"…Harry could visualize them quite clearly, the frightened old elf and the thin, dark Seeker who had so resembled Sirius. . . . Kreacher knew how to open the concealed entrance to the underground cavern, knew how to raise the tiny boat; this time it was his beloved Regulus who sailed with him to the island with its basin of poison. . . . "

-J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

PART FOUR

When Sirius stomped into his Lisson Grove flat twenty minutes later, he was in a far fouler mood than he had been when he left, triumphantly, an hour before. The weather, apparently sensing his dampened spirits, had taken a turn for the worse shortly after he left Godric's Hollow. Head still pounding with righteous anger, he had not tried very hard to avoid driving 'Elvira' through the low-hanging, ominous black clouds on his flight back to London.

He had also been far too furious to ask James if he could borrow a jacket, so when he threw open the door of the apartment and stepped inside, Sirius was completely soaked through—wearing only the thin Order of the Phoenix teeshirt that had seemed such a lark when he pulled it out of their dresser forty minutes earlier—and shivering like mad.

Four heads instantly turned in his direction, and Sirius realized with a lurch that Orion and Walburga had beaten him back to the flat. Both wore fresh clothes—he was unpleasantly surprised to find he remembered that the intricately detailed lace gown his mother now sported was one of her favorites—and stood near Regulus, still lying on the sofa—though he had also changed out of his silk pajamas into a more dignified set of dark robes.

Remus hovered near the door to the kitchen, standing about as far from the Black Clan as he could. Sirius glanced at his friend and felt a twinge of guilt—how long had they been here? How many awful things had they already said to Moony?—along with rising respect. He was sure that if it had been Peter he had left for this rendezvous, Wormy would've skivved off at the first sharp word from his mother.

Moony was made of stronger stuff than that.

"Hullo, all," Sirius said, in a surly voice, slamming the door shut behind him.

Though every person in the room stared, he was drawn, almost magnetically, to meet his mother's gaze first. Walburga's sharp gray eyes took in the full picture—his soaking hair and Muggle clothes, how pathetically he was shaking from the cold, and his churlish expression—in about four seconds flat. He could practically see the wheels turning behind her eyes, and his own blood started to pump faster—he was itching for a fight, and as there were no Death Eaters about, she would do nicely.

"Where," Mrs. Black asked, in a voice of forced calm. "Have you been?"

"Out," he replied, curtly, and ignoring his father altogether, Sirius walked across the room, stopping in front of Remus. "Is Dumbledore here yet?"

"No. He should be in a few minutes—" Remus said, faintly, clearly concerned. "Sirius, you look like you walked through a waterfall."

Mrs. Black's face had flushed at being dismissed so unceremoniously, and she loudly cleared her throat. Her elder son pointedly ignored her.

"Sirius Orion, I asked you a question," Sirius's mother said, advancing on him like an invading army. "And I expect a proper answer."

He turned towards her, clenching his wand in the way of someone who is very near drawing it.

"I needed to clear my head," he said, mulishly, but his teeth chattering somewhat detracted from the effect. "So I went for a walk."

"Without a cloak?" she asked, her eyes narrowed. "In December?"

"He was wearing a cloak and robes when he left," Regulus interjected, quietly, and his brother threw him such a hostile look that he actually shrunk back into the couch.

"Nobody likes a snitch, Reg," he sneered, voice filled with contempt, but Mrs. Black had already turned towards the younger boy.

"Regulus—where did he go?" she said, in the same tone she used to give orders to her house-elf. "Tell me."

Her younger son mumbled something unintelligible and stared at the floor, and letting out a hiss of frustration, she abandoned this interrogation attempt as quickly as she'd picked it up, instead turning to her husband—who was at her side in an instant. He gave Sirius a shrewd once-over, then tapped her arm in a placatory gesture.

"Looks to me as though he went out on a broom and flew too high," Orion observed, dryly. "Is that what you did, boy?"

Sirius was seized with reckless daring, and he opened his mouth to shout the truth at the two of them—then he caught sight of Regulus's face, shaking his head furiously behind their backs—and the temporary penchant for self-destruction fled.

"…Yes," he answered, tightly. "I went out for a—spin on my broom and I flew through a cloud, alright?"

Both of them rolled their eyes. It was close enough to the truth—and evidently Sirius's parents knew him well enough to know it was the sort of thing he would do—so they accepted this lie at face value.

"And what happened to your cloak?" his mother pressed.

"I gave it to a Muggle tramp," Sirius answered, maliciously. Mrs. Black's eyes flashed again, but her expression remained frozen in its customary cool contempt.

"That is a disgusting falsehood that you've concocted to offend me," his mother said, coldly. "And I don't believe it for one second."

Sirius glared up at her—and was suddenly very aware that Remus was gaping at the two of them, and if this was profoundly humiliating for him, how much more uncomfortable was it for poor Moony to have to witness this maudlin Black family performance?

The least he could do for his poor friend was get him out of here.

"Alright," he grumbled, sticking his wand in his pocket and rubbing his goose-pimply arms. "I flew to James Potter's house, got a change of clothes, left the cloak and robes there, and flew back. That's the truth, and Regulus didn't know anything about it." His brother shot him a grateful look he ignored. "Satisfied?"

Walburga looked down her nose at him. His glare back was rather sullen—though no longer truly angry—and his shivering lent the entire thing a pathetic air.

"Yes," she answered, calmly—and she raised her wand and pointed at him. Instantly his hair and clothing were dry again. "You could have spared us all that scene and just said so."

Stunned, Sirius dropped his arms to his side—warm and dry as he would be if he'd been sitting in front of a toasty fire all afternoon. She and Orion both walked back over to Regulus's bedside. Sirius forced himself to turn and look Remus in the face.

"You don't have to stay, Moony," he said, blandly. It took considerable effort, but he had mastered himself again, and he wore a look of cool detachment just like that of his parents.

Remus gave him a small smile.

"I don't mind, Padfoot—really," he said, his eyes flitting to the Blacks in the corner, then back to his friend, now studying his fingernails with exaggerated haughty boredom. "I have something I need to say to Professor Dumbledore, anyway. I'll wait."

Sirius was sure Moony had absolutely nothing important to tell the leader of the Order of the Phoenix, and that he had made up this feeble excuse to stay. Remus probably thought if he didn't remain in the flat until the Headmaster had safely arrived, Dumbledore would walk in and find three blood-stained corpses strewn about the floor, with only a hysterical Regulus to account for it.

"How long did you say we had to wait for Dumbledore?"

"Oh—" Remus checked his wrist watch. "He said he'd be here about half-past, so—five, ten minutes?"

"Great. Gives us a bit of private time." Sirius nodded sharply in his friend's direction, then crossed the room to the sofa, making a beeline for his mother. "Right—I need to sort something out with you."

Sirius had, in the last three years, finally surpassed his mother in height—he was just a hair's breadth shorter than his father, and was likely to have a final growth spurt that left him eye-to-eye with Orion—but the way Walburga Black held herself meant she could create the effect of looking down on anyone she deemed worthy of her disdain.

She was looking down on Sirius now.

"Sort what out?" Mrs. Black asked, in a tone that suggested she was speaking to an illiterate farm hand.

"That great ruddy fireplace you've stuck in the bedroom—" Sirius replied, undaunted. "It's been fun, but I'll need you to take it out now."

She frowned and gave Orion a sideways look of confusion—he merely shrugged and walked over to the armchair and sat down. It was facing in their direction, which made it look as though Mr. Black was watching his son and wife's unfolding argument as one would light dinner theatre.

"I'm afraid you'll have to make yourself clearer," she said, smoothly. Sirius grimaced in annoyance.

"The fireplace you—transfigured into my house," he said, impatiently. "It's very clever how you've made it so that only you can remove it without bringing down half the wall—but I want that room back the way it was."

"But why?" his mother asked, genuinely perplexed. "The house is drafty and the room is vastly improved by it."

