Chapter Text
Prologue
3rd November 1981
Walburga Black breathed out a deep plume of smoke, adding to the almost foggy, too-warm air of the room. The dim glow of the lights gave an almost eerie feel, the drawn curtains forbidding almost any sunlight entrance to the enclosed darkness. And yet here, in this, on the surface, most unwelcome of first impressions, was where Walburga often found herself spending an afternoon these days.
The ladies' social club located at the more respectable end of Knockturn Alley was where she found herself spending most of her afternoons in recent months. The required admittance policy of untainted blood and more galleons than those of less-suitable blood status could spare ensured that she was only ever surrounded by suitable company - her fellow members of the Sacred Twenty Eight pureblood families - as she had been her entire life. Here she could sit, smoke, drink (tea, or something a little stronger if the need arose), and, if the fancy ever took her, partake in a chat with her fellow witches of a high standing.
Not that it often did.
The talk would often be superficial; rumours of marriage bargains between the children, reviews of the most recent functions and general chatter, with the occasional snide remark at someone's recent misfortune hidden within the depths of the outwardly pleasant talk. But shocking recent events had meant that talk was now almost entirely dominated with the fall of the Dark Lord, just a few short days ago, and yet with how tedious and droll the repetitive talk of the matter was becoming, it felt like an age had passed.
Such talk was tricky to navigate. There were those among them whose families had suffered greatly; the Malfoys had not been heard of since the fall of the Dark Lord, reeling from Lucius's arrest and pending trial. Walburga let out a sad sigh at the thought of her poor niece, Narcissa Malfoy, nee Black, who now contending with the task of rebuilding the fragile reputation of the Malfoy name for the sake of her infant son before she would be able to face the curious glares of the social set. Evan Rosier, currently thought to be on the run after resisting arrest, his poor mother. She had been neither seen nor reliably heard from since that fateful night just three days ago. Rumour had it that she was holed up in the Rosiers' bolthole, a little country park in far-off northern Wales, sheltering until the storm winds blew over.
Walburga could see across the room two of the Yaxley girls, flighty little things, barely out of school, who had been putting on quite a facade in the days just passed, loudly commenting disapprovingly on the misfortunes of the affected families, as though one of their own were not rumoured to be next on the Ministry's list to be snapped up for questioning. They were at it again now, barely suppressing judging smirks as they shared a copy of the Daily Prophet with several friends, huddled in a corner together, shaking their heads over something apparently rather interesting. And, oddly enough, occasionally daring to dart their pretty little eyes over to Walburga's direction as they gossiped.
Walburga had no time for their immature dramatics. These were delicate times. It would not do to proclaim loudly in favour of one side or the other. There was always a chance of ending up on the wrong side. Quiet dignity was the Black way. Strong and silent, in spite of everything.
Not that there was much left to be said for the Black name. Two years widowed and with her poor son dead far too young, Walburga Black was the last pillar of the Black dynasty. A single stead-hold enduring against the surrounding chaos that the pureblood elite of the Wizarding world now resembled, stoically and stubbornly keeping the dignity of the Black name alive against its now-inevitable demise.
It wasn't her fault. She had done her best.
Walburga set her cigarette in it's silver holder down and took a sip of her tea through pursed lips. Strong, black and sugar-free, the hot, bitter liquid soothed her slightly as it trickled down her throat.
Truth be told, she tried to keep these thoughts at bay. Some days a hot, strong tea was enough to reign in her wandering thoughts, but harder days, like today, required a stronger substitute. It had been noted by regular attendees of the Club that Walburga Black's tab contained a curious amount of brandy (discreetly added to her teapot prior to being served) than just simply Earl Grey, as of late. The serving staff were rarely known for their upholding of client confidentiality, but no one had the nerve to comment on what they knew to her face.
It was ill-advised to cross Walburga Black, even on a good day.
And yet, that was precisely what the girls with the newspaper seemed intent on doing.
Walburga eyed them as they downed the remainder of their wine goblets and walked, practically tip-toed, over to her table, one of them clutching the irksome, politically-biased rag of a paper to her front.
"Mrs Black!" gushed one of the girls. Rosamund, was it? Or was this one Adelia? She never could tell them apart, both as frilly and flouncy as the other.
"How lovely to see you"
The girl's voices was sickly sweet, sugar practically dripping off her tongue as she spoke.
