Summary:
PREVIOUSLY ON TIHID: Alphard and Regulus's conversation ended somewhat unfavorably, with both parties being mistrustful of each other's intentions. Regulus was notified of his father's death and arrival in the afterlife, but pulled a pro gamer move and chose not to visit.
TODAY'S EPISODE: Black herons hunt by standing in shallow water and using their wings to form a canopy. This tricks prey into thinking the canopy is safety, when in reality, it only ends up hurting them.
Notes:
we've got a real whopper today bois, with some spicy af sauce 👀👀
WARNINGS: emotional abuse / referenced past abuse
For the record, whoever says that second times are always easier than firsts is, to put it plainly, a fucking liar.
Regulus finds the second slip of parchment resting innocently at his feet when he opens the door for the first time in three weeks. He already knows what it says, but he reads it anyway because he loves to suffer.
Walburga Black has arrived.
A proper son wouldn't have a nervous breakdown upon hearing of his mother's arrival. Then again, a proper son also wouldn't refuse to even grace his father with a courtesy visit.
It was a rash decision, one whose consequences hardly graced his mind amid the emotion of the moment. But now, staring unseeingly at his mother's name on that parchment, Regulus can hardly believe how badly he fucked up. After all, it would be highly coincidental for him to have stumbled upon the notice of his mother's death on the very day of its arrival, so it would be safe to assume that she's been waiting for at least a few days, possibly even a couple weeks. Which would mean that Walburga Black has been in the afterlife, knowing that Regulus is also here, but not making any attempt to contact him. And he knows her far too well to even think for a second that this means she's letting him off the hook.
A tight knot of dread forms in his chest — she's been waiting for him. And he didn't come.
If he were alive, it wouldn't be for much longer.
Deep breath. Emotions are frivolous pursuits, he reminds himself. They serve only to derail one's momentum. To distract from what's important. You are the heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, the greatest and purest Wizarding family in existence. You will do what is expected of you, and you will handle it with the grace and composure befitting someone of your great status.
He feels the anxiety prickling under his skin, hot and spiky, and forces it into the cobwebbed recesses of his psyche where all un-heir-like feelings go. He will go to see her, and he will lie through bloody teeth if necessary, and he will prove that he's no longer the soft little boy he used to be.
—
Hand on the cold brass knob, letting the heavy door fall softly shut behind him. Footsteps echoing dully through the open corridors. His knuckles against thick wood, dreamlike, hardly feeling the quick raps — soft, too soft, he berates himself, you must display presence from the very first moment, Mother has told you again and again —
And then the door opens and all the awful details dig into his skin with their horrible, painful reality.
She is, of course, just as he remembers: all dark lace, perfectly-lacquered fingernails, heels that barely miss making her taller than him. Her smile is deceptively warm, her eyes forever frigid. Her hair is ink-black, accented by silvery streaks, and it's panic-inducingly reminiscent of the barest sliver of moonlight shining through a small crack in the rock, illuminating the basin and the locket and the lake and its terrible, terrible secret.
He wants to vomit.
"Regulus." A greeting.
"Mother." An acceptable response.
"My good boy." There's a smile on her painted lips, but her eyes don't soften. They never do. "Come — give your mother a hug."
Regulus can barely stand any sort of touch, let alone this. But that doesn't matter. There are certain sacrifices that one must make for family. He steps forward, stiffly; stands complacent as she wraps her arms around him, and they feel like iron bars imbued with lightning, but he stays still. The idea that he could just say no to seeing her like he did to Orion was always laughable, but that doesn't stop him from missing it.
Mother releases him, steps back, guides him to an ornate chair. She sits across from him.
"How have you been, cheri?" She only ever calls him that when she's angry with him.
"I've been well." His tone is the perfect balance between gracious and polite. "And you?"
"Sit up straight," she says sharply, instead of answering. "You weren't raised by mudbloods."
Regulus knows that his posture is already flawless, but he makes a show of shifting his shoulders back anyway. It simply wouldn't do to be disobedient.
"Since you so kindly asked," Mother resumes, "I'll admit I've been a bit fretful these past few days."
It's a dare: go on, ask me why.
"Oh?"
"You see, cheri—" She stands gracefully, gliding across the floor to stand behind his chair. "After the death of our only son, our pride and joy, your father and I were simply wrecked. So imagine our delight to find ourselves in the position to see our darling again. We waited, thinking it would be any minute now that he would knock on the door. And…" He holds in a flinch as her crimson nails stroke lightly across his cheek. "He didn't come." Her fingers slide under his jaw, lifting his chin as she leans around the back of the chair so he can meet her eyes.
