Black Mask

by Ieyre

Christmas 1979—danger, secrets, lies and their shared history loom large over the Blacks' first Yuletide season as a reunited family. While life as a fugitive proves bleaker—and more boring—than Regulus could have imagined, a botched espionage mission at Malfoy Manor draws Sirius deeper into the Black family web. [Sequel to 'In the Black']

11. Chapter 11

"Get off the bike!" he bellowed at the smirking youths, who sat basking in the flashing blue light as though enjoying it.

They did as they were told. Finally pulling free from the broken wind mirror, Fisher glared at them. They seemed to be in their late teens. The one who had been driving had long black hair; his insolent good looks reminded Fisher unpleasantly of his daughter's guitar-playing, layabout boyfriend.

-J.K. Rowling, The Unnamed Harry Potter Prequel

---

CHAPTER 11

---

"Well—what do you think?"

Colette hardly heard his question. From the moment the motorcycle had touched on the roof of the manor her companion told her was called 'Kenwood House', she had not been able to take her eyes off the magnificent cityscape below them.

"C'est magnifique."

She turned towards him, her cheek dimpled with excitement. Ms. Battancourt's enthusiasm for the view evidently satisfied her new friend, for he grinned and threw his helmet haphazardly in the sidecar and walked over to join her in contemplating it.

"I told you." He settled himself comfortably on the ridge of the building next to her. "Best view in London—easy."

Colette didn't know enough about the relative merits of viewing spots to argue—but she did think this one was marvelous. The entire city of London lay in the distance. She could see the dome of a great cathedral, the Houses of Parliament—the River Thames, and hundreds—thousands of houses, all lit up like fairy lights.

"It's so much bigger than I thought," she murmured, in wonder. "I did not realize how enormous it was."

"All it takes is a different perspective," a light voice murmured in her ear. Colette jumped and turned. The wizard was only about a foot away, observing her taking in the sight of the city. When Colette looked over, he smiled—not the cheeky grin she'd already grown accustomed to, but with a kind of melancholy she thought she recognized.

"I imagine you apparated in, or took a portkey—you never see the whole picture, traveling that way."

He turned his face, following her gaze to the city in the distance.

"I sometimes feel as though wizards prefer not to see the whole picture."

The words were tinged with unexpected bitterness. Colette fidgeted with her reticule, momentarily at a loss.

"I wish I—could've flown a broom in," the girl remarked, lightly, examining her more immediate surroundings—if for no other reason than it gave her an excuse not to keep staring directly at him. "But I suppose—it is not done, these days."

The stranger turned back towards her—smiling once more. She felt a pang of relief at this return to his usual pleasant manner. It was far easier to keep him at arm's length when he was acting this way—this part.

The mercurial man he'd been—the one she was beginning to suspect was closer to his true self—he was far harder for Colette to handle. She sat down on the roof, hugging her knees. She could stay here watching the twinkling city for hours.

"Oh, a few wizards and witches will risk it—they'll go high, or use a Disillusionment charm. Besides—if you like flying, Elvira should've been good enough for you." He laughed at the look of confusion on her face and jabbed a thumb at the motorcycle. "That's the bike—her name."

He walked over to it and patted the seat—as if it were a horse. Colette struggled to keep a straight face. She knew she ought to have protested more—but once one got over the noise, the strange contraption really was not so much different from flying a broom. That didn't mean she'd be volunteering that she'd gotten in the sidecar of one to her parents, of course.

"So—you will tell me the bike's name, but not your own."

The smile fell from his lips. Colette's eyes sparkled with mischief—though there was also a glimmer of challenge there. She did not fear retaliation for teasing him—in fact, most of the time she felt quite at ease with this wizard. He had such easy manners, one could almost forget he was exceptionally handsome and that one knew next to nothing about him.

One almost could.

"Awfully impatient, aren't you?" He studied her, coolly. "I thought we were having a good time—"

"I did not come out here for the view—or your company, however pleasant they may be." The wizard mimed an arrow to the heart, but she ignored it and plowed on— "I came because you said we needed solitude to speak frankly, but now—" Colette gestured at the wooded area of the Heath that surrounded them. "—I wonder if there is something else you had in mind. That you thought you might—distract me from my purpose."

His handsome face turned churlish—it made him look far younger, like a boy who has not gotten his way. Colette laughed inwardly. She was sure the imposter was not accustomed to young witches who were not ready and willing to be distracted by his many charms, and he found her insistence on reminding him of the terms of their agreement irritating.

Colette would stay the course—keep her head, no matter how good-looking he thought he was. She knew what she was about.

"Alright, I get the picture—you're very determined. I'm just—" He waved his hand vaguely about his head. "—Working my way up to it, okay?"

"Working your way up to what?"

