Chapter 8

I’m a proud black sheep

In contrast to the cheerfulness of the past few days, Tonks woke up the next morning with a heavy heart.
It wasn’t the kind of explosive bad mood that made her huff and curse under her breath, but a sluggish one — the kind that clings to your bones and weighs down your movements.
She had slept poorly.

Her dreams had been interrupted by a series of unsettling images: the Black ancestors mocking her from their portraits, their stern gazes and thin lips curled into sneers of contempt.
In the dream, she had become stuck in a failed transformation, halfway between an insect and a badger, with clumsy limbs and bulging eyes.

Then came the laughter: shrill, mocking, like a cruel chorus that filled her ears, cut off her breath, and dulled her mind.

She woke up with a start.

Even though she knew it had only been a dream, she ran to the mirror, almost afraid of finding something she wouldn’t be able to undo.

But there was nothing unusual.

Just her usual reflection: an angular face, a strong jawline, and large eyes beneath expressive brows.

Her hair, however, had turned a bluish grey, trying to mirror her unease.

She didn’t change it.
If her mood was grey, her hair would be too.

She stepped away from the mirror and headed for the wardrobe, searching for something to match that mood — something that suited that colour so rare in her.

To make matters worse, she had another run-in with Dawlish that morning.
She crossed paths with him in one of the Ministry corridors — always wearing that smug smile, that perfectly calculated air of arrogance that never failed to get under her skin.
They exchanged a few tense words about a report and the way she had supposedly «handled» a surveillance case.

Tonks shot him a glare, then turned on her heel before her patience reached its limit.
She didn’t say what she was really thinking… but it took effort to hold it in.

«Are you alright?» asked Kingsley, who had witnessed the scene from a distance.
He couldn’t help but notice the dull, greyish tone of his colleague’s hair.

«Yeah. Of course,» she replied with a smile that fooled no one.

Kingsley looked at her in silence.
«Is it because of Dawlish?»

Tonks let out a short, humorless laugh.
«I wish it were Dawlish,» she muttered.

He didn’t press. He knew when to back off.
But his gaze lingered a moment longer, as if trying to read something even she hadn’t figured out yet.

Tonks sighed quietly.
Not even arguing with Dawlish had helped distract her from the unease weighing her down.
In fact, that whole exchange had only brought the nightmare back to the front of her mind.

Why did it always have to be like this?

For Dawlish, like so many others, being pure-blood was the only thing that mattered.
The one thing that gave him the right —because he believed it was a right— to look down on everyone else.
Just like the Black ancestors: from their portraits, with that same arrogance and a chorus of scornful laughter.
As if a person’s worth could be measured by the blood in their veins, not by what they did with it.

Normally, that kind of thing slid right off Tonks.
She almost laughed at it — at those who took the nobility of their surname too seriously, who believed in bloodline purity and all those stale, outdated beliefs that still ruled the upper echelons of wizarding society.
She found it all old-fashioned, unfair. Ridiculous.

She challenged those hierarchies with hard work, a carefree attitude, easy laughter, and brightly coloured hair.

But that day, everything felt heavier.
As if what she had always managed to dodge with optimism and humour had suddenly turned into a weight that crushed her without mercy.

And deep down, she knew why.
Why she’d had that nightmare.
Why her hair had taken on that strange colour.
Why she felt so subdued that morning.

It was because of the newly revealed truth about her lineage, her name… and her mother.

Tonks had always wanted to know more about her mother’s side of the family.
As a child, she would sneak into her parents’ bedroom and, eyes shining with excitement, open the wardrobe.
She would push aside scarves, trinkets and little boxes until she found the hidden treasure at the very back of the bottom drawer.
Then, with her tender, childlike smile and a heavy photo album in her hands, she would run to find her mother and ask her to talk about those people she’d never met, yet felt she knew so well.
Once again.

Andromeda, always willing to indulge her, would give in.
She’d sit beside her on the living room sofa with a cup of tea, and together they would start flipping through the pages.
They would look at the photographs, recall the names, and Andromeda would tell the same stories for the umpteenth time — stories Tonks never grew tired of hearing.
Tonks would get excited, point, ask questions about that absent family.
And her mother, with a gentle caress, a soft smile, and that quiet voice —almost a whisper— would always answer.

