"Cassiopeia?" I ask briskly, staring, full of loathing, at my granddaughter who my son seemed to think was a thing of joy and happiness.

"Yes, mother," Cygnus grinned at me, "We named her Cassiopeia,"
"And not Ursula?" I enquire. He cocks his head.

"No, mother, not Ursula," He assures me. As if that's a good thing.

"I see," No I don't. I'm a liar. I continue to glare at the bundle.

Why didn't they name her after me? I was Cygnus' loving (Fine, maybe not THAT affectionate) mother. I raised him. And he repays me with naming my granddaughter Cassiopeia? Her middle name is Violetta. I decide that this girl will probably end up being the death of me; correct that. She WILL be the death of me.

But my son seems so strangely happy. It's rather obscure. But I've never seen him smile this much, so I let it slip.

"How is dear father?" Cygnus asks. I regard him highly with suspicion.

Cygnus and Phineas, my lovely husband, had a fight. Not really that long ago, when you consider their ages and the seasons that fly by.

In the autumn of 1900, Cygnus had attended Hogwarts, a school for the most respected of witches and wizards, apart from the half – breeds and half – bloods, and the pesky mudbloods, of course. He had been sorted into Slytherin.

Later, in 1906, Cygnus, aged only sixteen, had stood up for his twenty –five year old brother, Phineas. The shame of the family. The blood traitor. The one who had supported muggle rights. The idiot.
He (dishonourably) had argued with his father. Said that the idiot of the family might've had a point. We nearly disowned him, we did.

But, we kept him. Because of one promise. The promise that'd he'd name his first born daughter Ursula. So much for that.

"Still Headmaster at Hogwarts," I say bitterly. He scans me, his smile slowly turning into a frown.

"Dear mother, are you okay?" Cygnus frowns. I want to scream at him, but I don't and keep my composure. After all, we are at a Hospital, in public, and to do anything unladylike, such as yelling would embarrass the families of both Black and that of Flint. And I must not do that.

"Oh, yes," I reply, trying to stay dignified and hoping no one notices the sarcasm dripping off my words, "Just remembering… A name," Cygnus' eyes widen and I know I've hit the nail on the head.

"I – mother, we've already - " Cygnus stutters.

"Save it," I growl.

So much for that resolution.