Word Count: 1,506

Challenge/Competition: HPFC Fic Exchange

Prompts: Any Black characters (or spouses) born prior to 1945, Using any of the Blacks from the tree and explain a part of their lives (death, marriage, children, etc)

Warnings: None

Disclaimer: I don't claim to own Harry Potter, it's all JKR's.

Note: This was written for Mrs Bella Riddle in the HPFC fic exchange - it's been posted for a while, just on their account.

OxOx

Walburga sits at the vast dining room table alone, scrutinising the family heirloom wound around her ring finger. It's pretty, she'll admit… but it isn't her. Given the choice, she would take a plain silver engagement band; keep it as unembellished as possible.

But she is a Black, he is a Black, so nothing comes without its embellishments. From the floorboards to the paintings, everything is in place to cover the most noble, ancient house of Black's deepest, darkest secrets where their derailed minds no longer have the capacity to do so.

"Stop looking so glum, this isn't the end of the world." And she instantly recognises the voice of her favourite relative – so warm and so happy, compared to all the others.

She can't even bring herself to look up from the rock on her finger – the beginning of her end. No one has attempted this talk with her, for she's really just supposed to understand.

"You always knew this would happen, you've been prepared for the entire seventeen years that you've lived…" Marius tries again, this time pulling up a seat opposite his niece.

Always knowing it was going to happen just made her wish that it wouldn't even more, always knowing it was going to happen just filled her with more dread, always knowing it was going to happen just gradually filled her to the brim with hate.

"Orion is a very nice young man, you'll have a perfectly respectable and-" The only slightly older man is suddenly cut off.

"-He's my cousin, Marius!" She hisses, her inner Black coming out.

"You know - you've always known, that pureblood families will do whatever they have to do to continue their bloodlines. And if that means marrying cousins, they will."

Walburga goes back to her sulking silence, eyes now cast on the marble floor underneath her feet.

"Blacks do not marry for love," Marius tries again, reaching for her hand across the table.

"I know," She mutters, refusing to look up.

"Okay?"

"Okay."

Rehearsal

Walburga takes shaky steps into the unnecessarily extravagant room, smoothing the back of her dark locks over with one hand before glancing into her reflection in the window.

So this is it, she thinks. Every day a show takes place where the women paint on their masks and pull themselves into their corsets, stand next to the men and watch them with dead eyes as they too play their part in all of this.

Maybe it turns into a sort of game, a guessing game. Who's happy? Who's real? All these ladies and gentlemen appear to have top class acting skills, a few days into their marriage and it's hardly even pretending anymore – it's a second skin, a stage.

Dead in the middle of the room, a small table sits with him on one side, obsidian eyes glinting from the flicker of the candle light.

"Walburga," He says in a monotone, scanning her up and down with disinterested eyes.

"Orion," She says in a clipped tone, pairing it with a tight lipped smile.

"Looking lovely," He states, rising from his seat to pull out hers.

Almost stumbling in her heels as she takes a seat, she closes her eyes and reminds herself to breathe… to be calm. "And you," She says, blankly. Now, she starts to wonder how they'll ever be able to pretend… how they'll ever win the crowds affections, how they'll ever win the who's real game.

Unblinking, he stares at her. "I think we can make this work."

There is no reaction from Walburga except a small nod, as she stares at the food on their plates to avoid his piercing gaze.

Dress rehearsal

Walburga has to shake her head vigorously for a few moments, to stop the dizzying feeling swirling around in her head. Through the glass panelling of her (soon to be) manor, her vision is clouded by the beautiful gardens – rose bushes, bright and colourful but appropriate flower gardens, weeping willow trees, perfectly trimmed hedges, many beautiful benches and seats scattered around with wooden frames, and even a fruit and vegetable garden in one of the far corners. The gardens are so vast she cannot see the whole thing from the glass panels, but she sees enough.

