Chapter Text
Winter of 1985,
The sun impairs her vision as her trembling hands cling desperately to the wooden railing. The sole of her foot lands awkwardly on the edge of a step, sharp pain causing her to trip and stumble down the stairs. She catches herself, breath shallow, pushing forward despite her body’s outcries of protest.
Kreacher whimpers worriedly, hovering over her while making futile attempts to drag her back to the confined space of her bedchamber, filled with a thick layer of accumulated dust and stale air. She hisses at him, saying “Keep those ruddy hands to yourself, lest you lose them,” and muttering “incompetent little pest.”
Of course, Kreacher remains undeterred, persevering despite her belittling and continuing on with fretting over her every move. His concern only served in humiliating her further.
Walburga was once a witch of high status and more raw power at the tip of her finger than half the loathsome vermin that walked their sacred ground. The mere mention of her name during her school years had her peers quaking in their robes, and it was no different amongst social circles once she’d graduated. Back then, Walburga had excelled in the Dark Arts, came out on top in dulling, and was unmatched in charms.
Even when putting all of that aside, she’d been respected in society and recognised as the greatest member of the House of Black in well over a few decades. Her elder brothers were no competition to her competence and ability, either. As both a child and as a young adult, Walburga was the pride of the family.
Now, she’s been reduced to a pitiful elderly woman. Simply getting around the house is a tiresome task! Her joints ache and quiver, her hair thins with each day, and her bones jut through the layers of her gaunt skin. The house in which she resides—the home of her ancestors, drains her magic like an adamant leech, and she’s powerless before it; Unable to stop the slow decay of her essence.
She forgets herself, lost in thought, shaken out of her trance by the decrepit house-elf’s persisting remarks. “Mistress… oh, mistress, Kreacher begs his mistress to return to bed!” he bemoans.
Walburga stifles his bellyaching with a “Silence, you bothersome little wench! Should you like to make use of your role in this house, go and prepare dinner. I shan’t stand your whining any longer than I already have, if only out of pity for your pathetic state of mourning!”
The elf recoils in misery, lowering his head shamefully and mumbling a quiet, sorrowful “Yes, mistress,” before popping away.
Now left to her own devices, Walburga makes her way throughout the grand residence the Blacks have called home for centuries for what she fears may be the very last time. She can feel herself slipping away, death creeping at her doorstep and nearing slowly but surely. Perhaps, had she had something to stay for, Walburga would have put up a more vigorous fight.
Unfortunately, her only son is dead in the trenches of Salazar knows where, and her husband was lost to the same grim entity of who she is soon to welcome with open arms. The lineage which she was meant to protect had crumbled before her eyes long ago.
No, there is nothing for her amongst the living. She has no purpose, no duty, and no dignity.
There is, however, amidst the many regrets she held, a dark, looming truth. The undeniable fact that she still had a living—if not only barely surviving—breathing son. A son whom she nurtured within her body and raised with all the tenderness in her heart. Denying it seems pointless by now, with only numbered days to her miserable existence.
She adored Regulus a great deal. He was perfect in every way—Her pride and joy.
Yet still, receiving news of his death hardly stirred her compared to the way the world had disintegrated beneath her feet upon Sirius’s betrayal. How cruel she must sound thinking such a thing. Regulus dedicated himself to pleasing her and becoming worthy of their legacy, while Sirius simply threw Millennia-old tradition to the wind and did as he pleased with no regard to the repercussions.
Her hands clench at her sides, indignation blooming inside her. Blacks were loyal above all else—to their blood and to their values. Sirius had discarded it all, as though their code of conduct were a laughing stock. Regulus had brought them honour. ‘Sirius would never have made as fine a lord as Regulus should have been,’ she thinks, though the argument sounds weak and without validity, even to herself.
No, Sirius—had he not turned his back on his roots—would have brought them glory.
Proud, unrelenting, and oh so much like herself.
