Toujours Pur

The evening was cold, a chill that seemed to sink into the bones, even inside the warmth of Grimmauld Place, the Black family’s main home. There was a weight to the night, heavier than the tapestries that adorned the stone walls. The old manor had been prepared for tonight's event: the ball in honor of Walburga Black, the heir, who was going to leave for Hogwarts in mere weeks. It was tradition, a showcase of power and pride, a reaffirmation of what it meant to be a Black.

The room was filled with members of the Black family, all adorned in their finest. Women in velvet and silk, men in dark robes. The air was thick with conversation, the clinking of fine china, the slow shuffle of shoes across polished floors. Everything about this night was designed to impress, to remind the guests of the heritage they were all bound to.

Standing by one of the grand windows, Lucretia Black felt out of place.

She was eleven, the same age as Walburga, and like her cousin, she was preparing to enter Hogwarts that year. But there the similarities ended. Walburga thrived in this world. Her sharp features drew attention, her presence a force to be reckoned with. Lucretia, however, always felt more like a ghost in the room, an observer rather than a participant.

Her face, with its high cheekbones and pointed chin, was often described as severe, her expression more often than not a reflection of her silent judgments. Her gray eyes held an intensity, but it was one that was rarely seen by others. When she spoke, it was rare and measured, and her voice was quieter than it should have been for a girl of her status. She had been taught to be polite, to listen, to observe.

Tonight, her gaze wasn’t on the people around her, though. Her eyes lingered outside, beyond the heavy curtains that lined the grand windows. A breeze stirred the trees outside, but inside, Lucretia felt the weight of something far more heavy. She was excited to enter Hogwarts, yes, but she was also nervous. Nervous to leave her brother Orion behind, although she knew he did not care at all. Still, she felt a bit sick. Like something was not right.

Lucretia looked to her right. Across from her, Walburga was standing with her back straight, wearing a beautifully embroidered black dress that brought out her equally dark hair, delicately braided, as always. Walburga had her gaze fixed on the adults, who were sipping wine on the Family's finest globets and chatting in the middle of the dance floor. Walburga, who had a goblet too, was moving her hand in deliberate circles, observing from time to time how her drink moved inside of it. Her expression was blank. Lucretia knew Walburga could feel the different atmosphere too.

Lucretia's attention was caught by an unpopular sound among the Blacks: laughter, closely followed by the sound of breaking glass. The laughter ceased instantly.

Lucretia's expression froze when she saw her brother Orion and her cousin Alphard, age seven and nine respectively, looking disheveled, like they had just been roughhousing, which would be highly improper. At the feet of the two boys, the big glass basin that had contained Granian punch was now broken, the whitish drink spilt on the wooden floor. Chatter died in the ball room, and everyone focused on Orion and Alphard.

Orion looked at his feet, ashamed, while Alphard fidgeted, a clear expression on his face that screamed he was scared of what was coming. Lucretia looked at them, and felt panic raising at how little and scared they looked. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Uncle Pollux and Father exchanging a quick look, and Lucretia braced herself.

Out of nowhere, cousin Cedrella stepped forward, her emerald-green gown flowing behind her as she moved with effortless grace. Her pale fingers wrapped around her wand, and with a smooth flick, the broken glass reassembled itself, the spilled punch vanishing as if it had never been there. The silence in the room stretched as she calmly tucked her wand away, her black eyes scanning the crowd with quiet authority.

Lucretia observed as her older cousin stood in the middle of the ballroom with a quiet confidence that made her presence impossible to ignore. Her dark brown hair, pinned elegantly away from her face, shimmered under the golden light of the chandeliers, but her expression remained composed, unreadable.

She turned her gaze to Uncle Pollux and Lucretia's father, her voice steady but polite. "Aucun mal n'a été fait," Cedrella said smoothly, as if the incident were hardly worth anyone's attention. "Just a bit of excitement from two young boys, nothing that cannot be fixed."

There was a tension in the air, an unspoken battle of wills, but Cedrella, only being nineteen, held firm, her black eyes unwavering. After a long, heavy pause, the men gave the smallest of nods, and the conversation around the ballroom slowly resumed, though the atmosphere remained slightly stiff.