Walburga disguised a grimace with another sip of her tea. She shuddered to think that her husband had once toyed with the idea of bargaining for one of the Yaxley girls as a wife for Regulus. Perhaps the Black line was better off extinct after all, lest it's descendants' bloodline be contaminated - watered down, weakened, by one of these simpering pieces of work. Thank goodness for small mercies.
"Rosamund, Adelia" Walburga greeted them, each name directed at neither one nor the other, her voice plain but polite. "How is your mother?"
"Oh she's very well, thank you" replied the one with the chestnut curls, fidgeting with the lace of her dress impatiently, clearly keen to get to the point. A sentiment Walburga shared. Her tea was getting cold.
"And how are you, Mrs Black? I do hope you're coping" the blonde-curled sister added, an extra lump of sugar added to her voice so thinly-coated with what was perhaps meant to be read as... sympathy?
Walburga fixed her stern gaze at the girl, smiling inwardly as the silly little thing couldn't quite meet her eye. Her mother had clearly ill-prepared her for confrontation with her elders and betters. But then, Imelda Yaxley herself had seldom ever been known for her wit, nor for anything else, for that matter.
"Coping, my dear? Whatever do you mean?" Walburga asked, allowing her head to tilt slightly to one side in feigned curiosity.
The girls looked from one to the other, a flash of uncertainly in their matching blue eyes, then back at Walburga. They must have caught wind of the "proceed with caution" threat under her otherwise civil tone.
It was the blonde who eventually spoke up.
"Well, what we mean is, we just hope you're managing alright, what with the present situation - regarding your son"
There was a second of silence which seemed to last an hour whilst Walburga decided how best to deal with the pang of pain that struck her chest, eventually deciding that another generous drag of smoke was the best means of squashing it back into its place, locked deep inside, never to be seen nor heard by anyone, not even herself.
"My son is dead" Walburga replied, without emotion, flicking the ash off the tip of her cigarette into the silver ashtray beside her teapot. "I hardly see how any present situation could possibly involve someone two years departed"
The chestnut-haired girl (Walburga was sure this was the one that she'd once heard called Adelia, not the other way round) swallowed thickly, her mischievous edge faltering slightly.
Thankfully, her blonde sister still possessed a scrap of nerve to offer.
"But Mrs Black" she began, her syrupy voice feigning innocent politeness. She placed the copy of the Daily Prophet she had been clutching to her lap onto the table in front of Walburga.
"Isn't he your son?"
Walburga slowly lowered her gaze to the paper before her and bit back a sharp intake of breath that nearly threatened to reveal her shock at the photograph on the front page.
The front page of the Prophet bore the enormous headline:
"MIDNIGHT MASSACRE: THIRTEEN DEAD - TWELVE MUGGLES, ONE WIZARD. SIRIUS BLACK ARRESTED"
Below the huge, bold lettering was a photograph of a man. His face was young and handsome, but it was contorted by a mixture of screaming and laughter in a way that erased any suggestion that this was a man in possession of a shred of sanity. His long, black hair hung in tangles around his eyes which were wild, manic, empty.
Walburga didn't need the sepia-toned photograph to be in colour for her to know that those manic eyes were a particular steel hue of grey. A relatively rare feature amongst the wider Wizarding gene pool but a trademark feature of the Black bloodline - a mirror of her own eyes.
The witch stared down at the photograph, her expression blank, her body rigid with control.
The Yaxley girls glanced from one to the next, then back at the aged, stone-faced witch in front of them, whose storm-grey eyes had yet to tear themselves away from the photograph placed before her.
"Well?" the chestnut girl pressed, her nerve apparently returned to her. "He is your son, isn't he?"
Walburga stared down at the photograph. The man - no, the boy, for underneath the outer madness was someone far to young to really be called a man - stared back at her, his manic expression jeering up at her, mockingly.
This was not her son. This was a parody of what had once been her son. But that Sirius Orion Black had ceased to be her son when he'd fled the family home through his bedroom window in the dead of night was clearer to her now, looking down at this photograph of him thrashing about manically as he was being dragged into a prison cell, than it had ever been before.
"I have already told you" said Walburga to the girls, her voice low and dangerously calm. "My son is dead"
She spoke with a sense of finality that clearly allowed no room for negotiation, evident even to these two dim-witted young fillies.