She banished any lingering affection towards him after grieving what she deemed his death for months with Regulus at her side, stripped him of honour by having his name burnt off the family tapestry—the tapestry of which she now stare at, stroking said scorched name with the tip of her thumb, any conviction of having his memory erased already having had withered alongside her dignity—and banned mention of his existence within these walls.
Traitors were struck off—undeserving of being remembered and celebrated. Scorching them without mercy was something to revel in, and Sirius was no exception to the rule. It didn’t matter how wrong and unnatural it felt. He did not receive special treatment for being heir. It was for that very reason that Regulus was conceived. “An heir and a spare,” said her uncle, Arcturus, just before she wed his son. “Lest we find ourselves with neither, considering the propaganda surrounding Mudbloods nowadays.”
Regardless, there will now forever be a bottomless pit within her; One he had filled to the brim with utter spirit and a moral compass without direction. She once rationalised that his refusal to heed when believing it unreasonable would serve him well as lord, but hadn’t given thought to what it would mean in regard to the expectations of others for what he ought to be. Sirius sought to pave his way through life without interference. He is a Black to the very core—Noble, distinguished, and pure.
Walburga’s never been one for sentimentality, but what else is she to do when anguish over the mistakes she’s made turns her mind into a prison of utter woe?
She turns to leave, gazing back to look about the room in discontent. This is not the path she was meant to embark upon. This isn’t the life she’d been promised—nor the death she is owed.
The dim chandelier light allows only a faint glimpse at what was once a noble commemoration of their lineage. It now struck her as nothing more than a painful reminder of her failures as a mother.
—
The food Kreacher went through lengths to prepare is left nearly untouched. She could hardly stand a loaf of bread some days, and very rarely did she ever finish a full meal. Still, the damned thing prepares them without prompt and waits patiently by her side until she manages to swallow down as much as she possibly can without emptying the contents of her stomach later on.
This room, like all the others, has been severely neglected of any care whatsoever. Kreacher seems to have abandoned all other duties in favour of attending to her every need—Despite the many curses she sends his way for doing so.
A house haunted by grief and misery is the last remnant of their renowned legacy. She once sought to see the House of Black prosper tenfold under her care. It was always, in Walburga’s eyes, her duty to see it through.
The portraits reside just outside, making for terrible company with their berating and abounding number of critiques to her every move. “Kreacher,” she calls, setting her silverware aside. The fidgeting elf raises his head in slight alarm, answering with a “Yes, mistress?” and “Was Kreacher’s food not to the mistress’s liking?”
“The food was adequate. Clean this, now,” she replies. He sags in relief, but straightens up when she goes to stand. Walburga struggles to her feet, palm clenched tightly around the edge of the table.
Her knees buck before she reaches the stairs, forcing her to bitterly latches herself to the wall for support. With a shaky exhale, Walburga turns her head, looking down at the elf with exhaustion. “Spare me the pity, you wretched creature,” she groans, head hitting the wall gently in resignation. “Take me to my bed at once.”
“Yes, mistress…” he croaks, expression crestfallen as he snaps his brittle fingers.
—
She spends however long in bed, sneering at the chirping birds outside the window, yet always telling Kreacher to leave them be. Why should her despair bear down on their spirit? The silence is like a crushing force on her throat, strangling her ferociously. She slips into a light slumber every so often, and wakes up in a startle each time, hand blindingly reaching for wrinkled bed sheets. At times where her madness took a hold of her and her emotions went rampant, Sirius was a source of comfort.
A child of only four, taking on the burden of comforting his sickly mother with silly little fairy tales. Walburga never let Regulus be exposed to her manic episodes. She thought it… improper for him to witness, for he wasn’t like Sirius. He wasn’t as resilient, nor as much a part of her as he was her son. Sirius was… is.
Orion didn’t argue on the matter. In fact, she often suspects he would have done the same with Sirius if the boy weren’t the salve to her pain. Kept him in the dark and hidden away from the horror that was the Black madness. When he’d left home, with each of her fits ensued chaos, leaving the house in disarray.
