Sometimes people liked to say a very jinx-y phrase: Well, at least things can't get any worse.
This was very unfortunate because Hermione Granger had said such phrase amidst the ill brain of one Tom Marvolo Riddle, who, upon hearing this, had this to say: ''You've doomed us.''
Walburga fell down and hit her head against the cobblestone street of Diagon Alley. Blood spilled and pooled underneath her. She blinked, oddly, trying for some semblance of control. Her fingers felt crushed underneath her body and she had to admit that, perhaps, having such a good cook like Kreacher wasn't paying off for her. Her head spun like a ferris wheel out of control and she heard cacophony, muffled albeit because her head was bleeding and her brain was telling her that something was unimaginably wrong. A part of her, this part of her that was weak, told her to sleep and that everything would be fine. Walburga said 'fuck you' to this part of herself and tried to lift herself up.
Hermione asked her wheezy and sleepy and wounded mentor why he had memories from Walburga's point of view. He just shrugged and said that he had scoured her mind once in the 1960s and that it hadn't been a kind experience.
''I pushed most of it down, but it seems that all of what I've pushed down has decided to rear its head up.''
''Rotten luck, that.''
Tom snorted at such an understatement. ''You've really no clue, child.'' He was still coming to terms with the fact that Walburga Black had just resurrected herself, as if it wasn't anything difficult or remotely impossible. But, furthermore, Tom Riddle absolutely hated the fact that something he feared with all of his being (death) was nothing more than a minor inconvenience for the woman. That really irked him on a fundamental level.
Another blast of light rocketed past Walburga Black, only missing her by a fraction of a hair. Walburga blinked again, trying to fight off the subtle pain that told her that, oh, she had fucked up supremely by coming to Diagon Alley during her father-in-law's speech for support. She had, in fact, made a grave error in being front and centre as her father-in-law went on to mention Nobby Leach's suicide for the umpteenth time.
Her being hit and bleeding was definitely not an occurrence that had just happened out of nowhere. It was, by all accounts, a long time coming. Walburga pushed herself to her wobbly feet and made herself walk like a baby deer. Because it was winter time, she slipped on the ice and rued the day anyone had ever not bothered to cast a warming charm on these stones – it was a safety hazard, Merlin and Morgana! A safety hazard! What if a pregnant woman slipped? Or a child? Walburga wasn't pregnant anymore, but had two hellions instead who would push each other to fall. Sirius, and she could see this, was growing up to be her exact replica. It scared her. That eternal fire in his heart. Hopefully his tongue would be curbed by her teachings.
First, however, she would need to get up properly and apparate out of this madness. Her eyes glazed over the sight in front of her. Aurors took out their wands and told the protesters to calm down and stop being nuisances, but, as Walburga knew deep down inside, there was no worth talking to filthy instigators of violence like Nobby's bunch was.
During Arcturus' speech Walburga had seen Mandy Leach – Sullivan, as they had started to calling her because she hadn't been married by magical means, only in muggle law. It was both meant as an insult to her and her love for her mudblood husband, and it was, also, meant to be used as a way to lessen the guilt from the Nobby Leach supporters when they, ultimately, turned their back on her.
There were rumours that they'd stripped Mandy Sullivan of her healer's licence. For what reasons, Walburga didn't know. As a matter of fact, she wasn't even certain that these rumours were true, at all.
What she was certain of was that Mage Britain was not safe anymore. And what a terrifying revelation that was – albeit an obvious one if only one had a tiny bit of foresight. What could happen to people after a group of select people took away the one person that had fought for their rights as adamantly as he'd fought for his own? What happened to the world after said select few made this so-called messiah of theirs into an unstable and definitely unfit to lead individual, a charlatan that everyone was a fool for believing in?
Nothing good. That was the short answer.
Arcturus had been taken away by his security detail after having been shot at. Walburga had been lost in the fanfare of spell fire that erupted and was now coming to terms that she couldn't get out of the way of this. That she was a target for a group of very wronged individuals, which was a funny way of saying that she'd come to realise, in her blunder, that the common folk far outnumbered the ones a part of an oligarchy. And what was the Twenty-Eight if not an oligarchy which wished to seize all power for itself?
Not to mention that Walburga had felt so alone during this time, even with her family surrounding her and being just as outraged by the current political and societal climate of their world as she was. Thoros was off hiding in Iceland with his wife, Elektra. Abraxas was off in a bloody, muggle rehabilitation facility because – and this had irked Walburga the most – mages hadn't thought that cocaine was a very big problem. And how could they when some of them still put the damned thing in cough syrup! Because they were stuck in the 19th century by standards and laws and it was obscene! Walburga was going to cut someone's head off.
Eileen was pretending to be beyond the magical world and wouldn't answer a single owl she'd sent. And Walburga had sent a few dozen owls because she was going to lose her mind one of these days as this world was going insane.
The crème de la crème, however, manifested itself in the fact that Tom Riddle had just up and disappeared! The fucker left her to deal with Abraxas! The fiend! Walburga, were she capable of standing up for longer than a few seconds at a time, would swear vengeance and rid the world of him. How dare he spend time away from this madness! How dare he live it up in Yugoslavia or Albania or wherever else he'd gone this time around.
Oh, Walburga mocked feebly, look at me – I am Tom Riddle, I am a little twat with no upbringing. Everything is going smoothly in my life and I have nothing that can match up to the problems of Walburga Black.
Then Walburga liked to imagine that just as much as she thought and obsessed over Tom Riddle he did the same about her because if she wasn't the centre of attention for someone, then that someone was definitely deranged in some shape or form.
For a brief moment Walburga noticed the world around her – really, truly noticed it and had to concede that it was pushed into anarchy.
When another, last spell hit her, Walburga almost completely lost consciousness. The only reason why she didn't think she had been rendered immobile was because a series of thoughts and pictures flickered through her mind so rapidly that it caused her head to pop open and her mouth to tear apart for a scream to rip through her.
She saw a wide variety of things. There was an embarrassing amount of Tom Riddle in her thoughts. This filthy arriviste was going to ruin her.
Walburga clawed at her head, embedded nails to her skull, and bled for all of her unjustly actions. Through her eyes flickered a series of snapshots, images, and memories that combusted her head into dire, unseemly flames. Her neuron passageways were aflame and she struggled not only to stand, but to think – to do the most human and ingrained and nonchalant action of any member of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.
