𝐖𝐚𝐥𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐠𝐚 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤

❖

The shared nursery-slash-bedroom, which had once been a guest room of genteel hospitality and impeccable upholstery, now resembled the aftermath of a small but spirited civil war. To Walburga, the scene was a tragedy. Not a personal tragedy—those were too self-indulgent—but a tragedy for the house, the furnishings, and the dignity of the Black family name, all of which had clearly suffered irreparable damage. The room had been conquered, and its conquerors were three little boys with far too much energy and no sense of shame.

Cushions littered the floor like fallen soldiers in a battle nobody could remember starting. They weren’t merely scattered—no, scattered cushions could be easily gathered up again and put back in place. These cushions had been flung, stacked, folded, and kicked with what appeared to be an almost artistic panache, though to what end Walburga couldn’t begin to guess. A legion of stuffed animals lay in the far corner, casualties of the war she assumed. Their button eyes stared blankly ahead, as if they, too, couldn’t quite believe what had happened to them. Other toys, meanwhile, were everywhere—bright, garish, and utterly ridiculous in their positions, as though each one had been discarded mid-plot by a tiny tactician who’d suddenly thought of a better idea.

Walburga paused in the doorway, arms folded and lips pressing together. It was not the mess itself that bothered her. Messes could be cleaned, Kreacher could be made to suffer for his inadequacies, and furniture could be restored to its proper place. No, what truly irked her was the effort behind it. There was a kind of organised madness to the devastation, the undeniable signature of small, determined minds working in unison. And coordinated effort, in her experience, rarely led to anything good.

A simple accident of childish exuberance was one thing; a well-coordinated act of household insurrection was quite another.

Then, her gaze fell upon the culprits, and her irritation faltered.

Nestled together in the centre of their conquest, the three little tyrants lay fast asleep, blissfully unaware of the wreckage they had wrought. They slept as conquerors did—oblivious, content, knowing full well that someone else would be tasked with the restoration of order. Sirius, sprawled out with all the unconscious arrogance of a boy certain the world would always right itself beneath him, had one arm flung carelessly over Regulus, who had curled against him with the quiet devotion of a second-in-command who had never considered the possibility of betrayal. And in the centre, naturally, was Antares.

He lay so still, so composed, that it felt deliberate. Of course, it would be Antares in the centre. That was simply how things would be. Walburga was not one to see omens in every little thing—but if she had been looking for one, she might have found it here.

A twitch at the corner of her lips threatened to betray her.

It was a rare thing, this moment of peace. A fleeting truce in the endless racket of their childhood. Soon, they would wake. Soon, they would cause new mischief. But for now, they were quiet, and she supposed there was something to be said for that. With a sigh, she turned back into the hallway, leaving them to their small, sovereign dreams.

There would be time to restore order later. There was always time for that.

As she walked back to Orion’s study, Walburga’s thoughts drifted, unbidden and unwelcome, to the matter of her past maternal insufficiencies. It was an absurd thing to consider. Black women were not insufficient. They were regal, decisive, and, when necessary, terrifying. They ruled their homes with unshakable authority and a keen eye for weakness, and they certainly did not waste time pondering sentimentality in the quiet of a corridor. And yet, in the hush of her journey, with only the whisper of her own footfalls for company, she allowed herself the smallest concession: it was possible, in theory, that her sons had received more expectation than warmth. It was also possible that this had been a mistake.

One she was consistently correcting, though never aloud.

Sirius had been an affliction from birth, arriving into the world with the force of an ill-timed explosion and an apparent vendetta against the concept of obedience. She had spent the better part of his early years correcting, disciplining, and—on one regrettable occasion—considering whether he had been switched at birth with some Gryffindor woman’s howling offspring.

Regulus, at least, had been manageable. Quiet, dutiful, deferential—he had all the makings of a proper Black son, provided one ignored the slight, nagging sense that he was being constantly worn down by his brother’s sheer volume. Walburga had loved them, of course—she was their mother, not a monster—but she had loved them as her own mother had taught her: at a safe and respectable distance. As though affection, if given too freely, might dilute the very essence of their lineage.