Cedrella turned to Orion and Alphard, giving them a barely perceptible nod, an acknowledgment, a reassurance. Lucretia watched as Cedrella turned away from Orion and Alphard, but before she could fully retreat into the shifting sea of Black family members, cousin Callidora, Cedrella's older sister, appeared at her side. Her older cousin moved swiftly, as though she had been waiting for this moment, her sapphire-blue gown trailing behind her. She didn’t say a word as she reached for Cedrella’s hand, fingers curling around her wrist in a firm but discreet grip.

Cedrella hesitated for only a fraction of a second before allowing herself to be pulled away. Charis, Cedrella and Callidora's younger sister, barely of age, was already waiting near one of the grand pillars at the edge of the ballroom, positioned just far enough from the main crowd to be unnoticed but still within the boundaries of propriety. As Callidora guided Cedrella toward their younger sister, the three of them fell into step as though this had been planned, their movements seamless, practiced.

Lucretia's gray eyes followed them, barely shifting from her place near the window. Though the sisters blended easily into the rest of the elegantly dressed figures, she could tell something had passed between them. There was no need for words; Callidora’s grip, Charis’s steady presence, and Cedrella’s measured steps said enough.

Callidora, Cedrella, and Charis, always moving as if tied together by something invisible, something unshakable. There was something fascinating about them, something that she didn’t quite understand, even though she had been observing them for years. Callidora, Cedrella, and Charis...they seemed to exist in their own world, one that Lucretia could never fully enter, no matter how hard she tried to piece it together.

Callidora, the eldest, always the one to smooth things over before they unraveled. Her presence was steady, reassuring, though Lucretia had learned that her calm exterior did not mean she was indifferent. Callidora was not reckless like Cedrella, nor did she challenge things outright, but there was a quiet strength in her. She did not fight against the family’s rules, but neither did she let them define her completely.

Cedrella, in contrast, had always been the most defiant. It was not loud, not brash, no, that would have been too easy to snuff out. Instead, her defiance was woven into the way she spoke, the way she carried herself, the way she had just stood in the middle of the ballroom and stopped Uncle Pollux and Father without ever raising her voice. Cedrella had mastered the art of pushing boundaries just enough to avoid immediate consequences, a skill Lucretia had always found fascinating to watch.

And Charis, the youngest...Lucretia had never been sure if she was merely quiet or simply waiting. She had always followed the other two, her dark eyes taking in everything, much like Lucretia herself. But unlike Lucretia, Charis did not analyze from a distance. She simply was present, involved, never left behind.

Lucretia studied them now, the way Callidora’s hand remained lightly on Cedrella’s arm, the way Charis leaned in slightly, as if the three of them could retreat into a world of their own. But what intrigued her the most wasn’t how they looked now, it was how they were always so together. They didn’t need to speak much, yet somehow, it was clear that they understood each other perfectly. No one else seemed to have that. Not the way their father and uncle did, not even the way she and Orion did. There was something about the way they moved, how their silent communication always seemed to say more than words could, that made Lucretia feel like she was standing outside of something important.

It was not that Lucretia envied them, she had never wished for that kind of bond. But she observed it, studied it, tried to understand it. It was a kind of loyalty that had nothing to do with power or duty. It was something beyond what the rest of their family valued.

But what would happen to them? Could they always stay this way? Lucretia thought about it, her mind full of questions. Would they be torn apart like the rest of the family? Could their bond survive the weight of the Black legacy, or would they be forced to bend like everyone else? Would one of them one day be more like Walburga, sharp and demanding? Or would they fade into the background, like so many others had, swallowed by tradition and duty?

Lucretia wasn't sure.

But she couldn’t help wondering. There was something fragile about their closeness, something that felt like it might not last forever. Maybe it would change as they got older. Maybe the family would tear them apart, just like it always tore things apart.

And in a house like this, Lucretia thought, that kind of bond was something rare. Something dangerous.

Lucretia noticed how Walburga was also observing the three sisters, a small frown between her eyebrows. Lucretia sighed and approached her cousin.

