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1935
The air was stale and unbearably hot, with closed windows and a fire stoked high in the middle of July. The collar of her best frock stuck to Sybill’s neck with sweat. Everyone was gathered around the bed of her great-grandmother, Cassandra, the greatest (and last) Seer of their family dynasty. Sybill bore none of this woman’s talents—her mother had already had her tested—another disappointment in a long line of disappointments.
“Sybill…” Her great-grandmother’s voice was weak but unmistakable.
Sybill’s mother urged her to step closer, but she remained unsure. She had never been overly fond of the imposing woman, whom the family treated as an infallible deity. As such, Cassandra only saw her progeny as little more than ants, unremarkable and small.
But a firm push against her back sent Sybill stumbling forward. She almost fell flat on her face but managed to right herself in time. Nevertheless, the initial stagger left her starting on her back foot. Sybill took careful steps in the direction of her great-grandmother, who appeared only as a small lump under mountains of quilts and knitted blankets.
“Yes, Cassandra?” Sybill said. She would never call her great-grandmother “Nan,” only by her first name. Cassandra had insisted.
“Give me your hand, child,” Cassandra ordered. From this distance, Sybill could hear the rattling of her breathing, though she was too young to know what it meant, only that the sound terrified her.
Even so, Sybill did as she was told, extending her hand to rest in her great-grandmother’s palm. The old woman’s skin was paper-thin and rough, but she squeezed Sybill’s hand with incredible strength. Her rheumy eyes rolled back in her skull, and she began to convulse.
“Yes, I see it all…” Cassandra’s voice was otherworldly, reverberating through the room as though it was coming from everywhere all at once. “You, my child, will be blessed with a great love… a powerful love… an enduring love.”
Sybill smiled. How could she not? She loved the tales of princesses in towers rescued by handsome knights. Sybill imagined her own prince whisking her far away from this dreadful place with boring people and its stifling rules.
But then Cassandra’s grip grew even harder. “And yet, like the sides of a coin, with your great love will come unspeakable tragedy. Your happiness will not last… and curdle into something ugly and cruel.”
Sybill’s smile fell. She tugged her hand, desperate to not hear any more bad news from the Seer, but Cassandra remained steadfast.
“Mind your words, my child.”
Then Cassandra collapsed onto her bed, relinquishing her granddaughter’s hand at last. Sybill brought the limb to her chest, feeling it throb. She did not know what she was supposed to do with this information. How was she supposed to keep living knowing that she was doomed?
1938 - 1941
Sybill was sorted into Ravenclaw—no surprise there. For as far as human memory stretched, every Trelawney had been placed in the house. And though this place was her birthright, she made few friends. Too odd for even the oddballs, Sybill kept to herself, occupying her time with books about Divination. It was not as if Sybill was particularly interested in the subject—she already knew she was no great Seer—but she was curious to discover if prophecies always came true. Ever since she’d heard her great-grandmother’s proclamation, Sybill had been obsessed with undoing the magic.
It was in the Hogwarts library, among the Divination shelves, that Sybill first met Walburga. As a Slytherin two years her senior, Sybill would have had little opportunity to interact with the other girl. But Sybill had seen Walburga with her gaggle of friends, giggling in an otherwise silent library, and she could not help but stare. Walburga had beautiful, shining dark hair cut in a stylish bob. Her eyes were even darker, and they cut directly to Sybill, appraising her openly. Sybill flushed under the attention.
“Who are you?” Walburga asked.
“Sybill Trelawney,” she answered, voice quavering.
Walburga looked between her friends, sharing an inscrutable smile. “So, it’s true what the Ravenclaws are saying, then? A Trelawney has come to Hogwarts, at last?”
“Yes.” Sybill swallowed hard. She hadn’t told anyone that she didn’t have a lick of the Sight in her body, but sooner or later, they would discover she was a fraud.
“Will you read our fortunes?” Walburga asked.
“Oh, I—”
“We’ll pay you,” another of her friends—the blonde—said. “Four sickles.”
Sybill’s eyes widened. She had never been in possession of so much money in her life.
“Okay,” Sybill said, her voice unsteady. “When do you want to do it?”
“3AM. That’s the witching hour, isn’t it?”
Sybill nodded, unsure of herself. She liked to sleep, but she supposed it was worth it to get her four sickles. “And where?”
“Well, we can’t exactly do it in our common room.” Walburga sent a pointed look in the direction of Sybill’s uniform. “How about the girls’ bathroom on the third floor?”
Sybill should have realized this would be the case. Her mother had told Sybill she would disown her daughter if she ever got expelled from school, so Sybill had made it a point to follow all of the rules to a T, including going to bed before curfew. What would happen to her if she was caught sneaking around the castle?
“You won’t get caught,” Walburga said as if she could read her mind. “Plus, the Headmaster is a cousin of mine. He would never dream of punishing a friend.”
Oh. Sybill had never put two and two together, but it was so obvious in hindsight that the girl who ruled the school with an iron fist would be related to the man with the same name as her.