She saw Orion smiling at her as he held Sirius post birth, it was truly the happiest she'd ever seen her love. Walburga hiccupped and shook as she stumbled through the thoughts, her head threatening to burst like an overflowing balloon that had taken up a lot more than it could physically handle.
Sirius and Regulus giving her one of their little gifts – crafty, creative little finks that they were (they got that from their painter of a father, not her – never her who destroyed everything she touched and everything that she brought into the world (this horrible, hideous, warren, and monstrous world)). They wrote mummy on the label and said that it was her that they drew. Walburga remembered that she had conjured a frame for the drawing, telling them that it was incredible.
Oh gods, oh gods – her children – her children were in this world – in this world that Abraxas had ruined.
Abraxas then entered her mind. Walburga whimpered, feeling an ice creep into her very mind at the sight of him. He always had that effect on people, unnatural and inhuman as he was. Walburga had thought herself capable of taming him, of making him her own while they were betrothed, but he had become something beyond anyone's comprehension steadily, gradually. Walburga remembered the last time she'd seen Abraxas. It was a day after he'd killed Nobby Leach – and they knew this – she and Elektra and Thoros and Tom Riddle (who had not even tried to hide his revulsion and horror, which Walburga had thought beyond hypocritical given his little accident with Myrtle Warren, but Walburga, also, needed to only remember what had transpired with the Wizengamot to fully understand what it was that the author wanted to convey).
''I'm fine!'' Abraxas had not been fine. Walburga thought of her children who were going to be growing up and living through this unstable and transitional period. As much as she hated Nobby Leach – and she hated him from the bottom of her heart to the top of her hellfire-spitting tongue – she hated war and instability more. Her family was indestructible, no matter who was in charge of the bloody Ministry.
But this... her family wasn't indestructible during protests and painful spellfire and rowdy aurors and the world self-destructing around her. No, her family wasn't safe at all.
And even though Walburga would like her last moments to be about thinking back to fond memories with her family, it kept straying back to fucking Abraxas Malfoy and what a high, addicted fink he had been that day.
Thoros was the one that apprehended him. Tom Riddle had only had his arms crossed as he stared at Abraxas begging him not to let them take him away (did he even understand that they were only trying to help him by getting him away from Eileen's influence). Walburga had expected better from Eileen, really.
But Abraxas had been so adamant, so pretty, also, in his distress. Walburga was losing her mind. She found men in distress absolutely ravishing. Ugh. It was most inconvenient, given how Tom Riddle and Abraxas Malfoy both were incredibly stressed and ripe for ruining.
They'd sent off one of Walburga's longest and dearest friends to a muggle facility on the other side of the world in bloody Australia.
''He has an aunt there.'' Thoros said, a world of worry in his voice: ''If anything is to happen she can intervene. Hopefully nothing will happen.''
''Sevin Malfoy is a disgraced witch.'' Walburga had said snidely, but now she thought about what a kind thing it was to have at least some family nearby while going through such a traumatic experience. The farthest Abraxas had ever gone was France, sheltered scion of a pureblood famille that he was.
''Disgraced as she may be, she is all that he has out there. And were we to take him to a facility somewhere nearby it would get out into the public. 'Abraham Mallory' is safest so far away.'' Thoros explained to her gently, trying to temper her temper. Walburga would not allow this to happen, so she yelled some more at poor, morose Thoros until his wife, Elektra, kindly guided the conversation back to where it was meant to go.
''He needs help, but he needs to be away from the people who have made him go through with such abuse.''
''Abuse! He is mad, Lovegood!'' It was instinctual to call Elektra Lovegood by her maiden name.
Thoros scoffed: ''Lady Nott deserves to be addressed properly.''
Elektra winked at her husband and took his hand in hers, letting him know that she was always going to be his wife, no matter the ignorance of impropriety of others. ''I know this, my love. You know this, too. Do not let other people's feelings and insecurities get to you.''
Elektra Lovegood was wise for her age, wise for any age, really. Most accredited this to her being stolen by the fairies from the Seelie Court when she was a baby. If the fairies went out of their way to steal you away and raise you as their own servant child or most coveted treasure, then it had to be because you were someone of high worth.
''Tom,'' from the other room, Abraxas had been shouting,''Tom, I love you! Come back, don't let them do this – Tom!''
Tom Riddle had been livid and it broke Abraxas. A lack of understanding danced in his eyes then. They had definitely hurt poor Abraxas. Tom turned towards Walburga and sneered at her: ''Have you come here to gloat, you vulture? Come to feast upon this carcass like you've always wished to?''
Walburga had just opened her mouth to let loose another tirade when the memory shifted to something else. Something not recent at all.
A young Tom Riddle shifted in her vision. He was laughing with someone, but the moment he saw her his smile fell to be replaced by a grim line.
''Wot?'' He said.
Walburga, unlike her other compatriots from the Twenty-Eight, actually understood Tom Riddle because she was from London herself. Not Woolwich, of course, because that was just inane, but she was from the capital city and that meant that, on a level, she got Riddle.
''I just wanted to say hello.'' Walburga said, feigning interest in whatever it was that someone like Tom Riddle might be up to. She hadn't thought him an interesting individual at all in her youth, but in retrospect (and with a little more context than was previously given) she could see that he wasn't someone to cross off easily.
''Hello.'' Tom Riddle said and turned away from her, his shoulders tense and his form irritated to see her. Unlike with everyone else whom he knew he could fool in varying degrees, it was with her that he showed his true animosity – perhaps, exactly because of the fact that she wouldn't give in to his attempts, wouldn't fall for his little plays of pretend.
''You are aware, I hope,'' Walburga said, her voice annoyed now, too, ''that we are both in Slytherin, and we are both fifth years.'' She glanced down at his prefect badge, which was pinned neatly to his robe as a way to both show off his newfound status and placate himself in private that his life wasn't a trainwreck and that he was worth two knuts.
Realisation began to dawn in Riddle's eyes. She continued, now enjoying his utter lack of decorum. ''No.'' He whispered, horrified.
Walburga unfurled her robe ever so slightly to show off a prefect badge, as well.
His voice rose:''No!''
