Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
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Gloria et Odium
I hate them. I hate them all. Little filthy half-breeds and Mudbloods, the lowest of scum, blood traitors, shame to the family name. They come and bring their dirt and disease into the house, spread it all around, let it imbue into the walls, carpets, air. Filth, filth everywhere.
Were I still alive I would make them all curse the day of their unfortunate birth. I would wipe them away, destroy them like termites they are. Carrying their filth into my house, moving around as if they owned it. Scum, lower than scum, lower than dirt. Each and every one of them.
I hate them. I hate them all.
I remember the old days – the Golden Days, when our name inspired respect and awe in every single person. I remember the way they lowered their heads when I entered, acknowledging that I was above them and they beneath me. I was better than them. I still am better than them. We ruled; the past, the present and the future – it was all ours, ours to take, ours to make, ours to rule.
And now, the dynasty ends. And oh, the way it ends. The last of Blacks – blood traitor, filth and bringer of filth. The last. How I hate him. More than anyone else.
I keep seeing the same dream lately. Or perhaps I’ve only seen it once. Or perhaps it’s not even a dream, but that makes no sense. I see a sunny day, a green meadow and a blue lake, and a little girl with raven black hair sitting by it, making a wreath of daisies. And that is all – just the girl by the lake. How ridiculous.
It’s like a garden. I’ve never been keen on gardening, but one of my acquaintances was. And she told me long and boring stories about her precious baby – her garden. How to nurse it, how to love it, how to take care of it, how to always be there for it, how to put all of yourself into it, making its well-being your one and only supreme goal in this life. I hope I told her at that point not to sound stupid. Of course I did – any normal person would upon hearing such absurdity. Why in the name of Merlin did I ever keep such person as an acquaintance – so beneath me. But I suppose she was rich, and her husband known in society.
It’s imbecile to talk like that about your garden. Like that, you should talk about your family. And that was my one and only purpose in life – my family, my name. I put all of myself into that cause, all my strength, all my determination, all my power, all of myself. Because that was the purpose of my life, to continue the line of Blacks, that and inspire awe and respect in others every time I walked past them. It was my garden, my garden to bring into life and keep in life, forever.
And it’s dying. That garden is dying. I failed. I had but one goal in my life, one that many others before me had succeeded in, one that I failed. To continue the Black family line. I did all I could, I poured all my power into this one cause, and still it was not enough.
One of my sons is dead, the other…
The last Black. Blood traitor, abomination, shame of my flesh. Filth and bringer of more filth. And yet, the last Black.
My only chance. My last chance. But at the same time, a lost cause. Oh yes, he will carry on the name of Black, perhaps into distant future, but it wouldn’t be the same. It couldn’t be the same. It’s ruined, demolished, defiled. My life, my garden – for what end. The flowers have withered, the trees are bare, even the weeds grow sparse and weak. And there, at the centre of vision, looms one vigorous thistle. Something you would root out and throw away with utmost disgust, except then the garden would be really dead. All your life, all your care, all your strength – dead. And yet you can’t look at it because it mocks you, it mocks the beauty the garden once held, it mocks the effort you put into it, it mocks you for failing.
So all you can do, all I can do, is yell at it, detest it, hate it – but never even think about destroying it. Because then, the garden would be dead. Because then, all my life would be meaningless. Because it is my last chance, my last… hope.
Would the girl in the sunny meadow have jumped into the ever blue lake and never surfaced, had she known what life awaited her?
No, she wouldn’t. She had courage, stamina and determination – she would make things right by the sheer force of her will. But now she’s gone, and all that’s left is me. Just a part of her, a shadow, an echo. Not the real thing. Just an image, a projection on the canvas. I don’t have her strength, nor her willpower to change things, to make them right again. I can only watch and hope.
And yet, even she was a failure. And even she realized that before her death.
~*~
The thistle was uprooted. The garden is dead. And I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Though I’d never do either. Perhaps it’s better to let it rest, let it rest in peace, without any mockery. All things must end. And the great and glorious dynasty of Blacks had come to its end. Let it rest, rest in peace just like the girl with the raven black hair from the lake-side meadow rests in peace, she who is the cause of all this. She who brought the destruction upon the family name. She who is responsible for the fade of glory. She who is the reason for the death of the garden. She who failed.
I hate her. Oh, how I hate her.
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A/N The title means "Glory and Hatred"