“So, Sybill,” —a shiver ran down Sybill’s spine; she loved the way Walburga said her name— “can we count on you, or not?”
“Yes, you can,” Sybill replied, feeling more determined than ever.
Walburga smiled, all charm, but even so, Sybill thought she caught a flash of darkness behind the girl’s eyes. “Excellent. Pleasure doing business with you.”
So, that was how young Sybill found herself hurrying to the girls’ bathroom on the third floor, her mother’s tarot deck in her bag. She had jumped at every sound but, at last, she reached the door. Sybill took a deep breath and turned the handle, preparing herself for the worst. She still wasn’t quite sure that this wasn’t an elaborate prank set by the Slytherin girls to humiliate her, but, for whatever reason, she was going along with their plan.
Sybill opened the door, and her faith was rewarded by the presence of several familiar girls dressed in Slytherin green. Their excitement was palpable when she stepped inside, the air crackling with the giddiness at knowing their futures. Of course, they didn’t know Sybill was a fraud. Something she never intended for them to find out.
Which begged the question? How did Sybill intend to fool three reasonably intelligent Slytherins? Well, she had seen enough of her great-grandmother’s readings to know what she was supposed to do. The key to a satisfied customer was to tell them what they wanted to hear. And what were these girls after? It was simple, really. The same thing all girls wanted to know: who would they marry? What would their husbands be like? Kind? Wealthy? Handsome?
So, Sybill sat cross-legged on the tile floor and shuffled her deck. She passed it from girl to girl, allowing them to touch the cards so they became imbued with their “psychic energy.” Sybill worried she was laying it on too thick, but the girls seemed enthralled by the pageantry. Then they all held hands—Sybill couldn’t help but notice how soft Walburga’s skin was.
“Ancestors,” Sybill intoned, eyes closed. She made her voice as deep as she had heard her great-grandmother do. “We call upon you to peel back the curtain so we might glimpse the futures of these promising Slytherin girls.”
When she opened her eyes again, she was happy to see they were all gaping at her, awe in their beautiful, pinched faces. But then Sybill’s gaze landed on Walburga. She certainly looked impressed, but in a way very unlike her two friends. Sybill tried not to let it shake her confidence.
“Alright,” Sybill said. “Who shall be first?” The blonde—Druella Rosier, Sybill believed—raised her hand. Sybill fanned the cards out. “Pick three and set them before you. And do not turn them. Their orientation is important.”
Druella did as she was told, pulling three cards from the deck. She turned them over slowly, and each reveal was met with dramatic gasps from her companions.
“Three of Cups, The Sun, and reversed Temperance,” Sybill said solemnly.
“Is that bad?” Druella asked.
“Quite the contrary,” Sybill replied. “It means you will have great fortune.” Druella’s face brightened. “Fortune in love, family, and, of course, money.”
“How many children will I have?”
Sybill looked at the cards again. “Three.”
“Do you hear that, Walburga? Cygnus and I are going to have three children. All sons, I imagine.”
Walburga made a disgusted face. What Sybill didn’t know was that Slytherins from the oldest lineages were placed in arranged marriages at a very young age. Cygnus was Walburga’s little brother, who was not yet old enough to attend Hogwarts, and Druella’s intended.
“Who’s next?”
Sybill looked to Walburga, but she waved her hand and said, “Let Rosalba go.”
Rosalba, who was much quieter than her two friends, perked up. She reached for the deck Sybill held out, her hand hovering over the cards, hesitating like her life depended on it. At last, she pulled three and turned them over.
“Wheel of Fortune, Five of Pentacles, and the Lovers.”
“Lovers,” Rosalba muttered under her breath reverently.
“As the card would imply, you and your husband will have a great love.”
“And how many children? Five?” she asked, clearly in reference to the number on the card.
But Sybill did not want to make it seem like her “visions” were so obvious. “I see two children in your future.”
“I hope I have at least one daughter,” Rosalba said dreamily. “One daughter to marry one of your sons, Druella.”
“We shall see,” Druella replied. Sybill wasn’t sure why, but Druella seemed less than excited by the prospect.
“Walburga?” Sybill asked. Her heart skipped a beat when those dark eyes met hers again. “Do you want to see your future?”
“What is there to know? My future is already set in stone. It’s not as if knowing will help me change anything.”
“Come on, Burgie!” Druella said. “It’s fun. And how can it be bad? Orion is going to inherit the largest estate in England.”
Sybill’s ears pricked at the name. This certainly wouldn’t be the last time she heard mention of Orion Black.
“Fine,” Walburga said with a sigh. Then she turned that charming smile in Sybill’s direction, and her heart raced dangerously in response.
Walburga picked her three cards haphazardly without a second thought. She flipped them over in rapid succession without pausing. Sybill’s heart nearly stopped. How was she supposed to spin this?
“Judgment. The Hanged Man. The Devil,” Walburga said with a scoff. “Should I be afraid?” But she didn’t sound afraid; Walburga sounded haughty.
