cracked shells

“He’s five years old.”

Walburga’s eyes snap up from her book, meeting Orion’s. They’re at opposite ends of one of the lounge spaces located in their Manor in France. He’s sitting in a recliner while she’s at the corner of a sofa. She snaps her book shut, setting it on the armrest beside her without a sound. She raises her chin, her face smooth as to give nothing away.

“Regulus has not shown an ounce of magic.” Orion’s eyes bore into her head. They’re gray, the same gray as her sons, the same gray as her own father’s. She’d be able to feel them from across the room regardless if she was looking back at him or trying to push them off of her thoughts. “I am beginning to think he never will.”

Walburga shifts her eyes away, locking them onto the wall. She knows what must happen.

Regulus is five and has shown no magical ability, has not moved the fire burning above a candle or broken a plate. For most children, it happens by four. For the stunted ones, it happens no later than seven. For Blacks, it’s always before the age of three. “It is certain, then?” She meets her husband’s eyes again. Maybe he needs one final push, one more thing before Walburga can prove that she didn't give birth to such a thing.

Orion nods. “Unfortunately so.” He sighs and leans back into his chair, taking a long sip of his drink. Walburga glances at it. She doesn’t need to guess to know what it is--it’s what it always is at this time of day: whisky. He lowers the cup, taking another second to meet her eyes again. For a second, she sees her father. “The boy is deficient; there is no doubt.”

Walburga nods. She had a cousin once. He was a short boy, with a stubby nose and eyes that were too kind for his name. She was older than him by a few years when they met; he was hardly three at the time. Months later they received word of what he was. Squib. The word in itself is foul, yet hardly descriptive enough to describe the insulting nature of the definition. A child born of magical parents, unable to harness a single drop of magic. A curse upon the parents. A sign of some sort of mistake. An insult to their bloodline.

She sets her jaw, inhaling deeply. It’s always the mother that’s blamed.

“You know what must be done.” Orion’s voice rings once more across the dead-quiet room. Sirius and Regulus are outside, playing around in the water. She has half a mind to go and tell them to come inside if not for the fact that they’re quiet enough to where she can’t hear them.

“I do.” And she does. When it comes time, she’ll do it without hesitation. She knows what she’s sitting on, the legacy that’s flowing through her veins, engraved into the fine details of her bones. She knows that it cannot be risked by something so foul as a squib. Regardless of the fact that that squib is her son. Should her father be here, the boy would be dead already.

“You will see to it?” He asks, his voice slipping back into boredom.

She glances at him, staring him down in the hope that he can feel her eyes as prominently as she can feel his. He takes another sip of his drink, his eyes wandering back to her. “Well?”

She smiles, knowing there’s no visible emotion behind her eyes. “Of course.” She stands, smoothing over the folds of her dress, stalking past him and towards the door. She imagines the possibility of sticking a knife in the back of his neck or twisting his head so sharply it would pop right off. She knows the anatomy of the human body, knows how his skull would disconnect from his spinal cord, how--should he survive--he’d be rendered paralyzed. Completely aware of his surroundings yet unable to move a muscle, unable to act. To be trapped just as much as she is under his gaze, under her father’s gaze. Not that she’d ever dare act against him. Not that she could.

“Boys.” She calls out, her voice commanding and harsh. Within the minute, Sirius and Regulus are running back towards her. “Walk, boys.” They slow their footsteps, still whispering to each other, not paying her much attention. She exhales sharply, quickly becoming annoyed. “Boys.” Their heads snap to her voice. “Get dressed and be ready for supper by the end of the hour.” Her eyes linger on Regulus, whose big gray eyes are stuck to hers. At her prolonged look, he lowers them, staring at his feet instead. She frowns at the action.

Walburga turns, returning to her spot on the couch, every muscle in her body aware of Orion’s presence in the chair a few meters away from her. She opens her book, placing it in her lap. Her eyes aren’t sticking to the pages. Her mind wanders back to her children, to the two of them dripping wet and buzzing with the after-effects of laughter. She closes her eyes, her jaw clenching together once more. That used to be her and her brothers, back when she was young. They’d stay in this same house, in the same rooms that Sirius and Regulus use. Her mind flashes to Regulus’ eyes, painfully reflected in her own.

