Chapter 16 Problems
If one thing Elizabeth was sure of was that his dad hated his father, because at least he could say some words aout his mother but about his dad? He rather get drunk and forget than to speak abouth that despreciable man, he only brought misery to his life, not to mention the neglect and his violent fits when he was drunk or even slightly tipsy and Dorian moved a single mussel, that man..he hated him…with all his heart and will, he was happy that he was dead, finally gone or so he thought, but being back to the old place he use to call home, only made things worse, seeing those painting and family photos made him sick to the tomach, always pretending to play happy perfect family…and don’t even start with the family tapestry room, he looked and closed the curtains of that room, the memory of his younger self with his only friends , his pet crowns, walking around the house and finding that dusty and closed door.
He was a kid back then and the curiosity got the best of him and he went there, removing those dusty and old curtains and seeing just how extended his family was, seeing cousins marrying cousins, or even brothers and sisters, it disgusted him, and since that day he swore he would never marry someone from his family, but knew that was complicated since the Black family was connected to millions of other pure blood, half blood or even muggle families, it was impossible to not end up marrying a cousin or something similar.
Dorian sighed, his hands trembling slightly as he poured himself a drink. He stared at the amber liquid in the glass, letting it swirl in lazy circles before taking a sip. The taste was sharp, bitter—almost as bitter as the memories clawing at the edges of his mind.
Returning to the family estate had been a mistake, but he hadn't really had a choice. The will had been clear: he was the last Black left to oversee it, the last heir, the last “hope” of his family. Not that he cared about the dusty halls or the heirlooms they contained. He would have burned the place down if it weren't for the legal entanglements and the way his mother’s strained voice echoed in his head every time he thought about it.
"You owe it to the family, Dorian," she'd said before passing. "You owe it to me."
He didn’t owe anyone anything, least of all to his parents.
The silence of the house was oppressive. Every creak of the floorboards sounded like a ghost of the past whispering in his ear. The paintings on the walls stared down at him, their eyes judgmental and unblinking. Dorian swore he saw one of them shift slightly when he glanced away.
He slammed the glass down on the desk, the sound reverberating through the room like a gunshot. He needed air.
Dorian strode out of the study and down the corridor, his footsteps echoing off the walls alongside the thut of his cane. He found himself in front of the tapestry room again, despite his best efforts to avoid it. His hand hesitated on the doorknob, taking the key from his pocket and unlocking the door, it wasn’t locked with magic since it was the first thing someone would do, instead it was locked like any normal room, with a key, a special key that functioned like a wand, only being able to be open with that key and that key only, nothing else could ever unlock that door, but the pull of the past was too strong to resist. He pushed the door open.
The room was just as he remembered: dim, suffocating, with the tapestry stretching from floor to ceiling, chronicling generations of twisted pride and misplaced loyalty. The threadwork told a story of power, purity, and pain. His eyes drifted to the corner where his name had once been embroidered in gold before being turned a gray color.
“Black sheep,” he muttered under his breath, a humorless chuckle escaping his lips.
His gaze moved to another name—a cousin he barely remembered but who had always smiled at him during those suffocating family dinners. Her name was now faded, crossed out, erased like so many others.
He clenched his fists. This house wasn’t a home; it was a graveyard.
The memories came rushing back: his father’s drunken rage, his mother’s pleading eyes, the way he had hidden behind the curtains as a child, clutching his pet crows and praying that the storm would pass.
Dorian turned on his heel, slamming the door shut behind him.
He wouldn’t let this place consume him again. He had escaped once, and he could do it again.
But as he walked away, a faint noise stopped him in his tracks—a soft rustling, like fabric brushing against wood. He turned, his breath hitching. The tapestry room door was ajar, swaying gently as though someone—or something—had pushed it open.
Dorian’s heart pounded. For a moment, he considered walking away, leaving the house and never looking back. But something deeper—curiosity, defiance, or perhaps a twisted sense of duty—propelled him back toward the door.
He pushed it open and froze.The tapestry had changed.
Names that had been burned away were now glowing faintly, threads shimmering with a dull light. At the bottom, where his own name and his wife’s was, new letters were forming, weaving themselves into the fabric.
Elizabeth Wallburga Black.
His breath caught in his throat.He cursed under his breath, that god dammit magical family tapestry that so easily added people and so effortlessly erased or burned them…he hated the dark magic his family held and hated how easily it knew when a new member arrived or when one disappeared.