Walburga, standing in her striking dress, her posture sharp and unwavering, seemed like someone who could give answers.

Lucretia didn’t know if she wanted to be like Walburga, but she certainly wanted to understand her.

“Do you see them?” Lucretia's voice, quiet and controlled. “The three of them...”

Walburga’s eyes flicked toward the group of sisters. Her lips pressed together in a thin line, a trace of disdain flickering beneath her carefully composed exterior. “I see them. They’re the representation of weakness, don’t you think?” Walburga’s voice was low. “They think they are so untouchable, so ensemble... But one crack, one mistake, and they will fall apart.”

Lucretia’s gaze never wavered from Walburga’s profile, studying her cousin with the same quiet intensity she reserved for everything. “But they are... different, aren’t they? Don’t you think? I mean, it is almost like they have got something the rest of us do not.”

Walburga stiffened slightly, her fingers tightening around the glass she held. “What do you mean?” Her tone was sharp now, though not yet accusatory, as if the question was a test.

Lucretia paused, her mind still piecing things together. She wasn’t sure if she had the words, or if she even needed them. “The way they move, the way they act together. It is as if they do not need anyone else, and no one can touch them. But it is not like your typical Black pride. It is...” She trailed off, unsure.

Walburga’s laugh was short. “You have always been an observer, Lucretia. Always watching, never acting.” Her eyes flickered with something sharper now, something darker. “You are right, though. They do seem intouchable but mark my words, rien stays that way forever. Not in this family.” Walburga’s words were loaded with a certainty, a promise of inevitable fracture, as if her own life had proven to her that even the most solid things could break.

Lucretia didn't flinch at the sharpness in Walburga's voice. Instead, her expression remained composed, her thoughts swirling behind her cold, calculating eyes. “I know. I wonder if they know that too.” She took a step closer, not fully entering Walburga’s personal space, but just enough to signal that her presence was intentional. “Do you think they would ever casser for someone outside of themselves? Someone... different?”

Walburga’s jaw tightened, her eyes narrowing. “Dehors?” She sneered, as though the very word had left a bad taste in her mouth. “Non. They’re bound by blood, by loyalty. They know who they are. They would not dare.”

Lucretia considered this, weighing the certainty in Walburga’s voice. She knew Walburga had always believed in the unbreakable strength of family bonds, the purity, the lineage, the responsibility. She didn’t question the family’s structure the way Lucretia did. But Lucretia couldn’t help but wonder if that belief was a shield, one that kept Walburga from seeing how fragile that unity truly was.

“Maybe,” Lucretia said softly, her words lingering in the air, “but how can you be sure? People change. Even families change.”

Walburga shot her a sharp, sidelong glance, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then, the corner of her lips curled slightly. “You are more like me than you think, Lucretia,” she said quietly, but with finality. “You can pretend to be an observer, but the truth is, tu veux to control things, just like I do. Tu veux comprendre, but understanding does not make you stronger. It only makes you more dangerous when the time comes to act.”

Lucretia paused, her thoughts once again drifting into the space between them. Walburga had a point. She had always found herself craving understanding, craving answers, not just for the sake of knowledge, but because she knew that knowledge would give her an edge. Not over others, she had no need to rule them. But over herself. She was seeking something more than her own inherited destiny.

Perhaps that was why she had never desired the heirship. She didn’t want power to hold over others. But she did want to understand it.

“Je nen suis pas comme toi,” Lucretia said finally, her voice quiet, but firm. “I do not need to act. I just want to see what happens. I want to understand what makes everything fall apart, what makes it stay together.”

Walburga studied her for a long moment, her gaze cold and assessing, as though she were trying to determine if Lucretia's words were a challenge or merely a statement of fact. Finally, she exhaled sharply and took a step back, her posture straightening with the rigid, controlled air of someone who had just been reminded of her own power.

“Maybe that is your problem, Lu,” she said, her voice soft with something close to pity. “You spend too much time watching, and not enough time living.”

Lucretia’s eyes met Walburga’s, a flicker of something almost like amusement in her quiet gaze. “And maybe that is what makes me different,” she said, her tone enigmatic.

