Dear Harry,

Before you ask, I'm still safe, healthy, and happy. Happier than I ever was with Vermin and Mrs. Horse Lady – not that that's much of a contest, of course.

And no, I will not tell you where I am. Just trust me.

Did you get Ron's letter about the World Cup? It sounds exciting! I got one too, though I really can't tell you how his owl found me. I'll be leaving for the Burrow soon, so I'll see you there. Bring my things, will you?

Oh, and I'm sorry to hear about your "diet". Honestly, it's not like anything short of starvation is even going to make a dent in that baby whale you call a cousin. Did you like the food I sent? I-

A loud pop makes me startle, cursing softly as the quill in my hand twitched and sent ink everywhere.

I sigh and turn to face the source of the noise: an elderly, cross house-elf that went by Kreacher and hated my guts. "Yes?"

"Master would like to know if young Mistress is finished packing," the elf croaks. "He is waiting in the study when she is ready."

"Tell him I'll be there in a minute," I tell him. "I just need to do one last check. Thank you, Kreacher."

"Kreacher does not accept thanks from Mudblood-loving scum," he hisses before giving a shallow bow before disappearing with another pop.

I roll my eyes and turn back to the letter in front of me on my desk.

I made sure to make what you like. I hope the Dursleys aren't being complete monsters to you.

Love,

Ori

I finish my name with a flick of the quill, putting in away and picking up my wand, muttering a spell to vanish the ink smudges before rolling up the parchment and walking over to the window.

I approach my black-and-grey Spectacled Owl, Tyche, and hold out the scroll. "Can you deliver this to Harry, girl? And then fly to the Weasley's when you're done."

She gives me an indignant hoot, as if offended that I even had to ask, before allowing me to attach the letter to her leg and flying off into the late-afternoon sun.

I watch her go before turning back to my bedroom, the ornate silver ring on my right hand glinting in the light.

My name was Orissa Andromeda Black, heiress to The Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, along with a bunch of other titles I would seldom use. More importantly, Harry Potter – yes, the Boy-Who-Lived – was my best friend and godbrother, along with Ron and Hermione.

I was about to enter my fourth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, but that wasn't for a few more days. Until then, I lived at 12 Grimmauld Place, in London, with my father.

Who was a fugitive at the moment, but not really. It was a long story.

"Rissy!" A voice outside my door tears me out of my thoughts. "Come on, the Weasley's are expecting you!"

"Coming!" I call, taking one last look around the room.

The room itself had come a long way from two months ago, when I had moved in. Back then it had been a Pure-Blood supremacist's wet dream – Slytherin green walls, Voldemort shrine, huge family crest.

Now, though, it was really quite homely, with its cranberry red walls, with lighter cream accents and matching sheets. My bed was pushed into the corner farthest from the door, with a red and gold Gryffindor banner hanging proudly above the headboard.

Across from the bed, there was a desk with a few drawers and pictures pinned to a board hanging above it: pictures of me and Harry, the Gryffindor Quidditch team, me and Fred and George, and me and Dad.

The room also had a small but very comfy loveseat, with velvety cushions in cream; a wardrobe, on top of which rested an owl perch and a stuffed dog.

All in all, I muse as I grab my coat and wand, I'd really made it my own in the past two months. The previous inhabitant wouldn't even recognize it.

I step out of the room, shutting the door behind me.

"Finally," a voice sighs behind me. "The Weasley's are expecting you soon. What got you distracted?"

"Sorry, Dad," I apologize, turning to face him. "I was just thinking about my room."

"It's the pinnacle of my designing experience," my dad, Sirius Black, jokes, ruffling my hair before ushering me down the stairs and into the bedroom on the right.

This was unofficially the master bedroom and where Dad slept, even though the actual master bedroom was next door and contained a wanted hippogriff that I had become quite friendly with since the beginning of the summer.

The main reason I was in here, however, was the fireplace. I didn't have my own – apparently, Dad didn't trust me with fire, and I didn't blame him – but Floo travel was really the only way to get to the Burrow, since Dad couldn't come, with him being on the run and all, and I couldn't Apparate.

"Are you sure you can't come?" I ask my father sadly. "Not even as Padfoot?"

He shakes his head, his dove gray eyes – identical to my own – softening. "A big black dog that looks just like the Grim would attract too much attention among wizards. I'm sorry, pup."

I sigh, but nod – part of living with a wanted man meant getting groceries by owl order, not disclosing my location at any time, and really never being seen in public.

An upside was that I could do all the magic I wanted, despite what Hogwarts said, because of the heavy wards surrounding the property, but that was irrelevant at the moment.

"Hey," Dad calls, tapping my chin until I look up at him. "You'll be alright. It's only one week until school starts, and then you'll have Quidditch and pranks and classes to focus on. I'll try to write, okay?"