The Yaxley girls watch in tense silence as the older witch stubbed out the last of her cigarette and pocketed her silver cigarette holder into her purse.
Walburga got to her feet and smoothed her robes before giving each girl a small nod in farewell.
"Good day to you both" said Walburga, primly. "Give my regards to your mother"
The girls did not reply, not that the elder witch had given them ample time to offer one before she turned and marched away from them towards the door.
They watched as the once-notorious Walburga Black swept away, the eyes of every witch in the room trailing after her as she passed them by on her way out.
Rooms once-occupied by the Black matriarch were much used to hushed mutterings that filled them following her departure - once it had been envy, respect, even jealousy.
But now those whispers carried only pity. Pity for the queen of a kingdom on its last legs, crumbling around her, left with nothing but the company of her ghosts as she waited for the fate of the Blacks to claim her too.
Chapter 1
5th March 1984
The pecking of the beak of an overly-eager owl at the windows of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place was a rare sound. So rare, these days, that Walburga Black had at first been slow on identifying what the noise was, mistaking it for merely being the crackling of the flames in the fireplace of the small library, the lone noise that filled the otherwise-silent room in which she passed by the afternoon.
But, sure enough, when she glanced over to the tall front window, Walburga was met with the sight of an elegant tawny owl staring at her, its beady black eyes shining in the reflection of the glass. It's wings flapped urgently as it's beak tapped against the glass incessantly, hopping up and down on the window ledge on the foot that was unbound to a wax-sealed scroll.
Once, in days gone by, Grimmauld Place was used to a regular flurry of owls coming and going from its windows; the sending and receiving of correspondence between family and friends, invitations and their replies, official documents making their way to the appropriate wizard in search of a signature. But in recent months and years, precious few letters were delivered to the home of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, and even fewer were sent out into the skies from within it.
And so it was with a sense of somewhat suspicious curiosity that Walburga made her way over to the window to relieve the anxious little creature of its burden.
She unlatched the window, grimacing at the sharp creaking sound it made as it swung open - she must get the elf to oil the hinges, the job had clearly been neglected due to lack of need to open the windows - and quickly untied the scroll from the owl's outstretched leg.
"You needn't think you'll get anything from me" she said, fixing the owl with a stern glare as it cocked its head up at her expectantly, hinting for a tasty tip for his trouble. "You may as well be on your way. I don't keep bird seed"
At her words, the owl gave an indignant hoot and a flap of its wings in her direction before it took flight, soaring off into the cool, early March air.
A shiver ran through Walburga as the outside breeze brushed over her. She closed the window and drew the deep red curtains shut, leaving the room in the warm, hazy glow of the fire and candlelight, shielded from the outside world.
Returning to her desk, she examined the was seal of the letter - a large letter M stamped into the wax with a lit wand running through it.
The Ministry of Magic.
What cause could those nosy fools have to be writing to her?
As she unfolded the letter and began to run her eyes over the contents of the letter, Walburga felt every ounce of warmth instantly drain from her body, leaving her with an overwhelming urge to shiver in the warmth of the drawing room.
Dear Mrs Black,
It is with regret that I must write to you today to inform you of the current condition of your son, Sirius Orion Black, incarcerated within the prison of Azkaban.
On 4th March 1984 we received intelligence from Azkaban stating that your son is suffering from a severe case of fading fever, an illness for which there is no currently known cure. Reports from Azkaban state that Sirius's condition has quickly deteriorated and that he is not expected to survive for more than a week or so.
As a gesture of goodwill, I would like to extend an invitation to yourself for the opportunity to visit your son in Azkaban before his passing. I hope that this will be of some comfort to you.
Please be advised that, for your own well-being, the ability to confidently cast and maintain a corporal Patronus charm is essential in order to visit the island.
We will await your answer by owl no later than six o'clock on the evening of 7th March 1984. Should you accept the offer, we will respond with the relevant information in due course.
Please accept our condolences for your loss.
With sincere regards,
Marcus Wilson
Deputy Head of the Department for Magical Law Enforcement
There was a slight shake in Walburga's hand as she lowered the parchment down onto the desk. She stared at it for a moment, breathing deep and slow as its information worked its way through her mind.
Sirius was ill. Dying. Her son-
No. Not her son. The Sirius Black languishing in Azkaban prison was the criminal who's crazed eyes had glared up at her from the newspaper photograph three years ago - a madman, a murderous maniac. Not her son.
