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Bruton Street, 9th May, 1945

Irma and Pollux Black, of No.5 Bruton Street, were proud to say they were inexplicably perfect, thank you very much. 

The idea of perfection was not even completely unfounded as the couple were, in fact, part of the Noble House of Black, which, in their eyes, basically painted them as royalty. The Black family were one of the largest, oldest, and wealthiest pure blooded wizarding families in Great Britain and one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, notorious for their strong beliefs on sustaining the pure blood line. 

Number Five Bruton Street was a large, expansive home that was hidden from view of Muggles, with the magical wards disguising the house as a dilapidated garage to any non-magical folk. To those lucky enough to see it, though, the house sat on the end of the street and was practically identical to a series of Muggle townhouses that lined Mayfair, the affluent part of London where Irma and Pollux Black lived. 

Of course, if one was to mention that such a prestigious location housing one of the many branches of the Black family was somewhat similar to the Muggle homes, they would probably get cursed into the next weekend. It was true that a certain element of Dark Magic seemed to hover around No.5, like a haunting shadow shrouding the massive bay windows, mysterious looking curtains and oak front door that was embellished with a door knocker twisted into the shape of a snake.

It could be argued that Pollux, the patriarch of the Blacks and homeowner of Number Five, had based the designs of his own home off where he had resided during his childhood, only roughly seventeen minutes away from Mayfair, in Islington. Pollux had been raised in 12 Grimmauld Place on Claremont Square and, all of the times he had taken his children to visit their grandparents living there, all three of them had inwardly thanked the heavens that Cygnus II and Violetta were still alive and kicking. 

Grimmauld Place was not very child friendly at all and the almost depressing nature of the house, though it was impeccably clean and brimming with all sorts of interesting Dark objects, explained a lot about Pollux’s personality and how he had become the brooding, stoic man he was. And, honestly, if it hadn’t have been for his wife’s insistence that the children should be raised elsewhere so as to not kick Pollux’s parents out of their home prematurely, he would’ve inherited Grimmauld Place straightway and Walburga, Alphard and Cygnus could’ve had a very different upbringing. 

Instead, Pollux and Irma had raised their children in a home of their own though it was no less strict than it would’ve been in Grimmauld Place. As was expected by a member of the Noble House of Black, their children had to be well mannered, sophisticated and educated on the importance of purity. The parents weren’t necessarily cruel but punishments were in order for those who didn’t uphold their reputation as a Black and abide to the rules set in place. 

Toujours Pur. 

Always pure.

Always perfect. Always a Black.

As the early May day started to come to life, the sun dawned on the centre of London in the early morning, bathing the battered and tired city in a golden light. The buzz of the Westminster traffic provided a backing soundtrack, clashing with the incessant overhead twittering of the birds and the shouts of people down below. Mayfair was more crowded than usual, simply because throngs of Muggles were swarming like bees to a hive through the streets, excitement and relief tangible upon the spring air. 

The winter time had long passed in its somber majesty by this point in the year, having brought the citizens of London some skies of richly marbled greys and trees so elegant in their bare beauty. Those cold days for calmness and reflection had already waned and a new energy was beginning to rise, particularly considering the end of the Muggle world war. 

The grass was a runner at the blocks, ready to race for the light as soon as the weather warmed up enough due to the air being currently caressed by an early morning chill, a brisk crisp adorning the fluttering breeze like the first bite of an apple. Fresh sunlight illuminated perfect spheres of dew upon its fine green wands and rippled each blade individually, the dew sparkling in the golden glow. 

The spring blossom had begun gradually arriving in little bursts throughout late March and early April, looking like cake frosting on the trees in delicious creams and pinks that shimmered in the early sunrise. Now, in May, as England moved on from the slump WW2 had crippled the country with, the petals burst out as if from a cage, sprinkling the grass below with pink confetti. 

The weather that morning was the kind that felt like a kiss of summer without the fiery, overwhelming heat of noon time in August. With the chorus of the birds above, this day already felt to Londoners as if it had a touch of magic bestowed upon it, as if anything could happen. The sky was scattered with just enough pristine white cloud that one could admire the fluffiness but also see how beautiful the blue sky behind was, how perfect. 

Perfection was key, especially to the Black family. If they could, they would even control the weather. But, sadly, the beautiful spring day was quite the juxtaposition to the dark storm that was brewing in the form of that day’s Daily Prophet, bringing the very news that pure blood supremacists had come to dread. 

Perfectly on time, a barn owl flew low across the upscale district, darting in between elegantly crafted Georgian townhouses, clusters of independent boutiques and traditional pubs. If anyone from the group gathered outside the tailors on Savile Row, abuzz with discussion about the end of the war, saw the bird with a newspaper clutched in it's beak, they didn’t say anything. 

Swooping low over Hyde Park and darting through the leafiness of the trees, the owl approached Bruton Street with a furtive determination, almost like it could understand the importance of the information it was bestowing. Upon reaching Number Five, it rapped it's beak against the house elves quarters window, that was situated in the basement of the large townhouse.

A small house elf opened the window and paid the owl, shoving the required knuts in the pouch attached to the owl’s leg, which it shook out pointedly. After taking the rolled up Daily Prophet, the house elf, named Mitzi, offered the owl some water, which it lapped up eagerly, before taking off out of the window again, becoming nothing but a dark speck in the sunlit blue sky. 

"Oh dearie me," Mitzi sighed heavily, her large ears drooping significantly as she read the headline of the newspaper. It was printed out in huge letters, symbolising it’s importance and was filling the top half of the front page, as an enormous black-and-white moving picture of a white haired man struggling against chains filled the other half. "Master is not being very happy soon," she murmured despondently to another house elf, Gaston, who took the newspaper from her with a frown creasing his wrinkled skin. 

"Indeed he is not," Gaston replied solemnly before ironing the slightly crumpled newspaper with a circumspect attitude, taking care to make sure there weren't any creases whatsoever as Pollux Black liked his newspapers to be crisp and freshly ironed. Usually, if he was in a good mood, Pollux wouldn’t mind the occasional crinkle but Gaston vividly remembered the time a breakfast platter had been thrown directly at his head because of a small tear in the Daily Prophet so he didn’t want to take the tiniest risk. 

He rubbed the back of his skull subconsciously, swearing inwardly that he could still feel the massive bruised lump that had arisen after that punishment. 

Gaston jumped violently as the bell rang, signalling that Pollux wanted his newspaper immediately. And, seeing as some of the other house elves (bar Mitzi who had been awaiting the Prophet deliverance) had gone up ten minutes prior to serve breakfast, Gaston assumed that Pollux would be wanting his newspaper with his steaming coffee and full English breakfast, courtesy of the hard working team of house elves employed at the Bruton Street residence. 

Typically, pure blood families only had one house elf assigned to them - the Black family were no exception apart from the fact that Pollux’s great aunt, Elladora, had introduced the tradition of chopping their heads off when they got too old to carry tea trays. Irma and Pollux atypically had four house elves in their household for a variety of different reasons.