He threw himself down next to her, throwing one languid arm over the edge of the roof-ridge.

"The truth," he answered, a trifle melancholy. "Have no fear, Ms. Battancourt. I'm sure you'll have your answers before the evening's through."

She stared at him a moment, surprised by the abrupt turn in his mood—then a thought occurred, at first silly, but she could not shake it for the life of her—

"Are you afraid to tell me who you are, sir?"

He sat bolt upright—alert, wary—defensive—a near-instant transformation.

"I am not afraid of—"

It was the sight of her bright blue eyes staring up at him, innocently watching, that froze Sirius in his tracks.

He broke off mid-sentence, scowling—cross with himself for the slip. He had been about to say that he was not afraid of anything, but that was laughably untrue—and she was the last person he believed he could fool. He was afraid of many things—true, they were not the conventional sort of boogey men, but they haunted him all the same.

The spot he'd brought her to was one of the many refuges he'd found as a teenager—a place he'd used to hide when life at Grimmauld Place became—too much. Three years gone, he still took comfort in this view of London—far away and dreamlike.

It lent the illusion of distance.

"It's nothing to do with fear—precisely," he said, at last, blinking and turning away. "I'm just—more interested in you, that's all."

Sirius could feel her eyes on him. He didn't think for a second Colette Battancourt bought it—as she'd been seeing through him since they'd met, that was no surprise. He cleared his throat and looked back at her.

A pair of limpid blue eyes stared up at him.

"I'm curious about how you managed to get out of the house undetected," Sirius continued, blandly.

She raised one eyebrow, amused.

"You did not think I would make it?" Colette asked, mock-offended.

"I thought you had about a fifty-fifty shot—an even chance." He pulled out the bottle he'd stashed in his coat at the flat and unscrewed the lid. "How'd you pull it off?"

"I followed your suggestion, of course." She watched him take a swig and wrinkled her nose when he held it out to her.

"Not as interesting as what was in my flask last night, I'll confess." He saluted her, with some irony. "À votre santé." Sirius set the bottle down on a narrow ledge, perching it precariously for easy access—lest his new friend change her mind. "What, you mean you found the secret passage that leads down to the kitchen? Oo-la-la—quite a sleuth you are, mademoiselle." He leaned over, propping his chin on the palm of his hand. "I have to admit—I'm impressed."

Colette nodded—and under his hot scrutiny, found herself blushing again, in spite of all her determination not to let him see the truth—that she was scared.

He seemed to read her mind, for his look turned shrewd.

"All this sneaking around—out of door, after hours—and you coming up to me at the party last night—this is all out of the usual way for you, isn't it?"

"What—makes you think that?" she retorted, primly. He snorted.

"Young ladies who go to foreign lands to find a husband on their mothers' orders are generally thought to be good girls."

Her cheeks colored in the moonlight. He had made the last two words sound like an insult—and what's more, she felt the sting of it!

"I don't know what came over me," she admitted. "I suppose it is because I never met a man in—disguise before."

"So—I bring this out in you?" He smiled, wickedly. "Interesting."

"I did not say that!" she snapped back, annoyed. "I merely meant—it was the situation."

"How many other men have you accosted?" Sirius examined his fingernails, taking care not to let her see that he was gauging her reaction out of the corner of his eye. "In disguise or—not?"

Ms. Battancourt decided to take that moment smooth her skirts.

"None," she said, in the direction of her wrinkled flounces.

"Well, there you are."

She looked up—annoyed and embarrassed.

"You like to believe you are the center of all things, non?" Colette asked, coldly. "I think you are a very arrogant man."

Sirius was not bothered in the slightest by this aspersion cast on his character. He sat up and tilted his face, smiling at her in the 'dreamy' way that had, in the callow days of his youth, made even the iciest witches' hearts melt.

In this case, the glacier didn't so much as budge.

"You wouldn't be the first to say it—" he remarked, his voice taking on a sardonic tone he vaguely recognized as being unconscious mimicry of Orion. "And after all, your mother did warn you about my type."

"Well, she was quite right—"

"—So you do think there's a connection between arrogance and handsomeness?" He interrupted her, innocently. "In young men, I mean."

All previous blushes paled in comparison with the crimson that now flooded her cheeks. Colette felt a wave of indignation and embarrassment at being caught out so. She opened her mouth to throw another sharp and stinging retort at him—but then she saw the look in his eyes—and at the exact same moment, they both burst out into peels of laughter.

"I'm sorry, it's not you—it's just the look on your face—" He clapped his hands together. "It's priceless!"

He had a large, barking laugh that filled the air around them. Not for a second did he seem alarmed that his howling laugh would draw the attention of anyone—it was infectious.