So if the person dying in Azkaban wasn't her son, why were there angry tears beginning to form in her eyes?
Walburga wiped her palm furiously over her eyes, ridding herself of the traitorous tears. She had no business feeling sorry for him. Her son had ceased to be her son the night he had stolen away from his family in the dead of night at the age of sixteen, all those years ago - fled the house he had been born and raised in and was destined to preside over one day on the back of a broomstick. He had abandoned his family, duty and inheritance.
Walburga's heart still twisted with hurt anger when she thought of her firstborn's treachery. He had thrown everything they had ever given him back into their faces, had hidden himself away in the house of the blood traitor Potters and hadn't even seen fit to leave them a note of farewell, of explanation, or even to reassure them he was safe...
Five years was a generous amount of time to perfect a skill, and Walburga had been sure to carefully hone her ability to block all thought of her firstborn out of her mind. In a family which took matters of betrayal as seriously as the Blacks did, there was little outside influence to remind her of him. All mention of Sirius Black amongst the family was an unspoken topic, unconsciously understood to be forbidden. In the days immediately following his departure, there were worried glances in her direction, there must have been occasional sympathetic or critical whispers (not that any were bold enough to reach her ears), but aside from this there was little distraction from Walburga's new reality.
All thoughts of Sirius Orion were locked away, far-off and unreachable in a deep corner of her mind, the door locked and the key mangled, lest they be unleashed to wreck havoc upon her again.
And yet, the words scratched into the offending piece of parchment before her in emerald ink had somehow twisted themselves together to form the key to unleash them all once again.
Walburga sighed, leaning back in her chair and rubbing her temple wearily. She glanced, absent-mindedly, around the drawing room, devoid of occupants except herself, as it had been for nearly five years. There were times in which she rather appreciated the solitude. And there were times in which she did not.
It had been several months since Walburga had last welcomed a visitor into Grimmauld Place. The various remaining members of the Black family were scattered throughout their various residences across the country. Should an invitation to the main London house be extended to them, they would dutifully attend, but in the absence of summoning, they were quite content to remain away.
Walburga Black did not make the most cheerful of hosts.
Glancing at the letter on the desk one last time, Walburga raised her wand to it, sending it floating downward into the bottom-most drawer of the desk - out of sight, out of mind.
Supposedly.
She stood from the desk and made her way towards the door, pausing by the mirror on the wall to double-check her reflection. Tired, care-worn grey eyes stared back at her, the skin at the corners creasing like crows' feet. She carefully tucked a lock of hair threatening to break free from the confines of her hair pins. She sighed a little at the occasional streak of silver marring her otherwise jet black hair. At fifty-nine, age was beginning to claim her for its own, as it did everyone.
"Kreacher!" she called sharply into the empty silence of the hallway.
Seconds later, her faithful house elf and sole companion in the house appeared before her, scurrying out from the kitchen.
"I'll take dinner in the sitting room at seven" she said, peering down at the shrunken creature at her feet.
The rag-clad house elf bowed lowly in response.
"Of course, Mistress" he mumbled obediently before hurrying back to the kitchen to prepare the food.
Walburga had taken dinner on a tray in the sitting room almost every day for the past year, the formal dining room which was once kept spotlessly prepared for a lavish five-course meal every evening left empty, it's large oak table permanently draped in a dust-cover.
What use had she for a twelve-seated dining table anymore?
Walburga tapped the dinner tray in front of her with her wand, vanishing it in an instant back to the kitchen to be dealt with by the elf.
She leaned back into her chair and tapped the table where the remnants of her meal had been. Her silver cigarette case, holder and ashtray appeared before her.
She quickly lit one, sighing as she breathed out the smoke of her first drag. This evening ritual relaxed her. Smoking had always relaxed her in trying times, right from her long-ago school days - sneaking out of particularly irksome classes to sneak a smoke in the girls' bathroom with her favourite cousin Lucretia. She had shed the habit after marrying - she hadn't felt it dignified for a married woman. Lucretia had disagreed, of course, defiantly kept up the habit all the way through her own marriage, teasingly offering her sister-in-law one of the cigarette from her own case with a cheeky smirk, knowing full well that she would be rejected with a haughty, disapproving glare.
