Crimson Witch, Watching the Movies

One

The Great Hall of Hogwarts was unusually quiet as the students took their seats. The usual din of conversation and the clatter of cutlery were replaced by an oppressive silence that seemed to hang heavy in the air. Sirius could feel the weight of a hundred gazes on him, each glance a silent accusation. Rumors of Réalta's disappearance had spread like wildfire, and the eyes that followed him were filled with judgment and suspicion.

Desperate for distraction, Sirius focused on the headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, who stood at the head of the staff table. Dumbledore's calm, measured voice was a small solace amid the storm of whispers surrounding him. Just as he was beginning to find a fragile sense of peace, the doors to the Great Hall swung open with a dramatic creak.

In strode Walpurga Black, her entrance commanding immediate attention. Sirius's stomach churned at the sight of her. Her face, rigid with disdain, scanned the room with an air of supreme arrogance. Her cold eyes swept over the students with such contempt that it seemed she could barely tolerate being in their presence. Each step she took was a calculated move in her performance of superiority.

"Dumbledore, you asked us here?" she asked, her voice laced with contempt, as though the very act of speaking to him was beneath her. "Or are you merely indulging in your usual theatrics?"

"Indeed, Lady Black," Dumbledore replied, unruffled by her tone. "I received a letter earlier informing me that someone has come into possession of your daughter Réalta's final memories and is willing to share these with us."

Walpurga's eyes widened slightly, but not with the shock of grief or concern. Instead, there was a glint of something darker—disbelief mingled with irritation. "Final memories?" she echoed, her tone incredulous. "Are you suggesting this is some sort of sick joke, Dumbledore? Because if this is another one of your twisted games, I assure you, it's not amusing."

Her words were sharp, each one laced with a venomous edge. She looked around the room, her gaze flickering over the gathered students and staff with disdain. It was clear that she found the entire situation not only distasteful but absurd. To her, the notion of her daughter's final moments being paraded for the amusement or pity of others was a grotesque insult.

Dumbledore's calm demeanor did not waver. "I assure you, Lady Black, this is no jest. The memories are said to be genuine, and I believe it is important for us to view them and understand what has happened."

Walpurga's face flushed with anger, her eyes narrowing into icy slits. "Understand what, exactly? That my daughter's tragic end is to be paraded before us as if it were some kind of entertainment? This is an abhorrent display, Dumbledore, and you should be ashamed for subjecting us to it."

Her voice was sharp, filled with a bitter mix of rage and disbelief. "Do you take us for fools? Or is this simply another one of your games, a chance to revel in our suffering?"

Dumbledore's expression remained unchanging. "I assure you, Lady Black, that my only intention is to seek the truth and provide closure. If there is any solace to be found in these memories, it is our duty to find it."

"Very well," she said with a sharp, dismissive gesture. "Let us get this over with. But be warned, Dumbledore—if this turns out to be another of your elaborate schemes, you will have much to answer for."