Of course, even at that young age, Tonks could sense it.
That there were things her mother kept to herself.
And although she never fully understood why, she never insisted.
Maybe it was the darkness clouding her eyes, or the tension on her face — the kind Andromeda worked so hard to hide.

So instead, Tonks imagined. And imagined a lot.
An ancient house, solemn and powerful.
The special magic of pure-blood families. The mysterious sisters. The misunderstood cousin.
She had pictured a family with disagreements, sure, with arguments, distance, and the typical domestic drama.
But also with affection. A past full of warmth that, somehow, justified using the word family.
And the word home.

Now, after having stepped inside Grimmauld Place, that perception had shifted.
Thinking back to those afternoons with her mother, she could almost see —with crystal clarity— the expression Andromeda wore when looking at certain photos.
The smiles she painted on her lips, but which never quite reached her eyes.
And the frequent, though brief, silences that filled the space between them.

She now realised the answers had been incomplete, the truths hidden, the story softened.
She had always thought her mother was a rebellious heroine who had left by choice.
Not a girl trapped, who had no other option but to run in order to be herself.

And that revelation weighed far more than she could’ve imagined.
Maybe because she had never truly believed that reality could be so barren — so much harsher than any version she had once dreamed up.

She thought maybe she ought to be angry with her mother for not telling her the truth.
But in reality, she understood why she hadn’t.

Because it hurt.
Because learning about her roots meant discovering that those suffocating traditions weren’t just part of some story from the past —
they had taken aim at her parents, at herself, and at everything she’d been taught to love and respect.

It would have been better not to know.
It would have been easier to keep believing her fairy tale version, and never, ever try to learn anything about the Blacks.
She could pretend she didn’t know.
But she couldn’t undo what she’d discovered.

Now, she could feel the shadows of the Black mansion closing in around her.
Even though she detested all of it, she couldn’t help but feel judged, diminished, cast aside by ideals that stood against everything she was.

The portraits with their stern gazes.
The damned family tapestry.
The burn marks where the disgraced had been erased.
And… the house itself — constantly reminding her that she didn’t belong.

It wasn’t even that she wanted to belong.
But even if she had, she wouldn’t have stood a chance in that world.

It wasn’t just that any stranger —like Dawlish— could look down on her.
It was that her own family would have done the same.

So, because of all that, the weight she carried that day had a name:
Nobility. Lineage. Grimmauld Place. Black.

A simple “house” — a building, a dwelling — was making her feel like this.

And if her mother —whose blood was as pure and noble as it could get— had meant nothing to that family…
If her opinions, her life, her way of being had never made a difference…

What could she expect — a daughter of mixed blood?

What could she possibly do against a world still ruled by those ideals?

For the first time, she asked herself if it was worth it.
Being a good Auror, a good person… for what?

If everything came down to blood, to status, to power.
If the world refused to change…

Why keep fighting?

The unease followed her all day long.
By the time she left the Ministry, she found herself walking aimlessly, until —almost without noticing— her steps had brought her to Grimmauld Place.

“Maybe the Weasleys will distract me. Or Sirius. Yes… I need to talk to Sirius.”

She stopped at the threshold.
Right in front of that cursed door to that cursed house.

She couldn’t help but press her lips into a grimace as her eyes landed on the tarnished family crest above the entrance.
“Toujours pur.”

Ever since Sirius had pointed out what that motto truly meant, she couldn’t help repeating it silently every time she crossed the door — though now it sounded in her head with the dull resignation of a joke that had long since lost its punch.
“Always pure.”

She stepped inside.
Forced a smile at the thumping and shouting coming from upstairs — the Weasleys, still hard at work, chasing away dust and gloom with tireless energy.

Taking a deep breath, she climbed the stairs, determined to join them.
But even with her firm steps, her eyes drifted sideways to the row of shrunken house-elf heads lining the wall.

The sight turned her stomach.

Her relatives’ mocking laughter still echoed in her mind, the shadows of the house creeping in around her…
She shook her head and quickened her pace.

When she reached the landing on the first floor, she came across Kreacher.
The elf, hunched and muttering under his breath, shot her a look of pure disdain before shuffling away down the corridor.

Tonks sighed.
Another charming sign of familial affection. The elf’s venom was always freely given.