She inhales, closing the book once more. There’s no point in sitting around if she isn’t getting anything done. She makes her way into the kitchens, ordering around the horse elves as she pleases, the organized chaos of the kitchen coming together around her. Dozens of different things are happening simultaneously: each element of the meal is being expertly crafted in a different part of the room, slowly coming together to form a picture. It’s soothing, watching all of the pieces fly around the room and slowly melt together into one perfect, pristine picture, watching it all come together in the end. Within ten minutes, the table has been set, the dishes have been polished, and the food is on the table, covered with heating charms until everyone arrives. She dismisses the elves, going around the table and making sure every knife, every fork, every spoon is perfectly straight. They always are, but she makes it a point to check.

She stands behind the chair reserved for Orion, at the head of the table. She runs her fingers over the top of the material, remembering how she used to do the same when her own father sat here, years and years ago. She refrains from the urge in her fingertips to clench around the material.

When she gave birth to Sirius, she was overjoyed. When she looked upon the child, when the nurse announced his sex with a stilted “boy ”, she knew that giving birth to this lump of flesh was the greatest thing she had ever done in her life. She had provided a boy where her cousins couldn’t. She pleased her husband and she provided him with an heir. Best of all, she made Druella absolutely livid when she heard the news. Sirius has grown up with his father’s eyes and Walburga’s hair--black with only the slightest wave in it--all grins and confidence and a streak of defiance that Walburga could never have ever dreamed of having herself when she was younger. No, her father ensured she had none of that. Sirius, on the other hand, was praised for it by Orion.

Regulus came a little more than a year later. When he arrived, when the announcement of “boy” rang across the room, he cemented Orion’s claim as Lord of the House as he now had not one but two male heirs. All because of her. At least, that was, until now.

Sirius’ first accidental magic was when he was just a few weeks older than two. He was being fed by the elves in the room adjacent to where Walbruga was reading when all of a sudden there was a fairly large crash. When she went to investigate, she found the room littered with books as if a tornado had flown through it, books, paper, and bits of broken glass piled around the floor. Around the boy, who was seated in a high chair with fat tears rolling down his cheeks, was untouched and surrounded by a circle a meter in diameter without a single thing out of place. Walburga grinned.

She assumed Regulus would follow suit. She assumed that he’d do something as grand, as exemplary as Sirius did. But as time went on, Regulus didn’t show a single provocation towards magic. Nothing.

There’s a light thudding on the steps right outside the dining room, no doubt Sirius and Regulus making their ways down the stairs for dinner. She flickers her wand over the table, lowering the heating charm over the food and moving to the lounge to alert her husband of the food. He gets up without a word of thanks.

Orion sits at the head of the table, his neck hovering an inch away from where Walburga’s hands had been resting a minute before. Her eyes don’t linger on it, instead finding her children whispering to each other across from her.

Sirius’ fork is slightly bent. He must have nudged the table. She stares at it, as if willing it to go back into place perfectly straight like all of the other utensils. “Sirius.” He looks to her, instantly dropping his conversation and righting his shoulders. She can’t find it in herself to smile at the gesture. She gives him a pointed look, then looks towards the fork.

His eyebrows furrow slightly, confused. She sets her jaw. How does he not understand? She lowers her chin, glaring at the fork once more.

His eyes flicker down to the fork, immediately righting it. Walburga’s shoulders lose some of the tension in them. She smiles in approval and Sirius’ face glows.

Orion takes the first slice of the steak, placing it onto his place. As soon as he takes the first bite, Walburga reaches for the knife, cutting Sirius and Regulus each a piece and placing them on their respective plates. Only then does she cut one for herself, slicing off a corner of it and placing it atop her tongue. As she chews, the looks between the two boys in front of her, both their heads bent over their plates and eating. Regulus, even at five, knows how to use his knife, cutting the meat into little pieces for him to eventually eat one by one. She would praise him for it if not for the metaphorical sword hanging over his head. She takes another bite.

Walburga’s onto the salad by the time Orion has set down his fork and knife. As soon as they touch his plate, she’s putting hers down as well, swiftly followed by Sirius and Regulus once they notice. Within the next second, the food has disappeared off of the table--work of the house elves. Orion grunts, standing up from the table and wordlessly disappearing back to the lounge, no doubt to down another cup of whisky.