She smothered a giggle with one hand, her embarrassment gone in an instant. His impudence would not have been as easy to forgive in a less intriguing wizard. Colette could not help herself being interested in him—for he was, beneath his dashing exterior—interesting. She had never met someone who was so naturally charismatic—but every so often when she was with him, the mask would slip, and she caught a glimpse of the wild and reckless boy that she was fast becoming certain he was.

The boy who was far less sure of himself than he wanted the world to see.

Their laughter petered out slowly, leaving both the young man and woman smiling—cheeks pink.

"How did you really do it?" He scooted a little closer to her, still grinning. All his strange melancholy was gone away—and Colette found herself relieved at that. He was far more dangerous without the mask than he was with it.

"If you are capable of keeping secrets, why can't I?"

He gave her what could only be described as a lethal smile.

"Tell me, mademoiselle—please, if you would be so kind." He bowed from the waist—she smothered another giggle. "I can see you making your way to the kitchen alright—but I can't figure out how you managed to get out of the fireplace—"

"—Because Mrs. Black has enchantments on the Floo jar, which inform her when anyone uses it?"

He did a double take, then nodded. Her smile turned unrepentant and—if she could ever be called wicked, wicked grin.

"My mother does the exact same thing." Colette plunged a hand into her reticule—and pulled out a small, clear bottle filled to the brim with glittering powder. "Which is why I always carry my own."

He was at first shocked—then delighted at this revelation.

"I guess I had you pegged all wrong!" he proclaimed, voice amused. "You aren't a good, well-behaved girl at all—you know all the tricks." He rubbed his hands together, and he wiggled his eyebrows, teasingly. "I bet back in France you sneak out every other night."

"I do not!" she replied, affronted—then smiled once more, mischievously. "Not very often, anyway. If I sneaked out every night, my family would know that I could do it—and that I wanted to."

Her new friend pondered this, stroking his chin like an scholar would.

"Very sound logic," he remarked, dryly. "I see how it is. You're good at playing demure."

"It's a talent I've cultivated," she admitted, pride swelling in her breast. She had never met a boy she thought she could risk confessing that fact to—let alone one who was impressed with it. It was a very heady feeling. "It's useful to sometimes—hold back what you are thinking."

"I've never had much time for it, myself." He folded his hands behind his head and leaned back on the roof. "I prefer the direct approach."

"How far has that gotten you?"

He blew air out of his lips.

"Not very," he said, voice rueful.

Colette laughed—the girl could well imagine. Her expression turned decidedly mischievous.

"I could help you with that."

Sirius looked askance at her.

"What do you think I need help with, exactly, Ms. Battancourt?"

"Not being noticed," she replied, smartly. "And—perhaps with restraining your tongue? I suspect you are the sort of man who is used to making of himself an exhibition."

He tossed his head, annoyed.

"The expression you're looking for is 'spectacle', and I'll have you know I'm the height of restraint."

One once-over of his choice in clothing was all it took to show what she thought of that dubious claim. When Sirius saw where she was looking, he scowled.

"Other people happen to like my jacket," he remarked, moodily. "And my jeans—and boots."

"I think you were better dressed last night."

"What, in that great heavy fur-lined brocaded monstrosity?" he asked, offended. "Do you actually like that sort of thing?"

Colette had to keep herself from bursting out laughing again—he looked horrified at the thought.

"It was very…distinguished," she fibbed, enjoying how offended he seemed by her supposed preference for the Nord's fancy dress robes. "Not like these Muggle clothes of yours, that you are wearing for goodness knows what reason."

"The reason is that we are out in the Muggle world, and anyway—they are my preferred mode of dress and are perfectly—"

Sirius cut himself off, realizing almost too late the danger in continuing to justify his choice in clothing to her. That would be acknowledging that her opinion on what he wore mattered, which of course it didn't.

She waved her purse in the general vicinity of his outfit.

"Well I think—you look, in a word—ridicule."

"Why?"

"Because you are a wizard," she said, reasonably. "And a wizard should dress as what he is."

He opened his mouth to argue—but could evidently think of nothing to say to that, for he shut it again.

Colette smiled, secretly—confident that she'd won a round in their game of verbal sparring and gotten in the last word. He brought out a bold side of her—though she was sure there was a part of her that would always feel a little self-conscious, he was so fearless by comparison, one felt as though very little honestly said would shock him. They sat in comfortable silence, side-by-side, for a few moments—contemplating the stars, until the distant sound of voices in the trees broke into their tête-à-tête.

Sirius glanced over his shoulder, at first alarmed by the noise—until he spotted the unmistakeable light of torches being waved about, two hundred yards away. A few Muggle teens on holiday from school, probably smoking and fooling around in the extensive woods of Hampstead Heath.

He stood up and climbed up the chimney, to get a better look—just to be sure.