As she passed the drawing room, the door left slightly ajar, she couldn’t help but stop.
“Sirius might be in there”.

She stepped into the room with that hope — but found it nearly dark inside, lit only by the fire in the hearth and a small oil lamp resting on a side table.
Remus Lupin was seated in an armchair, a book open on his lap.
When he heard her enter, he looked up. His expression was serene, as if nothing in the world could disturb the calm that seemed to wrap around him like a second skin.

«Sorry to interrupt,» said Tonks, suddenly feeling as though she had shattered the peace of the room. «I was looking for Sirius.»

-You’re not interrupting anything,» Lupin replied, gently closing the book. «He’s upstairs. Roaming the house with Molly and the kids.»

Tonks nodded.
For a moment, she hesitated between leaving and staying.
But something in the stillness of the sitting room held her there.

She lingered, arms crossed, awkward in her own skin, glancing around as though trying to find her place in the space.
Her gaze, inevitably, landed on the Black family tapestry — with its names embroidered in gold and its blackened scars scorched into the fabric.

The sight tied a familiar knot in her stomach.
The same one she felt at the sight of the house-elf heads, the family crest above the front door, or the portraits that stared down at her from the walls.

Lupin noticed her unease.
He set the book down on the side table, stood calmly, and walked over to her.

-So you’re part of this legacy…» he murmured softly, as if not to disturb the atmosphere.

Tonks didn’t answer right away. She just nodded, slowly, eyes still fixed on the tapestry.
The flickering firelight played on the worn fabric, making the golden threads shimmer.
And for a moment, she felt the urge to tear it down.

«Sirius told me you’re relatives,» Lupin continued, standing beside her.
«You’re part of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black.»

There was a faint, almost imperceptible irony in his tone.
When Tonks turned to look at him, he was wearing a slight smile.

She rolled her eyes.
«Yeah, I guess I am. Still getting used to the idea…»

Lupin tilted his head with interest.
«What do you mean?»

Tonks hesitated. She didn’t usually talk about personal matters — especially not with someone she barely knew.
But something in Lupin’s calm gaze gave her the space to lower her guard.

Almost without realising it, the Auror began to give voice to the thoughts circling her head.

«If you ask me… I feel more like the blackest sheep of the family.»

Her voice tried to sound light, but Lupin caught the sincerity underneath.
«I’ve got nothing to do with all this,» she added, gesturing vaguely at the tapestry.
«And in some ways, I think that’s for the best.»

She looked back at it.
That tree that didn’t include her.
The embroidered names. The scorched-out marks. Her mother, violently erased — turned into a faceless shadow.

She swallowed.

-Maybe I would’ve been better off not knowing anything about this house or these people,» she murmured, more to herself than to him.

Lupin gave a quiet, understanding smile — one that didn’t dismiss, but acknowledged.
His gaze lingered on the tapestry, as if he too could read the stories of those who had been burned away.

«Well… Black sheep are still part of the bloodline.»

Tonks blinked, caught off guard. For a moment, she thought it might be a bad joke.
But when she looked at him, there was only that same serene expression.

«Sometimes, knowing where we come from doesn’t help us decide who we want to be,» he said.
«But there’s something in that knowing too. Something we can use.»

He paused.

«Your Metamorphmagus abilities probably come from this line.»

Tonks frowned, feeling as though he’d touched a raw nerve.
That part of her she loved most — what she shared with her mother…

Did it really come from this rotten legacy?

A prick of discomfort stirred in her chest. But before she could dwell too long on it, he continued:

-And probably many other things you don’t know yet, but you have every right to discover… and maybe, in time, even to love.
Things that come from there,» he said, nodding toward the tapestry,
«but that can still be part of you.»

He waited for her to look at him again before adding gently:

«You’re part of this family, whether you like it or not.
And whether they like it or not.»

Her eyes returned to the tapestry.
They searched, instinctively, for where her name ought to be — right beneath Andromeda’s.

«And while the rest of them fell into disgrace,» Lupin went on,
«you have a promising future ahead.
You’re an Auror. A Metamorphmagus. You’re strong and kind.
You don’t need their recognition.
Heritage isn’t always defined by what others expect of you — but by what you choose to do with the qualities that make you who you are.»

