(𝟒 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐋𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫.)
𝐅𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝟐𝟓𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟎 - 𝟏𝟐 𝐆𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞.
It was a constant pounding.
Four months and counting, it had been four months of relentless pounding echoing through Grimmauld Place.
Four months of pure desolation, and the incessant pounding from the walls never once relented. Day and night, it drummed on, a maddening rhythm that gnawed at her sanity. Each thud seemed to grow louder, more insistent, until it felt as though the very essence of the house pulsed with it.
Her nights were sleepless, her days a blur of disoriented fatigue.
She wandered through the shadowed halls, eyes wide and hollow, the sound consuming her thoughts. Conversations slipped away, meals were forgotten, and reality itself began to blur.
She'd catch herself murmuring to the empty air, pleading for silence, for a moment of peace. But the pounding never ceased.
It felt like the house was alive, tormenting her, mocking her isolation. She scratched at the walls, desperate to find the source, her nails breaking and bleeding.
Her reflection in the mirror showed a stranger: eyes wild, hair matted, lips cracked from whispered curses. The pounding was everywhere, all the time, growing louder, pushing her closer to the edge.
Her wand, long forgotten had been stranded somewhere within the compounds of her mess.
All she could repeat in her mind, the only thought pattern that had been in her mind was, "My son is dead, my husband is dead."
Though, despite the beginnings of her descent into what one would call mania, she wasn't alone.
Not completely.
☆ ★ ☆
(𝟐 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐀𝐠𝐨)
𝐃𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫, 𝟐𝟒𝐭𝐡 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗 - 𝐆𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞
The coldness of winter seeped through the cracked windows of Grimmauld Place. She preferred to feel the chill, forcing Kreacher to keep all the windows open by two inches.
The house-elf, bound by his duty to her, had no choice but to obey her command, no matter how windy it became or how much rain or snow inevitably entered, ruining the floors and curtains of the home.
It had been nearly two months since she buried her son and husband.
After the funeral and speaking to Sirius, she had fallen asleep leaning against Regulus's gravestone. She awoke to rain falling, forcing her to return to Grimmauld Place.
Cygnus, Druella, and Narcissa all tried to visit her, but Walburga had commanded Kreacher not to let them enter via the Floo Network and expelled them when they Apparated at Grimmauld Place.
The house-elf had turned an almost permanent shade of purple and blue from the torment that Walburga inflicted on him. She punished him mercilessly, desperate to extract information about what had happened to Regulus.
Despite it all, Kreacher kept his promise to Regulus, steadfast and unyielding.
The official account that Walburga had been told was that Regulus was killed by Voldemort himself for trying to escape.
Of all her surviving kin, it was Bellatrix whom she trusted most—the only one whose own growing madness matched her own. Bellatrix was the only one Walburga didn't kick out, perhaps because their shared insanity created a perverse understanding between them.
YOU ARE READING
The Tragedy of Walburga Black
Fanfiction[COMPLETED] In which the untold story of Walburga Black unfolds. She was a witch before she was a wife, mother, and cruel woman. ⭑⭑⭑ "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 s...