"Who is it?"

He looked down at her. Colette Battancourt had stood up, and her face betrayed unmistakable anxiety at the distant sounds of revery. The hood of her cloak had fallen off, revealing her hair—which Sirius noted, amused—was done in a stylish, braided up-do, bright green ribbon threaded through it.

"Just some kids—Muggles. They're the only ones who ever come up here at night—apart from the guard down below, in Kenmore House. We're more of a danger to them than they are to us." He jumped down from the chimney without warning, startling her. Sirius shot her a sly look. "I like how you've fixed up your hair. Very elegant. Big improvement over how it was done last night."

Colette shrugged her shoulder and affected an expression of utmost disinterest.

"Thank you—that's meant as a compliment, I'm sure," she said, stiffly. "It is—just something I am trying out."

"I take it Mrs. Malfoy did it for you?" He continued, walking around the back to get a better look. "Or do you have a maid? It's obviously not your handiwork."

She clenched her fist, irritated—though why him guessing she couldn't braid her own hair to save her life should bother her, Colette didn't know, precisely.

"Why is it obviously not?" The girl demanded, annoyed. "Why do you think I cannot do my own hair—"

"—If you could do your hair this well yourself, you'd have fixed it up for the party." He stepped back, getting the full picture. "Nah—the way it's all tucked in so neat—this has to be a Narcissa job. These sorts of things are her speciality—"

"—I do not think you know Mrs. Malfoy nearly as well as you say you do," Colette interrupted him, coolly—and she turned her nose up in the air, a fair impression of Narcissa. "And I think you are most disagreeable about her."

Sirius rolled his eyes while she couldn't see.

"What's there to know?" Ms. Battancourt glared with unexpected fierceness, so he threw up his hands—a sign of surrender. "I'm sorry—I know you're staying with her, but I keep forgetting you're chums. You're just—so different." He eyed the hairstyle with newfound suspicion. "I bet she's looking to make you over into a miniature version of herself."

Colette tossed her head.

"She is just—" She hesitated. "—Just trying to help me."

"You don't need any help." His eyes shone with a sudden surge of fierce emotion. Colette colored again—not from embarrassment, this time—but just as quickly the flame in his eyes went out. "At least—not from her."

The French girl suddenly found it very difficult to look him directly in the face. They petered out into silence—now a tad more self-conscious on both sides.

"Can I ask you something?" She heard him shift next to her, so she turned her head. He was looking at her, peculiarly. "Something—personal?"

"You may," she answered, still a tad irked from the argument they'd had around the subject of Mrs. Malfoy. "I may not choose to answer."

Sirius nodded—that was fair, she was entitled to that. He examined her a long time, as if she were a riddle he was trying to work out.

"Do you really want to get married?"

She blinked her large blue eyes—even by just the light of the moon, Sirius could see the blueness—and pondered the question.

As she thought about it, she tried—with some difficulty—to ignore the hard stare. After a minute, Colette—biting her lip—answered him.

"Yes. I do—" Her breath caught in her throat. "—Eventually." Colette fluttered her eyelashes and looked up in his face, now without a hint of sarcasm or irony. "What else is there?"

"Plenty!" The stranger shot back, with a passion than shocked Colette. "You're only—what, eighteen?"

"I shall have to marry eventually," Colette pointed out, passing over his rather uncouth mentioning of her age. "If—if my parents think it is better that it is sooner, who am I to argue with them?"

She might've just spewed forth a string of the most filthy language, for the vehemence of his reaction.

"You're only the person who'll actually have to live with their decision!"

"I want children," she continued, sensibly—the words almost more to herself than him. He grimaced, annoyed at her side-stepping his indignant outburst on her behalf. "More than one—perhaps a few." Colette turned to him, lips turned up in a sad smile. "You see, I had no brothers or sisters, and I always wished for them."

He threw himself back down on the edge of the roof with a cynical laugh.

"Believe me, they're vastly overrated," her companion muttered.

Smoothing the skirts of her robes, she settled back down on the roof next to him. Colette eyed the imposter, curiously. He so rarely volunteered anything about himself unprompted—

—She must've touched a nerve.

"How many do you have?" Colette asked, her voice knowing. At this question, he ran his fingers through his hair.

"Just one—" He rolled his eyes good-naturedly at the thought of the sibling in question. "He's enough, though."

"And does he think you are as disagreeable as you seem to think him?"

"No—he thinks I'm far worse," he admitted, with a laugh. "Okay, fine—so you want children."

Sirius thought of Lily, and her repeated dismal attempts to knit a baby-sized mitten. Failure hadn't kept her from trying, or being excited at her incremental improvements in her technique—birds were so strange about babies. He was excited about his godchild, sure—but he wasn't going barking mad and filling up his flat with tiny and deformed wool socks.