Again Walburga ponders whether fighting would have made a difference. Perhaps she could have had more time. Could have begged death to take another in her stead. But what reason is there to stay? Her limbs too frail to move, her skin thin and withered, her vision fading into a blur. What is keeping her here? She had nothing left to live for. And Walburga Black was never one for begging; not even before her own demise.
Her last moments are sorry and dismal. There’s no one by her side as she slips away; No one but a lowly elf she’s known since girlhood. He cries and weeps, but it’s hardly a moving gesture. Soon she’ll be reunited with Regulus, her husband, and in due time, her traitorous son with whom she hopes to make amends—after however long it may take him to admit to have been at fault in their dispute.
—
Spring of 1961,
Death draws her in, clawing its way through her flesh and seeping into her bones. Her soul is bare like an open wound before it, awaiting claim.
Instead, a force hauls her back. She struggles against it, but is powerless to stop it. The thrumming of magic engulfs her, swallowing her whole. Her lungs near imploding as she breathes in absolute nothingness without a way to let it out.
Walburga twists in agony, core exposed and raw. It bends and jerks, transforming into something entirely foreign yet so gruesomely familiar. Solid ground forms beneath her, hardwood flooring serving a horrid cushion as she regains her sense.
Grey orbs stare into hers through what she realises is a mirror, silver and intricately carved. Her skin, no longer an unhealthy shade of yellow but vibrant and pale, is vacant of any wrinkles. Black curls cascade down her shoulders—until she grabs them in mania and yanks. She pulls to regain her sensibility and in hope to tether herself to reality.
A dreadful ringing bursts both her eardrums with such brunt strength that it sends her staggering back and into the bed, now properly made and smelling of Rosewater and Bergamot. She’s jolted forward instead, a grim shriek escaping its confinement within her chest.
“Mamoun?”—Mummy The voice is distant, quiet and demure, yet enough to tear her from her trance. She inhales sharply, eyes widening, faced etched with naked emotion. Walburga turns her head to look at the infantile boy standing timidly by the doorway. “Ça va?”—Are you okay?
A child, no taller than her bedside drawer, his tiny fingers fidgeting in worry. His clothes are ill-fitting, too large on his small frame, though typical for nightwear. Cut short Raven locks and a disconcerted expression, pale skin flushed from slumber and a quiver to his bottom lip.
A broken sob rips from her throat once more. Both of her legs give out, flailing weakly before dropping her to the ground. For a moment, Walburga truly believes she’s lost her mind—questions whether she ever had it to begin with when staring at her son—her baby, her—“Ma Petite étoile…”—My Little Star… she murmurs apprehensively, deciding at once that it didn’t matter, couldn’t matter. Warily, she lifts a trembling hand, shaking fingers signalling him over. “Viens vers Maman, Sirius,”—Come to mummy, Sirius she manages, tone faint and mild. The boy considers her for a moment, no longer looking as frail as he had, eyeing her with curiosity before nodding slightly—once again appearing a naive lamb—crossing the threshold and making his way to her, his wee feet scurrying forward. He plunges right into her arms, welcoming the embrace in which she burrows him entirely.
She’s unable to do anything but cradle his head to her chest, holding him as if he were the most precious thing in the world—which, in that singular minute, he is. She finds herself suffocated by the relief his touch brings to her and completely sedated. Her wounds, the mars on her heart that may as well have drowned her in the deepest, darkest of seas, mend over as though they were never even there in the first place.
Is this death? Is it a cruel ploy? To have her so immensely jubilant as she holds a child who’s yet to wrong her as he one day would, only to rip him away and mock her for it? To punish and belittle her for reaching out and clutching salvation itself as though it were to slip away if she dared to loosen her grip?
Her mind reels, yet any worries she held seem insignificant compared to the treasure she now clings to. Walburga would greet damnation with open arms if it meant doing so for just a while longer.