"Among Mad People" [1 / ?]
Title: Among Mad People
Author: museme87
Pairing: Walburga/Orion, Orion/OFC, Cygnus/Druella, Remus/Sirius (eventually)
Rating: NC-17 (eventually)
Wordcount: 1313
Warnings: (see chapter warnings below)
Summary: For the entirety of her life, Walburga Black was considered to be a mad woman by those who knew her best and those who knew her not at all. The problem is that they failed to understand that no one is born mad.
Chapter: [ I ] The Girl at the Beginning
Wordcount: 719
Warnings: none
Summary: Walburga comes face to face with her destiny.
Author's Note: The more I write Walburga, the more I see where Sirius gets it.
Previous Chapters
0. Will You Mourn Her?
I. The Girl at the Beginning
She is all of eight, dressed in her pure-blood fineries, when she first sets eyes on the tapestry.
It is her grandparents' anniversary, and their family celebrates by holding a ball in the grand reception room of Grimmauld Place. When her mother and father are too busy mingling with their guests to mind her, she slips away, eager to get lost in such an expansive house.
Walburga is a child inclined towards adventure.
The sight of the family heirlooms dazzles her-metals and emeralds and aged parchment that holds unspeakable magic. Walburga dare not touch them; her nurse has warned her against it, and time has taught her well, besides. So, she gazes-hungry eyes devouring the trinkets-and wonders what it would take to possess them all, to be queen of this castle. And the moment she considers the cost, she dismisses the thought entirely.
No cost is too great for glory.
Starved for attention, she desires that, one day, all eyes be fixed on her. Friendless, she hopes that, if nothing else, money will buy her companionship. Even at the tender age of eight, she is quick enough to understand that this is the fate dealt to a daughter, especially one in the line of secondary inheritance.
She wanders through the confusing halls of this house, ceilings impossibly tall and lights struggling to illuminate the corridors. A half-opened door calls her attention, and Walburga wonders if she has ever been inside this room before. Upon entering, she decidedly has not.
In the absence of candlelight, the walls begin to glow as she steps over the threshold. The bright lines twist and turn, race across the wall to draw intricate patterns upon them. Briefly, Walburga is unsure of what these lines signify.
As she stops in the room's center, it occurs to her-a tree, shining pure white and vast. From the branches, faces appear and beneath them names that are difficult to pronounce at her young age. Slowly, Walburga paces around the room, her path lit by this tree's ethereal glow.
She pauses in her walk before the tree's trunk and inscribed there are the words Toujours Pur. With a self-possessed smile, Walburga recites the words, perfect French lilt to her small voice. She understands, then, what this tree signifies-her family, her destiny. Noble and Most Ancient Blood-the blood that winds through her veins. Pure blood.
For as long as she can remember, Walburga has heard tale of her greatness, of the power of her forefathers, of the mountains of gold in their vaults. She has been expected to learn their names, their achievements, their stars. And like a dutiful daughter, she has.
Never before has she seen her noble blood laid out before her like this, though. Surely, it is great. If she can trace her family to such lengths, surely, they are important. She is important. Daughter of the House of Black. Forever pure.
When her tiny fingers brush the thick fabric, a branch of the tapestry glows bright green. She traces a path down to the light, examining the letters that are illuminated in silver.
Walburga Black.
Her.
She has earned a place on this great tree. It responds to her magic, acknowledges the quality of her blood and marks it for the world to see.
Walburga Black.
Toujours Pur.
Compelled forward, she kisses the fabric where her name rests, as if paying tribute to the greatness of those who came before her. Suddenly, the grand chandelier on the ceiling births silver balls of light in bursts. The light hovers around the room like tiny, glowing bugs, illuminating everything like a white fire.
Walburga is uncommonly pleased with this bit of magic and begins to giggle an impressed little laugh. She holds her arms out as if she were going to dance in the family ballroom, curtseys, and begins to spin around the room with glee.
She grows dizzy, and dizzier still, balls of light now streaks against the dark. When she stops, the world continues to spin around her. So unbalanced, she falls to the floor, first on her bottom and then on her back until she lies in the center of the room, above the chandelier.
Smiling, she closes her eyes, and when she opens them, she sees the universe.