"I don't happen to agree," he replied, testily, but she was now peering around the flat again. With fresh eyes and in the daylight hours, it looked even more drab than it had the previous night. "And furthermore—"

"I don't understand this place," she interrupted him, suddenly. She looked up from the shag carpet, utterly repulsed, and stared at him in frank bewilderment. "You have a wand for a reason. You could easily make it ten times better—"

"I happen to like it the way it is!" Sirius protested, hotly, as she ran a finger over a dirty window sill (she had wandered past the television without stooping to acknowledge it), and she looked around at him, haughtily perturbed. "I don't need magic to fix it—and anyway, not everyone wants to live in a mausoleum like Number Twelve."

"What did you just call our ancestral home?" she asked, voice frigid, but Sirius was undaunted. Regulus looked faintly alarmed, and out of Padfoot's eye line, Remus was rubbing his forehead to stave off a headache.

"You heard me! It's such a gloomy, drab house—and every three steps there's another portrait of a dead Black breathing down your neck ready to tell you off—"

"—Which of course wouldn't matter, if you ever behaved yourself," his father remarked, but Sirius ignored him, fully engrossed in his rambling monologue.

"—I like having a flat that's not like something from the last century, that has no serpent carvings or decorations—" He stalked over to the table where the snake lamp was and waved it in her direction, impudently. "—Or silk, or damask, or iron-wrought anything—and anyway—" He paused to take in a long, shuddering breath. "—I've got a landlady who checks in once every couple months, and I'm not supposed to change anything—that carved ivory number you put in's a bit noticeable."

Up until now, his tirade against the House of Mrs. Black's Fathers had been irritating to her, but she had evidently not taken it very seriously. She kept shooting her husband annoyed looks, as if it was his fault that their son had such execrable taste. It was only when when Sirius brought up Mrs. Jenkins, his doddering landlady, that she appeared truly scandalized.

"A 'landlady'?" Walburga repeated, the very word revolting every fibre of her being. "You mean—a Muggle woman comes in here and holds you accountable for the state of this sty?"

She and her husband exchanged dark looks.

"Yeah—I'm only renting it from her," Sirius said, equally cold. "And part of the lease terms—"

"—You are a wizard!" she cut him off, exasperation obvious. "If you're going to allow them to traipse in, at least have the self-respect to modify their memories and send them on their way."

"Can you even hear yourself?" Sirius asked, scathingly, and he dropped the lamp back on the table and turned around to Lupin, looking for support. Remus appeared to be trying to disappear into the wallpaper. "That's not the point—and you can't just go about obliviating people left and right—"

"You can perform a memory charm, I trust?" his mother asked, the faintest sneer on her lips. "You aren't a squib on top of being a sentimental fool, I mean."

"Of course I can perform a damned memory—"

"Not interrupting anything, am I?"

As Regulus was the one person facing the kitchen door, only he knew how long Albus Dumbledore had been quietly standing there. The old Headmaster's smile was benign as ever, and he looked around the room with polite curiosity. If the younger Black brother's expression of mild embarrassment was anything to go on, Remus guessed that he had heard quite a bit.

"Nothing interesting," Orion observed, caustically, turning around in the chair to look at Dumbledore. "You're late."

"My apologies—matters took a tad longer than predicted." Dumbledore strode into the living room, looking between Sirius and Regulus with frank interest. "I hope you have not been waiting too long."

Nobody answered him.

"I heard you came back last night, Professor Dumbledore," Sirius said, stepping forward—the argument with his mother quickly forgotten, or at least pushed under the shag carpet. "You could have woken me."

"But you were sleeping so peacefully—snoring, in fact," Dumbledore, said, his voice brimming with amusement. "I did consider it, but Mrs. Black thought it more—prudent—to let you rest. I thought it better to defer to your mother in this, as she would, naturally, have your best interests at heart."

It took every bit of self-restraint Sirius had not to reply with the utmost sarcasm to this statement. Dumbledore seemed to read his thoughts, for he turned to address the rest of the room with the faintest of smiles.

"Well—" Dumbledore clapped his hands together. "I'm pleased to report the best possible news. By all accounts, no Death Eaters—nor Lord Voldemort himself, apparently—know anything at all about what occurred last night."

Regulus, pale-faced and eyes glittering, nodded stiffly—the Black parents were their usual inscrutable selves. Of the family, only Sirius looked visibly relieved, and he let out a loud exhale and shot his brother a quick, encouraging smile.

Dumbledore turned Walburga.

"I assume nothing out of the ordinary was said when your sister-in-law and niece came to call, Mrs. Black?" he asked, courteously. "Nothing to arouse suspicion?"

"Nothing," Walburga said, brusquely.

In all the excitement, Sirius had nearly forgotten that he had bothered to wheedle out of Kreacher who it was his mother was having tea.

"And how were Aunt Druella and Narcissa?" He walked over to the sofa and plopped down at the end, next to Regulus's feet. "Their usual charming selves?"

It might've been a polite question, if not for the thinly veiled sarcasm that Mrs. Black pointedly ignored.

"They are very well," his mother said, and then added, with a hint of pride. "Narcissa is with child."

Sirius, upon learning of the imminent birth of his cousin once-removed, looked about as excited as his mother was when she looked at his orange shag rug.

"It's about time," Orion sniffed, while Regulus sat, eyes wide at the news.

On the other end of the couch, his brother was not bothering to hide his true feelings on this bit of family gossip. He caught Remus's eye, opened his mouth and mimed retching into the flower pot. Dumbledore was attending to his mother politely and didn't notice—nor, apparently did his parents.

"It's to be a boy," Walburga continued, proudly. "And they've decided to call him 'Draco.'"

This, it seemed, was too much for Sirius to take.

"'Draco Malfoy'?" he repeated, obviously revolted. "Merlin, even the name speaks to what a git he's going to become."

"What an ill-bred thing to say about Narcissa's child," his mother scolded him, crossly. "He hasn't even been born yet."

"I suppose that's fair," Sirius conceded, with a shrug. "And it's not his fault his father's the king git."

"Do not be rude about your cousin's husband," Orion barked at his eldest son, autocratically—which elicited a single sharp 'ha!' of laughter.

"Oh, that's rich, coming from you."

"What on earth am I to take that to mean?"

"Please," Sirius said, grinning mischievously at his father. "You don't like Lucius Malfoy any more than I do. You've always thought he was a sly, poncy prat."

Mr. Black was so taken aback that he actually stood up and turned to look at his elder son.

"I've never said anything of the kind!" Orion said, visibly affronted.

"You've said far worse!" Sirius retorted, with a snort. "You disliked him before he even married Narcissa. I'll never forget that—it's one of the few things we've ever agreed on."

"I haven't the faintest notion of what you're spouting off about," his father snapped—though Remus thought if it weren't true, the Black patriarch was being a trifle defensive—and he also was rather determinedly not looking at his wife, who watched the exchange with undisguised interest.

Sirius stood up and casually stuck in his hands in his pockets, grin widening, looking between his parents with frank delight.

"When the Malfoys were dithering over Cissy's dowry, trying to squeeze Uncle Cygnus for more gold, you told him he ought to withhold consent for the marriage," Sirius said, in a teasing voice. "You said Lucius was an 'impertinent whelp' who should consider himself lucky to be marrying a Black at all, how dare he expect to be well-paid for it into the bargain, and wasn't their anyone better who could take her?"

Orion's face froze in shocked displeasure, but the recollection had the opposite effect on his son. He was outright laughing now.

"And wasn't it you—" Sirius continued, immensely enjoying catching Mr. Black out. "—Who, at their engagement party, after several glasses of mulled wine, told granddad and Uncle Alphard that they should take care to count the galleons in their pockets after every social engagement, now that there's a Malfoy in the family?"

A wiser man would have taken one look at the fuming Mr. Black and left it there—but Sirius could not resist the coup-de-grace, not when he had such an audience.