But now, in her widowhood, Walburga had rediscovered the old, familiar solace that the smoke brought her. It helped when times got hard - when the memories bit back too harshly.
Crushing the empty stub of her cigarette into the silver ashtray, Walburga paced over to the table by the sitting room window on which a handsome crystal decanter of golden-hued whiskey sat gleaming in the candlelight. She poured herself a modest serving, as was her daily after-dinner routine.
Before the night was out, she would have returned to refill her glass with several more modest servings, as was her daily after-dinner routine.
Taking a sip of her drink, Walburga leaned against the window, peering out into the darkness of the evening.
One of the beauties of Grimmauld Place's many concealment charms was that whilst one inside the house could look out into the street and observe the comings and goings, those passing by couldn't see a trace of the house's existence.
Walburga often found herself stood here in this spot of an evening, observing the passers-by. They were Muggles, of course, of little real significance, and yet watching them going about their daily lives - hurrying along with heads bent down, scarcely aware of their surroundings, being pulled along the pavement by the lead of a dog, couples strolling arm-in-arm - was somehow relaxing, like watching local wildlife peacefully going about their day, oblivious to the trials and tribulations of the world of the knowing. One could allow one's mind to switch off, for a time. To be distracted from matters of greater concern.
Except today, it wasn't working.
Try as she might, Walburga just couldn't seem to shift the thought of the letter in her desk drawer out of her mind. It lingered, drifting back into the forefront of her mind each time she tried to firmly shove it aside. It simply would not be ignored.
After three successful years of scarcely hearing her eldest son's name spoken in her mind's ear, Walburga could not escape the thought of Sirius. She could see him, so clearly in her mind's eye, languishing in a dark prison cell, shivering with cold, weakened, ill...
She blinked hard, giving her head a firm shake as she lifted her glass to her lips, taking a more generous sip this time. The fiery liquid burned it's way down her throat, but it did not extinguish the images playing over and over again in her head.
With a sigh, Walburga drained the remainder of her drink and placed the glass back down on the table. With a swish of her wand, she drew the curtains shut, leaving the room in the dim glow of candlelight.
This was all too much for one day. It was exhausting. She would turn in early for the night, she decided. Sleep it off. Things always seemed to appear clearer the morning after.
She made her way through the empty hallway towards the staircase, the click of her heels on the wooden floor being the only sound echoing through the house. But before she made it to the staircase, Walburga found herself pausing outside a door she had barely acknowledged for several years. It was the door to a room she preferred to forget. But today, she found herself inexplicably drawn to it.
Perhaps it was the memories reignited in her mind by the letter, perhaps it was the anaesthetising of her better judgement by the whiskey. But for whatever unidentified reason, Walburga found herself reaching out a hand to turn the silver handle and open the door, entering the Tapestry Room of Grimmauld Place for the first time in years.
The room smelled damp and dusty. It had been left to languish in a state of decay on her orders - she could not stand the thought even of the elf coming in to clean this room. Suppose she should be passing by and catch a glimpse inside? And so the dust had been left to settle, the odour of damp had been allowed to linger, and the grand, wall-length tapestry detailing the entire family history of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black had been left to its own devices.
Her hand shaking slightly, Walburga drew her wand from the pocket of her gown skirt.
"Lumos" she murmured, so low she could scarcely hear herself. But the elm wand humming with warmth in her palm never failed to hear even her faintest of commands, and so it obediently let fourth a brilliant stream of white light, illuminating the entire room in its glow.
Walburga cast her gaze across to her left, taking in the sight of the Black family tapestry for the first time in what felt like an eternity. There was an element of comforting familiarity in it - at this end, at least. She reached out a hand and traced her fingertips lightly over the names of her ancestors, delicately woven in golden thread onto the branches of the tree. The names of these long-dead witches and wizards did not evoke any strong sense of feeling in her. They were the names that had remained unchanged for centuries.
Walburga did, however, find herself smiling a little at the sudden return of a long-ago memory from her childhood, buried deep inside the corners of her mind.
"And this name here, do you see that?" Pollux Black asked, glancing down at his four year old daughter stood beside him, clutching onto his hand.
The wizard pointed a finger at the name Licorus Black on one of the furthest edges of the tapestry.
"Yes, Papa" Walburga replied with an eager nod, craning her neck to look up at the name her father pointed to.
