Toujours Pur

"Walburga," Mother’s voice was sharp, but Walburga didn’t mind. It wasn’t meant to hurt, it was meant to make her better "Stop that at once. You are going to stain your new gown"

Walburga stopped that at once. Okay, Black Heir, no stains on gowns. That was a new one, but she should have known it either way.

Irma Black sweept the brush over the four year old girl's thick and lustrous black hair and pulled it as tightly as she could. It hurt, but Walburga wouldn’t say that. Saying it would sound weak, and she was not weak. Instead, she tried to focus on Mother's neatly styled hair in intricate braids, and how poised it looked. Walburga's was going to look like that in a few minutes. Good.

Irma pulled yet again, applying a slick gel with her wand, the one Walburga had been playing with, nearly staining her dress. It was a slow and painful process. Was Mother doing it to test her patience and to teach her to hide the pain? Maybe. Walburga wanted to grab the wand from Mother’s hand and do it herself. But no, she would wait. Patiently. Like an adult. Even if it was awful.
She tried to distract herself again.
She liked the way the emeralds sparkled on Mother’s necklace, it looked expensive, the way Black things should.

A few moments later, Mother's hands stopped moving along Walburga's hair, instead pressing them on her shoulders. Walburga turned and looked at herself in the mirror. She liked the way her elaborately braided black hair stood out with her really pale complexion. She also liked how it seemed to bring out her other features. Other children had soft, silly faces. Not her. Father always said she had a Black’s face, sharp and proud.

The house-elf knocked on the door, and Mother quickly opened it. Walburga didn’t remember the elf’s name. Clearly, it didn't really matter. The creature was holding a two-year old boy's hand, which it passed to Irma, who grabbed the child in her arms. The house-elf bowed so low its nose almost touched the floor. Great. That’s what they were supposed to do.

Walburga tried hard not to grimace in disdain at the sight of her brother, Alphard. Her cheeks burned, and she almost stomped her foot, but heirs didn’t stomp.

The idea of being heir had settled for the first time only a few months ago, when Father had sat her down to talk. He had briefly explained how she was a part of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, daughter to him, the heir, now that he recently had turned 17. That meant that one of his children would grow up to be the next Black family Heir, which was a great honor and responsability, as the heir was the most respected member not only of the family, but also of the Wizarding Community.
The thought had made Walburga's mouth water, looking at her father with earnest brown eyes, maybe starting to understand why she had been taught all those since she could recall. After all, the highest member of the hierarchy had to have a certain discipline. Being the heir meant power. Being the heir meant control. Walburga was four years old, and couldn't really realise the extent of those words, but she liked how she had the ability to decide and control her dolls, and which of them got to live or which of them she was going to drown in her bathtub. If she liked reigning over her dolls, then she would like reigning over people, right? She certainly did.
But then Father said something that made Walburga's little face fall. He explained how Black Family heirs were normally the oldest male child, and that meant that her brother Alphard would probably grow up to be the heir to the family. Walburga didn't like that one bit. She was pleased to see that Father didn't seem to like it much either. He had told her that he wanted her to be the heir, for reasons he would explain when Walburga grew up. The kid had been so full of joy and pride she thought she was going to explode. She hid it well. Toujours Pur, she remembered herself. A Black doesn't show emotions.
Father had finished their talk by saying that she had to win her place as heir in front of the rest of the family. She wasn't only required to follow all the rules like everyone else and be the exact perfect picture of a Black, but she had to do all these things before anyone else expected it. She had to marry well. She had to achieve the best grades. She had to be powerful. Demanding. Strong. She had to be unstoppable. Walburga wanted to be all of that.

Walburga looked now, as she exited the bathroom with Mother holding Alphard, at the wand sticking out of Father's pocket. It wasn’t just a wand. It was power, waiting for the right person to take it. One day, she would. If she didn't, well, as her father had said, her existence was useless and insignificant. She was no one, and she was as good as dead.

Pollux, Walburga and Irma Black walked down the stairs, the later one holding Alphard in her arms.
They stopped on the landing, before the last block of stairs. At the foot of these the entire Black family was gathered, 19 members, not counting themselves. Walburga knew everyone's names, she had been forced to study them all in the family tapestry.

The woman nearest to the stairs, Aunt Elladora, was seventy-nine years old and already holding a glass of wine. Her thin lips pursed in approval as her eyes swept over the children, though Walburga noticed her gaze lingered longer on Alphard.
Next to Elladora stood Walburga's grandma, Violetta Bulstrode Black, thirty-seven years old, her robes immaculate in deep purple with golden embroidery. Cygnus II, age forty, was Walburga's gradfather, and he stood with one hand on the banister, his other hand holding a pocket watch he occasionally glanced at.
Beside him was Hesper Gamp Black, fifty-three, her long black hair tied back with a single silver ribbon. Sirius II, his husband and Cygnus II's brother, leaned against a pillar with his arms crossed.
Arcturus II, another of the siblings, stood near the fireplace, his robes slightly askew, giving the impression he had rushed to arrive.
Belvina, the only sister, was sitting gracefully in an armchair near the window, her hands folded neatly on her lap. Her husband, Herbert Burke, was beside her, his thick mustache twitching slightly as he sipped from a glass of brandy.
Dorea, who was nine but still Walburga's aunt, was seated on the floor near the fireplace, holding a small book with an ornate cover. Her dark hair was in a simple braid, and she occasionally glanced up, her large brown eyes filled with curiosity.
Cassiopeia, at fourteen, was Walburga's other aunt, and she stood near the tapestry, her posture perfect.
Regulus, at twenty-three years old, leaned against the wall near the doorway, his robes a deep green that matched the Black family colors.
Lycoris, twenty-five, was adjusting her skirt, her demeanor polished and formal.
Arcturus III, the brother of the latter two, was holding a cane, though he didn’t appear to need it. His face was stoic, his expression unreadable as he exchanged a few words with Lycoris.
Melania Macmillan Black, his wife, was carrying a newborn in her arms, Orion, swaddled in emerald green cloth. Her soft features and gentle smile contrasted with the room's formality.
Callidora, fourteen, was perched on the edge of a chaise longue, her dark eyes flickering with amusement as she whispered something to Cedrella, her twelve-year old sister, who giggled behind her hand. Charis, the smallest of the three, sat beside them, her legs swinging slightly. Her gaze was fixed on the elaborate chandelier above, as though captivated by the way the light caught the crystals.
And finally, Lucretia, the same age as Walburga, was standing close to Arcturus III, her father, clutching his robes with one hand. Her dark curls framed a face that still held a child’s roundness, though her expression was solemn, as though she understood more than she let on.

