What Changes Never Really Does
c. 1965
"He's late!"
"Walburga—"
"He was to be here three quarters of an hour ago!"
"Something must've happened, I'm sure—"
"Ludicrous! He has no excuse for making us wait… unless he's dead!"
He bit back a sigh as he watched the lady of the house pace up and down the dimly lit living room. How this was a living room, he did not know, what with its dull lighting, lack of windows, and the dark tapestry that covered the walls. The only life in the room—besides the three occupants—came from the softly crackling fire, and even that seemed to add to the depressing bleakness of it all. Then again, the same could be said for the rest of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. How or why Walburga and Orion chose to live in this desolate house was beyond him. No wonder the old bat was going mad.
"Alphard, I say, are you listening to me!"
"There's no way I couldn't, with all your shrieking," he grumbled, looking up and offering her a bright smile. "Of course I am, dear sister, what seems to be the problem?"
Her face flushed and she seemed to expand, several hairs escaping her immaculate bun. He groaned internally as Orion shot him a warning look.
"I agree with Orion, Walburga, I'm sure Abraxas has a good enough reason for his tardiness," he reasoned, walking to the fireplace. Sitting back in the armchair, and pretending as though he wasn't affected in the least by the sweltering heat, he tuned out his sister's screeching and focused on the snapping and cracking of the flames.
The four of them, Walburga, Orion, Abraxas and he, had arranged to meet at Grimmauld Place for an urgent meeting. Walburga had insisted it was highly important that they discuss the quick-spreading rumours of a certain Dark wizard's rise to power, and how this affected them. He, personally, had no intention of being a part of this so-called discussion, but it was either that or facing the wrath of his dear sister, and it was clear what the much less painful choice would be.
Ignatius had backed out at the very last moment, when Lucretia had suddenly fallen ill—or so he claimed. What with the tense nature of Walburga and Ignatius's relationship, that was as good an excuse as any. He envied the Prewett, just then, for using his marriage to their cousin to his favour.
Lucretia would never ask her husband to remain home, and care for her when she was unwell, when he was needed elsewhere—especially if Walburga was the one who needed him. Unwell or not, Lucretia was a woman of the House of Black, and may he be damned if ever a woman with the blood of Toujours Pur in them asked for her husband to forego important events to nurse her back to health.
Besides, Abraxas had nearly begged him—or so he liked to think—not to leave him alone with Walburga, and, as a friend, it was the least he could do. He was quickly questioning the exact worth of their friendship, though.
He was so lost in thoughts of how he wished he was back at home, working on his writing, instead of in a dreary room in Grimmauld Place, listening to his sister's fit of rage, that he nearly jumped out of his skin when the fire turned green and a head appeared in the embers.
"Abraxas," he hissed as he leaned forwards, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Walburga's focus was still on lecturing her husband on the ethicacy of punctuality. "Where in Salazar's name are you? Walburga's driving us mad, here!"
"Sorry, sorry," the Malfoy whispered hurriedly, his gaze flickering past Alphard. "I had to see Lucius off at King's Cross. I hastened back home the moment the train left."
"Well hasten here, then!" Alphard snapped, stepping away from the fireplace as Abraxas's head disappeared. There was a sharp crackle and hiss, and the fireplace burst into green flames.
Abraxas stepped out, coughing slightly and dusting his dark robes, looking oddly panicked.
"Walburga, darling, Abraxas has arrived," Orion said, looking relieved, and his wife whipped around, a furious expression on her face.
"About time, Malfoy!"
"Forgive my tardiness, my lady, I had to make sure my son was well-set for his first year at Hogwarts," Abraxas said politely, bowing his head in the slightest.
Somehow, to both Alphard and Orion's extreme surprise—if the latter's wide-eyed expression was any indication—Walburga seemed to be placated by Abraxas's explanation.
"Oh, I see, he's eleven, now, is he?" Walburga said, a hint of a smile brightening her face. "Sirius turns six in a month."
