Hauntings in Black

"No matter what he does, no matter how many years pass, no matter how the world changes, he cannot escape them." Remus Lupin and the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black

A/N: This story will be divided into seven parts, each part dedicated to one member of the Black family. All will be told from the point of view of Remus Lupin.

I've been working on this one for over a year; I set it aside when I decided I wanted it to be canon-compliant after Deathly Hallows. Needless to say, that complicated things. A lot. But it's one of my babies, and I sincerely hope you enjoy. If you see any canon mistakes, please point them out (kindly—no flames, please) and I will fix them. And please review!

Disclaimer: Don't own it, not making any money, not JKR.

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Prologue: Walburga

December 1997

The portrait is staring back at him—glaring, with a piercing edge and a loathing he cannot deny. He has lived in this world for over thirty years, and it has become his world, but there are still moments when he feels, violently and suddenly, that he is in a foreign and dangerous place, one that he does not quite fit into. Sometimes the realization comes with a doorknob that bites his hand or when someone Apparates directly in front of him into a dark and silent room or when he is awed anew at the power that he creates himself, coaxed into life with just a few carefully spoken words and the flick of a wooden stick. But it is most often with the portraits, when he catches their movements out of the corner of his eye, when he turns to face them, and they are studying him back. Icy blood running through veins and goosebumps covering skin are inescapable then.

She whose portrait this is would have enjoyed it: his Muggle blood—his half mudblood—finally showing itself, and in her presence nonetheless. Perhaps enough of her personality is imprinted, reflected in this paint and magic confection that some semblance of a sense of humor reacts to the situation.

Her voice, when she speaks, is shrill and yet oily, a combination only a Black could manage. He has heard it before, from other mouths, but he is older now, and is more practiced, and he does not let his body shudder in revulsion—that would please her too much.

"So you're finally all leaving, halfblood?"

He does not sharply retort that that word will mean nothing soon, does not wince at the hate behind it, does not even roll his eyes at her inability to hurt him. Somehow the silence she is letting seep into the room after years of shrieks and hurled insults does not allow for anything but a simple, "Yes." And so that is all he says.

Her mouth curls up into a twisted travesty of a smile. It is not a smile, though, no more a smile than this hellhole is a home. He is struck, sickened, by it, but he does not show his feelings. "Good," she says.

He will leave this room and walk out the front door, and he will never enter this house again. Even had this place not lost its sanctuary because of Severus Snape's betrayal, it is too full of ashes and dark memories and darker magic to ever be anything like a home. Even if, as he suspects, in years to come, when all this is behind them, Harry decides this is where he and Ginny want to start their life together, the light of even their love could never drive the shadows and snakes away. Best to leave it, lock it up, never speak of it again, let it slowly disappear, dying out as gradually and agonizingly as its owners did.

Yes, he will leave and never see it again. But there is a woman waiting outside in the rain, three blocks away because there are still Death Eaters who watch this house, waiting to see if Harry Potter will return (he won't). This woman disguises her blood with brightly hued hair and flashy clothes, even though her eyes are gray and fathomless, and when she lets herself be who she really is, her hair is dark and silky and her skin is porcelain-pale. This woman is as clumsy as ever, but she has a reason now, for her belly is great with his child, and she glows with love. And he will slip his hand into hers, and they will walk, perhaps in silence, perhaps chatting about a million little things, to her parents' home. And they will fight side by side in the days to come and raise a child with love. And he will try, for her sake, and his, not to remember that, in a way, she belongs to the house he is leaving behind. He will call her Tonks in public, even if he calls her Dora when they are alone, and try to forget that half the blood in her veins is Black.

But deep in the distant, most haunted corners of his mind, he will remember, and a twisted part of him will find both humor and pathos in it. No matter what he does, no matter how many years pass, no matter how the world changes, he cannot escape them. To him, somehow, the wizarding world—his world—will always mean the Blacks, as it has since he was eleven years old.

Perhaps, despite his wisdom and training, some of this shows on his face, for the portrait's face contorts into a sneer. "You never really get away, do you?"

He does not answer. Instead, he picks up his ragged coat from the table and shrugs into it, patting his pocket unconsciously to be sure of his wand. As he turns to go, he says one word.

"Goodbye."

And then he walks out the door and into the fast-falling night.