Mitzi had been the Crabbe’s old house elf but, when Irma had married Pollux and moved away, her mother had requested for her to take Mitzi with her as she was on her deathbed and wanted to make sure the elf continued to serve pure bloods. Gaston had served the Blacks all his life and had seen Pollux grow up from a little boy whereas Tibet was a new addition, the child of Gaston and Mitzi. Last but not least was Mimsy - she had originally been assigned to Pollux’s younger brother, Marius, to ‘help’ him as he had been lacking in displaying any magical skills whatsoever during his childhood unlike his siblings, Pollux, Cassiopeia and Dorea. 

When Marius was pronounced a Squib, however, and, as a result, thrown out of Grimmauld Place and disowned immediately, Mimsy had fallen into the possession of Pollux, who had been seventeen at the time of his brother’s disownment. Cassiopeia had argued, wanting Mimsy for herself, but, seeing as she was a spinster now, Violetta had deduced she only needed the one house elf, unlike Pollux who had a family of five.

"Must go! Gaston must go now!" the house elf gabbled, panicked by the bell, before carefully handling the newspaper, clicking his fingers and disapparating on the spot, appearing in the hallway outside of Number Five's dining room. He took a deep breath, knocked and waited for the ‘Enter!’ command and walked in, newspaper neatly folded in his now steady hands. 

A most familiar breakfast scene was in place as Gaston entered - Pollux was seated at the head of the table, digging into his scrambled egg with a quietly satisfied expression; Irma was beside him on the right hand side, sipping her tea daintily; their eldest daughter, Walburga, was copying her mother’s delicate movements as religiously as possible; eleven year old Alphard was next to his mother, yawning behind his hand before cramming some bacon into his open mouth and Cygnus, aged seven, was seated opposite to him, kicking his brother to try and get his attention. 

Walburga was trying to eat her toast daintily because, more so than usual, Irma had begun belittling her for her ‘unladylike manners’ recently, even if Walburga didn't even notice she was being unladylike. Posture and sophistication had been features drilled into Walburga from an early age so she knew not to slouch in her chair and that, if she dared to place her elbows on the table, she would get a smack around the head from her mother. 

The reasoning behind Irma’s sudden strictness was because she was training Walburga how to be wife material, despite the girl only being thirteen years old herself. Wedding mania had gripped the family recently, considering the fact that Walburga’s older cousin, Charis, had just gotten married to Caspar Crouch this week, hence why Walburga was home from Hogwarts. Nevertheless, her teachers had still set her a lot of work and her Potions Professor and Head of House had explicitly reminded her that the granted leave the Blacks had manage to wangle her (in the way that only the Black family could do) was most definitely not a holiday. 

A glare withered her previously calm expression as Cygnus accidentally kicked her whilst trying to get Alphard’s attention. The seven year old grinned annoyingly, mouth full of mangled English breakfast that made Walburga blanch as she looked expectantly towards her parents, waiting for Irma to scold her youngest son for his severe lack of manners. However, Irma did not seem to be paying attention, her beady eyes focused instead on Pollux who had grabbed the newspaper from Gaston without so much of a thank you. 

The outraged roar that escaped from Pollux’s mouth in the very next second was almost animalistic and caused the entire table to jump violently as Gaston scuttled away in fright, holding the back of his head like he was trying to protect it. Alarmed, Walburga glanced in concern at Pollux, whose face was bright red with anger.

Irma rushed towards him, placing a consoling hand on his arm, "What's wrong, dear?" she asked and Pollux, gathering himself slightly and cooling down his temper, sat back down at the table as his children stared at him in shock, appalled at this complete loss of control. 

The Black family was all about control. Conceal, don’t feel, don’t let your true emotions show. Granted, it wasn’t the first time that they had seen their father lose his temper but usually, it was still more restrained - a cold, cutting anger as opposed to a chaotic, yelling type. 

"That damned Albus Dumbledore defeated Gellert Grindelwald in a duel in the early hours of this morning,” Pollux read from the Daily Prophet in his hands that was in danger of being thrown at someone. “Grindelwald is headed to Numergard now...it's over for the pureblood supremacy. The Muggle lovers won," Pollux very nearly buried his head in his hands out of despair for Grindelwald's reign of dark terror that the Black family had been huge supporters of, backing anyone who was willing to exterminate the filth. 

"What are we going to do now, Father?" Alphard questioned curiously, looking slightly pale about the news, which some would interpret as fear for the dark families but Walburga, under close inspection of her brother opposite from her, could see that Alphard was secretly relieved. Though Alphard was not a blood traitor by any means, he was a pacifist and hated any kind of war. 

Not to mention that Alphard had just recently had his eleventh birthday, in the tail end of April, and had naturally received his Hogwarts letter. Walburga, who was in her second year currently, had not held back on the details about the school in her letters home and also when she returned for holidays. So, as a result, her younger brother had heard a lot about how the conflict from the outside world had managed to inject its own poison into Hogwarts. 

Alphard didn’t seem like the type to duel blasted Gryffindors, blood traitors and filthy half bloods in the corridors like many Slytherins and Grindelwald supporters had been forced to do. Walburga didn’t understand why their views couldn’t be respected - Grindelwald had the right idea, after all - and it had only further established her hate of the ‘other side.’ 

"I don't know, Al. If they are willing to put the almighty Gellert Grindelwald behind bars, then they will be willing to put his supporters straight into Azkaban without trial," Pollux informed his eldest son with a grimace, thinking of the many times he had aided Grindelwald during attacks and how he would surely pay for it now that the man had been defeated, a feat Pollux hadn’t even thought possible. 

Pollux had been so certain that Grindelwald was going to win, that the man fighting for pureblood supremacy and sustainability would become triumphant in the end and that wizards could come out of hiding and take power over the Muggles. However, Grindelwald had failed, for reasons unbeknownst to Pollux, and therefore he had also failed. 

"Does that mean that you could face prison?" Cygnus asked, looking deathly pale and frightened for his father as he clutched his knife and fork very tightly, his knuckles turning white, suddenly not very hungry or amused anymore.

"Cygnus Phineas Black! Have some tact!" Irma snapped at him, obviously also shaken up by the fact that her husband could be going to prison. 

Although she had attended rallies, meetings and been a supporter of Grindelwald, Irma had never been an actual follower and Walburga knew that her mother had never committed any felonies or crimes in the face of 'the greater good' which had been Grindelwald's motto. Therefore, Irma was quite safe in retrospect and Walburga became a little relieved at that, taking a bite of her toast. 

"How can you even eat at a time like this?" Alphard hissed incredulously at his sister, taking in the scene of Pollux pacing up and down the dining room, his hands fidgeting agitatedly as Irma whispered slightly comforting things to her husband whenever he passed her, sounding as if she might cry. This entire situation was just peculiar and odd to Walburga - the fact that her parents, who were usually both so composed and refined, were falling apart at the seams in front of her very eyes unnerved her. 

What happened to not showcasing your true emotions? In Walburga’s opinion, Pollux and Irma needed to take some of their own advice right now. Honestly, she was finding it pretty hypocritical that she had always been taught to paint a perfect picture in order to protect the Black family reputation and, yet, her parents were now basically dropping and stamping all over the canvas they had all intricately erected. 

Cygnus had now digressed to tapping his knife nervously against his plate, which was still piled with food that he couldn't quite stomach as of that moment, something very rare for the boy who Alphard often joked had a ‘bottomless stomach.’