"Already at that age, eh? He'll be off to Hogwarts before you know it," Abraxas replied, looking immensely relieved. He didn't blame the man. Warburga's anger was definitely something to be feared.
"Right, now that we're all here, shall we begin?" Orion said with a clap of his hands, motioning to the sofa and armchairs in the centre of the room, positioned neatly around a mahogany table.
"This is new," Alphard commented as he took one of the armchairs, bending down to examine the carved legs of the table.
"Oh, yes, good of you to notice. I had it made," Walburga said with a rather smug expression.
"Did you, now," he murmured, blanching as he made out the distorted shapes. The lumpy designs turned out to be elves, bent over from the weight of the tabletop they were supposed to be carrying. And, beneath their feet, were decapitated heads of other elves, who, he reckoned, had failed at completing their assigned task—which was apparently holding up the heavy, circular, wooden top forevermore.
"There won't be much time for pleasantries," Orion said as Walburga stood by the door and Summoned in tea and biscuits. "The boys are expected to be home from their uncle's, soon."
"Can't really have a proper discussion with them around," Alphard said as he picked up a teacup. Hopefully by soon, Orion had meant really soon. He wasn't sure how much of this discussion he'd be able to tolerate.
"I'm sure you've heard, by now," Walburga began the moment she had settled back in her seat, "of the many rumours circulating through the wizarding world."
"Yes," Abraxas said, a grim expression on his face. "In fact, while I was down in Knockturn Alley—in disguise, of course—I heard talk of a war brewing."
"A war?" Walburga gasped, although she didn't look all that surprised.
"A war, you say?" Orion said, leaning forwards with interest. "What sort of war?"
"A war between the Dark and the Light is what they're saying," Abraxas said with a shrug. "Although it sounds to me like it'll be more of a massacre than a war."
"Sounds about right," Alphard commented, and all eyes turned to him. Uncomfortable with the sudden attention, and regretting that he had spoken, he continued. "Well, if there really is a war brewing, we need to choose sides, I presume."
"Nonsense—"
"I agree—"
Walburga and Orion looked at each other, her face scrunching into a scowl as he frowned.
"Why in the world would you want to take part in a war, Orion? There is absolutely no necessity for us to draw any more attention to ourselves than is required. The boys—"
"And the boys are precisely why we must choose sides carefully, Walburga," Orion cut in. "If this really does turn out to be a massacre, as Abraxas has rightfully pointed out, then we need to know that we can protect our home and children."
Walburga's scowl deepened as she contemplated what her husband had said. Finally, after what seemed like an exceptionally long time, she nodded.
"Yes," she said slowly, carefully. "That seems like the best option."
She turned to Abraxas. "What do you and your wife think?"
"My missus has her own qualms about the whole idea of a war, as the rest of us, but she does seem to agree that the least painful way of surviving it is by choosing to side with the Dark Lord."
"Oh, they're calling him the Dark Lord, now, are they?" Alphard asked, reaching for a biscuit.
"They are," Abraxas sighed, shaking his head. "No one has actually seen this so called Dark Lord, but he seems to be the only thing everyone's speaking of, these days."
Orion hummed, a thoughtful expression on his face, and Walburga placed a hand on his knee, smiling expectantly at him.
"Orion, what do you say?"
He sighed deeply, looked around the room once, and his eyes finally landed on Alphard. Alphard had to bite back a groan at the expectant look in the man's eyes.
"Alfie? What do you think?"
Does it matter what I think? No matter what I say, it's quite clear you've already made a decision.
But instead of saying what he thought, out loud, he simply nodded once, and said, "It seems like the best way to go about it." When everyone settled back in their seats, looking satisfied, he leaned forwards and continued. "But, and this comes from information I myself have gathered, it wouldn't matter even if we did do as Walburga first suggested and sit the war out. As rumour has it, this Dark Wizard's only attacking Muggleborns, Squibs, and blood traitors—none of which we are."