Walburga grinned. If she were an evil sort of person she might have even danced a jig, or even pushed past her feelings of disgust for his blood, in favour of her utter delight at seeing him hot and bothered around her in order to kiss the delinquency out of him. And he was a delinquent. She'd seen the way he eyed everyone's belongings, the way he took more than was enough food, the way he kept looking at Abraxas Malfoy like he was some sort of target to be robbed. Oh, Walburga saw everything.
'' We're prefects, Riddle.''
''God.'' Tom Riddle used that word like a curse word.
Walburga only grinned harder. ''God dess .'' She happily corrected him.
The way he eyed her then, was full of hatred. She relished in it. She'd bathe herself in that expression all day long if she only could. It would replace all of her carefully curated lotions. It would warm her better than any cashmere scarf.
He turned away, quickly, hating, even more, how she obviously wouldn't back down
Walburga hoped that whatever she felt towards Riddle would leave her be. It wasn't like there was some more respectable version of Tom Riddle out there for her to fancy freely and work through her inane and dastardly and inconvenient feelings on.
Tom Riddle's lips pulled back in a sneer as she said to her, leaving very little to the imagination: ''Stay out of my way, Miss Black, and we will not have any problems.''
Walburga hated the fact that this man was so handsome. She wanted to crush his face against hers and pit her tongue against his in a battle for dominance which – of course – the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black would win.
For now she only said – and what a horrible thought to realise that this was one of the last things on Walburga Black's mind right before her own brain shut down – ''Be professional, mudblood. It is the least you can do.''
Just when Walburga had become resigned to her agony, her torture came to a halt when a thought, a voice pierced through her mind and told her, never so gently: ''Walburga, this type of behaviour doesn't look like the kind of way a Black would act. Pull yourself together.''
This mellifluous and completely done and tired voice belonged to one Mandy Leach. Walburga's eyes popped open and she realised that what had hit her head was a spell designed to incapacitate a legilimens. All Blacks were legilimens to a degree. It had been planned and it chilled her to her heart (yes, she had one; yes, everyone was surprised by this).
Mandy Leach grinned down at her and said, having healed her with her wand (which she kept tapping impatiently or she kept tapping it a certain number of times, Walburga truly didn't pay attention to other people's neurosis): ''Were I to leave you in your mind for only a moment longer you would have become completely eaten alive by your thoughts. Overwhelmed, as well, I reckon, by the thoughts surrounding you.''
Little known fact about Walburga Black was that she could be very empathetic, but that she had trained herself to believe that these thoughts didn't mean anything to her because, otherwise, she'd get drowned by them. So, yes, if she seemed a tad cold and uncharacteristically high-and-mighty that was because she had chosen to be a righteous bitch that could most certainly and most easily understand people's feelings but had just decided against doing so because it seemed like too much effort.
She blinked the daze out of her eyes and stared deep into Mandy Leach's. They were haunted eyes. But the scar on her face seemed to be more of a prominent mark, a more permanent mark, as well.
''You have beautiful eyes.'' Walburga was dazed. Mandy knew this. She smiled down at her and told her that she had just saved her life. ''Thank you.'' Walburga blurted out. It had seemed appropriate. She wished to be more dangerous, she wished to be more her usual self – but she couldn't. All she felt was drained. She hadn't anyone to rely on aside from Orion, and he was too busy helping her raise their children. He was slowly pulling away from the Ministry, choosing to leave his own father stranded and pitted against the whole of magical Britain. It was all in order to save himself, and with him his children. Walburga, he'd told her, he didn't believe she needed any saving.
But that was wrong. A mudblood that hated her guts, that had every reason to hate her and her whole family, had just saved her.
''You owe me a life debt.'' Mandy Leach shook Walburga awake fully. Emerging her from one nightmare and flinging her into another. ''I aim to collect immediately.''
Walburga didn't know whether to count this as a blessing or not. ''You are a healer. By law and oath you cannot garner any life debts from your patients.''
''You are a patient, I am certain. Not mine, however. Nor any of my colleagues.'' Mandy Leach wasn't a Ravenclaw but her husband was one and she no doubt had made herself accustomed to riddles and half-truths. Walburga's mind flickered again, hurting, but not nearly as hard as it had before Leach's healing. She saw Nobby Leach standing next to Mandy, and then she saw Mandy standing beside Nobby Leach but the pictures that kept going didn't fit. They couldn't fit properly.
There was something missing, something between where Nobby stood in her mind and where Mandy did. Walburga was a natural legilimens. She needed to only open her eyes and read.
Mandy lunged backwards, not expecting such an intrusion from someone in Walburga's state.
Tom Riddle stood in the centre of all of this.
Walburga threw up a little in her mouth. Ugh, some people gave themselves way too much room in the world to fuck things up and make it harder on everyone else. Walburga thought that this was incredibly selfish of Tom Riddle and she blamed him for this whole debacle. If she could, and she had tried, she would find a way of blaming Tom Riddle for World War II. But, he had a good alibi, what with being a child. The fink. How dare he?
Mandy Sullivan demanded that Walburga find Voldemort and bring him back. ''I don't know what your lot has done to him, but I will help him get out if it's the last thing I do. He isn't one of you.''
Mandy Sullivan and Walburga Black agreeing on something? It was more likely than anyone thought!
Walburga, too, agreed that Tom Riddle wasn't one of them. He was an outsider. A pretty outsider, but nonetheless he didn't belong.
''Get to it.'' Mandy Sullivan didn't waste time as she sent Walburga off on her task. ''The quicker you do this the fast you'll stop owing your life to a mudblood. Chop chop.''
''Oooh.''
''What, sir?''
''Ooohhh, that's why the bitch came for me.''
''What, where?''
''In a swamp.''
''Excuse me?''
''I lived in a swamp for a few years.''
''WHY?!''
''It seemed more peaceful than what the Twenty-Eight offered me.''
Walburga, in order to find a sliver of Tom Riddle's whereabouts, first needed to go to the last place where the man lived. Which was Malfoy Manor.
What she didn't expect to find there was an escaped Abraxas Malfoy, who was very cross with his friends and family.
He had short hair. Walburga blinked. ''That's a bold look for you.''
