The better for him, the worse for Severus Snape

Chapter 3: Mrs Black

Normally, she just dozes behind her black velvet curtains, because she never leaves her portrait, and since Kreacher went to Hogwarts there's been no one to bring her the rumours of the day. But today she's not dozing, she's wide awake, thinking, the house has been as quiet as the grave for weeks, it's been undisturbed by wizards and Muggles alike, but of course Muggles can't see the house, the filthy pullulating Muggles that swam like ants around it can't see it, my dear husband Orion made it Unplottable ... but yesterday that awful wizard came, the one with the wooden leg and the magical eye, the one who threatened to slash my portrait with a knife if I so much as said a word - and he took Phineas' portrait down, turned it to face the wall so Phineas can't leave it, so he can't move around the house and talk to the rest of us. And then he came back, with the foul half-blood spawn of the Mudblood Evans - and that other man, that tall man with the greasy black hair and the black eyes ... I've seen him here before, he's another member of the Order of the Phoenix, another one of Dumbledore's creatures – the Muggle-loving old fool!

She thinks, Kreacher would know why they were here and what they were doing, Kreacher would find out and he'd tell me, but Kreacher isn't here, he belongs, like the house and everything in it - to the filthy half-blood Evans, I refuse to call him by the name of Potter, that's a pure-blood name, besmirched for ever by his father's miscegenation with the Mudblood slut - and poor Kreacher must go where his master sends him. Dear faithful Kreacher, how he longs for his true mistress, how he longs for his Bellatrix, the daughter of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, toujours pur. Beautiful, clever, spirited Bella - she was always my favourite amongst the girls, and Rodophus Lestrange was never good enough for her, but there were so few pure-blood wizards for her to choose from, and my Regulus was too young for her ... and they sent her to Azkaban! All lies, lies, slanders ... monstrous lies about Lord Voldemort!

Well of course amongst Lord Voldemort's supporters there must have been a few wild young men and I daresay they misbehaved a little, but someone had to do something. Slytherins were being badly treated everywhere, in the Ministry, the Auror Office, the Goblin Liaison Office, everywhere – Abraxas Malfoy told me a dreadful story of a young friend of his son, very talented, who was refused a position by Gringotts just because he was Slytherin! And someone had to do something about the Mudbloods and the half-bloods, wizard blood was counting for less and less everywhere ... all that fool Dumbledore's fault, of course! And why did Dumbledore have to interfere in the Grindelwald war anyway, people say that a hundred million Muggles died in that war – and a good thing, too. Muggles fighting each other, what can you expect, they're only animals, and nasty dangerous animals, too, even though they have no magic ... it was none of our business, there was no fighting here in England – so why did Dumbledore have to interfere?

Dumbledore came back a hero from the Grindelwald war, and Orion and Abraxas Malfoy couldn't prevent him from being appointed Headmaster of Hogwarts - and how I wish now that I'd sent my sons to Durmstrang, I should have taken Sirius out of Hogwarts the day that he was Sorted into Gryffindor! Not that it would have done any good, that boy was rotten to the core, rotten from the day that he was born, but sending him to that school didn't help, not with that damned Muggle-loving Gryffindor as Headmaster, and Slughorn as Head of Slytherin, that man had no proper sense of wizarding pride despite his pedigree and his abilities ...

And then she thinks, I could have forgiven everything, overlooked everything – the Sorting into Gryffindor, friendship with the blood-traitor, consorting with a werewolf - Sirius was a wild, rebellious boy, so much more talented than Regulus ... but I couldn't overlook the terrible things he said the day that he left home. Dreadful things, insulting things, insane things – he insulted the family, he insulted me, he insulted all right-thinking wizards!

She remembers blasting Sirius' name off the family tapestry ... Orion wasn't man enough to do it ... and then she remembers the owl that came from Hogwarts later in the year, requesting them to come up to Hogwarts "as soon as may be convenient" to discuss a disciplinary issue, a very serious matter that had nearly led to Sirius' expulsion - and the reply she'd sent to Albus Dumbledore. Oh, she'd given Dumbledore a real blast, she'd let him know that Sirius was no son of hers, he was one of Dumbledore's wretched Gryffindors, and perhaps the Headmaster might like to take it up with the Potters, since Sirius had practically moved in with them!

And then she thinks, thank Merlin I put Permanent Sticking Charms on my portrait and the family tapestry, or Sirius and his friends would have thrown them away with all the other precious heirlooms of the House of Black. His friends! Mudbloods and werewolves and blood-traitors and thieves defiling my house ... and worst of all, Sirius' godson, the half-blood scum - it's shameful that Black blood flows in the creature's veins, polluted and diluted though it is. Through his father's mother the blood of the House of Black runs through the veins of the half-blood Evans, and that's how he was able to inherit under Sirius' will.

She remembers the night that Phineas Nigellus stalked through every portrait in the house, calling frantically for Sirius - and she thinks, I'm glad that he's dead, I'm glad my son died before he could further defile the house of my fathers, before he could bring a Mudblood wife into this house to take my place, before he could make the dirt-veined spawn of Muggles the mistress of the House of Black - and father a litter of mongrels, a litter of half-caste brats. I'm glad Sirius died before he could shame me as his cousin Andromeda shamed my brother – it's bad enough that a wizard would soil himself with a Muggle but how could a witch let such filth touch her, how could a witch let a Muggle touch her? A Muggle is an animal - less than an animal, of less worth than the Hippogriff my son brought into the house and stabled in my bedroom!

Oh, if only Regulus had lived ... he was a good son, an obedient son, he would never have defied me, never disappointed me. Oh, if only Regulus had lived to marry the girl I chose for him, if only he'd lived to marry Alecto Carrow ... perhaps she wasn't the prettiest or the most charming of girls, but she was pure-blood, and she would have borne pure-blood sons for Regulus, pure-blood heirs for the House of Black. Wicked, wicked Sirius, to tell such awful lies about Regulus and how he died - Lord Voldemort would never have ordered Regulus to be killed, Regulus wasn't a blood-traitor, it's lies, all lies ... I won't believe a word of it. Lord Voldemort dined here a dozen times before the Ministry banned his party, and he was a remarkable wizard - intelligent, knowledgeable, charming – and so appreciative of our collection of interesting objects, I won't believe a word of the terrible things they say about him, it's all lies, they'll do anything, say anything, to stop a Slytherin becoming Minister for Magic ...

Then she hears the door open, sees the black-haired man and the loathsome half-blood through a crack in the curtains, has the vile creature come again to gloat over his inheritance? But he doesn't have the wooden-legged wizard and his nasty Muggle knife with him today, and she isn't afraid of the half-blood Evans – her portrait is powerfully protected against all form of magical attack, and no one in the Order has ever managed to even begin to budge it off the wall - so she shrieks at him, filthy half-blood, scum, freak, abomination, spawn of Muggle filth, how dare you befoul the House of Black – if only Regulus had lived, if only my boy had lived ...

And then there's a tremendous blast, her portrait crashes to the floor, its frame a splintered wreck - and she's so shocked and frightened that she can't even scream. She huddles silently under the wreck of the black velvet curtains for a long time – and then, just when she's thinking that it might be safe to slip out, to slip quietly upstairs and find a place to hide until the black-haired man and the boy have gone, she hears angry shouting from the kitchen, and, terrified, she creeps back under the shelter of the rags of black velvet and keeps very, very quiet.