He only stopped when Pollux paused from his pacing to snap at his youngest son, "For the love of Merlin, stop tapping, boy!" he bellowed ferociously. 

Cygnus jumped wildly, his mind clearly off in some other country, and his knife dropped from his hand with a deafening clatter before he incoherently mumbled, "Excuse me for a moment.”

The dark haired boy then proceeded to rush out of the room, leaving Alphard and Walburga to stare after their brother with growing concern on their faces. 

"I'll go after him, you stay here with Mother and Father," Walburga whispered across the table to Alphard, her older sister instincts taking over.

She was never much of a maternal person - how could she be, with Irma as a mother who rarely coddled or even hugged her children? However, Walburga did have a slight soft spot for Cygnus as the seven year old was at that perfect age where he wasn’t too much of an annoying, drooling child but not quite yet a mouthy preteen like Alphard. 

Raising her hand slightly and glancing in the direction of her parents, who were now arguing quietly, she politely asked, “May I be excused?" but, as she expected, received no reply from neither Pollux nor Irma and so Walburga just walked out of the dining room, bypassing an awkwardly hovering Gaston, wondering where her little brother had just disappeared to. 

She sauntered upstairs, hurrying up the second floor staircase, which led on from the grand marble steps that twisted upwards from the front hall. The dining room of the house was situated on the second floor, directly above the entrance and overlooking Bruton Street itself. Walburga headed towards Cygnus' bedroom and, upon receiving no answer after knocking, entered with a great deal of concern, especially when she heard retching noises coming from her brother's en-suite bathroom.

"Cygnus?" she called out, "Is that you?" 

”Well, it’s not going to be bloody Mitzi, is it?” the seven year old’s sassy response came through the firmly closed en-suite bathroom door.

Walburga rolled her eyes and seated herself down on her brother’s huge double bed, the family motto of Toujours Pur engraved on the wall behind the headboard, not unlike Walburga’s own bedroom. Another sound of Cygnus throwing up echoed through the room and Walburga grimaced before deciding to call out for a house elf. 

Mimsy arrived in quick succession, huge ears flapping and eyes wide with an earnest urge to please, “Yes, Mistress?” she squeaked.

Walburga waved a dismissive hand towards Cygnus’ bathroom, “Cygnus is throwing up. Get some water,” she commanded the elf, prompting Mimsy to nod wildly before disappearing with a huge CRACK! 

Whilst she waited for her brother to finish throwing up the contents of his stomach, better known as his morning breakfast, Walburga pondered on the events of that morning - all of this chaos had been caused by one god forsaken newspaper. She couldn't quite believe that Grindelwald's reign was finally over and, as much as she hated to admit it to herself and would never say it out loud, she was slightly...relieved, much to her shame. 

Though Walburga hated anyone who wasn’t pureblood with all of her heart and had been glad that they had been getting their comeuppance at the hands of Grindelwald and his supporters, the tension that had come with the war had really stressed her family out. Not to mention the fact that her father’s involvement had caused Walburga to come under fire at Hogwarts, with people blaming her for the actions of Grindelwald. So, she now found herself hoping that all of this would go away, due to the wizarding war ending.  

However, now Pollux was evidently stressed out about being brought in for questioning about Grindelwald and his actions against muggles in the war so, even though it was ‘all over,’ a whole new chapter of recovering from the war's consequences had begun. Walburga wasn’t naive enough to believe that the war wouldn’t leave a permanent imprint upon her family but she still dared to hope that the dark clouds would clear away quickly. 

At the same time that Mimsy reappeared with a glass of water, Cygnus finally emerged from his bathroom. The seven year old was relatively pale and had turned a slightly sickly green colour but was evidently not throwing up anymore. He rolled his eyes at the sight of his sister sat on his bed, her arms crossed whilst Mimsy hovered beside her, elf hands clutching at the glass like her life depended on it. 

“You don’t need to baby me, Wally,” Cygnus complained in a rather whiny tone that contradicted his words as he flopped down on top of his covers, arms akimbo and legs outstretched as he threw one arm over his head.

“Clearly I do,” Walburga frowned, poking his side until he sat up, gratefully but silently taking the water from Mimsy who instantly scuttled away. “Did you eat something funny? Was it the bacon?" she asked inquisitively, knowing full well that was not the case. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Wally. I was sick because I’m worried about Father,” Cygnus replied with all the exasperation and resigned tiredness of someone much older than he actually was.

The Black Family really did bring their children up too fast, not letting them have the chance to have a proper childhood in favour of essentially training them up. Cygnus, only seven but worrying about the impact of Grindelwald’s defeat because he was already aware of the politics surrounding it, was a perfect example of this. 

Walburga felt a slight pang echo low in her gut at both her brother’s comment and this realisation that dawned on her slower than the morning sunrise. “I guess you could say you were…worried sick?” she attempted to joke, trying to lighten the atmosphere as she walked over to Cygnus’ massive wardrobe and pulled out a change of robes because the ones that he had been wearing were now stained slightly with vomit. 

Her brother stared at her blankly, clearly unimpressed as he sipped slowly on his water, gulping it down cautiously like he was afraid the liquid was going to surge back up his throat, “That wasn’t funny,” Cygnus deadpanned, his dark blue eyes narrowing slightly.

“It’s a little bit funny,” Walburga defended, crossing her arms and leaning against the now closed door of Cygnus’ wardrobe, flicking her gaze away to the window when he started to change into his fresh robes, pulling them over his head and revealing the shirt and pants underneath before he quickly threw his other ones over the top. 

"No it’s not," Cygnus continued seriously,  taking a few deep breaths because his stomach was still churning uncomfortably, "It's not something to joke about. Father could be in serious trouble," he said.

Walburga frowned. “I’m aware, thank you,” she replied waspishly, words escaping through gritted teeth, “Forgive me for just trying to cheer you up a little,” she snapped.  

“I don’t want to be cheered up,” Cygnus sulked, placing his glass of water down onto his bedroom floor with an unnecessary thump so that the contents splashed onto the dark green carpet slightly.

“Suit yourself,” Walburga huffed, about to add that she was also worried about Father and that humour was just her way of coping with the terror that had gripped her like an icy hand slithering its way into her insides. 

However, Cygnus was still taking his foul mood and scared disposition out on his older sister because he continued talking, “This is the problem with women like you and Mother, Wally. You don’t understand the real problems in life or focus on solving them because you’re too busy trying to fix them with a stupid smile and comment,” he said nastily, every word dripping with a venom that Walburga didn’t even know the seven year old was capable of. 

Oh Merlin, what kind of monsters were the Noble House of Black raising? 

Walburga blinked at Cygnus for a very long moment, completely thrown by how horrible her brother had just been and deducing that he must’ve picked it up from their Uncle Arcturus or his equally cruel son, Orion (their cousin - he was six years older than Walburga and always managed to make her feel small with his disparaging remarks).

“That’s a fucking mean thing to say,” Walburga heard herself saying, a sudden vulgar harshness coming over her words that she knew Irma would not find very ‘ladylike’ at all. 