Tonks looked away from the burn mark and back at him.

And then, he pulled a quill from his pocket.
He held it up in the air — solemn and ridiculous.

«And if it saddens you not to be on the family line… I’ll add you myself: Nymphadora Tonks Black.»

Tonks couldn’t help but smile.

The sight of Lupin, so serious and yet so absurd with that quill between his fingers, was too much.

But before she could reply, she saw him raise his other hand — brushing it over a different burn mark higher up on the tapestry.

She didn’t need to look to know who it belonged to.

«Sirius feels that way too,» Lupin said with a barely perceptible melancholy.
«He wishes he’d been born into another family, with fewer complications.
But you know what? I don’t think your legacy takes anything away from either of you.
It just means you’ve both learned to see your origin from a different angle.
And that doesn’t erase who you are —
on the contrary: it proves you were strong enough to turn it around.»

Tonks stared at him in silence.
His words carried a quiet weight.
It wasn’t a hollow attempt to comfort her — not some empty speech meant to make her feel better.
It was the truth.
Spoken with the calm of someone who knew what it was to feel out of place.

«That… I like that,» she murmured.

She felt the tightness in her chest ease.
The suffocation fade.
The closing walls back off.
And the shadows retreat.

She let out a small, honest laugh.
Lupin glanced at her and smiled too, as if he’d just witnessed something he was glad to see.

—I think there’s something symbolic about the two of you reuniting in this house —he added, glancing around—. Two Blacks who don’t fit the standards of their lineage, sharing a noble mission that defies the very traditions their family once revered, and conspiring under the same roof that rejected them. If you ask me, your ancestors would be terribly disappointed.

Tonks let out a genuine laugh, loud and carefree, the kind that seemed to shake the dust from the darkest corners of the house—and of her mind.
Yes, she was certain that if the family portraits could, they’d be tearing their wigs off in outrage.

She turned to Lupin, grateful.
The tips of her hair, without her even realizing it, had started turning pink again.

“You know? You’re more like your mother than I thought.”
Sirius’s voice rang out from the doorway.

Tonks turned her head and found him leaning casually against the frame, a crooked smile on his lips and that unmistakable glint of mischief in his eyes.
She stared at him, wide-eyed, as if he’d just slapped her. But the spark in her own gaze betrayed that she was far from offended.

“Me? Like my mother?!” she exclaimed, placing a hand dramatically on her chest, as if Sirius had just crushed her dignity.
“That’s a low blow, Sirius!”

He let out a rough, barking laugh. His face lit up with unmistakable warmth, like the happiest memories were still alive inside him.

“Of course you are,” he replied with mock solemnity. “You’ve got that same defiant look she’d get whenever someone tried to shove one of those ridiculous family rules down her throat.”

Tonks narrowed her eyes, pretending to scrutinize him.
Then, with a playful spark in her gaze, she closed her eyes for a moment and let her hair shift. Waves of rich, dark brown cascaded over her shoulders, elegant and vibrant — the perfect image of Andromeda.

Sirius raised his eyebrows, intrigued.

Tonks straightened up, lifted her chin, and with a stern expression that would’ve made any Black proud, she did her best imitation of her mother’s voice:
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, another family gathering? If I see one more of them strutting around like they’re wearing an invisible crown, I’m moving to France to raise flying hedgehogs!”

Sirius burst out laughing, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and covering his face with one hand.
“Merlin, Tonks!” he gasped between laughs. “If you keep talking like that, I’m going to start thinking you’re a real Black.”

Tonks grinned, pleased with herself, as her hair shifted back to its usual rebellious pink — vibrant, wild, and entirely her own.

“I am,” she said with a shrug, glancing at Remus, “but unlike some people, I don’t wear it like a badge of honor.”

Sirius looked at her with a mix of amusement and pride.
Remus, beside him, nodded, pleased by the effect their words had had on her.

“Touché,” murmured Sirius, inclining his head in mock defeat. “You’ve convinced me. You deserve it.”

With a grand gesture, he bowed deeply and offered her his hand, his roguish grin still intact.
“Let me show you the finest sights this decaying mausoleum has to offer.”

-Enchantée,” Tonks replied, taking his hand with a conspiratorial smile.

