Chapter Text
Walburga Black was elegance incarnate; there was not a movement of hers that did not exude grace, everyone knew it.
Her face, always stoic, used to have that look that offered no benevolence at all, her grey eyes transmitted her coldness in waves.
Her mouth, always in a fine grimace of seriousness and annoyance, was a shade of red striking enough to keep your eyes on it if you admired her beauty, yet not enough to make you stray too far from her merciless eyes.
Her hair was dark as night, capable of attracting with its apparent softness any hairdresser, and with its preciousness any one who looked long enough.
Her complexion was pale and she usually adorned her eyes with faint black eyeliner.
No doubt, she was beautiful.
But you had to avoid being seduced by her beauty, since her cruelty predominated over her kindness.
Or so people thought.
And she couldn't care less what was whispered around, good or bad.
Yet right now, sitting at one of the tables in her library, unwilling to admit that she was hiding and all alone, she allowed her walls to fall, abandoning the elegance that seemed to be ingrained in the depths of her being.
That library was Walburga Black's favourite place, it was her hiding place when the pressure on her shoulders was too much for her, those walls had seen her crumble more than once, putting aside appearances.
But not to cry.
Never cry.
Because she was a Black, and Blacks didn't cry.
Until that day, apparently.
She didn't really notice the tears running down her cheeks until one of them landed on the book in her hands.
She was horrified to see the wetness on the paper, unable to believe what was happening.
She touched her face with her long fingers, soaking them with the salty water that ran from her eyes.
And suddenly, as an automatic reaction, anger swirled in her stomach, she clenched her jaw tightly and allowed the fury to control her.
Because she had never cried before, and the first time she did, it was her son who was the one to blame.
Is it all about him?
Walburga thought, rubbing her belly roughly, but not daring to do anything more against what was brewing inside her.
She let out a cry of frustration, as her thoughts whirled, wandering off into dark corners.
She felt used, she had felt that way for a while, as if she was just a body, only used to produce heirs.
She knew it was for the sake of the bloodline remaining pure, but it was thrust upon her to be a mother, when she was not.
However, like the good, compliant doll she felt she was, she did not complain, at least not aloud, as her mouth was an ever-closed zip that repressed all her thoughts, never letting them out.
Perhaps that was the reason for her poorly contained anger, an anger that little by little was being directed at her son without her being able to stop it.
So, when the child was born, there was no love in her eyes, just resignation to a life as a bad mother and contempt towards the one who caused it.