"That is the wizard who procured this house for our family" Pollux explained, his voice heavy with pride. "This house has been the home of the head of the Black family ever since - and it always shall be"
Walburga stood herself up on her tiptoes, straining her neck so far back in her efforts to see the far-up names that her two thick braids of black hair that hung down to her chest tumbled over her shoulders.
Upon seeing his young daughter's eagerness, Pollux grasped her under the arms and lifted her up to get a better view of the names on the tapestry.
Held firm in her father's grasp, the four-year-old girl reached out her small hand to touch the golden embroidered names. She smiled happily as her fingers felt the warm tingle of the magic infused into the fabric of the tapestry.
That same warmth tingled under her fingertips now, still as strong as ever, after so many years. It hummed beneath her fingertips as she traced along the family tree, past the names and dates of countless members of the Black lineage.
Her touch lingered for a moment over the name of her father, the man who had first introduced her to the magnificence of their family lineage all those years ago.
She had not seen him in several years, nor her mother. Pollux and Irma Black had fled England for the seclusion of the French countryside not long after the arrest of their granddaughter, Bellatrix. Her shameful actions were the last straw - no longer could they tolerate the scandals brought upon the once proud and noble Black family by each of their five grandchildren in turn.
Walburga sighed as her eyes gazed over the names before her - more recent members of the family, names she could put faces to. Names with incomplete dates underneath them, dates of birth waiting alone beside an empty space, waiting to be filled.
And of course, some already were.
Walburga snatched her hand away from the tapestry as the branches led her to her brother's name. The lettering of Alphard's name was tarnished, singed with scorch marks from where she herself had blasted his place on the tree with her own wand in a fit of betrayed anger. Even now, her teeth clenched in irritation as she stared at his name. How could he have done such a thing? Betrayed his own sister so?
She cast her gaze away. But there was little comfort to be found in the names that it landed upon.
There was a painful ache in her chest as she stared at the names of her husband and son. Not since their deaths had she been able to stand the thought of seeing their neatly-embroidered names upon the tree. It had been too painful to even consider.
And yet, even now she was stood here before them, in spite of the pain, she found herself lifting her hand to reach out to them, her hand shaking slightly as her fingertips stroked over her husband's place on the tapestry.
Orion Black
1929 - 1979
"Mrs Black, please, I'm sorry, truly. But I'm afraid there's simply nothing to-"
"Do not tell me that again!" Walburga shrieked at the nervous-looking Healer from across the waiting room of St. Mungo's.
The witch in her snow-white hospital robes flinched as the distraught wife of her patient hurled the anger of her emotions at her.
"Don't you dare tell me there is nothing to be done" Walburga seethed, her voice dangerously low. "I forbid it"
She paced up and down the room like a lion in a cage, her heels clicking loudly on it's cold, white tiles. At a loss for any other outlet for her distraught rage, she rounded on the Healer once more, who flinched as the fiery glare of the grey-eyed witch pierced her.
"The amount of gold poured into this hospital year after year - my family's gold, a good deal of it! - and you have the audacity to tell me there is nothing you can do for my husband?!"
"Madam, please" the Healer pleaded with the distraught soon-to-be widow. "If there were anything possible, it would be done. But the illness is too advanced. If your husband had come to us sooner-"
Walburga's hand froze in mid-air, on it's way to stroke the embroidered name of her late husband. Her hand balled into a fist and her breath trembled as she was reminded of the extent to which her husband had hid his illness from his associates, from his family, from her. With his trademark silent endurance, Orion Black had soldiered on until the bitter end, until he could no longer hide the symptoms of the illness that would claim him. He had ensured his affairs were in order, as far as the magic at play would allow.
And then he had keeled over. Had bent double with the force of a coughing fit, had splattered his front and the floor with blood droplets and had fallen to the floor, as quietly as he had done everything in his life.
Walburga had immediately Apparated them both to St. Mungo's but there was little to be done. The illness was too far advanced. Her husband was leaving her. There was no time for either her or their son, Regulus, to even say goodbye.
Regulus.
Walburga felt a knot of emotion in her chest tighten as she glanced at her son's name, immediately below her own.
Her poor son. Her precious child. Taken from this world, from her, at only eighteen years old.
Walburga still remembered that horrible day when she realised her son was missing. It was as though he had simply vanished, taken off and disappeared, like his brother before him. But Regulus Arcturus was not his brother. He was not capable of abandoning his family, his duty. He would not.
