Chapter Text
Witch Weekly Soulmates Edition
Black Scion Seeks Soulmate
Witches (and perhaps the odd Wizard) throughout the British Isles and beyond will be delighted to learn the latest news– Sirius Black, reclusive heir to the Black family fortune and estates, has reentered Wizarding Society. Frequently on the arm of the Boy Who Lived, and, on at least one notable occasion, accompanied by his cousin, the formidable Andromeda Tonks, Black has been seen purposefully introducing himself to no fewer than 27 unmatched pureblood witches, all but one of whom have been under the age of 30. In fairness to Black, he might have reason to believe his soulmate would be younger than himself, having spent many of his prime matching years unjustly imprisoned in Azkaban.
Rumour has it that, should Black not find his match by the end of this year, he plans to sojourn to his family’s vineyard in the South of France to see whether his soulmate might be there. In the meantime, England waits with bated breath to see whether the soulmate Black seeks is right under his nose.
Sirius tried not to let the carefully neutral expression on his face slip into a grimace as he approached Lavender Brown, Hermione Granger gamely acting as a buffer at his side.
“Lavender,” Hermione said, primly. “I’d like to introduce you to Sirius Black. You may remember that Harry-”
Lavender had a slightly crazed look on her face, and for one horrible moment Sirius feared that this witch might be crazy enough to actually say the words that were written on his arm.
She wasn’t. Instead she only gushed, looking directly at him, “Ohhh, do say it’s me!” and he breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped back.
“Regrettably not,” he intoned, not managing to sound even slightly regretful, and the angry look that briefly flashed across Lavender’s face told him that she knew that he was relieved. He turned from her without another word, ignoring Hermione’s reproachful stare as he left her to deal with whatever fallout Brown might manufacture.
As though sensing that he was going to get a moment alone, Andromeda descended upon him, slipping her own arm through his with the practised ease of exactly the kind of pureblood witch Sirius had dedicated his life to avoiding. Andromeda had amply proved that she was not your typical pureblood witch, however, and Sirius had no qualms about letting her weave him through the crowd.
“Have you met both Greengrass girls?” she inquired lightly, managing to snag a champagne from a floating tray without missing a step, and he marvelled as he always did at how easily she moved between worlds– she looked every bit as at home here at the Goyle estate, sipping champagne, as she did in her modest townhome outside London serving biscuits with mediocre tea.
“I’ve met the elder,” he nodded, grabbing a champagne flute of his own. “And I’d heard a rumour that the younger one might have matched with your nephew.”
To his surprise Andromeda raised a circumspect eyebrow before lowering her voice and drawing closer. “If she has matched, it’s not with Draco.”
Sirius briefly thought about taking the bait– if Draco had quietly matched with someone, this was shocking news that would be of interest to any witch or wizard who regularly read the Daily Prophet – but Sirius didn’t read the Daily Prophet, and didn’t have it in himself to pretend to care whose words might be on the arm of his first cousin once removed.
Andromeda didn’t seem to expect him to ask, though, instead leading him on a brisk journey across the room to where the youngest Greengrass stood.
“Miss Greengrass,” Andromeda said smoothly, as though she hadn’t just been gossiping about her. “Might I have the distinct pleasure of introducing you to my cousin, the head of the Black family, Sirius. Sirius, this is Astoria, Daphne’s sister.”
Astoria looked entirely too beatific to comprehend what the words on his arm meant, much less think to utter them herself, and so he was unsurprised when she simply simpered, “How lovely to finally be introduced, Mr. Black.” As he forced himself to return the sentiment, her face registered some disappointment, but he suspected that her disappointment wasn’t tied to him in particular, but rather to the fact that she, yet again, hadn’t met her soulmate. He knew she’d get used to it, though– perhaps she’d even come to embrace it. He certainly had.
Unlike Hermione, Andromeda Tonks could not simply be abandoned to her fate in the middle of a ballroom, and so Sirius was forced to engage in polite conversation with Astoria for almost ten minutes. By the end of it he would have been just as happy to incendio himself, and he absently, ruefully rubbed his arm where his words were located as he turned away.
“I suppose you’ve already introduced yourself to the Parkinson girl?” Andromeda inquired as she set her champagne down with the same careless grace with which she’d picked it up, not grabbing another.
