Title: Bloodline

Warnings: Manipulative Dumbledore, some changes to the timeline regarding dates and ages of periphery characters, frequent swearing/smoking/drinking/mentions of sex and/or sexual relationships (no slash)

Genre: General/Friendship/Drama

Main Characters: OC/Miram Fawcett, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Harry Potter

Summary: Walburga's dying wish was to find out what happened to her favorite son, and so she sends her illegitimate granddaughter to the only living relative who might know what became of him. Reaching dead end after dead end, Miram is determined to find her father, even if it means walking right into the hands of Voldemort himself. Meanwhile, after the incident in the Chamber of Secrets, Dumbledore takes a more proactive approach to prevent Lord Voldemort's return by enlisting the help of an absent ex-convict and a werewolf. Miram's journey for the truth drives the Order deep into the heart of Voldemort's most precious secret, which has become inexplicably tied with Regulus Black's fate.

Author's Note: This story is told from the point of view of my own character Miram Fawcett, Sirius Black, and occasionally of Harry Potter. The story opens in the summer of 1993. As I listed under the warnings section, some minor details have been changed in this fanfic, including the ages of minor/secondary characters and the death dates of specific Black family members. Dumbledore is also written with a more proactive, manipulative nature to coincide with his mission to eradicate Dark Magic. Sirius and Remus's friendship is very broken in this story, as I've always thought that the amount of damage and mistrust they endured ought to have a bigger impact; they will, of course, become friends again-they just have to work for it. Sirius himself deals with a very sensationalized reputation, mostly at the fault of the powerful influence of the media. Finally, I've written this story about teenagers so the characters will reflect that; Miram's POV will be immature at times, and there will be frequent mention of smoking/drinking/sex/potions that act like drugs, though it will never exceed the T rating.

Chapter one:

The air was oppressively thick and dulled Miram's senses with each breath. The cheap air conditioner on the Greyhound bus rattled away pathetically, and Miram felt unpleasantly gummy in her clothing. Any time she adjusted her position, she had to unstick herself from the bus seat and resist the urge to yank out her wand and attempt a Cooling Charm. She knew to expect the heat and so had worn the absolute minimum amount of clothing she felt comfortable in, but even her own skin felt too thick on her bones. The muggles on the bus all had the same dazed, sleepy expression and matching sleeveless tops with various patterns and cartoon prints. Miram spent the first several hours watching them come and go, entertaining themselves with paperback novels and newspapers. Whenever the oversized bus pulled over at a new stop, a few shuffled off gratefully and were replaced by another sun-tanned face in sunglasses.

Miram turned to look out the dirty window to watch the scenery flash past—always the same low hills and scattered Longleaf Pine. They passed towns with names like Tuskegee and Tallassee, and the constant postings for food (Waffle House), petrol (Lover's) and the occasional religious threat ("Go to church or the Devil will get you!"). As the bus drove further and further south, a few palm trees began to creep out from the constant wall of pine. By the time the bus finally reached Mobile, Alabama at four in the afternoon, the overbright sky was dulled by a thin veil of clouds and a mild, hot breeze gave relief from the oppressive humidity. Miram stepped off the bus carefully, holding her overstuffed duffle bag in front of her like a shield. She could feel her wand inside, and had to resist the urge to pull it out for safety.

This part of town was a good fifteen minutes from the scenic downtown waterfront and looked oddly barren in comparison. Telephone wires ran criss-cross in every direction, and even the buildings looked squat and deflated. What was truly alarming was just how wide everything seemed. Few cars dotted the cracked Government Road, but there were still two lanes to each side and the road appeared endless. Miram wiped her brow with the back of her arm and hoisted her bag further up her shoulder before entering the bus station. It was easily thirty degrees cooler inside, and the blast of air conditioning made Miram's sweat dry on her skin instantly.

She stepped around the various muggles and their bags, heading for the far side for a pay-telephone. She had a pocket full of American muggle currency, which felt light and tiny compared to the heavy Galleons and Sickles she was used to. A well-worn directory sat on a shelf beneath the phone, and Miram skimmed through the sections on dentists and exterminators before finding a number for a local taxi. She counted out her coins carefully, making sure she stuck the right ones into the phone before dialing the long trail of numbers. She held the receiver to her head hesitantly. "Er, yes, hello," she said when the other line picked up. "I need a cab, please."

