The Angels Shall Weep For Them

By Clorinda

Rated: PG

Category: General

Summary: Only Death can shake the very foundations of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. One-shot. Bit of a twist in the tale.

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And the rain fell down

On the cold wet town

And the phone kept ringing.

The Rain Fall Down, The Rolling Stones

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Bellatrix glided up the stairs to Grimmauld Place like a silent black shadow. They had all come here because of the notice. The obituary notice in The Times.

The hall was lit brightly with wax candles that floated inside the walls in long continuous lines like dominoes. The whole house was aglow, but each of those candles were black. This was, after all, the house of the Blacks.

A man stood aside at the door to greet Bellatrix. He was very tall, thin, with a face made gaunt with grief. He was wearing long white robes. He bent down, and embraced her briefly and awkwardly.

"Your aunt is in the kitchen."

She nodded just once, and moved away, leaving that pathetic figure of a broken man where he was, a doorman waiting to greet the guests; a father begging sympathy from the passers-by.

It was blasphemy to look upon him as kith and kin.

There was a woman in the kitchen below. Bellatrix glided downstairs into the grey kitchen, which looked quite like Tintoretto's "The Last Supper." Apparently, her aunt was alone down here.

Hesitantly, she whispered the old lady's name.

It evoked a slow response. A greyed, still handsome head was raised to reveal chalky-white skin and bright black eyes. "Bella?" she asked quietly. She stared very hard, and said, "Are you here, Bella?"

"Yes, Auntie, I am."

"Come here, Bella. Let me touch your cheek."

Those withered gnarled fingers grabbed that young, bronzed face with both hands, as Bellatrix knelt gracefully on one knee under her white satin dress. She tried not to flinch.

The hands were taken away, and Mrs. Black said softly, "At least you haven't left me too, my darling." She paused, and whispered, "And where is Rodolphus?"

"He hasn't come yet, Auntie."

She nodded that curly old head. "But Lucius has. Two of my pretty nieces betrothed, and I wish to Merlin you were my own daughters, but Eleanor was always lucky ... Let us join the others, my darling; they are waiting in the dining hall. Help an aged woman up, will you, Bella?"

She grasped Bellatrix's wrists painfully in an iron-gloved grip, and hauled herself to her feet. The two women went through another door, up a short flight of stairs, pushed open a large oaken door and stepped into the golden light of the Black banquet hall.

There was a coterie of men and women seated at the long table, where both ends were left empty. They all turned their heads at the sudden, shy entrance. Bellatrix glanced at them all, and many were old and familiar faces, and a few intimate ones.

Her second cousin Walden McNair even waved at her.

Eleanor Black and her father inclined their heads, and smiled. Her grandfather Luke scowled even-temperedly; and a family friend, the slightly dumpy-looking bespectacled Eileen Prince had joined them.

She saw her sister Narcissa beside the blonde Lucius Malfoy, looking cold and distantly sympathetic at the same time in a way only she, the one Parslemouth in the family could do.

Andromeda sat a few velvet-padded chairs away, her hair let loose and in a bright green gown that caught the light and sparkled in a manner that would little befit a funeral. She was talking in a low voice with Evan Rosier, and a smile twisted his thin lips.

Once more there came the sound of a door softly closing, and Rodolphus Lestrange came in, and on his shoulder was the spidery hand of Mr. Black. They took their seat, Rodolphus beside Bellatrix, who was beside her aunt.

Beside Mrs. Black's high-backed chair stood a grey house-elf, his large bat-black eyes raised adoringly to his mistress's countenance in not just faithful, but disgustingly ever-present devotion. His name was Kreacher, and it was not ill fitted.

Mr. Black rose to his feet. Silence fell over the table. Everyone was angled attentively towards their host, and even his wife watched the proceedings like a curious incident at the park.

"Good evening," was his standard greeting, "and thank you all for being here tonight at the oldest, most noble house of Black, where we gather to mourn. We credit ourselves with the knowledge of such terrible news, but the such sad reality is that we barely knew the truth ourselves, save an anonymous page from a Muggle newspaper on our doorsteps, which tells us of our loss. Andromeda, I am much obliged by your presence.

