I do not own Harry Potter.

It was a family tradition.

A Nigellus family tradition, however. It had been done as far back as the family had existed, equivalent to the elaborate family trees of most other families. I much preferred this method; names and strands of gold were so feeble and meaningless beside vast stretches of canvas, recording the every feature of the picture's inhabitant. The Nigelluses in particular were known for their talking enchanted portraits. They were very useful, especially in such cases as my great grandfather, Phineas, a past Hogwarts headmaster died and continued to dutifully advise the more recent school heads.

My own portrait was painted just as I was entering Hogwarts. Though the painting would be enchanted so that it grew along with me, my mother dressed me up just the same. My younger sister watched jealously as I was seated on a velvet-upholstered stool, primly waiting as the artist wizard daubed my likeness on his easel with charmed paint. I was only eleven years old, but my features were already my own: thick, dark, glossy curls; heavy eyelids; long black eyelashes; large, dark, liquid eyes; lips a deep purple-red, cheekbones high and fine, complexion olive. I wore a black cape over my purple dress, feeling dashing and sophisticated, hoping I would remain in fashion long after I died, leaving my portrait behind.

I entered Hogwarts as a Slytherin and excelled in my Charms classes. I had my foolish days of girlhood dreams and laughter. My friends and I drooled over the boys in the years ahead of us, and there was one in particular who stole my heart: a dark, handsome Slytherin named Tom Riddle who never appeared to notice my attentions. He was mutually adored by my best friends and I, but I always knew that if something were to happen it would be to me, the prettiest of my lot. I was a striking Slytherin beauty, after all-- Slytherin men typically went for dark, mysterious women-- and I seemed to match Tom somehow, at least in my own mind.

My sister Maia joined me at Hogwarts when I was in my third year. Her portrait was painted with her seated on the same stool, but she took a sheer shawl instead of a cape, as I had-- she was a shallow, vain little thing, with hardly enough brains to give her the marks I earned. Her face was not as pretty as mine, she was paler and skinnier, but not pleasingly so. Her arms were boney, her face thin, and her hair did not stay in fine curls as mine did. Her inferior portrait hung on the wall beside mine, and, as my mother told us, was apt to argue with mine, as if we were ourselves at home.

She was meddlesome and figured out my interest in the boy two years older than me. It was a great joke to her to rush up to him one day at breakfast and point me out to him. "Vega likes you!" she had giggled, nearly wetting herself with glee. Tom had peered over at me, smirking. "Girl! What's your name?" he asked me. I blushed and approached him, my girlfriends holding their breaths.

"Vega Nigellus," I said proudly, holding myself erect and proud.

"Nigellus. You're from a pureblood family?" He looked me over with a scrutinizing eye.

I scowled at him, but playfully so. "Of course. Do you even need to ask? The Nigelluses are well-known. You must have heard of us. My great grandfather was Headmaster six headmasters ago."

"Surely you can't expect me to know the name of every fine family," Tom sighed histrionically. "I mean, really. Do you recall the name 'Riddle?'"

"I can't say I have. I'll look it up," I promised. I turned on my heel, letting my curls bounce against my back as I flounced away, hoping he found them attractive.

Yet he wasn't done with me. "Vega, don't look it up. Just trust me." I turned back to him, my hair flipping back around my shoulders. He fixed me with a dark grin. "Or don't you trust Slytherins? We tend not to be the best at keeping secrets."

"As one myself, I would think myself to be the best judge." This time I glanced him up and down. He was very well-formed, slim and slender but muscular. I wondered if he had ever thought of trying out for Quidditch. He was too tall to be a Seeker, but perhaps he'd make a decent Chaser. "And I say I'll take your word for it. The word of Tom Marvolo Riddle."

Tom's lips twitched downward into a frown. "The word of me. Just me. No need to attach it to a name."

"Why?" I asked, blinking so that my long eyelashes were apparent. "After all, a name is the most important part of a person. It attaches one to a family, to a bloodline."

Tom leaned back casually against the table, stretching his long legs. His shirt rumpled and his shiny perfect badge was tucked into the folds. "As you wish. Though I do advise you . . names decay after years of disuse. It takes people, not just their names, to keep a family noble."