“Not necessarily,” Sybill began, her voice small.
“Oh, look, I got an extra,” Walburga said. Sybill waited with bated breath for the reveal of a much more positive card. She would not be so lucky. “Death!?” Walburga gave an incredulous laugh.
“I am sure there’s been a mistake, Burgie,” Druella said. “Right?” She looked to Sybill for support as she asked this.
But Walburga was also looking at Sybill, and the uninterrupted focus of those dark eyes was making it hard for her to think on her feet. She licked her dry lips. “Well…”
“No, it’s okay,” Walburga said. “I can handle whatever you tell me.”
Her mind was drawing a blank, so Sybill said the only thing she could think of, the words that were a constant echo in her mind, “You, my child, will be blessed with a great love… a powerful love… an enduring love. And yet, like the sides of a coin, with your great love will come unspeakable tragedy. Your happiness will not last… and curdle into something ugly and cruel.”
Walburga let out a low whistle, an uncharacteristically common noise for a scion of excellent breeding to make. “Do you hear that, girls? I have been cursed.” A wry grin was twisting Walburga’s lips, but Druella and Rosalba only appeared terrified. “Well, it’s time we got to bed. Thank you again, Sybill.” She nodded to Rosalba, who held out the four shiny coins. Sybill took them and admired the cool metal against her skin.
Her friends stood up, but Walburga remained seated, her attention on Sybill. “Actually, go without me. Trelawney and I need to have a conversation.”
Druella and Rosalba looked a bit uncertain about being dismissed by their leader, but, like all good lackeys, they obeyed at once. At the prospect of being left alone with the formidable Walburga, Sybill felt her palms begin to sweat.
“You’re good,” Walburga said, her dark gaze piercing.
“Thank you,” Sybill said, shifting uneasily.
“But you don’t believe all this, do you?”
Sybill opened and closed her mouth like an inarticulate fish. What was Walburga implying? Whatever it was, Sybill didn’t like it. Would Walburga ask for the money back? Sybill closed her fist and slipped the coins into her pocket in a manner she hoped was inconspicuous.
But Walburga noticed it immediately and let out a derisive laugh. “It’s okay that you don’t. I won’t hold it against you. In fact, I am pleased you said that to Rosalba. Poor girl, her family is not as moneyed as Druella’s and certainly not as influential as mine. She will be lucky to make a match, let alone a good one. But you gave her a bit of hope, at least for the time being.”
She placed her hands on Sybill’s shoulders and squeezed. Sybill tried not to jump. Her palms were growing sweaty under Walburga’s dark-eyed gaze, and her stomach turned with something unfamiliar.
“Your secret is safe with me, Sybill.” Walburga dropped her hands, and Sybill felt their absence immediately. “See you around.”
She watched the older girl step out of the bathroom, leaving Sybill alone with her wildly swirling thoughts. But the coins were not the only thing the Slytherin had imparted. Walburga was something Sybill could not understand, no matter how hard she tried to parse her feelings. And Sybill did spend a lot of time considering the brief moment they’d shared. Too much, some might say, as her mind drifted in classes.
“Miss Trelawney.”
Sybill looked away from the window she’d been staring out, abashed. “Yes, Professor Dumbledore?”
“What is the spell to turn a bird into a water goblet?”
Sybill opened her mouth to respond, but she was distracted by the Gryffindor girl sitting a desk away, waving her hand wildly.
“Yes, Miss McGonagall.”
“Vera verto,” Minerva McGonagall replied, entirely too smug.
“Correct. 10 points to Gryffindor.”
Sybill rolled her eyes, barely able to contain her annoyance. Then her mind returned to its favorite pastime: tracing the features of Walburga’s face, from her long, raven tresses to her dark gaze and down to her—
“And Miss Trelawney?” Sybill perked up again to look into Dumbledore’s sparkling blue eyes. “Let’s try to pay more attention to the lesson and less on the window.”
“Yes, sir,” Sybill replied with little desire to do so.
After a while, Sybill hoped that her obsession would dissipate, but then she’d catch Walburga in the hallway or the Great Hall, and the girl would offer a dazzling smile, and then Sybill’s stomach would be in knots all over again. It was equal parts baffling and infuriating.
But then, in her third year at Hogwarts, Sybill had gone to Hogsmeade one weekend to spend her earnings at Honeydukes. Her opinion on Divination had transformed from skepticism to cynicism. If she could use it for her benefit, then why not empty her classmates’ pockets? Of course, her peers weren’t the only ones who’d had the wool pulled over their eyes; Professor Onai was also thoroughly fooled and praised Sybill’s “clear Inner Eye.” More proof that the whole subject was pure bunk. Her great-grandmother had probably possessed no real talent, just as Sybill was not lacking in the “Sight.”
Sweets stuffed into her pockets, Sybill pushed open the door and nearly came face-to-face with Walburga and her pack of sycophants.
