It's 1944 and Lucretia Black's summer is filled with the sounds of muggle war. It's noisy and destructive, of course, but no one in polite society wants to discuss it. (If we don't talk about it, it doesn't exist.) Nevertheless, her dreams are filled with buzzing and groaning, sad wailings of a country that might be losing to the Germans (or might not). As summer wanes, Melania Black finds the sketches lying on the floor; metal monsters with teeth, raining fire on the countryside.
"Daughter," she pronounces stiffly, placing each drawing in the fire, "If you must insist on wasting paper, do draw some nice landscapes. Imagine what your father would think if he saw this."
School resumes, and the only thing students speak of is terror – the war, for some, and for others, the rumor that a monster prowls the school to kill mudbloods. Lucretia draws monsters from the Care of Magical Creatures book. Acromantula or chimera or basilisk? Who knows? Who cares? (If we don't speculate, it doesn't exist.)
She doesn't even realize that Tom Riddle is watching over her shoulder until he sits with a rustling of fabric. "What depressing pictures, Miss Black. Have you ever tried sketching the grounds outside Hogwarts instead? There are some very interesting views of the lake."
Tom has a voice of velvet and ice; this is why the boys can't help but follow him like dogs and why every girl wishes to catch his eye. Lucretia alone harbors no romantic delusions. She is a Black, and besides, Arcturus and Melania have been discussing the Prewett boy, Ignatius, as long as she can remember. Instead, she just nods politely and turns away.
She wonders for a while if the weddings will never end. Her own is a blur of a dress she didn't choose and too much champagne and arguments that never end. After Orion's wedding, Lucretia draws a picture of Walburga, cousin and sister-in-law, with a silk veil in her hair and an expression of disgust on her face. Ignatius accidentally sees it. "Lucretia," he sighs mildly, still unsure what to think of the madness that has started to emerge from the Blacks. "Wouldn't you like to draw the garden instead."
For a while she listens. All the visitors enjoy the watercolour lilacs and charcoal roses – "Who knew you had such talent, Mrs. Prewett?" Then she stops for a year and the first picture to resurface shows the tiny grave with the creeping jasmine they planted near it. Ignatius sees it and has nothing left to say. (If we keep quiet, it doesn't exist.)
It's 1975 and Alphard always forgets to send letters – he usually delivers them himself, full of tales of his adventures and travels. Today he brings her ink and calligraphy brushes from Japan, and they sit on the settee drinking tea that tastes of cherry blossoms and secrets. "I think my sister has gone half insane," he confides, paging through the drawings Lucretia usually keeps to herself. "It's as if they try to keep Sirius locked up and as a result..." He shakes his head. She silently slips her hand into his as Alphard flips past sketches of the gargoyles and dragons and monsters, past those disowned nephews Gideon and Fabian, past pictures of things that weren't supposed to be said (and if we don't say them, they don't exist.)
"Lucy," he admits finally, "I'm glad you stopped drawing those awful landscapes."