immense, even for a young boy, so his head was never down-- unless he was forced into a stiff conversation with his parents. He did ramble on about his day-- to random passersby, more often than not, who would exchange smiles with each other about the bold, charming little boy. He would cry and scream in public sometimes, as all kids do, which embarrased his parents greatly. And who else was he supposed to talk with, if not muggles? Their street was devoid of many children his age, so the only magical ones he had the chance to talk to were his cousins-- most of whom first scared him, then bothered him (with the exception of Andromeda and Narcissa, who were disliked by association). Besides, most of the muggles he met were great fun.
By the ripe age of seven, Sirius Black had broken every carefully laid out rule his parents had imposed on him.
Sometime during those first few years, it became apparent to his parents that Sirius would never be their perfect child, and so Regulus came to be. He was like them in every way possible-- polite and well-mannered (Sirius was constantly sarcastic and embarrasing himself for a laugh), quiet in confidence (Sirius made it blaringly obvious that he thought rather highly of himself), a fan of the dark arts (which Sirius detested with every fiber of his being). While his brother was doted on, Sirius was constantly yelled at, or ignored when possible. And he had soon taken to yelling back.
It was expected, but nonetheless a relief when, at age 11, his Hogwarts letter came. Thrilled at the prospect of escaping his damaged home life, Sirius gathered his school materials, stayed out of his parents' way, and lived the following few months with a grin on his face. When the day finally came to be shipped off, both parents and Regulus (who glared at him silently with cold eyes) escorted him, reminding him with hints of threats about the family rules. And young Sirius Black clambored aboard the train, set on breaking all of them.
It took only moments to find a friend; a boy with his hair in disarray was chatting up a pretty redhead, who looked faintly disgusted. The boys made eye contact, introduced themselves, and James Potter and Sirius Black set off to find a compartment.
It was there that they met Remus, who was sitting on his own (and later Peter Pettigrew, who wandered in with tears rolling down his cheeks and his hair a strange shade of pink-- a product of a few 6th years); and the four became fast, if unlikely, friends.
The years went on, and adding in Emily, the five were still the best of friends. Nothing could tear them apart. Not Remus' secret, which had led to their Animagus study and ultimately, eventually, their nicknames. Not James' moodiness whenever he asks out Lily Evans and she--obviously-- rejects him. Not the fact that they're constantly having to stick up for Peter, who seems to find enemies wherever he goes. And not even his own withdrawal from time to time, particularly when the summer holidays approach and he'd been stuck with the fact that he needs to go home.
Though, granted, now that he's run away and has found a place in James's family, there isn't too much that can bring him down.
Sirius Black took two steps into the dimmed room that was the library, sharpened quill already in hand, and honestly considered suicide.
When was the last time he'd actually stepped foot into this place? Second year? First, maybe? And it didn't seem to have changed at all in the lengthy span of time. The set-up was the exact same as he remembered it: long tables scattered around the room (though they were far enough away from one another to discourage any form of talking), stiff and uncomfortable chairs, piles upon piles of books that would probably eat you if you got too close-- literally. It was almost silent, apart from the flipping of pages, stiffled coughs, and the librarian's heels clicking on the floor as she stalked up and down aisles. Hell, even the smell was the same: the musty scent of old, moldy books and the librarian's over-applied perfume rushed to greet him almost immediately, and Sirius had to choke back a gag. When properly aimed, one quick stab to the throat could probably be enough to save him from the torture chamber that lay before his eyes.
Damn professors, assigning a paper that couldn't be invented. Most of the time, when faced with the absolute necessity of completing a homework task, he asked Remus to help him write it, or at least mention a few key points he should add in, and he went from there to add fluff for length. Or, when the boy absolutely refused to help out for fear of Sirius' brain being rendered completely useless (or when he was suffering from his 'furry little problem', the poor bloke), the dark-haired boy would crack open his text book for one of the first times that year and attempt to focus long enough to understand some of it.
But no. The Herbology professor had decided to give them a research project, of sorts, by assigning them a plant they would have to take care of, and they were forced to write an essay demonstrating the proper care of it beforehand. The problem? She made certain that none of the assigned bloody weeds were in the text books they were required to have for class. The result? Sirius was forced to actually... work.
