Chapter 176: Walburga
"I'd already sealed her mouth shut with magical tape," Sirius said awkwardly. "No idea why it fell off."
He looked genuinely apologetic.
"Hermione, Russell… I'm really sorry."
"It's fine, Sirius. I know it's not your fault," Hermione shook her head, then glanced at Russell with a hint of confusion.
"Russell, aren't you Muggle-born? Then why would she say your bloodline is ancient and noble?"
"…I'm not entirely sure myself," Russell replied with a shrug. "But when I went home last year, I found the Fythorne family crest—and a family genealogy."
"If you trace it back far enough," he continued, "the Fythorne line existed as far back as the time of King Arthur. It just didn't go by this name back then."
"As for what caused its decline… I have no idea."
Russell's explanation left everyone visibly surprised.
"Well… I guess I'm the only Muggle-born wizard here," Hermione said quietly, a trace of disappointment in her voice.
She had always seen Russell as someone like herself—a fellow Muggle-born to look up to.
Finding out he might actually come from an ancient lineage left her with an odd sense of betrayal.
"Let's see… how about we start by dealing with the biting carpet?" Sirius quickly changed the subject, sensing the mood shift.
As if responding to his voice, the Turkish carpet at the foot of the stairs suddenly bristled, baring rows of sharp teeth.
Startled, Harry stumbled backward—accidentally knocking over an umbrella stand.
A grotesque umbrella made from a troll's leg bone came crashing toward Wednesday—only to freeze midair under Russell's Levitation Charm.
Inscribed on the handle were faint words:
"Regulus Arcturus Black — August 1979."
"Regulus Arcturus Black…" Wednesday read aloud.
"Who's that? A relative of yours?" Harry asked.
At once, Sirius's expression darkened.
Harry froze, unsure if he had said something wrong.
Before he could apologize, Sirius spoke.
"Regulus was my younger brother. A perfect Slytherin. Exactly what the Black family wanted."
A bitter smile tugged at his lips, his eyes filled with a mix of distance and disappointment.
"My mother's ideal son. A pure-blood puppet she shaped with her own hands. He was two years younger than me, but he learned far earlier how to bow to that damned family tapestry—eager to earn his Dark Mark at sixteen so she could parade him around Knockturn Alley."
"He never even had the courage to resist," Sirius concluded coldly. "Just a pitiful coward."
No one spoke.
This wasn't something they could judge.
"…Forget it. Let's move on," he said after a moment, forcing a smile as he turned to the snarling carpet.
"Brings back memories," he muttered.
Without even raising his wand, he strode straight toward it.
As the carpet split open into a barbed maw, Sirius casually pinned its edge beneath his dragonhide boot—right over the embroidered family motto:
"Toujours Pur."
"Give it a rest," he sneered. "That trick stopped scaring me when I was seven."
The teeth froze just inches from his face.
"Back down," he ordered.
The carpet didn't move.
"…Good. Looks like you've grown a spine," Sirius said with a cold laugh.
In one swift motion, he drew his wand and slashed it through the air.
Instead of any standard incantation, he barked out a spell from his school days:
"Ferdinand Explosion!"
A burst of purple-red smoke erupted from within the carpet, the shockwave rattling the room and even pulling back the curtain over Walburga Black's portrait.
The carpet writhed in agony, oozing black, viscous fluid from its threads.
For a fleeting moment, Sirius's mind drifted back—
To childhood.
To kneeling on that very carpet at age twelve, forced there by Walburga for defying her. The barbs had pierced his knees, drawing blood.
His "crime"?
Refusing to cut ties with Remus Lupin.
She hadn't even known Lupin was a werewolf—she simply believed his blood wasn't "pure" enough.
If she had known the truth… she would have been far less "merciful."
"You've always been pathetic," Sirius said coldly.
With a flick of his wand, a small flame landed on the carpet.
It caught fire instantly.
Some things were better destroyed than preserved.
From behind the portrait, Walburga's furious screams erupted:
"Ingrate! Filth! That carpet has been in the Black family for centuries—you'll be struck from the family—!"
"My name's already been burned off. Remember?" Sirius replied dismissively, picking at his ear.
He flicked another spark, reducing the remains to ash, then pulled the curtain shut again—silencing her.
Turning back, he winked at Harry.
"I'll teach you something even better next time. James once used that spell to blow up Snape's cauldron."
With the carpet dealt with, they split into two groups.
Hermione, Ron, and Wednesday stayed behind to clean and organize.
Sirius led Harry and Russell down to the basement to gather supplies for Christmas.
No one objected—least of all Wednesday, who found everything here endlessly fascinating.
The Black family home and the Addams estate were both ancient… but their atmospheres couldn't have been more different.
While Hermione stepped away briefly, Wednesday quietly pulled back the curtain over Walburga's portrait.
She wanted to see how she would be judged.
"That wretched—" Walburga began, before stopping abruptly when she realized it wasn't Sirius.
"…An Addams," she said slowly, as if recalling something. "Welcome to the House of Black."
Her tone was far calmer than before.
Wednesday tilted her head.
…Not quite the reaction she had expected.
Without another word, she pulled the curtain closed again.
By the time Hermione returned, the three of them resumed cleaning.
Meanwhile, Harry and Russell followed Sirius down to the basement.
It was filled with a century's worth of Black family clutter—among it, plenty of old Christmas decorations, though how much of it was still usable remained to be seen.
The basement door was tightly locked, bound with a thick, rusted chain.
Sirius suddenly put away his wand.
Then, with a faint grin, he turned to the two boys—
It seemed he had decided to test their magical abilities.