“Sybill,” Walburga said, sounding just as breathless as Sybill felt. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” Then, much quieter, “Meet me behind the shop. I have something to tell you.”
So, this was how Sybill found herself standing behind Honeydukes, freezing hands stuffed into her pockets, sucking on a Licorice Snap. Sybill would’ve much preferred to be in the Three Broomsticks, nursing a Butterbeer in front of a roaring fire, but if she were honest with herself, Sybill would wait forever for Walburga.
Just as soon as Sybill worried her fingers might fall off from the cold, Walburga appeared, her long, raven curls hidden under a fashionable felted hat.
“Hello,” Sybill said. “What did you—”
But her words were cut off by Walburga’s question. “Have you ever kissed anyone?”
Sybill blushed. Though it seemed all her roommates had found boys to fool around with, Sybill had no desire to do so. But she told herself it was her maturity, not because boys found her unappealing.
“Have you ever kissed a girl?”
A girl? Sybill thought. Why would she kiss a girl? On the cheek? Certainly. But not as a girl might kiss a boy. Before Sybill could voice her confusion, she felt something warm and soft on her mouth. Sybill’s eyes widened. The sensation was strange but not altogether unpleasant. In fact, Sybill quite enjoyed kissing Walburga.
Oh. And suddenly, everything made sense. She closed her eyes and leaned in, deepening the kiss.
“You’re not a very good kisser,” Walburga said as she pulled away. Sybill’s cheeks turned an indignant shade of red. “But that’s okay. We can work on it.”
Too stunned to speak, Sybill watched Walburga walk away as if something earth-shattering hadn’t occurred between them. And it was only after she’d stood unmoving in the snow that she realized she had swallowed her Licorice Snap. She would forever associate Walburga with the taste of anise.
1943
Walburga forbade Sybill from ever breathing a word of their stolen kisses, but Sybill was more than happy to obey. So long as she could share those moments with Walburga, she didn’t care that it was a secret. After all, the simpletons they shared these halls with would never understand a love like theirs.
“I am going to miss you,” Sybill said one late spring evening. They were spending their free time as they often did, sequestered in Walburga’s private Prefect room. Walburga was sitting in her wingback chair, Sybill at her feet as she stroked Sybill’s hair.
But Walburga immediately stopped stroking as soon as Sybill finished uttering those words. Confused, Sybill looked up to see the strange expression on her lover’s face.
“You knew this day would come,” Walburga said, her dark gaze hard. “This is my last year at Hogwarts.”
“Just because I knew it would come doesn’t make it hurt any less.”
Walburga looked away. Just once, Sybill would like Walburga to echo her sentiments, but she was always tight-lipped on the matter. Sybill told herself that it was fine, however. She could feel Walburga’s affections through her kisses and gentle touches.
“May I write to you?” Sybill already knew the answer. It didn’t stop her from asking.
“You know I am to be married to Orion. It wouldn’t be proper for me to receive love notes from another.”
“Can you tell your father that you have no interest in marrying your cousin, of all people?” Sybill made a face. She could not imagine marrying a man, let alone one related to her. Her male cousins were all bad smells and foul language.
Walburga’s eyes had gone positively steely. Sybill could feel her body stiffen. This was a familiar conversation, a path trodden many times before. Walburga never budged on the matter, but Sybill desperately hoped her reasoned pleading would get through to the other girl.
“You don’t love him!” she blurted out.
“Don’t be foolish, Sybill,” Walburga snapped. “Love has nothing to do with it. Marriage is about duty, not flights of fancy. As a Pureblood witch, it is my duty to produce pure-blooded heirs to continue our legacy.”
Sybill did not understand this obsession of Walburga’s. She herself was supposedly the result of an important bloodline, but Sybill knew it was all pointless. Who cared about legacy when they would all die one day anyway? Still, Sybill found herself growing desperate.
“Remember the cards? There is only death and destruction waiting for you!. Don’t marry him and save yourself from ruin.”
Walburga laughed, high and haughty. “Your parlor tricks mean nothing to me. You and I both know you don’t have a drop of Cassandra’s talent flowing through your veins. A result, I imagine, of a secret Mudblood tainting the waters.”
Sybill straightened up and pulled away. The blood that pumped through her veins—tainted or otherwise—had gone cold. A Ravenclaw student in her year had just been murdered, a girl Sybill had spent the last five years living with, and Walburga’s Slytherin friends had laughed it off, owing it to her “Mudblood” status. Sybill might never have been a fan of Myrtle Warren, but Myrtle certainly hadn’t deserved to die.
“Oh, don’t be like that, Billie. I didn’t mean it. You know that.” Walburga placed a kiss on the top of Sybill’s head. She relaxed into her lover’s embrace, all forgiven. Sybill allowed herself to be coaxed into Walburga’s bed, where she soon forgot her problems, just pleased to be the object of Walburga’s attention.