"That makes sense, I guess—most girls do. But you can't tell me you're excited at their prospective father being some bloke your parents picked out for you."

The witch frowned. When it was put that way, her situation did seem rather—flat.

"This is how things are done in my family and—anyway, Maman and Père are my parents," she emphasized the word. "They only want want what is best for me."

"Just because they think it's best for you, doesn't mean it is." He turned up his lip and dug his hands hard into the pockets of his jacket, looking cynical. "And anyway—them being your parents doesn't mean much. Having children doesn't make most people any less self-interested."

Colette instantly saw red. Who was he to say such things about her family, her parents, their way of life?

"Well, my mother feels very strongly about it—so that should be quite enough for you!" She scrambled to her feet, wobbling on the uneven eaves of the roof—he rose and caught her arm to steady her, but Colette jerked it out of his grip. "I have never been so insulted in all my life! How dare you call my—you should be taken out in the street—"

She broke off into a series of more violent French exclamations, as her English was apparently limited to the polite words one could call a gentleman with impunity.

Sirius threw up his hands—he'd known the second he'd tossed off those thoughtless words they'd be received poorly, but he had not expected the girl to lose her temper like this. The Colette Battancourt in front of him was spitting mad, far angrier than he'd seen her—and not in the affected, missish way of a girl in the ballroom surrounded by society, acting prim and offended when the situation merited it.

She was very defensive of her family—or perhaps of herself, for sticking by them.

His defensive gesture only made her raise her wand.

"Hey, hey, hey—calm down, now—I wasn't insulting anyone. Don't get your back up—" He soothed. Ms. Battancourt lowered her weapon, but she continued to glare at him, eyes blazing. Attempting to charm a smile out of her, he picked his bottle of liqueur back up and handed it out to Colette. She stared at it with deep distrust—then back at his face.

"…How about a peace offering?"

"I already told you I did not want any!" Colette snapped, her voice peevish. He sloshed the bottle in front of her and bobbed his head in motion with it, playfully. Against all better judgement, the girl's resolve broke, and her lips turned up in an involuntary smile.

"Please have a drink—if only for my sake." She wrinkled her nose and sniffed. "It's not strong stuff—but it will do wonders for softening you in your agitated state, and I fear that is the only way you'll find it in your heart to forgive me."

"Oh, well—" He looked so forlorn, and even though she knew the rapscallion was faking it entirely, it had an arresting effect on her 'soft heart'. Colette snatched the bottle from his hand. "Fine. I shall—try a little." The girl glared suspiciously at him. "Just a little."

She took a cautious sip. It was sweet, and he was right—the effect of warming her chest was near-instant.

"I'm sorry I offended you," Sirius said, taking the bottle back and drinking a little himself. She 'hmmed' in the back of her throat and glared in the opposite direction.

"I'm really not trying to—judge you. Or suggest your parents don't—think they're doing you a favor. It's just—" Sirius stopped himself. "That is—I just want to understand."

"I do not see what confuses you so," she said, stiffly. "Such arrangements happen all the time."

"It's not the marriage that's baffling—it's you agreeing to it without, apparently, a second thought."

At this impertinence, she whipped her head around.

"Who are you to say that I have never had a second thought about it, hm?" She jabbed him in the chest. "For your information, monsieur, I have considered the matter very carefully." She waved her wand at him—he seemed less fearful than bemused by the action (did he think her too well-bred to curse him? Ha!) which only wound Colette up more. He was so maddening! "—And if it is not—the—the grandest dream, or perhaps everything I would have ever wished for—well, it is my decision and you have no…"

Realizing her slip—what she had admitted to him—Colette trailed off, weakly.

A knowing smile spread over his face. She grabbed the bottle back and took another drink—this time instead of the dainty sip, a far sloppier swig. It took all Sirius's self-control not to laugh as some dribbled inelegantly down her chin.

"Hey—easy there. Pace yourself." He gently pried the bottle from her grip. "We don't want you losing your head."

"I am not in danger of losing my anything. I can handle a glass or—two." She hiccuped, right on cue. "Of port, or whatever that is."

"Yeah, you look like a real hard drinker, Ms. Battancourt," He leaned back and gave her an appraising look. "You're so small a light breeze would probably carry you off."

Colette harrumphed. She was not that petite—but she supposed that, as he was over half a foot taller than she—and certainly more muscular, a fact she only knew because of his utterly unsuitable Muggle clothing, which left little of his frame to the imagination, as robes would've—she probably seemed quite dainty.

"You know, you can admit it to me—even if you can't to your mother and father." He looked over the edge of the bottle, considering her thoughtfully. "Unless you haven't admitted it yet to yourself."