Antares, however… Antares had changed everything.

Her youngest was a mistake, but not in the way one typically meant it. An error in calculation, not an error in judgment. Her pregnancy with Antares had not been planned—she and Orion had been satisfied with their two sons, their two perfectly bred children, the very embodiment of the purity the Black family had spent generations cultivating. Another child had never been part of the plan.

But Antares had arrived all the same. Unaccounted for. Unavoidable.

And from the moment she had known of his existence, something had felt… off. Not wrong. Not unwelcome. But undeniably different.

A shift. A weight. A presence pressing at the edges of her thoughts before she even understood why.

Then, throughout her pregnancy, until Antares’ birth, the dreams began.

She could not recall their full details—only fragments, fleeting and disjointed, and the feeling of them; heavy, inescapable, like prophecy given to the wrong recipient, or a warning unheard until it was too late. They were not visions, nor nightmares in any way she understood—not quite either, but something in between. They clung to her, speaking in a language no living tongue had ever uttered, leaving behind only echoes and the sense that something had tried to reach her.

Often, she saw shapes that were not shapes, twisting through a darkness where no light had ever belonged. Doors that were not doors, gates that did not open but instead became—unfolding, unfurling, never quite arriving but always, always there. And then the sound would begin.

A tapping. Sharp, crisp, relentless. Not the irregular patter of rain, nor the hollow knock of knuckles against wood. It was faster, thinner, exact—a rhythm punched out with unerring precision, as if dictated by an unseen set of rules. It did not scrape or drag, nor did it fumble or hesitate. It simply continued. Perfectly spaced. Perfectly timed.

And beneath it, something deeper. A resonance, vast and unrelenting, deeper than sound itself. Not a voice, not a call—just a presence. A tremor in the air, as though something enormous and unseen was exhaling through hollowed-out bone.

There were horns, too. Or something like horns. Low and droning, stretched impossibly long, neither breath nor brass but something older, something vast. A twisting strain of sound wove through it—high, keening, unbroken. Not the bright, playful pipes of wizarding dances, nor the haunting pull of a siren’s song, but something thinner. Sharper. A wailing thread, curling endlessly upon itself, refusing to resolve.

It simply went on and on. As it always had. As it always would.

Unfortunately, that was all she could ever remember—a handful of fragments stolen from something far larger, something her mind refused to keep.

Each time, she would wake breathless, reaching for memories that unravelled the moment she touched them. Whatever it was, it was always gone by morning, leaving behind only vague recollections and the lingering certainty that it had been so much more.

And she hated that.

It was not the unknowability of it that disturbed her—no, Walburga had no use for foolish curiosity. She did not need to know everything. But if there was something to be known, something that concerned her, something that had pressed itself upon her mind and left its mark—then she should have been able to grasp it.

Yet she couldn’t.

That was unacceptable.

She was a woman of control and certainty. The world had rules—unspoken but immutable—and she had spent her life enforcing them. That was what it meant to be a Black: to understand order, to uphold it, to know exactly where one stood in the grand structure of things.

And yet, for all her knowledge, for all her resources, for all her bloodline’s centuries of accumulated wisdom, she had found nothing.

Nothing.

And nothing was not something she could accept.

Her thoughts lingered even as she descended the stairs, her hand trailing along the mahogany banister. The swish and rustle of her robes followed her, the black and green fabric whispering against her ankles with every step.

To find answers, Divination had been the logical step, much as she hated to admit it. She had combed through books on dream interpretation, which had proven as useless as expected—flowery drivel, riddled with vague symbolism, full of interpretations that contradicted each other. If she had wanted poetry, she would have sought out some Muggle-loving lunatic and asked them about their feelings.

She then moved on to cartomancy. To crystal-gazing. To numerology. To tessomancy. To rune stones.

Nothing.

Weeks wasted on shuffled decks of cards. Wisps of meaningless smoke in glass orbs. Cryptic calculations. Patterns in tea leaves. Runes engraved on stones scattered across polished tabletops. Each as useless as the last.

