Author's Notes: I have no idea what this is. I don't even like it that much. But I'm posting it anyway.

Druella and Cygnus are the actual names of Andromeda, Bellatrix, and Narcissa's parents (according to the tree drawn by J.K.Rowling and accessible on the Harry Potter Lexicon).

For Druella

And Cygnus:

His name just didn't sound good in the title.

Patil. Parkinson. Crabbe. Goyle. Yaxley. Rookwood. Bulstrode. Avery. Carrow. Dolohov. Rosier. Lestrange. Macnair. Nott. Mulciber. Travers. Wilkes. Malfoy.

But above all these: Black.

The world was ripe and in powerful hands, pureblooded hands, and everyone looked to the historical names of those who knew magic, who'd been born with ages of knowledge pounding through their very blood.

And at the top of this pyramid, three sisters, like some unholy trinity. The oldest: strong, enigmatic, addicting, dangerous, and dark. The middle: soft, quick, sharp, ensnaring, and unforgettable. And the youngest: fair, stunning, seductive, coy, and manipulative.

Their foot trails reeked of power, of magic, and confidence. Equally loved and equally hated. Unstoppable. Strong apart, stronger together, a venerable fortress of belief and influence.

Two more. Brothers. The older: wild, unpredictable, explosive, comic, and accessible. The younger: reserved, somber, clever, handsome, and unapproachable.

The elder fell first. Male weakness. The second took his place and overcompensated for his brother's failure. No longer powerful, merely in power.

But still those girls stood, still they persevered. But the middle child was weakening. Everyone could see her eyes, straying towards the Hufflepuff table, straying towards the filthy worthless garbage. Her sisters grabbed her arms, clasped her hands, pulled her hair, and still she went, still she shook free of their fingers and dove into the stink.

And then there were two. Now merely figureheads—the oldest followed her cousin down his path over overachieving, as if she believed she could live for two. Only the youngest got it right; she followed her mother, and all the women before her: she found a husband with a big house and a bigger spending budget and she threw herself into tea and parties and glittering galleons that she could toss about like leftover stew.

Both clung to their delusions.

When her son was taken, the illusion was shattered. The youngest lost her beauty, lost her drive, lost her confidence and her seduction. She turned from her family and faced her second-oldest sister, separated now by only glass and not bricks as she had thought.

Weak, they said. Too weak, to feminine, so powerless against that womanly emotion. So near to pity and so far from forgiveness, they watched her break like a ballerina on the stage.

And only one clung to her dreams, only one remembered the days when she issued orders with a mere glance and her smile or her frown determined the mood of the world.

So she lived, half-lost in a world that crumbled before she hit twenty. So she died, exposed, exposed at last.

And so they all fell, eventually; and so power eventually broke and split and crept into foreign homes and foreign hands and had to find its way back together.

But even apart and even in mud and even in half-disgrace and even in denial sisters are sisters and none of then could ever quite erase their knowledge of that and it followed them to their graves and beyond. Blood is thicker than water, is thicker than rain, is thicker than the flood that tore them apart.

But you already knew all this. You raised them that way.