heartbreak hotel
"You're grounded" were the first words out of Irma Black's mouth when her daughter, Walburga, opened the front door. The blonde woman stood, arms crossed over her chest, tapping the toe of her black heel against the hardwood floor.
Walburga had been out all night with her friends acting rebellious and altogether unlike herself. They hadn't done much — they were still Purebloods, after all — but they had gotten quite tipsy. Maybe her mother could smell the alcohol and cigarette smoke permeating her clothes. At barely sixteen, she wasn't legally old enough to drink — not that that stopped her younger brothers, Alphard and Cygnus.
And grounded she was. Locked in her room with nothing and no one except her faithful journal that had been given to her by Alphard, the brother she could at least stand, which she prized above all else and her white as snow cat, Duchess, who, she doted upon.
But she was fine. No injuries other than the expected backhand across the face from her mother. The pitying yet relieved looks from her brothers — especially Cygnus, that little brat — stung far more. She knew the feeling of being relieved someone else was being punished, thankful that it wasn't her. Except most of the time it was her.
She had her journal, a box of gold-feathered quills, and dozens of ink pots stowed away in her closet, and that was good enough for her.
•
28 October
I was let out of my room just in time to help prepare for the All Hallow's Eve gala the Blacks host every Hallowe'en. It is the event of the year, and it is considered a great honour to receive an invitation.
This year, Mother is determined to make it the best — to go out in style, as it were. She appears to be aging unnaturally fast; I am not sure how. But she leaves the tradition to Cygnus, as she does with everything important. I am the oldest! I am meant to be the one she teaches to do everything. After all, I am the only girl.
She firmly believes that something is the matter with my mind, and so will not hand over the reins for anything she does. No; my brother is to carry on the Black traditions, the Black honour. Mother believes that women are stronger than men, but she will still choose my baby brother over me.
True, I have not given her much reason to think I am in my right mind — I smoke, I chew gum, I wear pants, I refuse to ride horses sidesaddle, and just generally rebel against the ancient Pureblood ways. I even consort with Muggles — dirty myself, as she would say. They are much more intelligent than we Purebloods give them credit for.
She thinks it is a disgrace to the family name to always hear about my adventures from someone else. I personally consider it an accomplishment when she doesn't catch me herself.
Once again, I have gone off on a tangent quite different than the one I began on...where was I? Ah, yes: the gala.
It is to be quite the affair, I hear. Cygnus is working with Mother and the rest of the planners at the moment. I am meant to be directing the house elves on the food preparations, but I simply could not put the unfairness of it all out of my head.
Now that I have written my woes down, I must get back to work before Mother catches me dawdling. I eagerly await the gala; I have heard that everyone will be there — everyone important, that is.
Walburga
•
3 November
The gala was beautiful. The fairy lights the elves hung were the perfect touch — a string of floating baubles that cast an orange glow over everything. I wish I'd thought of it. Of course it was Cygnus who came up with the idea.
I met Druella Rosier tonight. We've met before, of course, but tonight it was different. The elves put salt in the lemon tarts, and because I was supposed to be overseeing them, Mother blamed it on me. She made a mockery of me in front of everyone. I kept my chin up but left as quickly as I could. Druella found me in the gardens and sat down beside me. I wish I had her poise. I've never seen her cry or lose her mask. It's like she's emotionless — which is a good thing amongst the Purebloods. We are taught from a young age that emotions are weak. Love is a figment of Muggles' fevered imaginations.
I don't believe that rot. Merlin, my Muggle friends have gotten to me with their language. Mother would Scourgify my mouth if I ever said that out loud. But I don't. I believe that everyone is capable of loving, no matter what kind of blood they have, or even if it's magical or not.
Druella is, perhaps, the only intelligent person I have met in the dull Pureblood community. Everyone else is concerned more with looks and showing their family fortune than important things such as family or love. There is that word again. Love.
