toujours impur | black family

01. end of the line | walburga

cw infertility, miscarriage, internalized misogyny

"Tamper with the deepest mysteries – the source of life, the essence of self – only if prepared for consequences of the most extreme and dangerous kind."

– Adalbert Waffling

—

"Why me?" Orion asks when they are alone. Young couples are rarely without chaperones, but Walburga is no longer a youth. No one fears either cousin will act imprudently before their marriage.

Walburga's brown eyes darken to coal before she answers. "If I must marry," she says, gritting her teeth at the injustice, "I decided it would only be to a Black."

—

Walburga has six years on Cygnus, yet the brat forces her to play catch-up at an alarming rate. He beats her to the altar with that grasping Rosier weed. And now he dares knock her up first, too?

"We are still young," Orion soothes as they retreat from the baby shower. It had been an insufferable affair. The masses cooed over Druella, who preened at the attention. Walburga's only solace is the thought of how the pregnancy fat will ruin Druella's vanity.

"But we won't be first," Walburga growls.

Orion opens his mouth as if to pander some other platitude, but Walburga glares at him. His mouth closes, and she smirks with satisfaction. But then:

"Perhaps she'll have a daughter," Orion says, and Walburga laughs. There was a reason she chose this cousin, after all.

—

After seven years Druella has three daughters, a waste of her boundless fertility. But Walburga has no children at all.

Orion has no more platitudes to offer. They've cycled through the stages of grief so many times she's lost count. After the sixth miscarriage, Walburga has no one left to blame.

Even the grandparents have given up cajoling and chastising. There is no magic for a womb that refuses to bear a child, no matter how much she wills otherwise.

Unless... there is.

Walburga finds Aunt Cassiopeia, the only one who has never demanded anything from her. And, as a buyer for Borgin and Burke's, the only one who seeks out Dark Magic beyond imagination.

Cassiopeia is still hale and beautiful, unmarred by toils of motherhood or marriage. Like a handful of Black daughters, Cassiopeia has resisted marriage for so long she is too old to bear any fruit.

"I need a child," Walburga announces without preamble when she enters Cassiopeia's flat. Both of them are too blunt for artifice. Even so, Cassiopeia starts.

"I heard of your troubles, dear niece," Cassiopeia replies as she eases back into her armchair. "I am sorry, truly. But I don't know what you think I can do."

"You must know of something," Walburga paces, her eyes wild. "A magic even Borgin won't sell. You travel far, you seek out rumours... something, anything. I am done with failures, Aunt."

Cassiopeia looks at her with something akin to pity, and Walburga recoils. "Walburga... you don't have to do this. I did not need motherhood."

"Well," Walburga stops to look down at her ringed hand and her flat stomach. "I do."

Cassiopeia sighs, a long sigh of defeat, and Walburga sinks into an opposite armchair. She begins to understand there may not be any magic for this, after all. Neither of them says anything for a small while. After a time, Walburga rises with defeat. But when she does, Cassiopeia whispers, "Wait."

Walburga's head snaps up with predatory focus. "You do know a way?"

"You must be sure," Cassiopeia stresses. "This is Dark Magic beyond all laws of man and magic. It comes at a steep price."

"I will not fail again," Walburga insists.

Cassiopeia stares her down, more serious than Walburga has ever seen her aunt in thirty years. "I know of one potion. You drink it every day for a year, and then, the next day, your body will carry as many children as you dream."

"A year will tax my patience," Walburga admits, "but it is a bearable price."

"That is not the price," Cassiopeia snaps. "You are forcing Life where there would be none." She takes a moment, the words caged in her throat. Then, every word leaden, she says, "The price is this: if you bear daughters, their trees will blossom forever. But if you bear sons... the bloodline ends with them."

Walburga's mouth twists. "The whole family?"

"If you do this," Cassiopeia sighs, "There will be no more Blacks, after yours."

Walburga sits back down with new weight in her bones. She knows more than anything she needs a child, so much she stopped caring if it were a boy. But a part of her always knew only a son could make her content.

Druella has borne them all enough daughters for a lifetime, and yet... "Is there a way to choose?" At Cassiopeia's quizzical look, Walburga clarifies. "If I bear sons or daughters."

"That, my niece, is beyond all magic." Cassiopeia's mouth flattens. "Even this solution exists at a dangerous precipice. I must advise you against it."

A beat passes. Then, Walburga gives her answer. "I want it. Give me the potion."

"Please, Walburga, at least think it over—or talk to Orion—"

"I will not change my mind, Aunt Cassiopeia." Walburga rises once more, her determination set in granite.

Cassiopeia glances down but offers no more reproach. They both know Walburga will not waver.

"Come back tomorrow," Cassiopeia tells her, looking away. "I will have the potion then."

—

In two more years, Walburga is finally pregnant and triumphant. Orion is radiant, and Druella glowers from afar. Walburga could not be happier.

Yet, whenever someone asks, "A boy or a girl?" Orion happily chirps, "We don't know, but it's a boy, I'm sure." And a flutter of fear twists in her swollen stomach.

In the fall, Walburga finally gives birth, a wretched process that lasts for hours. When the midwitch finally hands over her screaming child, the woman smiles. "It's a boy, Walburga. You've done it."

But Walburga cannot share her joy. She looks at her son and only hears Cassiopeia's warning.

There will be no more Blacks, after yours.