fic for googlebrat: Duty (Regulus, Walburga, PG)
Title: Duty
Author: miss_morland
Recipient: googlebrat
Rating: PG
Character(s): Regulus, Mrs Black
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: I hope you'll like this! Many thanks to my lovely beta reader for her help.
--
His mother has aged these last two years, although Regulus hasn't realised it until now: entering the drawing room, he nearly recoils upon seeing the wrinkles on her hands, the grey in her hair, the harsh lines around her eyes and mouth. He wonders if she's normally wearing a glamour or if he's simply been oblivious, barely sparing her a glance between all of his secret missions -- the thought troubles him.
"Sit down," says Walburga Black, and he does so, opposite her on the straight-backed sofa.
"How are you, Regulus?"
An even voice, a slight flush on her pale cheeks, as if she's secretly ashamed that she hasn't spoken to him one-to-one in weeks -- or is it months? Regulus can't remember anymore, although he feels he ought to. "Fine, Mother."
"Did your last mission go well?"
He knows she's asking out of some sense of courtesy, that she has no real wish to know about the things he does and has done in the Dark Lord's service -- earlier, detailed accounts have been found boring, vulgar -- and there is no need for him to tell her about them. Still, he winces a little as he replies, as is expected of him, "Very well, thank you."
"Good."
The drawing room is heavy, cramped; he looks at his mother, her dark robes, her rigid posture, wondering if she'll cry for him the way she cried for Sirius.
"You are of age now," she says, "and it is time for you to think... You are, after all, the sole heir of this family." Here she pauses, her eyes flashing ominously.
Fits of rage: they come when least expected, often provoked by no more than a hint, a passing of thought. Regulus bites his lip, saying nothing.
But however strong her feelings are, she masters them this time. "You are the family heir," she continues after a moment, "and you are of age. I daresay it is time to consider possible future alliances."
"If you say so, Mother," he says, his gaze wavering between the floor and her face.
"Even if..." A pause, again; he hears her take a deep breath. "Even if these are turbulent times, we must not let go of our traditions -- without them, we are nothing! We Blacks have always served as an example to all the noble families of the blood, even when faced with traitors... If we do not hold ourselves up in these turbulent times, to whom will the others look for guidance?"
Another monologue, another question that will have no answer. Regulus waits, his hands folded in his lap.
Her mouth purses; then, with a visible effort, she recomposes her features into a calmer look. "Is there any suitable girl you have your eyes on, Regulus? I should be happy to speak with her parents on your behalf."
Regulus knows his mother loves him, but perhaps not more than she loves the house, the portraits, the heirlooms -- it is sometimes hard to tell. His family's name is the most important heirloom of all, of course, and there are certain obligations that come with it, obligations that he has always known were there, but never really understood.
Not until now, at any rate, and it is with sorrow that he shakes his head: "There isn't anyone -- I haven't had the time to think about such things yet."
Not a lie, not at all, and he raises his eyes to meet hers, earnestly: in this moment, he longs to tell her everything, if only so that she might be consoled a little, when... But the moment of weakness passes, and he looks down again, as she makes an 'hm' of disappointment.
The problem isn't easily solved, not by any means, but he has pondered it these last few weeks, during sleepless nights, ever since he realised that he has spent the last two years serving an unworthy despot whose agenda it is to become immortal -- sinning against Nature, like a megalomaniac Muggle might. Regulus is not his brother; he will not abandon his family's standards, nor will he bow to someone who thinks himself above the Blacks and who mistreats the family's servants.
And yet it's a horrible thing, that his attempt to make amends will probably destroy him. It's enough to make his head spin, to make him doubt and waver and fear, although deep down he knows he doesn't really have a choice, not if he wants to be worthy of his family's name.
Still, he looks at his mother, catching himself looking for signs of madness in her prematurely-aged face, worrying about what will become of her. It has never been his place to question, or to challenge; duty is what he's been good at. Some people's destinies are assigned to them from the beginning: they are born as cripples, or as Squibs. Regulus is born a Black, with everything that entails, and now there is no turning back.
Yes, it's a horrible thing, and even though Regulus knows there will be no need for his mother to speak to anyone on his behalf, he longs for what could have been -- he longs to give her what she wants, so he clears his throat and says, very quietly, "I would really like to, however. Marry, I mean."
Her face clears, just a little bit; her eyes soften with one of those smiles that never quite seem to reach the mouth, so unlike those he remembers from his childhood, when she would still pull him into her lap, still tickle his chin, still laugh and call him her little king. "Oh, you will, Regulus -- don't worry. You are the best young man this family can offer, after all."
The bitterness in her voice is all too familiar, but at least there is no fit of rage, for which he is thankful.
After they have exchanged a couple of polite phrases, she dismisses him with a nod; when he leaves the room, he looks back, thinking that this is how he will remember her, thin and dark and rigid, sitting with her back to him, her face turned away.
