Midnight Oil

( 𝕸𝔦𝔡𝔫𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝕺𝔦𝔩 !  )
PROLOGUE: WALBURGA

❛ The Spark and the Tapestry. ❜

⋆ ﾟ 𐦍༘⋆ ﹏﹏﹏﹏𓆗 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ﾟ🜲.

The first time that Lady Walburga of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black had felt the spark of life, had been in 1979, mere months after the death of her husband and before the death of her beloved youngest son. The Witching Hour had just hit, signaling the transition of a new day, on the 31st of October. She'd woken from a restless sleep hours before, and was nursing a pot of tea in the sitting room, but she had merely shivered and ignored the spark, thinking she was mistaken. Instead, Kreacher had fetched her a shawl to drape over her shoulders and stoked the fire into a larger and stronger flame to heat her aging bones against the chill of the autumn cold. 

Perhaps it had just been, in her older age, a spark of anticipation for this year's Samhain, which begun on the 31st of October and ended on the 1st of November, all during the strike of the clock on the Witching Hour. After all, it had been only a few months since the death of her husband, Orion, and much of her thoughts as of late had been on their blood, their sons, both of them. She worried for her youngest. Regulus was doing his best to make her proud, fighting for their traditions and rituals, for their place in society that of which was being pushed out by the muggleborns and their demands for accommodations that were not only a disrespect to their history and culture, but a mockery of their longstanding civilization as well. He was the gentler of her sons, though, as duty bound as he was, and so she worried. War was an ugly thing, and this one had spiraled long out of anyone's control years ago. 

The Dark Lord was losing his grip on the reigns of control, of his own sanity even. Walburga could see it, even if others could not, and she was wary. The strategist, the intelligent wizard dedicated to preserving their most ancient of crafts was slipping, and where once he had approved violence for the sake of a purpose, a message— deaths that would be meaningful in their sacrifice, torture for the sake of getting a point across to those who were too thick or too dull to understand subtlety of other forms of intimidation or communication— he had devolved into full-blown psychotic violence for the sake of it. Killing countless of both worthy and unworthy blood because he had the gall to feel slighted by the enemy, throwing tantrums that left his own allies terrified of his shifting moods and instability. 

Those in the Light's midst were skillfully picking off their forces, even raiding the homes of those who were innocent in all of this nasty business save for the fact that they had what they deemed the wrong surname. The Carrows would later be the very example of this in a few years time, the whole family killed off when only the younger adults had been a part of the Dark Lord's circle of Death Eaters. All because they were an ancient family who practiced the "darkest" of magic and were not light-leaning, passing on their traditions from generation to generation. Leaving only the infant twins, Flora and Hestia, at the mercy of the Light, while Amycus was in the wind, and Alecto was all that Flora and Hestia had left. Rather they were now being fostered with their mother's Greek kin, a sister who had a brood of children of her own to care for, let alone the tween Alecto and her infant twin cousins. 

Walburga's thoughts often drifted away from her to her wayward son, as well, loathe was she to admit it aloud. Her disgraced son, who had never appreciated their traditions, flighty as he was, and never one with the patience for his duties as the heir. She had been extra hard on him, with high expectations, for he had been a brilliant young wixen, with some of the earliest signs of accidental magic as a babe than they had seen in years. He could have been one of their greatest Lords to usher them into a resurgence of the golden years of their traditions and rituals, only to fight them at every turn. At the time she and Orion had thought Sirius had needed the tough love approach, a firm hand to guide him, but he had slighted them at every opportunity, and had even begun to reiterate the propaganda spouted by his Light-leaning peers, preaching that their age-old traditions that kept them connected to the nature that had blessed their magic to begin with was barbaric. That all they cared about was blood status, as if the term blood traitor was only about bigotry, and not the true insult it was, an accusation made to someone who had broken vows or promises made of ancient magic, through blood. For they had rarely even used the term unless applied to the proper culprits or their families. And families like theirs held long memories, never forgiving, never forgetting. 