All of them told her precisely what she already knew.

That she was a mother. That she was expecting a child. That life, unpredictable as ever, would continue its forward march with or without her consent. Whether she had the answers she sought did not matter. It never had.

And so, she had resorted to something more direct.

A Naming Seer.

Not some shady, half-blood charlatan—or, Merlin forbid, an incompetent Mudblood. No, a reputable, pure-blooded one. The sort who could be trusted to look into the child’s future and offer a name befitting his fate. Not that Walburga cared about the name. Antares had already been chosen. Because it was fitting. Because it was powerful. Because it was hers to give.

But the future—that was worth something.

Except, of course, it had all gone horribly wrong.

The woman she went to had gone still as soon as she touched Walburga’s palm, the moment she glimpsed whatever lay ahead.

After that, came the silence. A single second, stretched thin.

Then, a shudder.

Then, the tremors—violent, racking, shaking her bones loose.

Next, the choking—a guttural, wet sound—her hands twisting wildly in the air, clawing at something unseen.

Then came the frothing.

Then the screaming.

And finally, the babbling—senseless, structureless, spilling from her lips in a language no sane mind could form.

Walburga had stood there and watched it happen, expression composed, back rigid, waiting for the spectacle to end so she could get her answers.

She got nothing.

The supposed Naming Seer was incoherent by the time Kreacher dragged her out, and by the time the loyal house-elf discreetly delivered her to St. Mungo’s, the woman had been entirely useless.

Last Walburga had heard, the Naming Seer was still locked away in the Janus Thickey Ward, confined alongside the irreversibly cursed, hexed, and hopelessly insane.

A shame. Not for the woman, obviously—she should have been stronger.

It was a shame for the knowledge.

The answers.

The understanding.

But, on the bright side, at least no one had connected the incident to her.

That would have been an inconvenience. A mild one, yes—nothing that couldn’t be handled—but still. It would have meant dealing with people, fabricating a story, possibly even resorting to Memory Charms, which she had never quite mastered. Too much room for error. Too much work.

Better, then, that the woman had gone mad enough to be considered a lost cause.

It saved everyone the trouble.

Except… it hadn’t.

Not really.

Because long after the Seer’s screams had faded, long after Walburga had dusted her hands off the matter and carried on as if nothing had happened, the dreams remained unanswered.

Night after night. Thought after thought.

They did not lessen. They did not shift into something softer, something forgettable. They settled. Took root. Twined around her thoughts, patient and silent.

She woke in the quietest hours with a pressure in her chest, something unfinished curling behind her ribs. The house held its breath with her. The walls listened. The shadows watched.

She hesitated at doorways. At mirrors. At the places where the dark pooled deepest. Not because she expected something to be there. But because, somehow, she knew that if something was—she would already have seen it.

And yet, for all the unease, for all the whispering insistence of something just beyond her reach, there had been something else.

Anticipation.

Splendour.

A current running beneath the surface of her thoughts, quiet but insistent.

A feeling she had not expected. A feeling that waited.

And then, as time passed and she got used to her new reality—

Antares was born.

She had thought herself past surprises. Thought she had known, with certainty, what it meant to hold her child for the first time.

She had been wrong.

Sirius had been fire—too hot, too loud, too demanding. Regulus, water—still and watchful, slipping through her fingers before she ever had the chance to hold on. But Antares—

Antares was magic.

Not the kind that could be taught, not the kind found in wands or whispered spells. Something older. Something woven into the world itself.

He settled into her arms, small and warm, and the world shifted. A pulse, a weight, a quiet, undeniable force that pressed into her chest like the pull of a spell too deep to resist.

That one moment stretched, thick and golden, hovering in the space between breaths.

It was absurd—all of it. A woman like her did not have time for sentimentality, for the ache of a realisation too vast to put into words.

But there it was.

Pressing into her ribs, expanding behind her lungs, curling its fingers around the inside of her throat.

She knew him.

That was the impossible part.

He had barely drawn his first few breaths, and yet—it was as if he had always been there. Waiting for her. Fitting perfectly into the spaces she had never realised were empty.

