“She’s … Not here anymore,” Sirius’ father mumbled. It felt like a lie. Walburga was always here, in the Black house, had always been and always would be. Even after Orion Black was dead, and Sirius would inherit the house, the weight of her presence would never truly lift.
“Your mother is dead. Has been dead for a while, actually,” Orion then explained. For some reason, putting it bluntly was much easier. Besides, he knew it was unlikely that Sirius would grieve his mother’s passing much.
“Nobody told you?” Orion then asked, shocked.
But who would’ve told him? There was no-one else but Orion left to care if Sirius got the news of his mother’s death or not. A dull ache filled Orion’s chest at the realization, but he was so used to ignoring it that he hardly noticed.
Unable to stop his son, Orion took a step back as Sirius entered the house.
The moment the sole of Sirius’ shoe touched the hallway floor, a series of horrible shrieks echoed through the house.
“Filthy traitor, stain of shame on our great family tree, you are not welcome here—”
“That blasted painting,” he muttered, now remembering the portrait of his wife that hung on the wall. He’d managed to forget all about it.
Usually, the portrait didn’t speak to him, and he didn’t speak to it. But it’s painted eyes did glare at him everytime he walked past.
Orion loved that portrait as much as he hated it. It was the only portrait of his wife ever painted, but it remembered her at her worst : Dressed in all black, mourning her “only” son, and with such tired hatred on her face.
“Kreacher! Kreacher!” Orion called for the house elf, but either Kreacher couldn’t hear him over the portrait’s shrieks, or he pretended not to. Kreacher had always respected Walburga more than he respected Orion.
Those screams grew louder, rattling inside Orion’s head.
Suddenly, he felt so small, and weak, and old.
But he forced himself to move. It felt as if he was dragging his feet through quicksand.
He ripped the long curtain from one of the windows and approached the painting. Walburga’s portrait took no notice of him — her rage-filled eyes only searched for Sirius, the traitor tainting the premises with his presence.
Orion was now close enough to cover the portrait. Finally, those dark, painted eyes fixed onto him.
Walburga’s portrait said nothing at all. The fabric slipped from Orion’s hands.
Your mother is dead. She’s not here anymore.
Couple of moments Sirius can’t even understand the words his father said to him. She really was gone? The woman who had been the shadow of his teenage years just vanished like that?
He really knew that she hadn’t just vanished. He was sure the woman had screamed until her lungs rotted, cursed until the tongue had turned into ashes in her mouth and made everybody else to want to die. His mother had been really good in that...
When he hears his mother’s scream he grins. Yep, definitely hadn’t vanished. It felt almost nostalgic and in a really twisted way he felt like he was home. She had used almost exactly those words when he had left this house. Traitor he had been since he turned eleven and was sorted into Gryffindor.
He placed the bottle on the table before he walks next to his father and grabs the curtain. “I’m glad to see you as well, mother dear. It seems that years have treated you well. But for goodness sake cover yourself up!” he laughs. Laughter is raspier than it used to be and barks between inhales make him seem like a madman. But it was still that annoying rascal laughter that had echoed from wall to wall when his mother had tried to take down the posters of half-naked muggle men.
“...I’m sorry. Old habit, you know.” he says to Orion when a little voice inside his head whispers that they were talking about a dead wife of this man. Walburga might had been a wicked woman and an awful mother to him but she still had been a wife to someone and even a loving mother to his little brother.
“Is Regulus home? I think he should also hear my news.”
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