"What's your current address, ma'am?" came the slow, sleepy drawl on the opposite line. Miram suddenly felt conscious of her own foreign accent, which sounded clipped and sharp and entirely out of place compared to the smooth, drawn-out syllables of the taxi dispatcher.

"I'm, er, at the Greyhound on…Government Road?" she said, phrasing the last part like a question. She couldn't help but look over her shoulder as she spoke, as though some nosey American muggle was eavesdropping and could confirm the bus station's location.

"Ma'am, are there no more cabs outside?"

"Huh?"

"Outside the station, ma'am, when you first got there."

Miram peered across the mostly-empty station and through the enormous front windows. Outside sat a few stationary cars, but no distinct black cab. "Er, what do they look like?" she asked, squinting as she attempted to read the writing on the side of the yellow one.

"Well, they're awful bright, hard to miss," came the woman's voice. Miram imagined her rolling her eyes at the ignorant foreigner.

"Yellow?"

"Yessum." A contraction of what Miram took to be "yes, ma'am."

"Right—er, okay, well thanks for your help," Miram rushed to say before slamming down the phone. She scooped up her bag and turned on her heel for the front door again. Walking outside was like walking into the sun, and the temperature change hit Miram like a fist. She wiped the damp hair from her eyes and apprehensively approached the nearest yellow car. The driver rolled down the passenger side window and peered out at her.

"You goin' somewhere?"

"Yes," said Miram, bending low so she could see the cab driver's face. He was very dark-skinned, with a crop of short hair and a wide, calm face. "Er, here," she said, fidgeting around for a piece of parchment in her pocket. In her grandmother's delicate scrawl was the address she had carried for almost ten years. "I'm looking for Bromley Road in…Blakely?"

"Toward Blakely, you say? Well, sure, miss, I can get you there, no trouble."

Miram smiled in relief. "Great," she said, opening the back door and throwing her bag in before climbing in herself.

The cab driver turned one of the air conditioning vents toward Miram before peeling out of the sun-dried parking lot and heading back on the highway toward the downtown area. There were low bridges everywhere, traveling for enormous lengths over the bay waters. Miram stared out the window at the scenery flashing past. Scattered islands covered in longleaf pine were surrounded by sparkling water, and the roads weaved in between seamlessly. The highway turned back onto mainland, and the cab driver quickly took them onto seldom-used roads that mirrored the narrow lanes she was accustomed to at home. Low forest surrounded them on both sides, deep green, grey and gold.

"Whereabouts on Bromley Road, ma'am?" the cab driver asked after several silent minutes.

Miram looked at the parchment she was still clutching in her fist. It was soft from the humidity, and Miram had to be careful not to tear it. "House number's twenty-two, nineteen. Bromley Road."

The cab driver turned a sharp right and they went deeper into the forest. Webs of Spanish moss hung from the trees, and in some places, almost took over. The road was narrower, winding tightly through turns. There were no painted lane markers anymore, and all the side streets were hidden and unmarked, like the town had given up naming anything this far out. The cab slowed to a crawl before stopping alongside a weather-worn blue mailbox that sat crooked in its post. Glued to the rusty side were the faded numbers "2219."

"Visiting family?" the cab driver asked kindly, turning the car into park.

"Something like that," Miram responded.

"Well, he's about the only man I know in all of Mobile County with an accent to match yours. We don't get outsiders down here much, and especially not from overseas. Whereabouts you from?"

"London," Miram replied truthfully, collecting her duffle bag. Her heart was beating rapidly against her chest as adrenaline flooded her veins. She had methodically planned out every step of her trip down here, from the muggle airfare to the bus schedule and the currency exchange—but when it came to knocking on Sirius Black's door, she had no idea what to do beyond winging it. She had always figured tracking down a man who didn't want to be found would be the hardest part; and while Black had certainly hidden his tracks well, breaking the ice seemed so much more intimidating.

