Epiphany
On a cold winters day in 1925, a little girl was born to a prestigious, perfect and pure-blooded family.
She was their first child and had already disappointed them immensely with her birth – the nerve she had not being their little heir! But alas, there was not much they could do about that little mishap, so they just carried on with their lives and eventually their desperate pleas were answered!
Two young heirs! Oh, what a miracle! And that little girl was no longer such a mistake, a stain on their legacy, but had graduated to becoming a priceless accessory to their familial wreath.
What a lucky girl, she should be grateful. So, they made sure she knew that.
She was to be quiet, quaint and beautiful. Timid, loyal and kind. A wife, a mother a witch. But that little brat didn’t know her place in this magical world. She knew she was brash, bold and sharp. Confident, cunning and cruel. But they didn’t listen – they didn’t care – and as she grew so did their disdain.
She left Hogwarts with no proposals, no marriage and absolutely no chance at a career – so they pounced. They had waited long enough it was time she learnt her lesson the hard way.
They offered her continued access to their vaults, to her home, to the parts of her family that did not view her as something unpleasant and rotting, something to be shoved under a bed. As long as she did one small thing – marry. More specifically, marry her second cousin – little Orion. Still In his fourth year.
She denied it immediately as if offered stolen money still warm with blood. But they continued to ask, and she continued to think. She had very few friends, most of which were either prim pure-blooded women already donning a ring and with no time for a runaway or grown men from the Knights of Walpurgis of whom were mostly married and would explode in scandal should she beg to spend the night. Even her quietly nurtured and secret flame for the young Riddle Lord proved a dead end as he had run off to a dead-end-job before seemingly falling of the very face of the earth.
And they continued to ask, and she considered herself a cunning young witch – so she weighed her options.
And suddenly she realised that years had passed, and she was the only witch she knew that was left unmarried, unwanted, a spinster. a stain.
And that broke the camel’s back and eventually -though very reluctantly – she caved in.
And on her wedding night with the child, she used to help feed mushy food and rock to sleep at night, she immediately regretted every moment that led her down that aisle.
It was a tense marriage; both knew that the other regretted every minute they spent together and yet their family – that they had always shared – pushed them together at every opportunity.
They became harsh caricatures of their former selves, a united and cruel front in public in hope that they might separate from each other the minute those doors closed, and they were safe to scream, shout and isolate themselves in their separate sides of the house.
They tried to lose themselves in cheap pleasures – for Orion it was tiresome paperwork, investments, bigotry and copious amounts of fire-whiskey and for Walburga it was dark magic, complicated rituals and tormenting houseguests and house elves alike with her changing and twisting personality.
And they succeeded. By the time they had managed to perform that sickening act and had their first son – their precious heir – they could no longer recognise the miserable wixen in their ornate, enchanted mirrors.
“Looking ghastly today Walburga as usual.”
“Your eyes look as dead as a thestral.”
“Is starving ghoul the new look or am I just behind the times?”
They could smoulder and snicker all they wanted, gone was the fiery and cunning girl that left Hogwarts brimming with hope for change. For she had transformed: she was a miserable wife, vindictive mother of two broken sons and a mad, dark witch.
And now she wasn’t even that anymore – a stranded widow, a failed mother only in name – but she still had one thing. No matter how far she fell magic would never abandon her, never leave her – her family magic stayed draped upon her very being like a comforting blanket of security and memories. So she continued to fall, draining her core to the very last drop through intricate rituals and forgotten spells before passing out and letting the world pass her by for many a wasted days and nights. This macabre routine deteriorated her from her skin to her bones and core – unrecognisable and hysterical, only ever waking to stumble around her mausoleum and wail at her misfortune before indulging in her research once again.
The world watched in horror.
All visits ceased. But there were never many in the first place - she hardly noticed the difference - all she knew was that there were less distractions, less roadblocks, less concern, less…
It only hit her one cold and unforgiving night that she was completely alone, that she would die completely alone. No to hold her hand in comfort. No one to whisper distractions in her ear. No one to hear her last words.
Walburga Black has no one.
“Goodness! Look at the state of you! Really Walburga is this how a lady of your age should act?”
She knew talking to mother’s portrait was a terrible idea.
“Is this how I raised you to be? Oh, merlin’s magic how could you do this to yourself? you idiotic girl!”
Its not like mother was ever wrong however, she made sure of teaching Walburga that.
“What do you even do all day? Cooped up in your little crypt- rotting away, a mature witch should be taking care of her responsibilities instead of wasting away like an ungrateful little…”
That was quite enough. Throwing the decaying dust cover over her mother’s screeching wails with as much vindictive force as her weakening body would allow her, Walburga allowed herself to feel proud and powerful of fighting back. Being more than that quiet, pure-blooded wife her mother wanted her to contort into -as if she was ever quiet herself- before the heavy grief she had only just escaped from for those few precious moments came crashing down like a layer of anguish and lead suddenly encompassed her entire being.
Is that how my sons would feel about my portrait?
Is this how Sirius felt about me?
Oh Merlin, how could I do the same heinous things I cursed my mother for to Regulus?
What have I let myself become?
“Mistress, Kreacher sees you are up?”