Walburga had been out that afternoon, visiting her sister-in-law Lucretia for afternoon tea, not that it had been an enjoyable experience. Merely a few short months after Orion's shockingly sudden death, both his sister and his widow had found time to be of little healing power and their meetings often consisted of the tense silences that had never been there before, in which both women would glance up at each other as though daring the other to say the unspoken thoughts shared between them.
After making her excuses at the earliest opportunity, Walburga had returned home, stepping out of the fireplace of Grimmauld Place, the ever-loyal Kreacher ready and waiting to take her cloak.
Walburga had called for her son, her brow furrowing with suspicion when he did not immediately come to her when called, as he had always done since he was first old enough to recognise her summoning.
When numerous calls of his name were met with silence, Walburga climbed the stairs to Regulus's room on the top floor, directly opposite the forbidden door which remained permanently closed. Perhaps the boy was ill in bed. He had not made an appearance at all since breakfast that morning, after all, and then he had looked pale and troubled, even quieter than usual.
Disregarding the impertinent, forbidding sign that her son had affixed to his bedroom door in what Walburga could only assume was a belated fit of adolescent rebellion, she rapped her knuckles on the wood and entered without awaiting a response.
Regulus's empty bedroom loomed before her. His bed was made, as always, his things all neatly stored away, everything in its place, as it should be. But Regulus was not here.
Dread began to fill Walburga, clouding her more reasonable judgement of perhaps he had simply gone to visit a friend, to make some purchases, gone out for a walk...
But deep down she knew this was not true. Regulus Arcturus had never before presumed to go anywhere without telling her first.
And yet he had. He was gone, without a trace.
Walburga did not sleep a wink that night. She sent out owl after owl long into the evening, demanding information of her son's whereabouts from all family members who may know, but all returned unsuccessful.
When news of Regulus's absence reached the family, it wasn't long before the Floo fireplace of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, was alive with activity, the drawing room quickly becoming crowded with relatives responding to the raised alarm of Regulus's absence.
"Try not to worry so, dear" Irma Black had told her daughter, squeezing her shoulder in an attempt to be reassuring. "I'm sure Regulus will return soon with a perfectly logical explanation for his absence"
Walburga jerked herself free from her mother's touch and paced across the room, sighing in frustration.
It was now past midnight and her son had still not returned, nor been heard from. There could be no logical explanation for this.
Besides, if he'd had a logical explanation for his absence, he would have told her where he was going. Regulus Arcturus did not keep secrets from his mother. Why could none of the fools crowded into her drawing room see that?
She was just about to tell them as much when suddenly, a dreadful, cold shiver ran down her spine, freezing her to the spot in dread for a moment. She felt the colour drain from her face, felt her hands involuntarily begin to shake. It was natural instinct at its finest, at play with her mind, telling her to go to the tapestry room.
"No" Walburga pleaded inside her mind as she rushed from the drawing room, barging past her parents, in-laws and goodness knows who else had come to clutter up the house in an attempt to be at the heart of the crisis. "Merlin, please, no"
She threw open the door of the tapestry room and hurried along the length of the winding tree branches until her gaze ell upon her son's name, directly below her own.
Before her very eyes, the magic-infused strands of golden thread had woven themselves together in a sight far too graceful for an image so horrific, to complete her son's entry on the family tree, alongside the names of his ancestors before him.
Regulus Black
1961 - 1979
Walburga was scarcely aware of the almighty cry of anguish that was ripped from within her, nor of when exactly she had collapsed to her knees, her hands still clawing at the tapestry above her as her body was wracked with sobs.
She was vaguely aware of the feeling of hands on her shoulders, her arms, rubbing her back, each one as intolerable than the other.
"Get off of me!" she shrieked, thrashing herself free from the grip of her fawning relatives.
The women surrounding her backed away from the witch crumpled in a heap on the floor.
"Get out, all of you" Walburga seethed, her voice dangerously quiet and still.
Nobody moved. The crowd of shocked witches and wizards staring at her stood frozen to their places, nobody quite sure what to do, how to handle the situation.
"I said get out!" Walburga shrieked at the top of her lungs, wilder and more enraged than any of the previous fits of temper she was prone to. "Get out!"
