Written for QLFC Daily Prophet
Team: Wigtown Wanderers
Position: Beater 2
Prompt: (song) Single Ladies
Words: 594
Regulus lazily half-sat in his armchair, perusing a book he held loosely in his left hand. At a sharp knock, he called, "Come in!" and marked the page with his finger.
The door opened immediately, and his mother stepped through, her eyes angry. Regulus hastily stood up, throwing the book aside, and inclined his head in a demure bow. "Mother?"
"Why are you not downstairs?"
"I… I was not aware that I had to be, Mother," he said as evenly as he could. "I had to be there at five… and it is—"
"Half-past five."
He adopted a shocked expression. "I was not aware—"
"Yes, you were." Walburga Black took a sharp step towards him, and Regulus bowed his head again, having dared to raise it to speak. "Your seventeenth birthday was several months ago, Regulus! Young men of your age may like idling about, but that will not be accepted in my house, not when your brother's been gone two years now—and good riddance. But with him gone, the responsibility to carry on the Black name falls on you. And you will do that by marrying."
"M—"
"I do not want to hear it." She turned around imperiously, the conversation over. "I will see you downstairs in five minutes, where you will apologize to the young ladies I've invited for tea. Make sure you look presentable. You've already rejected twenty eligible brides; my patience is running out."
The door shut behind her, the resounding bang sending shivers up Regulus's back. He swallowed and found his mouth dry; tried to move and found his legs too shaky, tried to convince himself to move and found his throat constricted. He wanted to pick up the book he'd dropped in his haste to stand in his mother's presence, but the room swam in front of his eyes.
He needed to sit down. How long had it been?
Too long. He needed to go downstairs, to see the potential brides; to smile at them, drink tea with them, tell them how lovely they were—how beautiful, how gentle, how pure, how good a match they were for him.
He'd already rejected too many brides: everyone with money and connections, and he'd let his own selfish desires rule him in the matching. He didn't want to get married, was too young, was not in love… but what did love matter in marriage?
He needed to go downstairs.
And so he did.
Regulus had always been the obedient son, the loving son. He'd never rebelled—what would his mother think if he refused her directly? He shuddered at the thought, but shuddered still more when he entered the drawing room and saw five young ladies smiling at him. He schooled his expression into a welcoming smile.
"My apologies," he said, feeling his mother's gaze on him. "I found myself lost in a collection of essays on The Tales of Beedle the Bard; perhaps you're familiar with them? Cantankerus Nott's analysis of them is quite riveting…"
The ladies shook their heads, but looked interested and gestured to him to sit down. And Regulus did. He smiled at them, drank tea with them, told them how lovely they were, how beautiful, how gentle, how pure, how good a match they were for him.
He was a pureblood heir, after all—he had no use for tantrums or follies. He would get everything he wanted as long as he did everything he was supposed to. And right now, he was supposed to smile at the ladies and tell his mother he'd marry one of them.