Disclaimer:  Sirius, Walburga, and all other characters who are mentioned in this fic are the property of J.K. Rowling, as are Number 12, Grimmauld Place and Hogwarts.

Author’s Note:  Thanks to Whimsy, my brilliant beta, and also to Arya, muse in all things written and co-author extraordinaire.  Without you two, this fic would be no good at all.

Walburga

            “I don’t see the problem with it,” says Sirius.  He is leaning back against the wall, his legs crossed easily.

            “The problem?  Your cousin has sullied the name of Black!” Walburga screams.

            Ten minutes ago, her brother Cygnus had Flooed to tell them that Andromeda had eloped with a Muggle-born man, Ted Tonks.  Number 12, Grimmauld Place is now in a state of disarray, with the fury centered in the drawing room.  What a wonderful way to spend Christmas Eve.

            “The name of Black is already sullied enough,” says Sirius, pushing himself off the wall to stand in a battle stance, feet spread and face set.

            Walburga wants to scream.  She wants to kick something, wants to knock Sirius over.  How dare he say that her name is sullied?  How dare he imply that she’s unworthy?

            “You insolent boy!  The Blacks have a long tradition of purity.”

            Sirius brushes his hair out of his eyes, an unthinking, graceful movement, and for a moment, Walburga sees a glimpse of the son he could have been – handsome, charming, a credit to his family.

            “Purity?  God, you’re so full of it, Mother.  You’re not pure.  Nobody pure buys into your racist crap.”

            “You call our blood, our ancestors, our legacy ‘crap?’  The Blacks have been pure-blooded for generations!”

            Walburga remembers her lessons, growing up, before she went to Hogwarts.  Every day, her mother had quizzed her on the family tree, until she could recite it at the drop of a wand.  She’d learned about the atrocities Muggles had committed against wizards, how a Muggle could never be trusted, nor could anyone associated with them; at any time, they might try to kill you.  She’d taught all these things to Sirius, so where had he gone wrong?  How could he defend these abominations?  They were better than those freaks!

            “If the only thing you can make a legacy out of is who your parents married, our family sure hasn’t done much worth noting.”  Sirius balls his hands into fists so tight his knuckles go white.

            Walburga snaps.  “Don’t say that, don’t you dare say that!  No son of mine will say those things under my roof!  As long as I feed you and clothe you, you WILL NOT SAY THOSE THINGS!”

            Sirius, who stood tall and self-assured just moments before,is starting to lose some of that confidence; Walburga can see the doubt in his eyes.  She knows that she has lost control, that this is unbecoming, but she can’t stop.

            “You, boy, you take on airs, but you would be nothing if you were not a Black!  Without your name, your blood, you’re just another unknown, dirty boy who calls himself a wizard, with a wand more fit for kindling than for magic!  You owe everything to your blood, so you will not insult it in my house!”

              Sirius breaths slowly out, shuts his eyes for a moment, and opens them.  Now the doubt is gone; they just look hardened.  She stares at him, and sees her own face; Sirius has her straight nose, her black hair, and her penetrating eyes. Walburga has spent the past few minutes watching blasphemies coming out of those perfect Black lips.  Sirius is her son, she realizes, but he will never be a Black.  Not really.  Suddenly, she can’t stand the sight of his face, the face that he must hate.

            “Go to your room!  Get out of my sight!”

            Sirius runs out of the room like a Silver Arrow.  Walburga takes a deep breath and turns to the elegant tapestry on the wall behind her.

            Andromeda, 1952—

            She burns it off without a second thought.