But, frankly, in that moment, she was so angry at her brother that she couldn’t give two shits about it. 

Before Cygnus could even cut in with another offensive comment or perhaps a tearful apology (it seemed like it was probably the latter - no matter how twisted his views were, he must’ve seen the caring expression on his sister’s face drop into one of stone and realised that he had crossed a line), Walburga continued. “Maybe you should go and stick your head down the toilet again seeing as all you want to do is chat shit, Cygnus.”

”Wally, I—“

“In fact,” Walburga spoke loudly, cutting her brother off without a second thought as she moved towards his door with fury radiating around her like a darkened halo.  “I hope you keep throwing up for the rest of the morning. That way, maybe you’ll spew out some of the nastiness you appear to have inhaled with your breakfast,” her cutting remarks dug into Cygnus like a knife, judging by the way he winced and folded in on himself, looking very weak and vulnerable and so unlike the dignified Black family member he was supposed to be. 

If you’re going to be horrible, at least do it well, Walburga thought to herself but she felt no pity for her brother after the way he had just rejected her kindness and responded with nothing but pure cruelty. So, she reacted in the only way she knew best and, as she stormed out of Cygnus’ bedroom, she quietly murmured, “Slugulus Eructo,” which was a charm that ensured Cygnus would actually be sick for the rest of the morning and possibly the whole day. 

“Serves you right,” Walburga muttered underneath her breath with slight venom drizzling her words as she heard Cygnus gag and yell out incoherently, a struggle followed by a splatter and an inelegant stumble for the en-suite bathroom which was all the evidence she needed to know her curse was in full effect. She then proceeded to stomp loudly and rather childishly down the hallway, nearly kicking over a delicate looking vase that was placed on the carpet but she refrained from doing so, knowing that her mother would be very angry if she did that. 

She was just so sick of being classed as inferior or irrelevant just because she was the only female member of her immediate family (bar her mother, obviously). Walburga absolutely loathed being left out of important conversations or treated as less worthy or significant of people's attention because she was 'just a girl’ and ‘didn’t understand.’ 

Walburga hated the fact that she had to be a lady and she had to act as thus because she was a member of the Noble House of Black and she had a reputation to uphold, a party full of guests to impress with her dainty manners and polite, not intelligent, conversation. As long as she could nod and agree, she was playing the role to perfection. Irma had already begun teaching Walburga that she always had to agree with the person that she was conversing with in order to be ‘polite.’ She wasn't allowed to have her own opinions when talking to others and she was to adopt the opinions of her husband when she got married and not speak her mind ever. 

Then her children were to be raised like that, too. And the generation after that. And after that. And so it would go on, as it always had, like a merry-go-round never stopping its repetitive cycle, the same patterns and paths being paved out despite the different carousel riders maybe wanting something different, something more. 

It restricted and dehumanised Walburga, ripping her of her own personal identity because what did it matter if she didn’t like the path her parents had chose for her? She was a Black and so she had to do what was expected of her in order to survive, she had to conform to that perfect picture that her family painted because, if she didn’t, she would be punished beyond belief.

Walburga didn’t necessarily disagree with it -  she knew that there were certain things that had to be done in order to restore control because sustainability was the most important factor to keeping the Black family afloat the rough waters, preventing them from sinking beneath the waves of extinction. If someone in the Blacks wasn’t following the rules set out from birth, Walburga understood that they had to be removed from the family tree and banished from the family itself forever. She got that part. She didn’t mind that part because she knew that that would never affect her in any way. 

She would certainly never disappoint her parents. Walburga would never go against anything that was expected of her, nor would she break any rules or do anything so unbelievably atrocious that her pretty mark on the family tree would become nothing but a burnt, sizzled hole. And no child of hers would either, because Walburga would raise them right, in the same way her parents did her. 

But just because she wasn’t going to do it herself didn’t mean she had to like it. Oh Merlin, Walburga hated the unfairness card she had been dealt with every fibre of her being. She detested being treated differently and having her freedom essentially taken away from her, simply because of her gender. The men of the Black family didn’t have to deal with that which was why Cygnus’ ignorant comment had infuriated her so much. 

Real problems in life. 

Oh, she would show him ‘real problems’ if he wanted to see real problems. Put Cygnus in Walburga’s shoes for a day and let him experience what it was like to be a woman in the Black family…the seven year old boy would be begging for forgiveness. 

The truly sad thing about it all, though, was that Walburga knew she just had to accept it because nothing was going to happen to change the blatant sexism and prejudices in the Black family any time soon. It was imprinted as a stamp in their history, twisted into the family like contaminated ivy spreading unchecked across a surface until it was too late to stop the invasion. 

She wanted more. Walburga yearned to be something more than 'just a girl' or 'Irma's daughter' who would just grow up to be married off to a respectable pureblood gentleman that her mother approved of. Why did she even need to get married, anyway? Walburga understood and agreed with the importance of purity and sustaining the Black bloodline but, if she was to lose her surname upon marriage like everything else, what was even the point?

The prestigiousness that came with the Black surname was one of the only things Walburga had to make her feel important, seeing as her gender hindered everything else and always put her at a lower position than the men, even males who were a measly seven years old and thought they could mouth off without consequences. When she got married (not that she exactly wanted to), Walburga wouldn’t even have that to hold onto. What a depressing thought. 

Even at the relatively tender age of thirteen, Walburga knew that she didn't want to be married off to some bloke, she didn't want to be forced to carry his children to make the next generation of perfect, pureblood kids and she knew that, if she was ever made to do so, she would detest being married and having children with every inch of her body. But she would do it. She didn’t really have a choice. 

But she still had to wonder - why did she have to follow expectations? Walburga was very much aware that she and her family were better than muggles and anyone who associated themselves with non magical folk, such as half bloods and blood traitors. However, what Walburga didn't see was why the hell she had to be trapped in a marriage in order to prove her belief in pureblood supremacy, especially when such an act would do nothing to help the Black heritage. 

With a sigh that seemed to weigh down her entire body, Walburga started to descend down the stairs to the second floor. She slid her pale hand across the banister slowly, watching her black painted nails against the marble of the staircase and planning on heading back to the dining room. Walburga had left her breakfast rather prematurely and, now that Cygnus clearly didn’t want her help, she realised she was still peckish and fancied returning to her food. 

However, much to her disappointment, when she reached the dining room, she found that the table had been stripped bare of all the breakfast and was shining from recent polish. Walburga let out an annoyed groan as her stomach rumbled slightly and she wondered briefly where her parents and Alphard had ended up. 

Walburga swept from the room, her dark robes swishing about her ankles as she glanced around, her eyes eventually landing on Tibet, one of the newest house elves. She couldn’t remember where Tibet had come from, and she couldn’t care less, “Elf!” she called out, watching as Tibet scrambling to her side with a shaking bow. “Where are my parents? Alphard?” she demanded. 

“I-I do not know, Mistress. I is sorry,” Tibet stammered out.

Walburga simply deposited one of her withering stares upon the creature before snapping, “Dismissed,” at the elf, which was all it took for Tibet to scurry away and continue cleaning one of house’s many chandeliers. Walburga stalked past her on her mission to find the rest of her family, glancing idly at the family portrait as she walked by. 

