independent walburga black // anti jkr ! // faceclaim is CLAIRE FOY highly selective, mutuals exclusive, headcanons and AU based : read walburga’s bio  CARRD  / rules — margaux, 28, gmt+1 / discord available to mutuals

currently on mild / low activity

@mctherdearest sent a letter to lucretia prewett: ‘‘ you look… as lovely as ever, lucretia. ’’ 

prompt: ballroom dialogue starters.

At her compliment, Lucretia tucks her chin into her neck as she looks down at herself, bringing her shoulders back. Such a movement prompts the tiered skirt of her dress to flutter about her frame, then settle against her knees.

❝ Thank you, ❞ she pronounces in a tone of voice loud enough to be heard above the chatter in the drawing room. Though her first choice was a coral-colored dress, her mother, Melania, asked her to reconsider. It would make you stand out more than you would like, she said, meeting her gaze through the mirror. In her hands she held the hanger of a burgundy dress. At the time, she followed her advice only because there was no more time to select another ( and they were late enough as it is ! ) but now…

With a hand, Lucretia brushes the fabric clean of imaginary dust; She has to admit its color is indeed lovely, and it creates quite the contrast with the dark furniture that is so characteristic of Grimmauld Place. It has, so far, not attracted as much attention as her previous coral choice surely would have.

Indeed, since her arrival with her family she engaged in few conversations of varying length; Brief exchanges of pleasantries, answering on the whereabouts of her mother or father or even both… All that one expects to engage with during a family gathering, while searching for one of the few tolerable of the lot.

In the end, it was Wal who found her, idly sipping a drink while letting her eyes wander about the room. They are now standing near the buffet table; Neither too far nor too near from the gathering, a position ideal to busy oneself with observing and not doing much talking. It had always been a favorite of Lucretia.

❝ You look splendid, Wal, ❞ as she raises her head, she points at her cousin’s dress with the empty glass, following her own movement with her eyes for a moment before raising them to meet hers. Here, Lucretia smiles, prompting her eyes to crinkle at the corners. ❝  I’m so glad you are here, ❞ then, following a brief pause. ❝  I missed you. ❞

the  black  family                        never  shies  away  from throwing  extravagant  parties,  for  whatever  reasons.  this  one  is  probably  to  celebrate  the  spring  awakening  -  or  so  she thinks,  losing  tracks  of  her  parents'  excuses  for  gathering the  whole  family  and  more  in  the  town  house  of  12,  grimmauld  square.  in  any  case,  it  gives  walburga  a  good  occasion  to dress  up,  and  see  her  extended  family  and  cousins  with  whom she  barely  spends  time  with  anymore  since  graduating  from hogwarts  last  summer  —  though  really,  there  is  only  one cousin  she's  eager  to  see  tonight.

she  and  lucretia  never  spends  too  long  apart,  but  it's  been almost  a  whole  month  since  their  last  get-together,  at  another  pureblood  ball  in  the  countryside.  so  she  chooses  a  dress she  knows  her  cousin  will  like:  satin,  dark  emerald  green, worn  on  several  occasion  already  but  always  drawing  compliments  nonethless.  she  draws  her  dark  hair  into  a  low  bun  and applies  some  lipstick  to  finish  the  look.  in  the  mirror,  her reflection  smiles  at  her.

when  she  finally  goes  downstairs,  she  notices  many  people  are there  already,  gathered  in  the  ballroom.  she  scans  the  room, searching  for  the  other  dark-haired  girl  —  which  proves  tricky  in  the  sea  of  their  relatives,  all  sporting  the  same  dark looks.  but  there  she  is,  in  the  burgundy  dress,  and  wally feels  the  familiar  fluttering  of  her  stomach  as  she  crosses the  room  in  a  few  strides  to  meet  her.

