Disclaimer: The ideas are mine, the characters belong to JK...

"For a long time, I was scared I'd find out I was like my mother."

Marilyn Monroe

Chapter 1 - 1959

The eldest son of a man of great fortune is his heir. His younger sons are his legacy. His daughters are his ambassadors. My father had three ambassadors to represent his interests within other wealthy Pureblood families, and he intended to prepare us well for that task.

In the years that preceded Hogwarts, my sisters and I had a thorough education. Our father gave value to tradition, and the young women of the House of Black had a reputation for being accomplished, according to the highest standards in existence, for several generations, ever since the dawn of the 19th century. Bellatrix, Andromeda, and I received instruction in singing, drawing, music, and dancing from the finest wizard masters in Europe, not to mention lessons on the modern languages and preliminary classes to History of Magic, Magic Theory, and Genealogy of the Black family. We were also encouraged to improve our minds through extensive reading.

My father spoiled us, providing for our every wish, but he never loved any of his daughters as he would have loved the son that would carry the family name, a son that was never born. Twice during my childhood, my mother said she was expecting a boy, but none of those infants survived more than a few weeks in her womb if indeed they existed. Today, as I look back to those events I realize they probably didn't. Needless to say, my father was far from understanding in these matters.

I remember the second time well. My mother said, during dinner, we would have a little brother running around the house soon. I smiled, thinking of being to that little boy what Bella was to me, and I asked, naively enough where was he.

"On his way," my mother answered vaguely, and I could see her touching her abdomen, though by that time the gesture meant nothing at all to me.

"Are you certain?" My father asked, in a hopeful tone of voice I seldom had the chance to hear.

"A woman is always sure of such things, Cygnus," was her answer. I was not old enough to understand those words, but they scared me a little. It was the first time I realized that it could be hard to be a woman, and in the years that followed, I would be very glad I had sisters to stand by me through the experience.

My father's happiness, however overwhelmingly contagious, was short-lived, because no longer after that announcement, mother fell ill. Or so I was told. They had to give my sisters and I some explanation as to why our mother had locked herself in her room sobbing painfully and the talks of a new baby in the house suddenly ceased.

Father was so angry. He closed himself inside his office, and Uncle Orion was the only one who dared go after him. "I should never have married a Rosier," my father shouted, and I remember listening to loose words, such as "liar", "sterile", and "weak".

In later years I learnt that something like that had happened before when I was a baby, and although I was too young to remember the first time, I have no reason to believe it was any different. It happened in 1959, I was told, and my father retreated to his office for weeks, even refusing to eat dinner at the family's table. His wrath was only appeased when Aunt Walburga gave birth to a baby boy, several months later.

There was a big celebration at 12 Grimmauld Place, a few days after Sirius' birth, in which his name was magically written with gold in the family's tapestry. There had been a celebration like that for me about three years earlier, as there had been for my sisters before me. It was a family tradition, established when the tapestry was first commissioned, several years earlier.

It is not difficult for me to extrapolate how exhilarated everybody must have been that there was, at last, an heir for the Black's empire. Everybody, that is, except for my mother. It pained her that her husband's sister had been able to give Cygnus something it was her obligation to provide; as little as she cared about the continuation of the Black's lineage. And she didn't bother to hide those emotions from anyone.

Father was quite smitten by Sirius. It was he who suggested the name, inspired by the brightest star in the night sky, in accordance to our family tradition. It was also Father who suggested that the boy's second name should be Orion, for he believed a firstborn should bear the name of his father. In every other respect, he behaved as if Sirius was as much his son as uncle Orion's and to be fair, uncle Orion treated us as if we were his daughters as well… That unity was the strength of our family and I don't think any of us truly understood back then how much of our power and wealth depended on it.

There are many photographs of that day, but one, in particular, is my favourite. My father had summoned my sisters and me to get a closer look at Sirius, wrapped in many green blankets and someone chose that moment to take a picture. Aunt Walburga sits in the middle, holding the baby in her right arm, while her left arm passes around Andromeda's shoulders my sister seated to her left, pushing her niece closer to her body. Andy was four years old then, and she used one of her hands to open up the blankets a little, so she could get a better look at the baby. She's smiling in the picture, and sometimes, the baby grabs one of her fingers in his tiny hands. My father is sitting to Andy's left, watching her curiosity towards the baby with satisfaction. It is one of the few photographs in which he is holding me in his arms, my head laying on his shoulder as I slept. Uncle Orion is sitting on the other side, to his wife's right, whispering something in Bella's ear, my eldest sister sitting on his lap, watching the baby as well. It is such a beautiful portrait of our family.

I don't remember much of my early childhood. I don't suppose anyone does. Perhaps we're not meant to remember the earliest years of our lives. Perhaps if we could remember every detail, somehow the magic of childhood would be lost. All the romantic nostalgia that surrounds the past would be reduced to the same messy pile of debris of our adult lives...

But sometimes I browse through albums of photographs of those days, and I can't help but wish I remembered things more fully. Everything seemed so much simpler then. And we seemed happy.

A/N: Thank you for reading... Please review and let me know what you think.

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