She never heard from Walburga again. Her letters went unanswered, not just ignored but returned with singed holes, places where Sybill had once lovingly scrawled Walburga’s name, as if to say, “I no longer exist to you.” And each time, Sybill’s mouth tasted like anise and melancholy.
1961
Sybill was perhaps unsurprised to have been invited to the palatial Black estate. Not because she knew Walburga would want her there but because Sybill was earning her living by reading the fortunes of witches and wizards. At this point, she was quite adept at reading people, and she was rewarded handsomely for it. Not enough to buy a house like this, but enough to put food on the table.
“Sybill Trelawney,” she said to the wrinkled house-elf at the door. “Here to do the baby’s reading.”
The house-elf consulted his list and gestured for her to go inside. “Right this way, madam.” But before Sybill could take another step, the house-elf said, “May I take your coat, madam?”
As Sybill had never been invited to Black Manor before, she had no idea where she was going. But she followed the sound of conversation down the main corridor. Walking through the house past moldering paintings, peeling wallpaper, and dusty shelves, Sybill found herself disappointed. The domicile was undoubtedly large—no one could argue that point—but it was not well-maintained, a monument to a family that had once been great but was on its way out.
At last, she found the source of the noise at the end of the corridor. Sybill pushed open the door to see two familiar faces: Druella and Rosalba. They were older now, but their pride was unmistakable. But Sybill did not care about them. Her eyes scanned the room for one woman in particular. She saw many faces that were like Walburga’s but not quite right. Sybill also saw a young girl chasing a toddling boy, who promptly fell face forward and burst into tears.
“Druella!” a cold voice snapped. “Watch your daughter!”
And, so, Druella ran over and snatched up the girl with dark curls, but not before the girl could pinch the little boy so hard that he started crying anew. But Sybill was not paying attention to such a scene as much as she was searching for the source of that voice.
Walburga was sitting on a settee, hand on her enormous stomach, gifts piled around her. Her mood was sour—as Sybill imagined anyone’s would be at that stage of their pregnancy—but her eyes softened in recognition of Sybill. At least, Sybill thought that was the case. The flicker in Walburga’s dark gaze was so momentary that Sybill might have imagined it. And now Walburga’s face was so stony that Sybill wondered how she’d seen it at all.
With much effort, Walburga lifted herself from the settee and headed in Sybill’s direction. She could have made the trip easier for the pregnant woman by closing the distance between them, but Sybill did not move, her well-worn boots affixed to the ground.
Soon enough, she felt the warm grip of Walburga’s hand on her wrist and was promptly dragged from the room. It might have been painful were it not for the elation of having Walburga’s fingers on her once more.
“Walburga!” Sybill said once the shock had worn off and, her wrist had stopped smarting. “How are you feeling? You’re—you’re glowing.”
“Oh, stop with that nonsense,” Walburga snapped, arms crossed protectively in front of her chest. “I know I look like a beached whale.” She turned her hard gaze in Sybill’s direction. “And what are you doing here? I didn’t invite you.”
“Druella did,” Sybill replied. She made a move to reach into her bag to find the invitation, which she had brought explicitly for such an occasion.
“Why would she do that?” Walburga wondered aloud. “Oh.” Her expression turned wicked. “She means to have you divine my son’s future.” She laughed, a harsh sound. “As if you would actually be able to do that.”
Sybill bristled. While she had shared her skepticism of the subject with Walburga, she didn’t exactly appreciate having her life’s work thrown in her face.
“So, why did you come here, then?”
“This is my livelihood. I need the money.”
In truth, Divination was Sybill’s saving grace. Her grades hadn’t been high enough to pursue many other avenues. So, once again, she was the poor girl dependent on the munificence of wealthy benefactors.
Walburga gave her a pitying look. “Did you come here to ask me to take you back?”
Sybill could admit that the idea had crossed her mind, but she didn’t truly believe she’d be successful. Still, she knew the arguments about why Walburga should be with her like the back of her hand. “He doesn’t love you.”
Walburga screeched with laughter. “How many times must I tell you, girl? Love has nothing to do with marriage. Only fools and peasants think otherwise.” The withering look she gave Sybill told her that she fit both categories. “Are you not married yourself, Mrs. Higglebottom?”
“It’s Trelawney, actually,” Sybill said with a sniff. A small shiver ran down her spine at the prospect that Walburga had cared enough to remember her marriage announcement in the society pages, even if Nigel hadn’t been able to afford as large of an announcement as their peers.
“And does Mr. Higglebottom love you? I imagine not, not when you won’t take his,” —Walburga barely stifled a laugh— “illustrious surname.”
“My maiden name is important. The Trelawney name carries weight in my line of work.”
“Interesting,” Walburga replied. “When I explained to you that being a Black meant everything to me, you pretended not to understand. And yet, here you are, completely understanding the power of a good name. Which is it, Billie? Are names important, or are they not?”
Sybill’s eye twitched at the usage of her old nickname. “He’s unfaithful to you,” she blurted out. Sybill had meant to save that revelation for later in the conversation but it came out with her anger.
