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 say that you...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
He awoke with a gasp, the remnants of his nightmares still clinging to him.
Wiping sweat from his forehead, he squinted at the sunlight filtering through the intricately embroidered curtains, casting shimmering patterns across the room.
His gaze drifted to the opulent furnishings: the mahogany bedside table adorned with a delicate crystal lamp, the plush velvet armchair nestled in the corner, and the ornate Persian rug that sprawled across the polished hardwood floor.
As his surroundings came into focus and his mind cleared, he let out a sigh of relief, recognizing the luxurious guest room in Grimmauld Place that he called his own.
Looking down, he grimaced at the dark mark on his left arm, a stark reminder of his allegiance to a cause stained with bloodshed. His hands, too, bore the evidence of his deeds, smeared with the crimson residue of torture.
Even his wand, once a tool of magic and power, now betrayed him with each flick, sending jolts of pain reverberating through his already battered hands.
Running his fingers through his disheveled hair, he rose from the bed and stretched his long limbs before making his way to the en-suite washroom.
With a flick of his wand, he started the water running in the elegant marble sink, its gentle flow a stark contrast to the violence of his recent actions.
Leaning against the polished vanity, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, the weariness etched into his features a testament to the toll of his dark deeds.
He had grown within the last year, he was a man.
And, yet he saw a boy staring back at him.
No amount of strength or courage, no tally of lives taken, or pain inflicted in service of the cause could erase the haunting image of that innocent child reflected in his own eyes.
With a heavy heart, he shook his head, closing his eyes as he splashed boiling water onto his face, hoping to wash away the memories that haunted him.
Yet, each time he shut his eyes, she was there—his mother, her face etched into his mind, her presence turning his dreams into torturous recollections of past horrors he longed to forget.
Even in his waking moments, her voice echoed in his mind, a haunting reminder of the pain he endured.
It was as if she lingered in the shadows, her presence still menacing and oppressive.
Her words, like venom, seeped into his thoughts: "It's okay—it will be over soon," and "If you breathe a word of this to anyone, your sister will suffer the consequences." Each utterance sent a shiver down his spine, reopening wounds he thought had healed.
