He apparated straight back to Grimmauld Place and leaned against the front door, closing his eyes and willing himself to stop shaking, willing the bile rising in his throat to go back down, to stay down just long enough to get through this night.
Kreacher appeared, and took his cloak and mask without a sound. Regulus managed to nod his thanks. The elf knew where to put them; where to hide them.
Mother was in the drawing room, staring at the tapestry. Of course she was. Where else would she be these days? She turned as he entered and held her arms out to him, beaming a smile that he once would have longed to see. Now it just made him want to run from the room screaming.
He forced himself to walk calmly over to her, forced himself to watch as she pushed up his sleeve and squealed with delight at the terrible, angry mark that was now staining his skin. He listened with a polite smile as she expressed her delight and her pride at everything he had managed to accomplish. She told him her was her darling son. Her bright, shining boy. The bile threatened to rise again.
Mother rose from her chair and walked to the tapestry. Regulus followed, a pace behind. She pointed out the scorch marks on the tapestry, the blights on their noble family tree. She told him that he would continue their ancient traditions and bring honour to their ancestors. She told him that she always knew that he would continue their legacy with dignity.
Toujours Pur, he nodded, and excused himself.
Once Regulus reached the sanctuary of his bedroom he allowed himself to crumble. He collapsed onto his bed and reached out a shaking arm to retrieve the scarf that lay hidden under his pillow. His long fingers gripped the yellow and charcoal striped wool and brought it to his face, breathing in the light floral scent of her perfume that lingered there. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that she was there with him, warm hands running through his hair and telling him that everything would be okay, that she would love him no matter what he was forced to do.
He sat up suddenly and dragged himself to the end of the bed, retching.
He couldn't — he wouldn't — she didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve her. She was lightness and goodness and hope and he was the opposite of that. He was a dementor, sucking the life from her. She couldn't know. He couldn't tell her that tonight he had stood before a monster and let it brand its mark on his skin.
Toujours Pur was a lie. He had never been pure.