"So you're saying he's striving for a world where Purebloods like us reign supreme?" Orion asked, and Alphard instantly realised his mistake.
"In a way, yes," he agreed hesitantly. Orion turned to his wife, a grin slowly spreading across his face, and Walburga's pleasure reflected in her dark, shimmering eyes.
"But Walburga's decision—" Alphard started, trying to glean back support by agreeing with his sister voluntarily, but the damage had already been done.
"Oh, no, but you're right, Alfie, if what you say is true, I don't see why we can't play an active role in this war—"
"Rumoured war—"
Walburga cut Alphard off with a wave of her hand. "Oh, rumours only need time before they become reality. Besides, wouldn't you agree that we, the noble House of Black, have a rightful place at the top of the hierarchy in this series of events? I would say we do."
"As long as we swear our loyalty to him, I think it wouldn't matter which noble house we come from," Abraxas immediately argued—to which Orion easily replied, "Honour? Loyalty? Blood Purity comes before all that."
That seemed to placate both parties, and they murmured in assent. Once again, Orion turned his attention to Alphard.
"We haven't heard your decision yet, Alfie," he said, as though he genuinely thought Alphard's decision was of any importance to the discussion.
"I personally agree with Walburga's initial suggestion," he said stubbornly, refusing to meet his sister's gaze. "If I had the choice, I would definitely choose not to partake in a fruitless massacre, thank you very much."
Having said his bit, he rose from his seat, deciding that it was either now or never. He'd already stayed much longer than he had intended, and seeing as he was the only person whose decision didn't align with that of the others, it was either duke it out till they reached a settlement—or were quelled by Walburga's controlling hand—or to make haste and take his leave.
No one stopped him, as he called his farewells and strode to the fireplace, but just as he threw down the Floo powder, Walburga's voice rang clear across the room.
"Alfie," she said, her eyes wide and cold, "A war is coming… and we are at the heart of it—whether or not you are willing to admit it to yourself."
He wanted to tell her that she didn't always have to have the last word, but irrespective of how many years passed, it seemed like certain things never changed. And thus, with a burst of green flames, he was gone.
c. 1975
"Alohomora!"
He coughed slightly as the dust cleared and pushed open the door. He muttered a quiet Lumos as he rummaged around in the broom cupboard, pushing and shoving through the random assortment of objects lodged into the rather tight space. There was a light skittering sound and he waved his wand across the floor, eyes darting around to find the object that had rolled out of the cupboard.
Just as he spotted the large, grey marble, so alike the stormy clouds that enshrouded the skies in darkness and encompassed all of Britain in its eerie, melancholic atmosphere of doom, there was a loud clattering from the floor below. He whipped around, muttering a silent Nox and stepping into the shadows just as someone thundered up the stairs.
Quickly Disillusioning himself, he stood as still as possible, praying that his racing heart and ragged breathing weren't as loud as he thought they were. A blue light came on at the end of the dark hallway, and he held his breath as it drew closer, the tell-tale sound of cloth rustling against the dusty wooden boards confirming his suspicions as to who the person was.
The light stopped moving for a moment before swinging from side to side, and then drew even closer. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end as the person stopped just a foot or two away from where he was. There was a quiet murmur, and one of the lamps fixed to the wall burst into flame, the iron brackets sizzling as the fire settled down.
He could see her face, now, and her cold, eerie black eyes and pale, wrinkling skin did nothing to placate him.
"I know you're here," his sister said in a ghostly voice, her eyes flickering to where he was standing.
His heart thudded in his chest, but she quickly looked past him, turning in a slow circle, wand brandished before her.
"And I know why you're here," she said in the same, spine-chilling tone of voice. "But you didn't have to come. What you're looking for is long gone. It's already on its way to its true master."