Walburga didn’t respond, her eyes narrowing as she watched Lucretia slip away again, her gaze flicking back to the gathering around the ballroom. But in that moment, something unspoken passed between them. Walburga’s drive for power, her need to control, and Lucretia’s quest for understanding, two sides of the same coin, but infinitely different in their execution.

Lucretia walked away from her best friend slowly, blending in with the rest of the family, some of which were dancing, others sipping drinks or chatting about their prestigious and definitely boring careers. She hovered around one of the tables with the food and drinks, and finally decided on a goblet of perrier, a French beverage.

As her thoughts drifted, her hand absently traced the edge of her goblet, feeling the weight of it in her palm. The Black family crest gleamed on the glass, reflecting the light of the candles.

“Let us make a toast,” the voice of uncle Pollux, the current Head of House, cut through Lucretia's thoughts. His deep, commanding voice caused an immediate silence in the room. Lucretia's grip tigthened on her globet. She had a bad feeling about this. “To Walburga Irma Black, my daughter, Heir and future Head of House to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, who is entering Hogwarts this year.” Pollux looked around the room, at the large quantity of arms raised, with their goblets in the air. “Toujours Pur.” He ended the toast, taking a sip from his goblet. All the Blacks repeated the motto and drank too.

Someone cleared his throat. Lucretia looked around, and watched as her father raised his arm and goblet, ready to make another toast. Everyone looked at him increduosly, especially Uncle Pollux, Walburga and Grandfather Cygnus, the three of them seeming ready to throw daggers at him. Lucretia gulped. What was happening?

Uncle Pollux pasted a really false smile on his face, nodded towards Father and raised his arm too. Everyone then hurried to raise their arms. Lucretia raised it as well, but not because she particularly wanted to, just scared of what would happen if she did not.

The ballroom was silent, every gaze focused on Arcturus III, waiting for his improvised and sudden toast.

The words, when they came, were sharp and unforgiving. “To Walburga Irma Black, Heir and future Head of House of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black,” Father looked around the room, probably feeling powerful for the first time among their family. Lucretia caught Mother's eyes, and they both shared a confused look. This was not like Father, he didn't act. What was he doing? And then Lucretia saw it. She observed as Grandfather Sirius, standing right next to Father and looking proud, whispered something in his ear. Father 's smile widened. The words hit like a blow. “And to her future union with my son, Orion Arcturus Black,” Father continued, his voice thick with pride. “The Black family shall remain pure, powerful and true to its values through this union. Toujours Pur.”

The ballroom's silence was deafening. Uncle Pollux's smile was now reaching the point where it was scary, but he nodded nonetheless. “Toujous Pur” he said, before taking a now large sip from his goblet.

The family began to raise their glasses, their polite murmurs of approval filling the room. Every person there, every Black, lifted their goblets, offering a toast. Murmuring the motto again and drinking.

The words stung Lucretia in a way she hadn’t expected, after all, she had always known they would come. But now it was real. She had thought, for many years, that there was still time, eventually even forgetting about the arrangement. But now. Now it was real. Her cousin was going to marry her brother. An eleven-year-old girl had just been sold off like a prized possession to a child barely seven, who was related to her.

Lucretia’s hand clenched around her goblet.

She barely heard the murmured congratulations, the rustling of fabric as guests shifted in their seats to raise their glasses higher. She barely registered the polite, satisfied smiles of her parents, of her aunts and uncles, of Pollux, whose expression was one of smug certainty, as if this had all been preordained from the moment Walburga had drawn breath.

But then her gaze found her.

Walburga stood with her back straight, her chin lifted, her lips pressed into a tight, thin line. She was paler than usual. Her features, sharp and angular, were a reflection of the severity of the Black family’s tradition, and yet her lips barely moved. She wasn’t smiling. No, her face was set, her gaze, however, was hard, directed toward nothing in particular, though Lucretia could feel it. There was a bitterness in her eyes. Resentment, even.

And then something clicked. Lucretia realized. Walburga had just found out about this. She hadn't known. Horror waved through Lucretia's body.

Walburga's eyes darted around the room, seeking what, Lucretia didn’t know. An escape? A savior? But there was none. There never was.