"London!" the cab driver exclaimed. "Now there's a place I ain't never been to! Shoot, I ain't never travelled further north than Georgia. God's honest truth. What's it like in London?"

Miram pulled her bag over her shoulder and thought for a moment. "Cold and grey, at least compared to here. And big. Lots of people."

The cab driver had a bemused expression on his face. Chuckling, he added, "You a brave soul to be travelling so far on your own, missy. Now, you get on in to your destination and have yourself a rest."

"Thank you," Miram said gratefully, almost overwhelmed by the man's open kindness. No one was so warm or forward in London, and especially not with strangers. The cab peeled away slowly, gravel crunching underneath the tires. Miram watched it drive away before taking a deep breath of humid air and stepping forward.

An enormous oak tree stood at the foot of the drive, ribbons of Spanish moss over a meter long hanging from its thick, twisted branches. The grass was overgrown but free of too many weeds, and surrounding the property was a protective wall of oaks and pines. There was a loud buzzing in the air, almost obnoxiously so. Miram wiped her brow with the back of her arm and looked up at the house, which was propped up on ten-foot poles. An enormous veranda wrapped around the house, and a wide, almost crooked set of stairs led to the hard, dusty ground beneath. Standing at the top of the stairs, waiting, was Black.

"Can I help you?" came a guarded voice, the elegant received pronunciation inflected with the faintest southern drawl.

Miram froze, suddenly not ready to face Black. But he was standing on his porch, bare arms crossed and a small knit between his grey eyes—the same eyes Miram inherited, a recessive vestige of Walburga's blood.

"Er, yes," she said breathlessly, wiping her brow again and adjusting the weight of her bag on her shoulder. She could feel beads of sweat dripping down her spine and tried to ignore how unpleasant it felt. "My name is Miram Fawcett, and I believe I've been looking for you."

Black's grey eyes narrowed, and he seemed to become as still as a statue. For a long moment Miram was sure he wasn't going to speak at all, but then he said in clipped, irritated tones, "My house is Unplottable, which means you would not have been able to actively search for it unless you already knew where to look. And considering the location of my home is known to only very, very few wizards, I wonder how you managed to come all the way here alone at all."

Miram stood up straighter. "I am alone," she insisted. "I got the address from my Grandmother before she passed."

"I doubt that very much," Black said smoothly, irritation evident in his voice. "Your methods aside, I do not accept visitors. You can see yourself off my property immediately." He turned on his heel to leave, but Miram wasn't discouraged.

"I'm not leaving," she called out defiantly, taking a few brave steps forward. Black paused and turned to look at her over his shoulder. "I came all the way out here because I need your help."

Black rolled his eyes. "Then unfortunately it was a waste of your time. Now, if you don't leave—"

"I'm looking for my father!" Miram blurted.

Black's face was one of definite surprise, but he quickly schooled his features back into place. "Then you're more lost than you think," was the cool reply.

"Not you," Miram rushed to say. She waved her hand awkwardly into the open air, as though someone would jump out from behind the trees to explain. "Your brother…Regulus…he was my father."

Something unreadable flitted across Black's tanned face. Miram saw his tense shoulders slump a few inches, his body involuntarily turn toward her a few degrees. With a great effort, he collected himself back together and turned toward the door. "My brother has no children."

"That you know of!" Miram rushed to say, stepping forward until she was at the bottom of the warped wooden stairs. "He may not have even known about me, so why would anyone else?"

"Get off my property," Black called over his shoulder.

"You're the only one I can talk to! The rest of that family is dead or doesn't know anything! Look, Walburga gave me your address years ago, before she passed away—"

Black turned sharply on his heel and marched to the edge of the veranda. "Get off my property, or I will make you," he hissed, pointing toward the empty, narrow street. "Don't come here again."

"But-!"

A sudden force shoved Miram backwards, almost knocking her off her feet. She took several uncertain steps before she regained her balance, her bag dropping off her shoulder in the process. Alarmed, she looked back up at Black, who had turned on his heel and slammed the door shut. "Bloody fucking arsehole," Miram muttered under her breath, straightening up. "I'm not leaving until you talk to me!" she shouted to the silent house.