Not to be outdone, she gave a dramatic curtsy, bending her knees like the elegant ladies in the Muggle films she watched with her father, and nearly toppled over, doubled up in laughter.

Later that night, as she closed the door behind her and walked through Grimmauld Square, Tonks realized that something had changed.
She turned back to glance at the family home, watching it vanish between the two neighboring buildings until it was hidden from sight, as if it had never been there at all.
As if it was no longer a threat.
And she felt the weight that had burdened her so deeply begin to dissolve, like a heaviness finally evaporating.

That afternoon, Sirius and Remus had managed to turn the tide.

Sirius, like her mother, had been cast out — but instead of shrinking in shame, he had chosen to face it all with optimism, laughing at how ridiculous stereotypes, opulence, and pomp really were.
Her second cousin had shown her the power of staying true to oneself, of laughing at life’s ironies, breaking chains, embracing criticism, and forging a personal identity — like a hymn to freedom.
Tonks had discovered that Sirius’s way of facing hardship resonated with her, because more than anything else, she loved to laugh.

And Remus… with his quiet presence and calm gaze, had listened to her without rushing, without judgment, with that patient way of his that never demanded words, but welcomed them when they came.
He hadn’t needed grand speeches or explanations; he had simply understood.
As if he already knew what she was thinking, even before she could find the words to express it.
And in that dusty sitting room, with no promises or solutions, he had somehow made Tonks feel a little less alone.
And that, perhaps, was enough for the pink to begin to return. And the laughter too.

And so the three of them had spent the afternoon together.
Wandering through the house, talking like old friends, and mocking the absurd details of the drawing room: ridiculously lavish crests, sneering portraits, and other objects brimming with almost cartoonish arrogance.
It had been enough for Tonks to stop seeing Grimmauld Place as a hostile space.
Now, it was just an old house, with years of dust settled over a trove of priceless relics — relics that, in truth, no longer meant anything.

Time, in the end, didn’t care for purebloods, half-bloods, or Muggles.
It crumbled everything just the same — not to destroy it, but to make room for new lives, new perspectives, new experiences, and new challenges.

As she slipped into a narrow alleyway veiled in shadow to Disapparate, Tonks let a faint smile escape.

“I’m a proud black sheep,” she murmured to herself, before spinning on her heel and vanishing with a soft crack.

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Author’s Note:
This chapter, though brief, was incredibly hard to write. I think it’s one of the parts I rewrote the most — deleting, rewriting, editing, arguing with my pillow, tweaking… Honestly, a full-blown obsession. But I think it paid off.

When I first started weaving the Black family subplot, Tonks knew more. I had given her more information from the beginning. But over time, I realized it made more sense — more organic, or more dramatic, call it what you will — for her to unravel that story little by little, as the main (canonical) plot progressed. It felt more natural. And more painful, too.

After all, who really sits down with their young daughter and tells her about trials, betrayals, imprisonment, and the reasons that forced them to flee their family?
I can’t quite picture Andromeda saying:
«Dora, today we’re going to talk about backstabbing.»
Like so many mothers, Andromeda tried to shield her daughter from the cruelty of the world.
And Tonks… did what children do: she filled in the blanks with fantasy. She invented a story to make sense of the void. And that’s why now she feels disenchanted.
Like when you’ve believed something your whole life, only to find out it was never really true.
I guess that’s also part of growing up. Or maturing.

I’m telling you all this because Tonks goes through a lot in a relatively short period of time, and this is one of the subplots that will accompany her.
I believe Andromeda is happy. But she’s still trapped by what happened. She lives in the present, yes, but keeps the past locked away in a drawer.
And it’s about time we open it.
Time to dive into her story… through Tonks’s eyes.

As you can see, this is a very rich subplot. In the canon, it was barely explored. In fact, the whole idea was born from a tiny scene in the book — when Sirius, in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, shows Harry the Black family tapestry and mentions that Tonks isn’t on it. Harry is surprised they’re related… and that’s it.
Nothing more is said.

Which, honestly, is a shame.
And also music to my ears.
Because it gives me the chance to play. To explore. To imagine. To write. To draw.

Anyway — you’re probably starting to get used to how I write by now.
Can’t wait to hear what you think 😉

Thanks for reading all the way here!