Her eyes had swept over him, taking in everything, all at once. The soft weight of him, the uncanny stillness, the slow, deliberate blinks as if he were studying her in return.

And then—

The eyes.

Those eyes.

They unravelled her.

Ethereal blue, luminous and alive. Catching the light in a way that made it seem like the colour shifted beneath the surface.

Not cold.

Not piercing.

Just... knowing.

And suddenly, Walburga understood.

The dreams, the unease, the whispers of something waiting—they had not been warnings. They had not been meaningless, fleeting things. They had been preparation. A revelation given to her before she had the words to grasp it.

Because Antares was not ordinary.

Could never have been ordinary.

She had known it from the moment her body had first carried him. Felt it, before she had ever seen him. And when his quiet, steady gaze locked onto hers, the truth settled into her as surely as her own breath.

Greatness.

He was meant for something more.

More than her. More than this house, this family, this Age.

And she—she had been the one to bring him into the world.

Something inside her clenched.

She remembered tightening her hold, just slightly, just enough to feel the fragile warmth of him against her chest. And in that moment—just that moment—Walburga Black, who did not bow, did not yield, did not show affection freely, understood something she would never allow herself to say aloud.

She loved him.

Loved him dearly.

And she would not hold herself back from him.

Not this time.

She had raised Sirius to be strong. Had prepared Regulus to be steadfast. But Antares—Antares would be more.

Not because she had done less before, but because he would need more.

He was different. And she knew.

Her youngest would be protected, shaped, guided toward the future that was already waiting for him.

Because, clearly, the dreams had not been warnings.

They had been promises.

From that point onward, he was hers. In a way she had never considered before.

It had been a violent unravelling, an undoing of something she had never realised was knotted inside her. He was too charming, too affectionate, too effortlessly magnetic to ignore. She had never been soft—not with Sirius, not with Regulus—but Antares, with his unwavering affection, had made her forget that fact entirely.

It had been easy to indulge him, to hold him longer than necessary, to press a kiss to his forehead without thinking. And when Sirius and Regulus noticed, when they tentatively sought out the same warmth, she had not denied them. And it only snowballed from there.

Now, two years after Antares’ birth, she was still Walburga Black.

Still a woman of control, of rules, of order.

But, somewhere along the way, without her really noticing, her sons—her three sons—had unmade her.

And in that unmaking, they had shaped her into something more.

She let the thought settle. It felt final, but there was still a lingering edge to it.

Then, just like that, it was done.

When she reached her destination, Walburga found herself smiling, though the smile was gone before she crossed the threshold of the study.

Sunlight flooded the room. Not warm—bright. The kind that left nothing hidden. It wanted to expose dust, flaws, imperfections, but found none. The windows stood tall, glass unmarred, letting the light spill over brass fixtures and the mahogany desk where Orion sat, writing.

His quill moved in short, sharp strokes. Measured, predictable, like the man himself. A candle burned beside him, unnecessary but expected. Wax dripped into a silver dish stamped with the Black crest—because, of course, even melting wax needed pedigree.

Ink. Parchment. Tea steaming. Nothing out of place.

Bookshelves loomed over the room, packed tight with things worth reading. Genealogies, histories, magic older than the Ministry itself. No novels. No pointless decoration. No space wasted on curiosity.

A study, not a retreat. A place for work, not leisure. It functioned, as all things should.

Orion looked up when the door clicked closed.

His face was all sharp lines and clean angles, a jaw that cut downward with precise symmetry, cheekbones that cast the faintest hollows beneath them—high, pronounced, but never gaunt. His dark eyes, hooded with a habitual look of measured disinterest, sat deep beneath the sharp ridge of his brow, taking her in with the quiet patience of a man who rarely needed to speak first.

When he did speak, it was in a voice that rarely needed to rise to be obeyed.

“How are they?”

“Well.” She moved forward and lowered herself into a chair across from him, smoothing a hand over her sleeves. “The room’s a mess, but the boys are sleeping.”