"Of course, you had to concede they were probably safe, owing to the fact that Lucius had about half the brains of his father and was so Malfoy slick he'd probably leave a trail of oil in his wake—"

By the time Orion had crossed the room, thunderously angry, his eldest son had stopped laughing—with great difficulty.

"What have I always said to you," he hissed, through clenched teeth, as Sirius tried to regain control of himself. "About wretches who listen at key holes?"

"That one day they'll all come to a bad end?" his son supplied, innocently, wiping a tear from his eye. His father's studied displeasure persisted, so Sirius tried again. "And that it's behavior fit only for stinking sneak thieves and deeply below my—erm, dignity to do?"

His father glared at him for a long moment, but Sirius had fixed his face in a familiar expression—charming, mildly contrite (he knew not to oversell that part, though he was so out of practice it was blatantly obvious now he wasn't sorry at all)—that was designed to take the sting out of a scolding and lessen punishments.

If the intended effect was to disarming him—to the surprise of everyone in the room, it actually worked.

"You shock me," Orion said, his voice heavy with sarcasm—no longer truly angry. "Here I was, convinced you never took in a blasted word I said to you, and it turns out you remember far more than I would've liked."

"Ironic, isn't it?" Sirius said—and somewhere, buried in his amusement at Orion's expense, long-buried fondness peaked out. "You never thought I was listening, and all that time I was busy memorializing you, Dad."

The use of that word, coupled with Sirius's affectionate tone, had an immediate and peculiar effect on his father. Orion Black had been quite content to glower at his son up until that point—but upon hearing that familiar, impudent title, the mere act of looking at Sirius seemed to cause him no small amount of discomfort. Mr. Black cleared his throat and resolutely looked away from his grinning son—only to meet Albus Dumbledore's piercing gaze instead.

Orion narrowed his eyes at the Headmaster of Hogwarts. Dumbledore stared back, expression mild—but his eyes had the inexplicable knowing quality one could always recognize from the old wizard, and something silently passed between the two men—a shared understanding.

When Orion looked back at Sirius, he was expressionless once more.

"Yes, well—it would be more shocking if you actually heeded what I said," he told his son, dryly.

Mr. Black turned around and walked back to armchair without another word. Sirius blinked and slowly sat back down—he had not expected to get off that easily.

Dumbledore cleared his throat.

"You're being awfully quiet about your cousin's child-to-be, Regulus," he remarked, and the boy—nearly motionless on the sofa, watching his brother provoke their father in that daring style of Sirius's that was so foreign to him—started. He blinked up at Dumbledore, pale face expressionless.

"Considering I may never meet him," Regulus was calm, but his voice shook, slightly. "There's not much to say."

Dumbledore walked towards him. His smile was kind.

"That's an awfully pessimistic view, for a man who so recently escaped death," Dumbledore remarked, cheerily, kneeling down next to Regulus. "May I?"

Wordlessly, Regulus pulled back the sleeve of his arm. The chunk of flesh that the Inferi had pulled from his arm was visible across the room—Remus saw it and winced.

"I'm afraid this scar will be permanent," Dumbledore said, regretfully. "Do you still feel weak from the potion?" Regulus nodded. "That's to be expected—I have an idea of what it was from the symptoms I observed and the effect you described. It will take…some time for you to fully recover from the experience."

Regulus nodded again, resigned to his bedrest. Sirius, however, was frowning—something had just occurred to him.

"Hold up, Reg," he interjected, puzzled. "Why wouldn't you ever meet Cissy's baby?"

His younger brother swallowed and looked over at their mother and father, which gave Sirius an odd, apprehensive feeling in the pit of his stomach. Regulus was spared having to answer the question by Dumbledore.

"We discussed—among other things—how best to conceal your brother's whereabouts," Dumbledore said, gravely. "My first instinct was rather drastic—I thought we might have to stage his death."

"What?" Sirius said, stunned. "How was that supposed to work—make so everyone thinks Reg is dead until—until Voldemort is? That could take years." He looked down at his younger brother, shivering again, and felt an overwhelming urge to put another blanket around his shoulders. "And what would Regulus do in the meantime?"

"For the present, I think, your parents' alternative idea will do," Dumbledore said, nodding deferentially to the Blacks. "The cover story is not a permanent solution, but it is less extreme—and buys us some time."

Regulus and Sirius both looked at their parents—neither of whom looked all that forthcoming.

"I'm almost afraid to ask," Sirius joked, absently patting Regulus's foot. "But what's the cover?"

"Those who inquire as to the reason for Regulus's absence," said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling. "Will be informed he has been suddenly called away to the continent to discuss a possible marriage with a very well-bred young witch from—Provence, I believe? I am told, reliably, that the negotiations could take several weeks."

Sirius could not have been more obviously amused. Regulus caught sight of his brother's evil grin and blushed bright scarlet.

"That's brilliant—will anyone buy it, though?" Sirius laughed, turning and nudging Regulus—now glaring sulkily at him—on the knee in a jocular manner. "Imagine little Reggie tying the noose about his neck."

"I don't see what's so amusing about it," his mother remarked, lightly. "It's exactly what we intended to do with you."

She might as well have slapped the smile off right off of Sirius's face. When he realized his friend was blushing just as red as his brother had been a moment earlier, Remus turned towards the doorway to hide his smile.

"Just when I think I couldn't possibly have any more reasons for being glad to get away from that house," Sirius told his mother, ears still burning. "You give me another."

"Personally," Walburga continued, haughtily, as if she hadn't heard him. "I think marriage would've suited. You needed a wife to sort you out. Preferably one—" She noticed his red face and smiled, blithely. "—who's good with a wand."

For about half a second Sirius thought his mother might've actually missed the unfortunate double meaning of her word choice—and then he saw the knowing gleam in her eye and he felt his face burn again—this time with anger as much as embarrassment.

She knew exactly what she was saying. She had actually meant it that way, the insane shrew—

He heard a noise from the corner of the room that sounded like a snigger. Sirius looked over at his friend and realized, with mute horror, that Moony (the traitor) had put a hand over his mouth to muffle a laugh.

"The story won't raise any eyebrows," Orion remarked, placidly, apparently oblivious to his quietly stewing son. "There aren't that many eligible girls in England his age—he wouldn't be the first one sent abroad."

"Then we're agreed," Dumbledore said. "All that's left is arrangements for the family—ways and means, going forward."

Dumbledore's stress on the word 'family' was light, but Remus took that as his cue. He already felt like he'd spent too much time here as it was. It was going to be very hard to look Sirius in the eye the next time they were alone together.

"Professor Dumbledore, if that's what you have to talk about—" He gestured to the door. "Maybe it's best if I—"

"Wait."

They all turned to look at Regulus, who sat up straight now—his eyes glittering.

"I've—things to say," Regulus said, in the loudest, clearest voice he had managed to muster since he arrived at the flat. It sounded like he was really trying to imitate his father. "And Lupin should hear them as well."

The werewolf stared at Regulus, clearly surprised at being addressed by him thus. Sirius turned round on the couch and eyed his brother skeptically, but Dumbledore considered him.

"Go on," he said, simply.

"For this—in exchange, I…" Regulus's voice faltered as every eye in the room stared at him. He had never enjoyed being the center of attention like Sirius—but then his eyes met his mother's, and she nodded at him, and Regulus's courage rose. "I have conditions."

Sirius snorted.

"D'you really think you're in a position to be making demands?" he asked, a definite edge in his voice. His mother had predictably managed to evaporate most of the good will he'd been feeling towards the lot of them. "When you came to us for protection?"

He looked around at Dumbledore, but the Leader of the Order of the Phoenix was watching the younger Black brother intently.

"I should very much like to hear them," he said—and if Regulus's former school headmaster wasn't taking him seriously, you'd never have known it.

"First—" Regulus swallowed, hard. "I expect—immunity. To be kept out of…"

"Azkaban?" Dumbledore supplied, mildly. The very word struck Regulus with obvious fear; he was still very pale, and his trembling had returned. "I will exert all my influence in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and with the Wizengamot, naturally."