Then she stopped. A scoff rose up from the depths of her throat, escaping from her lips harshly as she sneered at the portrait that was the definition of a ‘perfect family.’ Pollux positioned upright in the centre, the patriarch and Head of the family, with Irma to his side, her black curls tightened into a bun which made her cheekbones more prominent. Walburga was beside Alphard, the two of them on either side of their parents, creating an almost pyramid structure with Cygnus seated on a small stool just in front of them. 

Happy wasn’t quite the word to describe this depiction of the Black family but perfect was certainly one that came close. Heads held high, posture impeccable, power and superiority radiating off them in waves, even in a painted edition. Walburga had remembered the pressure of that day - the expectation to be perfect had been drilled even more so into her that day. Remember your place. You are a Black. Do not disappoint, Irma had hissed to them all. 

Shoulders back. Face stoic. Conceal, don’t feel. Don’t let them see how broken you are on the inside, how helpless and trapped you feel in a life that you know you should feel immensely grateful for but you don’t. Walburga knew she was important - she was a Black, after all - but Blacks had to sustain and uphold the reputation they were given and Blacks had to be strong, they had to keep their fears and emotions at bay, they had to—

“Fuck.” 

A pathetic-sounding, despairing noise sounded from behind Walburga and she instantly whipped around to see that the sobbed curse had come from the drawing room, where a single crack in the door prompted her entry. She slid in furtively, curiosity peaked, and instantly smelt the pungent scent of alcohol and weakness on the air. The room was shrouded in darkness but it was still light enough for her to see her father seated at one of the tables, cradling a bottle of firewhiskey as many others littered the surface in front of him. 

Pathetic. That was the first word that sprung to mind the minute Walburga sighted Pollux Black, the man who was supposed to be the omnipotent, driving force of the Black family. The man who had never really connected with his children, preferring to busy himself with work and Grindelwald schemes, preferring to maim Muggles and mudbloods instead of bestow a single drop of attention upon Walburga, Alphard and Cygnus. 

And yet, he was still the man they all respected. Feared, even. Pollux could be cold, crass and cruel - Walburga had been on the receiving end of his punishment a lot in her life and it had been enough to put her in her place. Remind her of who she was, what expectations she had to live up to. The times where she had been Crucioed under the unloving gaze of her father had been the longest times she had ever spent with him, one on one, and they had only made her stronger. 

Because he had taught her that she had to be stronger. 

“There is no room for weakness in this household, Walburga,” Pollux’s chilling tone washed over the empty room, a foreboding sense creeping into the atmosphere like a bad smell.

Walburga simply bowed her head, clenching her fists tightly to stop her hands from shaking and attempting not to wince when her sharp nails dug into her soft palms. “No, Father,” she agreed, meek and accepting of her faults. 

“I know you are a girl,” At this derisive statement, Pollux’s lip curled in almost disgust, “And, believe me, you were certainly a disappointment. But that was through no fault of your own - it was simply your mother’s failure to provide me with a firstborn son. I do not blame you for your birth.”

Walburga wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say to that so she remained quiet. She had learnt, even at the pitiful age of nine, that it was better to just stay silent when Pollux talked like this. 

No speaking unless she was spoken to.

“Alphard came along, soon, anyway. Redeemed your mother, made you less of a disgrace to me,” Pollux walked forward slowly, his heeled boots clacking on the hard linoleum of his office floor. Walburga barely concealed her shiver of fear but soon composed herself, shoving down the feeling of dread and replacing it with composure. “And now, here you are, proving to me why you should never have been born, Walburga,” the way her father said her name was tinged with so much disgust that Walburga’s stomach churned.

“I’m sorry, Father,” Walburga whispered when Pollux paused, clearly expecting her to speak, her apology nothing but a breath upon the air.

He nodded, somewhat graciously, and Walburga relaxed for a mere moment, believing that she had been let off the hook for asking why Marius Black had been burnt off the tree. She had been told of her disowned uncle’s shameful Squib status, of course, but had struggled to comprehend why he been thrown out. 

Marius had grown up a Black, had he not? Magical or not, blood was important to the Blacks and Walburga had always been raised on the importance of family. She was beginning to realise, though, as she got older, that the Blacks idea of a ‘family’ only remained true if one exceeded all expectations. Walburga would have to do better, in the future, because her mild curiosity about why Marius hadn’t been able to stay had landed her in Pollux’s office. 

And that always meant bad news. 

“You will find,” Pollux continued in that cold, uncaring tone of his as his gaze flickered over Walburga in an almost bored manner, “That apologies are not always good enough. Bad deeds must be punished. Questioning the morals of our family, the beliefs we hold true within tradition, is despicable beyond belief, Walburga. You must never question the Blacks ever again, understood?” 

“Understood, Father,” Walburga replied demurely.

Pollux finally reached her, withdrawing his wand from his robes and jabbing it sharply into her shoulder, “Lacero,” he hissed, drawing a line down Walburga’s arm as she quivered, suffocating on her own breath as she tried to push down the scream that was longing to rip from her lungs at the excruciating pain tearing into her skin. 

Walburga managed to keep her cries down for a glorious fifteen seconds but, when blood began to gush through her robes from the open wound on her shoulder, she couldn’t help but let a tear slip down her cheek. Hot and salty, the tears just kept pouring out of her eyes and, before Walburga knew it, she was curled in a ball on the floor, screaming in agony as Pollux unleashed the Cruciatus curse upon the nine year old. 

“You are WEAK, Walburga Black! You will always be the weak link of this family, the disappointment! Do better next time, you pathetic little shit. Blacks do not cry - why are you crying? Stop fucking crying, you cowardly sod. I rue the day I ever set eyes on you. Look at you, cowering there like a powerless Muggle scum. Fight back!” Pollux taunts accompanied the torture, his words wounding just as much as the curse that was racking through Walburga’s body. 

When it was done, gasping breaths and sobs were the only noises that Walburga could make, shuddering in a ball on the floor in a pool of her own blood, sweat and tears. Mortification dawned on her when she realised she had also wet herself, her robes uncomfortably damp but Walburga couldn’t move, her cries crippling her movements as she sniffled in a very unladylike way. 

“Pathetic, weak little girl,” Pollux spat at her before leaving the office, shutting the door behind him with a bang and leaving his daughter to reflect on the consequences of her actions.

And Walburga swore she would never question the workings of the Black family ever again. She had to remember her place, had to uphold her reputation and not let her facade crack. 

But not right now. Not today. Today she would cry and allow herself to be weak, relishing in the feeling of letting go. From now on, though, there would be no more tears. No more questions. Walburga swore to herself that she would be stronger, she would earn her family’s respect and she would learn to control her emotions. 

Because Pollux was right. 

She was just pathetic. 

But now the shoe was on the other foot. 

Walburga was shocked, and almost disgusted, at her inner thoughts so blatantly stating that Pollux was pathetic, drowning his sorrows in a bottle of Firewhiskey. But she couldn’t help it - her father had constantly told her it was pathetic to showcase her emotions and that it was weak to be vulnerable. And yet here he was…the hypocrisy was practically stifling. 

