#walburga being boiled down to a two-dimensional evil banshee while sirius gets to have depth for the same behaviors sends me sometimes

[elynnss]

Maybe Walburga Black did love her sons. Maybe she just didn’t know how to do it quite right. 

Maybe no one asked her before marrying her off to her second cousin, with all his wealth and drinks and high talk of pedigree. Big, powerful, Orion Black, who was much too important to worry about romance or kindness— not with such a prestigious name to uphold. Of course Walburga would be chosen for him— the most beautiful, magically potent, eligible daughter of their noble house. Maybe every attempt at warmth, at love, went unfruitful. Only the marital duty fulfilled.

What if she watched her belly swell and felt sick? Knowing now, with this thing growing within her, she was really, truly trapped by blood and duty. What if Kreacher, the only companion who’d never once betrayed her, who watched her grow and scream and bleed behind dark walls, saw the way her eyes went truly empty for the first time. 

It was a celebration, of course. A woman’s duty to her house, nearly fulfilled. Walburga praised for the growing parasite within her, even as she pretended to preen under the attention. Pretended that she didn’t have to hide her sneer when her brothers were allowed to run free. Especially Alphard, galavanting about France with whichever disgraceful lover he liked. All while she sat stuck in the family home, feet aching. 

She was the most powerful witch of her generation. Magic, sweet and stinging, ran thick as tar through her veins. What if she woke up one day, tired of wallowing, and remembered that? 

Remembered she was one of the brightest witches of the age? Remembered that, while maybe not in status, she was far, far stronger than the great, stupid Orion Black. 

Remembered that the parasite growing inside her was half of her, not just him? More, really— she was the one carrying the damn thing. 

She was not able to choose her son’s middle or last name. Sirius Orion Black was born wailing, his tiny face crimson red and angry, and for the first time since stepping off the wedding alter, her heart soared. His first name, his given name—that was all her’s. 

Orion liked the name. Sirius, the dog, the great hunter’s faithful companion. And maybe Walburga couldn’t help the pride she felt at the way Orion gave her baby, their baby, one of their rare smiles when the name was announced. When he turned to her, Sirius snuffling in his arms, and said, “He looks like you.” 

But she had more than one reason for her son’s name. 

Sirius, the brightest star. Brighter than Cygnus, than Alphard, than Orion’s whole goddamn constellation. Maybe she ran a finger down his little nose, and he turned his soft cheek into her palm, and she knew that he would forever be her star—the one who would best them all. 

Maybe she vowed that he would be happy. Successful. The one to show them all that little Walburga was never truly leashed, not really. He was her pride, her joy, her weapon. Her mirror. With his ink-spill hair and sweeping nose that looked just like hers. His magic that richotted from every cry and laugh. 

She loved him. She loved him. She loved him.  

A year later, Regulus; another task forced upon her, but a welcome one. No matter, she tells herself as she once again must watch her belly swell. He is not only a precaution, a spare— he is another Black that is hers, not theirs. Another weapon. 

Regulus comes more quietly into the world than his older brother. The dimmer star. She thinks that Sirius might love the newborn even more than she does, gazing at Regulus with shining eyes and the careful, curious brush of chubby toddler fingers over soft cheeks. It's a softness that made her heart ache, her lips curl in a smile.

A softness she knows cannot last, if they are to survive as she has. 

Her little stars grow up in opulence. In splendor. In townhouses and chateaus on the off season. In the finest fabrics money can buy. With Kreacher by their side, just as he was by hers. 

They grow, and play, and laugh together. Sirius’s loyalty goes to Regulus, just as fiercely protective as his canine namesake. Together they reap the rewards of being heirs of affluence and power, little princes even at two and three, at five and six. Even Orion is happy, content to offer smiles and ruffled hair before disappearing into his office, to the Ministry, to whatever illicit meeting lined up that week. 

She loved them. She loved them. She loved them. 

Really, truly, she did. She just didn’t quite know how to do it right.

With careful, loving hands, she molds them. With a comb and a wave of her wand of her wand over their silky hair, followed by sharp enunciation, teaching them to do the spells themselves. With an approving voice, a tender palm to their cheeks when tutors bring shiny test scores. With a stinging hex the first time Sirius dares swear in front of her. They are lucky. Had he done it in front of Orion, it would have been a beating. 

A new set of Quidditch training gear for Christmas the moment Sirius showed interest. 

A week of no meals, when he and Regulus spent a dinner shamelessly giggling and whispering, sneaking scraps to the Minister’s dog beneath the table. 

A set of hand-bound leather story books, with real gold embellishments and the most intricate preservation charms that even Walburga could not cast, given to Regulus when he had finished all the ones in the family library. 

A slicing hex, across his hands, when he dared ask her about Muggle stories once he’d finished even those. 

Time outs in dark rooms when Sirius dared lie. Silencing spells when Regulus dared cry. 

She loved them. She loved them. They had to learn if they were to survive. 

She loved them. She loved them, really. 

But in the House of Black, soft things did not last. 

And maybe, as the years passed, Walburga forgot just how soft her baby’s skin had been, how precious they’d looked to her. Looked up to her. Maybe she forgot, in her obsession with giving them a good life, what real joy had looked like on her son’s faces. Forgot that it would not be found behind the green glow of a Cruciatus on her eldest’s face, or in the inky tendrils snaking up her youngest’s arm. 

Maybe she never stopped loving them. Maybe she just never learned to do it without thorns or an open hand.