Don't be afraid. Blacks aren't afraid. Blacks don't cry. Blacks are strong. Blacks are powerful. Blacks are brave. Blacks are beyond reproach, Blacks fight for the greater good. Blacks don't make mistakes. Blacks are never wrong Blacks don't do this, Blacks don't do that, Blacks must behave, Blacks aren't afraid.
It beat through their heads like a mantra, like a lullaby from the hazy past. Other children had grown up with Babitty Rabitty, or The Fountain Of Eternal Youth, but that was the song that had sent the Black children to sleep night after night, never changing, never altering, year after year after year after year. It was the code they had to follow, the rules they had to live up to, drummed into their heads before they were a year old, reinforced with beatings and punishments. They learned young, they never knew any other way of life. Does a poisonous plant ever dream of being a violet?
"Being a Black means that you are special, you are better. Nobody in that school is as good as you." It was what they heard, why should they not believe it? And in their eyes, they were. Nobody was as powerful as Bellatrix, not even some of the teachers. She was the eldest, the ringleader, the one whose angry, haughty tone echoed commandingly down the great stone corridors. Nobody was as dedicated and clever as Narcissa, the younger sister whose calm, cold demeanor chilled the Slytherin common room. Nobody was like Andromeda, with her loyalty, her knack for the Dark arts, and her quick competence at charms. Black beauty followed on the heels of black arrogance and charm, turning the heads of all who passed. Together, they were a solid threesome, the honey, the poison, and the orchid.
They were the three black sisters, untouchable, unstoppable. They knew what they wanted, they knew where they were going. And so what if one of them was secretly sneaking out at night to train with someone who certainly wasn't a teacher? So what if one of them never smiled when she was teasing a mudblood? So what if one of them cried into her pillow every night, knowing she'd never be perfect? So what if one of them tortured muggleborns far beyond the 'norm'? So what if one of the felt like an outsider in her own family? So what if in the privacy of a bedroom tensions were frayed, and loyalty wavered? So what if there were tears and accusations, threats? So what if in the basement of the Manor there was blood, and pain, and black twisted insanity? So what if there was endless sleepless nights, whispering a spell to heal bruises seen only in the privacy of darkness? So what if none of the show they put on was real? As long as it never showed, who cared?
Because they'd also learned the other rule: nobody sees what you do behind closed doors.
The problems only occur when those doors open.