"What precisely is it you think I should admit, sir?"

"That you're only doing this to please them—" he replied, flatly, taking a swig. "That you have thoughts and ideas that are your own, and not theirs."

He waited, steeling himself for another tirade—but it didn't come. When he turned his head to look at her, he found those blue eyes watching him thoughtfully—considering the meaning of his words with a frankness that he found a tad disconcerting.

"What does it matter to you what I think?" Ms. Battancourt asked, quietly. "Or what I do—who I marry?" She leaned forward, suddenly—and to her surprise—and amusement—he was so surprised by the action he bumped his head against the side of the roof. "Why should you care at all?"

"It doesn't—I mean, I don't—not really." He cleared his throat. "That is—I have my opinions, of course."

"And what are they?" She hiccuped again—embarrassed, Colette pulled a little handkerchief from her reticule and delicately stifled another cough. "Do not hold back now. What is it you think?"

She threw the silk article down on her lap, fully expecting him to throw off one of his usual silly, flippant little lines—but he didn't.

"That you haven't thought all this through," her companion told her, his voice gentle—but serious. "And if you did—you'd realize—it's not what you want."

His look was so intense—his words so sure—that she blushed.

"I…do not know what you're talking about," Colette said, looking away. She caught a glimpse of his smile of recognition before she turned her head.

"Alright—for the sake of argument, let's puzzle this out—together." He sat up and crossed his legs underneath him. "This life you're imagining—this marriage by parental decree you're so dead-set on." She tilted her head, giving him permission to go on with his impertinent speech, though her cheeks were still rosy—less from embarrassment than from the warm drink spreading from her chest to her arms and legs, which were now tingling pleasantly. She was very curious where he was going with all this. "Your two top contenders are Rabastan Lestrange and—who was it, again—Regulus Black?"

He knew full-well who the second person was, Colette thought, frowning—but she nodded. Her friend let out a low whistle, but refrained from commenting directly on her options—though she read his opinion well enough in his face to let out a little huff—a sound he promptly ignored.

"Now, tell me honestly—" He paused for effect. "Does the thought of marriage to either of them excite you in the slightest?"

The girl bit her lip, resting her chin on both hands in the manner of a girl in thoughtful repose—Sirius couldn't believe it—she was actually thinking about it!

That answers that question.

It only took her about fifteen seconds to come to the same conclusion.

"No," she answered, baldly. "But—I don't think marriage is supposed to be about excitement."

"Well, the way you're going about it, it isn't!" Sirius exclaimed, annoyed. On impulse he decided, to try a different approach. "I mean—if you had your pick between the two, which would you prefer as a husband?"

"Oh, Regulus Black, I think," Colette said, automatically. "I should definitely prefer him."

She could see at once that he did not like her answer one bit—though she couldn't imagine why her preferring Regulus over Rabastan should bother him, since he seemed to hold them both in such low esteem.

"That was a quick response!" Sirius said, unmistakable annoyance creeping into his voice. "Why? I suppose it's because he's coming into more gold—will have a larger estate—"

"Non—I do not care anything for money!" she interrupted him, sharply. Taken aback, he smiled—and held the bottle out to her again. Colette hesitated—and then closed her hand around the neck of the bottle and tugged it out of his hand again. "He is just—my mother's preferred choice. And he is younger, a little—less intimidating—and…"

Colette looked down at the bottle in her hand, then up at her companion—whose handsome face was fixed in an expression of sincere expectation.

"…And he seems like he'd be easier to bully," she admitted, in a small voice.

Sirius stared at her, not quite sure if he'd heard right—but when he saw the sheepish, embarrassed smile on Colette Battancourt's face when she realized she'd worked up the nerve to say what she'd been thinking, he laughed. After a moment—and when she realized he was not laughing at her—her grin broadened.

"Is that high on your list of requirements for a prospective husband, Ms. Battancourt?" he asked, delighted. "I'm not saying you're wrong in your assessment, but it's not—a typical trait I hear a high premium placed on, as far as the marriage market goes."

"Well, it seems to be a quality my mother values," she replied, tartly, still staring down at the half-empty bottle. "Though she has never—confided this to me. I can—can tell."

The laughter died in his face as he realized the implication of Colette's words. Sirius watched the girl tap the bottle, playing with the peeling label, with her index finger.

In Vino Veritas, eh?

Sirius gently plucked the bottle from her hand and stashed it back in his coat.

"Of course, you still have the same problem."

She looked up from her lap.

"What problem?"

"The prospective mother-in-law, of course." He raised an eyebrow, the ghost of a laugh still on his face. "Now that you've spent some time with her you understand better what I meant."

She sniffed. Really, he could vex her like no one else.

