Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. This particular version of Mrs. Black is all mine, however.
A/N: Yet another one of my oddball AUs, I'm afraid. The idea for this one came out left field about six months ago, and was, originally, centered on Sirius and his schooldays as a Slytherin. Now it's a chronicle of the war and the events leading up to it from the perspective of his mother. Yes, his mother; the madwoman from the portrait. Except she isn't. Clear? Of course not. That would be too easy.
As the owl flew towards the breakfast table, I smiled, but not as widely as I would have liked to. I was born some seventy years ago, before the invention of most modern dental charms, and my teeth have always been an embarrassment to me, so much so that even my eldest son's Hogwarts letter could not induce me to reveal them. There are moments now when I regret my vanity; most them are when Sirius says something particularly cutting to me about never having had a smile for him when he was a child, or the like. I nod regretfully, and ask, "But would you really have wanted to see a smile like mine?" and give him a wide, false grin that shows all my teeth, in their gapped and crooked glory. He always looks away, presumably in disgust, and leaves soon after, leaving me to my gin and my memories.
The house is like a mausoleum these days, waiting for the last inhabitant, myself, to keel over and leave it to its dust and decay. Unfortunately for it, I'm only seventy-two, middle aged for a witch, and unlikely to die anytime soon, despite being crippled and aged before my time by the war. All I'm fit for these days is sitting and crocheting, or, on a good day, re-reading my letters. I have saved a copy of every piece of correspondence that I ever sent or received; my original intent was to publish my memoirs during my lifetime, but there are too many events in my lifetime that are simply Not Discussed. The war, for one, my torture for another. I, and my entire generation, was brought up to smile politely under even the most strenuous of circumstances, and I am far too set in my ways to change that now, therefore this account shall be published post-mortem.
Sirius has told me, in a distinctly uncomplimentary fashion, that I have a face like a china doll, set and unchanging. I suppose he has a point; his face shows every thought that crosses his mind. How he ever survived Slytherin house with a trait like that, I have no idea. He certainly gives no hint of how he got by in his letters; after a hundred or more re-readings, I would certainly have seen any that were there. It has always been Sirius' letters that I have re-read more than any others; my eldest has always been a mystery to me. His cheer, his outgoingness, his sheer love of life are all foreign to me, and with my early life, is it any wonder?
I was the first and last child of Aloysius Crouch, by his second and last wife, Maeve Prince Crouch. I was unexpected, but not unwelcome; my father, already well into middle age, decreed that a marriageable daughter would be a powerful political tool. He lavished money on the best tutors to instruct me; by the age of eleven I could draw, sing, embroider, write a fine hand and speak perfect French. I did not know any children my own age, and throughout Hogwarts, companionship was elusive. I soon learned to depend only on myself.
Such knowledge served me in good stead when my father died unexpectedly during my fifth year at Hogwarts. It was revealed that he had somehow managed to empty the family vault, and that we were now in dire financial straits. We learned, many years later, that he had invested heavily in the Muggle stock market, and had suffered heavy losses during the Crash of 1929 some five years prior. At the time, however, we were of the opinion that he must have had a secret gambling problem, which I suppose it was, of a kind. We were not inclined to think well of him, and I for one thought his only redeeming feature was having had the foresight to arrange a marriage for me. It was not as good a match as it might have been; my rather plain features prevented that, but Altair Black was a good man, despite being both twenty years older and known for his reclusiveness.
Our marriage was not passionate, nor was it expected to be. As a rule, Altair stayed in his study, writing treatises on potions, which were never published, and I stayed in my sewing room or the parlor, either knitting or entertaining what few friends remained of my already sparse circle after my family's bankruptcy. Our marriage passed twenty mutually unhappy years with no issue, something neither of us was willing to discuss. I was resigned to a childless life, and then I met Alphard. He was Altair's younger brother, and had spent the past ten years in India on a futile quest to resurrect British rule. It is safe to say that he was the love of my life, considering that I was never in love with anyone else; I would never have wanted to be anyway. It is with Alphard that my story, or at least the parts worth a lengthy retelling, begin.
My Darling Alphard,
It has only been two days since I saw you last, and already I yearn for your touch. I am cold without you here to warm me, and my days are dark. Beloved, I wish you were here to For the sake of my privacy, I have excised a large section
After your tales of Asia, England seems dreary, and I dream that one day we can go to India together, but alas, it will never happen. Altair may turn a blind eye to what we do in private, but should our love ever be revealed to the world, he would be forced to repudiate me. I admit that there are times when the prospect seems appealing, especially when you are away, and I long to be free to go to you, but my common sense, foul thing that it is, re-asserts itself, and makes me miserable once more. Please return to me with all possible haste, Alphard.
Forever Yours,
Honoria
Honoria,
I wish to God that you were here in my arms. I despise Hungary, and I positively loathe managing Altair's business interests. The local representative is a cantankerous bore, and his daughter is a witless one. He keeps pushing the little idiot at me, and making barbed remarks about my possible reasons for not marrying that he probably thinks are subtle. They aren't; the man has the tact of a raging elephant. I spend most of my times during meetings pretending that he is an elephant, and dreaming of hunting him.