"And I want—" His eyes flitted to his parents, then back to Dumbledore.

"Protection for your mother and father—in as much as I am able and they are willing, I will provide," the old wizard said, carefully modulating his voice. "Forgive me, Regulus—these were terms that we discussed last night, I'm afraid I don't—"

"No one else can know!" the boy blurted out, loudly. Dumbledore blinked slowly, peered over his spectacles at Regulus. For the first time he looked as though he might genuinely be surprised.

"About…the—the locket, the cave—me, whatever we decide to do. No one else—not in the Ministry, not in your—Order can know about any of it, do you understand?" Regulus said, feverishly—as if he had to get it all out before he lost his nerve. "That's not negotiable."

"'Not negotiable'?" Sirius repeated, incredulously. "What're you going to do if we don't agree, walk out the door?"

But Regulus was not looking at his brother, had his eyes fixed on Dumbledore, desperate, pleading. The old wizard's face remained inscrutable.

"I accept those terms," he said, after a moment. "But I am curious as to why you insist upon them."

The young Death Eater's face shined with sweat, but he was quite calm and matter-of-fact when he spoke.

"He has eyes everywhere."

"But not in the Order of the Phoenix."

"So you say," Regulus replied, cooly. "You believe it. You trust them all."

"I do," Dumbledore replied, evenly. He was still watching Regulus with that curious, fixed expression. "I trust the members of the Order unreservedly. I do not see the point in acting otherwise."

"Then you are an even bigger fool than the Dark Lord takes you for."

Dumbledore was not offended in the slightest by this—the benign smile did not leave his face, though one could tell by the way his eyes narrowed a fraction that the words had impact on him.

Sirius, meanwhile, was furious—made a movement towards his brother—Dumbledore stopped him with a look.

"Am I right in assuming you believe that you are in danger—" Dumbledore asked, slowly turning back towards Regulus. "—from within the Order of the Phoenix itself?"

Sirius and Remus exchanged looks of shock, but the Black parents only stared at their younger son, eyes glittering.

"I didn't say that."

"But you implied it," Dumbledore said, still in his light, gentle way—and his electric blue eyes pierced through Regulus's. "Has Voldemort told you he as a spy?"

The boy stared back—his bravado dimmed slightly.

"Of course not—"

"But you believe he does." The boy's face went ashen. "It is, forgive me, Regulus—rather obvious. You fear what you have done will get back to him—and that could only happen if Lord Voldemort had someone in a position to deliver him that information—a Member of the Order, in other words."

"He…he might—" Regulus said, his eyes narrowed—voice steady again. "He could. The Dark Lord, he…he always knows. And if he finds out…"

At just the thought of what Voldemort would do to the people in the room that Regulus cared for had transformed him back into the frightened boy again.

"You must have a reason for thinking this. Has he spoken of it in front of you?"

"Of course not! I'm not in his confidences—no one is," Regulus laughed, coldly. "I just don't underestimate him."

"Nor do I." Dumbledore looked thoughtful. "In this case, Lord Voldemort's mistake appears to have been underestimating you, Regulus."

The boy trembled—he said nothing. The old man considered his next question for a long time before he asked it.

"I wonder…do you have someone in mind?" Dumbledore's tone was mild, his gaze more piercing than ever. "A person you suspect?"

The younger Black brother—lately of the Death Eaters, so recently a servant of Lord Voldemort—looked at Dumbledore in silence. He was clearly doing some fast thinking, eyes darting between his parents, Sirius and the old wizard.

He seemed to come to some sort of decision. Regulus's expression hardened—and he eyed Dumbledore with suspicion bordering on distrust.

"Even if I did know, I wouldn't tell you."

This answer elicited no response from Dumbledore—but its effect on Regulus's older brother was instant.

"Why you slimy little Slytherin worm," Sirius said, furiously, leaping up from the sofa and turning round on his brother. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"If I wanted your advice," Regulus replied, coldly. "I'd ask for it."

"This isn't a game, you don't get to throw your weight around!" Sirius said, then added, derisively. "Not that in your case there's much to throw."

Regulus's eyes flashed with displeasure.

"Sirius—"

He ignored Dumbledore, only had eyes for his brother, who had gone glacial and looked as though he wished to curl up in a hard, protective ball.

"Is this for their benefit, then—" He jerked his head, unpleasantly, in the direction of Orion and Walburga—both momentarily shocked into silence. Regulus glared up at him and said nothing. "This little act? D'you think it makes you a big man, that they're impressed by it—

"Sirius, that is enough."

Dumbledore's sharp, commanding voice rang through the sitting room, and Sirius froze, looked over at the old wizard—who was giving him a look of severe warning, and slowly…very slowly—lowered the wand arm he had not even realized he'd raised.

"Right…" He breathed in and out heavily, still glowering at his brother. Regulus looked as though he might start to cry, and it filled Sirius with a sense of petty contempt coupled with vague guilt—which only served to make him furious with himself. He refused to give his parents the satisfaction of looking at them. "Right—"

He pulled his eyes away from Reg and walked over to Remus, who was looking at him with real apprehension. You could have heard a Knarl quill drop in the room.

"Very well," Dumbledore continued, in a very calm voice, as if nothing untoward or out of the ordinary had just occurred. "I accept the terms. This means I have a job for you, Remus, of course."

"Sir…?"

"I'll need you to go to Godric's Hollow at once and inform Lily and James of what has happened. The three of you are not to speak of what has happened here in the last twelve hours to anyone else—not in the Order or your families. Do you understand?"

"Of course. I'll go right now." He walked over to the closet and took out the tweed coat that James and Sirius had gotten him on his last birthday—one of the few nice pieces of clothing he had, for he always refused their offers to buy him new sets of robes or nicer trousers and jeans. Then it had been his birthday, and they had not taken 'no' for an answer.

He looked back over at Sirius, who was now staring at a strip of chipped paint on the wall as if it were the most interesting thing in the room.

"I'm—going now, Padfoot," he said, timidly. Sirius made a small "mm" sound of acknowledgement, eyes still boring into the wall. "To see Lily and James. I was wondering if there's—any message you'd like me to pass on?"

Sirius's sharp eyes narrowed, and he looked away from the spot.

"Yeah. Actually, yeah, Moony—there is." He turned and looked round at his friend, standing at the door. "Tell James that until he's ready to apologize to me, I don't want to see him or speak to him."

Remus's face fell like a card castle.

"Sirius…"

"You'll be sure to pass on that message, won't you, Remus?" he asked, in a slightly too-loud voice, bored voice. "Just as I said it, mind."

"Padfoot—"

"I give you permission to convey tone," he said, even louder.

Remus looked at him for a moment, then nodded and murmured an awkward goodbye to the rest of the Blacks. He slowly opened the door and walked out of the front door of the flat, carefully shutting it behind him with a snap.

There was a long silence.

"…Did you get in a row with your friend Potter?" Regulus asked, quietly—knowing better but not able to resist the question. When his brother looked over at him, it was with utmost scorn.

"If I did, what business would it be of yours?" Sirius answered, icily, and Regulus shrunk back into the sofa. He looked over at Dumbledore, who was watching him, knowingly. "What else do we have to discuss, professor? Only it's been a long night and I think I'd rather like to go back to bed."

"And wake up to find this was all a nightmare" was the unsaid but apparent end of the thought.

His old headmaster gave him a small smile, but Sirius's ill-tempered look remained firmly planted on his face.

"Only a few practical matters remain—" Dumbledore walked over to the Black family patriarch. "Orion, as you and your wife have had some time to reflect—"

"—Our intentions are unchanged," Mr. Black said, firmly. Sirius started and looked over at his father, anger momentary forgotten in favor of curiosity.

"Very well," said Dumbledore said, in a resigned voice. "I—cannot say I am surprised."

"Professor, what—"

Dumbledore held a hand up to silence Sirius.