Orion was quite close to Lucretia, unnervingly still. He did not flinch, did not speak. His young face was carefully blank, but Lucretia knew that look. Resignation. It was the same expression their father wore when duty demanded a sacrifice.

And then there was Alphard.

His goblet was raised, but his fingers were white around the stem. His lips were slightly parted, his brows furrowed ever so slightly in confusion. He wasn’t entirely against this, he was too indoctrinated to be, but the doubt was there. He did not understand why this sat uneasily in his chest, but he could feel it. He knew something was wrong.

Lucretia’s heartbeat thundered in her ears.

This was it. This was the moment.

Her hand trembled.

And then...

The goblet slipped from her fingers.

The crash shattered the silence.

Shards of crystal burst across the floor like a thousand tiny knives, the drink spilling out for the second time that evening.

A sharp, collective intake of breath.

For a single, breathless moment, the room froze.

Lucretia felt it then, the weight of every gaze turning toward her, pressing against her like a hand around her throat. The air was stifling, suffocating. Her cheeks burned, not from shame, but from the sudden, terrible clarity that she had just stepped outside the lines of what was acceptable.

Her heart pounded.

And then, before she could stop herself...

"Mon Dieu." The words slipped from her lips, barely more than a whisper, but loud enough. "This is incest."

She didn’t know where the words came from, but there they were, hanging in the air between them, a harsh, unforgivable truth that none of them could deny.

Around her, the family stood frozen. The air was thick with the realization of what she had said. The room, once filled with the polite hum of conversation, now felt suffocating, the silence stretching out.

But then, like a storm breaking, the silence shattered.

Pollux’s eyes narrowed. He took a step towards her. Lucretia’s breath hitched. It was the look she had seen many times before in him, the unmistakable indication that punishment was coming. But someone passed him.

Her father, Arcturus, moved toward her. His face was unreadable, cold.

Lucretia’s heart pounded in her chest, and for a brief moment, all she could feel was the space between her and the rest of her family. She was on the outside now. She wasn’t part of their world, their careful dance of tradition.

Without warning, Arcturus’s hand rose, wand in hand, accompanied by a single word.

“Crucio”

Lucretia’s heart skipped a beat. The world around her seemed to slow. The clinking of glasses, the soft murmurs of congratulations... all of it seemed muffled, distant. She could still see Walburga’s face, that tight-lipped, stoic mask, but now, through her growing panic, something else was happening. Something she couldn’t quite comprehend. A subtle pressure, building within her chest, then sinking lower, pooling into her stomach.

And then, the pain hit.

It came like a rush of searing fire, deep inside her body, coiling and twisting her insides into a knot. Every muscle tensed in excruciating response, every nerve feeling as though it was being set alight, burning from the inside out. Her breath caught in her throat, a gasp escaping her lips, but it was nothing compared to the gut-wrenching agony that followed.

Her knees buckled under the weight of it, and she collapsed to the floor, screaming in agony.

Her vision blurred, her thoughts scrambled, and she barely registered the muffled chants of "Toujours Pur" from the guests still sipping from their goblets. The room felt as though it was closing in on her, walls pressing tighter, the air thicker, suffocating her.

Her skin felt as though it was being pulled from her bones, stretched and torn in ways she couldn’t even imagine. But it was the shame that coursed through her like venom, the humiliation of being made to feel so utterly small, so powerless.

From somewhere amidst the agony, Lucretia heard the sharp voice of Walburga, cold, unyielding, but somehow distant.

"Enough."

The pressure did not relent immediately. The curse, like a relentless tide, continued to crash against her senses, stripping away her ability to focus, to think. Her body was no longer hers to control. It was as though the very core of her being had been wrung dry, leaving only an empty shell behind, gasping for air. She could feel every individual bone in her body, every nerve, screaming.

But then, as suddenly as it had come, the pressure lifted. The world snapped back into focus. Lucretia was in the ground, her body a heap of trembling limbs, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak. The aftershocks of the curse pulsed in her chest, leaving a lingering burn that would not fade quickly.

"Get up," a cold voice demanded.