Author: miss_morland
Recipient: googlebrat
Rating: PG
Character(s): Regulus, Mrs Black
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: I hope you'll like this! Many thanks to my lovely beta reader for her help.
--
His mother has aged these last two years, although Regulus hasn't realised it until now: entering the drawing room, he nearly recoils upon seeing the wrinkles on her hands, the grey in her hair, the harsh lines around her eyes and mouth. He wonders if she's normally wearing a glamour or if he's simply been oblivious, barely sparing her a glance between all of his secret missions -- the thought troubles him.
"Sit down," says Walburga Black, and he does so, opposite her on the straight-backed sofa.
"How are you, Regulus?"
An even voice, a slight flush on her pale cheeks, as if she's secretly ashamed that she hasn't spoken to him one-to-one in weeks -- or is it months? Regulus can't remember anymore, although he feels he ought to. "Fine, Mother."
"Did your last mission go well?"
He knows she's asking out of some sense of courtesy, that she has no real wish to know about the things he does and has done in the Dark Lord's service -- earlier, detailed accounts have been found boring, vulgar -- and there is no need for him to tell her about them. Still, he winces a little as he replies, as is expected of him, "Very well, thank you."
"Good."
The drawing room is heavy, cramped; he looks at his mother, her dark robes, her rigid posture, wondering if she'll cry for him the way she cried for Sirius.
"You are of age now," she says, "and it is time for you to think... You are, after all, the sole heir of this family." Here she pauses, her eyes flashing ominously.
Fits of rage: they come when least expected, often provoked by no more than a hint, a passing of thought. Regulus bites his lip, saying nothing.
But however strong her feelings are, she masters them this time. "You are the family heir," she continues after a moment, "and you are of age. I daresay it is time to consider possible future alliances."
"If you say so, Mother," he says, his gaze wavering between the floor and her face.
"Even if..." A pause, again; he hears her take a deep breath. "Even if these are turbulent times, we must not let go of our traditions -- without them, we are nothing! We Blacks have always served as an example to all the noble families of the blood, even when faced with traitors... If we do not hold ourselves up in these turbulent times, to whom will the others look for guidance?"
Another monologue, another question that will have no answer. Regulus waits, his hands folded in his lap.
Her mouth purses; then, with a visible effort, she recomposes her features into a calmer look. "Is there any suitable girl you have your eyes on, Regulus? I should be happy to speak with her parents on your behalf."
Regulus knows his mother loves him, but perhaps not more than she loves the house, the portraits, the heirlooms -- it is sometimes hard to tell. His family's name is the most important heirloom of all, of course, and there are certain obligations that come with it, obligations that he has always known were there, but never really understood.
Not until now, at any rate, and it is with sorrow that he shakes his head: "There isn't anyone -- I haven't had the time to think about such things yet."
Not a lie, not at all, and he raises his eyes to meet hers, earnestly: in this moment, he longs to tell her everything, if only so that she might be consoled a little, when... But the moment of weakness passes, and he looks down again, as she makes an 'hm' of disappointment.
The problem isn't easily solved, not by any means, but he has pondered it these last few weeks, during sleepless nights, ever since he realised that he has spent the last two years serving an unworthy despot whose agenda it is to become immortal -- sinning against Nature, like a megalomaniac Muggle might. Regulus is not his brother; he will not abandon his family's standards, nor will he bow to someone who thinks himself above the Blacks and who mistreats the family's servants.
And yet it's a horrible thing, that his attempt to make amends will probably destroy him. It's enough to make his head spin, to make him doubt and waver and fear, although deep down he knows he doesn't really have a choice, not if he wants to be worthy of his family's name.
Still, he looks at his mother, catching himself looking for signs of madness in her prematurely-aged face, worrying about what will become of her. It has never been his place to question, or to challenge; duty is what he's been good at. Some people's destinies are assigned to them from the beginning: they are born as cripples, or as Squibs. Regulus is born a Black, with everything that entails, and now there is no turning back.
Yes, it's a horrible thing, and even though Regulus knows there will be no need for his mother to speak to anyone on his behalf, he longs for what could have been -- he longs to give her what she wants, so he clears his throat and says, very quietly, "I would really like to, however. Marry, I mean."
Her face clears, just a little bit; her eyes soften with one of those smiles that never quite seem to reach the mouth, so unlike those he remembers from his childhood, when she would still pull him into her lap, still tickle his chin, still laugh and call him her little king. "Oh, you will, Regulus -- don't worry. You are the best young man this family can offer, after all."
The bitterness in her voice is all too familiar, but at least there is no fit of rage, for which he is thankful.
After they have exchanged a couple of polite phrases, she dismisses him with a nod; when he leaves the room, he looks back, thinking that this is how he will remember her, thin and dark and rigid, sitting with her back to him, her face turned away.