Once again, Sybill swore she saw that flicker across Walburga’s face, a moment of weakness and humanity peeking through. But in an instant, she’d papered them over once more with a smooth layer of self-possession. “I don’t care if he’s faithful. I just need his name and fortune and heirs.”
Sybill looked around at this crumbling castle. So much for the wealth. And the name? Didn’t Walburga know she’d always been a Black in her own right?
“Well, you’ve given him the heir,” —Sybill could recall the small boy being chased by his tyrannical cousin— “and the spare.” Her gaze slid to the other woman’s belly. “Why not be unfaithful yourself?”
Walburga gave an offended sniff, as if the idea was beneath her. But Sybill doubted that Walburga enjoyed intimacy with her husband. Sybill had never met him, but she imagined he was the thirty-second grunt and groan type. Moreover, her and Walburga’s union could not produce any bastards. The same could not be said for Orion’s extramarital dalliances.
“Are you seriously offering to be my mistress?” Walburga asked. There was a wildness to her dark eyes, but Sybill swore she could see Walburga consider the offer.
“Burgie!” Druella’s voice came through the door. “It’s time for the party games. Burgie, where have you gone?”
“Coming!” Walburga called back. Then she turned to Sybill again, grabbing her wrists tightly and twisting until the skin turned red and smarted. “I don’t want to see you here ever again. Do you hear me?” Sybill nodded through the sting of the words and Walburga’s touch. Satisfied, Walburga dropped Sybill’s hands and adopted a smile. “Now you’re going to walk through that door, repeat your inanities, and leave. Got it?”
Sybill nodded again and walked demurely behind Walburga as they rejoined the festivities. The witches in attendance played a few party games, ate their tiny sandwiches, and mocked each other behind their hands. Sybill watched this all from the periphery and wondered how Walburga could prefer this den of vipers to one of genuine love and affection. But mostly, Sybill stewed about Walburga’s comment regarding her “inanities.” Her predictions might not come from the “beyond,” but that didn’t mean they weren’t based on real observations. For example, Sybill could not help but notice the disarray of this house, both literal and metaphorical.
So, when it was Sybill’s turn to do her job, she stood up and walked over to Walburga’s side. As was tradition, she placed her hand on the mother-to-be’s abdomen, but Walburga wiggled away, only maintaining the illusion of contact.
Message received, Sybill thought. Then she closed her eyes and started a low hum deep in her chest. “Forefathers!” Sybill said, magnifying her voice with a surreptitiously applied spell. “Heed our call! Show me this child’s great future.”
With her wand still concealed in her sleeve, Sybill filled the room with a pungent haze. She inhaled it deeply through her nostrils, filling her nose with its lavender scent.
“This child,” her voice boomed, “the perfect result of generations of fine breeding…” Sybill could see Walburga’s smug expression even through the smoke. “He will have no children of his own, dying before his eighteenth year.”
A chorus of gasps could be heard from around the room. Sybill smiled to herself. She was not usually so mean at these events but thought these people deserved it.
“The fruit of your family will wither and blacken on the vine as fire licks at your heels… You will know only death and destruction… Everything you hold dear, gone in a puff of smoke…”
And with that, she dissipated the smoke from the room, leaving behind a bevy of shocked faces. But when Sybill turned to Walburga, she saw no shock, only incandescent rage.
“You lying fiend!” Walburga bellowed, her eyes wild. “Get out of my house!”
So, Sybill did as she was told, running from the manor like a bat out of Hell. If only she hadn’t given her best coat to the house-elf. Sybill had really liked that coat, and with Walburga telling all of her friends that she was a fraud, money was certainly tighter after that.
1979
Sybill had not wanted to be right. When she read in the paper that Orion Black had followed his beloved son to an early grave, Sybill did not even feel a speck of joy for the death of the man she held responsible for everything wrong in her life. She stood up from the breakfast table and reached for her coat—Sybill would talk to Walburga one way or another.
The day was appropriately overcast as Sybill stepped onto the grounds of the Black estate for the second time. The last had been to welcome a baby boy onto this Earth. But this time, it was to bury him in it. A group of mourners had gathered in the back—a smaller crowd than Sybill had anticipated—where the previous residents had all been interred. Rows and rows of headstones that stretched back hundreds of years.
Unlike before, Sybill did not want to draw attention to herself and, indeed, felt guilty for having come at all. So, she loitered at the back, straining her ear to hear what was said. Sybill caught snippets about “martyrs” and “the Dark Lord,” and her suspicions had been confirmed.
The rest had gone, leaving Walburga to stand in front of the twin headstones, alone. She did not wail, but Sybill could see the shake of her shoulders under her fine cloak.
Sybill wondered if she ought to leave, but a cracked twig under her boot alerted Walburga to her presence. She whirled around to face Sybill, her face stained with tears. And Sybill was struck by how old her friend now looked, how fragile. Then again, wasn’t Sybill herself now much older?