“Regulus, why don’t you come with me?” She stands slowly, extending a hand towards him. He glances at it, then nods, shimmying out of his chair and quickly walking around the table so he can grab onto it. “Good.” She leads him out of the room. “Sirius, head on up to bed.” The older boy nods, walking out of the room, his eyes stuck to Regulus.

“Come now.” Regulus looks away from Sirius and meets her eyes, nodding for a second time. Walburga moves back into the kitchen, pushing out two chairs for the island out. She picks Regulus up, placing him on top of one.

She looks at the candle on the center of the table, lighting it with her wand. A small flame erupts, her head tilting as she stares at it. “Water?”

“Yes please, Maman.”

She waves a hand into the air for the elves, her eyes still stuck on the fire. The next second, two silver goblets full of water appear before them. “Do you know why we’re here, Regulus?”

He shakes his head out of the corner of her eye. “No, Maman.”

She hums, finally looking away from the fire. The rest of the room looks darker now, by comparison. “Do you know how old Sirius was when he first performed magic?”

Regulus nods, his lips pursing. “Two.”

Walburga nods. “Correct. Do you know how old I was?”

“Two.” He answers. He’s heard this all before.

“And your father?”

“One.”

The silence stretches. Regulus has begun picking at his nails and Walburga is painfully aware of it. “How old are you, Regulus?”

There’s a pause. He looks down into his lap.

She raises a brow. “Well?” The sun has almost set outside the window. The only light emitting from inside the room is from the sole candle in the center of the table.

“Five.”

“That’s right.” She takes his hand in hers, running a hand over his palm. It’s impossibly smooth, not yet worn from the world. “And yet you still haven’t performed an ounce of magic. Why is that?”

Regulus sniffles, not saying a word.

Walburga hums, dissatisfied. “That’s what I thought.” She moves her hand up to grab his wrist, then yanks it towards the flame.

Regulus’ body moves forward with the force of the movement, his hand instantly recoiling from hers when the tip of the flame touches his skin. He screams, sharp and shrill. He pulls against her, but her hand stays firmly on his wrist. He’s hardly strong enough to pull away from her.

“Use your magic, Regulus. Throw me off.” She squeezes his wrist tighter, bringing it closer to the top of the flame. “Use it.”

“Maman, please.” He sobs, his breathing turning sporadic. “Please, please stop. It hurts. Maman please.”

Come on, come on. His skin is beginning to break. Please. He can’t be a squib. That’s her blood flowing through him, her blood that’s being tested.

“Maman.” His voice breaks into another scream. He’s still trying to shove his arm away from hers.

“Use your magic, Regulus. Go on.” She stares at his hand, willing for it to do something, do anything.

She goes to look at him, to stare him in the eyes and will him to escape her grasp, when all of a sudden she blinks and she’s staring back at herself. A tear-stained child, unable to run. She drops his wrist as if the fire licked up his hand and onto her own.

He gasps in relief, clutching his hand to his chest. She stares blankly at him. Her eyes drift to his hand, a massive red mark staring angrily back at her.

“Maman?”

Her eyes snap to the door and for a second, she sees her father’s wide eyes staring back at her.

“Get out!” She screams. The boy at the door flinches back, his back hitting the wall. “Get out !” She wants to peel the skin off her hands, to burn it along with Regulus’.

Her eyes snap back to the younger boy, who’s staring at her in pure fear. She grabs his shoulder, ignoring how he cries out in pain when his hand bumps against his chest, and picks her wand up in a flurry of apparition.

The next second they’re in an alley in London. She places Regulus in front of her, the boy still freely crying. She holds out her wand, pausing to catch her breath.

He doesn’t look up at her, doesn’t meet her eye. It’s for the better, she thinks. If he had shown a sign of magic, he never would have measured up to the rest of the family. She’s doing him a mercy, really. He has a better chance here than he ever would have in the halls of the House of Black. She drops the hand holding his shoulder. Another sob escapes his throat. She straightens her back, exhaling deeply.

She almost says his name once more, just to have him look at her one last time. But that wouldn’t be proper. He’s a squib, there’s no doubt about it now. By tradition, he’s no longer her child. Regardless of if he’s her own flesh and bone, regardless of if the welting skin on his hand might as well have been hers. She briefly considers healing it, then stops. It’s of no importance to her anymore.

“Obliviate.”