Walburga's shaking hand felt for her wand, gripping the elm handle in a white-knuckled grip that could have snapped a stick of wood not infused with magic. She hurled her arm about madly, shooting random sparks of an unknown spell at the bystanders, mercifully missing them all but leaving none undisturbed by her outburst.
The room quickly emptied, the shocked Blacks hurrying away from Walburga's grief-stricken onslaught.
Alone at last, Walburga's anger caved into pure despair.
Her hand shook, her grip faltered, her wand clattering to the floor. She bent over double, falling onto her side to lay beneath the tapestry in a crumpled heap, sobbing uncontrollably, a broken women.
And now here she stood, five years later, in that exact same spot, staring the spot below her name on the tapestry.
But it wasn't the elegant, awful death date below Regulus's name she was staring at. It was the ugly, black scorch mark beside it. The gaping hole where Sirius's name should be.
It had been in a fit of anguished rage that Walburga had stormed into the tapestry room and had blaster her firstborn's name from the tapestry, symbolically, if not literally, disowning him from the family.
In truth, the tapestry was a mere piece of artistic symbolism - pretty to look at, majestic to behold in its entirety, but it could not undo the deeper magic which bound a blood member of the Black family to the tree.
But for Walburga, the morning after Sirius's flight for freedom, destroying her son's place on the tapestry was the only way she could see to attempt to remove all thought of her disgraceful elder son from her mind, as if the sight of the scorch mark where his entry had been would reduce him to little more than a scorch mark in her memory.
If only it had worked.
Walburga stared long and hard at Sirius's place on the tapestry. Her work had been somewhat haphazard, in hind sight. Her aim had been off, that day. Although she had succeeded in burning off the majority of Sirius's name, she had not damaged the dates beneath it. The birth date was still there, shining bright, bold as brass. And the spot beside it remained empty and untarnished, ready and waiting to weave the date of Sirius's death and complete the entry.
The words of the letter echoed through Walburga's mind once more, reminding her that this spot would not be empty for much longer. Sirius would be dead before long, his death date would appear on the tapestry and his spot would be completed - like his father and brother before him.
Leaving Walburga finally, truly alone.
When thoughts of her husband and younger son's deaths came to mind, the overwhelming thought was one of un-fulfilment. With neither of them had she been able to have the final closure of final words of farewell, or a even the luxury of time to prepare for their departures. There had been no time to demand of her husband why he had not seen fit to seek the attention of a Healer whilst the disease that ravaged him was still within its early, more treatable stages. Nor had there been an opportunity to uncover the exact circumstances of Regulus's tragically-premature demise.
Both of their losses had left open wounds in Walburga's heart, unable to heal, forever throbbing with pain.
At the very least, with Orion's passing, there had been the certainty of a diagnosis - a known cause of death. With Regulus, however, the circumstances of his death were still shrouded in uncertainty and rumour. The most likely scenario that Walburga had been able to piece together was that he had been killed either in the service of, if not by the Dark Lord himself. Walburga had not even known her son had become one of his gang of followers. The extent of her good, honest, obedient son's deception still stung, like rubbing salt into the already raw wound of his death.
These were wounds that would never heal - could never be granted permission to close. There was no remedy.
Was she really prepared to suffer a third mark upon her heart?
Walburga lifted her hand and gently stroked her fingers over Sirius's place on the tapestry. The singed, black material where her wand had struck his name was cold and still, the hum of magic having been vanquished from the area by the force of the blast. But below it, on the woven lettering of his birth date, the fabric warmed and tingled with life, as did the empty spot beside it. The tapestry was ready and waiting, poised to begin the horrifically beautiful process of weaving the death date of her son into place.
Walburga lowered her hand and took a step back from the tapestry. Her mind was made up, her decision made.
Despite all that he had done, all he had done to her, Sirius was still her son. And if he was soon to leave her, like his father and brother, then she would demand of him this one courtesy he owed her - an explanation. A goodbye. Closure.
She was his mother. It was the very least he owed her.
Turning away from the tapestry, Walburga departed the room, the feeling of a great load lifting as she closed the door firmly behind her.
She returned to her desk in the parlour, where the previously-roaring fire was now reduced to embers, and took the Ministry letter out from the bottom drawer. Setting it to one side, she tapped the desk with her wand, awaiting the fresh roll of parchment to uncurl itself before her before taking up her quill and beginning to pen her reply.