In the distance, a low grumbling rolled across the sky.

Miram threw her bag roughly onto the ground and sat down on top of it, crossing her arms defiantly. Within minutes the low breeze had picked up and the sky darkened to a deep greenish-grey. The air was warm and full of static, and Miram kept brushing locks of hair out of her face. It was obvious a storm was approaching quickly, but Black wouldn't dare make her sit outside all night.

Thick raindrops began to fall between the trees, and quickly picked up momentum until it was like being under a waterfall. Miram had never seen so much rain. Within seconds Miram's clothes were soaked through, and she could barely keep her eyes open against the rain. It was strangely warm, and while Miram had expected to freeze in the storm, it wasn't unlike being fully-dressed in a shower. She certainly wasn't in danger in this temperature, so maybe Black would, in fact, wait her out.

"Fuuuuuck," she moaned under her breath. She picked up her muddy bag from the puddles forming around her ankles and looked around for shelter. It was tempting to sit in the open where Black could see her, but a loud crack of thunder convinced her otherwise. Miram ducked her head against the onslaught of rain and darted for shelter underneath Black's house. She nestled into the seat of an old lawnmower, hanging her bag off the end. Miram wiped the rain from her face and looked around at the odds and ends Black had piled underneath his house. There was some more unfamiliar metal equipment and a stack of boards nestled under a bright blue plastic cover. A couple of forgotten hand tools, a roll of chicken wire, and a stack of cracked ceramic planter pots. Nothing out of the ordinary at any given muggle house, which was especially odd given Black's status as a wizard.

Miram's stomach began to growl and her head feel heavy. It was hard to estimate the time in the middle of the storm, but Miram knew sunset didn't fall until after eight. Her clothes and belongings were soaked, but it wasn't cold, and she could probably get away with sleeping in the seat of the lawnmower if she had to.

Overhead the lights suddenly came on, and Miram froze, wondering if Black was coming down the stairs. She waited, trying to listen for any sound over the rain beating against the surrounding trees, but there was nothing. Miram settled herself back into her curled up position and yawned. Time had passed, but it was impossible to differentiate between twenty minutes and a full hour when all Miram was doing was waiting.

"Grab your bag, get up!"

Miram's eyes shot open and she jumped, almost smacking the top of her head in the process. Black was standing in the flooded grass, black hair soaked and plastered to his head. His hands were on his hips, and his face was set in a permanent scowl.

Miram sat up hesitantly, unsure if Black was inviting her in or attempting to kick her out.

"I'm not standing out here all night!" Black yelled over a roar of thunder. Lightning flashed again, followed by more thunder. The storm was drawing closer and growing worse. Even if Miram didn't freeze, it looked like she might very well drown. She grabbed her bag and clumsily climbed off the lawnmower, following Black quickly through the torrential rain and to the front steps of the veranda. Her feet splattered in the deep puddle that threatened to form a lake and overtake most of the yard, and her feet felt slick and slimy in their sandals.

The porch lights were on, as well as the lamps inside the house, inviting Miram in.

Black shut the screen door behind them but left the main one open. He grabbed Miram's bag without a word and disappeared through a doorway across the room, leaving Miram to stand in the unfamiliar living room alone. It was cozy enough and clearly well lived-in by a man. The couches didn't match and there was no rhyme or reason to the organization of the furniture. A large knit blanket hung over the end of the nearest sofa, and there was a pile of tackling and fishing line sitting on the other. There was a great deal of artwork and books, but no apparent trend to either. The pictures were a mix of muggle photographs and mismatched paintings, and the books ranged from boating manuals and plant identification to novels and a few old Hogwarts textbooks shoved in a far corner.

Black returned a moment later, pulling a dry shirt over his shoulders. He was without the duffle bag, but he had a large, threadbare towel in his hands. Black handed it to Miram wordlessly, passing her to slip through a different doorway, which was wider and more inviting than the other. Miram hesitated before following, her sandals making an unpleasant squelching noise with each step.