"I feel compelled to tell you," Dumbledore continued, addressing the Black parents directly. "That you are undertaking a course of action with considerable risks. I can only guarantee you so much in the way of protection this way—it may seem a matter of convenience—"

"We're well aware of the risks," Walburga said, cooly. "We're not fools."

"But Mother—"

"I think you've said quite enough for one day, Regulus," his mother scolded him—though not harshly. He obeyed her—clearly not thrilled, but also not willing to argue the point.

"Then—" Dumbledore continued, stepping back to address the entire family as a group. "I suppose all that's left is to determine how best to handle visitation of your younger son safely and discreetly, as well as—"

"Hang on."

Dumbledore looked over at Sirius, who was now gaping at him with a mixture of incredulity and deep confusion.

"Professor, I'm not sure I—" He let out a small, unnatural chuckle. "Really understand what's going on. What's a—risk, here?"

"Your mother and father have decided that, while your brother is in 'in France'—" Dumbledore smiled. "—That is to say, in hiding—rather than joining him, they will resume their everyday lives. They will take care to make the rumor of his coming engagement spread far and wide in their social circles. Orion believes—" He did not seem to have noticed that Sirius's face had turned the color of chalk. "—And though I would not have asked it of him, I cannot disagree with his contention—that if they also withdrew from society it would arouse far more suspicion."

Sirius nodded. It was the stiff action of a mannequin doll.

"Naturally," Dumbledore continued conversationally. "This is also far more convenient for them."

"And heaven forbid anyone be—inconvenienced," he replied, hollowly, face still bloodless. "Professor Dumbledore—" He was surprised by the note of undisguised panic in his own voice. "—May I speak to you—privately?"

"Certainly." Dumbledore blinked at him with polite curiosity. "We're almost done here, so—"

"No, I mean right now," Sirius interrupted, anxiety obvious. "Can I speak to you right now?"

There was a short pause.

"You believe what you have to say to me—" Dumbledore peered down his spectacles at Sirius, his gaze piercing, his expression carefully detached. "—Cannot wait?"

"No, it really can't," Sirius said, flatly—the panic replaced with steely resolve. He was not looking at them, though he could feel all three sets of eyes looking at him, sizing him up. Three snakes—that was what he saw in his mind's eye, and it gave him courage, toughened him up, focused him. "I really do need to speak to you right now. Alone."

For a moment it seemed as though Dumbledore might argue with him, but to his relief, the old man simply nodded.

"Very well." Dumbledore nodded politely to the rest of the clan and followed the agitated older son into the kitchen.

Sirius practically slammed the door shut behind him.

"Sir—professor—" He spun around and found Dumbledore standing in the middle his dirty, linoleum covered kitchen, fixing him with a look of utmost calm and understanding. "You aren't just going to…you can't possibly think you can just—let them walk out of here!"

He paced up and down in front of his mentor like a caged animal.

"On what pretense do you imagine I could hold them, Sirius?" Dumbledore asked, immediately—and there was something about his automatic answer that suggested he had been expecting this line of questions and was prepared for it—which only served to agitate Sirius more. "They have done nothing wrong."

"'Done nothing wrong'?" Sirius repeated, incredulously. "What about feeding, clothing and housing a Death Eater for the past two years, for a start?"

"Even if that were a crime—and you'll find the law very gray on this point—" Dumbledore replied, evenly. "It would be very difficult to prove that they knew what your brother was—and given your grandfather's influence on the Wizengamot, even less likely that they would be prosecuted for it."

Sirius let out a growl of frustration—Dumbledore was deftly deflecting him at every turn, didn't he see that wasn't the point at all?

"They are a pair of pure-blood maniacs—"

"Their attitudes and inclinations—however objectionable—are also not crimes," Dumbledore interrupted, bluntly. He frowned. "I am the last man who will say the affair we find ourselves in is ideal, Sirius—I am not naive, however much you may think it of me in this moment. I am well aware of how fraught the situation is. I know there is danger. And I— like your father—have weighed the risks."

There was steely resolve in Dumbledore's voice, and the look his young lieutenant shot him was positively mutinous.

"We cannot trust them," Sirius said, in a low voice. "Any of them. You let them walk out of here—"

"—I ask you again, Sirius—what other option do I have?" Dumbledore asked, calmly—though he was clearly losing his patience. "I am perfectly willing to consider an alternative to the plan your father has proposed, if you have one."

Sirius was sure there was no alternative that the man in front of him had not already considered, and that he was being humored, currently—which only roused him in his desire to fight.

"Easy," he said, walking over to the kitchen table and leaning on it. "You could modify their memories."

Dumbledore appeared to consider this suggestion for a long moment—but it was painfully obvious to Sirius that he didn't think much of this potential plan. The younger wizard had the feeling the pause was more to make him feel ashamed for suggesting it than anything else.

He looked down at the dirty linoleum floor and scuffed his sneaker against it.

"…Do you really think that is the best course of action, in this case?" Dumbledore asked him, quietly.

"It's the safest course of action!" Sirius shot back, fiercely, ignoring the clear disappointment in the older man's voice. "You're the most brilliant wizard alive, you could easily make it so none of this night happened. They wouldn't need to know anything about where Regulus had gone—"

"You would have me forcibly wrench his parents from him?" Dumbledore asked, pointedly. "Given everything that your brother has been through?"

The image of Regulus being sick on his floor rose up in Sirius's mind—Regulus shivering on the sofa, shaking uncontrollably, Kreacher practically strangling him with joy because he was alive, alive, alive

He shook his head and pushed the picture aside.

"He never wanted them to know about this in the first place, and anyway—" Sirius continued, heartlessly. "Does what he wants matter?"

"It matters a great deal," Dumbledore replied, as calm as ever. "I am trying to engender his trust, and I hardly think treating his family so callously is the way to do it—"

"If information is what you're after," Sirius said, coldly, passing over the accusation of callousness altogether. "I suggest you just use Veritaserum on him. You heard what he said back there—he has no intention of giving you anything else willingly."

"That is not what he said at all, Sirius," Dumbledore corrected him, gently.

"But—"

"Be sensible," Dumbledore interrupted, more forcefully. "You know Regulus is only acting in the way he was brought up—with cunning and prudence. All he cares about is guaranteeing his family's safety. He—or I should say, they—do not trust me at my word. He is skittish, barely more than a schoolboy, and from his perspective it makes perfect sense not to give me all he has to offer now." Dumbledore's face softened. "I cannot blame him for thinking he may need something to bargain with later—and nor should you. He is terrified."

"That's not an excuse!" Sirius said, savagely. He was furious at the old man—for his calm understanding, his pity and concern—he was still smarting from the heaps of praise that Dumbledore had laid at Regulus's feet the night before, words that had reminded him painfully of an adolescence spent being the constant disappointment, always compared to Regulus, always found wanting.

As if he had read Sirius's thoughts, Dumbledore took a few steps toward him—expression kindly, with no accusation.

"You are naturally courageous, Sirius—your brother is not, nor will he ever be," the old wizard continued, with an almost painful gentleness. "Forgive me for saying it, but you are holding him to a standard he cannot hope to live up to." Dumbledore smiled, sadly. "It is very easy to do this with the people one loves."

"I do not—"

He choked on the words before he could finish—for he knew he did not mean it, and his pride could not stomach taking them back in front of this man he admired so much—and so he fell silent again. Dumbledore was looking at him with the same kindly understanding he had employed on Regulus, and Sirius did not welcome it directed towards him anymore than he had his brother.

It made him feel like an insect under a magnifying glass.

"I know you well, Sirius. I cannot think," Dumbledore continued, in his kindest voice. "That you truly wish for me to coldly and methodically extract information about the Death Eaters from your brother and then—like a tool that has outlived its usefulness— discard him."

"That is not what I said," Sirius replied, visibly stung. Dumbledore bowed his head in apology.

"You're right—it was unfair of me to suggest," he said, mildly. "In any case—Regulus is not the real reason you called me into your kitchen so abruptly."

