Disclaimer: I do not own any aspects of Harry Potter in any way, shape, or form. Do you think Sirius Black would have died if I did?!
Written for Round 10 of The Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition as Chaser 3 of the Chudley Cannons.
You will be writing about the folk whose souls are either captured in a magical portrait, or wandering the wizarding world as a ghost.
CHASER 3: Walburga Black (Portrait)
3.) (quote) 'Real, or not real?' - Peeta Mellark, Mockingjay
4.) (word) confined
8.) (image) .
Word Count: 1416
She is just starting to lose her grip on reality and slip into a soft, dreamless sleep when the door creaks open. Walburga wakes with a jolt, her hand already gripping her wand protectively. "Kreacher?" she yells as she rises from the sofa.
The house elf appears with a soft crackling sound that echoes around the empty home. "What is it, Mistress Walburga?" Kreacher stands motionless, bowing his head as he waits for orders.
"Has Orion returned yet?" Walburga says as she makes her way to the hallway absently. There are countless house elves she could have called, but Kreacher has always been her favourite.
"Master Black has not yet returned," Kreacher replies, following behind Walburga, his footsteps barely making a sound. She doesn't have to turn around to know the house elf still has his head lowered.
Walburga tucks her wand back into her robes and sighs. "Alright. Go get me a cup of tea, and contact a healer, tell them to come over tomorrow. I've been feeling unwell lately," Walburga commands, her pace involuntarily becoming faster as she heads to the front door.
"Yes, Mistress Walburga! Kreacher hopes that Mistress Walburga's health remains as strong as her beauty!" he exclaims before making a move to apparate away.
Walburga is just about to give up and return to her quarters for the night when she hears the telltale sound of the door creaking open. She feels the heaviness surrounding her drift away, and a sense of overwhelming joy float into its place. Walburga knows it is a risk to center so much importance for just a wizard, even if it is her husband - but if there is one person she can trust more than herself then it is definitely Orion.
Which is the reason, she tells herself, that she so cheerfully calls out his name. "Orion!" In seconds, Walburga is in front of the door and throwing her arms around her husband.
"Walburga," Orion greets as his arms encircle her waist stiffly.
She closes her eyes and buries her head into the crook of his neck, ignoring the way his words sound distant and much, much, colder than they usually were. Still, she can't help but feel dread start to pool in her stomach. Maybe she is just imagining things again, warping and twisting things into a horrible vision. Orion does say that Walburga has a habit of jumping to conclusions.
Still. It has never hurt to ask.
"Orion," Walburga murmurs. "Is something wrong?"
His arms drop from her waist and he pushes her back until they're standing a few feet apart from each other. Orion meets her blue eyes with his steely grey as he says, his voice blank as if he'd memorized it off a scroll, "No, of course not, my love."
Flashes of red jolt through her vision as Walburga's eyes narrow. Lies. He is keeping something from her, she knows it. Just like that, she feels the pool of dread in her stomach morph into a whirlwind of rage. Orion should know better than to lie to her — her, his wife.
No. She will give him a chance; their marriage may have been arranged, but their love is real, it must be. She takes a deep breath and calms her anger, forcing it down and confining it. A true Slytherin must always make sure they are right before acting; Walburga will not disgrace her house. It's just a matter of figuring out which words are real, and not real.
"Walburga, I'm tired. We can speak tomorrow."
Walburga says nothing and moves forward, wrapping her arms around her husband's neck in an embrace again. This time she breaths in deeply, hoping that the slightest hint of the flowery scent she'd detected before had been an illusion and that this, this is all just a horrible, vividly lucid nightmare.
Walburga freezes. She lets loose a breath, unlocking the cage she'd tried oh so hard to reigned her anger in.
"Orion," she says, her voice a deadly whisper. Walburga clutches her husband closer, tightening her grip until she can feel each and every rapid beat of his traitorous heart.
She doesn't wait for his reply. She continues, her voice taking on a mocking drawl to mask how much her eyes are burning and how her mouth is trembling. Orion stands completely still, his eyes shut tightly, and his lips pursed. He doesn't react to anything she does or says, but Walburga knows him. Orion isn't escaping this, she won't let him slip away from reality and into that safe comfort of his mind.
"I never knew you fancied the smell of roses so much. Had I known . . ." She chokes out, blinking rapidly until she's sure there's no chance of tears.
Walburga digs her nails into the soft flesh of her husband's neck, leaning in until her lips are inches from his ear. Her voices twists into a hoarse snarl. "I would have asked dear Druella to let me borrow some of her, precious, precious, perfume."
Orion remains silent as he turns and walks out the door. Walburga waits until she hears the door slam before she whirls around, her wand in hand. She blasts the cursed thing into pieces, taking satisfaction in the wooden shards that fly everywhere.
"Congratulations Mrs. Black! You're going to be a mother."
Walburga doesn't bother to wait for the healer to make her way out before she starts throwing curses. Both figuratively and literally. The western suite is in ashes by the time Walburga manages to calm herself.
Walburga closes her eyes. It is a twist of fate; a cruel, deprived twist of fate. A blessing morphing itself into a curse. Walburga Black, child of the most Noble and Ancient House of Black, carrying the pureblood child of a traitorous, traitorous man.
She snaps open her eyes and screams a hex at the line of portraits decorating the walls. They erupt into flames that leap along the walls, growing and growing until she is staring at a wall of burning light.
"What is going on here?!"
Oh. She knows that voice.
Walburga turns around and gives her husband a cold smile. She raises her wand and glares at him, daring him, challenging him, to stop her. She knows she is slipping away into that vast abyss of darkness, where sanity is no safer than insanity — but she doesn't care. Her own mind is a much more beautiful place than this broken reality she's forced to live in. Confined in.
Orion stumbles backwards, and Walburga bites back a cackle of glee as she sees genuine fear in his eyes. "Walburga . . ."
She cocks her head and casually throws another hex behind her back, setting another portion on the wall on fire.
"Walburga."
The curtains crumble into ashes.
"Walburga, please."
A series of sparks leap from her wand and onto the sofa.
"Please."
She is standing in the center of a whirlwind of roaring red fire.
"Darling, stop."
A scream tears out of her throat as Walburga extinguishes the fire with a wide arc of her wand. She points her wand at Orion, her chest heaving as she screams, screams so loudly that her throat burns, "Do not dare to call me darling, you traitorous, cheating bastard!"
She would rip out his heart, if only to see if he had one. But she can't. She can't because the honor of the most Noble and Ancient House of Black will be scarred. She can't hurt him or scar him or tear him to shreds or burn his soul inside his pathetic body.
She can't destroy him, but Walburga can destroy this house. This monstrosity, this horrible reminder of when love was a beautiful truth and not a horrible lie.
It isn't until she's sitting in a pile of ashes and dust that she feels something still intact beneath her foot. She leans down to pick it up, her fingers grasping a charred paper rose, which, despite being significantly blacker than her last time seeing it, has not changed at all. Orion must have enchanted it, their promise of eternal love to each other.
Walburga drops the rose and crushes it beneath her foot.
The portrait of Walburga Black has always been monstrous; everyone in the Order knew not to disturb it, lest Walburga start screaming. Again.
But it isn't until Remus Lupin brings in flowers — bright, blood red roses, for Nymphadora Tonks, that the portrait of Walburga Black truly breaks.
*Hogwarts Houses: The Quidditch Pitch: Dialogue: "Darling, stop."
*Hogwarts Houses: The Drabble Club: Sentence: She would rip out his heart, if only to see if he had one.
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