Sirius did grab another, sensing he’d need it to get through the coming interaction. He followed Andromeda’s gaze to where she nodded, toward a young woman in navy robes that were easily the most formal in the room.
He had not, in fact, introduced himself to ‘the Parkinson girl’.
At first this had been more happenstance than anything else. There were so many pureblood witches he’d never spoken to, and so little time at the average pureblood function to attempt to do so. Having spent the entirety of the second War effectively imprisoned at Grimmauld Place, and the immediately ensuing years determinedly avoiding anything at all that might be deemed ‘polite’ society, there were initially enough unmatched witches throwing themselves in his way that those who didn’t were shoved to the back of the queue. Once the initial crowds had passed, though, his avoidance was more deliberate– this was the woman who had wanted to give Harry over to Voldemort. Words on their arms aside, what could they possibly have to say to one another?
Now, though, having unwillingly observed her for weeks on end, his resistance to making her acquaintance was more personal, visceral. It wasn’t that he was worried she’d be his soulmate– it was that everything about her set his skin on edge and made him want to run as far as possible in the opposite direction. Cutting off his own arm would likely be a more enjoyable experience than listening to the snooty words that would come out of her mouth in the affected, overly posh tones she utilised whenever she spoke.
Everything else about her infuriated him too. She was always impeccably dressed in rich jewel tones that complimented her raven hair. More often than not the Parkinson emeralds adorned her neck, as though she feared that without them one might be in danger of forgetting that she and all of her ancestors had been sorted into Slytherin– or worse, in danger of forgetting that she and her family were very very rich.
Every smile, every gesture, was small, contained, and perfectly controlled. She had 2 facial expressions– one bland, vacant, and wholly unobjectionable; the other a small half-smile that revealed no teeth. She was rarely without a champagne flute in her hand, though he’d never seen her so much as sip from one. And, at all times, she stood dutifully next to her parents, presenting herself as the vapid extension of them that she doubtless was.
In short, she was exactly the kind of pureblood woman that he had spent his entire life trying to get as far away from as possible, and he felt his face pull into a scowl as he addressed Andromeda.
“There doesn’t seem to be a point in introducing myself to ‘the Parkinson girl’. She wanted to hand Harry over to Voldemort, she was born with a broomstick up her ass, and she's young enough to be my daughter. Why bother?”
“They’re all young enough to be your daughter,” Andromeda murmured, something that might almost have been reproach in her voice.
“Yes, but at least my mother wouldn’t have been falling over her own wand to invite the rest of them for tea. This one never even leaves her own mother’s side, and I’m sure she never opens her mouth except to say ‘yes mother,’ ‘no mother,’ or ‘lovely weather we’re having, what’s the dark curse of the week?’
A tiny clink sounded to Sirius’s left, where the champagne flutes were located, and without fully knowing why he half-turned his head toward the sound–
Only to be confronted by Pansy Parkinson’s sharp gaze from where she stood, less than three feet from him, her mother and father for once nowhere in sight. It was clear that she’d heard every word.
Sirius was past being horrified at offending women, but he did feel a small pang of regret as her wide eyes met his own.
Andromeda also saw Pansy, and he had the strong sense that, if they hadn’t been in public, she would have rolled her eyes. “It’s not just her, this is all pointless,” she said, sounding sharply disapproving, even though he was absolutely sure her opinion of Pansy Parkinson was even lower than his. “You can’t avoid whatever is written on your arm and whoever is going to say it by exclusively talking to the youngest of the young adults in pureblood ballrooms. The words aren’t about trying to rule women out, the words are a prophecy.”
Sirius scoffed at the word prophecy , which seemed unnecessarily melodramatic, but Andromeda just continued, undaunted. “You could hide in Grimmauld place for the rest of time and whoever it is will come in one day with Harry, or with me, and that will be the end of it.”
Sirius scoffed again. “Not if I die first.”
“No,” Andromeda said, voice somehow even sharper, and as she looked pointedly to her own now-bare arm, where Ted’s words used to be, he regretted having said it. “And not if they do. But the words aren’t just going to miraculously go away.”
Sirius knew she was right– the words would never go away. One day he might even hear them. But he’d successfully avoided hearing anyone say them for over forty years– surely he could avoid them for forty more.
A week later, with a strange sense of deja vu, Sirius found himself at another pureblood event, this one hosted by the Patil family in a rather shameless attempt to narrow down possible matches for one of the twins. Sirius could never remember either of their names, but as he’d already been introduced to both of them he no longer needed to pretend to care.
