Chapter Text
"My mother hated everything and everyone that didn't fit into her standards of House of Black." Sirius says blandly, as they stare at the family tapestry.
Harry steps close to it, tracing the faint words: Walburga Irma Black, 1939-1979. "She died so young for a witch."
"Don't pity her, Harry. She held no love in that shriveled black heart of hers."
Harry finds himself in front of Walburga's portrait at 2 in the morning. He just wanted a glass of water, honest! But he found himself drifting towards the front entrance. Now he's locked in a staring battle with a woman who's only yelled at people since he's arrived.
She stares at him shrewdly, but he can't look away. He doesn't know much about her. He feels like he should. Should he break the silence first? Lose the game they're silently playing? He doesn't know.
"You're quite small for a Potter." She breaks the silence first. He's never heard her voice in a tone that is not too loud for a portrait.
"I have been starved as a child." He says drily, without thought. Weird, he's never been that bold about his... family care before.
Walburga stares at him. He stares back.
"Are you not the godson of my child?"
"Funny that you should refer to him as your child. He seems to have strong opinions of you hating him. I would think someone who hates their child wouldn't refer to them as... their child." Harry trails off, lamely. He's not a very good Slytherin...
Walburga's lips twitch as if wanting to smile. What a terrifying thought.
"Perhaps I think of Sirius as my possession. My mother sure did think of me as hers."
Harry bites his lip consideringly, then shakes his head. "No, I believe there's more to you than most people know of you."
The portrait laughs and he inadvertently takes a step back.
"Hidden on the 6th floor, under some floorboards of a sitting room, there is a journal. Find it, read it."
"Sixth floor?" Harry furrows his brows, "there are only 3 floors and a basement."
"Yes, the other 3 shall be blocked off to anyone who is not of House of Black. You child, however, are the Heir. Do with the information you will, but do not share it for it is not for others to know."
Harry finds the journal with ease. It's a beautiful journal, better than Tom's, being a faded brown leather that he knows used to be rich in colour. It has a silver clasp in the shape of a bat. Wicked.
He stares at the journal, hesitant to open it not knowing what the contents could be. He tried, earlier, to pry information from Walburga but was unsuccessful. He looks at the door, though he knows no one will be able to find him here, warded as it is.
The journal is open before he even registers his hands moving. He opens to a random entry.
~~
June 1, 1953
The boy in my dreams continues to suffer greatly. I am now more certain of his ancestry, as he bears the same name as Fleamont and Charlus Potter. How he is related, I am unsure, yet I know he has been done greatly unjust by his peers and Dumbledore.
These visions grow stronger every day and night, yet as I am plagued with the knowledge of another's life, perhaps of the future, Mother has grown increasingly suspicious. Earlier, at the start of my Seeing, t’was easier to hide. Now, as I thrash in my sleep, due to this Potter and his experiences, I cannot hide my eye bags with glamoured makeup from her. The Crabbes have suppressed their family gifts for decades and Mother shall do the same should she find out.
She must not find out.
~~~
Harry reads the loopy handwriting of Walburga, what feels like a million times, but really is only 3 or 4.
A seer. Walburga was a seer and was seeing visions of his life. His life!
He thinks of the Crabbe family and thinks of Vincent Crabbe. Everyone knows that Crabbe is dull and unintelligent, but Harry wonders if that's deliberate. Whether on his own part or his family's. He wonders what happens to tiny Crabbe children who display their Seer abilities. Who don't know, in their innocence, to hide their uniqueness. He shudders and turns his attention back to the journal, flipping through once more.
~~~
November 17, 1956
Shall I start planning my own death? No longer do I See poor Harrison's life. His ended at 18, shall mine be the same? Are the fates so cruel as to hint at my own mortality via another's?
I have Seen what becomes of my children, my heir and spare, should I live past my 18th year and marry Orion. I despise what I have- what I will become. An absent and cruel mother wrapped neatly in blood supremacy, controlled by my mother even years after her demise. Haunted by her ghost whom only I can see. My husband, my cousin, slowly poisoned to death after we vowed we wouldn't let cruelty infect our marriage house.
I have Seen my future and I cannot weep. I am unsurprised at the unfolding of time. I cannot be carried by guilt nor shame to attempt to change my fate or those around me. It will play out how it was predestined, yet a miniscule part of me hopes beyond hope that something can change.
The Potter boy, perhaps, but a foolish wish, seeing as I shall be long dead before he perishes himself.
Curse Dumbledore for his schemes. Curse my mother for her ineptitude. Curse myself for being the worst sort of mother I could ever become.
~~~
Harry stares unseeing at the words he just read. Dead at 18. Doing what? In what way? Was it Voldemort?
What about Walburga cursing Dumbledore and his schemes? Harry's not so dull that he hasn't noticed how the headmaster hides behind his benevolent smile, as if he's innocent and can do no wrong. It's the second passage he's read that has negativity toward Dumbledore, and he's entirely ignoring the part from earlier about his peers. He cannot think about it, right now.
He looks at the time and back at the journal. He sighs and closes the journal. There's too much information and too little time, he fears. He looks back at the time. However... The journal is not that big...
He opens the journal back up, at the beginning this time. He needs to know what happened to Walburga and why she was Seeing his life.