Oh the pride of Slytherins and purebloods, something he had had a hand in crafting many centuries ago but he couldn’t help but find AMUSEMENT in a child acting in such a way. His lips curled into a faint smile, a spark in his dark eyes.  ❝  Ah, yes, how very REFINED it is. Like table sugar that once came from sugarcane that could grow and stand all on its own and is now stored in delicate containers for an evening tea.  ❞  He was teasing her, the mirth all too apparent. There was his own pride shining through so easily. Here he was trying to EDUCATE rather than have others forget entirely where they all came from, rather than letting their history be forgotten and thrown aside.

His attention momentarily turned away from the girl, back towards his desk that he leaned on. His hand moved from where it had rested in his pocket, so lazily stretching out towards the cup of tea that was growing colder by the moment. But Salazar didn’t reach entirely for it, instead letting his magic expel from his hand without so much as a WORD and the teacup was soon moving across the desk and straight into his hand. A subtle display of his own POWER, wordless and wandless before Salazar’s gaze returned to Walburga.  ❝  Cutting branches away doesn’t eradicate them from your history, I’m afraid. The world would be so much more SIMPLE if that were possible. I’ve family of my own that I’m not entirely fond of.  ❞  Raising the cup up to his lips, he took a sip before speaking again, this time his gaze on the dark liquid and his amusement gone. 

❝  I would also be quite CAREFUL in trimming a tree, Ms. Black. You see, trees have a nasty tendency to wither away and DIE if too many branches are cut away.  ❞  That was more of a warning, something Salazar had seen many times. The end of a family line, a name fading away and its legacy along with it.

she  shifts  her  weight                        from  one  foot  to another  as  she  watches  his  little  demonstration  of  his  magic. of  course  she  has  never  doubted  the  professor  to  be  a  most powerful  magician,  as  all  teachers  are  ;  though  you  wouldn't imagine  a  history  teacher  being  an  exceptional  wizard.  perhaps he  would  be  more  suited  teaching  charms,  or  defense  against the  dark  arts,  if  his  interest  in  ancient  forms  of  magic  run  so  deep. " i'll  admit  that's  impressive "  she  crosses  her  arms  over  her  chest.  "  and  i  suppose  that's why  magic  manifests  in  this  form  in  children.  but  why  should we  cling  to  remains  of  our  past  ?  "  she  raises  an  eyebrow.

“I didn’t run off with Ted,” Andromeda says tensely. She hates being looked at with this level of disdain, with this level of disgust from the woman that’s been as good as a mother to her. “His family were kind enough to let me stay with them until I could get my things.” She can’t deny that she burned herself off the tapestry. She’s still proud of that; she won’t make apologies for it. 

The slap startles her, and Andromeda takes a half step back from the force of it. She looks at Walburga, shocked and hurt. “I’m still part of this family,” she says. “You can’t take me out of this family, I’m part of you. You told me that. You can’t take that back.”

the  trouble  with  cherished children                                        is  they  start thinking  they  will  get  away  with  anything  —  like  lying  to one's  face,  as  andromeda  is  doing  now.  pretending  her  stay with  the  muggles  is  —  what  ?  a  vacation  ?  "  they're muggles,  andromeda  !  filfthy  muggles  !  "  she  snarls. "  you  should  know  better  than  to  lie  to  me,  girl  "

IT   IS   A   TENUOUS   BALANCE   BETWEEN   THE   CONFLICT   AND   REBELLION   HE   CRAVES   AND   THE   REALITY   OF   HIS   PARENTS’   REACTIONS.         there   is   an   inexplicable   blend   of   wishing   for   the   pain   and   weeping   at   its   arrival      —      a   fascinating   conflagration   of   sirius’s   wish   for   their   disapproval   and   wish   for   their   love.      he   cannot   explain   it   .   .   .      he   never   will   be   able   to   explain   it.      once   upon   a   time,   regulus   and   he   would   sneak   each   other   snacks   or   books   when   confined   to   their   rooms.      sirius   will   not   be   able   to   count   on   even   that   now,   he   is   sure   of   it.