"Alright," I agree.

"Now give me a smile."

I comply, giving him my usual bright and vaguely mischievous grin.

"That's my girl." Dad pulls me into a quick hug before nudging me towards the fireplace. "In you get."

I step into the fireplace, grabbing a pinch of Floo Powder and giving him a little wave before throwing the powder down and shouting, "The Burrow!"

The world disappears in a dizzying flash of green, only to reappear a few moments later. I stumble a few feet forward, coughing on soot as I flail wildly.

An arm loops around my waist, and a hand grabs the back of my shirt. "Easy there, Orissa. Don't want to hack up a lung, do you?"

I finally regain my breath and straighten up, finding the voice to belong to Arthur Weasley. "Thanks, Mr. Weasley. I could never get the hang of Floo."

"It's a bit of an acquired taste," the Weasley patriarch agrees. "Here, let me get you cleaned up."

I hold still as he cleans up the soot staining my sweater and jeans and skin, the cleaning leaving my ring gleaming.

Mr. Weasley freezes when he sees it, his face quickly paling. "Orissa-"

Whatever he was about to say was interrupted by Mrs. Weasley, entering the living room from the kitchen. "Arthur, dear, did you hear the Floo – oh, Orissa, dear!"

I gratefully accept one of her bone-crushing hugs, putting Mr. Weasley's odd behavior out of my mind. "Hello, Mrs. Weasley. Good to see you again."

"Oh, you too, dear! Tell me, how have you been? I haven't heard from you in a while. Ron told me about you and Black last year – you poor thing, it must be awful having him hanging over your head."

Oh, if only you knew, I think. "I'm alright, really. I've had time to get used to it," I tell her, and that was only a half-lie – I'd had time to get used to the 'father' part, not the 'mass-murderer' part.

"That's good, dear." She smiles at me. "Now, the boys and Ginny are in their rooms, if you want to go visit. Arthur, Fred, and George are going to be picking Harry up in a little while, and dinner will be after he's arrived."

"Alright," I nod, thanking her again before jogging up the stairs, going two flights up and knocking on the twins' door, smirking at the scorch marks marring the wood.

A muffled, but no doubt synchronized, shout of "Coming!" sounds just before twin pokes his head around the door – Fred, judging by the slightly darker stripe of freckles on his nose. "Blackie!"

"Don't call me that, Fred," I sigh exasperatedly, but with no real malice to back up the words.

"I'm not Fred, I'm George!" he protests. He pushes open the door the rest of the way and points at his brother, who had looked up from a piece of parchment at the commotion. "He's Fred! Honestly, you call yourself our friend."

"I'm not falling for that," I laugh. "It got old years ago, didn't you hear?"

"Bummer, that," George – his freckles were lighter and more scattered – sighs. "We must've missed the news." He rolls up whatever he was looking at and stashes it in his desk, turning to face the center of the room.

The twins' room was a mirror image of itself: two identical twin beds, one against each wall. Two identical writing desks, cluttered with prank ideas and letters alike, pushed to face opposite walls. Two old dressers shoved into the lower left and right corners of the room.

The floor space was a mess, as was typical of a room shared by two teenage boys. Various pranking materials were laying about, on the floor and the beds alike. There was even a cauldron wedged in a corner, with vials of various ingredients on a shelf nearby.

The center of the room was left open, and that was where the twins gathered now. "C'mere, Blackie."

I make my way over to them. "What's the latest and greatest?"

"This." Fred brandishes a small bag, shaking two small objects out onto his palm. "Take a look."

I lean forward slightly, peering at his palm. He's holding two sweets that look a bit like lavender taffy wrapped in wax paper.

But I've known the twins long enough to know things are never what they seem.

"What are they?" I ask, half curious and half suspicious.

"Ton-Tongue Toffees," George explains, offering me one. I take it, turning it over in my hands as he presents the idea. "When the victim chews, their tongue grows until...well, we haven't set an outer limit yet, but the effects can be reversed by a spell. Thoughts?"

I lean against the nearest bedpost, rolling the sleeves of my sweater up. "It sounds amazing, but have you tested it yet?"

Fred and George share an unreadable look. "Not yet. But we will. Say, isn't Harry's cousin on a diet?"

I smile – a toothy, slightly dark grin that guaranteed trouble. "Yes, but that's irrelevant, isn't it?"

"Of course," they chorus. "Now, can you look at-"

"-these trick wands?"

"We seem to have hit a stumbling point."

"Alright," I agree. "Just..." I trail off as thumping sounds outside their door, and I quickly recognize the sound of footsteps.

The door is flung open with a violent amount of force, and I spin to see Ron standing in the doorway. "Ori?"