I wonder if I will ever experience love. I have known practically since birth that I am to marry my second cousin, Orion. I have met him only once before, a year or so ago, but I could do perfectly well without ever having a second meeting. He is so bland! I honestly cannot believe that such a stupid individual was ever created and very surprised he has magic, let alone that he can handle it. He is tall and weedy and he wears glasses that make his dull green eyes look as if a magnifying charm was used on them.
Back to Druella! I keep getting sidetracked.
We talked for hours — everything from our favourite colour to our greatest dream in life. Her dream is to be a professional Quidditch player. I cannot imagine her flying around on a broom at very high speeds; she looks much too delicate for that. My dream is to find love. At least, that is what I told her.
I suppose it is true, in a way. I do not wish to marry Orion, for I do not love him. At least, I am fairly certain I don't. All the books I've read, all the poems always said, that a heart is made to share. I want to find the person that makes my heart race, who makes my palms clammy, who makes me want to fuss with my hair in a way I've never done before, who takes my breath away whenever I look at them.
I hope I'll find them someday.
Walburga
•
19 January
I have been sorely neglecting my journal. I apologise. Even if you are not going to suddenly awaken and pounce on me for not journaling, I apologise.
I've found them. The person who makes my heart race. The person who makes my breathing speed up and who makes me pluck at my bodice, wondering if it is hot.
There is one slight catch. It's Druella.
•
21 January
I got called away just then. Apologies.
Druella is beautiful — in an unconventional way. Her honey-blonde curls make me want to run my fingers through them; her bright blue eyes resemble the clearest skies in the summer — or perhaps the ocean. I have never seen the ocean, so I am merely taking a guess. Her skin is fair and her forehead is high and smooth. She looks like a porcelain doll. And her clothes! Her corsets are always much tighter than any of the other girls our age, her skirts always free of wrinkles, her shoes polished. I admire her ability to walk in heels with such grace.
I'm waxing eloquent, aren't I? I should stop.
I think I know what it feels like to be in love now. It is a wonderful feeling.
•
14 February
Saint Valentine, take pity on me.
I sent Druella a box of chocolates. With a name card attached. What was I thinking? The only answer I can come up with at the moment is that I must not have been. I hope she responds well.
Being in love makes my head feel as if it's not working. I feel dizzy and excited and blissfully happy at the same time.
I cannot bear this. Even journaling does not help my anxiety over Druella's reaction to the chocolates. If she sends them back, at least I can drown my sorrows by eating them.
I am a lovesick fool.
•
19 June
Love is cruel. Eros, I damn you to hell.
It is only now that I am able to think properly. She rejected me. She rejected the chocolates, and, as promised, I ate them before crying myself to sleep. Mother thinks even more poorly of me than ever; she thinks I'm pining over a boy.
She would scream if she knew the truth.
Druella, you'll never see this. I love you. I'll always love you, even when I am old and grey, when I am married to Orion and pregnant with his children. I cannot help it. You were my first love, and you will remain my love until I die.
All my love,
Walburga
•
28 October
So much can happen in a year.
I'm married now. I cannot say that I am happy — not even if I lied through my teeth. Orion is a bore; we will never have the kind of talk I had with Druella. He's a misogynist and an utter pig. At least he filled out some since I last saw him; his shoulders are wider and his, ah, manly part is better than some.
There are really not many compliments I can apply to him. Anything else would be false.
I am giving up journaling. Motherhood will take a toll on my energy, and I no longer feel kinship to my parchment, quill, and ink. It almost feels as if they have failed me. It is not their fault.
The world is a cruel place. If anyone ever reads this, make sure you know this. It will suddenly make everything seem right in your life, and then, just as suddenly, it will take away all sources of happiness.
It will leave you bitter and jaded.
Heed this warning. No one else will care enough to tell you how terrible life can be. To quote my Muggle friends: "life's a bitch."
Nothing could be truer.
Walburga