Kreacher dealt with the owl. Mrs. Black had other concerns. That one of those concerns was a progressive illness that made every movement a twinge of agony… She had borne children. She had grown up playing with pain. Incurable sickness was beneath her concern.
But she didn't get up from her table, and Kreacher brought in the mail.
"From Hogwarts, Ma'am," he breathed, a glint in his eye that they both understood, though of course she only barely acknowledged the elf.
Sirius.
She stood up to read the letter. Better that way. Prove she was strong. She could take whatever her son could throw at her, raise that boy to be the wizard he was meant to be.
The muggle-loving headmaster's words wove around and attempted to disguise the truth, but Mrs. Black could see it as clearly as if it were splashed across the parchment in fresh, glistening blood.
Sirius has killed someone.
Well. It was bound to happen eventually.
Perhaps now, the boy would learn some responsibility.
There would be an inquest. Mr. Black could deal with that. Their name still held considerable sway; their alliances held sway in the Ministry.
And she would hold Sirius's deliverance over him and finally, finally, he would come to accept his role as Black heir.
She looked again at the letter.
Snape. A pureblood name. Just like Sirius to take it out on his own.
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