A/N: Written for the Classical catergory in the Music Awards 2012-A Compteition
Walburga Black always knew there was something wrong with her oldest son. Ever since he was little, he had not been polite, charming, or clever like all pureblooded families should be. He hadn't been like his younger brother, who was the perfect clay for her to mold him into. No, instead he had been hot-headed, mischievous, and all too rash for her liking. Sirius had always the first one to race down the stairs at Christmas, or complain when something went wrong despite being raised in a respected family. So when he was sorted into that house, she wasn't surprised. Oh, sure, she made a huge fuss of it, but it did not come as a shock to her. She honestly didn't understand where she went wrong with him. Was it her fault? (No, that couldn't possibly be it.) Did she do something to cause him to become like that? But it was already too late to change anything, so, in true Slytherin fashion; she retreated and began to work on the other brother.
And for a while, this tactic worked well. She strictly ground into him the rules of Pureblood Society. What he should do and what he shouldn't do; who to kiss up to and who to mock. To her express delight, Regulus conformed well to her high standards and was sorted into Slytherin, seamlessly fitting in with his classmates and allies. Other mothers commented on how well behaved he was compared to the uncouth Sirius and she basked in the praise. But she could tell that there was something building up within Sirus. She was his mother, whether he acknowledged it or not, and she knew his temper very well. This was simply the calm before the storm.
And she was horribly right.
One night at dinner, he completely snapped. Viciously shouting at them, Walburga countered right back. This had been happening with an increasing frequency the past few years, so Regulus and Orion sat quietly and waited for the argument to blow over. At the climax of the fight, with food forgotten and hexes flying, Sirius shouted that he was leaving and stormed out of the dining room. This was all ignored, of course, as this had happened before and he had always stayed. But when Walburga snapped open the door to his room expertly the next morning, what met her was an empty bed and an equally empty room.
A week passed, and then another week. Finally, a month passed and she understood that he wasn't coming back.
Walburga wasn't bothered with the situation and Orion merely went on as if it had never happened. But no matter how much Regulus tried to act with indifference, she could see the hurt and betrayal that showed clearly on his face. And she knew all her hard work was going to come crashing down on her, because underneath all that carefully molded clay was a little boy who adored his older brother. She watched as he recklessly joined the Death Eaters. Watched as his face slowly lost their pallor over the next few years as the war raged on. And then she couldn't watch anymore. Her world had become dark and when her eyes blinked open again, she was staring at a familiar wall.
The last time she saw her youngest son was the day he came charging into the house he had grown up in with eyes frantically darting around like a trapped animal. It was a far cry from the composed boy she had raised since birth, so she did not call out her presence, and simply watched. She saw him whisper urgently to her faithful house elf, and then with a sharp crack, they disappeared. And Walburga knew she wouldn't be seeing him again.
And then it was the older brother's turn. He walked into the house… with filthy Mudblood's and dared to use her house as headquarters for the Order! Immediately, she began screeching her displeasure at them. She saw his face curl into a disgusted sneer as someone conjured curtains around her and he yanked them shut. Then one night, when she glimpsed Kreacher sneaking out of the house, she knew that her next son was going to be gone soon.
Yet still she watched. It was the only thing she could do after all. She had long since departed that world and was only in fact, a painting. But as she saw the grieving faces of the black haired boy, and the werewolf; everyone in the Order actually, she wondered if there really was something wrong with her oldest son. This raw pain couldn't really be a mistake, could it? Looking down, she realized her paint was getting wet and blurring, and she could feel herself slipping.
It would be a long time before anyone noticed the former portrait of Walburga Black, damp and completely void of life.