III.
"Am I to understand," Phineas said slowly, "that my grandson- the last of the true Blacks- is dead?"
"Yes, Phineas," Dumbledore said. The Slytherin couldn't stand the sight of those blue eyes.
"I don't believe it," he said brusquely.
He couldn't. It wasn't true. It shouldn't be. The Blacks were infallible! Phineas lied to himself and hated it. He passed by that old insane widow- strolled by Orion who gazed blankly at him- to one of the few horrid photographs in Sirius' room. The Qudditich players in the poster he moved into began making obscene gestures at him. Phineas blatantly ignored them.
The room was dusty. The whole house was really. Thankfully his gloves remained as pristine as ever. The only part of him that was truly white. He grimaced at his bizarre behaviour as of late. He was actly out of character. How unbefitting. Phineas left the room as quietly as he appeared.
"SIRIUS!" he yelled His voice echoed back mockingly. The family was dead. He shouldn't yell, he admonished himself. It was unbecoming. But what was the point anymore? Phineas angrily made his way back to his portrait, his perferred one in the current Headmaster's office.
It was empty, except for Dumbledore sitting wearily at his desk, admist wreckage. Phineas didn't need to ask what happened with Potter- he already knew. That brat was disappointing.
"How did he die?" Phineas spoke as if asking the weather conditions for the next day. Casual.
Albus Dumbledore looked at him, not really wanting to say this at all.
"Bellatrix Lestrange."
Phineas couldn't help it, he pinched his brow for a moment (old habits die hard) and let out a yell of mirthless laughter.
"How utterly fitting," he whispered. He looked up. The other portraits gazed at him oddly. The Hat nodded, seeming to know exactly what he spoke of.
"Families take care of their own," the Hat said sagely.
Phineas Nigellus nodded curtly to the Sorting Hat. He returned again to his other portrait- in that cursed house. He sat at his desk bleakly. He moved to pick up a book but accidently knocked over his inkpot, spilling dark ink all over his gloved fingers.
As he watched the ink drip down his hands, he thought, "How utterly Black."
FIN.
A/N
And thus ends the tragic Black family and this little trilogy drabble.
Disclaimer: Excerpts taken from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. I do not own Harry Potter, Phineas Nigellus or anything else. That all belongs to J.K Rowling. Not me.
R&R