He paused, quill still poised above the parchment. “You left them there?”

Walburga arched a brow. “Would you rather be the one to wake them?”

The corner of his mouth twitched, just slightly. He set his quill aside, fingers moving to the handle of his teacup, though he didn’t drink from it. “They’ll be impossible later.”

“They’re always impossible.”

He sighed, rubbing his thumb absently along the rim of the cup. “And Kreacher?”

She didn’t hesitate. “He’ll see to it.”

Orion didn’t ask for clarification. He didn’t need to.

The house-elf would keep watch. If one of them rolled too close to the edge of their haphazard nest, he would shift them back without waking them. If the pile of cushions threatened to collapse, he would brace it. If Sirius kicked in his sleep, if Regulus curled too tightly, if Antares so much as twitched—Kreacher would know.

And if anything—anything at all—were amiss, Kreacher would correct it before anyone had reason to know it had ever gone wrong.

That was enough. The subject was finished.

For a while, their conversation wandered—bouncing aimlessly between one thing to the next: the boys, their progress—and sometimes their lack of it—in their education; Dippet’s rumoured retirement, the slow grind of time making it more inevitable with each passing day; and, of course, the sickening notion that a blood-traitor like Dumbledore would be considered for the Headmaster’s position at Hogwarts.

Nothing certain. Not yet.

But Walburga could picture it all too clearly—the Board of Governors, that bloated, self-satisfied assembly of fools, handing the school over to Dumbledore. The imbeciles, giving him the reins, letting him steer the entire institution into the dirt, letting him dilute every ounce of culture and tradition the Wizarding World had spent generations preserving. Letting him spread his poison—his ideals—across the school, like a disease.

The idea made her sick to her stomach, but it was the future, wasn’t it? No more than a matter of time.

She said as much.

Orion didn’t disagree.

The conversation shifted again once they’d discussed all the measures they could take to prevent Dumbledore’s rise. There was no need to linger on such unpleasantness. It was done, and in the way of things, it was time to move on. So, just like that, as easily as flipping a Galleon, the subject changed: politics, the Ministry, some new scandal, some fresh bit of nonsense.

But then, as always, it turned serious when the Prophet’s latest article came up—a story about the Ministry’s ongoing investigation into the Hall of Prophecy incident, the one that had shattered all Prophecy Records a little over two years ago.

It was supposed to have been an isolated incident in Britain—something neat and contained—but it had turned out to be global. A far-reaching event that rippled across the world.

And, most troublingly, it was something that had no obvious explanation. For everyone else, anyway.

Walburga suspected she knew the truth. Orion, too.

“Last I heard, they’re getting nowhere,” Orion said, his quill halting mid-air as if he’d suddenly lost interest in whatever he’d been writing. “Honestly, I hadn’t even needed to lift a finger to cloud the investigations. It’s a mess. Too many questions, too few answers. Trying to pin down what caused something like that—a global event? It’ll take them decades, and they still might find nothing.”

He set the quill down slowly and leaned back. “No one will ever suspect Antares. If they did, it won’t be for a while. A long while. There were plenty of others born that day, and that’s just one theory. They’ve got a long list of potential causes to chase before they’ll even entertain the idea. I can assure you, our boy’s secret is safe.”

Walburga smiled faintly.

When she first heard of the incident, just days after Antares’ birth, it hadn’t taken long for her to see the connection. She wasn’t a Seer—no, she was better than that. She was a mother. And mothers knew things about their children. Intuitively. Instinctively. In ways that others simply couldn’t grasp.

Besides, she had the inside track.

It wasn’t that she knew everything, though. No. She wasn’t foolish enough to claim that. But the timing—the way everything slotted together—it was too neat. Too perfect. Her dreams, the incident, the birth of her son. All of it wrapped up into something that didn’t even look like a coincidence, but like fate had made an appointment with her.

She might not know how or why it happened—but one thing was clear: her son had been at the centre of it. And if not at the centre, he was at least deeply connected. Orion hadn’t argued when she told him—not with all that he knew about her dreams. In his quieter moments, when he had enough space to think, he even saw it, too. Antares was different. Special.