The doorway led to a narrow dining room, which seemed to function as Black's oversized closet and storage room more than anything else. Beyond that was a kitchen, where Black was busying himself with a kettle and mugs. Miram took a seat at the small wooden table in the kitchen corner hesitantly, running the towel down the lengths of her dark hair, the same brownish-black as the man's in front of her.

Black had brushed his wet hair out of his eyes and kicked off his saturated sandals. Black handed Miram a mug of tea and took one for himself, but didn't sit across from her at the table. Instead Black stood distantly by the edge of the sink, tea on the counter next to him. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, blowing the smoke out the open window behind him. Outside the rain was beating loudly against the roof, but the noise was dulled in the safety of Black's house.

"Can I have one?" Miram asked without any real conviction, watching Black take a drag.

He ignored her. "How old are you?"

"Fourteen. How old are you?"

"Does your family know you're here?"

"Well, your family and my family are kind of the same," said Miram, maintaining eye contact. Now that she had a better look at Black, she could see that he was a very handsome man, and wondered if her father had looked the same. "And they're all dead."

"What about your mother?" he asked, unfazed.

"She's dead, too."

"So who takes care of you?"

"I do."

Black snorted at that. "Right. I'm sure you're very capable, but I know for a fact Dumbledore would not allow a student to live on their own at fourteen."

"How do you know I'm a witch?" Miram tested, taking a sip from her mug. "Maybe Dumbledore has no say over me."

"Are you telling me you're a Squib, then?" Black replied lightly. "I doubt my mother would have given you my address if you were."

Miram shrugged, setting her mug back down on the table. "All right then, yes. I am a witch."

Black took another drag off his cigarette, watching her with a scrutinizing expression. "Who is your mother?"

Miram clenched and unclenched her jaw before clearing her throat. She stared at the steam rising from her mug as she spoke. "Her name was Judat. Half English, half Jordanian. She was a Squib. Maybe that's why you never knew your pureblooded brother had a bastard child," she added, shooting a glance up at Black's silent face. "It's also why no one in the Black family will help me find my father. Walburga only agreed to give me your address because she was dying and—I don't know, maybe she got less bigoted in the end. Still wouldn't accept me as her blood, though."

"Regulus is dead," Black replied bluntly. "He's been dead for as long as you've been alive."

Miram turned her gaze back to the table in front of her. "I know everyone says that. But loads of people went missing during the war—it doesn't mean he's dead—"

"Yes it does," said Black sharply. "I assure you, he died a long time ago."

"Did they ever find his body?" Miram challenged. "Or any evidence that says he's actually dead, rather than just missing?"

Black sighed, taking another long inhale off his cigarette. He was silent for a long moment, staring at nothing in particular. Miram watched him carefully, taking in his appearance and wondering how much he might resemble her father. Black was tall, taller than Miram had anticipated, and rather lean. His skin was browned from the sun, but he had the look of having once been very fair. His wet dark hair was pushed out of his eyes messily, eyes which had the peculiar look of belonging to someone much older than he was. Black flicked his ash into the sink, then said, "So you think he's alive—how do I play into this scenario?"

Miram adjusted in her seat. "I need you to help me find him."

Black actually let out a humorless laugh at that.

"Don't you want to know what happened to your bother?" Miram challenged, angry. "He's your family!"

"He's dead," Black replied bluntly, setting his tea mug down loudly. "I know you want to grab on to this fantasy where he's just living abroad with amnesia, but you need to get it through your head—he's dead. That's it. No great mystery, no case of mistaken identity. That's the end of it. People die in wars all the time, and he was one of them."

Miram could feel angry tears welling up in the back of her eyes, but she refused to let them drop. "How can you be so cruel?" she demanded. "To just give up on your loved ones and accept that the worst happened to them?"

Black flicked his cigarette out the window before lighting another one. He took a long drag then fixed Miram with a stern look. "I've known plenty of people who died—some I wish who hadn't, and others whose places I would trade in a heartbeat if I could... But there's no point thinking about the what-ifs. Death is the only guarantee, and you'll make yourself mad trying to come up with exceptions."