he   grits   his   teeth,   clenches   his   hands   tightly   at   his   sides,   and   looks   down   at   the   floor   instead   of   his   mother’s   cold,   hardened   expression.            “      i   will   .   .   .      behave   myself,   mother,      ”            he   promises,   begging   through   barred   teeth.            “      .   .   .      please.      ”            he   hates   the   sound   of   the   plea   from   his   lips,   but   he   hates   the   idea   of   isolation   from   any   and   everything   that   makes   life   in   this   house   bearable   even   more.            “      i’ll   do   better.      ”  

a  line  has  been  crossed                                           when  she  is  able  to  bend  him.  in  his  younger  years,  it  was easier,  but  it  has  gotten  harder  and  harder  with  the  years, when  he  starts  to  push  back  against  her  more  and  more.  so far  she  has  always  achieved  what  she  aimed  for  —  aware  that one  day,  the  reed  might  break  altogether.

WHEN   HE   IS   SMALL,   HE   FLINCHES   AT   VIOLENCE   IN   HER   VOICE      —      AT   TOUCES   THAT   ARE   TOO   TIGHT   OR   WORDS   THAT   ARE   TOO   SHARP.         now,   they   only   fuel   him      —      only   stoke   the   fire   inside   to   burn   ever   brighter,   ever   hotter,   ever   endless.      he   is   uncontrollable,   they   say.      they   never   mean   it   well.      but   perhaps   he   is,   and   perhaps   that   is   a   good   thing.      good   or   bad,   it   is   impossible   to   change      —      and   impossible   to   wish   to   change.  

“      being   born   to   privilege   and   prosperity   isn’t   working   for   anything,   mother,      ”            he   retorts,   pleased   at   least   that   he’s   pushed   her   to   reactivity.      once   she   loses   her   temper,   she   loses   all   sorts   of   reason   in   her   arguments.      that   is,   at   least,   some   small   success   in   sirius’s   mind,   though   he   knows   now,   invoking   this   sort   of   talk,   that   he   will   engage   his   father’s   ire   as   well   most   likely.      and   orion   does   not   partake   in   the   verbal   sparring   of   his   son   and   wife.            “      you   and   this   entire   fucking   family   are   the   worthless   ones!      ”  

even  when  she  knows                        his  own  purpose  in pushing  her  over  the  edge,  she  cannot  help  but  falling. perhaps  she  falls  because  there  is  some  sort  of  satisfaction in  letting  out  this  pure  anger  —  it's  not  like  he  isn't asking  for  it,  goading  them  past  their  limits  each  time. "  and  your  little  friend  james,  he  works  so  hard,  uh  ?  and so  do  you  ?  i  mean,  besides  your  little  pranks  and  your fights  ?  " she  knows  of  his  behaviour  at  hogwarts,  informed  regularly  by  his  head  of  house.

@mctherdearest sent a letter to lucretia prewett: ‘‘ i’ll bring you tea with honey. i know that always makes you feel better. ’’

prompt: platonic and familiar sentence starters.

Though occupied with adjusting her position on the settee, Lucretia tips her head to one side, looking up at her cousin from under her lashes. As their eyes meet, she smiles. It’s a mere hint of one, appearing there, at the corners of her mouth, but it a smile nonetheless. Of course she remembers how I take my tea, Lucretia thinks to herself, and it prompts a note of appreciative surprise to appear in her voice when she answers thus: ❝ I would like that very much, ❞  while intertwining her hands on her lap, and there takes on the likeness of a statue, with a tense set of shoulders and a straight back that refuses to lean on the settee. Her gaze has yet to leave her cousin, and from familiar features she draws a comfort this house never gave her, no matter the company. 