''THEY CUT MY HAIR!'' Abraxas wailed. ''Those muggles cut my hair and said that it was a product of my addiction and reminded me solely of the life which had forced me into becoming addicted! All Malfoys have long hair! Like this I am no one!''
''A tragedy of epic proportions, I'm sure.'' Walburga had sported short hair after Sirius was born because the little minx started pulling it. She wasn't a great fan of losing control against a bloody toddler.
''IT IS!'' Abraxas continued to wail.
''How did you escape from Australia?'' Walburga didn't know if anyone would be dumb enough to give this man a portkey, and he couldn't craft one without a wand. He wasn't that powerful. Did he look high, was her next question? Not really. He looked drunk, though, which wasn't a stellar improvement.
''I apparated.'' Abraxas wasn't balanced as he paced, or attempted to pace, around the foyer of Malfoy Manor. He limped, as if sustaining some sort of injury.
''Excuse me?''
Cross continental apparation wasn't unheard of, but it was rare and incredibly dangerous. One in ten thousand made it unscathed. Walburga wondered if his hair had been splinched. ''Did they cut off your hair or did you splinch it in your apparating?'' Her eyes strayed to the leg and she could see that it was bleeding.
''They cut it off with scissors! It was devastating! I do not resemble any Malfoy!''
''Well.'' Walburga didn't want to say that he looked fetching with short hair, and that long hair was an absolute mess to deal with on an everyday basis, so she only added: ''It is a change. Accept changes that come into your life, Abraxas.'' Then, ''Why are you here?''
He told her that he had tired of rehab and was going to stay here where his proper and rightful place was. Walburga told him that that wasn't at all what was going to happen and that he needed to go back to rehab to get his addiction under control. ''Your actions have devastated the world.''
''Peh!''
Fine, Walburga could play dirty and be emotionally manipulative. ''Your actions have hurt Tom Riddle. He's gone far away and I need to find him. Who knows if he's even alive!''
This he cared about and didn't instantly brush off. ''Tom wouldn't die…You're exaggerating.''
''He's lost. I've decided to be a good person and go looking for him. Have you got anything embedded with his magic that I could track him by?''
Abraxas decided to cause a great fuss about going with her. Walburga wasn't one to take on charity cases. She told him to piss off, managed to spell him immobile (as his wand was still with her someplace in Grimmauld Place until he got better), and then fire-called Thoros from Iceland.
He sighed a sigh of a man who was in dire need of new friends. ''Brax, why won't you let us take care of you?''
Abraxas didn't wish to speak with them. Fine, Walburga went to rummage about Malfoy Manor in search of that blasted journal she'd seen Tom Riddle covet as if it were his own two eyes.
Yvette Malfoy's portrait looked down on her in the literal sense. Walburga Black looked down on her in the metaphorical sense. Neither enjoyed each other's company.
''You could have put him in line.'' Yvette said. ''He would have been a biddable husband to you.''
''Yes, but I rather prefer our friendship. You ruined him. He'll pull through, of course, I'll make sure of it.''
Yvette was just about to say something deprecating about her son when Walburga talked over her, quite a pro at doing this: ''You bore me. I am on a mission and cannot be bothered with your irate nattering. Either tell me where I can find Riddle's belongings or I'll remove you.''
''Remove me?'' Yvette floundered unexpectedly at the threat. She had expected Walburga to be much classier than this. Walburga had tired of being classy for the sake of old pureblood ladies fawning over her.
''Yes. I shall have you removed and buried in a box, or a trunk, or a treasure chest – and then you shall rot as the magic feeding your existence will fade. It will be slow and it will be underneath my family home where Abraxas will never be able to get to you. He is the only one keeping you alive in this form. Do remember that your existence depends solely on his good will. And…well, my thinning patience.''
Yvette's face blanched. The French were terribly expressive. Walburga took out her wand and tapped it against her palm, awaiting a proper response. Yvette's portrait swung to reveal a secret door. Walburga bid her adieu and thanked her for her help. ''It is always good to find that foreigners like you know their place.''
Walburga found the diary and thus found herself in the presence of a sixteen-year-old.
He stuck his tongue out at her. ''If it isn't Miss Black, as terrible as ever, I see.''
''Shut up, you child.''
''I have… absolutely… no recollection about any of this happening.''
''You never tried accessing your horcruxes before?''
''Never really tried it. Once you make one, that part of your soul just stops being yours. It's like when a child is born and they cut the cord…''
''Well, you know, I think souls are a tad more complicated than that.''
''Could be.''
''Please, don't fall asleep and leave me here all alone to fend off your own mind.''
''I shall try.''
Abraxas was causing a great big fuss about everything. Thoros, always weak on him, got overwhelmed. Walburga pinched the bridge of her nose and said, more for her benefit than anyone else's: ''Imagine marrying that thing…''
His emotions were repugnantly all over the place. Walburga had to bat them away with her mental shields, otherwise she would fall prey to their noxious and dastardly presence. She had very little, if no, patience for people going through a lot and needing help. Walburga never needed any help! She was just perfect!
The Diary in her presence called her names. She wondered if she would ever stop both wanting and hating Tom Riddle's guts. ''Stop acting like a child.'' She imagined that only a twelve-year-old might find the presence of sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle suave and intimidating.
''Are you here to apologize to me for being a bitch and causing me so much grief and only bolstering my fear of death?''
Walburga, of course, would not apologize for things that she did not see as her responsibility. ''OF COURSE NOT!''
Abraxas looked over to her. He was crying those fat ugly tears that Walburga had trained herself not to exhibit in fear of shaming herself and her bouts of rare emotional vulnerability.
She breathed in deeply and sighed equally as such. ''Your emotions are your own. Your thoughts are your own. Keep them to yourself and do not accept foreign ones that only want to contradict your path.'' A layer of magic swirled around her as she finished saying this small mantra. It was more of a prayer to herself, really, because Walburga would rather fuck muggle men in the afterlife than she would pray to someone else. ''Abraxas, I have very little patience for your hysterics.''
Abraxas looked at her then and somehow cried harder. Walburga sighed, aggravated. None of this was going as she planned. She took his face in her hands and said, because every time she asked Abraxas to bend down slightly in order for her to get a hold of him, it always made things awkward: "Don't you think that being proper like all Malfoys before you is agreeable? Shouldn't it be top priority, dear Abraxas? You must return to us with a clear head that is screwed on right, mustn't you?" Walburga smiled. She tried for it to be motherly. A bit sick, she conceded, to pretend to be a mother to a grown man. Men really were stunted.