He bit his tongue to keep from cursing out loud, mentally berating himself for his idiocy. Of course the artefacts were no longer in Grimmauld Place. Why would they be? His sister and her husband had been silently smuggling Dark artefacts across the country to Voldemort for a while, now, so why would they suddenly stop?
He had prayed, had hoped, that Walburga hadn't been involved in any of the Muggle and Muggleborn murders that had been taking place, but now he couldn't delude himself into thinking otherwise. It had frightened him how much Walburga and Orion had supported the Dark Lord, and now, as he stood staring into his sister's haunted eyes, he knew there was no longer any hope for either of them.
What it was she was so desperately clinging to, he didn't know. From the expectant look in her eyes, she could have seemed as though she wanted him to have found the artefacts—as though she wanted to be caught red-handed. Or maybe that was what he wanted to see. He could recognise the glimmer of hopelessness in her eyes anywhere, though. He had stared into those seemingly bottomless pools of black for over half a century, now, and he knew, despite the expressionless, unfeeling exterior she always had, and the cold, emotionless look in her eyes, that she was still capable of feeling.
She was still capable of being frightened and overwhelmed.
But he didn't understand why she did it. Other than the fact that neither her nor her husband could go back on their promise of providing Lord Voldemort with Dark artefacts, and supporting him in his madness, he didn't understand why she chose to be so loyal to a madman who would cut her down without a second thought, if she ever displeased him. Yes, he agreed that she shared the Dark Lord's ideals and beliefs about a world where Purebloods would reign supreme—as she thought was their right—over lesser folk, but to go to this extent…
She stood there, eyes searching the space on either side of the broom cupboard, looking lost, and he had the sudden urge to embrace her as he would have when they were younger, and tell her that everything would be alright—
—That there wasn't a war waging outside their front door, and that all their lives weren't in jeopardy.
But although he could see the insecurities and the fear within those deep, black orbs, he could also see the fearless determination of a Black woman. He knew, irrespective of what he said or did, she would continue to fight this fight on her own. She would continue to support a madman, knowing he could cut her down without the slightest sign of remorse, and still continue to serve him from the shadows as she did.
For that was the curse of Toujours Pur—that was the burden she had to bear, and may he be damned if she ever faltered in the slightest. Walburga Black was not a woman who feared, she was a woman who was feared, and for good reason, too. When she smiled, a smug, self-important smirk, he was reminded, once again, that his sister had made her choices on her own, well aware of the consequences that would befall her if she were to walk down the path of her choice.
She did what she did with a clear mind and unwavering determination. He wouldn't go so far as to call her insane, but the mental expression on her face was very near that of insanity. She had chosen to immerse herself into the madness and he knew that she knew that there was no way out. It was too late, now, and she was too far gone, and out of his reach, for saving.
Just as they locked eyes again, a knowing look illuminating her empty orbs, there was the click of the front door opening. Both heads snapped to the side, listening intently as several voices carried up the stairs. The gruff, untamed voices of Death Eaters.
Walburga slowly looked towards him, her eyes wide and—may he be doomed if he ever spoke of it—fearful. Her fear wasn't of them, he was sure, it was for them. She most probably feared that they would wreak havoc in her home and suffer a very painful death at her welcoming hands. He knew she hated that the vile henchmen of the Dark Lord were using her home as a haven, even if they supported the same cause. She wouldn't turn them away, though, never, but that didn't mean she had to be happy about it.
One of the Death Eaters called for her, just then, and her face twisted in disgust, anger shining in her eyes. She looked in his direction one last time before spinning on her heel and striding away. Just as he thought she would leave, she stopped, fumbled around within the heavily embroidered belt around her waist, and leaning down, placed something on the floor. She looked over her shoulder at the door to the far left—that had once been Orion's study, still with a functioning fireplace—and then at the spot where he stood.
By the time he glanced towards the door and back, she was gone. He crept forwards and squinted, barely making out the small, brass key on the ground. He waited till he could only hear muffled voices, and then carefully made his way down the hallway, afraid the floorboards would creak under his weight.