Indeed, not even the lit fireplace at the center of the drawing room is enough to make it at least seem hospitable. Still, the settee and accompanying armchairs are near enough to let its warmth envelop them in a luminous embrace. That is something that Lucretia appreciates immensely, at the moment. ❝ Thank you, ❞ and then, following a brief hesitation, she adds a ❝ Wal, ❞ dusting off the childhood nickname, pronouncing it with the same sweetness she used the first time she gave it a voice to.

lucretia  left  the  house                        when  she  got married,  like  all  other  girls  joining  their  husband's  family and  mansion  ;  her  departure  left  an  empty  space  that  could never  be  fulfilled,  not  in  walburga's  eyes.  at  first,  their visit  to  each  other  were  quite  frequent,  but  as  walburga founded  her  own  family,  they  began  seeing  less  and  less  of each  other  —  which  made  their  reunion  the  more  important  in her  eyes.  there  isn't  one  little  detail  walburga  can  forget about  her  cousin,  and  she  snaps  her  fingers  to  order  the house  elf  to  make  the  tea  as  she  likes  it. "  i  knew  you  would  "  she  says,  smiling  as  she  takes  her  own  seat  in  front  of  lucretia.  she  takes  in  the  sight  of  her cousin,  her  own  black  hair  and  clear  eyes  so  alike  hers.  she  mimicks  her  pose  for  a  second,  but  the  use  of  her  childhood  nickname  prompts  her  into  action.

PIECES   OF   HIS   MIND   BREAK   AND   SCATTER   IN   AZKABAN.         memories   are   lost   to   him,   more   than   the   general   ravages   of   time   .   .   .      but   most   of   those   memories   are   good   ones.      the   dementors   feast   on   the   pain   and   the   fear   and   the   agony,   yes,   but   in   so   doing   they   bring   those   nightmares   to   the   forefront   again   and   again   and   again   until   those   are   all   that   remain   to   you.  

so   this   face      —      this   voice,   this   countenance      —      of   his   mother   is   familiar   because   though   he   remembers   feeling   it   little   at   the   time,   his   earliest   memories   are   some   of   the   most   painful   to   reflect   upon.      but   being   back   here,   being   returned   to   this   cursed   place,   makes   them   impossible   to   avoid   at   the   same   time.  

“      i   didn’t   want   to   be,      ”            he   replies,   small   and   quiet,   unable   to   move   or   look   away.            “      i   .   .   .      didn’t   want   to   come   back.      ”  

the  face  is  frowning                                  as  if  she doesn't  understand  what  he  is  saying.  "  what  do  you  mean  ? "  the  man  has  changed,  but  it  is  her  son  looking  at  her, speaking  to  her  —  isn't  it  ?  then  why  wouldn't  he  want  to be  back  inside  his  house,  his  home  ?  "  i've  been  waiting for  you  "  the  part  of  her  consciousness  which  got  attached to  the  painting  loved  him,  and  it  remembers  his  love,  too.

SIRIUS’S   WHOLE   BODY   GOES   COLD.         his   eyes   widen,   and   his   lips   part.      not   truly   in   surprise      —      they   love   to   come   up   with   tailored   punishments   for   their   children,   and   they   know   what   will   hurt   sirius   the   most      —      but   in   fear.            “      you   can’t   do   that,      ”            he   gasps,   his   hands   shaking   at   his   side   in   fists.            “      y-you      —      no!      ”

he   can’t   be   trapped   here   without   anything   to   do      —      without   anyone   outside   to   speak   with.      he   can’t.            “      are   you   going   to   just   lock   me   in   my   fucking   room   until   i   do   as   you   say   once   again?!      ”            it   would   hardly   be   the   first   time.      but   the   older   he   gets,   the   more   the   years   pass,   the   harder   such   punishments   are   to   bear.      he   can   feel   the   emotion   and   terror   of   that   beginning   to   choke   him.  

she  crosses  her  arms                              satisfied knowing  this  is  how  she  wins  their  ever  constant  fighting. she  pushes  and  pushes  until  she  hits  the  right  spot  ;  she never  takes  a  blind  swing  at  her  son  because  she  doesn't need  to.  "  you'll  find  that  i  very  much  can  "  she  says, having  gotten  the  reaction  she  expected  out  of  him.