Black was a dirty word in your house.
not like other kids; not like roll-in-the-ashes, playing-with-gnomes black and dirty. black was everything wrong with the world. Once, when you were very small, you remember your great aunt coming over, her son your age. he stood slightly behind her legs as your great aunt hissed something to your mother. The gist of it, to your seven-year-old mind, was that someone was dead.
Your mother didn't invite them in to tea, so you never even learned the boy's name. Looking back on it, you think it was probably Regulus that looked at you, hopeful and curious, bright eyes staring at you from behind his mother's custom tailored robes. It makes you sad, and it makes you angry -- someone should have some memory of Sirius from before he came back broken, one of his own blood should remember him happy.
even as you think it you realise, that's even stupider. Remus was as much blood as Sirius ever needed.
You're last name is Tonks, which shouldn't have happened. Your mother never uses her maiden name, not ever, and still people seem surprised when you're put into Gryffindor. It's a painful thing for an eleven year old who still can't quite keep her nose from getting longer.
One of the kids at school calls you some funny name, says you should tell lies all the time. Your dad never told you Muggle fairy tales so for years every time kids make fun of your long nose you just say, "I'm not in Slytherin."
You don't lie. You're not in Slytherin.