1993, Number 12 Grimmauld Place
Petra Calliope Black had never wished to become the de facto Head of the House of Black. The plot just sort of handed the position to her, and because she was only five when Sirius was disowned and seven when Regulus died, she really didn’t have the chance to change anything. Alas, with her father, mother, and sole un-disowned brother dead, she became the Lady Black at the age of 14.
Petra didn’t really do much, really – that is, besides trying to clean the fucking place. She made Kreacher dust and wash and throw out that awful fucking jewellery once she made sure they didn’t have any curses trackable by the Ministry. And true, the poor Elf seemed to only have more and more work as he accidentally stumbled onto Petra’s hidden stashes of pranking items that she’d forgotten about years ago. She was even pretty sure that the mess in her bedroom was due to some Peruvian Powder she’d been gifted when she was still a toddler.
Narcissa came around sometimes to offer the services of some of her Elves, and always admonished Petra for not buying more (it was a waste of money, really, no matter that the vaults were full of enough gold to last five generations). The two cousins always ended up drinking tea and discussing Transfiguration Today’s latest articles, and Narcissa would bring out Draco’s most recent photographs, and, with a quick Gemino, Petra’s collection of the child’s embarrassing moments would increase.
The boy was 13 now. Much like pretty much every Black, he’d gone to Slytherin, and much like in the story, he didn’t know how to curb his crush towards Potter. Nymphadora’s dating advice was horrible, so Petra couldn’t turn to her, and Petra herself had only had a few one-night-stands, so she didn’t have experience in the romance department. Narcissa still deluded herself thinking that the Parkinson girl was going to be her daughter-in-law, but Petra would eat her pants if Draco didn’t end up going on the other direction. Good thing that betrothal contracts had gone out of fashion, or he may have found himself in the pickle that Petra was once in (no offence to Arctus, he’s a great friend, it’s just that Petra doesn’t want to marry someone so much younger than her, physically or otherwise).
When Narcissa didn’t visit, Petra spent her time searching for the remaining Horcruxes. She’d taken care of the locket already, as it’d been inside her own house. Hufflepuff’s Cup was stolen from the Lestrange Vault when Petra went to Gringotts to analyse its contents (she’d been named Regent of House Lestrange because old Roderick was fucking old and senile and the other Lestranges were in Azkaban; or, at least, were in Azkaban until the prison had an outbreak of dragon pox and many died, including Rodolphus, Rabastan and sweet Bella; Sirius died too, but oh well, not everything goes according to plan).
The fireproof rooms where Petra trained her Fiendfyre were as scorched as a phoenix’s butt, and Petra could safely say that she had enough control over it to not kill herself. At least if she wasn’t under spellfire. Or if someone came into the room. Or if some window rattled.
At least her Burn-Healing Paste has never been better! Even Kreacher approved of it when yet another Corinthian Burnstone hit his buttocks.
And, to make things even better, Petra had recently discovered that cutting her Mother's portrait into shreds was enough to make the harpy stop screaming.