Chapter Text
Walburga Black recoiled.
The infant, red faced and trembling with stubby, plump little limbs and a wrinkling upon its brow was being handled carefully by the senior healers adjacent to her bedside, unable to hide their anxious side-eyeing while they made near desperate attempts to rouse the newest descendant from the House of Black. It had been a quick labour, unlike the boys before, and the child hadn’t cried at all.
“Just a slow little riser, nothing to worry about, Mrs Black.” Hecate Hargraves - head of childbirth at St Mungo’s - had foolishly tried to encourage a smile from the stern mother as she lay the baby out flat on a cot near Walburga’s bed.
A muscle twitched in Walburga’s perfect jaw. Her nose turned up a fraction on her harsh face, “Black’s aren’t slow at anything, Hecate.” her plump, full lips pursed into a thin line, “As you’ll do well to remember.”
Hecate visibly swallowed, angling her body as far away from the new mother as humanly possible. She’d been a seventh year once - Ravenclaw - and personally responsible for condemning the first year Slytherin to her first detention. She’d turned up her nose - Walburga - painfully similar to the way she did now, and she’d scoffed. She wouldn’t be told what to do. Not by a blood traitor.
Walburga had been initially aggressive with Hecate even being involved with the birth of a Black descendant at all, but she was, regrettably, one of the best. Only the best for the Blacks, for a start, and only the pure. One of the stout faced little managers had originally intended to have the pathetic excuse for an apprentice to be present but Walburga had worked out with only one hard look that the little disgrace was halfblooded and had been promptly banished from the corridor. No dirty blood would come near her children, not if she could help it.
“Give him to me, Hargraves.” Walburga growled abruptly, making the old healer visibly twitch.
Walburga had only given birth to the infant about ten minutes before but you wouldn’t be able to tell. She looked just as prim, just as regal, and just as arrogant as she had long before labour, and she’d sat up in bed with her beady eyes glaring round the private room, “Quickly.”
Walburga watched as Hecate had to hold onto herself so as not to show her tremble and smirked slightly at the responsibility, hurrying the novice healer on her left to wrap the child - not in the usual emerald green velvet with every other St Mungo’s newborn - Oh no - The Black’s had brought their own - a darker green blanket hand embroidered with tiny silver snakes and constellations, their tails wrapped through the seriffed B’s. It glittered in the stark hospital light and the novice couldn’t help but feel frightened just for touching it, let alone wrap it round the the third child. The youngest sibling to the heir.
“Her.” a nameless assistant, pale and slender with a somewhat weak disposition, made the mistake of whispering. It had audibly caught in her throat, speaking as she lifted the child and paling once more when she caught Walburga’s expression.
“What did you say, girl? Speak up or don’t speak at all.”
“It’s a girl, Mrs Black.” Hecate took over at once, smoothly interjecting herself to protect her novice, taking the red faced, yet quiet, baby from the arms of her apprentice, “Your first daughter.”
“A girl?” Walburga repeated, hissing, while her face contorted for a sheer millisecond. She collected herself and sat up straighter, “Give her to me then. Come now. Quickly.”
As soon as the baby was handed to the new mother, Walburga had known. She’d known and she’d moved with such disgusted velocity that she’d nearly knocked the newborn child onto the linoleum below them.
A squib.
“Put her in the St Mungo’s one.” she hissed, seething which rage that could only be described as confusing to the other two in the room, “Now Hargraves, don’t look at me like that. Don’t dare.”
Hecate had fumbled for the child at once, waves of imminent confusion on her soft brow. She cradled the child, “Mrs Black, is something wrong?” trust Hecate Hargraves not to notice a squib right in front of her, “Mrs Black.” Hecate tried again as the short, bony woman began to dress. She hurried around the private labour room, tendrils of unruly hair falling from her usually immaculate bun, “Mrs Black, you really ought to be in bed.”
“Contact my house elf.” Walburga growled, limbs continuing with such earnest aggression that the poor novice had backed herself into a corner of the room, terrified, “Floo her to Islington if you have to.”
“Mrs Black?” Hecate’s stomach had turned as she watched Walburga stride towards the door, “Mrs Black, your daugh-"
She turned.
Malice and snobbery lit up her dark eyes and she glared at both healers, “Take that blanket off of it, you stupid girl.” Walburga said finally, no shake and no quiver at all prevalent, hand on the doorknob, “It's no child of mine.”