In which the untold story of Walburga Black unfolds.
She was a witch before she was a wife, mother, and cruel woman.
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"You failed as a mother; I failed as a son. Can you sit here truthfully, and say you love me? Look in my eyes, and say that you...
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(𝟏 𝐖𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐋𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫)
𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟏𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟒 - 𝟏𝟐 𝐆𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞.
Time slowed, and everything seemed to shift into slow motion. It had been a week since her brother's death, a week since she had committed the act of murder. Orion had announced that Alphard had died for unknown reasons.
No one asked why or how, no one seemed to care. No one but Sirius and Regulus. The teen boys had been sent back to Grimmauld Place after the news had reached Hogwarts. The moment they arrived all they did was ask questions and questions.
Walburga however, remained stoic only giving them the idea that he passed suddenly.
Orion hadn't spoken to her, much less looked at her; he spent his days covering up the death itself trying his best not to do something to her. He knew that she was suffering in the hell of her own making. He knew better than anyone how much Alphard meant to her, and while he found peace knowing the traitor was gone, a part of him hurt for her. Not as much as the part of him rejoiced in knowing she was hurt.
She bore the weight of her actions in silence, the burden of her guilt a heavy anchor dragging her deeper into the abyss of her own making. Her heart ached with the knowledge of what she had done, yet she dared not speak of it, lest the fragile web of lies she had woven come crashing down around her. And so, she maintained her mask of indifference, her eyes betraying none of the turmoil raging within her soul.
She spent every day in the master bedroom staring out the window, her days blending into each other as she tried to cope with what she did. Her lips were raw and bloodied from incessant picking and biting, witness to the torment that ravaged her from within. Fingers stained crimson with the evidence of her self-inflicted wounds, she sought release from the anguish that consumed her soul.
Time became a blur, an endless procession of empty hours spent in silent contemplation. Each passing moment brought her no closer to absolution, no respite from the relentless cycle of guilt and despair that threatened to consume her whole.
Alone in her suffering, she remained trapped in the prison of her own making, haunted by the ghosts of her past and the specter of her sins. And as the world outside continued to turn, she remained ensnared in the tangled web of her remorse, a prisoner of her conscience.
"Mother," She felt a hand on her shoulder, forcing her to take her eyes off of the falling snow outside her window.
Startled by the interruption, Walburga turned to find Regulus standing beside her, his face etched with concern. She blinked slowly, the fog of her thoughts dissipating as she focused on her son.
"Regulus?" she replied, her voice hoarse from disuse, her gaze searching his face for any sign of understanding or reproach.
The boy moved back, slightly startled by her appearance. He had made concerted efforts to speak to her, but she had all but shut him out. Quite literally, she had placed a charm on her door only letting Kreacher enter the room. Regulus had to practically force the house elf to open the door.