"Why didn't he come, Regulus?" she asks softly.
Regulus doesn't answer. He can't, his breath won't unstick.
"Go on then, love," she purrs. "You can tell me."
His gaze flicks downward, pulse pounding chokingly in his throat. "I — I was afraid."
Mother drops her hand then as she stands, rising to her full height, towering over him. "You were. Afraid."
Panic catches hard in Regulus's chest, burning bright white and spiky, as he realizes his mistake. He ducks his head. "I—"
"What have I told you about fear, Regulus?" Her eyes are walls of solid ice and her voice is just as hard.
He stays silent, too busy staring unseeingly at her pointy shoes as the breaths come quick, quick, quick and he fights hard to keep them contained.
She raises her hand suddenly and he automatically tenses, but then she drops her arm just as quickly.
"Oh, never mind," she says, sounding warmer than Regulus has ever known her to be. Slowly he raises his eyes, head still tilted downward, peering through his lashes.
She's smiling, and it's got the same tensely uncomfortable air of misplaced serenity as a raging storm transforming into a perfectly cheerful blue sky in the blink of an eye. It's untrustworthy weather.
"Fortunately for you, I am willing to forgive your transgression." There's a pause that sounds remarkably like the word "if". Dread wraps cold fingers around Regulus's heart.
"Thank you, Mother," he says numbly. Mother nods approvingly.
"Of course. For my son, my heir, who will bring more glory to the Noble And Most Ancient House Of Black than ever before."
Regulus stares at her blankly. "Er… pardon?"
She laughs lightly, moving to stand in front of him. "Oh, darling. Surely you understand the unique opportunity we have been given? We wasted all our energy trying to make ourselves kings in the land of the living, desperate to create something lasting in a temporary world. But this?" She sweeps an arm out in a broad, all-encompassing gesture. "This is eternal. We can be eternal. With your help, we will make this place our kingdom… forever."
She's grinning now, showing gleaming rows of perfect teeth. Suddenly Regulus feels as though his soul is taking a step back and for the first time in eighteen years, he sees her clearly.
"You're delusional," he says. It's an observation, a realization.
Mother's brilliant smile leeches out of her face, leaving it steely and hateful. "What. Did. You. Say," she snaps.
What did I tell you about fear, Regulus?
Something within Regulus teeters, and he lets it drop and shatter, scattering what's left of her chains on him. He stands up, stretches his arms out to his sides, feeling like he could reach any corner of the world if he wanted to.
"I said you're delusional, Mother." He spits the word out at her feet like it's something vile.
Her eyes bulge insanely.
"How — DARE — you," she hisses. "After all I've done for you — all I've sacrificed—"
"Sacrifice?" Regulus snaps. A laugh, breathy and incredulous, escapes his throat. "You ruined me. You used me like I was — like I was nothing more than a lump of clay with which you could do as you pleased."
"It is not my fault you're weak, Regulus."
"It's your fault you looked at children and saw chess pieces. It's your fault I can't stand my own reflection. It's your fault I'm fucking broken."
Regulus should stop. He should have stopped before he raised his voice, although he can't even remember where the crescendo started. He should have never opened his mouth, he should have just gone along with whatever batshit ideas Mother thought up, because now everything within him is screaming mistake mistake mistake. But then he realizes that the voices in his head — they're her. All of them.
Except one.
He focuses on that one and the rest grows muddy, fading into a dull whine.
"You treated me like I wasn't even human," Regulus breathes. "Like I wasn't even your son."
His mother scoffs. "An ungrateful little brat like you doesn't deserve to be my son."
The words hang between them, eighteen years of ill effects tainting the air like poison. Regulus takes the time to look at her, really look at her: sees the contempt filling her eyes, leaving no room for love or compassion or anything a parent is supposed to feel. The flawlessly elegant mask has cracked; it's plain to see that there's nothing behind it but decay.
And this is the woman Regulus called Mother.
"You know what?" Regulus says slowly, mostly to himself as realization dawns. "You… may be right. I believe this is goodbye, then."
"Traitor," Walburga spits. The look in her eyes gives Regulus the irrational urge to check his robes to make sure they aren't smoking. "I can't believe you would do this to me! Your brother—"
"Doesn't exist here." He downs the churning cocktail of suppressed fury, adrenaline, and sleep deprivation to meet her eyes. "Compare us all you want, I don't give a damn because he doesn't exist here."
"Perhaps you should start giving a damn, then. I was a powerful ally, but this betrayal will turn me into a dangerous enemy."
"What are you going to do?" Regulus asks lowly, deadly and challenging. "Kill me? That's been done, and it was far worse than you could ever be."