He leaned down to pick up the key just as he heard a door slam shut, and a loud argument broke out between two Death Eaters. In his hurry to get to the Floo, he almost missed the three words scrawled in the dust.
Don't come back.
He'd just shut the door, when there was a resounding crash from the floor below, and he hastened to the Floo, barely hesitating before throwing down the powder and quickly articulating his destination. He didn't need to be told to understand the meaning of her words.
Don't come back—it's dangerous. Mad or not, on opposing sides or not, an instrument to murder or not, it relieved him some that she was still his sister. At least, irrespective of how many years had passed, that one thing hadn't changed.
c. 1985
"They never suspected a thing, for all these years."
"I wouldn't have expected them to," he said, stuffing a rather large piece of muffin into his mouth. "After all," he continued when his mouth no longer resembled that of a chipmunk, "they were looking in all the wrong places."
"That may as well be true," Ignatius replied, easing into the armchair opposite his, a brooding expression on his face, "but, Alfie, how much longer will you be here? There may no longer be any threat to your life, anymore, but still…"
"You get stressed over the silliest of things, Ignatius—"
"It isn't silly, Alphard!" the Prewett snapped, cutting him off. "The war may be over and Vol—He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named—may be dead—"
"You can say it, you know, Voldemort. No harm done, see?"
"—but that doesn't mean his supporters aren't still out there," Ignatius barked, his eyes bugging out as he heaved, looking like he'd taken a hit to the gut.
Alphard sighed. "An old man like you shouldn't be doing strenuous things like housing fugitives, you know," he said lightly, grinning at the furious look on the other man's face.
"And whose fault d'you think that is, you fool!" Ignatius spluttered indignantly, his face going red.
Alphard shrugged. "I can't say that I don't understand how you must feel, considering my fugitive's status stems from the fact that I helped my dear old sister's boy. I'll bet she's rolling in her grave, now."
"Or she's mighty pleased with herself, considering Sirius is currently locked up in Azkaban—for good, too. It's been four years, now, and there's no sign of him ever getting a proper trial."
"You make it sound as though you're talking about burying him," Alphard murmured.
"Just as good as," Ignatius grunted, leaning back and sighing heavily. "That boy's had it coming for years, I tell you, having a mother like his."
"She's still my sister, you know," Alphard remarked lightly as he peeled an orange. "I won't disagree that she was a crazy old bat, but still my sister, nonetheless."
Ignatius scoffed, shaking his head. "Lucretia still idolises her to an extent. You should listen to her talk about Walburga—she speaks of her as though Walburga was some sort of hero. Admittedly, she does go on about how cracked in the head she was, too."
"She was," Alphard murmured, focusing on the way the juice squirted out of the orange as he squeezed it.
"Mad? I'll say. Right off her rocker, that one."
"A hero of sorts, I meant," Alphard said, but Ignatius was talking over him.
"But enough about your late sister, let's get back to the topic of discussion—what you're going to do."
Alphard shrugged, yawning as he settled back in the armchair and plopped the orange piece into his mouth. "'Dunno."
Ignatius stared at him, looking exhausted. "Alfie…"
"If you want me to leave, I'll leave," Alphard said idly, finishing up the orange and rising from his seat. "And anyway, I intended on visiting Grimmauld Place soon."
Ignatius looked surprise, and although he masked it well, he asked, "That dingy old hovel? What in the world for?"
Alphard scratched his chin, looking out the window and eyeing the pinkish sky. "Well… I just thought I would go check in on that batty old elf that still lives there. Make sure it isn't dead or rotting away in its own bodily fluids."
Ignatius scrunched up his nose in disgust and Alphard chuckled. Although he had no real intention of returning to that dingy old hovel, as the Prewett had rightfully put it, he knew the older wizard could use some time alone with his wife, not worrying about him being on the other side of the rather thinly plastered walls.
