Black-Tinted Glasses

 When Regulus Black turned 3 years old, he was parading beside his older brother, cherub face glowing a deep red blush, hurrying to catch up to him. He could barely keep up on his chubby legs, restricted by the black, knee-length skirt his mother had sorted him into before they left for the Golden Ties annual charity event. The aforementioned woman was smiling coyly at a tall man with luscious, blond hair, holding out her empty wine glass expectantly, and the sharp edges to her face softened when she glanced at her children.

She began, “Mr. Malfoy–”

“–Pish, no need for that Mrs. Black,” he paused, stooping down to place a kiss on her knuckles. “Call me Abraxas.”

Maman grimaced. “If you would so do me such an honour, Abraxas, then refer to me as Walburga,” her clipped tone cleverly masked by appearing annoyed with Regulus’ pigtails. She welcomed him into her arms and hoisted him onto her hip, her other arm going to rest around her eldest’s shoulders. “Meet my son, Sirius Orion Black, the heir to Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, and my daughter, Rhea Cassiopeia Black.”

It was at this moment, that a deep shudder had run down Regulus’ back. Maman’s words didn’t quite sit right with him. ‘Daughter’... daughter meant he was girl, and he didn’t believe he was a girl. He didn’t feel like one. It felt wrong to be called her daughter. The term itself sent ice coursing down his veins, something unsettling set in the pits of his stomach, and his grip tightened around Walburga’s neck in search of warm comfort from the discouraging thoughts. He wasn’t sure what he was, but he was certain that he couldn’t be a girl.

His former rouge cheeks paled as he spoke up, “Maman. I am not your daughter.”

Walburga looked at him funny as he mumbled the words, the sharp edges returning to her face. She gave Abraxas Malfoy an apologetic smile, and scolded the young child in her arms. “Rhea, do not be silly.” She sighed, thinking of how to put it into simpler terms, “You are my girl child, meaning you are my daughter.”

Hearing the confirmation once again didn’t ease the tension. A war started to rage in the boy’s mind, one end agreeing with his mother because everything she said and did was right as his entrusted and loving guardian. The other argued he was not a girl, because he didn’t think he was, and what could possibly be more right than his own perception.

Regulus, the young child he was, couldn’t cope with the thoughts he could not easily understand, became angry and confused and started to cry.

 When Regulus was 7 years old, he and his older brother had just been allowed to leave the tea-table when Sirius was to go for his bi-weekly haircut. Following the light meal, Regulus ran up the winding stairs of the manor, eager to see himself in the mirror once his plan was set in motion.

The entire time Sirius was away, Regulus was locked away in the bathroom staring at his reflection. His long hair which previously had cascaded down his back in soft, noir coils, lay on the marbled floor.

Regulus preened at the new look of himself, dishevelled and unprofessional as the cut may have been, the loss of the hair was instead a gain of confidence and love for himself.

He looked just like Sirius.

When Sirius walked into his room an hour later and stared at the pair of green scissors on the floor encompassed by a cluster of hair, Regulus took note of the panic on his face. The whitening of his cheeks, the tightening of his fists stiffly hanging by his side, the pursing of his lips; and the spark that danced in Sirius’ eye dimmed and didn’t return when Sirius finally looked at him. Sirius’ grey eyes (oh, so similar to his) always looked at Regulus with a fondness anyone could say was that of a brother who adores his younger sibling. And yet the first time when Regulus tried to appear in a manner he felt expressed himself best, the older brother he looked up to didn’t even seem to know who he was.

Walburga was not happy to find out that her dearest and youngest son now resembled the elder, looking far different from the vision she had set for him. Nothing could be done however about the lost hair, and as a punishment she deemed just she whipped him, each lash representing each inch of hair cut from his head. Each lash engraving in his mind thoughts of how he wasn’t meant to do this.

And why question the judgement of his dearest Maman who worked to provide him with everything?

Why disappoint his brother by trying to mimic him, only to end up creeping out Regulus’ idol, and the person he attempted to look like in the first place?

Regulus couldn't understand even then, the reason for his thoughts and he brushed them off as he always did whenever he looked in the mirror and narrowed eyes hooked onto the frill of the pastel dress he wore, in favour of adhering to the obedience expected from his parents.

 When Regulus was 9, he was in the study with Sirius, a tutor whose name he can’t remember stood by the board droning on about the history of the Most Noble House of Black, his mother burst (as well as she could have) into the room. Her silver eyes sought him out and excused him from the lesson, leaving a disgruntled Sirius enviously peering at their exit.

Walburga rarely smiled, and when she did do so, it was rarely ever warm or genuine, always appearing strained and forced, except for when she looked at her children. She looked at her children lovingly so, and Sirius and Regulus (mostly Regulus) were always on the receiving end of the toothy smile when respect and compliance were displayed. Her silver eyes would stay sharp, as if eager to consume every delectable moment she had with her children, and her face was always stiff.

Yet here she stood, positively beaming and brimming with excitement.

In her hand was a letter addressed to him. The stamp read: Slytherin Agency For Young Models and Agents.

“Maman, have I been accepted into the agency?” Regulus asked, aware of her previous ambition for him to be accepted and pursue a career in the fashion industry.

“Yes, Rhea, you have.” Walburga shifted slightly, moving closer to place a hard hand on his shoulder. A hand he only felt during punishment. “You have made me so proud.”

“Merci, Maman,” Regulus bit his lip. “When do I start?”

“The school year you turn eleven.”

 When Regulus Black was ten years old, two months away from attending the Agency, the boy was frail and pale, his arms as skinny as a broom handle and his baby fat already wearing out to make way for the jagged edges of his face, reminiscent of his mother’s. He could hardly go twenty minutes after eating without wasting it all away with a simple flush and mouthwash to make the vile taste disappear.

He wasn’t sure why all of this was so, simply that his mother needed him to be this way. It didn’t matter if he felt weak and hungry all the time, because a Black is never weak and never gives into temptation. He had to look his best, because a Black had to look regal and commanding. He strived to be the epitome of his mother’s affection, and to do that he needed to be the picture of perfection that Maman had painted out for him; high cheekbones, thin lips and a slim waist. Fat wasn’t useful anyhow, and Blacks do not waste their time on things that do not matter.

Blacks do NOT waste their time on frivolous issues, on superfluous figures, and most certainly, not on anything that can tarnish their reputation.

Maman would be proud of who he was set to be, and when he started attending that Agency, he would not stick a single hair out of place, for a Black is always perfect.

Toujours parfait.