Abraxas squirmed. He tried to speak, but he expected Walburga to cut him off so he did not continue. But Walburga didn't cut him off. She waited, in fact. When he caught on that she would not be angry with him for speaking his mind, it was like a flood broke through a dam. Walburga would endure. She needed to find Riddle and the only one that might be able to help her was locked inside of an emotional wreck lovingly called Braxas Malfoy. ''Let it out.'' She gazed into his eyes and coaxed everything out of him, letting him know that she was going to be there for him. That, if anything, he could always count on her.
''I do not want to go back.'' Abraxas hiccuped into her hair. She'll need to wash it. ''Don't make me go back, Walbie.''
Thoros rolled his eyes and grimaced out of sight. He relayed to Walburga that Abraxas was, as always, being a very giant nuisance and drama queen.
''Has anyone hurt you?'' Walburga asked Abraxas instead. They were sending him to muggles, after all. Nothing less than the absolute horrid could be expected.
Abraxas opened his mouth, but this time Walburga cut him off. ''Be honest.''
After a lengthy pause, he sighed. ''No.'' He tried to touch his hair, no doubt wanting to twirl it as he always did when nervous and scared. There was no hair to curl. They had cut it very short, indeed. ''Nobody has hurt me. Hair will grow back.''
''I like your hair.'' Walburga said, always being able to pinpoint people's weaknesses. Usually she used this to knock them down. Here, she used her abilities to build someone up. ''It suits you. Aren't you the first Abraxas?'' Gods knew Walburga wasn't the first Walburga in her family line. But Abraxas was a strange name, even by magical standards.
''I am.'' Abraxas whispered. ''It came to my father in a dream.''
Walburga nodded. ''That's wonderful. It shows that you are unique and much stronger than your family. A fresh start, a piece that doesn't need to be the same as all the others. Isn't that right? Just look at how you dress, you madman!''
He cracked a smile. His emotions were overwhelming her. Walburga breathed in shakily and out even shakier. ''Why do you have to be like all the other Malfoys?''
''It's expected… I have to be.''
Walburga made a grimace because, well, yes, he had to be. She had to be. Thoros had to be. Everyone had to be like their ancestors in the sense that it was improper if one didn't try and uphold their values, but - then again - Walburga, also, wanted to tell Abraxas that running away wasn't such a bad thing either. She'd planned on eloping with Orion if the Malfoys wouldn't break off the engagement. It wasn't anything she just told people, of course. How could she? It was improper! But the sentiment was, very much, there.
''Do you ever feel drowned by your family's expectations, Walbie?'' Abraxas asked her and Walburga wanted to change the subject very badly. She could feel his displeasure emanating off of him, seeping from him in abundance, and attacking her like a tidal wave, like a tsunami. Walburga did not like it when she had to be nice to people, especially not when she actually had to listen to them and take in what they were saying. It was a burden she was not fond of. Orion was enough. Abraxas, only this once, she would make an exception for.
''I do, Abraxas.'' She whispered. Thoros glanced over at them, then. He was still there. It was easy to forget about him, as quiet and unnoticeable as he could be. There had to be something strange about him, what with his ability to just charm fairies into liking and protecting him. He had Abraxas as his best friend and Elektra as his wife. ''It is one of the hardest things I have had to accept about the life I lead. We will forever be burdened by our family's ancient history and the duty to uphold and nurture it. We are keepers of it, and one day, if we are lucky, we might even contribute to it.''
Abraxas was not happy to hear this. He pulled himself away from her grasp and filled her with sadness next, when he looked at her. ''I would like to be free from it. I have never felt more uneasy than I have since becoming Lord Malfoy.''
How could Walburga ever reply to that? She could feel Abraxas' anxiety and it was growing. Thoros could see she struggled.
Thoros gently told him that that was not an option. "You are Lord Malfoy, Abraxas. It is tradition and I am so, so sorry that you are burdened by your heritage. It is not what we are supposed to feel. We are supposed to feel wonderful and loved. It is a testament of the people who came before us that we are meant to be here, if only to help preserve-"
"I don't want any of that!" Abraxas stood high now. He was not taller than Thoros, but he was taller than Walburga and she was going to bloody have a word with whoever had made her. It was an injustice. Though, at least, Riddle was malnourished and therefore around her height. Heh. The twerp.
"After you get clean." Walburga was losing patience. She was going to reel back her emotions and tell Abraxas to fuck off. This was the last time she bloody tried to calm and listen to her loved ones. Ugh. Emotions were such hard work. "We shall talk more about this after you get clean. For now it is your duty and responsibility to get better. In the meantime Thoros and I will be here to help you with your burden. When you come home you will see that it is not a burden, but a gift."
Abraxas nodded. He was not convinced. He still looked caged, but Walburga was too tired to get more into it. She whispered, to herself: "All which I do not think is unwelcome." And felt so much lighter afterwards. She heaved a sigh and told Thoros to get Abraxas to a new facility.
"There is one in New Zealand…" Thoros said.
Abraxas looked dejected as he listened to plans being made to send him off. He looked like a bloody puppy caught in heavy rain, disallowed from entering inside the warm, cozy home.
"Do you know where Riddle might have wanted to go if he didn't want to be found?"
Without missing a beat, showing a testament of how well Abraxas knew Tom, he said: "He told me once, in passing, that he wanted to see how free Dementors lived."
Walburga blanched. She could feel the presence of the teenage soul piece laughing at her.
"Oh, Miss Black, not so tough now. I can speak to them. Who knows…" the damned thing all but purred, "maybe I shall be finally bold enough to have one of them devour your soul and leave you a husk?" The boy could be cruel, Walburga knew. He relished in her fear. And sing sang so loudly that Walburga thought that Thoros and Abraxas might be able to pick up on him. "Ding dong! The witch is dead!" This had to be some inane muggle reference. He was known for making them and then explaining them when no one got them. "That's you, you will be the witch!"
"Perfect." Walburga almost spat.
"You really dislike Walburga."
"Hmm."
Hermione shook him awake. "Sir, don't fall asleep."