“You!” Walburga said, raising an accusatory finger. Her face had morphed into a furious mask. Sybill took a step back, fearing she might be hexed. “You did this!”
“No…”
“You lied about Cassandra! You do have her magic!”
“I assure you—”
“Whatever you’ve done, undo it!”
“Walburga…”
“You want me to beg? You want me on my knees?” She knelt on the damp grass. “Fine, I’m on my knees. Please, Billie, I only have my son left.”
Sybill thought about the toddler bullied by his cousin and wondered what had become of him. Wherever he was, he certainly wasn’t here. Probably for the best. This family was a writhing mass of slithering scales and dripping fangs. At least, what remained of it.
Walburga’s hand darted out to squeeze Sybill’s so hard she feared she might lose circulation. “You want money, Billie? I have money.”
The offer was a slap to the face. Sybill had never wanted money; she had only ever wanted Walburga, exactly as she was. Hot tears pricked at her eyes.
“I can’t do anything for you because you did this to yourself!” Her voice was quiet but laced with venom, much more than she intended—or anticipated. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
Walburga’s dark eyes turned stormy. She stood up and wiped the wet grass from her knees. “How dare you,” Walburga hissed. “I gave everything for my family. Everything!”
Sybill raised a dubious brow. She could distinctly recall the way Walburga had steadfastly ignored her firstborn and doubted the second had fared much better. Sybill wondered if Walburga had ever wanted children or had just been conditioned to believe she wanted them.
“You’re a monster if you can’t see it. A monster! So bitter and lonely; you’re just jealous.”
Lonely? Perhaps. But bitter? No. At least not where families were concerned. Sybill had been pleased when her former husband had offered her an annulment and enjoyed her freedom, even if she did miss the financial security Nigel’s income had provided her.
“I should have never come here,” Sybill admitted. “It was a mistake.” Seeing the once-proud Walburga like this was too much. She turned to leave.
“I wish I’d never met you,” Walburga retorted. Sybill stopped. “You ruined my life—the worst thing that ever happened to me.”
Sybill looked in the eye of the woman she had once loved. Still loved? It was complicated. “I could never say the same.” Then she disappeared, having had the last word.
After all, Walburga was the reason she was able to support herself. Being a Seer wasn’t as lucrative as it had been for her great-grandmother, but she had some talent for (faking) it. Walburga had shown her affection, at least for a little while, and helped Sybill realize she preferred the company of women. But most importantly, Walburga was the reason that Sybill knew it was better to be alone than miserable.
1985
With her son and husband dead and her remaining son in Azkaban, Walburga was not long for this world. It didn’t take a Seer to know this. Even Druella, Walburga’s would-be friend and sister-in-law had died, leaving Walburga with only a house-elf for company. Sybill tried to visit her old friend to bring her warm meals and company, but she was rebuffed at every opportunity. She could imagine Walburga alone in that big, drafty house, staring out the window at the family graveyard, wondering when it would be her turn.
Meanwhile, Sybill had recently started a job at Hogwarts, which not only provided her with a steady income but also housing. Her old teacher, Dumbledore, had been the one to offer her the position, but only after she’d given the performance of a lifetime. Sybill liked to imagine that Walburga would’ve been proud if she’d known the truth.
So, when Sybill read the news in the Prophet, she dropped her breakfast spoon with a clatter. The entire staff turned to look at her. At first, Sybill was frozen, stunned by the reality that she now existed in a world without Walburga. She brought her hand to her chest and felt a hollowness there, a bitter ache at the loss of her friend.
Sybill hadn’t even been aware that she was crying until she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned to see Minerva McGonagall—former classmate, now colleague—giving her a concerned look. Sybill brushed off Minerva’s hand, excused herself from the table, and hurried to her room, where she spent the rest of the day with the curtains drawn and the fire banked low. She did not caterwaul, nor did she tear her hair out, but sat in quiet contemplation.
How did you mourn someone who wouldn’t have mourned you in return?
1996
Sybill accepted Dumbledore’s invitation to join the Order, though she did not find she was a particularly useful member. Sometimes, she wondered if he had only invited her to keep an eye on her since Dumbledore feared she would become a tool for the other side. Little did he know that her predictions were more like blunt instruments rather than fine surgical implements. But Sybill appreciated the opportunity to visit Walburga’s portrait, which her son had taken to hiding behind a curtain.
Still, Sybill stood in the hall of Grimmauld Place and stared at the heavy drapes. Most people left her alone, aware of her “eccentricities,” and walked past without a word. Until, one day, Sirius had caught her in the act.
“My mother,” Sirius explained as if Sybill was not aware of the person behind the curtain.
Sybill simply nodded and assumed he would soon be on his way. But Sirius lingered, joined her as they stared at the velvet.
She turned to look at him. He looked so much like his mother with those same dark eyes that her heart ached at the memory. “You look a lot like her. It’s uncanny.”
Sirius snorted. “If you had known her, you would know how much of an insult that was.”
