Chapter Text
Walburga Black stiffened.
There was something not quite right about this one.
The healers whom had handed her over – now hovered anxiously by the bedside – were unable to disguise their nervous side-eyeing while they made near desperate attempts to rouse the newest descendant from the House of Black. It had been a slow, arduous labour, unlike the boys before her, and – once finally born – the child hadn’t cried at all.
“Just a slow little riser, nothing to worry about, Mrs Black.” Hecate Hargraves - head of childbirth at St Mungo’s - had foolishly tried to encourage a smile from the stern mother, pointedly ignoring the huffs and tuts from notoriously vicious Walburga Black.
A muscle twitched in Walburga’s immaculate, pointed jaw. Her nose turned up a fraction more on her harsh face, “Black’s aren’t slow at anything, Hecate.” her plump, full lips pursed into a thin line, “As you’ll do well to remember.”
Hecate visibly swallowed, angling her body as far away from the new mother as humanly possible. She’d been a seventh year once - Ravenclaw - and personally responsible for condemning the first year Slytherin to her first detention. She’d turned up her nose - Walburga - painfully similarly the way she did now, and she’d scoffed. She wouldn’t be told what to do. Not by a blood traitor.
Walburga had been initially incandescent at the idea of Hecate even being involved with the birth of a Black descendant at all, but she was, regrettably, one of the best. Only the best for the Blacks, for a start, and only the pure.
One of the stout faced little junior girls had originally intended to have the pathetic excuse for an apprentice to be present but Walburga had worked out with only one hard look that the little disgrace was halfblooded and she had been promptly banished from the corridor. No dirty blood would come near her children, not if she could help it.
“Give him to me, Hargraves.” Walburga growled abruptly, making the old healer visibly twitch.
Walburga had only given birth to the infant about ten minutes before but you wouldn’t be able to tell. She looked just as prim, just as regal, and just as arrogant as she had long before the ongoing labour, and she’d sat up in bed with her beady eyes glaring round the private room, “Quickly.”
Walburga watched as Hecate had to hold onto herself so as not to show her tremble and smirked slightly at the responsibility, hurrying one of the novice healers on her left to wrap the child - not in the usual emerald green velvet with every other St Mungo’s newborn - Oh no - The Black’s had brought their own - a darker green blanket hand embroidered with tiny silver snakes and constellations, their tails wrapped through the serifed B’s. It glittered in the stark hospital light and the novice couldn’t help but feel frightened just for touching it, let alone wrap it round the third child. The youngest sibling to the heir.
“Her.” a nameless assistant, pale and slender with a somewhat weak disposition, made the mistake of whispering. It had audibly caught in her throat, speaking as she lifted the child and paling once more when she caught Walburga’s expression.
“What did you say, girl? Speak up or don’t speak at all.”
“It’s a girl, Mrs Black.” Hecate took over at once, smoothly interjecting herself to protect her novice, taking the red faced, yet quiet, baby from the arms of her apprentice, “Your first daughter.”
“A girl?” Walburga repeated, hissing, while her face contorted for a sheer millisecond. She collected herself and sat up straighter, “Give her to me then. Come now. Quickly.”
As soon as the baby was handed to the new mother, Walburga’s stomach had plummeted somewhat. She felt wrong. The baby, that is, and it wasn’t her weight or her slightness or her silence. Walburga wasn’t even sure within herself that she had a word for it. Just wrong.
The Black family had been producing witches and wizards of the highest calibre for generations and not once – not ever – had one felt like this.
She let out a soft exhale of cold breath, “And she’s normal?”
“Normal?” Hecate repeated, frowning slightly, “Of course. She’s a pound or so less than we expected but she-”
Walburga cut her off with a tut and shifted the baby uncomfortably in her arms.
A wave of nausea passed over her. Black’s were expected to produce the best, the brightest, the most talented, the most inclined to… but this one? A word she hadn’t thought of for a long time, since a long lost uncle, momentarily caught her off guard - squib - but she stifled it fast and hard.
What choice did she have?
She swallowed and looked down at her.
Pale – Black’s were always pale. Slight – both the boys were slim. Dark hair – completely normal.
But magic?
She better be.
She needed her to be.
“We best get her home then.” Walburga heard herself speak, trying her very best to sound just as cold and stony as she usually did.
“It’s customary for new mothers t-”
“I’m not a new mother though, am I? Stupid girl. This is my third.”
“Mrs Black, as I’ve told you before – numerous times before... Please don’t abuse my staff.”
“I’ll send the nanny to collect her.” Walburga shoved the small and silent bundle of blankets in the direction of one of the midwives and the tall one who had been continuously annoying throughout the childbirth (“You’re doing brilliantly Mrs Black, one more big push, you clever girl.”) fumbled for her.
“Mrs Black.” Hecate’s scowl wasn’t quick enough to dissipate, “We’d really recommend a day or so in recovery so you and baby can arrive home tog-”
“For the last time Hargraves.” Walburga has already risen, kicking off the thin St Mungo’s blanket from her shins, “Do not interfere with my family.”
The baby gurgled and Mrs Black shifted, lifting her wand (walnut, eleven inches, dragon heartstring) to transform herself back into her traveling attire, “The nanny will arrive presently.”
“Presently.” Hecate repeated, shifting slightly to one - hide her distain from the terrifying new mother and two – disguise the poor junior (with the baby) who’d backed herself into the corner of the room, “Mrs Black, it’s really important for your daughter that you-”
“Enough.” She turned with an uncharacteristic tremor. Malice and snobbery lit up her dark eyes and she glared with such ferocity that the novice in the corner squeaked, “The nanny will be here presently.” She swallowed – potentially more audibly than she’d ever in her life, “And I’ll hear no more about it.”