"Just as you are wrong about Narcissa, you are wrong about her aunt," Colette told him—and her prim manner made him smile. "I do not think Madame Black is nearly so—"

"—'Black as I paint her'?" he supplied, innocently. Colette curled her legs up to her chest and hugged them closer. He pulled out his wand, and with a wave, conjured a strong blue flame in the palm of his hand, which he gently deposited in a small glass jar he extracted from his coat. She warmed her hands on it, appreciatively. "You've never seen her angry, miss. She's got the worst temper of any matron in this country by a mile. It's a sight to behold."

"I assume you speak from experience," Colette replied, dryly. "I wonder what you did, to provoke her so?"

Rather than answer this loaded question, he ducked his head down and rifled around in his bag. After a moment he pulled out the packet of crisps and shoved them unceremoniously into her hands. The girl looked down at the packet, confused—then up at him.

"Have a crisp." He ripped the top off the packet and held it out. Colette eyed it with suspicion—the packaging was so garish and inelegant, it screamed 'Muggle contraband'.

"Why?"

"They're good." He grabbed one himself and shoved it in his mouth, chewing to illustrate this fact. "And they'll soak up that muscatel you've imbibed and sober you, so you'll stop asking me such cheeky questions."

Her cheek dimpled, and the witch stuck her hand in the bag and pulled out a hearty handful, flashing him a saucy look as she did so. It occurred to Sirius that this girl had more natural talent for 'the game' than she realized—she could probably learn to play it very well, if she put her mind to it, and get whatever rich and well-born husband she wanted.

He didn't like the thought of that at all.

"So—your mum and dad." Her back stiffened—he cleared his throat but continued, though very cautiously. "I guess…they were matched up by your grandparents."

"Of course," Colette said, sounding a little like she was getting a cold. "Just like everyone in our family."

"And are they happy, Ms. Battancourt?" he pressed, gently. She let out a little sigh.

"They are—they are well enough." She suddenly seemed very interested in the tiles of the roof. "They are content, they—manage—even though things are not always easy back home."

"Because of the troubles with your father's estate?"

She dropped the crisps bag in shock—luckily he was quick, and caught it before those precious treasures tumbled over the eaves and into the grass below.

"Where did you hear about that?" she asked, incredulous.

"I have my sources." Sirius tapped his forehead with one gloved finger. "Confidential."

This answer did not satisfy her.

"What sources?" Colette demanded, scooting closer to him. "Who dares talk to you about me?"

He smirked—clearly at a private joke. Impossible boy!

"A little birdie—he told me the problem has something to do with you not being able to inherit." Before she even had a chance to answer— "Let me guess—your father's estate is entailed upon the male line, isn't it?"

Her mouth dropped in shock. He plucked the crisp bag from her hands before she let it slip again, and waste the precious bounty inside.

"But—how did you know?"

His expression darkened, almost imperceptibly.

"Oh, I know all about entails. I'm entangled in a battle over one myself." He leaned forward in a confidential manner. "It's a problem we share. They're positively medieval, aren't they?"

She picked at the embroidery on her cloak. Ms. Battancourt peaked up at him, curiosity piqued—what possible problem could he have with an entail? She wondered how many crisps she would have to eat before she could get away asking another 'cheeky question'.

"Well—they have their purposes," Colette said, trying to be fair. "Keeping estates together, securing dynasties—"

"Keeping the rich richer and the freethinkers in line," he muttered, leaning his head back on the roof and propping it up with his hands. "Medieval, like I said. Is that why your mother is pushing the marriage?"

"No—well, not—in part. Even if Père had a son, his allowance was never very great—but we have the farm and that—helps," Colette admitted, softly. "She wanted the entail broken, so that I could inherit the estate—pass it on to any children I have, sons or daughters. It has been the Norman branch of the Battancourt's home for almost two centuries. Unfortunately—"

Colette's voice broke. She had been trying to speak soberly, to keep her emotions in check—this was life, and there was no point in crying over it, as her grandmother was so fond of telling her. What was, was—and though she would never be satisfied reading a story without a just ending, the French girl knew life wasn't always so fair. She could only look forward—with the eminently practical good sense her grandmama had instilled in her—and make the best of things.

She didn't dare look at him, and—to her intense relief—he didn't interrupt.

"Unfortunately—the head of our family, whose son will inherit—he wishes to sell it off when Père is—the family needs the gold, you see. It's very complicated, I'm sure I don't understand all the details of the—financial arrangements," she added, hastily, when she looked up and saw the expression on his face. Her companion was unnaturally still, but his eyes danced with something altogether foreign to her. "But Maman and Jean—that is the head—they quarreled very badly over it all. They had a falling out last year, when I came of age, because she wanted the will to be changed, and needed his permission, which he would not grant. He said it was impossible."

