Twelve For Health
Today is the day Walburga died. Not that anybody will remember that. There is only the house-elf for company, and Kreacher has no comprehension of dates or time. In the years that she has been here Walburga has spent hours, months, talking to the elf, but she feels no affection or understanding towards him. Why would she? She has spent many months ignoring him, too.
Her death was uneventful. Druella and Cygnus had come to stay, bringing a Healer with them. When death finally came, Walburga had looked up at the Healer- a large, dreadlocked woman (MacDougal, her name was. A pureblood, though not a sacred one), and dainty, pale Druella beside her, gazing at Walburga with her huge owl eyes. Worry had made Druella thin, though not as thin as Walburga, who had been scrawny even before the illness. Cygnus was at work, for which Walburga was glad. He fancied himself as a an important man, a patriarch, but he was still her baby brother. Their mother had died at home and Father in St Mungo's. Both had passed in their sleep, so Cygnus hadn't seen anybody die before. Walburga hadn't wanted her to be his first. She hadn't wanted to know if Cygnus would cry or freeze or murmur awkwardly, so she was grateful that she didn't have to find out. Walburga had always been quick with a pithy put-down but, gazing up at the two women as her life crept away, she hadn't known what to say. Perhaps there was nothing to say; no final wish, advice or instruction, no plea or thanks, no reassurance of love. Walburga had closed her eyes and thought of Regulus, her sweet boy. The smell of the polish he used on his shoes, the sound of his laugh before his voice dropped, he feel of his long hair between her fingers. She'd be with him again soon. She would forgive him. She already had.
Months later, Walburga felt herself painted back into not-life. The sensation is difficult to remember now, and even harder to describe. The living often wonder what it is like to be a painting, and Walburga can attest that it isn't, as they might expect, unnatural or disorientating. The real Walburga Black is dead. She is in another place with her husband and son. This Walburga is a copy who wears her face and name and yet is Not. Walburga's portrait feels no discomfort, pride or guilt about her status in this flat near-life, this not-life. She remembers being alive, although she has never been alive, and that is that. It is not as complicated as the living wish to make it. The portrait is a good one, which Walburga is pleased about. The artist, Samantha Abbot, has captured Walburga's hawkish features, Black jaw, and wavy dark hair well. She'd painted Walburga old but not unhealthy-looking. Walburga's portrait likes to think that she looks matriarchal and distinguished. She had never been a vain woman but if she catches sight of her reflection in the window, she feels proud and vindicated at her portrait's artistry. But sometimes, Walburga wonders if her outside appearance is at odds with how she feels. Perhaps Miss Abbot used a splayed brush or dirty water, because Walburga's portrait thinks that she might be going mad. She hears herself say things which make no sense, or she starts yelling at a rat which transpires to merely be a trick of the light. In life, she was often angry, but in death the wrath seems bitterer. When she was alive she knew who or what she was angry at, and why, whereas now her rage is unpredictable. She orders Kreacher to bring her something, and when he returns she becomes angry that she is trapped in her frame and cannot use whatever it was that she demanded he fetch. She cold-shoulders Orion, even though he is not here to ignore. She shrieks and does not know why. For a while, Walburga hoped that somebody would come to the house to talk to (Cygnus and Druella had arranged for Miss Abbot to undertake the painting, but they have not been to visit since). Now she hopes that somebody will come for her to shout at. She wants to see the expression of shock and panic on the intruder's face when she shrieks at them, the same looks present on the faces of the other portraits in the house when they came near her. They have stopped coming now. Walburga only sees another portrait-person every few months, and they rush by quickly to avoid her howls. This both pleases Walburga and upsets her. Is that mad? Is this what going mad is like? Can she be mad if she knows she is?
Kreacher has toddled off, leaving Walburga's picture to contemplate the anniversary of her death. Seven years. Seven years from her birth she was a dancing, giggling child, excited for the birth of her youngest brother. Perhaps the real Walburga is that girl again now. This Walburga is the dingy, senile portrait forever. The desire to howl builds in her again; she wants to screech at somebody, "It's my death day today! Have some respect? Don't you know who I am?". But nobody knows who she is anymore, and nobody comes, and Walburga is alone, a mad old woman screaming uselessly out from a dusty picture-frame.