The Tragedy of Walburga Black

☆𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟑𝟏 ☆

(𝟒 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫)
𝐒𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟕𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟑 - 𝐆𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞.

It seemed time was all she had, and in her despair, the voice in her head was the only company she sought, apart from Kreacher.

As fall knocked just outside the doors of her home, with its crisp air and the scent of decaying leaves, Walburga struggled against her slipping sanity.

Some days, she could find hope—some days there was strength in her to get up and to heal. On those rare mornings, she would feel a glimmer of the woman she once was, a spark of determination to push through the darkness.

Most days, however, were heavy, despairing, and sorrowful. The weight of her grief pressed down upon her like a suffocating blanket. The voice in her head would grow louder, taunting her, feeding off her anguish.

And there were days when the pain was so intense that she would lash out, breaking things, her hands bloody from the effort to destroy something, anything, to match the destruction she felt inside.

Begging the voice to help her, all he did was remain silent.

There were times he would speak such awful things to her, as if pushing her to the brink of madness, only to talk her down at the last moment. The cruel cycle left her feeling more fragmented and isolated, her desperation growing with each passing day.

But that morning, as she stood in the hallway, staring at the family portrait, she felt a rare relief.

In that painting, they were still a family, untouched by the sorrows that had since torn them apart. It was a fleeting comfort, but one she clung to amidst the chaos of her mind.

"Sirius looks as miserable as you do at this moment," he spoke, not allowing her to enjoy the fleeting peace.

"We had the portrait done before he left," she said, tearing her gaze away from the painting and walking towards the main room. "He was unhappy here; I made him unhappy."

Her voice was heavy with regret, each word a reminder of her perceived failures.

"You drove him away," the voice replied, dripping with a cruel satisfaction.

"Your own flesh and blood, fleeing from you. And now, you sit here, alone, haunted by what you've lost. Tell me, Walburga, does the guilt consume you as much as the grief does?"

As she placed wood in the fireplace, she spoke with a resolute tone. "I do not regret it. In pushing him away, I thought I had given him what he wanted most. He wanted freedom; I gave it to him. I regret many things when it comes to Sirius, but I do not regret giving him what he wanted."

She struck a match and lit the fire, watching as the flames began to dance, a small defiance against the darkness that had settled in her heart.

"Are you sure that was what he wanted?" the voice taunted, its tone dripping with sarcasm. "Did he not want what all children want? Love from a mother? Acceptance? Family?"

Walburga clenched her jaw, her resolve hardening.

"He sought those things, yes. But he found them outside these walls. I thought I was giving him the choice to be free, to choose his own path. Sometimes, love means letting go." She turned to face the fire, its warmth a stark contrast to the chill in her heart.

"Not when it is your favorite son," the voice countered, a chilling undertone in its words.

"Who raised him? Outside these walls, you say? It was you who shaped him, who taught him what to rebel against. And now, you bear the weight of that choice."