After dinner, Regulus returned to his room. He stood by the window, looking out at the London streets covered in a thin layer of snow, where car wheels had pressed tracks of varying depth into the muddy road.
In the distance, Muggle lights blurred into hazy clusters behind the curtain of snow, forming a faint boundary with the invisible Magical Barriers around Grimmauld Place.
He remembered Walburga's expression at the dinner table. Maternal love was not absent; it was simply always placed after glory.
His mother's eyes always shone with a particular light, something burning and stubborn.
She had praised his performance at the Malfoy family's banquet, said he had brought honor to the Black family, said those families now all knew the Black family had an heir with limitless prospects.
Regulus's fingers drew a smiling face on the cold glass.
He actually understood Walburga. Or rather, he understood people like her.
What she wanted had never been for her son to live happily and comfortably. What she wanted was for her son to become the medal she could show off most proudly in social circles.
Family glory was the faith she lived by, and her children were the offerings she presented to that faith. The more dazzling the offering, the higher her standing before that faith.
But a mother like that was not difficult to deal with. Listen to whatever she said, and say whatever she wanted to hear.
The key was not how much truth there was in what he said, but whether his words could make her believe even more firmly that she had raised a son capable of bringing the Black family back to its peak, or even beyond it.
He only needed to give her enough material to boast about, and she would contentedly immerse