At some point, Walburga stopped dismissing the thought as a passing fancy. The ridiculousness faded. What had once been a fleeting idea—something to laugh off—began to feel like the inevitable conclusion. She had given birth to someone who could rise to the heights of Salazar Slytherin, or perhaps Merlin himself. Normally, she’d have ridiculed the very suggestion, but not now. Not when she saw the way he grew, watched his talents unfurl like a curse or a blessing—depending on how one looked at it.

At just over two years old, Antares was already blurring the line between accidental wandless magic and something that might actually be intentional—a feat any other child his age would’ve been stumbling through, if not outright incapable of. His favourite trick was his uncanny control of water—no wand, no incantations, just him and the element, bending it to his will as easily as breathing.

Walburga would argue that it wasn’t just talent. It wasn’t even effort. Effort was for the masses. It was instinct—pure instinct—like the way animals know when to flee or when to strike. He had been born with it, woven into his very nature, similar to the ability to breathe or blink. Antares didn’t need to try. It was already in him, just waiting to be used. And the more she watched, the more she was convinced that this was just the beginning. There was something in him that didn’t belong in any normal child. Something that wasn’t just about magic, but about everything else he hadn’t yet begun to show.

Of course, this was where things got complicated with Orion.

He agreed that there was something exceptional about Antares—something that set him apart, something notably prodigious—but the extent of those abilities? That was where the difference between them lay. Orion thought Walburga was seeing things that weren’t there. She was attributing feats to their youngest based on things that, to him, were mere illusions. He didn’t see what she saw.

The difference was simple: Orion still believed there were limits to everything—even greatness. Walburga, of course, knew better.

“I’m still worried,” she murmured, more to herself than to Orion. “We can’t leave it up to chance.”

Orion didn’t react immediately. His eyes stayed fixed on the parchment in front of him, a quiet hush stretching between them, comfortable but tense. After a moment, a sigh slipped from him, too practiced to be anything more than routine. “We’ve talked about this. Neither of us can cast the Fidelius Charm. I can’t cast it. You can’t either. Unless you’re suggesting we bring someone else into this, we’re stuck until I learn it.”

Walburga didn’t respond right away. She stared out the window, not because she expected to find any answers there, but because the weight of her thoughts needed some space to breathe. There was no rush, no immediate panic—she was used to that. But it was hard to ignore the feeling that time was running thin, that their family’s security rested on a blade’s edge.

Finally, she spoke, her voice low. Measured. “I know,” she said flatly, the words heavy despite their simplicity. They fell without the intention she’d hoped for, nothing dramatic, just the weight of someone who understood the reality. A pause hung in the air before she added, “It’s just hard not to worry.”

Orion shifted in his chair, his robes rustling slightly as he made a subtle but deliberate adjustment, a clear sign of his impatience with the topic. “I’ve been trying for months, Walburga. You don’t think I’ve tried?” His voice grew quieter, a touch of annoyance creeping in. “We can’t just snap our fingers and make it work. I’ve never had trouble with magic, you know that. But this? This is taxing. Not the concept—the theory is simple. But the practice?” He let out a sharp breath, his lips pressing into a line. “It’s not something that comes easily. We just need time.”

Walburga’s expression remained unchanged. She nodded slowly, a small movement. The weight of her thoughts pressing on her more than his words. “And until then?” She didn’t look at him, not really. She stared at the shadows outside, waiting for them to offer an answer she knew wouldn’t come.

“We wait.” His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, the familiar irritation that came with being out of his depth. He rubbed his temple absently, a gesture that never failed to remind her how little patience he had for anything that defied his control.

She didn’t answer immediately. The question she had been holding in slipped out before she could even think better of it. “Do you really think we can keep him safe?”

The words hung between them for a moment, neither of them rushing to answer, as if giving them the space to linger would allow something deeper to settle.

Orion didn’t speak right away. Instead, his gaze flicked briefly to her before returning to the Daily Prophet on his desk, but the harshness in his voice when he did reply was palpable. “He’s our son. No one will touch him.”

