Sirius looked at her, disheveled and crying in the weak morning sunlight, wearing her half-unbuttoned pink satin pajamas, and suddenly thought of his own mother, who was cold and cruel, who cared only for appearances, who exercised her authority with the back of her hand. Sirius was never hugged, never sung to, never laughed with, never told he was loved. He was the heir, bred for carrying on a title and ensuring the continuance of the family line, nothing more.