Work Text:
It was a fact known to all of Wizarding Britain that a Black in love was a Black deranged.
When Regulus Black had fallen in love his tragedy had been clear-cut. If anyone had ever bothered to ask him they would have known how he was convinced his heart beat only for one soul, and that soul was not destined for anything black.
By the time Regulus had decided his own fate James Potter had already been engaged so happily it made it all the easier to do the reckless thing and sacrifice his own life for the betterment of the world. And maybe it had been for the best, for he never got to hear of his love’s demise.
Maybe the sacrifice hadn’t even been needed, but what Regulus Black wanted Regulus Black would get. Except for James Potter. He never got James Potter.
When Sirius Black had fallen in love his tragedy had been so layered it hurt to think about. To be in love with a man, a werewolf, a half-blood meant for Sirius certain banishment and immense emotional turmoil, but he was resilient. He, unlike his ill-fated brother, did get his Moony.
It took him a while, and for half of it, he kept denying it was love, even when he knew he would give his own life and take anyone else’s for his Moony. Anything for his Moony.
But Sirius was a Black, and a Black could never love peacefully, so his heart filled with distrust, he was proven wrong and then chucked into Azkaban for 12 years.
Understand this, when Sirius left the prison he knew for a fact he would still do anything for his Moony, but his Moony was gone, replaced by a meek man loyal to the bastard who had never bothered to help him or his Goddaughter, so Sirius resigned to living with only memories of his life to the day Bella’s red spell shoved him through the veil right in front of his Grace and his Moony. His poor poor Moony. He went away with a smile. Anything for his Moony.
When Narcissa Black had fallen in love she had foreseen no tragedy, convinced she was going to live happily ever after with her silver prince.
Oh, how wrong she had been.
Again and again, Lucius Malfoy had proven to her that her Father’s teachings about Husbands being always right, always to be obeyed were nothing more but the ramblings of an old man. Because Narcissa’s love, her Lucius, proved to be weak and unable to protect her or her precious baby.
No, Narcissa didn’t die, and neither did Lucius, but her love for him was the tragedy itself because to love a man who kept disappointing you again and again seemed to be her punishment for thinking herself exempt from the tragedy of being a Black.
When Andromeda Black had fallen in love hell had broken loose. For her, Ted was perfect, so sweet and kind and understanding and undeniably Muggleborn.
Some might say it isn’t right to call her love deranged, but was it not? When her love had made her leave her sisters, her cousins, her family behind. Her love for Ted Tonks made her take that step that would sever her ties to her caring Bella, and her sweet Cissa, and her little cousins, because she thought she could not live without her Ted.
Ironic, how she had to do just that, live without Ted, only with his shadow, his legacy, his Grandson.
Some nights Andromeda mused what she would have done back then if she’d only known that living without Ted, although mere survival, was, indeed, possible.
When Bellatrix Black had fallen in love it had been long after her own marriage.
Rodolphus Lestrange had been a good husband, the kind every Pureblood witch could only dream of, and Bella wasn’t Andy, she would never disappoint her family.
But there he was, the Dark Lord, otherworldly handsome, radiating power and magic and charisma. He promised her everything, promised her glory, promised to restore Wizarding Britain to a state that gave Bella wet dreams.
A Black, once in love, would never betray, but Bella had never loved Rodolphus, so she betrayed him. She gave her heart of black to the Darkest of Lords, and she gave her body over like it was a commodity. She loved him, worshipped him, and she did absolutely anything for him.
She held hope, for years, she held hope in her heart that her Lord would be back someday and come for her like in Cissa’s silly fairy tales. And so he did, and so she served, and so she even murdered another Black.
And so she did what most Blacks were born to do, she died for her love.
And although Grace was a Potter by name, she had always possessed a Black heart,
Little Gracie fell in love when she was only twelve, not knowing that a Black, once in love, would never betray.
Tom Marvolo Riddle at fifteen was already magnetic.
“She won’t wake,” he’d said and Grace had nodded her head like a bobblehead. “Because I told her to,” he’d said, and Grace had been sure she would also do anything if he told her to.
Fate had changed that day because Grace had allowed Tom Marvolo Riddle to walk free and all he’d had to promise her was that he’d someday save her from her hell. And save her he had.
“Anything for me?” he’d asked her when she was sixteen and he was nineteen.
“Anything, Tom.”
Her love had tasked her with collecting pieces of his soul and Grace had agreed so very readily. Ironically enough it was because she was a Black that she could get the pieces Regulus and Bellatrix had hidden, and it was because she was the Chosen One that she’d been able to collect the Diadem. After all, why would Albus Dumbledore ever suspect his precious Savior in consorting with the enemy?
He’d dealt with the ring himself, and by the time Grace was seventeen her lover’s soul was almost whole.
It was the greatest of jokes that when Lord Voldemort, the original wraith, had decided to kidnap her when she had been fourteen to revive himself he had sealed his own fate in meeting his end at the end of his own wand. Because when Grace had finished her education Tom had already been ready for war with both Voldemort and Dumbledore, having collected his own set of loyal followers.
Both of the old men had been disposed of in battle, fast and without a fuss.
All was well that ended well, and Grace would choose to ignore the fact that when Tom kissed her forehead his lips pressed against her scar. She would stay willfully blind to the way he called her his soul so reverently, but never said he loved her.
She would marry him and smile for all the photos as he slowly but surely took control of all of Britain and then expanded his rule farther and farther away. She would never acknowledge the way his eyes filled with satisfaction when on rare days Grace looked particularly like him.
Grace Potter was a Black at heart after all, and it was a fact known to all of Wizarding Britain that a Black in love was a Black deranged.