Lucretia’s gray eyes blurred, and she had to struggle to focus on the source of the voice, to make sense of the blurry, shifting faces. Her father stood near her, eyes narrowing as he gazed down at her.

Her mother’s face hovered at the edge of her vision, her expression unreadable. But it was the look in her eyes that Lucretia could feel, the distant sorrow, the acceptance of what had just transpired. A nod. A confirmation. A look that said it all.

It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t a mistake. This was how things were meant to be.

"Do not embarrass this family further, Lucretia." Her father's voice was icy, devoid of any emotion that might have suggested affection or concern. "Get up, now."

Her body screamed in protest, but she could feel the weight of his command pushing down on her, the unspoken expectation that she would not disappoint him, that she would not fall apart like the fragile creature she had just been made to feel like. She could see it in the way his lips were pursed, his jaw tight with a barely contained anger. He would not tolerate disobedience. He would not tolerate weakness.

With every ounce of willpower left in her aching body, Lucretia pushed herself off the ground, trembling, her breath still ragged in her chest. She rose to her feet, feeling every muscle in her body protesting, every nerve still on fire from the curse that had wracked her so completely.

And then, as she stood before him, she made the mistake of looking into her father’s eyes.

There was no warmth there. No comfort. Only expectation. His gaze was cold, sharp, like a blade that could cut through her very soul. He had no pity for her. Not in this moment. Not in front of the family. Not after what had happened tonight.

“You will never speak like that again, Lucretia,” Father said, his voice low and cold. “You will never question the Black family.”

Never again.

The finality of his words sent a sharp chill down her spine. She stood there, shaking, her thoughts whirling in every direction, none of them making any sense.

And then, among the weight of it all, it clicked.

The reason for it all. The reason she was silent, the reason she watched.

It was because she couldn’t fight. She couldn’t change any of it. She couldn’t change this family. She couldn’t change what they were. She was simply part of it.

She would stay silent. She would watch. And in time, she would come to understand it all. Every twisted, broken bit of it. It was the quiet understanding that the only way to survive was to remain unseen.

And perhaps, just perhaps, she would learn something from this. She would learn how to play the game. She would observe. She would gather knowledge.

And she would never speak again.

As the ball carried on around her, Lucretia stood in the corner of the room, watching the people who would never understand her. Watching Walburga, whose expression had shifted back to that familiar stone-cold mask, and wondering whether, just for a moment, she, too, felt the same suffocating weight.

It was a turning point. A decision made in silence.

And in that silence, Lucretia Black began her journey.

The quiet hum of the house was deafening as Lucretia sat before a bookshelf, her hands trembling ever so slightly as she combed through her dark hair. She ought to be leaving with the rest of the family, but she didn't want to. She didn't want to arrive home, have to look Orion in the eyes, and explain everything to him. It wasn't fair.

So there she sat, in a puffy armchair in Grimmauld Place's library, carefully removing ornaments from her hair and brushing it. The family was fractured, and no one seemed to notice. Or care.

Then the door opened, and she didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Walburga. Walburga always entered like the tempest she was, commanding the air around her, as though she could bend it to her will.

Lucretia’s stomach twisted into knots, the anticipation too thick to ignore. Walburga didn’t speak at first, shejust stood in the doorway, her figure a shadow against the light.

Finally, Walburga’s voice broke the silence. Cold. Unyielding.

"I do not want this."

It was the first thing Walburga had said. Simple, direct, and yet Lucretia could already feel the weight behind it.

"I do not want him. I do not want to get married. But what can I do?"

Walburga was cracking. The realization hit Lucretia like a cold rush of air, her chest tightening with something almost like fear. There had always been an air of certainty about Walburga, a strength that Lucretia had always admired, but now… now she was seeing something she hadn’t expected. Her cousin wasn’t as untouchable as she seemed.

“If I refuse, I lose everything. If I refuse, I am no longer heir.”

Walburga’s voice shook the air, and Lucretia swallowed, trying to push the lump in her throat back down. She had always known what was expected of them, but to hear it from Walburga’s own mouth was suffocating.

"I have been born for this. Shaped for this. I have bled for this. And I will not let anyone take it from me."