''Don't tell me you're scared.'' Tom Riddle, the diary, the child, the utter fiend, grinned at Walburga. He was being very cruel about their circumstances. They were both just near a forest somewhere in a faraway place that not many people knew even existed in the UK. This was the place where Dementors lived and what a place it was indeed. Around them coiled a feeling of dread and foreboding, littered ever so slightly with fear of the unknown.
Walburga was tense. Her shoulders were rigid. She wore an expression of grim over her visage like the most illustrious and fashionable coat. This was definitely not how she had expected this search to go. She'd expected, of course, to go to despicable places where no self-respecting Brit might venture into (like America!) but this was beyond the pale, really. ''Riddle, this is a forest – swamp,'' Walburga shook off her shoe after it had drenched itself in a pit of swamp-like monstrosity. ''full to the brim with DEMENTORS!'' How could one not be afraid? Walburga clutched her wand in one hand and in the other the diary. She'd cast tracking magic. Utilizing one's horcrux in order to find that someone was actually quite easy. Such a shame not many people made horcruxes. It was, unfortunately, a dark ritual. Cannibalism was involved. Walburga didn't know how to feel about the fact that, during her schoolgirl days, she'd antagonized a bloody cannibal. That just kind of put things into a weird perspective.
Said cannibal made teasing sounds at her: ''Nyeh, Miss Black's not to scary now.''
Walburga hoped that her children didn't turn out to be this idiotic, this foolish, this downright annoying: 'YOU UTTER CHILD! HOW DID I EVER SEE YOU AS A WORTHY OPPONENT?!''
Tom Riddle only kept grinning. He danced a little jig and wished her nothing but agony and misfortune. ''They'll suck out your soul! I shall have front-row seats to this spectacle. Miss Black, I have waited for this for decades. To see you reduced to what you are in your most honest design.''
Walburga shook these words off. She looked to the looming trees, the bent and cracked branches, the swampy terrain threatening to devour her whole if she only missed a step in her confusion and scared haze. Then she realised, no, she did not realise, she forced herself to accept that there was no turning back. She had to find Riddle in order to pay off that life-debt, or else her own magic was going to suffocate her if Mandy Sullivan didn't deign to think of another thing to say to have her do. Ah, the fallacies and intricacies of magic. Walburga was only a fan while she cheated the system and had it work in her favour. Being at any sort of disadvantage was really hard and she didn't like it. How could anyone possibly live like this and survive the Black dominated world of Magical Britain?
No, but she was stalling. Walburga thought of Orion, thought of Sirius, thought of Regulus – and she cast the patronus charm. A mongoose sprang out of the tip of her wand and formed her companion for this journey. Tom Riddle booed at it. ''How the bloody hell can you have enough of a pure soul to cast a patronus?''
''I SIMPLY HAVE A SOUL!''
''OH THAT IS SO UNFAIR!''
''WELL, IF YOU WANTED TO BE ABLE TO CAST A PATRONUS CHARM, RIDDLE, MAYBE YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE SPLIT YOUR DAMNED SOUL?''
''I am immortal! It was a calculated risk and I took it, fully aware of what I was getting into.''
''HA! I bet I'll outlive you!''
''This creature of horror and anarchy came back to life, Hermione… fully aware of this conversation.'' Tom Riddle, the mentor, looked to Hermione. His eyes were haunted.
''I won't pretend to know your history with Walburga, sir, but she just seems like a very intense, but less damaging version of Lord Voldemort.''
''She bullied me.'' This both explained everything and nothing at the same time.
''She was your Draco Malfoy?'' Hermione tried to understand. Her ears burned hot with embarrassment when her mentor snorted derisively.
''The mere fact that you're friends with your bully just paints a picture that you've definitely never experienced true terror like the kind Walburga Black can inflict upon others.''
''I suppose. Did you ever, you know, hash it out with her? I mean, for a time, you were more powerful than her and more feared?''
At the silence that stretched between them, Hermione stammered. ''Weren't you?''
''I'd rather not talk about this, Hermione.''
Hermione dropped the subject, aware that powerful men like her mentor had very fragile egos and had their pride easily wounded. Also, some things weren't worth delving into. She would not want to find out what kind of things Walburga was capable of that had rattled Voldemort to his core like this.
Traversing a swamp full of Dementors with a child horcrux and a patronus that was flimsy wasn't on Walburga's bucket list for a reason. It was terrifying and she was not a fan of this experience. She rated it a subpar one out of ten constellations.
A Dementor crossed her path and looked at her. She looked back. The child mocked and made oohing noises how she was going to die and be left here to rot forever. "Your family will never recover your body! Your body will be gnawed on by worms and other unseemly creatures. I will dance upon it for all to see. Finally able to show my contempt for you."
"Reel it in." Walburga wished for the child to knock it off. The dementor moved on, not wanting to fight off a patronus, if even a flimsy one like Walburga had. "I am trying to help you. Who knows if you are hurt? Perhaps you are in even more danger than I anticipated. Are you so certain that Dementors will be fond of you?"
"I will tame them!" The child was cocky and arrogant and thought Lord Voldemort all powerful and omniscient. Walburba did not know how to shatter that hope and tell him that Lord Voldemort was a man still, like any other.
"Tame them? How the Little Prince tamed the fox?" Walburga was drowning in children's books. She rubbed at her temples anxiously and moved fast through the rest of the swamp.
Riddle hummed then. Walburga asked him what it was. "Chopin's funeral march."
Walburga screamed out of frustration. A bunch of birds that were huddling on a nearby tree flew, sensing danger more temperamental than a starving dementor. Walburga saw this as a victory. If she could not scream down Tom Riddle's evil, evil, dirty self away from her – then she could, at least, fight birds.
There was a trail that led them towards a small clearing. They followed it, but had to hide quickly as a great load of dementors circled the premises. Walburga held the patronus close to her chest. It was flickering on and off with exertion. She was not adept at holding happy memories. But, for the sake of her continued living existence, she'd make a habit of casting the patronus charm more often. In order to get used to it, and even make a double patronus. It wasn't unheard of, really.
The dementors clustered around something. Walburga couldn't make it out without giving away her position. Tom Riddle narrowed his eyes and tried to reach what the thing of interest was. ''Probably some animal.'' He shrugged.
''Animals haven't got souls.'' Walburga scoffed.