The sniffling stops. Walburga takes a step backward, staring at the boy who used to be her son. She conjures a piece of paper and a quill, writing his name down in a stroke of ink. She dries it, then folds it in two, placing it into his unscarred hand. If she can’t escape hers, then he sure can’t escape his.

She squats down in front of him, the first time she’s ever done such a thing, and wipes one of the tears off of his face. She stares at it where it’s sitting on her thumb, then looks back into his still unfocused gray eyes. It was a necessary act. Regulus would never have been a part of the family. And as for sons, there are always more of them.

Without another word, she stands, appearing back in the kitchen the next second.

She absentmindedly wipes her thumb on her dress, glancing at the spot Sirius was a second before. “Sirius?” She calls into the house. “Where did you run off to?” She stalks up the stairs, calling his name. “I won’t hurt you.”

He gives himself away, in the end. She’s just reached the top of the staircase when there’s a sniffle from Regulus’ room. It’s barely audible, but Walburga heard it. “Sirius?” She knocks gently on the door, opening it the next second.

Sirius is there, back up against the wall with his head shoved in between his legs.

“Sirius?”

He looks up, his eyes wet and blazing in fury. “What did you do to him?”

Walburga sets her jaw, standing up straight. “What needed to be done.”

“You’re a monster.”

Her lip twitches up and the next second there’s an imprint of her hand across his face, a small red line of blood from where her wedding ring cut into his face. She’s no monster. She’s a mother, and mothers do what is best for their children.

She takes out her wand, pointing it at Sirius. His eyes barely have time to widen before she repeats the same word she did the minute before, his eyes going similarly unfocused. She heals the cut on his cheek. It really shouldn’t have been as simple as it is, this whole matter. She sighs. “Get him on his bed and into new clothes.”

The house elves--as they always do--follow her words exactly, and in the next second Sirius laying in the room next to Regulus’, his eyes closed and a blanket spread across his shoulders. Walburga looks around Regulus’ room in distaste, ordering the house elves to clean it all up and get rid of everything in there. She leaves them to it, instead walking towards where Sirius is sleeping on the bed.

She smiles faintly at him, running a hand through his damp hair. She leans forward, kisses him lightly on the forehead, then stands.

The lights shut off behind her as she leaves, and the door closes with a light click.

Walburga finds Orion in the same place she left him, his cup nearly empty and his eyes barely focused on an old book. He looks up when she enters the room, giving her a blank look. “Has it been done?”

“Yes.” She sits. She’s not sure if he’s asking if Regulus is dead or not. It wouldn’t matter either way. She’ll never see his face again, and neither will he. He’ll probably die on the streets. She regards her husband, staring at his face. She can’t imagine having ever loved him. They grew up as cousins, and even then she always had a certain dislike for him.

She leans back onto the couch, her eyes focused on the book in Orion’s lap. She could never have killed Regulus directly, not the way he would have wanted her to. At least she doesn’t think so. She’s not that type of person, she’s not a monster. Not like her father was. She holds out a hand, and the next second a house elf is conjuring a cup of tea in her hand.

There’s still more to do, of course. She’ll have to go to the ministry and file the disownment. She pauses in thought. If she did that, then there’d be a stain on her name. She takes a sip of the tea; it almost burns her upper lip, but she makes no move to take it away from her mouth. “Shall we say he died?” She looks towards her husband. “Dragon pox, or something similar? It would be easier to explain.”

Orion considers it for a second, then nods. He doesn’t give her any more of an answer, going back to his book. Walburga watches him. She wants to scream, to beg him for more of a reaction or something to prove she did the right thing. That she's worthy in his eyes. She exhales, recomposing herself and tearing her eyes away from him.

Regulus died from dragon pox. Sirius can’t remember him because he caught a smaller case, suffering memory loss because of it; he’s in recovery now. Walburga smiles to herself, taking another sip. Yes, it's all coming together. She can put all of this behind her and forget it ever happened; it'll be easier that way. It's for the best. So tragic, dead at only five years old. She wouldn’t have a body to bury, but no one has to know that.

There’s still a part of her that’s upset, of course, that’s mourning the loss of a child. That was her son she threw to the streets. She followed the rules set by tradition. She knows that her legacy is secured, that when people look upon her name they won’t think of Regulus, a disgrace to their name, but instead of Sirius, the next Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. She did what she had to do. She did what she had to do.

They’ll see prosperity and power, and that’s worth more to the family than the stain of a squib ever could.