The markets here are marvelous, and I bought you a set of golden bangles and a printed scarf. With your coloring, you'll look like a gypsy, a most appealing notion. Shall I cross your palm with silver, darling, and have my future told? The negotiations will be finished before Yule, and I'll be home for the fancy dress ball you've spent so much time planning for. Save me a dance or three; I shall want to see you in all your fine feathers.
Alphard
Darling Alphard,
I long for you as always. I have been ill for a week now, and although I feel wretched, I am certain that I shall recover quickly. It does make me wish you were here to reassure me; you're always so good at that. I fear that some of your writing habits have infected me; never before have I dared use a contraction in a letter. Dare I hope that some of my habits shall communicate themselves to you? Never mind, it is of no importance.
Do you remember my cousin Eileen? I introduced you at the ball; she was dressed as a bean-sidhe. She has eloped with a Muggle! I have kept corresponding with her, despite her lapse in judgement. It is astonishing, what one will do for love, you and I are proof of that, and so now is Eileen. She tells me that she and her new husband, Tobias Snape, are madly in love. It always gives me a kind of vicarious happiness to see lovers have a happy ending. I take it and pretend that it is ours, for just a little while. How I envy them.
I should not dwell on it; I knew what I was starting, and that a fairy tale ending was an impossibility. I had my white wedding, with orange blossoms and unbound hair; I cannot have another. Still, sometimes I dream of running away with you to somewhere warm and sunny, and living in sin and blissful joy. You probably think me silly, and would not be wrong. Love makes fools of us all, but what a wonderful foolishness, my dearest.
As always,
Your Honoria
Honoria,
Unluckily, I'm afraid my writing style is as unpolished as ever, and prolonged contact with Americans is certain to make it worse. At least they speak some kind of English here, but it's a very strange kind. I can't get tea for love or money; all they have is coffee. I swear, sweetheart, Los Angeles must be the most benighted place on earth. The representative dragged me out last night to see something called 'Ben-Hur', an odd Muggle thing called a 'film'. It was quite entertaining, but I'm fairly certain that there wasn't a bit of research done before they made it. When I come home to you, I shall have to take you to see a film; there are moments that would make you think that Muggles may truly have something like magic.
As for your being ill, for God's sake, go see a healer. I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you. Do as the healer says: bed rest, potions, everything; I will check with the house elves to make sure you have. Don't you dare try to pretend nothing is wrong; you do it far too often, and anything that is bad enough for you to mention must be excruciating. I'm yours in sickness and in health, you know that, but I'd prefer you to be healthy; you're an awful grouch when you're sick, darling.
Alphard
As per Alphard's intructions, I went to the healer, and was immediatedly diagnosed as having severe morning sickness. Counting the days, I knew I must have conceived the night of the fancy dress ball, when Alphard arrived home from Budapest. My calculations were borne out by the birth of my first son, Sirius Antares Black on the 26th of August, 1960. Altair had known of my affaire de coeur with Alphard since its inception, and tacitly expressed his relief at having an heir by acknowledging Sirius as his son, averting any whiff of scandal. I have never told Sirius that his adored Uncle Alphard was his father; this will be the first he knows of it. I only hope he can forgive me.
Sirius' early childhood was a happy time for me. Altair had appointed my cousin, Bartemius Crouch, as his personal representative, freeing Alphard to stay and watch our child grow up. He was joined by a younger brother, Regulus, two years later. It has always amazed me how blind people can be when they wish; Reggie is the spit and image of his father, and no one has ever guessed. Alphard was a horrible father; he spoiled them beyond endurance. He bought Sirius his first racing broom, a Cleansweep 3, for his ninth birthday, and gave Reggie a crup at the same time. Between that accursed canine and Sirius swooping down on me from the ceiling, I am at a loss as to how I retained my sanity. As it is, I have never been able to stomach having brooms overhead since.
Sirius received his Hogwarts letter the 27th of August, 1971. He went off on the Hogwarts Express with a nine and a half inch cherry wood wand with a unicorn hair core, a set of silver gobstones courtesy of his father, and instructions to write daily, which he never heeded. I was lucky to receive a letter a week; Alphard, however, was usually privileged with two or three a week, and his ostensible father considered himself fortunate to get one a month. I was not surprised; Altair had kept contact between himself and Sirius to a minimum, not because he resented the fruit of my infidelity, but because he preferred his academics, something I do not believe Sirius has ever understood.
A/N Redux: There are no prewritten chapters, and very little indeed in the way of forward planning. Updates will be sporadic, but probably (only probably, mind you) once a week. I'm completely stuck concerning SotP, my other AU, and I'll be writing this instead. If I ever get unstuck on SotP, expect a drastic drop in updates. Thank you for your time, and as always, reviews are what keep me writing, so please give me some feedback.