Pollux Black looked absolutely miserable and Walburga would’ve felt sorry for him, if he hadn’t been the reason why she was so cold-hearted. If she had been someone different, someone who had grown up in a different familial environment, Walburga most certainly would’ve felt pity for her father, even though he had brought his hardships on himself. But Walburga had been raised on the ideal, by the very man in front of her, that weakness was not a Black family trait. 

So why the hell was Pollux contradicting his  own words? 

Walburga could understand why Pollux was upset - of course she could, she wasn’t heartless. Cold-hearted, yes. Ruthless, yes. But not heartless. She knew that the Blacks ought to be perfect in every nature in order to sustain their appearance but she was also aware that they felt emotions too, and that they weren’t always the image they displayed to the public. 

Pollux was here, drinking his sorrows away, because Grindelwald had been defeated. Walburga knew that he wasn’t the only one who had been rattled by that news - the entire Sacred 28 probably would be, especially as many of them had been direct followers of Grindelwald himself. Walburga was certainly surprised because she had thought that Grindelwald was going to win the war, they all had. But at least she hadn’t participated in the dark wizard’s schemes without much thought for the consequences. 

Pollux had, though. 

He’d attended the meetings, the rallies, the attacks and he had done all of it with a sense of pride. Walburga still remembered the gloating look on her father’s face every time he came back from a successful attack, the manic gleam in his eye when he returned from unleashing havoc and terror on those that were not pure blooded. Pollux had enjoyed being a follower of Grindelwald, he had relished in the added power it gave his already intimidating status and the murders he committed in cold blood had just been a disposal of his anger and hatred at non-magical folk. 

But now Grindelwald was defeated. By Albus Dumbledore, no less. All of his supporters would be threatened, especially those who had not been shy about bragging that they worked for him, like Pollux. Walburga got that her father could face Azkaban, or worse, now and that thought didn’t necessarily upset her. It was just the way of the world. Hadn’t Pollux always taught her that actions had consequences? No bad deed went unpunished? 

Walburga hated Muggles and mudbloods just as much as the next person and she certainly believed in unleashing vengeance upon them for the hiding they had forced wizarding kind into, all those years ago. Muggles were cruel, unforgiving, dirty beings who deserved to be punished but Walburga did have a shred of decency, thank you very much. And that small shred was the reason why she didn’t believe in murder. 

And Pollux had killed. Tens, hundreds of people, maybe. That was a bad deed. In Walburga’s eyes, anyway. Pollux would have to face his punishment just like he had taught his children to do, in those dark office evenings. So, why was he so upset?

”Father?” Walburga asked hesitantly, still hovering in the doorway and Pollux glanced up at her, ushering her in silently.

That was the first sign that something was severely wrong, that the order of this household had become unbalanced - Pollux never welcomed his children towards him. If he wanted to be alone, even Irma wouldn’t approach him. He could get dangerously cruel when he was mad and brooding. 

“Yes?” Pollux slurred out, not even attempting to disguise the fact that he had probably sunk about three bottles of Firewhiskey in just the last half an hour.

Walburga shoved down the feeling of shock that overcame her at her father’s behaviour and took a step forward, her nose wrinkling in disgust as the stench of alcohol reached her nostrils. 

“Are you…” Walburga gulped, unable to believe she was actually going to ask this question, “Are you alright?” Her words hung in the air for a long moment and Walburga held her breath, bracing herself for the pain that came with Pollux’s “Crucio!” whenever he was mad.

But it never came. Walburga’s eyes had shut instinctively in the silence, preparing herself for the worst, but they flickered open once she realised her father hadn’t even reached for his wand. 

“Oh yes,” Pollux drawled, swigging the contents of another bottle and glowering at the crimson carpeted floor instead of meeting Walburga’s gaze. “Just peachy,” he said sarcastically before hiccuping, slouching further in his chair which was something that would’ve prompted a smack around the head if it had been Walburga, Alphard or Cygnus doing so. Posture was an important part of being a Black. If you maintained a good posture, then everyone knew how important you were. 

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Walburga asked delicately, trying to ignore the bubbling anger in her stomach which was a reaction to how her father was acting.

How dare he enforce all of these expectations upon her but not apply the same rules to himself? How dare he let his guard down and shatter everything that Walburga had grown to respect and fear him for when she had been punished for doing the same thing? 

It didn’t make any sense. 

”Yeah,” Pollux grunted, swallowing down the last of his drink and slamming the empty bottle down onto the table with a loud thump that made Walburga jump wildly. ”You can fuck off,” he snapped, glaring at her and, though the dismissal stung just as much as it always did, Walburga felt a small slimmer of relief enter her body. Pollux, although intoxicated and confusing in how he was letting his emotions get the better of him, had suddenly just acted like his old self for a split second. 

But he had let his guard down. Walburga had seen the weak, petrified man behind the stoic mask and cruel reputation he had hidden behind all of her life. And Walburga suddenly understood why Pollux had enjoyed preying on his children when they were the most vulnerable - it was a power rush and Walburga had never felt more powerful than she had in that moment. Like she could hurt Pollux without consequences. 

In doing so, she would be doing herself a favour, Walburga decided. Her family had never taken her seriously because she was a female…she was seen as weaker, a placeholder, only good for one thing. 

Well, Walburga smirked to herself maliciously, They certainly underestimated what I can do. “Fine. Be like that,” she said coldly, hardly recognising her own voice but shivering in pleasure when she saw the brief glint of fear in her father’s eyes. 

Karma. 

“Good luck in Azkaban, Father. I would advise you not to go too mad but I believe that’s a lost cause, already. Look at the state of you,” Walburga taunted, the ghosts of Pollux’s own verbal abuse channelling her words and giving her that power she had always craved.

Pollux set his jaw, “I’m not going to Azkaban, you lying bitch,” he said resolutely but Walburga could see that something had broken within him today, following the news of Grindelwald’s defeat. 

A part of him was lost. And this was the part that Walburga wanted to swoop in and attack, take for herself. Have the upper hand in an interaction with her father for once in her life. Preying on the weakness provided her with a dizzying sense of relief, like she was finally fulfilling the expectations that had been suffocating her since birth.

Wasn’t this what her father had been trying to build her into? Someone stronger, someone crueller? Well, she thought in satisfaction as the Cruciatus Curse hit him, let’s see how much he likes it when he has to suffer the consequences. 

Pollux’s scream of anguish was ripped from him as Walburga forced him down onto his knees, until he was writhing on the floor in a pool of his own sweat and tears. In front of her very eyes, her intimidating father turned into what he had always sworn against - a weak person. Everything Walburga had ever thought, feared and hated about him disappeared in an instant because, for once, she had the power. 

She was in control. And Merlin, she liked it. Loved it, even. 

Tears gushed down Pollux’s face as he struggled underneath the Cruciatus Curse that Walburga was bestowing upon him, channelling all of her emotions towards her father into the spell. A sadistic laugh bubbled uncontrollably out of her mouth when she saw that Pollux was actually crying. Crying at her feet. Begging for mercy. After all the times he had admonished her for sobbing….