Walburga shook her head, a quick motion. “It’s not that simple.”

“It’s not simple, but it’s that easy,” he said, the edge of his voice now almost dismissive. He waved a hand as if to brush away the thought entirely. “No one’s looking for Antares. No one’s going to hurt him. You’re letting your mind wander too far.”

“And yet, I’m not,” she replied, her tone firm, a touch sharper now, though still restrained. “You know as well as I do that things are escalating. Rumours, yes. But there’s truth in them. Attacks are happening around the country. Disappearances. Dark creatures. And we’ve heard enough from our circles to know what’s really happening. People are talking, Orion. And their suspicions are not unfounded.”

Orion didn’t speak for a long while. His eyes flicked to her once, then quickly away. His silence stretched between them like an unspoken truth neither could voice. It wasn’t fear that troubled him—it was the same thing that troubled Walburga. The what—the how. What would they do when their son’s abilities inevitably came to the attention of others?

The world, it seemed, was always on the edge of something. The tensions in the air were thick, and though no one dared to name it yet, everyone felt it—just as they had before, when whispers of power had stirred the ashes of things better left buried. They had seen it with Grindelwald, the rise of something dangerous, someone who believed in their own greatness, their own vision. They knew how it went. The ambitious always sought the prodigious, wanting to harness them, bend them, or break them.

What if it happened again?

Antares’ talents, once seen, were undeniable. Given time, he would be noticed—just as the great names before him had been. Talent like his wouldn’t remain in the shadows forever. But it wasn’t just the threat of discovery that haunted Walburga—it was the certainty that those with ambition, hunger, and far fewer scruples would come for him. They wouldn’t understand, and frankly, they wouldn’t care. They would take whatever price was needed to possess that kind of power, no matter the cost.

Finally, Orion broke the silence with a sigh—not one of defeat, but of patience, as though he had accepted the conversation would circle back to the same place, every time. “You really worry too much, Walburga,” he said, his voice calm, more resigned than anything else. “We’ll figure it out. We’ll protect him. No one will touch him.”

Walburga didn’t respond right away. She simply watched him, her gaze steady. In the stillness, she saw something—something fleeting. A hint of concern, almost imperceptible, hidden beneath that calm demeanor. It was enough to make her realise that they were bound by the same thing. The same uncertainty. Neither of them knew how this would play out. But now she knew of her husband’s concern, they would manage. They always did.

Orion cracked a small smile then, a smile that held the usual edge of humor, but there was a weight to it now, as though he were trying to anchor himself to something solid. “If you wanted me to try harder, you could’ve just said so. I’m doing the best I can, Walburga. But there’s only so much we can control. If things get bad, if the worst happens…” He let the thought hang there for a moment, then added, “No one will touch a hair on his head. No one. We’ll protect him better than anyone else could. And you know it.”

She met his gaze. Her expression softened for just a moment—just a flicker. “I know,” she whispered. “I trust you.”

Just as their conversation tapered off into a quiet lull, there came the soft shuffle of fabric, followed by that unmistakable, almost inaudible pop. Kreacher appeared nearby, standing at Walburga’s side, his small, bent figure as familiar as ever, his head bowed respectfully, eyes fixed on the floor in deference.

“Mistress,” he croaked, “the Little Masters are awake. They are asking Kreacher to fetch you.”

Walburga’s lips curled upward, just a fraction, a fleeting thing—a twitch, barely perceptible, before she reined it in, her face slipping back into its usual composed mask. But the smile, brief as it was, lingered in her eyes, the only soft spot in the otherwise tightly controlled fortress of her demeanor.

“I suppose I’m needed,” she replied, her voice light, almost airy, but still carrying that unshakable weight of command beneath it. She gave Orion a final, quiet look—nothing overt, nothing desperate—just a fleeting gesture of reassurance, as though to say she would return. Then, without another word, she stood.

Her robes whispered against the floor as she moved, the echo of her steps fading as she left the room. The door clicked shut behind her, and for a moment, all was still.