"No—he's not." Sirius pushed off the table and began pacing up and down the room again. "Look, professor, with all due respect—"

"A favorite phrase of your youth, often employed in our many chats in my office," Dumbledore observed, wryly. "Though I rarely found the words that followed it to suggest much in the way of respect."

Sirius did not welcome the older man's affectionate remembrances now—in fact, he found them quite irritating.

"You don't know them like I do," he said, flatly.

Dumbledore smiled, in his patient and knowing way that Sirius usually found so charming, but right now made him want to throw a chair across the kitchen table.

"That is, of course, very true," the older wizard replied, thoughtfully. "I could never dream of knowing your parents as well as you."

"So then why aren't you taking my warnings seriously at all?" Sirius demanded, and he stopped pacing. He kept running a hand through his hair, frustration evident. "I am only trying to protect the interests of the Order—"

"This where our disagreement lies, Sirius," Dumbledore said, sitting down at the kitchen table and smiling up at him. "Your knowledge of Orion and Walburga Black gives you expertise and perspective—but it does not make you objective. Quite the contrary—" Sirius's eyes widened in surprise. "Your history with them renders you, among the people involved, the one most incapable of impartiality."

"Look, I'm not wrong!" Sirius protested, gesticulating with one hand. "I've spoken enough to them in the last twelve hours to know their views haven't changed at all—"

"You say you fear what they will do," Dumbledore cut him off, briskly. "Do you imagine that they will seek out Voldemort or his followers, after what has happened? What possible inducement would they have to do so?"

"We can't trust them not to!" Sirius shot back, and he could hear his own desperation. "The only loyalty they have is to themselves—"

"—Which in this case is to our advantage," the other man said, losing patience again. "Think, Sirius—truly, you know your parents are not Voldemort partisans. They are not Death Eaters in waiting—they would be less suited to his ranks than even your brother was."

"They've got a niece and two nephews by marriage who're Death Eaters," Sirius pointed out. "At the very least—what if they told them things about the Order—"

"The only valuable intel they could report is the hiding spot of their younger son —a defected Death Eater who has stolen an immensely valuable object from his master—in the apartment of their elder son, a notorious fighter for the Order of the Phoenix." Dumbledore was never a sarcastic man, but here he came rather close to it. "I think it—forgive me—unlikely they will tell anyone."

Sirius wanted to shake him—didn't he get it?

"You cannot operate under the assumption they'll act rationally."

"I'm not sure of that," Dumbledore said, mildly—and Sirius pulled another face. "Right now they are behaving as any parents would when their children are under threat—and considering who they are, their sense of family pride—" Dumbledore had the hint of a smile again. "—I rather think their version of protectiveness might have more sting than most."

He grimaced at this word choice, which put him in mind of a pair of vipers.

"There's something else—the locket," Sirius walked over to the window and stared out it, shifting his weight from the ball of one foot to the other. It was raining hard, now—a miserable December day to reflect his mood. "They know that it's—a Horcrux."

He peered back at the other man to see how he would take this news. Dumbledore did not seem shocked.

"Did your mother or father tell you this?" he asked. Sirius turned away from the window, shaking his head.

"No—she only implied it, heavily, when I asked. You see—" Sirius stuck his hands in his pockets and sighed. "—When we were kids I pilfered a book out of our father's study. Horcruxes were in there—diagrams, and everything—I showed it to him." The shadow of a smile passed over Sirius's face, but he also looked chagrined. "Poor Reg—he had nightmares for weeks. 'Course, once they realized I'd taken it, I got a royal hiding."

"So—" Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "—It appears we owe this great turning point in the war in no small part to your lifelong penchant for mischief."

Sirius laughed and rubbed the back of his neck, ruefully.

"I don't suppose they'll give me an Order of Merlin for it."

Dumbledore stood up, crossed the room and joined him where he stood by the window. The two of them turned and watched a pair of pigeons—sooty, rather woebegone animals, even for this part of London—take refuge from the foul weather in the eave of Sirius's window.

"…Are you concerned?" Dumbledore said, after a moment. He looked sideways at Sirius, who watched the two birds, his face inscrutable. "Your parents know the significance of what Regulus stole, now—are you, like your brother, afraid they have become targets by association?"

"Of course not!" His exclamation startled the pair of pigeons, and they both flew off. "I couldn't—I couldn't care less what happens to either of them."

Dumbledore fixed his former student with that familiar, singular look—as if he was seeing right through him. Face burning from the scrutiny, Sirius turned back to staring out the window.

"Is that true?" the old man asked, mildly. "If it was discovered they knew where your brother was, if your mother was tortured for the information, your father killed…" He trailed off. "….You would be entirely unmoved?"

Sirius stared at the wall of the neighboring flat. In the distance he heard the sound of a car backfiring, a cat screech, the rubbish truck coming to pick up the bins—was it Wednesday, already? This seemed altogether too extraordinary a conversation to be having on a late Wednesday morning.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sirius said at last, turing to look into the electric blue eyes. "Not even Voldemort would dare try to torture my mother."

The old wizard chuckled, quietly.

"Yes, she is a rather—formidable witch," Dumbledore said, his voice light—Sirius's mouth twitched. "And, I must say, as one who taught her—an excellent student of Transfiguration."

"Oh, I'm well aware of her talents," Sirius replied, moodily. "She's already transfigured my bedroom wall—put in a great stone fireplace that I can't figure out how to get rid of!"

Sirius kicked the wall in annoyance and missed Dumbledore's smile.

"Have you considered asking your mother to remove it—"

"She's so spiteful that she refuses to, the barmy old—"

"—Politely?"

Sirius snapped his mouth shut and threw Dumbledore another resentful look—but it did not appear to bother the wizard in the slightest.

"Sir—" Sirius sucked in a long, shallow breath and walked back over to the counter, where a browning banana sat. Casually, he picked it up, if only to do something with his hands—Merlin, he was hungry. Perhaps it was his light-headedness that was making this conversation go as poorly as it was. "Sir, I went to Godric's Hollow this morning."

"I gathered as much." Dumbledore considered his next words with the utmost care. "You spoke to Lily?"

"Yes—and James." In a fit of petulance, he tossed the banana into the sink and spun around on his foot. "They seem to under the impression that you have a…mad idea about using my parents as spies, or something."

He forced a laugh.

"That is not…precisely what I had in mind," Dumbledore said—a denial that had the distinct whiff of not being much of one.

"And," he added, determined to force himself to say it and have it refuted, once and for all. "And they also seemed to think you wanted me to help…convince them!"

"Sirius—"

"I told them that as barking as you can be, there was no way you'd get such a…such a…"

Apparently there was no word outlandish enough to describe this imagined plan that Lily had invented. Sirius was keenly aware of the other man's searching blue eyes still firmly planted on him—and the fact that he was not, as his young protégé had hoped, rushing to deny any of it.

"…Such a ludicrous notion," he finished, lamely. Dumbledore waited politely for Sirius to say more—when he did not, the headmaster cleared his throat.

"I need you to listen to me, Sirius," he said, clearly and slowly. "Regulus has given us something of immense value—something I had only guessed at up until now—a piece of Voldemort's very soul. He, at present, does not know that it is missing. What I said last night was not mere flattery. Our entire position—the whole war effort—is vastly improved, thanks to your brother's actions."

Sirius felt his spirits rise at this—whatever small envy still niggled at him, the thought that Voldemort was so much closer to being defeated, and that Dumbledore was confiding in him, meant far more.

"Does this mean that you could kill him, now, sir?" Sirius asked, eagerly. Dumbledore sighed.

"I wish it were so simple…" He trailed off, thoughtfully. "Certainly it is a large step in the direction of his defeat. As for the plans I discussed with Lily last night—they are twofold. As for your brother—"

Dumbledore contemplated his former pupil, standing at attention, the consummate soldier.