But what did they as adults who had learned and dedicated their lives to their craft know against the almighty, all-knowingness of a teenager not yet out of his school years, one who had never even taken his schooling seriously. Who thought naught of their history or their origins, of their tribulations or trials. Only of their pride and prestige as if it was arrogance and disdain to all those below them. They did not spurn muggleborns because they were dirty-blood, though the insult had always been used by the untenpered youths and the uncouth members of their society who knew not of their manners, no matter the generation, since their surgence into society. They scorned the muggleborns and halfbloods who had no sense of their history or pride in their magical bloodlines as they did not try to learn, without the dedication or even the open-minded understanding of their culture and history. All they saw was savage practices and brutal, lethal magic that ought to be outlawed. But all magic was dangerous. Yes, much of it could be wondrous, but it was all a risk if not handled with the proper care and under the strict guidance of those in its tutelage. No matter if it was arbitrarily considered light or dark magic. 

Hubris only held one outcome, and that was tragedy. It was tragedy that had visited the House of Black, alright, as in the span of one year their had lost their lord and heir, and then a few years later her sunshine son who had once been her whole world had been imprisoned by his peers, the very ones he had trusted, falsely accused of crimes she knew in her bones he did not commit, but was framed. So when it was for the second time Lady Walburga had felt the spark, in her grief for her youngest beloved son, for her husband, for her wayward son who had been wrongfully imprisoned in Azkaban by the very people he had dedicated his loyalty to, she had not noticed the spark.  

Perhaps she should have. 

The third time she felt the spark, she had known something was amiss. Once is a mistake, twice is a coincidence, but three times, now that is a pattern. She had been pulled into a visit with the Lady Druella Rosier, her sister-in-law and wife of her youngest brother Cygnus, who had come to call upon her, the year was now 1982. 

It was the start of the year, in the midst of Winter during this freezing, snowy January day. Druella and she had taken tea in the sitting room, as the Rosier witch had been trying to convince her to come join the overseeing of their ritual day of Imbolc at the start of February, which was nearing soon. The event would take place at Malfoy Manor, as it had since Druella had handed off the torch for her third and youngest daughter to continue maintaining such traditions as a part of the new generation. 

Druella had hoped that the visit would encourage their dearest Bellatrix out of her slump, as she had been since the end of the world, hiding and wasting away at Malfoy Manor as a guest of her sister. Alas, Walburga had staunchly refused to attend, having her own plans of quiet self-reflection in her own home. She would light a candle of her own, in quiet contemplation and self-imposed silence save for the right words of the ritual. 

Only to feel the jolt of the spark of magic in her blood, in her bones, in her gut. Druella had been distractedly prattling away on how much she would regret to not see Walburga there on the first of February, having thought nothing of the spark for her connection to the Black bloodline was relatively minimal, only because of her marriage to Cygnus would she feel such a spark. But Walburga felt it, she felt it with her whole body and in her soul, she felt it in her magical core and with all of her senses buzzing in the air like the calm stillness just before lightning strikes. 

Walburga is quick to usher Druella out and away in as much of a timely manner as is acceptably allowed. Druella thinks nothing of it, only seeing it as Walburga's grumpiness and fowl mood taking over as it had often occurred over the years. Only growing far worse as she receded into her isolation with the deaths of her son and husband, with the incarceration of her greatest pride-turned-shame. Druella, the beautiful blonde witch, takes it all in stride as she usually does, though leaving in a huff and the roll of her eyes.

Walburga, left utterly and abysmally yet blissfully alone, tries to recall the spark and the intention of such a spark, but alas... It does not come back, no matter how long or how desperately she waits. It wasn't until that very fateful night of February 1st, 1982, during the midst of her prayers as she lit a candle for Imbolc, that she felt a resurgence in the spark in her blood and bones and magic. 