Continue >> [ II ] Inheritance
Author: museme87
Pairing: Walburga/Orion, Orion/OFC, Cygnus/Druella, Remus/Sirius (eventually)
Rating: NC-17 (eventually)
Wordcount: 1313
Warnings: (see chapter warnings below)
Summary: For the entirety of her life, Walburga Black was considered to be a mad woman by those who knew her best and those who knew her not at all. The problem is that they failed to understand that no one is born mad.
Chapter: [ I ] The Girl at the Beginning
Wordcount: 719
Warnings: none
Summary: Walburga comes face to face with her destiny.
Author's Note: The more I write Walburga, the more I see where Sirius gets it.
Previous Chapters
0. Will You Mourn Her?
I. The Girl at the Beginning
She is all of eight, dressed in her pure-blood fineries, when she first sets eyes on the tapestry.
It is her grandparents' anniversary, and their family celebrates by holding a ball in the grand reception room of Grimmauld Place. When her mother and father are too busy mingling with their guests to mind her, she slips away, eager to get lost in such an expansive house.
Walburga is a child inclined towards adventure.
The sight of the family heirlooms dazzles her-metals and emeralds and aged parchment that holds unspeakable magic. Walburga dare not touch them; her nurse has warned her against it, and time has taught her well, besides. So, she gazes-hungry eyes devouring the trinkets-and wonders what it would take to possess them all, to be queen of this castle. And the moment she considers the cost, she dismisses the thought entirely.
No cost is too great for glory.
Starved for attention, she desires that, one day, all eyes be fixed on her. Friendless, she hopes that, if nothing else, money will buy her companionship. Even at the tender age of eight, she is quick enough to understand that this is the fate dealt to a daughter, especially one in the line of secondary inheritance.
She wanders through the confusing halls of this house, ceilings impossibly tall and lights struggling to illuminate the corridors. A half-opened door calls her attention, and Walburga wonders if she has ever been inside this room before. Upon entering, she decidedly has not.
In the absence of candlelight, the walls begin to glow as she steps over the threshold. The bright lines twist and turn, race across the wall to draw intricate patterns upon them. Briefly, Walburga is unsure of what these lines signify.
As she stops in the room's center, it occurs to her-a tree, shining pure white and vast. From the branches, faces appear and beneath them names that are difficult to pronounce at her young age. Slowly, Walburga paces around the room, her path lit by this tree's ethereal glow.
She pauses in her walk before the tree's trunk and inscribed there are the words Toujours Pur. With a self-possessed smile, Walburga recites the words, perfect French lilt to her small voice. She understands, then, what this tree signifies-her family, her destiny. Noble and Most Ancient Blood-the blood that winds through her veins. Pure blood.
For as long as she can remember, Walburga has heard tale of her greatness, of the power of her forefathers, of the mountains of gold in their vaults. She has been expected to learn their names, their achievements, their stars. And like a dutiful daughter, she has.
Never before has she seen her noble blood laid out before her like this, though. Surely, it is great. If she can trace her family to such lengths, surely, they are important. She is important. Daughter of the House of Black. Forever pure.
When her tiny fingers brush the thick fabric, a branch of the tapestry glows bright green. She traces a path down to the light, examining the letters that are illuminated in silver.
Walburga Black.
Her.
She has earned a place on this great tree. It responds to her magic, acknowledges the quality of her blood and marks it for the world to see.
Walburga Black.
Toujours Pur.
Compelled forward, she kisses the fabric where her name rests, as if paying tribute to the greatness of those who came before her. Suddenly, the grand chandelier on the ceiling births silver balls of light in bursts. The light hovers around the room like tiny, glowing bugs, illuminating everything like a white fire.
Walburga is uncommonly pleased with this bit of magic and begins to giggle an impressed little laugh. She holds her arms out as if she were going to dance in the family ballroom, curtseys, and begins to spin around the room with glee.
She grows dizzy, and dizzier still, balls of light now streaks against the dark. When she stops, the world continues to spin around her. So unbalanced, she falls to the floor, first on her bottom and then on her back until she lies in the center of the room, above the chandelier.
Smiling, she closes her eyes, and when she opens them, she sees the universe.
Continue >> [ II ] Inheritance