Miram bit her lower lip, staring at nothing in particular—at anything but at Black.

Black sighed unhappily, casting a dark look around his own kitchen. "You can stay here tonight," he finally said, rubbing a hand over tired eyes. "I'll take you to the airport tomorrow."

Miram balked at that. "I'm not going back to London—"

"I don't much care where you decide to go, but you're not staying here," Black replied. "I'll grab some blankets and dry clothes for you to wear tonight. Help yourself to whatever's in the kitchen, but mind you stay away from the alcohol."

"You're just kicking me out?" Miram demanded, turning in her seat to watch Black exit the kitchen. She knew that Black was a total stranger, but he was technically her uncle, and Miram had hoped curiosity alone was enough to persuade him.

"Yes, because you're not my responsibility," Black replied evenly from somewhere that sounded far off. Miram heard footsteps ascending a flight of stairs and listened as Black searched for something upstairs. Several silent minutes passed before Black returned. He set a pillow and some sheets on the cleanest of the two couches, setting a pair of faded sweatpants and an old t-shirt on top. "Bathroom's down the hall," Black added without looking at Miram. "There's a linen closet there."

"Just give me one week," Miram pleaded. "And then I'll leave and never bother you again."

Black groaned, looking genuinely pained by her persistence. "I can't help you!" he said impatiently. "I've already told you—"

"I can look for him on my own," Miram interrupted. "But I need a place to start. All I know from my mother was my father's name, which led me to Walburga before she died, and she led me to you. If you don't help me, that's the end of it for me!"

Black fixed Miram with a pointed look. "Goodnight."

Miram groaned loudly as she heard Black ascend the stairs. A door shut somewhere in the house, leaving Miram alone with her thoughts and the sound of the storm raging outside. She would have to offer something to Black to get him to talk, but she didn't know what the man could possibly want. She didn't have much money, but perhaps Black would be willing to accept a different kind of currency… Miram sighed, getting up from her place at the table and walking toward her makeshift bed. She ran her fingers over the clothes Black had set out for her before holding them up to examine. The sweatpants would be far too long, but the t-shirt ought to fit well enough. Black was very tall, but he was also rather slim, while Miram had inherited her mother's softer physique.

Miram took the clothes and searched the first floor for a bathroom, examing Black's possessions as she went. There was a decent amount of clutter and projects in varying stages of completion, but there was also a distinct lack of photographs or any sign that Black had friends or family at all. Miram was beginning to wonder if Black lived the life of a hermit; he was certainly anti-social enough.

The bathroom was unusually large relative to the small size of the house, with an old claw-footed tub on one side and a linen closet and deep sink on the other. Miram found two old toothbrushes and some boring toiletries in the cabinet, and towels of various colors and textures in the linen closet. There really wasn't anything personal lying around, which Miram had hoped to use to gauge Black's character. The toilet paper was a decent thickness, and the rugs on the floor were worn thin, but clean. Inside the tub was a half-empty bottle of shampoo and generic white bar soap. Nothing stood out at all. It was all predictable and bland.

Miram struggled with the tap before giving up and pointing her wand at it. The pipes sputtered into life and the bathroom quickly filled with steam. Miram helped herself to Black's shampoo but felt weird using his soap. With a shower out of the way and no clever ideas on hand to get Black to talk, Miram returned to the makeshift bed in the silent living room. She laid out the sheets and pulled the nearby wool blanket over herself and stared up at the dark ceiling.

Miram squinted against the harsh morning light, surprised she had managed to fall asleep at all after tossing and turning most of the night. She could hear Black moving around in the kitchen, the smell of coffee sharpening her senses. Miram sat up stiffly, hastily combing her fingers through her messy hair—unbelievably still damp—before joining her wayward uncle in the kitchen.

"Coffee?" Black offered neutrally, barely looking at her.