“I did know her,” Sybill replied.
Sirius turned to look at her—really look at her—an unfamiliar situation for someone of Sybill’s age. She was used to people looking past her, but he narrowed his gaze and took her in.
“We were…” —Sybill struggled with how best to word this— “mates at school.”
Sirius gave her a strange look but seemed to realize how rude he was being. “I’m sorry, but she was friends with you? You’re—”
“Poor? A half-blood? Yes, I know. Trust me; I was just as surprised to receive her attention, but when your mother shined her light on me, I glowed.”
Sirius furrowed his brow and tilted his head to one side. “But why? She was a terrible person.”
Sybill exhaled through her nose. “I know.” Sybill had always wondered if a loving, caring relationship could have spared Walburga her hatred or if the rot had spread too deep. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve to grow up in such an environment.”
Sirius considered her for a second time. “Do I know you? Have we met before?”
“You mean outside of these meetings?” Sirius nodded. “Not officially, no. But I was there, at the Black estate, before your brother was born.”
“Huh,” was all Sirius said.
“Love does not flourish in the dank and dark. Except, I suppose, where mushrooms are concerned.”
“Yes, well…” Sybill could tell Sirius was growing uneasy around her. She had that effect on people but was unaware of how to turn it off, so to speak. Still, it was amazing that he’d continued talking to her for this long.
“You know,” she began as Sirius walked away. “On that day, the day I met you, I predicted that her line would die with her sons.” Sirius paused but otherwise said nothing. “Be careful,” Sybill warned.
Sirius was dead by the end of the month.
Sometimes Sybill really hated being right.
1998
Among the dead, Sybill saw glimpses of faces she recognized, some she’d met and others visions of the past. Druella’s daughters, Bellatrix and Narcissa, lined up among the dead, their eyes closed as if they were merely asleep. Rosalba’s son was not far, having been married to Bellatrix.
But not all the fallen had been on the “wrong” side. Andromeda, Druella’s middle daughter, had not participated in the final battle, but her daughter had. Nymphadora Tonks, who had been one of Sybill’s students and a good-natured individual, had been cut down by her aunt before reaching her thirtieth birthday. A crime of terrible proportions.
Still, she was not the youngest member of the Black family to perish on this day. Draco Malfoy, who one would have never mistaken for anything but a spoiled scion, lay beside his father, looking even younger than his seventeen years. Even given his lousy temperament and bigoted nature, did he deserve to be among the fallen?
And, a little voice in the back of Sybill’s mind asked, could these deaths be attributed to the prediction she’d made all those years ago? Could she have spared this tragedy if she had minded her words as Cassandra had told her to do?
A hand appeared on Sybill’s shoulder. She turned to see Minerva, whose face was smudged and whose bun was coming undone. Sybill embraced the woman, who had become something more than a friend these past few years and collapsed against her. They held each other up as they dissolved into tears, relieved that the nightmare was over but grief-stricken by the toll it had taken.
Sybill had volunteered to help bury the bodies in a plot of land on a hill by Hogsmeade Village. The “heroes” were buried with the “villains,” but a decision had been made not to mark the graves of former Death Eaters to spare them from being desecrated. This decision had been an unpopular one, but there was no family left to claim many of these people, and Minerva, now Headmistress of Hogwarts, believed everyone deserved dignity in death.
However, Narcissa, who had not borne the Dark Mark, had been brought by her sister to the ancestral Black home to rest for eternity at her mother’s side. Sybill aided in this process as well. She felt it was payment for the curse she had inflicted on this family, even if it was not entirely her fault.
Nevertheless, a tiny bit of the Black family lived on in the form of the baby sleeping against Andromeda’s chest: her grandson, Teddy Lupin.
“Are you going to keep the house?” Sybill asked, somewhat rhetorically. The structure was crumbling before their eyes and would take a lot of work to restore to its former glory.
“Certainly not,” Andromeda replied. “I want to be as far from this place as possible. No, I am going to sell it. Probably to a Muggle developer.” She smiled to herself. “Seems fitting, doesn’t it?”
Sybill nodded. And while Andromeda paid her final respects, she made her way to Walburga’s grave.
Wife. Mother. Devoted Member to the Cause of Wizards’ Rights.
Sybill frowned. In the end, was that truly all her former friend and lover had been? Was that the only imprint Walburga had left on this Earth—hatred and her children?
She sighed. No, for better or worse, Walburga had changed Sybill’s life. That had to mean something.
“Would you like to get dinner?” Andromeda asked from behind her.
“No, thank you,” Sybill replied, her eyes still on Walburga’s headstone. “Minerva’s made me something for dinner, and I’d hate to disappoint her.”
“Well, thank you for your help today.” Andromeda reached out and gave her shoulder a squeeze before gesturing in the direction of Walburga’s grave. “I’m sure she would appreciate you being here.”
“You know what?” Sybill replied, a wan smile on her lips. “I’m not entirely sure she would have.”