And now that hideous elf is here, the one that follows her around at her feet like a decrepit puppy – asking for pain, asking for her wrath, reminding her of her sons – its far too much, this Is the most she’s moved in days and she can fell it in her joints, in her eyes, in her hair and in her soul.
She feels disgusting. Like an acrid tar covers her from head to toe, seeping into her own foul core – but it cannot poison her any further. No. She’s done that already, she cannot get any more rotten.
“Would mistress be liking her post?” Theres hope in its bulging, mad eyes – she had almost forgotten what such a thing looked like.
How could I have forgotten? How could I have lost so much?
A fractured smile tugs its way across her dry lips. She whispers ever so softly it could barely be here over the cacophonous winds tearing at the grimy windows of her tomb.
“Yes. Yes, I would Kreacher…” Her voice croaked and broke with the effort - but from the pure joy that split the ancient elf’s face from each strange veiny ears you would think she had hung the very stars themselves.
“Mistress… Lady Walburga is back?” That was all it could force out before the thing collapsed, crying hysterically, onto the floor and kissed her creased robes like a devoted servant paying reverence to an omni-potent deity.
And she knew exactly what the thing meant – It wasn’t Mistress or Mother or Batty Burga who had reared their weary head that day.
Walburga Black was back.
When Sharptooth made his way up from the twisting labyrinth below to the gleaming bank high above he had not been expecting much.
Being the account manager of the Blacks held little value now adays as most of those foolish wixen had either aged into decrepit shells or lost themselves to the pure madness of their own family magic. It was such a shame really, so much gold for such a wasted family, their vaults lay untouched and amassing further fortunes only by Sharptooth’s persistent and continued investments he was forced to make out of crippling boredom.
So it was to his great surprise that one of said mad family members hobbled into his office dressed in last century’s robes and bearing nothing but a letter and a determined yet still quite lost look in her eyes.
“My, my Lady Black – I must say your looking slightly worse for wear – any progress on your will by any chance?” She scowled at that. Bloody wixen and their need for frivolous pleasantries.
“And what might you be insinuating?” That signature screech had started to creep in her croak.
“That you look as if death will relieve us of you any second now - so we need your will sooner rather than later lest your galleons decay in your vaults.”
She huffed at that, clearly ruffled but slightly more present. “Well, I am here for a routine check of my accounts that you have sent me exactly 32 letters about- “
“The one you are supposed to attend every year yet have not for the past 10?”
“Yes, that one.”
Damn this witch, a smirk had worked its way across her skeletal face, she was getting a kick out of tormenting him – maybe it was for the betterment of his mental state that he hadn’t had to deal with her at all for the past decade.
He worked a polite yet hopefully threatening grin upon his face. “Well, I am sure we can work out your will as well since you’re here. Do you have anything of note you would like to mention?”
A stiff shake of the head was all he received and that was enough for him, he made quick work of gathering the decade’s worth of files, accounts and cheques and expertly worked through them with the quickly tiring witch – he could almost see that determination starting to leak out of her eyes and tried not to let the vindictive pleasure from that interfere with his dealings.
“I think that’s everything of note, now let us proceed onto that will of yours… “
“In fact, I think I really should be heading back- “
“Not on my watch Lady black, who knows if you will live another ten years before you drag yourself back here! No, we will settle this here and now.” He took pride in watching her deflate, too exhausted to rebuke him, she simply looked long fully out the window before returning to the present.
“Well we both know I don’t have any children to leave my money or property to.” It appeared as if even saying that physically pained her.
“Yes, one disowned and sentenced to life and the other presumed dead - tragic, truly tragic, do you know if anyone in your family has had any children recently? You do have the option of leaving it to them instead.”
Curiously, a look of embarrassment flashed across her face before she attempted to school it into a more neutral expression. “No, I am afraid I’ve lost contact with them over the years – though that Is probably the best option for now. Do you have a way of checking from here?”
Sharptooth took a minute to ponder, coal black eyes weighing cost and expense, before moving out of his raised and plush chair over to a complex safe. The witch watched in wonder as the goblin’s fingers deftly weaved and decrypted the safe and it opened seemingly at his command – the little girl in awe and wonder of magic had never truly left her – before heaving a hefty and ancient scroll from within its confines.
“This is meant for tracing familial magic – rarely used anymore – but it will be more useful than a bloodline test as they only ever go backwards not forwards. Give me your hand.” Sharptooth commanded as he unfurled the aged but plain looking parchment an extended his own claws bearing a cruelly glinting knife expectantly.
Reluctantly, the witch extended her gaunt hand and allowed the ritualistic knife to slash its flesh and let her blood sluggishly flow onto the parchment below without even a trace of a flinch. She watched in admiration as names started to unfurl with accompanying old English descriptions and fly across the bone-white surface, some she knew, some she barely remembered and some surprised her.
“Would you look at that! Little Cissa had an heir without me knowing – the nerve of that girl-” She froze. Sharptooth traced her gaze across the parchment to a singular name directly below her own.
Harry James Potter – thine by magiks
The revelation hit Sharptooth over the head like a well-aimed bludger – a maniacal grin stole its place upon his face, and he had to restrain the desire to start cackling at the absurdity of it all.
Yes, this is certainly not what I was expecting today…