AUTHOR'S NOTE: So this is just something that I wrote one night when thinking about Sirius and his mother. I was reading OotP and this popped into my head. It's categorised into angst/humour although it's not really that amusing until the end. I thought I'd post it and I hope you enjoy reading it!
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SATURDAY 14TH DECEMBER, 1985
Dear Mr S. Black,
We are writing to inform you that last night, Mrs Walburga Irma Black passed away at 12, Grimmauld Place, at the age of 60. She was under the supervision of a Healer from St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. According to the late Mrs Black's will, she wished for the eldest living male descendant bearing her surname to inherit her property and other assets. Consequently, the sum of 678,901,753 Galleons, 413 Sickles and 6 Knuts will be added to your Gringotts account and you will inherit the property 12, Grimmauld Place, along with its associated elf.
We regret to inform you of this loss.
Regards,
Velma Thicknesse, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Institute of Magical Records.
The official who'd brought the letter had made it clear that he'd only done so because my parents had been very respected within the Ministry and refusing to carry out their last wishes would have been an insult to the noble name of Black. I suppressed a shudder at the thought. At least I was still on the records. They hadn't forgotten that I was still in here. And now, I knew the date. I'd lost track of keeping note of it about three years ago.
What was I supposed to say to the Ministry official who handed me an envelope through the bars, looking as though he'd rather be anywhere else in the world than Azkaban? Thanks for the money, that will come in useful. Owl Order, perhaps? And a house, excellent. This cell was getting quite small. It was ridiculous but I could be thankful that my mother was dead. The woman I'd hated, had no love for, had ended up alone in that house. My father had died years ago, along with my brother and most uncles, aunts and every other stinking family member. I was the last true Black left now. That was ironic. The Black who hated his name and did everything against his family's wishes was the only one who had survived. That meant that the family name would be dying out, then. I doubted that I'd be doing anything proactive towards producing an heir whilst I was locked up in a prison halfway out to sea.
I re-read the letter for something to do and realised that I'd inherited Kreacher. He'd hate the idea of that even more than I did. I wondered if house-elves could be called to Azkaban? Not that I'd have bothered using Kreacher. Escaping was always a possibility but it was pointless. There was nothing to escape for.
So, my mother was dead. I didn't feel upset about that. I didn't feel much anymore, nothing positive and nothing negative. Every month, there were new prisoners and some left after a while. Some died. Some stayed and went silent. I didn't know what I was doing, only that I could transform into a dog when the Dementors hovered around my cell for too long. It didn't stop me from losing the good memories but it stopped the bad ones from taking over my mind. Those were the ones that I couldn't bear to remember.
"Of course, you won't be permitted to attend her funeral," the official had reminded me. I had laughed then, loudly.
"I see," I'd replied. "In that case, it's going to be quite a small service. I can think of about four people who might show up." The official had stared at me.
"That's hardly an appropriate comment at the news of your mother's death. Merlin, what this place must do to sane people…"
"What indeed?" I mused. He continued to stare and shook his head.
"I suppose, Black, you were never sane to begin with."
"Now you're talking," I muttered, as he walked away, giving the crying man in the next cell an odd look as he passed.
I didn't have many specific memories from Azkaban but receiving that letter in December 1985 was probably the best of them. Certainly, it was the most thoughtful Christmas present that my mother had ever given me.