"No, it's Dumbledore," I deadpan.

He rolls his eyes and walks up to me, trying to look nonchalant but failing to hide the concern in his eyes as he looks me up and down. "Where've you been, you prat?! You had Harry worried out of his mind."

I give him a small grin, holding up a hand to stall the twins' protest – anger was how Ron dealt with conflict. Maybe it wasn't the healthiest of methods, but I wasn't one to talk.

"Here and there," I say with a shrug, stuffing my hands in the pockets of my jeans. "Mostly there. I can't really say much more. But tell Harry I'm fine," I add with a significant glance at Ron, who suddenly looks a bit less concerned.

Harry, my foot.

He steps forward, almost as if to give me a hug, but then hesitates. He seems to backtrack and holds out a hand, but then hesitates again.

I roll my eyes, ending his suffering by giving him a quick hug. "I'd ruffle your hair, but I can't reach."

"It's not my fault you're still short."

"No, you're just freakishly tall," I quip. "Did you stop by just to say hi?"

"No, actually. Mum and Dad are looking for you…" he shrugs. "No clue why."

I grimace – adults wanting to "talk" never went well, and I quickly went over everything I could've done to incur the wrath of Molly Weasley, hearing the twins whisper to each other as they do the same.

Eventually I sigh. "Best get going, then." I nod at the twins, who had turned back to the Ton-Tongue Toffees. "Good luck."

With that, I leave their room, bounding down the stairs and into the kitchen, where I find Mr. and Mrs. Weasley seated at the table, along with another redhead that I didn't recognize. "Um, Ron said you wanted to see me?"

"Oh!" Mrs. Weasley looks up. "Yes, dear. Would you like some tea?"

"Er – sure," I answer, still cautious as I took a seat at the table. I watch the Weasley matriarch bustle around the kitchen for a moment before Mr. Weasley catches my attention.

"Orissa, this is William, my oldest son," he introduces. "William, this is Orissa…Orissa Black."

"I know," he nods, holding out a hand. "Heir Black."

I blink at the use of my formal title, which I hadn't honestly heard used yet. "Heiress, actually," I correct quietly, shaking his hand firmly. "Heir Weasley. Please, call me Orissa."

"Bill," he requests in turn.

I turn to Mr. Weasley as his wife sets out the tea. "You know, then."

"Your ring is a bit telling," he admits. "Plus, as I'm sure you know, House Weasley is an old family, if not a rich one."

I nod. I knew, alright. Most of my summer had been spent being tutored on what I needed to know to be a successful heiress, which included not only the history of my own family, but also twenty-seven others, as well as legal proceedings, as the Ancient Houses were part of the Wizengamot, or judicial body at the Ministry.

I dip my head respectfully. "Lord Weasley."

"No, none of that, now," he brushes me off. "We aren't in court, and I don't expect you to treat me any differently than you would have a few months ago. What I'm interested in is how you got the ring."

I stop, one hand in the process of reaching for my tea. "What do you mean?"

"The only way for a successor to be appointed is by the Head of House directly," he points out. "Which means that, at some point between June and now, you've been in contact with Black – Sirius, I mean."

I blink slowly, purposely stalling as I take a sip of my tea. "I don't really know what to tell you."

"Tell me you know where he is," he suggests.

I shrug – because, when you looked at it, I had no clue where Dad was at this exact moment. He could be anywhere in Grimmauld Place – which was a big house – or really anywhere in the world; yes, he was supposed to stay home, but I had inherited his distaste for rules.

And his fondness for loopholes, apparently.

"Really. No clue," I tell Mr. Weasley, adopting the most serious expression I could.

He saw right through it, though, and really, I should've seen this coming from the man that raised Fred and George. Anything he was about to say, however, was cut off by his son.

"No, leave it, Dad." He gives me an amused look. "She's just like the twins. You won't get anywhere."

Arthur looks at his eldest child, and they seem to have a silent conversation before the older Weasley sighs. "Very well. If you'll excuse me, I need to go collect the twins and pick up Harry. Bill, Orissa."

I wait until he's out of earshot before turning to Bill. "Thanks."

"No problem," he says with an easy smile. "I'd do the same if I were you. And you wouldn't give a straight answer if we asked all day."

"Guilty," I shrug, leaning back in the chair. "Did your dad say he was going to take the twins to Harry's?"

"Yes. Why?"

"No reason," I grin. "Just wondering."

"Uh-huh, and I'm the Queen," he snorts, but we're interrupted by a whoosh of air from the living room. "That'll be them now. I'll go tell Mum."

I wait for him to leave before letting out a sigh of relief – one of my secrets was safe… for now, at least.

Now I just had to explain myself to one Harry J. Potter.

This wasn't going to a fun conversation.