Black Blood

07 - Ambiguous News

"Do you understand, Cassiopeia?" her mother asked, not a single shred of emotion within her demure voice or light-blue eyes.

"Yes, mother. Grandmother is dead, and she is never coming back," Cass, or rather, Cassiopeia dutifully replied, displaying the same emotionless traits as her mother upon hearing the dreadful, some would say, news.

If truth were to be told aloud, however, Cassiopeia wasn't so sure anyone currently alive had held any affection for the dreary woman. She'd been overbearing and mean-spirited to any who'd braved socialization with her, showing constant ire and hate towards muggles and muggleborns alike, and any who didn't immediately proclaim the same, regardless of how, when, or why the subject oftenly, seemingly randomly changed to the subject, and while many would've openly stated she had been the very definition of a proper, purebred witch, none, Cassiopeia felt certain, would've secretly admitted they liked the awful, almost-entirely insane woman.

"How...did it happen?" the girl asked, her blank eyes focusing upon her immaculately trimmed fingernails that rested upon the hem of her posh skirt.

"Her heart gave out while she was reading the morning paper," her father responded, his voice as emotionless as could be, and Cassiopeia doubted that even he, her own son, had truly loved her in recent years, especially considering he'd caught the banshee of a woman trying to push her own granddaughter down the stairs for 'sassing' her the last time they'd made a health visit. "Which is something else we need to talk about, dear."

"Heart health?" Cassiopeia bemusedly queried.

Without a word, her father picked up the morning paper that had been resting upon the living room's coffee table, flipping it over so as to show her the front cover.

"Escape from Azkaban," she quietly read, noting that the large title of the article was one of only a few words not written in Welsh, something she, to her internal chagrin, could not understand as fluidly as she would've liked.

Under the title was a picture of a man, who seemed eerily familiar to her, raging within his rectangular portrait, spitting and snarling, and acting as though he were nothing more than a wild beast within a confined, unwanted cage.

"His name is Sirius Black," her father murmured, which caused Cassiopeia to glance up at him in bewilderment. "My brother, dear, and your uncle."

"I...have an uncle?" she asked, feeling something very akin to eagerness at the sudden, strange revelation.

"Had," her mother corrected, sending her father a rather displeased look, which brought out a slight frown upon his noble features.

"Had," he quietly agreed, although he didn't sound none too happy about the admission. "He was disowned when he was sixteen, and his name can no longer be found on the Black family tree."

"Why?" Cassiopeia curiously inquired, wanting to know more about this uncle-who-wasn't-an-uncle.

"He's a blood traitor," her mother venomously spat, her tone denying any and all brokering of an argument on the subject.

"How so?" Cassiopeia continued, unphased by her mother's harsh glare.

"Dear, that's quite enough," her father gently chided, which caused the girl to frown in displeased disappointment, as she still felt entirely too eager to learn more about the man raging upon the front cover of The Daily Prophet.

"Yes, father," she quietly replied, not allowing the disdainful sniff to leave her that nearly did, as she knew all too well such disrespect would neither be tolerated nor looked well upon.

"Cassiopeia, go and leave your father and I to ourselves, as we have things to discuss that a girl your age has no business hearing," her mother said, sending the young witch a look of complete contempt, which Cassiopeia very nearly returned.

"Yes, mother," she quietly replied, controlling herself astutely, standing and padding her way out of the living room with as much grace as she could manage.

'Loathsome woman!' she silently screamed, wishing to curse her own mother into oblivion for her rude, undeserved, and utterly malicious antics. 'Someday, I shall rule the House of Black, and you shall be but a beggar upon the streets, asking for the generosity of muggles with that disgusting, vile voice of yours!'

It wasn't as though Cassiopeia hated her mother, not at all times, anyway, but there were times that the woman seemed to despise her daughter, and Cassiopeia felt sure she knew why.

'She's jealous,' the girl told herself, satisfied with her silent observation. 'She'll never be a true Black, nor shall she ever match the beauty already blossoming upon my flesh through the greater blood flowing within my very veins.'

Her mother was a pureblood, and she was from a very distinguished lineage, but she did not hail from the most Ancient and Noble House of Black. And though the woman carried the title through marriage, and though she'd spawned the heir to the purest of pure wizarding families, she would never be a Black in nothing more than name. Cassiopeia felt certain this fact ate at the spiteful woman, and it caused her to feel no small amount of satisfaction that her mother felt she was less in some way than her own daughter.

"Kreacher," the girl called, wanting to rant to him, but knowing she couldn't, as no lady would do so, not even in privacy; none who held their integrity in high esteem, at any rate.

He appeared before her without hesitation, his expression dim and dull, and she wasn't entirely certain whether it was because he'd listened to their conversation or if he'd somehow figured it out all on his own.

"Yes, Miss?" he croaked, his tone both sad and eager, empty yet full.

"I apologize, Kreacher," she softly said, allowing her mother's hateful nature to slip her mind.

"Kreacher is the one who's sorry, Miss," he croaked, shying his ancient eyes from her younger own.

"Kreacher, I rather disliked my grandmother, but I know you held her in high regard. I am not sorry to see the miserable, old woman gone, but I am saddened by the state you're in, and I dearly wish I knew how to console you beyond these useless words," she gently replied, giving her oldest friend a small, sad smile.

"Kreacher is moved by Miss' most kindest, most not-uselessess words," he raspily croaked, his old, ugly face becoming more marred by warm tears that caused Cassiopeia's own eyes to become a tad bit blurry, but then he continued. "Kreacher is eternally glad he is at Miss' and Master's side, but he thinks you're unfair to Old Mistress."

"Kreacher, she tried to push me down a set of stairs when I was eight," she replied, sending him a deadpan look that held a hint of mirth, the blurriness within her light-blue orbs all but vanishing as dry amusement replaced her sadness. "I beg your pardon, but I do not believe I'm being unfair, in the least, when I state there was no love lost between us after that particular event."

"Kreacher knows Old Mistress loved Miss, truly, he does," he refuted with a shake of his old head, sending his large, gray ears flopping to and fro. "But Kreacher will admit Old Mistress lost her brain when her young years passed her by."

"To that, Kreacher, I suppose we both may agree," she lightly said, sending him another small smile, this one unmarred by sadness, which he ruefully returned.

"Indeed, Miss, indeed we may."