Carve Me Open / r.l. + s.b. /

The Proposal

"Bravery often demands a price."-via Lemony Snicket▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

12 Grimmauld Place, September 1979

Regulus sighed as his mother's languid, feeble palms smoothed down the fabric of his finest robes. Her eyes, now vacant and lifeless vessels, peered through him to the wall, mouth slack and movements drawn. Though her body might have displayed otherwise, her temperament was sharp; the edge of Walburga had been awoken through abstinence for a gathering she hadn't even wanted to attend, and if she'd gotten her wish, she would've returned to the drawing room where the abundance of port could wash down the bile of regret in her throat.

For a week and a half, Regulus endured the cutting remarks made by both his mother and father as they prepared themselves for a gathering put on by the newly married Malfoy's. Her niece had requested that she be sober upon attendance, and promised that such a feat would be rewarded through connections and such – things only the Malfoy's and the Black's could offer; this had interested Walburga, drunk or not, and she'd agreed.

Nine days later, and not an ounce of rum or wine or vodka within a mile, a hot rage had spread through her soul – the mother she'd once been had risen from the plagued depths of inebriation, and Regulus was at the receiving end. At one point, Regulus had considered himself thick skinned; what with his short-lived friendship with Severus and other Slytherin heirs alike, his personality had been tailored to withstand the common critical eye. A snarky remark here and a critique there never hurt anyone, however, Walburga's tongue had been barbed.

Regulus came to the conclusion that this feeling – the wet, heavy, sunken ache in his stomach – had been Sirius' experience during his time at home, and somehow felt the resentment he'd once held toward his brother dissolve. If it hadn't been his hair, which she cut by Friday, then it had been the length of his nails; they were promptly trimmed by a sniffling Kreacher. On Wednesday, Walburga didn't like the way he'd been eating his food and decided that etiquette lessons were to resume after the gathering. On Thursday, a screaming match had ensued as his mother had commented on his pitiful appearance during dinner.

He'd never screamed at his mother before; there'd never been the need to. Regulus and his mother had always enjoyed each other's company. Her treatment toward her eldest son had never reflected into him, and he preferred it that way. She was understanding of his shortcomings, of his faults and flaws, and loved him regardless of them. In fact, she loved them enough to correct them with the help of instructors and lessons. Sure, he didn't always agree with her, but he was smarter than Sirius and knew when to keep his trap shut about it. That'd been the only reason his relationship with their mother had stayed afloat as long as it had: silence.

It had been the price to pay for peace – a price he now found he was willing to pay so long as it got her nagging to cease.

"I don't understand how you've managed to muck up your haircut already," she bit, tearing her filed nails through each, delicate curl with enough force to rip his scalp. "Honestly, Regulus, it's simple. Fix your damn hair in the morning."

"I do fix it, Mother," he gritted his teeth. "It looks fine! Will you just leave it alone?"

He made a move to exit the room, taking his robes and whatever was left of his hair with him, but her vice grip snatched him before an inch had been put between their bodies.

"You listen to me, Regulus," she said. "I will not have a repeat of that Christmas tonight, do you understand me?"

Regulus' face twisted, partially due to his revulsion toward Bellatrix, but also because of the slight fog in the forefront of his mind.