”Aw, Father, not so brave now, are you? Why are you crying? Blacks do not cry. You told me that,” Walburga released Pollux from the curse and he scampered back, eyeing her with a mixture of disgust, horror and fear. The last emotion sent a flicker of pleasure through Walburga’s neglected heart. Then she was storming forward, gripping Pollux’s face tightly and feeling the salty tears on her fingers. 

“Stop fucking crying, you cowardly sod,” Walburga hissed, venom permanently twisted into her words that she was just repeating from Pollux himself, all those years ago. Behaviours were taught. This was how Walburga had been taught to act. If someone was being weak, like Pollux had been whilst drinking, then they had to suffer. It was just the way of the world and Walburga didn’t feel a crumb of regret for following what she had been conditioned to do. It had made her feel so powerful and left her wanting more. 

She was sick of being tossed to the side. The euphoric feeling that had filled her whilst watching her own father, the reason behind so much of her pain, writhe on the floor under the power of her own curse…it was an addictive feeling that Walburga couldn’t wait to experience again. Almost drug-like in its entirety, she craved that powerful sensation of complete and utter control.

“Who are you?” Pollux whispered in complete shock, pupils dilated from the strenuous minutes he had been placed under the Cruciatus Curse for. There was no pretence anymore, no need for that cool-as-a-cucumber facade that her father had been so fond of adopting over the years. Walburga had successfully broken him, shattered his very resolve out of a need for dominance, a thirst to prove herself to the person who had doubted and sneered at her the most. Well, who was laughing now? 

“I’m the monster you created, Father.” 

Before Pollux could even respond, a house elf rapped on the door. Breaking the moment. Walburga rose, for she had been crouched in front of her father, who was sprawled on the floor with his back against the wall. Pathetic coward. Walburga had no respect left for him whatsoever. Gaston was stood in the doorway, eyes imploringly wide when he came across the scene but sensibly didn’t say anything - he clearly was rather fond of keeping his head. 

"Mr. Black, sir? Gaston is having a visitor requesting to see his master," the house elf squeaked.

Pollux opened his eyes slowly, taking a deep breath, "Tell them that I'm not in the mood for visitors, Gaston. Or just say I'm not at home," he told the house elf, who shifted uncomfortably as his eyes darted sideways. It was not in Gaston’s nature to disobey a direct command from the Head of the Black family so Walburga instantly sensed there was something wrong. Clearly, this was no ordinary guest. 

“What is the matter, elf?” Walburga questioned impatiently, discreetly kicking Pollux’s ankle, silently demanding him to get to his feet. The glare her father shot her as he stumbled back upright made Walburga think rather amusedly of the saying her cousin, Callidora, often used - “If looks could kill.” But, alas, they could not or else Walburga would’ve been six feet underground. 

Gaston turned his attention to Walburga, in almost relief, “Mistress,” he bowed forth-most, “Gaston opened the door, as Gaston always does whenever anyone be knocking but Gaston is not expecting any visitors this morning! So Gaston is shocked, yes, but the visitors say they is from the Ministry of Magic! Gaston is having to let them in, you see, as they is most powerful wizards—“

”You did WHAT?” Pollux suddenly bellowed, all of the weakness he had assumed disappearing in an instant. Walburga arched an eyebrow in surprise, refusing to let her shock at her father’s personality return be revealed on her face.

Gaston cowered, pressing himself to the doorframe in terror as Pollux surged towards him in a fit of rage, “You stupid elf!” he roared, clearly deciding to unleash the anger and frustration of the last hour out on the poor house elf who was simply the bearer of bad news. 

Walburga couldn’t care less for house elves, she had always been taught to treat them with indifference but she wasn’t about to let Pollux hurt Gaston, who had done nothing wrong.

Before she could step in, however, a voice rang out, “Ah, Mr. Black. I was wondering how I would find you in this maze of a house. But then your tantrum led me right to you. I have to thank you.” 

The man who walked in, donning the deep purple robes that Walburga knew employees of the Ministry’s Department of Magical Law Enforcement wore, emulated so much terrifying power that it was enough to silence Pollux.

Hatred was etched into every inch of his face as Walburga watched in interest, leant against the wall, “Henry Potter,” he acknowledged in a less-than-polite tone. 

Henry Potter was a man of clear Middle Eastern descent, with light brown skin and a mess of jet black hair that looked rather untidy for a Ministry employee. The mere mention of his name, though, had been enough for the intelligent Walburga to connect the dots - this was the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at the Ministry. His name had been mentioned several times in the Daily Prophet over the course of Grindelwald’s reign and his son, Fleamont, had been in the same year as Walburga’s cousin, Orion. 

His daughter was Walburga’s age, named Ottalie Potter, and she was a Hufflepuff who constantly annoyed her in Herbology due to her constant giggling with her best friend, Pomona Sprout. Upon further inspection, Walburga could see the likeliness between Henry and Ottalie - they both had the same hazel eyes but, whereas Ottalie’s often sparkled with mischief, Henry’s were serious and burning with unadulterated anger. 

“Pollux Black,” Henry returned the sentiment with the same bite to his voice, distaste bleeding into every word. “A bit rougher round the edges since I last saw you. What happened? Your old pal’s defeat get you down?” he taunted chillingly.

Pollux didn’t rise to his bait, simply raising his chin and sneering, “Speaking of down, how’s dear Everleigh? I was never down when around her, if you catch my drift.” 

Anger flashed over Henry’s features as he started forward, as if he was going to curse Walburga’s father (which she wouldn’t have even minded, to be completely honest). “Keep my wife’s name out of your mouth, Black,” he hissed.

Pollux only smirked, raising a singular eyebrow, “Why should I? I’ve had far more than her name in my mouth, Potter.” Walburga was incredibly confused as to what they were on about - she was only thirteen, after all, and was very sheltered - but Henry was incensed. 

“She regrets every day she ever spent with you, Black. You’re her worst mistake,” Henry said scathingly and Walburga saw something flash in Pollux’s eyes as he gripped onto the table behind him to steady himself - the curse earlier had weakened his strong stance considerably.

“Are you sure her worst mistake isn’t the oaf you call your eldest son? Fleamont, isn’t it? Wasting his time on bloody hair product potions, am I correct?” he bit back. 

“You keep my son out of this,” Henry’s eyes were flashing and Walburga thought it was evident that there was a considerable amount of history between these two men. So, bored of the back-and-forth between Potter and Black, she began to walk slowly out of the room. Her movements went mostly unnoticed by her father, though Henry Potter did a double-take, like he hadn’t seen her lurking in the corner of the drawing room. 

But, clearly, Walburga’s absence didn’t impact them much for their argument failed to cease. Raised voices continued to sound from the drawing room, even as Walburga idly floated back into the hallway. The lack of care she had surrounding Pollux’s possible arrest was almost disconcerting but, considering the shameful shambles he had been in back then, Walburga didn’t feel guilty about it at all.

In fact, she would happily do it again.

"GRINDELWALD KILLED MY FATHER! MY CHILDREN'S GRANDFATHER! HOW DARE YOU DEFEND HIM, BLACK!" 

“Dearie me,” Walburga murmured, nonplussed, underneath her breath as Henry’s voice exploded through the walls of the drawing room.