"Er, sure," said Miram, setting herself down in the same seat as the night before. Black filled a second mug and set it down in front of her alongside a carton of half and half. Miram glanced around for some sugar, but saw none. She didn't feel comfortable asking Black for anything more when she was already struggling to get information out of him, so she drank the bitter coffee without it. "I was thinking," she said bravely. Black's gaze flitted toward her suspiciously before he settled himself against the sink again. "of a trade. Let me stay here for just a day or two—tell me about my father. And in return…I'll give you whatever you want." She ended this last part of her sentence carefully, her voice light and suggestive.

"I don't want anything from you," said Black dismissively. Then he quickly added, "Except for you to go back to England. And that rather defeats the purpose of your trade."

"How about something else?" Miram asked, pulling her hair over her shoulder so that nothing obscured her front. She bit back the disgust she felt at the idea of trading herself for information, but if it got Black talking, then so be it.

Black took a long sip of coffee, dark brows knitted together. "Sorry?"

Miram sighed in exasperation. "Myself—you can do whatever you want—"

Black choked on his coffee, shooting Miram a stunned look before setting his mug on the counter and drying off his hands. "You're fourteen!" he said, sounding disgusted. He ran his hands over his tired face, shaking his head.

"What else could you want?" Miram demanded, her chest deflating. "Money? Indentured servitude?"

"I don't want anything other than for you to go away and never tell anyone where I live," said Black roughly.

Miram wasn't deterred. "How about I promise not to tell anyone where you are if you give me the information I need?"

Black gave her an exasperated look, planting his hands on his hips. "You're blackmailing me?"

Miram shrugged.

"If that's the case, then I'll obliviate your memory and put you on a plane myself."

"Why are you being such a jerk?" Miram demanded, flustered. "Would it really kill you to help me out? We're technically family, you know."

"The Blacks aren't my family," said Black dismissively. "And you're better off not having them as yours, either."

"So I should just settle for having no family at all, because you said so?"

"Look," said Black in tones of forced calm. He had moved so he was gripping the back of the empty chair and could face Miram directly. "I really am sorry to hear about you losing your mother, but you're asking me to send you on a wild hippogriff chase. What happens when you get proof that my brother is dead?" he asked, not unkindly. "Do you have any idea what it's like?" He sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Nevermind…the point is, you're a child and I'm not going to help you build up this false hope. My brother is dead, and has been for nearly fourteen years. The sooner you accept it, the sooner you can move on with your life."

Miram swallowed a lump that had formed in her throat. "My mum always said I looked like him," she said quietly. "But that's all I've got of him. If he really is dead like you say…well, it won't be the first time a parent's died. I can live with it."

Black sighed heavily, hanging his head and staring at the floor.

"I can repay you," Miram continued quickly, hoping she was finally wearing Black down. "I mean, aren't you curious about what's been going on back home? Like your old friends or family? We could…trade information. I could find out practically anything you wanted, and report back, and no one would know."

"I don't care what they're doing," Black told the floor.

"Not any of them?" Miram countered. "I'm pretty sure you're the heir to all the Black money, and it's just sitting there—"

"I don't care."

"Your friends?"

Black gave a cold, humorless chuckle. "My friends watched me sit in Azkaban for three years," he said, fixing Miram with a dark look before straightening up and collecting his coffee mug from the counter.

Miram wracked her brain for other angles. Black seemed intent on fighting her every step of the way. If Miram was going to get what she needed, then she would have to play dirty. "What about Harry Potter?"

Black froze.

"You were friends with the Potter family," she continued carefully, staring at Black's rigid back. "I did some research on you before I came out here," she added by way of explanation. "And I read all about the Potters, and how their son survived. We go to school together… maybe you want to know about him?"

Black re-filled his coffee without turning to her and swept silently from the room. Miram sat stock still, but followed Black with her peripheral vision. She heard the front screen door open and close loudly.

Miram let out a long, shaky breath. Her heart was beating furiously against her chest. It was cruel to bring up Harry Potter like she had done, but if it prevented Miram from returning to London empty-handed, then so be it. She drank her coffee in silence, waiting for Black to return, but he never did. Miram leaned over in her seat, peering through the living room toward the front door. She could see just the edge of Black's shoulder in the doorway.

