A/N: Written for the Daily Prophet's Noble and Most Ancient House of Drabbles competition.

A Note on Setting: Most of my background info came from the Harry Potter Wiki for this one. Though no official date is given as to when the Portrait of Walburga Black was painted, it is estimated sometimes between 1979 and 1985, after Regulus and Orion had died. I've chosen to set this piece in the later years of that time bracket.

Word count (before A/N): 999 words

Warnings: mentions of blood/bleeding

A special thanks to Ashleigh (Fire The Canon) and Queenie (Queen Bookworm the First) for beta-ing for me!

I am not JK. This is her world. I merely dabble.

They were all gone, every last one of them. Only she remained.

It was a sobering thought—to be left alone in this world with nothing but oneself. Yet even her own memories were of no use to her. What good did it do to dwell on the things she could never have?

Walburga sipped at a bottle of firewhisky. The burning liquid tickled her insides, a stark reminder that her lungs still breathed air while her husband and her son did not.

At least she could rest easy knowing her blood traitor bastard was rotting in Azkaban. The one good thing he'd ever done for her.

From her perch atop the stairs, Walburga could see the stoic faces of Regulus and Orion staring blankly. She was there, too, though her portrait's self was looking away, her painted eyes concentrated somewhere to the side, watching an invisible world of rich color and brush strokes.

That portrait was done almost ten years before. Orion had gifted it to her after they finally banished their Mudblood-loving, traitorous son.

A new, improved family portrait, Orion called it.

And her legacy would always be this woman who refused to look at the viewer.

"Stubborn as always, Walburga," she called to the portrait down the stairs. Orion and Regulus both turned toward her, their eyes following the sound of her voice. She stood shakily. Their eyes followed as she descended the mahogany staircase, the old steps creaking beneath her weight. She stopped in front of the portrait. Regulus timidly waved at her, a momentary distraction she quickly brushed aside.

"Pity none of you can talk," she sneered, swaying slightly. She peered at the image of her husband, his handsome features forever captured in time.

"Your fault, you know," she told him. "Always so cheap. Got a half-breed fool with dirty magic to paint us."

She clicked her tongue. Orion had the gall to glare at her, but what did she care? He was dead.

A stale taste settled in Walburga's mouth, reminding her of the firewhisky in her hand. She drained it.

"No matter." She dropped the bottle. Kreacher would be in soon to clean up after her anyways. She stared back up at Orion's black eyes. "I've just the thing."

"Another few minutes, Mrs. Black. I'm close to it, now."

This painter was pureblooded. Walburga had made certain of it. He was a tall lad, with sandy colored hair and eyes that reminded her of the little topaz earrings her own mother gave her before she passed. Briefly, she wondered if she should have worn them for this portrait.

But they wouldn't fit in with what she planned to do.

"No rush at all," Walburga said. Inside, she was itching for a drink. She had Kreacher hide away her vices while the artist was present, but now she wished she'd had at least one drink before his arrival to loosen her aging bones.

Posing for a portrait was far more painful than she remembered.

"Finishing stroke, and… done." The boy turned the painting around. There she stood, a perfect imitation of herself, dressed in billowing black robes and topped with a black mourning cap. Her own grey eyes stared back at her, never breaking contact. Walburga smiled. The portrait mimicked. Walburga approached, her bony finger outstretched in front of her. The portrait held out her own hand.

"Marvelous." Her eyes raked over the life-sized image, her heart racing as her plan became reality.

"Marvelous," the portrait mimicked.

"But," Walburga said, "it's still missing my final touch."

Slowly, Walburga reached into her robes. The portrait and the painter shared identical looks of intrigue as her shaky hand wrestled the hilt of her family dagger from the deepest pocket. She could feel the painter's hesitations as he took a step back.

"Relax, child. Not for you."

"Not for you," crooned the portrait, its eyes wild with amusement. Walburga could tell this painting would be a fast learner indeed.

Carefully, she pressed the tip of the blade into her pointer finger. Deep red blood stained her white skin, the sharp contrast drawing a shaky gasp from the painter. Before the drop could fully form, however, Walburga pressed her finger to the portrait's lips. As lovingly as she could, she traced their outline, never breaking contact.

"Blood magic is as dangerous as it is old," she whispered. "But this is my legacy. I'd rather be damned than have you fail to take in my likeness."

Then, Walburga closed her eyes and let the incantation roll off her tongue like a reverent prayer, the words swirling around her finger and through the canvas of the portrait. Once complete, her hand fell back to her side. Walburga could feel the magic still coursing through her veins, burning her insides with an electric charge. She opened her eyes to see the portrait smirking back at her, the blood no longer stark against the canvas. Instead, it appeared as lipstick, like the painter himself had added it amongst his many brush strokes.

"A perfect addition," the boy finally said. But the tremors of his voice gave away his fear. Few wizards could stomach such magic, even pureblooded ones.

"Yes, it is," Walburga said. "You can go. I'll have my house-elf send you payment later."

Half an hour later, Walburga sat perched atop her stairs, a freshly opened bottle of firewhisky in hand. She no longer cared that she was the last of the Noble House of Black left alive. On the contrary—this was the closest she'd felt to having family around in years.

At the bottom of the stairs, her new and improved family portrait replaced the lifeless one of herself, Orion, and Regulus. Walburga watched as this portrait looked about the stairs, down the entrance hall, through the kitchen, every moment taking in what was rightfully hers.

"You will do nicely." Walburga raised her bottle in a toast.

The portrait smiled back, her lips forever stained cherry red.