In front of the tapestry, she knelt, at the makeshift altar she'd set up herself, with the help of Kreacher. The flame had sparked to life near instantaneously as she pressed her forefinger and thumb over the wick quickly, magic thrumming through her veins pleasantly as she recited the words that had been passed down through their generations. Then the words of her prayers were next, after a long moment of silent reflection and contemplation, "Watch after my wayward son," she whispered such a treacherous plea, for only her and the gods to know, "I seek a spark that has alighted in my blood, in my bones, in my magic. I beseech the powers that be to show me the way, light the path in this utter darkness. Give me the answers I need."

Almost immediately, that familiar spark jolts her, touching down into her magical core like lightning striking the earth in the midst of a storm. The flame flickered and danced in the still air, for there was no wind or air current in this room,  only the pulse of magic as the gods and nature allowed her to see that which she sought.

In the shadows of the light that illuminated around her, she saw it. Then, there, the spark. I see it! It was no mere spark of magic, but the forging connection between someone of her blood. The establishment of a new branch. A new sapling, a new flower.

For as she commanded Kreacher to switch on the lights, she saw it more clearly than she ever had before. How had she not noticed it? How many days and nights had she spent standing in front of the spot of the family tree that included her two sons. One was the face of her dearest silver boy Regulus, for whom she had screamed and sobbed and raged and cried and sat staring despondently at his many framed moving pictures but most especially his wilted picture on the tapestry, the flower and leaves of his branch withering away with his death. She had felt it, the pain a sharp, ever-present ache in her heart where he had taken his place so thoroughly, her perfect boy, only for that very flame of his life and soul to be snuffed out. Her obedient boy, her dutiful boy, her boy who had so much potential to be a good lord, a good son, a good future. All of it stolen from him and her both, for she would never see him married and with children of his own to dote on and teach and cherish and love and protect. She wouldn't even get to see or have a body to bury, for his casket had been empty, forever lost to her, yet another mystery that would never get solved.

Then there was the other, the burnt out circle of what had once been her handsome golden son Sirius, who reminded her very much of Lord Arcturus; who had her brother dearest, maddening Alphard's rebellious personality, and his intelligence, and yet also his arrogance; but also her little brother Cygnus' charming smile and silver tongue. He'd had her temper, unfortunately, and little else from her. He who had her husband Orion's strength, her father Pollux's magical prowess, her mother Irma's ear for music, and Orion's sister Lucretia's sense of adventure. though where he had inherited his penchant for trouble and mischief, perhaps he got from his cousins, Bella, Andra, and Cissa. Her firstborn, her baby boy, the one she had pushed so hard she had pushed away; her sunshine child who had been forced to don the role of her stormy son, with whom only thunderclaps and lightning strikes could ever come of their conversations, to be their only exchanges near the end. Her pride and joy and hope and frustration and desperation.

She saw it now. Saw it clearly. Right under the burnt out spot where her son's handsome face and devil-may-care grin had been, sprouted a new branch. A flower, still-growing and small, a sapling. A child. One borne of her line, her son's line, her blood and her kin. Her first and only grandchild. 

And there it was, that spark, on the tapestry and in her heart. It was both a spark of the magic borne of her line but also of the hope for the future, for their great and noble and ancient house. They would continue on, striving for their survival, thriving under the stars they dedicated their house to. 

"Kreacher!" Walburga rasped, the loyal elf popping to her side instantaneously, before she had even finished speaking his name. 

"My Lady requires Kreacher?"

"Get me my ritual bowl and the Black family dagger. I need a map and sage. Get me my niece Bellatrix, summon her. Bring her to me. Do it all, do it now. We must hurry. For all is not lost as I had feared."

Kreacher did not dare to speak, only snapping his fingers as he popped away. The items were brought to her by some of the other elves still left in the house, but Kreacher was gone. Gone to Malfoy Manor where Bellatrix Black, her despondent niece lay defeated in her bed at the guest room she had occupied since the end of the war. 

