Without Another Choice- Sirius Black

Independent Men and Bossy Women Having Salty Pork

Before dinner (pork, per James' request), America was in the kitchen giving Newton his dinner.

    "Where are my boys!" the redhead called.

    "We are not your boys, Ames!" Remus called back.

    "We are independent!" Sirius agreed.

    "We are men!" James added.

    Fleamont and Euphemia raised their eyebrows at each other while exchanging glances. "Sure, you are. Dinner bell!"

    "Co-ming!" they screamed from upstairs.

    Four of the five Marauders plus a Regulus Black came crashing into the dining room.

    "Yum, yum, yum." James slammed into his chair and started spearing pork onto his plate.

    "Looks pretty great, right, guys?" Euphemia was grinning as she assembled a lettuce leaf with pork and rice and kimchi. "Remus, you know how to do it, right? It's like a little taco."

    Remus nodded and copied her.

    America made her own lettuce-leaf taco and nearly spit it out. The pork was really, really salty. So salty she could cry. But the redhead kept chewing, and across the table, James was making a horrible face at America, but she gave him a shush look. Euphemia hadn't tried hers yet; she was taking a picture of her plate.

    "So good, Mother," America said, and Sirius forced himself to smile and a nod. "It tastes like at the restaurant."

    "Thanks, America. It came out just like the picture. I can't believe how beautiful and crispy the top looks." Euphemia finally took a bite, and she frowned. "Is this salty to you?"

    "Not really," Peter chocked out.

    "It tastes great, honey," Fleamont said and attempted a smile, though it came out more like a grimace.

    Euphemia took another bite. "This taste's really salty to me. James, what do you think?"

    James was chugging water. "No, it tastes good, Mum."

    America gave him a secret thumbs-up.

    "So good, Mia," Remus said, and though he had only taken a tiny bite, he assembled his cutlery to show he was done.

    "Hmm, no, it definitely tastes salty." She swallowed. "I followed the recipe exactly . . . maybe I used the wrong kind of salt for the brine? America, taste it again."

    She took a teeny-tiny bite, which she tried to hide by putting the lettuce in front of her face. "Mmm."

    "Maybe if I cut more from the center . . ."

    America looked over at Regulus who was eating his without complaining. He was smart so he only grabbed a little bit and spread it out on his white plate to make it look like he took a lot. He caught America's eye and she gave him an apologetic look. Regulus only shrugged.

    They finished up dinner and America very discreetly made nachos and took them to the boys' room where they ate.

    "Sorry about Mother," America apologized as she sat down on the bed and the five boys ate.

    "It's no problem," Remus explained with a mouth full. "We love Mia anyway."

    America went back to her office and laid on the couch where she was about to write her daily letter before the door creaked open.

    Euphemia peeked in and asked if she could enter. The redhead reluctantly agreed, and her mother sat at the edge of the sofa.

    When America was a kid, her mom used to sing to her. It was always at bedtime when she'd come in to say good night. She'd sit on the edge of her bed, brushing her hair back with her fingers, her breath sweet-smelling as she kissed her daughter's forehead and told her she'd see me in the morning. When she tried to leave, America would protest, and beg for a song. Usually, if she wasn't in too bad a mood, she'd oblige.

    Back then, America had thought her mother made up all the songs she sang to her, which was why it was so weird the first time she heard one of them on the radio. It was like discovering that some part of you wasn't yours at all, and it made her wonder what else she couldn't claim. But that was later. At the time, there were only the songs, and they were still all theirs, and for no one else.

    Euphemia's songs fell into three categories: love songs, sad songs, or sad love songs. Not for her the uplifting ending. Instead, America fell asleep to "Frankie and Johnny" and a love affair gone very wrong, "Don't Think Twice It's All Right" and a bad breakup, and "Wasted Time" and someone looking back, full of regret. But it was "Angel from Montgomery," the Bonnie Raitt version, that made her think of Euphemia most, then and now.

    It had everything her mother liked in a song — heartbreak, disillusionment, and death — all told in the voice of an old woman, now alone, looking back over all the things she'd had and lost. Not that America knew this; to her, they were just words set to a pretty melody and sung by a voice she loved. It was only later when she'd lie in bed, hearing her sing late into the night through the wall, that they kept her awake. Funny how a beautiful song could tell such an ugly story. It seemed unfair, like a trick.

    America grew up, and Euphemia began to pay more attention to James, the golden child. Little by little, Euphemia drifted from America's reach, and after a year or two, she stopped coming around at all. So, the potter girl looked for comfort elsewhere. In her Grandfather Henry's arms.

    Euphemia sat at the edge of her daughter's couch and gently ran her hand through her hair. "You've been quiet today."

    "I'm always quiet," America replied. She meant for it to sound calm, but it sounded bitter in her mother's ears.

    There was a quiet pause. "What happened when you visited Henry's house?"

    She shrugged, not wanting to talk about the money, the letters or the library. "He left me his wand and books."

    Euphemia nodded. "Do you want to talk about it?"

    The girl shook her head, and they were quiet once more. "Mommy?" America asked weakly and Euphemia's eyes snapped up. She hadn't called Euphemia that name since she was ten. She simply called her Mother.

    "Yes?" Eumphamia managed to choke out, surprised she was able to talk through the shock.

    America paused. There was something in her daughter's eyes that night. Something else she'd never thought to see— vulnerability, hesitancy, and even insecurity. "What if I love someone I'm not allowed to be with? What if I'm scared, I shall hurt them?"

    Her Mother's eyes softened. "Are you? Scared you'll hurt them?"

    "Terrified."

    The woman smiled and soothed her daughter's hair. "Find someone you love and let them burn you. Let them burn you like the sun. Allow your love and hate to fuel the fire, and the more vulnerable you become, the hotter you will burn until you are nothing but molten ash." She smiled. "And then, when the fire cools, your love will be hard, cool steel." She kissed the top of her head. "And nothing will break you."