Father's cane hit Walburga square in the back, making her almost stumble forward. Almost. Yet, Pollux Black must had noticed it, because he hit her again, even harder. Walburga was prepared this time, and simply straightened her back as the rest of the Black family clapped their hands nonchalantly.

Father, Mother and Walburga descended the last flight of stairs and joined the rest of the family.

The dining room was full of people again. Grown-ups, with their long robes and important voices that spoke too fast. Walburga sat on her special chair, swinging her feet under the table. She wasn’t supposed to swing them, but no one was looking, and it made her feel taller, like she could kick someone if she wanted.
She glanced at Father, he was speaking, and everyone else had stopped. Of course they did. When Father talked, even the walls seemed to listen. Walburga didn’t hear all the words; they were big and complicated, but she caught the important ones. ‘Purity,’ ‘power,’ ‘legacy.’ Those were words she knew. Those were Black words. She liked those words.

A crash made her jump. She turned to see Aunt Elladora’s glass tipped over, dark wine spilling across the table. It slid towards Father’s robes, thick and red like blood, and her heart jumped. Everyone gasped.
Walburga didn’t think. Her chest felt tight, and her fingers tingled. Stains on gowns. The wine stopped. Just like that. The shiny puddle froze in place, like it was too scared to move. She stared at it, her hand stretched out, and the room went silent. Her first bit of magic.

"Walburga." Cygnus II’s voice cut through the stillness. She looked up, and her grandfather was staring at her. His eyes were dark, unreadable, and for a moment, she was afraid. Had she done something wrong? She knew that her father was now the head of the Noble House of Black, but Father was still very young, and in some occasions like today, Cygnus, her grandfather and the previous Black heir, sat at the head of the table.

Cygnus smiled, just a little, and nodded. "Good." he said "Very good."

Walburga sat up straighter. The tightness in her chest melted into warmth, and she crossed her arms like she’d planned it all along. She didn’t know exactly what she’d done, but she knew it was something important. Something Black.

Father’s smile wasn’t big, but it didn’t need to be. She knew he was pleased. She had done well, better than anyone else could have.

When Aunt Cassiopeia said she was clever, Walburga didn’t blush. Of course she was clever. She was Walburga Black.

For some reason Walburga didn't understand, Sirius II, one of Father's brothers, seemed displeased. Sirius nudged his eldest son, Arcturus III, who exchanged a quick glance with his wife, Melania, and started speaking in rapid french, mostly directed to Cygnus II, who was listening at him with an stern expression. Everyone who was old enough to follow the conversation remained silent, catching the tension in the rapid French exchange. Walburga was just starting to learn the family language, so she only caught a few words, although she didn't need to know French to see Father's growing anger expression, ready to burst in flames, and how grandma Violetta and Mother were trying to calm him down. It didn't seem to be working, though, and the last thing that went through Walburga's head before Father went into a french tangent was that Blacks mustn't show emotions.

Father fully stood up, facing both Cyngus and Arcturus III, and started ranting in equally quick french. Grandfather Cygnus says something in a cold voice that has Father sat down in mere seconds. Arcturus and his father, Sirius, seemed midly pleased. Cygnus dabbed his mouth with a handkerchief, and said something again in, this time, slow French, mostly looking at Arcturus III and, to Walburga's surprise, at his newborn, Orion. The table fell oddly silent. Father said something again, and this time, Walburga caught the word héritière, which she knew for a fact meant heiress.

Cygnus nodded, a few times, and motioned baby Orion with his hands, asking a question. Arcturus III and Sirius II immediately answered, nodding with their heads too. Suddenly, all the members of the table turned to Father, who remained silent. He slowly turned to look at Mother, who after a second, sharply nodded. Walburga sat a little straighter, pretending not to care too much.
Father then said something, to which the whole table listened to, holding their breaths. Finally, they all turned to look at her, Walburga, and she held their gazes, imperturbed.

Smiling, Grandfather Cygnus clapped his hands and raised his goblet. "Toujours Pur." he said, still smiling.

"Toujours Pur." the whole table repeated, including Walburga.

The girl ate her dinner thinking about the odd French conversation. She hoped it was something at her favour. In the end, being the heir wasn’t something she had to be given. It was something she was meant to be.