The first thing to strike people meeting Orion was that he was, first and foremost, a tired man. In later years, unsympathetic people said that it was the result of thirty-odd winters in Walburga's company. Others said that he the notorious poor health and short lives of the Blacks showed up in him. Yet others said that it simply the result of many, many generations of inbreeding. Whatever the truth, Orion always appeared drawn, thin, and grey.
His is a handsome morbidity, thought Walburga, as she twirled a gentle waltz in his arms. Very thin lips, very high cheeks, very pale skin, very clear eyes, and very thick lashes, each individually fascinating, combined to create in him a pleasing and appealing effect.
Walburga felt triumphant. Her horror of a son had been shipped off to Hogwarts the very same day, and she was in a better mood for it. No devilish pranks, mortifying solecisms or domestic calamities until Christmas! She had never felt better. What's more, he'd shape up far better once safe in Slytherin. She had written to Slughorn, ordering that he not spare her son the rod. Perhaps he'd also begin to understand essential concepts such as blood purity, family, honour, duty. A nagging voice at the back of her head told her that there was something wrong with the way he was formed, that he'd never understand, but she pushed it resolutely aside, and enjoyed the music instead.
Violins sounded in the background. The room was long and stuffy, filled with dancing couples, some elegantly dressed, most simply overdressed. The house belonged to Walburga's elderly great-uncle, Herbert Burke, celebrating retirement after a particularly inglorious three year term as Minister. The plump, corrupt old man waddled busily among his guests. As Walburga stepped off the floor and plucked a champagne from a floating tray, he sidled up to her, panting at the heat.
"Wally, darling, this just arrived for you," he lisped, handing her a note, and padded off.
Walburga lightly snapped the seal open, and plucked the missive from the envelope.
Orion,
Please come home at once with Walburga. I have urgent news.
Father
She felt a presentiment of terror. Turning around, she tapped Orion on the shoulder. He immediately broke off the conversation he was having, and turned to her.
"Read that," she whispered. "We'd better go home at once."
He nodded wordlessly, and offered her his arm. As she shrugged on her soft furs in the hall, she wondered if the unthinkable had happened. A cold dread settled in her stomach.
x.x.x.
They arrived home at well past midnight, and walked into the large drawing room. It was full of people.
Arcturus sat in the big armchair, sucking his cheeks in, blinking very rapidly. Pollux was lying in on a sofa, his eyes closed, looking ashen, a damp cloth laid across his brow. Cygnus and Druella stood over him, he unhappy, she with a triumphant smirk in her eyes. Old aunt Cassiopeia sat in her usual corner, crying quietly into a handkerchief, flanked by Bellatrix and Andromeda; Bellatrix looked furious, Andromeda simply troubled. Alphard stood looking out the window, with an embarrassed grimace on his face.
Walburga stood at the door, trying futilely to divine the meaning of this cryptic scene. Cassiopeia handed her a note, and Walburga felt her heart skip a beat.
Dear Mother,
I thought I should write to let you know at once that the feast is over, and cousin Sirius was sorted into Gryffindor.
Your loving daughter,
Narcissa.
Walburga's breath hitched, and she felt a sob growing in her throat. The evening ruined, the year ruined, her life ruined! She wanted to scream and scream and scream until she fainted, she wanted to rip up the tapestries, smash the windows, fling the furniture into the fire, and kill everyone who knew of her humiliation. Most of all, she wanted to get her hands on her son.
She did none of these things. She bit her lips, and spoke.
"This is very upsetting news. I would prefer to discuss it tomorrow morning, when we have the benefit of a good night's sleep, and can think clearly," she intoned, as calmly as she could.
"What's to discuss? Our name is mud," said Cygnus dully. Walburga glared at him.
"Nonsense. A freak of nature makes no difference in the long run to our house. I'm going to write to that senile lump, Dumbledore, and tell him to do what he can. And for heaven's sake, Aunty, stop making a scene," she snapped.
Without waiting for a response, she turned tail and went up to bed.
x.x.x.
She did not enjoy sleep for long. She woke in the darkness to the queer sensation of having her toes pinched. Looking down, she saw Kreacher, and kicked him.
"What are you doing, you stupid elf? What time is it,"
"Four o'clock, mistress, and Kreacher is very sorry, Kreacher is miserable at having to disturb mistress, but mistress is please to come very quickly, Master Alphard summons," he croaked.
Struggling out of bed, Walburga slipped into a loose dressing gowns, pushed her feet into pinching black shoes, and swayed precariously out of the room. She ran into Alphard as he descended the stairs.
"Hm? What is it?"
"Walburga," he began, "Please don't be worried, but I have some bad news."
"What? More? What is it? Has Arcturus finally croaked it?" she grumbled.
"Walburga…Orion's had a stroke-"
That was all she waited to hear, as she pushed Alphard aside and rushed up the stairs, five at a time, and burst, panting, into her husband's room.
Emptiness greeted her.
"Where is he, Alphard? Where is he? What has happened?" she shrieked hysterically.
"Walburga, it's quite alright," he said soothingly, "Father and Cygnus took him to St. Mungo's. They think it was just the sudden shock of…you know," here, he suddenly looked uncomfortable.
The icy claws gripping Walburga's heart turned into a fiery fist. Wordlessly, she turned around and walked down the stairs.
"Kreacher! Get me some parchment, ink and a quill in the Library. I have a letter to write," she called.