In which the untold story of Walburga Black unfolds.
She was a witch before she was a wife, mother, and cruel woman.
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"You failed as a mother; I failed as a son. Can you sit here truthfully, and say you love me? Look in my eyes, and say that you...
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Walburga had spent most of that day locked away in her room. Purposely missing breakfast and lunch with her family, she preferred reading and spending as much time away from them as possible.
Dot had brought her some food, and while Walburga was grateful, she couldn't seem to keep the food down.
She spent that day reading the play that Alphard got her. It was odd, but then again, everything she read from the muggle world was odd.
The play was a tragedy, as most of Shakespeare's plays were.
She had previously read 'Romeo and Juliet' as well as 'Othello.' However, as she delved into 'Hamlet,' she couldn't resist the urge to memorize the haunting love letter within the play.
The eloquence of the words struck a chord with her, and it left a deep impression on her
"Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love..." Walburga murmured to herself as she paced in circles within her bedroom. The poetic words resonated with her, and the sentiment behind them lingered in her thoughts.
Knocking only once and not awaiting an answer, her mother entered the room.
"How are you feeling?" Irma inquired with a sly smile, her eyes sharp as she noticed Walburga's reaction when she entered the room.
"That dreadful little creature we call a house elf mentioned you were feeling rather ill," she continued, her words trailing off as she made her way to Walburga's vanity.
"You look well, considering all the blood you left behind in my halls." Her tone was laced with a chilling mixture of amusement and cruelty.
Taking advantage of her mother turning her back to her, she shoved the play underneath her pillow.
"I—" Walburga began, her voice faltering as she gave a quick cough. "I am feeling better, Mother. I am sore, but I am okay. I asked the house elves to scrub the floors last night, my apologies regarding the blood."
"Hmm..." Irma responded, her voice betraying no emotion. "Come here, Walburga." She met her daughter's eyes through the mirror. "Come closer, sit here. Let me brush your hair like I used to."
Lies.
Her mother hadn't touched a hair on her head without malicious intent since perhaps she was born.
She moved slowly but eventually sat down in front of her vanity. It was black with gold trim.
It was littered with expensive jewelry, but her most prized possession was the silver encrusted brush. It was said to belong to Ursula Flint. She was the wife of Phineas Nigellus, both her great-grandparents.