"Regulus still, I believe, has much he can offer us. A wealth of information—he may not even yet realize all he knows—"

"Let me try to convince him, professor," Sirius said, with rising resolve. "I can get him to help us—to tell you what he knows—"

Dumbledore shook his head.

"Your brother undoubtedly admires your brashness and bravery—and he cares for you a great deal, but…" Sirius's face fell, this was a gigantic 'but', he could tell. "…It is your parents that I believe are the key to gaining his cooperation."

"I don't understand—"

"Come now, Sirius—you are not naive." Dumbledore smiled, blandly. "He is impressionable, they are both imposing figures, and Regulus has held them in awe his entire life. If you and your mother give him conflicting advice, who do you think him more likely to obey?"

"My mother, of course," Sirius said, bitterly. "He'd listen to her bloody every time."

"Precisely." Dumbledore looked over at the door. "We have left the three of them alone in the sitting room—this very moment your parents are likely impressing upon Regulus how he ought to act and speak going forward, and you know he will want to please them in any way he can—"

"You're right—this was stupid of me—" Sirius started toward the door. "We shouldn't have left them alone with him—"

"Wait!"

Sirius froze with his hand on the doorknob and looked back.

"Your parents are not the only ones capable of plotting in earnest," Dumbledore said—and the smile he wore now had a decidedly steely quality. "It is just as well we are here, alone, Sirius—for I want to talk to you about your next mission for the Order."

He dropped his hand from the door and turned around, slowly.

"A mission?" he asked, quietly. "What mission?"

Dumbledore looked at him, long and hard, unsmiling. Anxiety and, more real to him, excitement started to rise in his chest.

"The most important one I have ever—perhaps will ever—give you."

Sirius's eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. He felt a rush, and with the promise of action, for a moment the young wizard forgot everything else—that his parents were in the next room with a still-half dead Regulus, about his fight with James, Lily's tiny baby, destined to be born in the middle of this whole mess. He had the heady hope of the fight, the thrill, the chase.

Glory.

"What is it?" he asked, eagerly—ready to leap out the back window if Dumbledore told him to. "Just tell me where I need to go."

Dumbledore nodded, almost imperceptibly, at the door to the other room.

The balloon in Sirius's chest burst.

"…Lily wasn't just having me on, was she?" he asked, in a flat voice. He had known, in his heart, that Lily would not have made that up—and James took so little pleasure in telling him, there was no real question that it was true.

But it was so much worse to hear from Dumbledore himself, when he was looking at Sirius in that dispassionate way that brooked no argument.

"I told you my plans were twofold, Sirius—in truth, the two parts are so reliant on one another, they might just as well be said to be one." Dumbledore paused, and to Sirius it seemed as though he was giving him a chance to prepare himself for what is coming. "I believe Regulus Black can help us, that his mother and father are the key to gaining his cooperation…" Dumbledore formulated the grand finale carefully. "…And that they, in their own right, could be very valuable."

"As what?" Sirius laughed, sourly. "What on earth could they do for us?"

But Dumbledore was not to be dissuaded, and his next words were more forceful.

"It does not take much imagination to see!" Dumbledore, said, impatiently. "Even among their own social set, in the very narrow, insular world of pure-blood English wizardry, your parents hold a privileged position. They operate at the highest echelon of society, and—moreover—are of such an old and prodigious family that they are effectively above suspicion, beyond reproach."

"But what does—"

"There is a degree of arrogance in Voldemort's inner circle," Dumbledore continued, more urgently. "And behind doors—doors that would be open to your mother and father without question—plans are spoken of quite brazenly, Sirius. They, like your brother, likely already know much more than even they are aware of."

Sirius had at last caught on to what Dumbledore was driving at, but the realization of what his scheme was did little to abate the younger man's fears that the greatest living wizard in the world was certifiable.

"Are you imagining—that they'll be spies?" Sirius asked, with utmost incredulity. "That they'll…report information about their friends' Death Eater children? Learn his movements over after-dinner port with their friends and parrot it back to you?"

"Of course not," the old man said, placidly. "They would be insulted and offended beyond words if I were to even suggest it."

"Then what—"

"This—" Dumbledore said, and now, improbably, he was smiling again. "—Is where you come in."

"Me?" Sirius repeated, a sudden wave of dread and anxiety rising in him like bubbles in a cauldron. "What do you think I'm going to do?"

"Someone needs to act as liaison to the family on my behalf—" Dumbledore's eyes gleamed. "—And you are the natural choice."

Sirius's face had gone quite ashen.

"And that would entail—what, exactly?" Sirius heard himself say, though he did not feel his lips move or know when his brain had managed to formulate the words.

Dumbledore clasped his hands together in a businesslike, brisk manner.

"On a practical level, it will mean communicating everything necessary about his protection to your brother and parents…but on a personal level, and far more importantly—" The old wizard smiled. "It will mean engendering their trust."

Sirius's brow furrowed and he frowned.

"I am the person least qualified to do that, Professor Dumbledore," he said, stonily, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "In fact, if you're trying to keep my mother and father happy, then the best course of action I can recommend is to get me as bloody far away from them as humanly possible."

"That is a reflection of your own feelings, Sirius—not your parents'," Dumbledore replied, smoothly, and instantly the young man's temper flared.

"There's no difference!" Sirius sneered, balling his fists. "They don't want to have anything to do with me and the feeling's completely mutual."

"Are you so certain of that?"

Sirius stared up at the older man in utter bewilderment. What the hell was Dumbledore on about?

"Of course I am! Merlin, they disowned me—they chucked me out."

"I am loathe to correct you on this point, Sirius—but that is not what happened," Dumbledore said, quietly. "You ran away from home."

White-faced, he stared, uncomprehendingly for a moment, trying to think of a rejoinder—he fumbled for a refutation, couldn't think of one.

"Well, I mean—chucked out, ran away—"

"For a parent," Dumbledore interrupted him, gently. "You will find there is rather a large difference."

Sirius dropped his wand hand limply at his side.

"…You sound like my brother," he said, bitterly.

Sirius walked away from the door, past him and back to the window, suddenly desirous of getting as far away from Dumbledore as possible. He felt the old wizard's eyes on his back—the hair on his neck prickled.

"Regulus spoke to you about this?" he asked, with polite but sincere interest. Though he had his back to Dumbledore, Sirius still nodded. "What did he say?"

Sirius let out a sound that indicated how hard-done-by he felt.

"Oh, he was chewing me out over not being sweeter to her last night—" He twisted around and looked at Dumbledore directly. "—and then we got on the state of their 'poor hearts' after I left home, and finally he parroted some truly asinine opinions of my father's about my—mother and I."

He practically spat out the last words, then fidgeted with his jeans pockets and looked down at the floor. Dumbledore said nothing—apparently waiting for him to finish, and after a few seconds Sirius looked up again.

"He's—he's an idiot who's soft in the head. He doesn't have a clue what they really are, that's why he's so sentimental about them," he said, voice hard. "He's even fond of Kreacher, the foul little—"

"—You should not dismiss your brother's kindness to the elf," Dumbledore rebuked him, softly, but Sirius only huffed and rolled his eyes.

"Kreacher is an unctuous little toe-rag," he shot back, his voice scathing in the extreme. "Who is so devoted to my mother that I expect when she dies he will try to crawl in the coffin with her."

"Wizards have made him what he is, Sirius," Dumbledore said—and Sirius was surprised to hear a hint of anger in his voice. "He does what he is expected to do, and is a product of the attitudes of those around him—"

"And I suppose they are, too?" the young man said, furious at how unyielding Dumbledore was with him, when he was so soft on everyone else. "You'll be making that excuse for my parents, next!"

The silence in the room was punctuated by the sound of harsh breathing in and out. Sirius had not meant to shout, and now he was loathe to speak first, because he was ashamed of himself, especially because of the way Dumbledore looked at him now—with understanding.

"Unyielding, proud and difficult though they may be—" Dumbledore crossed the room to him again. "—You know they are not truly indifferent to you."