''Have you ever seen a dog? That thing's definitely got a soul.''
Walburga didn't like the fact that she was arguing with a sixteen-year old who, if she said something, needed to say the opposite. It wasn't how she imagined her life going. A fire burned in her chest that urged her to go forward. She angled the diary towards the cluster and found that it grew hot in her grasp. Oh no. Her eyes widened and she thought of Orion, she thought of Sirius, she thought of Regulus – and she cast her patronus charm with all of her magical being, channelling this in order to get its illuminating, iridescent light out into the world. Her first one had all but faded, but if her hunch was correct – oh – oh no. No, no no. She needed to act fast.
The mongoose was faint as it swirled around the dementors. They looked at it, as if it was a nuisance. One of them batted it away with a clawed hand. It squealed like a deflated balloon and Walburga's pride all but diminished.
Tom Riddle howled with laughter and called her a disappointment to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. ''Stick to the Mind Arts, Miss Black! Happiness does not suit you, it seems.'' He laughed so hard that he had to hold his sides or else he would have pissed himself. Walburga's left eye twitched. She wished that she could punch a child. But if she touched him, he would try to steal her life force. And, really, that was the last thing Walburga needed right now. Horcruxes were nothing but parasites.
''Hello!'' Walburga shouted and all of the Dementors turned to look at her. Their hooded, concealed faces peered at her deeply, analysing her and picking if she was worth their time and effort. One of them decided to come over and Walburga felt fear strangle her into place. Her eyes watered at the cold that prickled all over her skin, giving her a nice layer made out of goosebumps. She moved back once, twice, thrice. The creature continued to glide towards her. More soon followed. Tom Riddle hissed, wishing her nothing but death and suffering. Walburga didn't even heed his words, too focused on the task laid in front of her. She kept stepping backwards, until her back hit a tree – and one of the dementors outstretched a clawed hand towards her, inching to take her apart and kiss all of her worries away. Walburga quite liked her worries. She screamed, terrified out of her right mind. It almost, almost, drowned out the way Tom Riddle was living it up. The little twat. No wonder he had to flee to a swamp, only fools would ever like his presence. Poor, tragic Abraxas got on her mind, then, and Walburga wished that he would pull through and learn that he deserved to love himself. So much self-loathing in that one. So much self-loathing, she glanced over at the horcrux, in a man that hated himself so much he had to split himself into many pieces and scatter himself all across the world, too, for that matter.
Walburga ducked out of the way of the Dementors. They grabbed at her feet, but she was to the ground now, and dragging herself towards where they had clustered moments prior. Just above her was a wide range of dementors, some had their coats darker than others, denoting age. The faded ones were older and slower. She kicked one off of her and struggled to move, the diary was discarded in her fight for her life. Her eyes were shot wide and she was shaking. Oh she was shaking and she was going to fight this and survive. Walburga would not die in a swamp, in a place where her family could not collect her body and mourn it properly. She would not deprive her dear Orion this. She would not deprive her sons of a mother that had still so much to teach them.
She caught a glimpse of her target. And suddenly – what a ridiculous notion – no, this needed to be corrected. Because suddenly didn't work with Walburga Black. The author had wanted to write 'suddenly, a burst of rage overcame her', but that just wasn't factually sound. Walburga Black was always full of rage. Therefore, that wouldn't work and would paint a mischaracterization of Walburga's character. It would be, in layman's terms, considered slander.
So, Walburga Black saw her target, splayed out on a turned over tree, dazed, and incredibly reminiscent of how she imagined homeless people to look (she'd never actually bothered to glance at them, choosing not to surround herself with the less fortunate and therefore, less important than her). And Walburga shouted, her voice channelling that ingrained habit of hers to just instantly make everyone pay attention to her due to fear and reverence that they had for her blood: ''RIDDLE! RIDDLE, FOR CIRCE'S SAKE, WAKE UP!''
The Dementors were not deterred by her screaming. It only goaded them further on because spirited souls tasted the sweetest, and their soul-sugar was running low.
Riddle, the one she'd gone on this madman's quest to find, was staring blankly up at the sky. There were frostbite marks all over his body. Walburga dragged herself faster, closer, in an attempt to shake off the Dementors, but they were adamant to get her. Had she gotten here too late? Had they sucked out what little soul the man had? Walburga didn't know what to do then? Was her life debt over if she just brought the man's body back to her? It better be! Because Walburga had not gone all this way for a dead body and an unresolved life debt on her hands.
She scuttled over to him and tried to shake him awake. He had something around his mouth, as if he had frotted minutes prior. It disgusted Walburga and she let everyone know: ''What else can I expect from a dirty mudblood?!'' She wished to clean her hands of this nonsense. And to her, seeing someone die, was very much nonsense. A shame, really, that someone so foul like Riddle was, also, incredibly handsome. Walburga looked at the ongoing approach of the Dementors, looked down at Tom Riddle's almost dead (she wasn't quite sure), almost kissable lips. And really, Walburga didn't want to die with regrets. Necrophilia wasn't that big of a leap for her to make!
Against anyone's better judgement, she dipped down to kiss the man whose ruin and destruction she'd been fantasizing about for decades. The moment their lips connected, the man's horrified eyes opened and he screamed into her mouth. Walburga betted that her lips had healing properties, because she'd thought the man dead. Though, really, with the horcrux – it was a tad too difficult to tell. He was resilient, like a cockroach. What an apt animal for him, really.
He didn't really punch her, so much as he fearfully pushed her back. Because Tom Riddle wouldn't have the bloody mental fortitude to punch anyone of such importance and radiance which Walburga Black exuded. She was, after all, in face anyone had ever forgotten, a member of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. She demanded respect, not half-dead men punching her with the flat of their palm. It just didn't ring the same way. Honestly, if anyone ever came to view these memories, she hoped that it wasn't anyone that thought highly of her. She fell into the swampy mud and screamed in pain. The fucker, to add salt to injury, had hit her with some form of wandless cruciatus.
A woman couldn't kiss a man without his permission these days without suffering dire consequences. It was all so very absurd to her.
''Did I ever tell you that your life's very much Romanesque?''
''Like the bloody architectural style?''
