Behind the Curtain

Isilarma

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and am not affiliated with Bloomsbury or Scholastic Inc.

This was written for Round 8 of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition, for which I had to write about Walburga Black. I hope you all enjoy it.

Walburga always hates it when people make assumptions. When they look at her and see nothing more than a less valuable female, something to be tolerated until a boy comes along. She despises her uncles, who treat her like she has half a brain and is good for nothing but producing more heirs. Even her parents believe she will be content to be nothing more than a proper, well-mannered pureblood wife. They see what they expect to see, too blinded by their own preconceptions to look closer. So she nods and smiles, and then laughs with Alphard at the stupid people with their stupid assumptions and their ever so small minds.

Alphard never cared that she was female. "You're as strong as I am," he told her once. "You just have different weapons."

He refuses to explain, and it takes her a long time to understand. But she does.

As she gets older, Walburga learns how false assumptions can be used to her advantage. A man faced with a screaming woman will panic, and a husband who believes himself more cunning than his wife makes foolish mistakes. So she learns to act, and to over-react, to shout and scream and curse, and all the time, she watches. She learns to proclaim her own opinions loudly, and to ignore the pitying looks from the men who think they know better, so that they become complacent enough to say things around her that they really shouldn't. She learns the subtlety that all Blacks should have, the subtlety that Orion lacks, and Sirius certainly never learns.

Regulus learns it though. He was always watching, always learning what he should say and how he should act, yet keeping his true thoughts to himself. He is a true Black, and she is proud of him as she cannot be of the rest of her family.

They assume she's furious when she hears that Sirius has left again, this time for good. Orion stays silent, and Regulus remains in his room, and she knows they expect her to rage and curse and scream, at them, at Sirius, at his Gryffindor friends, and his Muggle-loving headmaster. At everyone who brought this shame upon their family and their name.

She doesn't. She has known for a long time who her son was. All she feels when she strikes his name from the tapestry is relief that his shame is no longer theirs.

He keeps their name though. And though outwardly she rages at the disgrace, she cannot help but be just a little proud of his spirit.

Everyone assumes that Regulus was killed on the Dark Lord's orders. Orion believes so, and he goes to his death believing so. Walburga isn't so sure. Regulus was no fool. She had seen his growing unease, his reluctance to obey the orders he was given, but he had refused to speak of it. Blacks do not share their troubles. Nor do they share their plans.

She is sure that Regulus had a plan. He wasn't one like Sirius, to act without considering the consequences. He knew what he was doing.

She only wishes that he had succeeded.

Everyone thinks she loses her will to live with Orion's death. They are wrong. They might have been married, but she could never love him as anything more than a cousin. It was her sons, her blood, that she lived for. Now that they are both gone, she realises that there is no point.

Only Kreacher remains. Old, faithful Kreacher. It is he who helps her stick her portrait to the wall, and for the first time in years, she smiles. All others might be gone, but she will never abandon the house of her fathers. Something must endure.

For many years, there is silence. Sometimes Walburga wanders through the portraits, watching over the house, accompanied by Kreacher. The house lies quiet, unused, forgotten. She almost prefers it this way. No people to watch, no foolish ideas to break. No need to keep up the masks and shields of so many years.

She is alone. In a way, it feels like nothing has changed.

Then there is light, and noise, and she hears his voice, and for a moment, she wonders if she is dreaming. She returns to her portrait, and there is a brief second of pure relief that her heir has returned against all odds, that the last of the Blacks survives.

But there is the werewolf at his shoulder, and nothing but hatred in his eyes, and Walburga knows that nothing has changed. So she does the only thing that can be done.

"You! Traitor! Stain of dishonour! Leave-"

"Shut up!" he roars, and despite herself, she cannot suppress a flicker of pride. He might not have had subtlety, but only a Black could survive Azkaban unbroken. "For once in your miserable existence, shut up!"

Then the curtains come down, and there is silence.

Sirius stays. She doesn't expect him to, but he does. It doesn't take long to learn that it wasn't by choice, but that doesn't matter. He is here, and she finds herself taking an interest in things again. No that she will ever show it; she continues to scream and hurl insults, and make herself noticeable. It means they don't realise when she slips silently into the corner of another portrait, and listens to their plans. They never even suspect it. It's not entirely an act, she is genuinely horrified by some of her son's acquaintances, but it is still entertaining.

She soon decides she doesn't care for the war. She has already lost one son to that. But Sirius, as much as he would never admit it, is a Black. The last Black. And he is still her son. So she keeps watching.

And then she learns that the war has stolen Sirius too.

Walburga stays in her portrait. There is no point in doing otherwise. They are all gone now. Alphard, Orion, Regulus. Even Sirius. There are no more Blacks, no last heir to bear their name. The house will be sold, their money squandered, until the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black is nothing more than a memory, scorned by those of the old ways, loathed by those of the new.

She cannot bring herself to care. Maybe it is better this way. Whoever wins this war, the past is lost, and will never be recovered. The Blacks were not made for such a world as this.

One day the Potter boy comes to visit. They were never introduced, but she knows who he is; she never stopped listening, and she has never been a fool. She has heard of him, and no one else would dare to come. Besides, the shape of his face is all Dorea.

His eyes are wary as he draws back the curtain, and Walburga knows he expects her to shout at him, to scream herself hoarse as she casts insults on him and his family, his friends and ideals, just as she always has in the past.

She doesn't. The time for acting has long passed. Now she is tired of assumptions.

"What do you want, boy?"

His green eyes blink, clearly betraying his confusion, and she suppresses a sigh at how transparent he is. Just like Sirius.

"Well?"

The sharpness in her tone seems to steady him, for he takes a deep breath and draws himself up. "I killed him. Voldemort."

Now she is the one to be startled. "You?"

He nods, and the defiant tilt of his jaw is so reminiscent of her son that it almost hurts. "Me."

She doesn't know how to take the news. On the one hand, the Dark Lord had such strong ideas. Good ideas, right ideas, ideas that would have given them back their glory and their pride.

Ideas that cost her both her sons.

"Good."

She expects him to be surprised by her answer, but he just nods. "I thought you'd want to know."

For the first time in a long time, his presumption doesn't frustrate her. "Thank you." She had wanted to know, for both of them. But she wouldn't have asked.

He gives her a smile, a small one, and now she sees Regulus in him too. "No problem."

When he walks away, he leaves the curtains open.

Not my best I know, but I really struggled to get inside her head. Feedback would be very much appreciated.