Standing in the doorway to the eerily-quiet library, blocking anyone who actually intended on studying from entering, he considered his options. He could go with the suicide route; his quill was looking almost tauntingly sharp. Would it go through his neck cleanly enough? It would probably cause a bit of blood, which, in turn, would probably give the overly-cautious librarian a heart attack. It would be hilarious to watch; too bad he wouldn't be around to witness it. And on that note, what would the rest of the Marauders do without him? They would spend months, years clad only in black, speaking only about how perfect he was, and how they could've done something to prevent his tragic, early death. They'd probably have a statue erected in front of Hogwarts in his honor, made of pure gold, and people would sob at the sight of it, for it would invoke painful memories of how he'd been the best person the school had seen. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if it became some sort of mandatory class for all first years-- the study of Sirius-ology, for everyone would strive to live up to the high standards of pranking he would leave behind. And, while all of that was good and well, he wasn't willing to put his friends through that sort of anguish.
He smiled to himself as he stood, amazed by how selfless he could be. Then frowned again in the next moment, as he realized that he was left with no other option but to sit himself down at one of the torturous tables and actually attempt to do something... productive with his time. The funeral march ran through his mind as he did just that, dropping his school bag at his feet with an unceremonious crash (earning him a stern glare from the librarian herself). But, instead of grabbing a book and working so that he could escape as soon as possible, he lay his head down on the cold wood of the table and allowed himself to sulk quietly.
When was the last time he'd actually stepped foot into this place? Second year? First, maybe? And it didn't seem to have changed at all in the lengthy span of time. The set-up was the exact same as he remembered it: long tables scattered around the room (though they were far enough away from one another to discourage any form of talking), stiff and uncomfortable chairs, piles upon piles of books that would probably eat you if you got too close-- literally. It was almost silent, apart from the flipping of pages, stiffled coughs, and the librarian's heels clicking on the floor as she stalked up and down aisles. Hell, even the smell was the same: the musty scent of old, moldy books and the librarian's over-applied perfume rushed to greet him almost immediately, and Sirius had to choke back a gag. When properly aimed, one quick stab to the throat could probably be enough to save him from the torture chamber that lay before his eyes.
Damn professors, assigning a paper that couldn't be invented. Most of the time, when faced with the absolute necessity of completing a homework task, he asked Remus to help him write it, or at least mention a few key points he should add in, and he went from there to add fluff for length. Or, when the boy absolutely refused to help out for fear of Sirius' brain being rendered completely useless (or when he was suffering from his 'furry little problem', the poor bloke), the dark-haired boy would crack open his text book for one of the first times that year and attempt to focus long enough to understand some of it.
But no. The Herbology professor had decided to give them a research project, of sorts, by assigning them a plant they would have to take care of, and they were forced to write an essay demonstrating the proper care of it beforehand. The problem? She made certain that none of the assigned bloody weeds were in the text books they were required to have for class. The result? Sirius was forced to actually... work.
Standing in the doorway to the eerily-quiet library, blocking anyone who actually intended on studying from entering, he considered his options. He could go with the suicide route; his quill was looking almost tauntingly sharp. Would it go through his neck cleanly enough? It would probably cause a bit of blood, which, in turn, would probably give the overly-cautious librarian a heart attack. It would be hilarious to watch; too bad he wouldn't be around to witness it. And on that note, what would the rest of the Marauders do without him? They would spend months, years clad only in black, speaking only about how perfect he was, and how they could've done something to prevent his tragic, early death. They'd probably have a statue erected in front of Hogwarts in his honor, made of pure gold, and people would sob at the sight of it, for it would invoke painful memories of how he'd been the best person the school had seen. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if it became some sort of mandatory class for all first years-- the study of Sirius-ology, for everyone would strive to live up to the high standards of pranking he would leave behind. And, while all of that was good and well, he wasn't willing to put his friends through that sort of anguish.
He smiled to himself as he stood, amazed by how selfless he could be. Then frowned again in the next moment, as he realized that he was left with no other option but to sit himself down at one of the torturous tables and actually attempt to do something... productive with his time. The funeral march ran through his mind as he did just that, dropping his school bag at his feet with an unceremonious crash (earning him a stern glare from the librarian herself). But, instead of grabbing a book and working so that he could escape as soon as possible, he lay his head down on the cold wood of the table and allowed himself to sulk quietly.
