A Portrait of The Black Heiress (Harry Potter)

Chapter I: These People Need To Understand The Meaning of RIP Somewhere Else

The earliest memories she had were of screaming portraits. It was as if the entirety of her family had dropped dead of misery after the defeat of the Dark Lord. In fact, one memorable great-aunt had apparently died of a stroke upon hearing the news that the most powerful Dark Wizard that ever lived had not survived a meeting with a baby. As one after the other Black ancestor fell, the surviving ones grew agitated. Dozens of portraits were commissioned in the years right after the end of the First Wizarding War, and not a moment too soon as often the works of art were revealed at the burial of the one who had commissioned it. The portraits were inherited by the closest family members who in turn also died and within less than a decade, the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black had almost ceased to exist. The last members of the family now housed every single one of these portraits which contained wizards and witches utterly pissed off at their untimely death and who had not grasped the idea of eternal silence or resting in peace.

When her grandmother had still been alive, the portraits had been placed prominently along the halls of Grimmauld Place and filled most walls from top to bottom. At any time, from anywhere in the house, she could hear the halls arguing and complaining. It was a cacophony of sound that never ceased for the speakers were not in need of basic life necessities like sleep and sustenance. She had grown up to the sound of that one constant in her life among those many deaths and dreaded futures. Then, one day, she woke up and it had gone silent. Her grandmother had died, and the first thing her father did was storing most portraits in Gringotts to be found hundreds of years from now by someone who was interested to hear the complaints of 20th-century Pureblood bigots.

Her grandmother seemed to have foreseen this and ensured her painting would never leave its final resting place, which was right outside in the main hall, at the bottom of the stairs. She remembered her grandmother well, even in life. She wasn't yet sixty when she died, hadn't even gotten the chance yet for her hair to grey or for her youth to fail her. She had not quite been taken in her prime, as that must have been about a decade before but it definitely was not the century most pureblood wizards grew to be. She would not be remembered by anyone. Never achieved many accomplishments nor was she very well-liked. However, she had been beautiful. Timeless, with her perfectly styled dark hair and her darker eyes. She had been tall and imposing, with a perfectly posh accent and a considerable amount of knowledge on Wizarding society. She had not just been married into this house, no, her grandmother had been born to be Lady Black.

It was a shame that that poise, that charm and elegance had not been translated to the canvas. The grandmother in the portrait was beautiful but wicked, nasty and rude. Not half as eloquent, nor as audacious as she had been in life. However, her father seemed to disagree. He was of the opinion that the painter had captured more than just appearance, he had captured his mother's soul and that soul, foul and demeaning, was what the painting would symbolise for eternity.

With her grandmother's death, Grimmauld Place had silenced. Her father was somewhat aloof, distancing himself from the outside world and instead focusing solely on his work. She wasn't exactly sure what this work included. With Pureblood families like hers, work was never a job. Never a nine-to-five commitment or something that you could label. Purebloods were very rarely teachers, or shopkeepers, or Aurors. And so, she didn't know what her father's job entailed. She just knew that it was secretive, one of those forbidden topics in social gatherings. His office was forever off-limits to everyone, including her and their house-elf, Kreacher. She didn't seem to be the only one who was unsure what her father busied himself with. At parties, when small talk was made, people would ask him, and he'd be silent. She was fairly sure the silence was hardly socially acceptable and it always seemed to unnerve his audience who would either scurry off or change the subject. Another sensitive topic was his older brother. The only other male heir who still carried the Black last name. Her father seemed to have chosen to ignore his brother's continued existence and if he ever did mention him, it was as though he had long since passed. And the absolute last thing you should ever mention to her father, was her mother. Because that would get any accomplished wizard thrown out of his house before he could properly tie his boots.