The door to the Headmaster's office closed softly behind Lucien.
For several seconds, no one spoke.
Phineas Nigellus Black leaned back in his portrait frame, arms crossed, staring at the empty space where the boy had been.
"…Annoying child," he muttered.
Then, after a pause—
"…Brilliant."
The other portraits immediately burst into laughter.
"Oh, did you hear that?" one said smugly.
"He admitted defeat!"
"Write it down—this doesn't happen often!"
A former Hufflepuff Headmistress smiled brightly.
"Our student solved in minutes what's been gnawing at you for decades."
Phineas scowled. "Don't remind me."
Still, a trace of jealousy crept into his voice.
"Why couldn't he be a Slytherin?" he muttered.
"Or better yet—a Black."
He sighed heavily.
"…Though," he added reluctantly, "if someone in the Black family were to love him…"
The thought settled.
"…Then he'd be Black family by law."
For the first time that evening, Phineas smiled.
🖤 A Name Not Spoken Enough
Phineas turned to Dumbledore.
"I should have asked him about Bellatrix."
Dumbledore sighed deeply and nodded.
"Yes. You should have."
"Next time," Dumbledore added gently.
Phineas bit his lip.
Anger burned there—hot, old, and bitter.
Not at Bellatrix.
At Voldemort.
At the lies.
The control.
The abuse.
And at the injustice of Azkaban.
🌧️ A Memory of Rain and Iron Bars
Phineas remembered the day clearly.
A rainy afternoon.
Arcturus Black standing before the iron bars of Azkaban, wand in hand, eyes sharp and tired.
He had checked Bellatrix's memories—legally.
He could have taken her away.
But he hadn't.
Too much blood on her hands.
Too many dead.
Even brainwashed… even controlled… the law would not forgive.
Dumbledore had stood beside him that day.
Silent. Grim.
Yet Arcturus had not left empty-handed.
He sent the memories—to Amelia Bones, to the Weasley family, through Dumbledore.
Truth, if nothing else.
And Arcturus Black—unyielding, iron-willed—had sworn to find another way.
Someday.
🏰 The Weight of a Family
Phineas straightened in his frame.
"The Black family still stands," he said quietly.
Not proud.
Not defeated.
Just… enduring.
And somewhere in Hogwarts, a Hufflepuff boy with silver-violet eyes had reminded him that even ancient families could change their fate—if they were clever enough to try.
Phineas Nigellus Black turned toward the ancestral tapestry in his mind.
"…Perhaps," he muttered, "hope is not as foolish as I thought."