''No, ah, wrong word. My brain's thinking in Bulgarian for some strange reason. What I meant to say it that you can make your life into a novel and I bet it'll entertain a few very morbid people.''
''Ah , but nobody would ever dare to write it all down. Now that takes morbid guts.'' Tom Riddle said.
''I'm sure there's some person out there bold enough to write all of this down.'' Hermione called these such individuals out.
''It can't be marketed, obviously, it'll turn out to be too long.''
''Yes, I reckon that might be a bit of a problem.''
''Will you write it?'' Tom Riddle asked Hermione, who, unlike the author, had a good head on her shoulders and wasn't nearly as invested in the interpersonal relationships of Tom Marvolo Riddle and the socio political situation of the magical world.
''God no, sir. It's bad enough I'm here enduring all of this. But to think of grammatical syntax and proper word choice? That's a masochist's job.''
''Fair enough. There are a lot of those out there.'' Tom Riddle bobbed his head. ''Orion's the biggest one, I reckon, to endure Walburga Black's sadistic nature.''
''She can't be THAT bad, sir.''
Tom Riddle just looked at her. ''She was obsessed with me. No, correction, she was obsessed with seeing me in pain and frightened.''
Walburga, fuelled now by her passionate belief in being completely indestructible, and the fact that she'd kissed Tom Riddle and had him look at her with abject horror (an expression which she will dream about each night and whimsically look back on as one of the loveliest, sexiest expressions she'd ever had the pleasure of witnessing) decided that she would kick arse and not let some bloody dementor do her in. Oh no! She had purpose! She was unstoppable! She'd kissed ruddy Tom Riddle, that mentally ill fink that pretended he was perfectly all right because of societal stigma!
When a dementor approached her hungrily, and while Tom Riddle was attempting to gurgle some swamp water to get the lavacious taste of royalty out of his mouth, Walburga summoned a patronus, thinking back on her giddiest, most hilarious accomplishment. Tom Riddle's agonized face. The patronus that emerged from Walburga's wand, then, was a mongoose, as well, but one that was draped in light and iridescence the likes of which Walburga had not summoned before - back when she'd been thinking about her family. No, kissing someone against their consent and traumatizing them was definitely a happier memory to leech from.
This patronus shattered a dementor. All of the other ones lifted their hands in a submissive gesture and fled. Walburga cackled. The swamp had just gotten its new apex predator.
''Holy shite, sir.''
''I really don't like her.''
''She just effortlessly did that!''
''You will find that Walburga Black can do a lot of things effortlessly as long as she makes someone nearby her suffer. It's like a calling for the woman.''
Hermione said that she'd definitely mellowed out in her old age.
''All of us have.'' Tom Riddle told her gently. ''We all used to be much bigger than this, much more prone to grandstanding. The world revered and feared us. Nowadays it only hunts and haunts us.''
Hermione would prefer that her wounded, still mentor didn't make such odd and jumbled claims so far into his mind. She glanced over to the memory taking place in a swamp of all places and said: ''I hope things can't get worse than this.''
Her mentor groaned: ''Why would you be so callous with our very lives and minds, Hermione? Why?''
She blushed crimson and stammered out an apology, calling him beyond superstitious along the way.
Walburga sent a surge of a warming charm onto Voldemort. ''You are not allowed to die on me in a swamp.'' She'd unearthed the diary from a mud bed and tried cleaning it off, but she got frustrated with it and had to use magic to do it.
Voldemort glared fiercely at her and hissed: ''I do not want to have anything with you. You are unwelcome here. Leave.'' Some of that water must have been magically charged because, by drinking it, he glowed a tad green. Kind of reminiscent of an ogre, really. Walburga had never met one, but she'd count this as a close enough encounter to scare her children with. ''Get out of my swamp!'' Voldemort shouted.
Walburga scoffed. ''I am not leaving here without you. Remember, Riddle, you owe me a debt.''
Voldemort sent a wandless cutting hex on her. It cut a lock of her hair. It would have cut a lot more had she not moved out of the way in just a knick of time. As she watched her precious hair tumble down, she came to the conclusion that there was no use speaking and negotiating with mudbloods. She balled her hands into fists and attacked him.
In retrospect she might conclude that fighting someone without magic was a tad too plebeian, but what happened in this swamp stayed in the swamp and nobody would become privy to their mud wrestling. He kicked her and she scratched him and they rolled around, screaming at each other.
By the end of this fight, Walburga could write a poetry book based on all of the rhyming curses she'd heard from this Woolwich resident.
She finally subdued him - as if it were hard what with his being completely messed up because of his prolonged proximity to Dementors - and told him, never gently because that wasn't her style: ''STOP FIGHTING YOUR BETTERS! YOU'RE ILL AND I AM HERE TO HELP!''
''Help?'' He barely rasped out. ''You've never helped anyone!''
''This is slander. I have helped MANY people. You were never a part of them.''
''And I am now?''
Walburga lied: ''I came here because I care about you.''
Voldemort grimaced.
Walburga amended. ''There's a life debt hanging over me.''
Voldemort nodded. He turned away from her. ''Then go die. I shall not save you.''
Walburga took her wand and aimed at his head: ''IMPERIO!''
''OH MY GOD!''
''God cannot help you here, Hermione.''
Little known fact about Tom Marvolo Riddle: he was a very spiteful individual, too. This was why when Walburga cast the imperius curse on him, his eyes glazed over as the curse worked, but he pulled away at the mere thought of obeying Walburga Black's hideous orders. He would rather destroy the whole world than subject himself to being somebody's tool – it was a fire that Nobby Leach had stoked and tended to, but it would die out by the time he would properly become Lord Voldemort. Then he was a tool to the purebloods, whether he liked to admit it or not. He was self-serving, of course, but he was all the more becoming bit by bit a tool that helped their side of the upcoming war.
Though, for now, he was very much intent on pissing Walburga Black off until she wheezed like a kettle and threatened him his life. He could feel the spidery hold on his mind and with quick work he made sure to shake it off of himself, sending a ripple effect towards Walburga that shocked her.
Moments after, she screamed out of frustration, and fled before he could send another attack at her.
Voldemort took this opportune moment to stand up on shaky feet, shudder, and hiss in parseltongue: ''May I not rest even for a moment? May I not even salvage what little peace of mind I have without the Twenty Eight coming to ruin my life?''