"My son was a hero, ladies and gentlemen. He was a hero, and he died as one. He died for his master, and his Cause. This war that wages outside our walls, may claim many as its own, and casualty as he was, my son gave his life for what he believed in.

"All of us call upon a man or lady as our overlord, and perhaps we may not have a common goal. What is important, however, that we stay faithful to the bitter end of our lives. We stay faithful to whatever we fight for. My son could not.

"And yet I call upon his name as a hero's, for although he strayed from his chosen path, he was brave enough to do what he did, although he knew how it would end in his death. None of us here haven done what my son has done, but should perchance anyone want to take up his mantle, I pray that his courage should be with you."

And he quietly resumed his seat.

He raised his chin, and for a moment it restored his dignity, glory and arrogant pride, as he called out, "Let us have the food."

It was this one glimpse of his face that made Kreacher hasten to obey, awed by his own respect for his master.

"Fantastic speech," said Rosier carefully, "I never knew the old man had it in him— no, don't look at him I know he's watching me."

Andromeda affected an indignant look. She was rather fond of "the old man." "But we're missing someone tonight, and maybe that is his sorrow." She turned away for a second, and called out, "Pass me the potatoes, Lucius.

---

They had the funeral the next day, in open air. The rain pattered on their umbrellas. As one by one they passed by the bared casket, they looked at that face, white and pale and smiling in death, and they shuddered as they walked away.

His wand was burnt, and each of his family lifted a handful of the ashes and scattered it into the winds. They lowered him into the ground, and the earth swallowed him whole. His epitaph spoke softly, whisperingly:

Here lies a martyr for the wrong side

The angels shall weep for him.

The tombstone had been delivered to the house of Black without consultation as well. Their eyes lingered, the direction of their gaze hidden by the umbrella. One by one, they slowly walked away, backs held stiffly and archly to hide the fact that all of their bones had been shattered.

Soon, there were only the sisters left. They lowered the umbrellas gently, allowing the rain to run down their faces. To show the tears they couldn't bear to spill.

"He was a snotty brat who hid my stuff all the time," whispered Andromeda, "but— but he was my brother." It takes courage to say that word, for it means admitting he was closer than cousinship ever was.

Taking courage means giving courage.

"I never told him this," confessed Bellatrix, her tone soft, "but I always did love him."

Narcissa clutched her cloak of silence. Her cerulean blue eyes were silvered with grief, but she didn't speak a word, a sound.

They stood in the graveyard,

It took the tears rolling down the bridge of Bellatrix's nose, for Narcissa's heart to crack. She had to say this. She had to let them know, because they weren't standing here to pay tribute to a dead boy. They weren't even talking about him.

This death had done nothing but show them how priceless whatever little you had was, and even more precious was what you had lost.

Her sisters weren't mourning; they were waiting.

She had to say it.

"We should be going home. We'll be better off where it's dry." No, the words wouldn't come. They wouldn't come because she didn't have her sisters' courage. She didn't have the courage to believe what she knew.

This was what hope meant. It tears and ravages you inside, and flits away like a shadow, and even then, you refuse to accept the truth.

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Miles and miles away, Sirius Black lifted his glass in the air. "May I wish the bride and groom a happily wedded life. And may I wish Lily doesn't change her house keys so that I won't be able to sneak in, like the whole place was mine.

At the back of his mind, he knew. He saw a painted picture of three lonely girls left behind in the rain. But it was something that belonged to a life he had left far behind. He had no ties to them anymore, any longer. He didn't wish to either.

Today was his best friend's wedding, and intended to let nothing ruin this rare moment of happiness and peace, while lives were being ripped away in war, and souls being destroyed in sadness and hope.

— End —

Author's Note: Yes, dear reader. You have officially wasted ten minutes of your life reading the death of Regulus Black. (I can't seem to write anything else.) And as someone once out it so eloquently: "It's always got to be Narcissa, hasn't it?"

Anyway, minor confession here:

Much as I like angels and the title of this fic, "The angels have wept tonight," is a quote from Gaston Leroux's narration, "The Phantom of the Opera." According to the novel, it's directed to Christine Daaé from the Phantom. (Erik, actually.)

And I strongly recommend you take a look at the Baroque version of the Last Supper as Tintoretto painted it. (It's a gazillion times better than the da Vinci version— I second myself.)