Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, nor do I own the Forgotten Realms Campaign Setting or Neverwinter Nights 2. Those belong to JK Rowling and the geniuses at Wizards of the Coast and Obsidian Entertainment, respectively.

Yet, Never, in Extremity

Incomprehensible

"Hope" is the thing with feathers –

That perches in the soul –

And sings the tune without the words –

And never stops – at all –

And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –

And sore must be the storm –

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm –

I've heard it in the chillest land –

And on the strangest Sea –

Yet, never, in Extremity,

It asked a crumb – of Me.

- Emily Dickinson

He didn't understand her at all.

What's in it for her? She was a Slytherin, wasn't she? So why on earth was she working with the Order, tending bar at a dive like the Hog's Head? She could've been adorning some rich Pureblood Death Eater's arm by now.

Sirius Black tugged at his long hair and huffed a little, his gaze never wavering from the younger McGonagall even while the Headmaster was speaking. She met his eyes, quirking one dark brow in silent challenge even as she looked down her nose at him – a trick that she had to have picked up from Narcissa.

Then Dumbledore called on her, stepped aside to let her speak. Where did she find all of her information? It'd always been accurate, but who was her source? His cousin? Merlin knew Narcissa's bastard husband was up high enough in the Death Eaters' organization. And she wasn't her own source - no mark on her arm, no charms to disguise it, either. Dumbledore had said that with the sort of tone that said the subject was over, done with, Avada Kedavra-ed and six feet under.

So who was it?

He'd asked Elyssia that once, after a meeting. Grabbed her elbow and tugged her into one of the alcoves and practically demanded to know who she was getting her information from.

"I work at the Hog's Head," she'd said slowly, almost as though she were speaking to a particularly thick five-year-old. "It's not exactly an exclusive clientele." She followed that with a slight movement of her hands to indicate her face and body – and Sirius would admit that he'd taken a good long look, she was bloody gorgeous, after all – and a quirked eyebrow that seemed to yell, "Put two and two together, you idiot!"

…She'd definitely been hanging around Snape and Cissy-kins for too long.

But he had seen her unspoken point. If what she wore to meetings was the particular cut that she wore while working, one that was tasteful but still displayed her assets quite nicely, paired with her easy and flirtatious charm…she'd have men eating from the palm of her hand, most especially the Death Eaters - some of whom Sirius would put money on never having had a woman once in their pathetic lives.

"And with all due respect, Headmaster," she said now with a particularly withering look in the old man's direction, "may I suggest that the next time you decide to hold an interview in the Hog's Head you do it in one of the private rooms? Someone overheard you two."

The Headmaster seemed momentarily taken aback, but recovered quickly. "Your source?"

"You were lucky."

Albus nodded slightly, and both of them let the matter drop for now.

But now Sirius was curious. Lily was, too, from the look she turned at McGonagall the younger. What James's wife saw in that little snake, he'd never know. But McGonagall the younger shook her head slightly, twitching a hand in some gesture that Lily seemed to know how to interpret.

Sirius was left waiting for Lily and James after the meeting; Dumbledore wanted to talk to them about something, Remus was really feeling the last full moon, and Peter...well, no one really knew half of what got in Peter's head these days. He grabbed the arm of McGonagall the younger again, dragged her into another alcove and put up another silencing charm. "All right, McGonagall," he growled, keeping a firm hold of her upper arms and trying to ignore her glare, "talk. Who's your source?"

Her glare deepened, and Sirius was starting to feel like he was about five centimeters tall. "The day I tell you," she said, "is the day that the other eight Hells freeze over and Myrkul's oversized corpse starts singing the Lumberjack Song, drag and all. Excuse me." She crossed her lower arms and batted his hands away, then walked off with the same little mocking wave that she'd flipped over her shoulder that day after the DADA OWL.

His fist met the wall a second later. He couldn't help feeling like he'd been outclassed again, and he hated it.

He definitely didn't understand her.