The Tree of Blacks (English version)

Ritualis Evulsionis

December 27, 1976. Grimmauld Place number twelve.

Alya fiddled nervously with the food Kreacher had made appear with a snap of his fingers on her silver plate. She had no appetite at all; eating was out of the question. She was still shaken by what had happened the night before. She felt drained and distressed.
After Sirius had left home, vanishing with a pop into the dark snowy night, Alya had spent her remaining time before dawn crying all her tears in the bedroom, her face sunk into the pillow to stifle her sobs.

In the morning, she had resorted to every possible spell to hide the signs of her despair, but nothing proved powerful enough to lift the shadow of deep sadness that veiled her gray eyes, reddened by weeping. Regulus sat beside her, determinedly devouring the breakfast served by the old house elf.

"Try to pull yourself together, by Merlin's beard!" he scolded her, noting from the corner of his eye his sister's pitiful state.

But Alya didn't even look at him. All her attention was focused on the act of shredding the now shredded slice of toast with her hands.

"Eat something, at least! Mom and Dad will be angry if you look so desperate," Regulus urged her, worried more about her parents' reaction than the reason why Alya was in such pain. The girl ignored her brother's advice: the mere thought of putting a piece of food in her mouth made her nauseous.

By now, everyone in Grimmauld Place number twelve knew about Sirius' escape. Kreacher had raised the alarm as soon as he awoke at dawn. However, no one was shocked by the news. An unnatural calm permeated in the Black house. The only one pining over the affair was Alya: guilt for not stopping Sirius, for not being able to convince him to stay, was eating away at her soul. She couldn't give herself peace.

"How do you do it, Reg? Pretend that nothing happened? Our brother ran away and you don't seem to care!" blurted out Alya, lashing out at Regulus.

"Sirius has made his choice. I'm tired of telling you this, Alya. You heard it last night, too, how he insulted us. And disowned us. There was nothing we could do to stop him. Besides, I suspect he had been planning to escape for some time." sighed the young and elegant Black, displeased.

"And doesn't it worry you that he is out there now, alone? What will become of him? He will be in danger of getting himself killed within two days!" Alya had to restrain the urge to burst into tears.

"Maybe that's exactly what Sirius wants: to be killed as a martyr, in the name of the high ideals of brotherhood that Dumbledore's followers have instilled in him. You know what kind of rabble he runs around with at school." retorted Regulus, with a wicked smile, devoid of mirth.

"But as far as I'm concerned, what becomes of Sirius is no longer our problem. You have to accept that too, Alya."

"How can you talk like that? He is our brother, Reg!" exclaimed Alya, indignant and incredulous at Regulus' indifferent coldness. Did he really no longer care about Sirius?

"Not for long. Mom is upstairs, preparing the family tapestry for the ritual. In fact, we'd better hurry up and finish breakfast. She'll call us soon." the boy sighed practically, sipping greedily at the pumpkin juice in his silver goblet.

Alya's mood sank to an even darker level. Ritual. The most heinous of condemnations, according to her family's strict traditions. Once accomplished, Sirius would no longer be part of the Blacks. Definitely and irretrievably. Considered worse than dead; disowned, banished, exiled. Forever. Even if he had wanted to, if he had changed his mind, after the ritual, Sirius would never again be able to return to what, until a few hours before, he had still been able to call home. Years ago, the same fate had befallen Andromeda, Alya's cousin, who had run away with a Muggle-born, with whom she had fallen madly in love. Alya had not heard from her in ages. She didn't even know if she was still alive. On that occasion, it had been her uncle Cygnus, Andromeda's father, who had performed the ritual, even though, by tradition, it was up to her mother to perform the extirpation; but Druella, desperate as she was for her beloved daughter's escape, had not felt up to it, and, by way of exception, the duty had passed to her husband.