My father was an aristo, eldest son of Antares Black. From his birth he was destined for greatness, married off to my mother at age 15, though he was desired by many others.
They tried in futility for many years to produce an heir, disgraced for the first time by my mother's infertility, perhaps due to the fact she was his second-cousin, and so, when she felt me stirring in her womb, she did not believe me real, perhaps a changling.
Nevertheless I was born on the third of November, 1959, sworn into the world with promises to outshine my namesake, to excel. I grew from a screaming pink babe into a boy, blessed with his father's looks, his thick, dark hair, squill-blue eyes, slanted nose flanked by high cheekbones, and was taught, carefully, not only in French, Latin, to play piano as a true gentleman, but of my ancestry, the value of the blood that bound through my veins, like liquid diamond.
Despite this, it was often spilled, and beneath the facade of a serious, poised young man I habitually wore lay a sullen creature, beneath the fine clothing; the silk, the velvet, were burns, wounds healed and not, all relics of my punishments, all reminders of the times I could not be perfect.
Regulus, my brother, came two years after myself, sickly and perhaps less handsome, but better-behaved, without the thoughts of rebellion that tormented me nightly.
And now I envied him more than ever, ached for the flawless, untarnished conscience that would have kept me from my impending predicament, which came to me in a single word.
Gryffindor.
I could feel my heart as it plummeted, through the floor as if it were water, towards the very core of the earth, where it might be incinerated, but in the despair there was some spark, something warm that lit inside me and filled me with a giddiness I could not put to words.
I was in Gryffindor.
I could be with James Potter and Peter Pettigrew as I had wished on the Hogwarts Express, I could shed the heavy, fragile honor I had borne along on my skinny shoulders for eleven years. It would come, I knew, with punishment, for freedom from this legacy never went undisciplined, but I had it all the same, and as James Potter sat beside me on the highly polished wooden bench, I beamed at him as his face shone with triumph, for he had been placed in the house of his father. How different our circumstances were.
"You did it!" He whispered, and I nodded. I had done it, although it was difficult to comprehend, every particle of my being electrified with adrenaline. The fall would come, surely, when the exhilaration wore off, but that time was not now.
Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster, a man whose name had been cursed by my father often before, spoke words I did not care to listen to as I basked in my overwhelming pool of sensation, for the world seemed so new, and I took it in, brick by brick, each glimmering flame above me, the floating candles and then the stars, watching us from where they perched in the enchanted ceiling of deepest indigo.
The golden dinnerware lining the banquet tables suddenly filled with food, and I robotically served myself, not paying particularly close attention to what I heaped onto my plate, picking at it half-heartedly. My nerve raced so aggressively I trembled, and I felt as if anything I consumed would be tossed from my roiling stomach, and so I only take a few bites, which slid down like sand, sticking in my throat without flavor.
The meal slipped by a blur, for one moment people had only just dug in, the next dessert had come, the only thing ever remotely appealing to me a dish of peppermints. The candy gave my tongue something to do, and it was pushed around my mouth as the sharp, cooling taste of it pervaded. The dish was otherwise untouched, and so I took a second, tucked it into my pocket for later.
