Sirius Black knows what today is.

Which -- that's stupid, of course he knows what today is, everyone knows what today is.

"It's very important to be on your best behavior today, Sirius," his mother informs him, stiffly, while she lays out his best dress robes and a shirt and a tie and all that. It really means 'try your best not to be an idiot and embarrass the entire family', and she tells him this, in her own special sorts of tones that she uses - he can identify them, easily, he gets them enough.

Funerals, holidays, and special occasions. They were the only reasons for family to visit, and Sirius only wished they could be more infrequent. Walburga got more on edge than usual, that was. Had to impress the family, after all. Had to keep the Blacks and the Lestranges and the Crabbes and all that nice and pleased and Sirius could care less. It was just another opportunity for people to remind Sirius how much less rebellious his brother was - how good for the family! How compliant!

Bellatrix would pet his hair and call him a puppy. He'd twitch, like she knew about things, somehow. She didn't know. He'd twitch anyway. Really, bits of vomit tastes. In his mouth.

His mother watches him while he changes, which should be more awkward, but it's not anymore, not since he sneaked a Chudley Cannons shirt under his robes, Christmas at ten years old. Rebellions, starting early. His mother wouldn't stand for that. She doesn't stand for much. Not when she's sniffing disapprovingly at all his little details. His Sex Pistols poster he's stuck to the wall with a spell she can't undo, the photo on his dresser that has his friends bouncing about and giving each other noogies, the shaggy hair that she's had him smooth out with some kind of jelly substance that smells like bad eggs.

"I'm expecting you downstairs in no longer than five minutes. The family will be arriving soon." And she stands, then, primly, smooths out her own robes. "You're fourteen years old today. Closer to becoming a man of the Black family. Act like it."

She departs. Sirius waits, sitting on his bed, for exactly four and a half minutes before he heads downstairs. Best to not try Walburga's temper.

There's an elaborate array of cheeses, of which Sirius only knows two of their names, and he pops a cube into his mouth before thinking about the fact that it's on the very silver tray. He's incredibly glad he wasn't allowed to invite friends. James and Pete would have been cracking jokes, or trying to. Remus wouldn't have been able to have any expensive cheeses. Poor soul. He'd like to think it would have helped.

Dear Narcissa stares him down very primly as she approaches the table, grinding out a haughty greeting and not one word of a congratulatory wish before she starts stealing his birthday cheeses. Sirius decides, no, they wouldn't have helped, his friends.

In spirit, at least, it's not awkward. There's not the unavoidable shift-shift of Sirius' feet when the revealing nature of his family starts showing its true colors, all nasty jokes about Mudbloods in corners, except there is the shifting but at least they aren't around to see it. Or something. Sirius hates birthdays. It's probably not right to hate one's birthday. Sirius tries not to think about it too much, and stays seated in an arm chair in the parlor, despite his mother's nudges at him to get him up, socializing. He staves off inane questions with blunt, grunted, one-word answers.

It works out for him. Honestly.

Stealing wine is not met very impressively. His mum catches him on his second glass, snatches his hands away and points him towards the tastefully awful pumpkin punch by the kids' side of the table. 'Narcissa got to have wine,' he wants to argue, but instead, tiny rebellions and all, he just doesn't drink a thing all night. Sod Walburga and her pumpkin punch and all that.

James is cracking jokes about his grandmum's nose, wrinkles in a giant mountain and all, and almost grates a smile out of Sirius. Pete, too, is infatuated with Sirius' expanses of cheese, all over the table, cheese and crackers and tiny appetizers that Sirius can't even name. And Remus is possibly most helpful, for reasons he can't understand, quoting passages at him in a low voice and elbowing him a little when he starts looking blue. It's all in his head, and maybe he's going a little crazy too - it runs in the family, doesn't it? After all - but he doesn't care, it keeps him steady, and he just watches the table and Pete loading up on crackers and, miracle upon miracles, laughs a little.

When all's said and done and the guests filter out one by one, Sirius has to give his goodbyes by the door, and ignores James' snickering in his ear when Bellatrix grabs for something obscene. He's fairly sure she tries to lick his face.

He gets a multitude of books he'll never read, a banner with the family crest, a plated cauldron, new robes, and an expanse of other impersonal gifts from people who have no idea who he is. His parents' is the best. "You'll love it," his father crows, after he's shoved the box into his hands.

"It's a tie," Sirius echoes, and he'd be disbelieving if he didn't know better. It's silver. And green. And striped. Very subliminal. He knows, by now, just what house he didn't get into.

"The silver can match those horrible new ear things you've gotten yourself," Walburga huffs, before whisking off to do something far more important than chastise him. Regulus steals the tie anyway so it doesn't matter, great klepto he is and all.

Sirius wanks that night not exactly ecstatic with the fact he thinks of his friends, but he doesn't feel the least bit sorry. He thinks of James' dumb smile and Remus' silly nose and Pete eating all that cheese and even Lily and that stupid red hair James is always prattling on about. He thinks of his real home, back at Hogwarts, back in greater pastures where he can sleep all over James' floor and much prefer it to the king-sized mattress he's on now. He thinks of stupid classes and stupid hallways and stupid werewolves and he peaks, but when he does all he can hear is his mother's voice.

"Filthy little boy, disgusting embarrassment," she scolds, in her motherly sort of hiss.

Sirius sits up, covered in sweat, still wearing a stupid tie from earlier, hand caught around his dick like he's sure she's actually watching. She's not, and yet he still feels shaken, caught in the act and all. And thus repeats it, exactly seven minutes later.

He hates birthdays. He hates his family. He hates hopeless feelings, and suffocating holidays, and ties, and cousins, and that he didn't get too much chance at that wine, and his brother, and shoes, and stuffy behavior, and formal greetings, and he huffily smokes out the window, thinking of all of this, pants-less but not tie-less. He lets ash fall carelessly onto the sill, and tightens the tie until he can't breathe for a few long seconds, contemplating death and who would miss him and not. It's not something he'd actually act on. Because he doesn't like giving his mother gifts. Because he keeps thinking of James and Remus and their stupid faces, and he keeps going back to Pete and those cheeses and lets out some kind of hopeless sound that might have been a laugh but instead it's a bit strangled and almost like he's crying.

Sirius Black doesn't cry. Sirius Black stuffs this crying business right back down again and finishes off his cigarette.

He hates birthdays.

Did he mention that?

He really hates birthdays.