"I don't—"

"You wounded their pride immensely, Sirius—and I daresay your brother is right that you have hurt them."

"He's not—"

"Regulus may be blind to the truth of what they are," Dumbledore said, quietly. "But so, I fear, are you."

Sirius felt a lump in his throat—he tried to swallow, to get rid of it, but it would not be dislodged.

"Your parents do not hate you, Sirius," Dumbledore continued, staring hard into the younger man's eyes—challengingly. "I believe you wish they did, for it would make this all much easier for you—but alas, the workings of the human heart are rarely so simple."

Sirius bit down on his lip, blinked—but he could not seem to manage looking away.

"Whatever has happened between you, you have never stopped being their son." Dumbledore lowered his glasses, thoughtfully. "And to the impartial observer, it is blatantly obvious they missed you a great deal."

"Well, I haven't missed them," Sirius said, petulantly—and his ears burned at the fond, all too understanding smile it elicited. "What…is it you want me to do?"

"Oh—be yourself, I think," Dumbledore said, casually. "You're a resourceful wizard, I think the rest will fall into place soon enough."

Sirius stuck a finger in his ear and mimed digging out wax, as if he hadn't quite properly heard Dumbledore.

"Sorry—you think I should 'be myself'?" Dumbledore had pulled a pack of sweets out of his robes, and so missed his young friend the expression of profound disbelief. "That's exactly what they don't want me to be!"

"I'm not so sure. You have much to recommend you, you know," Dumbledore held out a sweet to him which Sirius took, mindlessly, still gaping. "Unfortunate views aside, I would say, on the whole, your mother and father quite like the firstborn son they were given."

Sirius let out a sound like a scalded cat. Nothing the man was saying made sense—like him? There was not a single thing about him they didn't hate!

"I'm sorry, professor—I don't understand you," he said, regaining control of his mind and body again (the tremor in his hand was gone.) "I'm really going to need more to go on than that—"

"I know it will not be easy," Dumbledore insisted, with a tad more force. "But I have every confidence in you. You can do this."

"No, sir—I really don't think I can—"

"Then who will?" Dumbledore pushed, the iron back in his voice. "I have already sworn to your brother that no one else be told, I have precious few alternatives. Do you think Lily or Remus suited to the task?" The question was steeped in polite skepticism. "Would they be better at handling them than you?"

"Anyone would be better at handling them than me!"

"I watched you deftly outmaneuver your father just now, Sirius," Dumbledore steamrolled over his protests. "You understand him—can disarm him quite naturally. Even if I had the whole Order at my disposal for this, you would still be the one I would ask to do it."

"The only thing I understand is how to annoy them," Sirius grumbled—but Dumbledore was fast losing his patience. The old man's word has become clipped, hurried—those of a general giving marching orders to his soldier, not a former professor speaking to a favorite pupil.

Dumbledore let out a long, rattling sigh and began to pace the kitchen.

"Consider our position! Neither one of us is blind to what they are—I need someone I can trust, who knows them, their ways and customs, how they are likely to act. You, in other words!" Sirius stepped backwards at the unexpected vehemence in Dumbledore's voice. "The pureblood son of a noble house—"

"Something I never wanted to be—!"

"—But it is what you are," Dumbledore cut him off, dispassionately. "And it is what gives you such immense value. Beyond the protection I can provide their son—and they believe me to be such a soft-hearted fool that I will do that no matter what—you are all I have to offer them."

He went white. Sirius had an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach at the way that Dumbledore had just described him—something he "had to offer."

As if he were a rare jewel to be bartered—or a poker chip.

"I'm not going to…to pretend to have mended my ways, and start spouting off pure-blood bilge just to please them," Sirius said, horrified and disgusted. "I'm not going to abandon my principles just to get scraps of information—"

"I did not ask you to—nor would I, as it would not work," the Headmaster replied, cooly—almost insulted. "Your parents are too clever and know you far too well to believe it. They would see at once that you were acting on my orders."

"Then what exactly am I supposed to do?"

"Be kind and polite to them, for a start," Dumbledore said, walking back over to the door. "Let go of your open hostility."

The audience was drawing to a close—everything about Dumbledore's posture, tone, voice, spoke to the truth—that he, at least, thought there was very little left to say on this matter.

Sirius thought there was a great fucking deal left to say.

"I am not capable of letting go of my hostility towards them—"

"—Yes, you are!" Dumbledore snapped, rounding on him, angrily. "It is a defensive posture—one I suspect you have taken up to guard yourself against them!"

Sirius froze in shock, and Dumbledore kept speaking—now he sounded tired and weary—almost as weary as Sirius felt.

"I do not give you this task lightly. I know that it is difficult—that they have hurt you very badly." Dumbledore sighed. "That I still feel it necessary to ask it of you should give you an indication of how important the success of this mission is."

Sirius stared up at him, quietly, his expression distant and stony.

"What's—how would you recommend I be kind to them, then?" He managed to infuse the words with a great deal of contempt.

"In small ways. It would not mean compromising your principles—" Dumbledore looked thoughtfully around the kitchen, searching for an example. "—If you were to, for example, take care to wear wizard clothing around them. That is what they are used to and comfortable with, after all. I rather like what you are wearing, myself—" He smiled at Sirius's Order teeshirt. "—But I can see how it might, erm, offend your mother's sensibilities."

Sirius took a forced, calming breath—but it did not have the desired effect.

"—Are you ordering me to wear robes to please my mother, sir?" he asked, his voice frigid.

"Of course not," Dumbledore said, pointedly ignoring Sirius's rudeness and that his shoulders were practically shaking with fury. "That was merely one suggestion."

Dumbledore put his hand on the doorknob and Sirius felt a wave of panicky desperation.

"I cannot do this, Professor Dumbledore!" Sirius pleaded. "I can't—I'm sorry, I don't—I can't—"

"You really think you're incapable of it?" Dumbledore asked, no pity in his voice. "You are not even willing to try?"

"I'll do anything else, sir—" Sirius walked over to him, forced himself to look Dumbledore in the eye, make him see what a bad idea this was. "You know I would do anything—"

"—Except the one thing I have asked you to." Dumbledore paused and considered him, and even before he spoke Sirius felt very small. "When you joined the Order of the Phoenix, you told me that you would take any mission I gave you without question."

"I did, but—"

"Forgive me…perhaps when you made that vow to me, you believed the only missions I would send you on involved dueling five Death Eaters at once."

The accusation was clear and stung Sirius badly; he instantly lashed out.

"I didn't think you'd be asking me to offer myself up as a human sacrifice to a pair of bloodsuckers!"

His savage angry words hung in the air between them.

"Is that truly what you think this task is tantamount to?" Dumbledore asked, calmly.

Sirius only glared at him, his jaw rigid, heart pounding wildly fast.

"I cannot force you to do it, of course. The choice is—and always has been—your own. I had only hoped you would make a different one."

Every word dripped with Dumbledore's deep and profound disappointment.

"Sir…" he protested, weakly—he could not stand the way Dumbledore was looking at him, with a mixture of pity and regret. It reminded him, uncomfortably, of the way his headmaster had looked the night Sirius had almost been expelled. "I don't…"

"Listen to me, Sirius. What your brother did took all the strength and bravery he could muster, and he nearly died for it."

The old man stepped very closely to Sirius—now staring at the floor—and touched him gently on the shoulder. The boy looked up, eyes wide.

"Like you, he did not have to. You have both chosen to defy Voldemort, in spite of what you are. Regulus did not allow his prejudices to blind him to evil, or what needed to be done." Sirius's lip trembled. "I would hate—for you to allow yours to blind you."

Sirius did not think there was a single thing that Dumbledore could have said to him in that moment that could have wounded him more deeply than that. He blinked away—something in his eyes, stared down at the wand in his hand, then back at the door to the sitting room.

The old wizard was looking right through him, and the feeling of misery and shame he felt at having let him down hurt almost as much as his wounded pride.

He let out the longest sigh of his life.

"…I'll do it."