AN: A little one-shot. I'm currently writing my Marauders Era story, and will post the first chapter before the end of the month.
When Walburga and Druella Black gave birth each time, the babies were praised. It was a new day, a new dawn, a new era for the Blacks. They would keep the bloodline going. Blacks to the end of the world.
But what happened to them?
First there was Bellatrix. Wildly passionate, a dark soul to go along with her a dark beauty. Strong and almost fearless, a warrior woman. She was the son Cygnus and Druella never had. Opinionated. She refused to be held back. She answered to no one except the Dark Lord. She was ruthless, and some might argue she was insane. She stood her ground, she fought for her beliefs, even through Azkaban.
Fighting was the story of her life. She fought against her parents for control of her clothes, her husband. Fought her husband against control of her life. Fought the Ministry for the Dark Lord. Fought and fought and fought... Her life was one big fight.
She died fighting. She died with the Killing Curse on her lips, her wand poised. And now she was buried next to her mother, courtesy of her youngest sister. Her dark beauty was covered and caved in where it always should have been. She was too strong for the world.
Did you make the Blacks proud, Bellatrix?
Yes.
Then there was Andromeda. Not as dark as her sister, not as ruthless, but cunning nonetheless. She too fought for her beliefs. She was strong and cool, elegant and proper. She kept her head down, and while everyone thought she was meek, she proved them all wrong. She observed more than saw, listened rather than spoke. And when she stood fearless, she stood firm, even on the wrong side of the tracks.
Secrets were the story of her life. She knew the secrets of every person who passed her in the hallways of her childhood, of her school. And she held on to her own, silently, vigilantly. Everything in her life was, for so many years, a shadowed secret.
And now she sits, rocking her grandson to sleep, a picture of her muggleborn husband, her half-blood daughter and her daughter's werewolf husband. All dead. All lost in a war her sister supported. The baby cries, as if sensing her disquiet. She soothes him while the tears fall down her face. She must be stronger than she ever was, for the infant her in arms.
Did you make the Blacks proud, Andromeda?
No. But I'm not sorry.
Next was Narcissa. She was elegant and graceful, an icy blonde with an icy demeanour to match. She was the classic beauty of the three sisters, well-behaved, well-learned. A doll on display. Her sole ambition was to marry and produce pureblood heirs. She was a well-groomed, well-spoken puppet in her parents' game.
Worry was the story of her life. She worried about everything—her sisters, her parents, her cousins, her friends. Her husband and son. One fighting a war on his beliefs, the other a puppet in a game he wasn't prepared to play. She worried all day, every day, and no one saw it beneath the icy façade.
And now she watches her son fly around the grounds of the Malfoy Manor. The worry is there, as always, but it has faded some. She is grateful that she did not lose him as well. She didn't think she would be able to live if her son was dead. Or worse, in Azkaban. She'd do anything to get him out of Azkaban. But she doesn't need to dwell on that, he's right here, landing when she waves to him. She holds him close. He's the only one she worries about now.
Did you make the Blacks proud, Narcissa?
Of course I did.
Sirius was next. He was wild and brash, fearless and rebellious. He stood on his own, away from his family. He was loyal to a fault, strong, unwavering. The word dangerous didn't exist his vocabulary. He was reckless, bold, lively. He was passion and fire and energy. He was foolishness and justice and humour and intelligence. Constraints were lost on him.
Impulses were the story of his life. He lived in the moment, free as a bird. He lived for what he wanted, he lived for danger. He lived for foolhardy ill-informed decisions, for love and peace and friends. He lived how he wanted. He got what he wanted, whenever he wanted it.
And now, he was lost, trapped in death in a Veil by cousin Bellatrix, his exact fate unknown. And while he was embraced on the other side, he was mourned in life. His energy was gone, his foolhardiness went too far, his moment was over. He lived and died in danger.
Did you make the Blacks proud, Sirius?
No. Why would I?
Lastly, there was Regulus. Mousy little Regulus, quiet and afraid, unsure and undemanding. He stood between his brash brother and his parents, loving and hating both, not knowing where he should go. He kept his head down, his life comfortable and uncomplicated. No one knew anything about him, no one knew what went on beneath the stoic façade. He was a stone sculpture to the world and an work of abstract art to himself.
Confusion was the story of his life. Everyday, there was another fight he was on both sides of, not knowing if he believed in either one enough to take a stance. He was always the brink of something or another, stumbling uncertainly back and forth. But he didn't give up. He was determined to find his place.
And now he's buried six feet under in a plot belonging to the Black family. Dead the moment he finally let go his confusion and allowed himself to pick a side. He chose and he fell and he wouldn't have changed it for the world. He died knowing what was worth living and dying for.
Did you make the Blacks proud, Regulus?
I hope so. And I hope I made Sirius proud too.