The gardens are far more beautiful when their audience does not fill them like hungry animals, waiting for the meat to be thrown in. This is their preview, the moment they sell themselves, it's now-or-never to make a statement in the pureblood world.

A now familiar arm slides itself around her waist, "Come on, it's best to not keep them waiting."

Uneasiness settles in her stomach, butterflies fluttering around. This is her time to shine; this is the preview and practice of the rest of their lives. She pulls her painted lips into a tight smile, allowing Orion's strong arm to sit comfortably on her waist as step into the garden and come face to face with their audience.

Each couple looks effortlessly perfect, broad smiles plastered on their faces, compliments rolling off their tongue. The men walk around and greet each other, with their perfect woman on their suited arms, staring at them with dead eyes that are only lit up by the sun.

Orion and Walburga quickly fall into form, smiling on cue, reciting their perfectly practiced compliments and thank you's over and over. The end is a result – it appears as though their performances were convincing as each couple leaves with well wishes and utterances of what a lovely couple they make.

Preparation

Irma pins back her hair, pulling her painted red lips into that sickly smile that Walburga so loathes.

Irma leans down, hovering by Walburga's ear. The younger witch watches in the mirror as her mother's thin lips twist, "Smile," She whispers, harshly.

Walburga looks at her prettily made up face in the mirror, and attempts to pull her lips into a smile. The one that came so easily – that ever-so-rehearsed smile, is gone – it turns into a sort-of grimace. There's no faking this today, it appears. Everyone will know.

The charade is up.

"Practice, prepare… it's all about the preparation." Irma strokes Walburga's dark locks slowly and deliberately, dark eyes glittering dangerously and maniacally.

Walburga can't help but wonder if this will be her, come a few years of marriage and children. Will she too be heartless, dancing on the edge of insanity… will she no longer be able to manage a real smile? Involuntarily, she shudders at the thought.

The dark haired witch attempts another smile, and is once again greeted with an ugly grimace. Luckily, that shouldn't matter – who's going to be watching after today? She's done her rehearsals, her preparation… this is it.

Maybe at a point, she thought she could be the Black who made a change… the different one, the happy one. But no, it's worse than she could have imagined. She sits in a heavily laced ivory dress that's been passed through her families for centuries… she didn't even get to choose her own dress, the very first choice women make at their weddings.

But no, she reminds herself bitterly: this is not her wedding, this isn't happening for her. It's for the bloodline; to carry on the purity… there's no room for emotions in this.

Finale – ladies and gentleman please take your seats, the final show is about to begin

The way Walburga sees it, the wedding is just another embellishment. But everything… everything has been for this moment and it must be perfectly executed.

It's just another unnecessarily extravagant room, filled with people she doesn't know. Still, she stares out from the top of the aisle as the minister speaks. Silver chairs adorn the room, row by row by row – there must be at least five hundred people here, each as perfectly made up and presented as the next. Large flower arrangements line the rows of chairs, each as perfectly made up and presented as the people who sit next to them.

Finally, the minister finishes his speech, and Walburga utters her most rehearsed words of all: there's no getting this wrong. "I do."

And she stretches out her thin arm, laying it upon his sturdy arm as a gold ribbon of magic glides from the tip of the minister's wand and wraps itself around their arms, binding them together forever.

This is it.

Done.

Encore

"I am sick of this!" Walburga screams, no longer being able to hold herself back.

"Really, you're sick of it? I am sick of this," Orion fires back, calmly.

"I can't do this anymore," She says between angry pants.

"Well unfortunately my dear, you do not have a choice," He says, all knowingly.

And she knows he is right: there is no choice in this marriage, this is them forever. They are no longer the performers – not really… they are the audience, hiding their own secrets in their own floorboards, losing their own minds day by day, and watching the new performances as they fall apart.

A/N - I am quite happy with how this story came out, it was kind of an experiment with the Blacks for me, so I hope it isn't too shocking... Please review, let me know your thoughts!