The Weight of Shadows

Chapter 2 - The star that burned alone

Cassiopeia Walburga Black, named for the constellation that blinked coldly in the night sky, was born in the dead of winter in 1954. From the moment her pale eyes first opened, she was not a child, but an heir—destined to uphold the dark legacy of the House of Black. There was no softening of her mother's eyes when they gazed upon her, no whispered lullabies to rock her to sleep. Instead, she was met with the unyielding expectation that she would be perfect.

By the time she could walk, her world was already confined to the shadowy halls of Grimmauld Place. Her room, though grand in size, was a cold, uninviting space. The walls were lined with dark wood paneling, heavy emerald drapes blocking out the sunlight that might have softened its harshness. Above her head, a chandelier dangled, its crystals veiled in dust, much like the rest of the Black family home. The crib she once lay in had long been replaced by a four-poster bed far too large for a child, its canopy hung with green velvet that suffocated any trace of innocence.

Cassiopeia's toys were not the whimsical sort one might find in the rooms of other children. Her shelves were lined with enchanted dolls that walked and spoke in icy, imperious tones, their glass eyes following her every movement. A small cabinet contained magical artifacts—a family heirloom passed to her with the chilling command to "learn" from them. And learn she did. But even her curiosity came at a price.

Orion Black, her father, had taken a particular interest in Cassiopeia from the moment she could hold a wand. "You will be the brightest of us all," he would say, his voice firm, demanding as he bent down to hand her the slim, black wand that had once belonged to an ancestor whose name she had not yet learned to fear. At three years old, she could barely grasp the weight of it in her small hand, but that did not stop Orion. "No child of mine will grow up weak," he said when she struggled, his voice cold.

By four, Cassiopeia had already learned the Unforgivables by name, though her father had not yet asked her to perform them. Instead, he drilled her in the theory of dark magic, making her recite spells and incantations that left her lips dry, her head heavy with the weight of things no child should know. Wandless magic, too, had become a subject of endless frustration. Orion would sit with her in the drawing room for hours, his eyes sharp as they bore into her, demanding she move objects with just her mind, her magic, her will. When she failed, the sting of his hand on her cheek was a lesson sharper than any words he could have said.

"Again, Cassiopeia," he would say, his tone betraying no patience. "Control the magic. You are a Black, not some Mudblood."

Walburga, her mother, was no kinder. If Orion's lessons were strict, Walburga's attentions were cruel in a quieter, more insidious way. When others were present—pure-blood families visiting for grand dinners or the occasional meeting of the Sacred Twenty-Eight—Walburga played the perfect mother. Her hand would rest lightly on Cassiopeia's shoulder, her sharp smile softening just enough to deceive their guests. "Our little heiress," she would say with pride, introducing Cassiopeia as though she were a prize, an extension of the family's prestige.

But when they were alone, Walburga's touch turned icy. She expected nothing less than complete obedience, and failure was met with brutal scorn. Cassiopeia learned early that her worth in her mother's eyes lay only in how perfectly she could embody the Black family's ideals. If she mispronounced a spell, a sharp tug on her hair would remind her to correct herself. If she showed too much emotion, too much weakness, Walburga would seethe, her voice slicing through the air like a curse.

"Do you think your ancestors wept when they were called to serve their family?" her mother had snapped one evening when, after hours of practice, Cassiopeia had grown tired and her eyes welled with tears. "You are not here to be weak. You are here to be strong, to be better than those who would see our family brought low."

Cassiopeia learned to bury her emotions deep inside, to lock them away as she had been taught to lock away dangerous magic. Her father's lessons had already gone far beyond what any child her age should know—she could recite entire passages from "Secrets of the Darkest Art" by heart, could identify cursed objects by their subtle vibrations, could wield the simplest hexes with disturbing precision. And still, it was never enough. Her nights were filled with endless drills, the flicker of her wand casting shadows on the walls as she tried, over and over, to summon the kind of power Orion expected her to control.

When the pressure became too much, she would retreat to her room, a place that felt more like a prison than a sanctuary. The house was filled with dark corners, but her room, despite its grand furnishings, was the loneliest place of all. The portraits of long-dead ancestors hung on the walls, their eyes watching her even as she tried to sleep. Sometimes, in the dead of night, she could swear they whispered—cruel, harsh words that told her she would never be enough, that she was failing the family with every breath she took.

On the rare occasions she left Grimmauld Place, her world was no less stifling. The Black family name commanded respect, and Cassiopeia was expected to represent it at all times. Out in public, Walburga would dress her in fine robes, pinning her hair back so tightly that her scalp ached. The other pure-blood families looked at her with interest, but she could feel the weight of their judgment in every glance. She was not like their children—those who were allowed to laugh and play, who were taught magic with patience and care. No, she was being shaped into something else entirely. Something cold, something hard.

At five years old, Cassiopeia already understood that she was a tool for her parents' ambitions, not a child. She had been raised not with love but with duty, with the crushing expectation that she would be the perfect heir to a dark and twisted legacy. The only moments of peace she found were when she was alone, hidden away in the shadows of her room, where she could let herself breathe—if only for a moment.

But that was not to last. By the end of 1959, Sirius was born, and two years later, Regulus followed. With their arrivals, the attention once fixated solely on her began to shift. Her father's brutal lessons, her mother's endless demands, would eventually find new targets. But for now, Cassiopeia remained alone, the first star in a constellation that would grow, though she would always burn the coldest.