I folded my arms, still trying to find a way to flirt with him. "And you're going to make the Riddles well-known again?" I asked.

"Perhaps," he yawned. "Or, more likely, I'll just make myself well-known."

"I'll look for you then, when you make your name in the world," I laughed. Feeling I would grow annoying, a silly 13-year-old, bothering him continually, I left him. My friends crowded around me, giggling and whispering in awe. I myself remained cool and calm. I glanced back only once and gave him a silent smile.

Scandal overshadowed happier days, however. Though most of my compatriots and I considered it no great loss to the world, an annoying Muggle-born Hufflepuff girl from several of my classes was murdered in my 4th year. Her name was Myrtle, and though I only had to deal with her in Herbology and Study of Ancient Runes, I knew her well-- though not as a friend. She was the crybaby who interrupted my friends' and my girl sessions in the washrooms, blubbering in a closed stall as we attempted to whisper about our secret interests. She was sensitive, overdramatic, ugly, and quite stupid. I was paired with her only once in Herbology, and she burst into tears and had to be carried out because her friend told her she looked like one of the Mandrakes we had been repotting.

I could understand fully why someone would want to kill her even if she had been a pureblood, but, naturally, since blood was the obvious reason, it became under investigation from the Ministry. The bathroom was closed for weeks, which drove my friends and I nearly crazy, having no private place to chat between classes. There were threats of closing the school. The worst part was Tom-- he was clearly traumatized by the whole matter. I didn't know why he was particularly upset, but it pained me to see him like that.

I had thought of countless schemes to cheer him up, but he helped himself before I could. He apprehended the killer-- an oafish, dim-witted Gryffindor who irked me nearly as much as Myrtle but luckily had little contact with me being not in the same year-- and was given an award from the school for his pains.

My friends suddenly were in upheaval. Turning in the "Mudblood's killer" was the equivalent of helping her out. Why would a fine Slytherin such as Riddle do such a thing? One of my friends took out "Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy" and looked up Riddle. It wasn't listed.

"He must be a Mudblood or a halfblood himself!" she cried.

"Nonsense!" I refused to admit there was anything wrong with Tom. "He's just hoping to improve his chances at Head Boy!"

To prove it to myself, I went to Phineas. "Well, yes, he is a smarmy little fellow, always saying 'yes sir' and 'no sir' and offering to do a bit too much for Dippet if you ask me. Dippet buys it completely, of course. But, between you and me," he beckoned me forward, "I've heard him talk with the man. He spends his summers in a Muggle orphanage. He's a halfblood . . . his father disowned him as a witch-baby when his mother died."

I gasped. "How . . . how did he . . . if he's a halfblood . . . how did he get into Slytherin?" I could feel tears welling in my eyes. I had idolized the boy . . . and not only was he halfblood filth, he had deceived me.

Phineas shrugged. "Perhaps he's Slytherin's Heir. Slytherin would have an heir, halfblood or no."

"He's not Slytherin's Heir!" I rolled my eyes, even though Mother always said I looked hideous when I did that. "That boy who murdered that Mudblood was."

"Funny thing is, he's no Slytherin," Phineas scratched his chin. "Looks to me as if the Houses have gotten all whopperjawed."

I just shook my head and walked out, tears streaming down my face. I felt so disillusioned-- not to mention humiliated, having adored the boy, flirted with him, bragged of my encounters with him to my friends, and fantasized about him.

Tom got his wish of being made Head Boy. I didn't speak to him all that year. Besides, his leaving my heart came at the perfect time, just when I needed to start thinking of more practical relationships with boys. As I entered my fifth year, Mother was already making arrangements for my marriage.

By the time Tom graduated, my heart was empty of him. In fact, I didn't have much of a heart anymore. Tom disappeared after graduation; I didn't even hear of him in the papers. It didn't bother me. I was glad he was gone, free from the world as he was from me, to be remembered only as the beautiful boy with whom I had once been enamored. Besides, whoever I married would not want to think I was still mooning over someone else.

In my sixth year, marriage arrangements were finally arranged. I would be taken into the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black as the wife of the heir, Rigel. I became Vega Nigellus Black.

TBC . . . (sheesh, she hasn't even had kids yet . . . but don't worry, this all becomes important later)