Lucretia could only stare at her, the words cutting into her like a dagger. She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know how to respond to the raw, exposed vulnerability in Walburga’s voice.

"At least now, I see things clearly. I thought if I was perfect, if I never failed, I would have power. I thought I would have some control, some freedom. But I do not, do I?"

It was a strange thing to hear Walburga speak like this. Like someone had peeled back the layers of her and exposed the truth she’d always hidden. But Lucretia’s heart twisted, and there was a part of her that wondered… Was this the moment when Walburga was lost forever?

"I will never be in control. I will never be free."

The weight of Walburga’s admission sank deep into Lucretia’s chest. She felt it. She felt it. It was a chilling truth. The family had taken everything from them, and it was evident that, despite everything, Walburga had finally realized it. No matter how hard she fought, how much she sacrificed, she was still shackled by this life. And now, she would make sure the rest of them felt that same weight.

"But you already knew, didn't you?"

The words rang like a death knell in the silence between them, and Lucretia felt her breath catch. Walburga’s gaze bore into her, and for a moment, Lucretia almost thought she could see the flicker of anger in her cousin’s eyes.

"You have known for years, I saw it in your eyes before, how you were looking at everyone to see their reactions, because you did not need to react.You already knew. And you did not tell me. But that is not the worst part. None of you said that I could still be heir without marrying. None of you said that I deserved a choice. You stood there, silent. Watching. And you let it happen."

Lucretia’s heart raced, her breath taken.

"Mais ne t'inquiète pas."

Lucretia’s skin prickled at the venom in Walburga's words. She felt the air turn cold, the tension thickening. She couldn’t breathe.

"If I must sacrifice myself for this family, then so be it. But mark my words, Lucretia, I will not be the only one."

Lucretia flinched, her fingers curling into the fabric of her dress as Walburga’s words slammed into her chest.

"This will be the greatest bloody family in the entire bloody world. And if I must give up everything for it, then everyone else will, too."

The silence was suffocating now. Every word Walburga spoke was like a declaration of war, against the family, against everything Lucretia had ever known. Against herself.

"If I must be broken, so should everyone else. I will not tolerate failure. I will not tolerate weakness. I will not tolerate doubt."

The heat of Walburga’s anger burned through Lucretia, searing into her very core. She could feel it, the shift. The coldness. The unforgiving resolve. Walburga wasn’t the same girl she had once known. She had changed. And now… now it was too late.

"I am not just a product of this family anymore. I do not simply follow the ideals anymore. Now, I will enforce them."

Lucretia could barely process what she was hearing. What had happened to the girl who had once been so proud of their bloodline, so eager to follow their father’s footsteps? That girl was gone, replaced by someone colder, harder, someone who would stop at nothing to ensure the family’s power.

"Love does not exist."

The words hit Lucretia like a blow to the chest. She felt the sharp sting of betrayal. She had always believed, hoped, that there could be a way out, that love could be some sort of salvation from all of this. But now Walburga’s words crushed that hope completely.

"And I will make sure that anyone foolish enough to believe in it will not live long enough to prove it."

Lucretia felt a wave of panic surge through her. This was it. She couldn’t stop this. She couldn’t save her cousin from herself.

"You will all remember this day."

Lucretia’s pulse thundered in her ears.

"You will remember the day you all stood by and did nothing. And if you do not, I will make you remember."

Every word felt like a chain being wrapped around Lucretia’s chest, squeezing tighter, suffocating her. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move.

"You chose this upon yourselves."

The finality of the words left her cold, empty. Walburga had chosen her path. And now, Lucretia could do nothing but watch.

"I am strong. Stronger than all of you. And you will see it for yourselves."

Lucretia didn’t speak. She couldn’t speak. Walburga had already walked out, her words echoing in the empty space like a haunting refrain.

The door closed behind her, and Lucretia was left in the silence, the room colder than it had ever been.

Both her and Walburga had changed. Nothing was the same. And soon, in a few weeks, it would be different again. Hogwarts awaited.

Lucretia took a deep breath, trying not to cry. Blacks did not cry.

And if Lucretia had learned anything from tonight, it was that she was going to be a Black through and through.