At least this party resembled a party– the Patils weren’t fussed about whether their daughters matched with purebloods or half bloods or muggleborns, or even whether they matched with men or women, as long as they matched. Sirius couldn’t help but notice, however, that everyone in attendance was more attractive than they might be were the matter left entirely up to chance.
The Patils also didn’t seem to have the categorical opposition to bright colour that most purebloods did- the room was decorated in broad tapestries of translucent silk hanging from vaulted ceilings in every colour of the rainbow. No matter where Sirius stood they seemed to spiral endlessly around him, moving through the air in a swirl of rich jewel hues sparkling with threads of gold, silver, and bronze.
Sirius was attempting to unobtrusively move toward the exit, when he heard someone to his left murmur, softly, “-just leave. There’s no one else here for me to be introduced to even if that was something I wanted, which it is not .”
Despite himself he turned, wondering who could possibly be echoing his own sentiment at barely half 10 in the evening–
And was stunned to see that it was Pansy Parkinson, the vivid amethyst of her robe blending brilliantly into the richly saturated background of the party.
“What about Black?” her father inquired, from his usual spot– exactly two paces to Pansy’s left.
Despite knowing it could not end well, Sirius found himself ducking behind a flowy emerald silk and waiting for the answer.
“Black who?” Pansy asked, sounding bored, and Sirius had to give her points for cheek– her inflection was such that there was no way for her parents to protest without sounding unhinged, and yet he was quite certain that she knew exactly who he was– if there was any chance that she hadn’t known, she surely would have made herself aware after hearing his commentary on her at the Goyle estate.
“Black!” her father hissed loudly. “The ONLY Black. The scion of that great and noble family.”
“Oh, you mean Sirius,” she said, and while she still did sound bored her inflection was, as always, crisp, perfect– a perpetual reminder of everything he hated about pureblood heiresses. “Can someone who’s been disowned really still be the scion?”
Her father looked at her in what could only be exasperation. “When someone has all the money in their ancestral vaults, and is occupying their ancestral seat, they have not been disowned.”
Sirius was in no way convinced that Grimmauld could be considered an ‘ancestral seat’, and Pansy seemed similarly unimpressed. Indeed, she gave an unaffected shrug before taking a sip of champagne. “Regardless, I’ve no intention of introducing myself to him.”
At this her father looked so apoplectic that Sirius might have laughed would it not have given his position away. “Certainly you will not be permitted to introduce yourself. I will arrange an introduction, or if absolutely necessary your mother will-”
“Father,” Pansy interrupted, very mildly. “If I may speak plainly.”
Her father did not, in fact, seem enthusiastic about this prospect, but he nonetheless nodded, just once.
“I’d really rather not have a soulmate than find out it’s some possibly alcoholic Azkaban escapee who’s old enough to be my father. Scion or no, it won’t be him. Can we focus on realistic possibilities or else leave this horrible party?”
Sirius knew pureblood fathers well enough to be certain that her protest would only ensure that he and Pansy were introduced posthaste, and found he didn’t mind the possibility nearly as much as he had even five minutes ago. There would be no chance of her being his soulmate, then, not that there had been any before. She would simper an ‘It's a great pleasure to meet you, Mr Black,’ that was not really directed to him, but to her parents. In the meantime, her eyes would cut into him as he returned the sentiment, and they’d all return to their regularly scheduled lives.
Instead, though, Pansy’s mother mentioned someone named Michael Corner. As her parents mildly debated the pros and cons of an introduction to a mere half blood whose family was nonetheless extremely wealthy, Pansy looked away from them-
And directly toward Sirius. As their eyes met through the translucent scarves hanging between them she lifted one eyebrow at him just slightly, as though in a challenge, clearly aware he’d heard every word.
He lifted an eyebrow of his own, raising his glass toward her. He wondered if he may have underestimated her as she rolled her eyes pointedly to the ceiling before stepping away from her parents.
As she moved very deliberately toward him he felt a feeling that he couldn’t quite place– one that might almost have been excitement, if there could have been any reason to feel excited.
But he needn’t have felt anything as she swept quietly past him, her arm brushing his gently through the flimsy silk banner as she passed.
He shivered, and wondered when it had become cold.