Miram hesitated before getting to her feet. She refilled her coffee cup, but took care to search silently through Black's cabinets until she found the sugar. She stepped quietly through the living room, stepping lightly as though there was a dying person in the house. She pushed the screen door open tentatively, but Black didn't turn around. He was sitting on the edge of the veranda, coffee and cigarette in one hand and his forehead resting in the palm of the other.

Miram sat down close by, but careful to keep a good two or three foot space between the two of them. She took a sip of her coffee, almost stunned by how quickly the morning heat hit her now that she was out of the safety of the air-conditioned house. The loud buzzing from the previous day was back, a sort of electrical current running through the humid air.

"I'm sorry if…I offended you," she said awkwardly, squinting out across Black's property. Longleaf pine and oaks seemed to stretch for miles, but she knew it wasn't too far until the land turned to bayou. "But I'm very serious about what I want, and I'm serious about making it even, if that's what you want. It's just…" she hesitated, unsure of how to explain herself without sounding too mushy or else too cold. "If I were you, I would be curious. So that's why I laid it out on the table."

"I haven't seen Harry since the night his parents died," Black said quietly. His head was still in the palm of his hand, and he was staring at a katydid walking around on one of the porch steps. "I'm not allowed to. There's an order of protection against me."

Miram's brows knit together as her frown deepened. "Why?" she asked bluntly, unable to imagine a reason.

Black remained still, but turned his gaze up to her. "Just because you're innocent of a crime, it doesn't mean it ever leaves you. The wizarding world still thinks I'm guilty, and that's the part that matters."

"But they released you from Azkaban," Miram said, still frowning. "I don't get—"

"They released me on a technicality, and because my family are all judges and politicians," said Black, straightening up and taking a hit off his cigarette before stubbing it out. He blew out a trail of smoke, then added, "Besides, I'm still a murderer."

Miram felt her body stiffen, and her hair stood up on end on the back of her neck in spite of the heat.

Black looked over at her, sensing the shift in her mood. "Surely you read about that in your research?"

"Then it's true?" she asked carefully. "Pettigrew?"

Black fixed her with a level gaze. He had the same dark, wavy hair and pale grey eyes. His skin was tanned from years in the sun, but there were still haunted shadows lining his handsome face. It unnerved Miram how much she looked like him. "Yes, it is," he said calmly before turning back to look over the expanse of forest in front of them. There was something guarded about his features, but Miram couldn't explain it with the casual way he spoke.

"Do you still want my help, now? Knowing what I am?" he asked after a few minutes.

"It doesn't change anything," said Miram determinedly.

"It doesn't?" Black asked evenly, turning to look at her. "You're staying in the house of a killer. Don't you want to know why I did it?"

Miram returned Black's level gaze, determined not to let uncertainty show on her face. "No offense, but I came here to learn about my father, not you."

Black let out a low chuckle at that, taking a sip of coffee. "Fair point."

"So does that mean you'll help me?" Miram asked eagerly.

Black seemed to think about it for several minutes, occasionally sipping his coffee. Beads of sweat were forming on Miram's skin, and her borrowed sweatpants were growing far too warm for comfort. But she would wait it all out in exchange for Black's answer.

"I'll give you two days," he finally said. "And I will only answer the questions that I want to. If you're going to try to search for a missing person, then I can't help you."

"I just want to know what he was like," Miram rushed to say, excitement flooding her veins.

"In exchange, you have to answer a few questions of mine," Black continued, standing up. "Go get dressed. Your bag's in the laundry room down the hall."

Miram turned to watch him head inside. "Where are we going?" she asked, frowning.

"I don't do business at home," he said, opening the screen door. "Be ready in ten minutes."

Miram scrambled to her feet, rushing past Black in his own house toward the laundry room. Her previously soaked duffle bag and its contents were inside the dryer. She yanked out the first t-shirt and pair of shorts she could get her hands on, slamming the dryer door shut and changing her clothes on the spot. She snatched up her shoulder bag that Black had set aside, rummaging inside for her notebook and pens, testing them for functionality before rushing back into the living room to wait for Black.

"I'm ready," she announced, barely thirty seconds after they had been sitting on the porch together.