"The end of life does not mean the end of pain, Regulus. It only means you can hurt forever without reprieve."
"Is that a threat?"
"More of a reminder, really." A smirk, cruel and loveless. Indicative of everything he spent eighteen years refusing to acknowledge. She's certain she's won.
He leans in very close.
"Then I gladly invite you to fucking try," he whispers. And then he turns on his heel and stalks towards the door.
"You'll regret this," Walburga hisses behind him. "Mark my words, Regulus Arcturus Black, you WILL regret this."
"Yeah?" he calls over his shoulder. "Take a bloody number."
—
It's not really a surprise when Regulus ends up standing in front of the Second Chance. Maybe it should have been. Maybe he's lost the ability to have a proper emotional reaction. He certainly feels numb.
He doesn't remember getting to the bar. He remembers shutting his mother's door, then time rushed and blurred like a final exhale, and then his eyes were suddenly fixed on the shabby wooden sign with its uneven letters and crooked alignment. Strangely, it seems to move on its own, swinging gently, evenly, despite the lack of a breeze. The rusted hinges sing with the rhythm; it should be irritating, but it's strangely soothing somehow. It's high-pitched without being shrill. Like the mewling of a newborn kitten. Cats are nice, the way they seem to stare endlessly, their round eyes full of human intelligence with inhuman affectation, but never ask irritating questions. Sirius always asked a lot of irritating questions, seemed to revel in being a massive pain. Mother asked a lot of questions, too, but with less glee and more threat. Neither of them liked cats.
Regulus blinks hard. How long has he been staring at the stupid sign?
Bloody hell, he's losing it.
The inside of the Second Chance is, unsurprisingly, just as depressing as the last time Regulus was here. The tables are still ugly, stained, and heavily scuffed. The people sitting at them are still nearly silent. The air is still thick, heavy with stale misery. The place is still covered in dust — doesn't anyone ever clean?
He sneezes, the sound standing starkly against the muffled background noise of the library-quiet space. No one takes any notice.
Regulus isn't entirely sure what draws him towards the bar, but the bartender — Fortuna, he recalls — looks positively delighted when he does, even putting down her cleaning rag to give him her full attention.
"Just look at you!" She's grinning at him like they're old friends. "I don't think I got a good gander before. That's quite the striking pair of silver suns you got there, hm?"
Regulus looks up, slightly surprised at the attempted small talk. "Pardon?"
"Your eyes, dear." She smiles, crinkling her own eyes at the corners. "They're beautiful."
It's clear from her tone that she thinks she's giving him a compliment, but truthfully, Regulus has never been never particularly fond of his eyes. He's never really gotten compliments on them, either — while Walburga's are frostily beautiful, like razor-sharp icicles, and Sirius's are lively and brimming with mischief and wit, Regulus's eyes have always seemed dull to him; all stone and steel and not much else.
"Oh," he replies awkwardly. "Thank you."
"You're welcome, love."
Regulus ducks his head.
"So, what are you looking for, then?" asks Fortuna.
He blinks. "Er… a drink?"
"You're a funny one, aren't you! Just like your uncle." She laughs, but it isn't cold or unkind. "No, I mean beyond that. Everyone comes looking for something. It's always different. Sometimes unexpected."
Regulus raises an eyebrow. "You mean people come into bars for reasons other than surrendering all self-respect to a bottle of old fruit?"
Fortuna laughs again. Then she looks at him curiously, and the intensity in her June-blue eyes once again makes him want to squirm.
"I don't think that's what you want here, is it?" She pauses, considering something. "I don't think you know what you're looking for."
An inexplicable wave of annoyance washes over Regulus, prickling at his skin.
"You're absolutely right," he says tightly. "I suppose I must have been momentarily possessed by some brain-dead alcoholic, because I simply cannot fathom why I would willingly set foot in a filthy, common pub like this of my own volition."
He stalks out, passing all the shadowy drunks with their stooped spines. Their faceless forms blur into a streaky grey smear and none of them look up. Of course. They're all too absorbed in their miserable wallowing to even twitch. How wholly and completely pathetic.
"That's a good fire," Fortuna's voice says, right next to his ear. "Don't let it go out."
Startled, Regulus whirls around but there's no one beside him. Fortuna is right where he left her, cheerfully using a faded rag to swipe at the eternally dusty bar. The patrons still sit, catatonic, in their worn chairs. All of it makes Regulus want to scream.
The prickly feeling intensifies. Regulus shoots the mystifying sign a dirty look on his way out, but it doesn't return the favor, just mewls on and on.
Notes:
regulus is wrong about cats. they absolutely do ask irritating questions.
.
.
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