He quickly packed up his stuff—not that he had all that much on him anyway—and pulling on his cloak, made his way to the door.
"Alfie," Ignatius said as he hobbled over to see him off, "you do know that you no longer need to be burdened by your so-called fugitive status, right?"
"Why? Because the woman who blasted me off the tapestry is dead?"
Ignatius grimaced at Alphard's bluntness, but the latter simply shrugged a shoulder. He'd gotten so used to being branded as a traitor that he no longer felt like he could be anything else. Also, and he couldn't admit this outright because that would lead to more controversies than he wanted, he rather liked not being burdened by the legacy of Toujours Pur. He liked having the ability to behave as he pleased and do as he pleased, without having someone constantly looking over his shoulder to make sure he didn't have a single toe out of line.
He remembered, almost two decades ago, when he had chosen to sit the war out. When he had made conscious decisions, henceforth, to stay away from anything related to the war, or Voldemort, or his sister and her husband's support for the Dark Wizard's cause. He didn't even remember the last time he had spoken with Walburga, and now, as he walked through the streets of a quiet, peaceful Britain, he couldn't help but wonder—was the path she had chosen to follow as fruitless as the one he had chosen? Had she felt the smallest bit of regret when she had passed on? Had she wondered if, had she done things differently, the outcome would have been any different?
Probably not, he thought, as he Disapparated and then reappeared in front of Grimmauld Place. He looked around, glad to see that the streets were deserted, and walked up to the gap between the houses numbered Eleven and Thirteen.
It had taken him about two decades, but he was finally ready to admit that yes, he was a Black, whether or not he wanted to be one.
You do not choose Toujours Pur, Toujours Pur chooses you, right, sister? he thought as he stepped into the abandoned house, cringing at the thick smell of dust and disuse clinging to everything and nearly suffocating him. Pressing a palm to his mouth and nose, he strode down the hallway. Upon reaching the door at the very end of it, he stared at the knob for a very long time. Before he could commence a debate with himself as to whether or not he wanted to turn back and leave, there was the sound of screens drawing apart, and a familiar voice addressed him in all its former, icy glory.
"I told you not to come back, Alphard."
He looked over his shoulder, at his sister's portrait eyeing him disdainfully, and couldn't help but smirk. Turning back towards the door, he grasped the knob and carefully turned it.
"Are you finally ready to admit it, Alphard? That I was always right?"
Shaking his head, he stepped into the dusty old room. Dead or alive, it seemed like Walburga would still have the last word, as long as they both remained in Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. After all, even though decades had passed, nothing really ever changed.
And this, ladies and gentlemen, is the story written for the Final Round of the Grand Battle Challenge hosted by Diagon Alley II [link in my profile]. Prompts have been underlined as per the rules of the challenge, and, I have to say, if there are certain factual errors, please ignore them, I know they're there and chose to take the liberties that come with writing fanfiction. [lol]
So this is my first time writing any of these characters, so suggestions on characterisation etc. would be gratefully accepted.
A huge shout out to my awesome beta, lokilette, for so quickly editing this piece and letting me sleep in peace.
Lots of love~
Arty.
Prompts:
Walburga Black/Orion Black 3
Abraxas Malfoy 2 [Negates a condition on any prompt if you bring in Lucius]
Walburga Black 3 [Plus 1 Extra Prompt of 2p if you mention decapitating House-elves]
Alphard Black 4 [Plus 1 Spell Prompt if you mention him helping Sirius]
Ignatius Prewett 4
Alohomora 2 [Plus 1 Dialogue Prompt BUT you cannot choose any Extra Prompts]
"A war is coming… and we are at the heart of it." 3
"Honour? Loyalty? Blood Purity comes before all that." 3
(phrase) all the wrong places 2
Pre-Wizarding War I [No Dialogue Prompts] 10
During Wizarding War I [No Extra Prompts] 10
Post-Wizarding War I [No Spell Prompts] 10
=56