Clearly, someone hadn’t been taught how to argue eloquently - cutting remarks spoken in a cold tone always left deeper wounds than angry, aggressive shouting. Henry was so achingly like the annoying Gryffindors in her year, always loud and inelegant which was so unlike the House of Black that it almost unsettled Walburga. 

That was just not the ways things were done in the Noble House of Black. Appearances were very important and losing control in an argument was certainly a weakness. Walburga had taught herself long ago to never be weak again and she had proven herself today. Monsters bred monsters, after all. Surely Pollux must’ve assumed that his abusive behaviour would pass onto her? He can’t have been that stupid—

Walburga was about to ponder further when the drawing room doors burst open, revealing a bruised-looking Henry Potter as he dragged Walburga's panting father through the doorway. Pollux's hands were bound tightly  by some sort of spell behind his back as sweat poured down his face, the Ministry official's wand to his head. There had obviously been some kind of physical altercation.

How improper, Walburga thought. 

"...Pollux Black - you are under arrest for being apart of a terroist organisation; potentially committing murder; causing injury to innocent citizens and attacking a Ministry official. You will be brought into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for further questioning on your involvement with Gellert Grindelwald. You do not have to say anything. But, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?" Henry Potter was saying to Pollux as he pulled him past Walburga, who was watching with quiet amusement at her father’s expense. 

What goes around comes around. 

“Please don’t do this!” Pollux was begging, Walburga noted with a crawl of disgust up her spine as she observed the way her father was struggling in Henry’s grip. “I haven’t done anything wrong, you fucking bastard-YOU!” Pollux Black suddenly whirled around to face Walburga, his eyes wild and his usually well kept hair falling into his red face. “Help me! What sort of daughter are you? You…you cold hearted bitch!” he spat, desperate frustration radiating off him in waves. 

Weak. Pathetic. Disgrace. 

Walburga sneered at her father, feeling no pity whatsoever for the man who had made her the ‘cold-hearted bitch’ she was today. “You made me like this,” she replied, her expression revealing no true emotion in the way that he had taught her. “If you didn’t want me to be cold-hearted, then you should have raised me differently. But you made your bed and now you have to lie in it,” she shrugged heartlessly. 

For the first time in his life, Pollux Black looked truly flummoxed. Lost for words. Henry continued pulling him back, evidently impatient and eager to get him locked up in Azkaban but Walburga wasn’t quite done yet.

“B-but I’m your father!” Pollux tried helplessly, searching for some hint of compassion from his eldest daughter, “I’m allowed to make mistakes-“

”Are you?” Walburga cocked her head to the side, frowning in mock confusion, “I seem to remember you telling me a completely different story, Father. Blacks are perfect, we don’t make mistakes. And if we make mistakes, we get punished for them. This is your punishment for being weak. For being a shit father—“

”Fine, I’m sor—“

“You will find,” Walburga spoke loudly, cutting Pollux’s petulant interruption off, “That apologies are not always good enough. Bad deeds must be punished,” she was mimicking her father’s own words now, from that awful night in his office when she was nine. Pollux’s nostrils flared as Walburga continued, her words dripping with icy malice, “Sound familiar?” she asked coldly. 

Pollux didn’t dignify her with an answer, all of his resolve sagging as he just let Henry Potter drag him down the hallway in a way that was so pathetic, it made Walburga want to laugh. Despite his insistence that weakness was not a Black family virtue and his unprecedented urge to maintain appearance, Pollux Black was now being shoved unceremoniously through the front door of his own household. 

At some point, Alphard had joined Walburga as she followed Henry and Pollux to the door, which meant Cygnus soon trotted behind as well. Irma was nowhere to be seen, which was probably for the best as Walburga had no idea how her mother would react to her calling out to Pollux as he reached the Bruton Street threshold (Henry was not able to apparate Pollux directly from the drawing room to the Minsitey due to the magical wards placed around the Black household). 

“Oh, Father?” she sang out manically. 

Walburga had never felt more powerful than the moment where Pollux glanced back at her, one last time, with a smidge of hope encrusted in his pale expression that perhaps his daughter was not the cold-hearted bitch he had essentially bred her to be. Pollux’s eyes scanned over all three of his children, stood at the top of the main staircase overlooking the entrance hall, and the look of desperation in his eyes was enough to make Walburga snort derisively. 

“Yes?” 

“There is no room for weakness in this household. You would do good to remember that.” 

“You can’t use my own words against me!” Pollux protested indignantly, eyes bulging and Walburga only cackled, clapping her hands together as Henry held her father back - not that he would be able to inflict any pain upon her in his wandless state.

“I just did,” she said sweetly, ignoring Cygnus’ shocked expression at her attitude towards Pollux. “Enjoy Azkaban.” 

“Touché.” 

“Thank you, Alphard,” Walburga said graciously to her eleven year old brother who had mumbled the remark not long after Pollux had disappeared onto Bruton Street, probably straight to the Ministry.

“Do you think he’ll be released?” Cygnus questioned, looking rather scared of his sister now and still rather sickly from the slug curse earlier (someone must’ve taken pity on him and cast the counter curse). 

“Let’s hope not,” Alphard muttered with a nervous look around him, like Irma or even Pollux was going to appear out of thin air and chastise him for such a remark.

Walburga suspected Alphard was saying such things for different reasons than her own but she didn’t care, either way - the three of them were byproducts of Black family parenting and Pollux’s punishments had certainly unhinged them all, just perhaps in different ways. 

For her, Pollux had made her stronger. He had eliminated any scrap of weakness in her body, ripped the very heart and compassion from her soul and turned her into the monster she was, at just thirteen years old.

But, Walburga reflected in her room that night, parenting itself was an echo. You reap what you sow. What you send out, comes back. What you give, you get. And what you see in others, exists in you. 

Walburga had seen cruelty in Pollux. 

Which meant cruelty existed in her. 

Cruelty which she had already found she enjoyed. She loved the feeling of floating above others, of being powerful over those who were weak. Walburga loved the rush, willingly swallowing the poison pill of intimidation, making people fear her, and she would not be satisfied until she overdosed. That was a feeling she had learnt from being a member of the Noble House of Black and it was something she would carry to her grave. 

It hadn’t always been the person she was, of course. Walburga had meant it when she told Pollux explicitly that, if he and Irma had raised her differently, she wouldn’t have become so desensitised and cold-hearted. If she hadn’t squirmed in agony on her father’s office floor, she wouldn’t have gotten the bloodthirsty urge to do the same to others, to unleash the pain she felt onto people. If she hadn’t been tossed aside as an unwanted daughter, she wouldn’t have had the thirst to prove herself to everyone.

Everything happened for a reason, after all. 

Maybe she was always destined to turn out like this. Her innocence was always meant to be corrupted and turned into something far darker than anyone could’ve dreamt. But Walburga had had potential, shown through her childlike curiosity for her Squib Uncle Marius she had never met, which had been stamped out so viciously that she had transformed into someone her nine year old self wouldn’t even recognise. 

Hopefully, her potential would spring up in another generation of Blacks. Maybe someone further down the bloodline would be able to escape the hell that was the Noble House of Black before it was too late. Maybe not every member of the Black family would be as wicked as Walburga. 

But, all things truly wicked start from innocence.

And that had certainly been the case with Walburga Black.