The Last Gryffindor (Sirius Black)

Sequel? Ch. I

A/N

So I never planned to have a sequel, never even thought about it, actually, until someone commented on the last chapter awhile ago asking if I would, and for some reason that stuck with me. My imagination just sort of ran off with the possibilities against my permission, leaving me with this, despite my best efforts to not do it. I couldn't help myself. Most probably won't read it, because it's not really Aeliana's story anymore, but for those interested I'll post these chapters about the early life of Sirius Caius Gryffindor. I don't expect there will be more than five or so  chapters in total (if I'm lucky). Hopefully, I'll manage to wrap his story arc up quickly. Anyway, enough rambling. To the exactly one of you who will get far enough to read this, enjoy!

Also, PSA, the pacing for this will be VERY fast, since I just want to get through it.

• — • — •

I watched him.

I watched as he brought a goblet to his lips and drank, as his ginger friend gazed longingly after some boy in the frigid Durmstrang uniform of crimson and black, and as the Hogwarts Headmaster announced the beginning of the tournament. I watched the boy with the lightning bolt scar and debated whether or not to kill him.

Let me rephrase that: I didn't particularly want Harry Potter dead one way or the other, but he was in my way. In the end, I decided not to act that day. Or the next, or the next.

Instead, I scoured the castle for a trace of her. The woman who abandoned me, the one the matron at my orphanage claimed had to be barking mad— paranoid and half delirious in the moments after giving birth, and obviously terrified.

To be fair, it was only paranoia if the phantoms chasing after her were imagined.

I begged the headmistress to let me join the rest of the Beauxbatons at Hogwarts that year, despite being too young to participate in the Triwizard Tournament. Luckily, she had a soft spot for talented young orphans, especially the oh-so-polite ones. After being adopted off to France as a young child and then passed around from home to home when normal — muggle — families eventually realised something wasn't quite right with the dark haired child they brought into their lives, I used the pity my past inspired as my most valuable currency. Strange happenings repeatedly drove me out of homes time and again, until finally at eleven years old a thin-lipped envoy from the French wizarding school explained everything.

For the first time in my life, and possibly the last, things made sense.

Nothing had ever felt so right. I wasn't a freak or ill fortune. I was special, more so than any of those muggles who rejected me. That fuelled me for a time, but eventually the unanswered questions of my parentage needled in deep, every time I watched my classmates travel home to their perfect little families for the holidays, with each mother and child I saw walking side-by-side on the street.

Why?

Why was I abandoned?

Why? Why? Why? Why? Why—

"Can I help you look for something?" a no-nonsense, business like voice asked, drawing my attention to a bushy-haired witch I'd noticed frequenting the library as much as myself, if not more.

"No," I replied automatically, before reconsidering. What did I have to lose by soliciting help in my search? "Actually, I'm looking for someone in particular. Anything on a girl, but I don't know her name."

"That does make a challenge," she agreed, sounding invigorated by the idea. "I'm Hermione, by the way. Hermione Granger."

She stuck out a hand, very official-like, and, somewhat hesitantly, I took it, shaking once before releasing.