[COMPLETED] 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 s...
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Once again, winter came, its chill seeping into the old house. But it all faded as Walburga fell deeper and deeper into what could only be described as something beyond melancholia.
Her days blurred together, the weight of her grief and regret consuming her, pulling her into a void where time lost its meaning.
Moments seemed to last years, and all she did was stare into the abyss of her home. She relived memories that seemed to fade, replaced with pure sadness.
The once grand and vibrant house now felt like a prison, echoing with the ghosts of her past. Each room held fragments of her former life, but those fragments were now tainted by loss and regret.
She had become sour.
Her anger only fed into her grief, creating a bitter, resentful woman.
The once proud and formidable matriarch of the Black family was now a shadow of her former self, consumed by a relentless cycle of sorrow and rage.
Kreacher did his best but never seemed to do enough. The voice in her head had grown more frequent, never giving her a moment of peace.
Its relentless whispers and dark urgings amplified her despair, making it impossible for her to find solace.
Even the loyal house-elf's efforts to comfort and care for her were met with indifference or anger, his attempts to bring warmth and order to the household thwarted by the deepening shadows in her mind.
Limping from the weakness in her bones, her dress practically swallowed her whole.
Clinging to the walls for support, she walked around Grimmauld Place, completely dissociated from everything. Her once-piercing eyes were now dull, staring blankly ahead as she shuffled through the cold, empty halls.
"It is time," the voice spoke as she stopped walking, taking a moment to look at the portrait of herself.
She never got the chance to charm it to life.
Her gaze lingered on the lifeless painting, a silent reflection of what she once was. The vibrant colors and proud posture in the portrait contrasted sharply with her current frail and haunted state.
Grimacing, she clawed at her scalp with the nubs of her scabbed fingers, screaming in raw anguish.
The jagged nails tore at her skin, each scratch a desperate attempt to silence the relentless voice that plagued her mind. Her cries reverberated through the empty halls of Grimmauld Place, a piercing testament to her torment.
The physical pain was excruciating, but it paled in comparison to the agony within her heart.
"It is time, Walburga!" he repeated, his voice rising above her screams with a commanding force.
