oh, how the mighty fall

“Oh, Ursa.” A hand, decorated with fine bands of silver and entwined gold, caressed her cheek. It was warm. “Your Aunt Walburga and I are having tea. I cannot attend you at all times.”“I don’t understand why you just won’t let the house-elves take care of her, Druella.” Said Walburga, not unkindly.Her heart seemed to catch in her throat as she stilled. Anna reversed the conversation in her head silently, mulling over the frequent use of certain names as a sick sense of dread welled up over her. Oh no, she thought with the desperation of a dying (dead?) man.The woman rolled her eyes out of sight of Walburga, turning back to the woman with an exasperated stare. “My grandmother hand-raised my mother, and my mother hand-raised me. It’s a tradition.”“Your grandmother was a half-blood,” Walburga said airily, but there was a sneer in her voice that would have rattled steel.Oh, fuck, Anna stared up in desolation. Or, alternatively, death isn't final and souls are reduced, reused and recycled.

warning: this will be from the pov of the black family. this is not an attempt to glorify what they do or how they view people. there will be strong blood purity views due to the narrator's perspective. please do not assume I subscribe to any of these views or views related to the subject matter. thank you.