Walburga's joints protested the surge of movement, her old and aching bones crying out from the energy she had suddenly found in herself, but she ignored it. A wicked grin began to grow on her face as she set up a new altar, placing the bowl down and grabbing the dagger, using it to slice at her finger. She lit the fires of the candles that were positioned around her on the table before her. She mixed the ingredients she had later commanded be brought to her by the other elves, and had even lit the sage and let it burn around her, waving it around in the air slowly and methodologically, then dropping it into the bowl. 

"Give me the sight." Walburga spoke after chanting the words to the spell, reciting a long forgotten spell from one of their more ancient grimoires. This was banned magic, dark magic. Blood magic. But it was the most effective for what she needed. "Show me the child!"

She slowly dripped the concoction onto the table, over the map, before placing the bowl down and chanting once more. The flames grew, her power and magic surging, the rays of moonlight coming in from the window of the room shining down over the map as she worked the spell. And then it happened, the blood and herbs mixed together began to move, and the flower on the tapestry bloomed. 

Walburga suddenly froze and stopped her chants, as the spell worked its course. She stared in awe at the new flower that had bloomed under her son. Form every babe that ever was born from their tree, a new and different flower or plant took place before being accepted into the family and thusly replaced with the face, with only the flower or plant decorating the image of the scroll with their names. That was why her Bellatrix was their nightshade, their belladonna. Narcissa was named for her flower on the tree. Her Sirius had been a gladiolus, her Regulus an indigo— though now the flowers near Sirius' name had begun to wither, a reflection of his current state locked up in Azkaban, and the flowers near Regulus' name were fully wilted and dead, just like him. 

But her grandchild, her heir, their flower was growing and thriving and withstanding this very dark time. Basking in the pale light of the moon, hiding from the sun's bright rays. It was a beautiful flower of darkness and a showcase of serenity in the night. A flower of the stars and the moon, a true flower worthy of their name, if not matching in the color of their name. A moonflower. White and delicate and beautiful, seemingly glowing in the dark under the beams of moonlight that poured through the room as it stretched out and twirled out its petals from its previously furrowed and enclosed bud form.

Beautiful and ethereal. Breathtaking and magical. A magnificent omen for the future of their house. 

Soon enough, a face would be added, once the child had been named and accepted into the family per the ancient rites. But he or she was here, and they were alive, and they had magic. For the sparks she had been feeling were no coincidence, it meant something. It was not just the spark of life she had been feeling, but the sparks of magic growing within this child. The sparks were the echoes of accidental magic being showcased within this child. 

Oh how powerful this child would be, Walburga thought, recalling she had been feeling this spark on and off for a couple of years now. This child would be their hope, their path to a better future and a stronger house. This child would be her everything. 

Now she must rest. She must wait, and plan, and set her plans into motion. 

Like a woman reborn, rejuvenated with hope and life and happiness, Walburga Black smiled as she left the room, moving to her sitting room as she requested a new pot of tea brewed. Earl Grey and Bergamot, with a pinch of brown sugar, for her darling nightshade Bellatrix and her endearing secret sweet tooth. All she must do now is wait, awaiting her niece's arrival for the very start of her plans to come together. 

Gazing over to the small frames of her family, captured in moving pictures, she tenderly grabbed the one with her family when they had still been whole, one of the few that survived, that she had kept and not been able to destroy or hide away when her lion for a son had run away from home, running to the Potters and replacing her with Euphemia Fawley. Her gaze slid over the face of her sons, then to her husband, and she allowed herself to take a moment as she closed her eyes and imaged the visage of her boys all in front of her, and she whispered a promise, a vow she intended to keep, if only to herself. 

"I shall do our new child right. I shall not allow them to be forsaken. I will do right to you, my sons, for you both will live on in this child. The best parts of you shall live on. We will not be forgotten. We will live on, through our moonflower."