"But what does that have to—"

"—Some people say—that now she wishes me to marry very grandly to—show him up," she said, her voice barely more than whisper. "It is not true, of course, but that is what people—say. I suppose it is because her own family is so very proud, and so she was accustomed to—living in a very different style, that people think that."

He stared at her for a long moment, absorbing the information. Colette waited on baited breath, unsure what would be the next words—for he was far too clever not to have read between the lines of her words.

"There's no shame in poverty, you know—not even the genteel kind."

She blinked—something must've gotten in her dratted eye, for he was handing her a handkerchief.

"I am not ashamed," she said, quietly, taking it and dabbing her eyes. Colette was grateful when he discreetly looked away as she blew her nose.

"What does your father say about all this?" he asked, when she'd finished this unladylike but entirely necessary action.

She crumpled the silk square in her lap and shrugged.

"Oh, Père will usually go along with most things Maman wants. She has a—" Colette flushed. "That is, she can be very—well, he doesn't like to upset her."

He laughed, dolefully.

"Well, has he asked you what you think?"

Colette sighed. Her father—bless him, she knew he loved her, in his own way—but he was not a strong man. Poor Claude! Since the great fight last year she had come to see him more clearly than ever before. Colette did not think he had ever recovered from being a shocking disappointment to his own parents. After all—instead of producing the male heir necessary to keep the estate, he had only managed, with the difficult and ornamental bride they had never much cared for—to give them a single bookish granddaughter. He was a simple man, a country farmer, stuck with a stylish wife unhappy in the country, and a daughter whose only resemblance to him was an inherited tendency to want to avoid argument at all costs.

Neither of them understood her—and though Colette didn't fault them for that, it did make life a trifle—uneasy. But she barely understood them, and as her grandmother always said, one couldn't fault witches and wizards for the failings one shared with them.

"If my mother doesn't care to hear my opinions, you can be sure Père won't ask for them," she laughed, lightly. "I sometimes think he—wonders about it."

"Sounds like quite the brave man, your father," Sirius said, not bothering to mask his sarcasm from her. "I'm getting a clearer picture of your family—and the reason for your distressing views on marriage—by the minute."

Her cheeks colored, but in the absence of any reply to the tart observation, Colette Battancourt fell silent. He sighed and tugged at the glove of his right, pulling it off—and then the second, in quick succession. He was suddenly itching for a cigarette—he always did his best thinking when he had a smoke.

The pieces of the puzzle were all there—it was just the making out the full picture he still had to do.

So—the mother, as far as he could tell, was overbearing and proud, a domineering sort—and having apparently been disappointed in her marriage to this unambitious country squire, now wanted her daughter (how often was this the case!) to have everything she lacked.

If the expression of profound depression on her face was any indication, said daughter wanted none of it.

His inner sense of justice rebelled against this—a story that was true the world over.

"What about you?"

Sirius came out of his stewing over the problem with an abrupt jerk. She was watching him, giving him that disconcerting scrutinizing look that made him feel he was being seen right through. It was disconcerting—uncomfortable, even—but when that heart-shaped face was tilted in his direction, he could not bring himself to resist the urge to meet her clear gaze.

"What about me?"

"Your parents—" Sirius froze. "Are they happy?"

He blinked—momentarily at a loss. It was the last question he'd expected.

"You know—no one has ever asked me that," he said slowly. "I've…I've never really thought about it."

She smiled blithely up at him, as if to say—well, we have plenty of time now.

Were his parents happy?

Happy was, of course, a relative term—but he would have never used it to describe them. Sirius had always considered their functionality as husband and wife in terms of their effectiveness at teaming up against him. He'd never thought of whether they were happy when they weren't trying to control him or working together to rob him of life's joys.

When he thought of Orion and Walburga—the image that rose in his mind was of the two of them that night, in the flat—standing side-by-side, stately, Victorian, upright—a matched pair, the very model of an ideal pureblood union. They were unsentimental and unaffectionate—even their passions ran cold. He had never so much as seen them shake hands, let alone embrace—or, God forbid, kiss—!

He suddenly remembered what Lucretia had implied the night before about his parents' bedroom habits—"Every night for four years—!"—and Sirius felt his face burn red hot at the very thought of it. It couldn't be true, I mean—this was them.

Though—Sirius thought, bleakly, if Orion had thought it was his duty to produce an heir, well…but still. Every night.

You don't do it every night if you aren't enjoying it at least a little.

And of course, Walburga had been very flustered and annoyed with Lucretia for bringing it up, even as a joke—a good sign his aunt was hitting pretty damn close to the mark. And who was he to challenge her authority? They never volunteered details about their courtship—for a family as obsessed with its own history as his was, that volume had always been left high on the shelf—one of many forbidden subjects. All he really knew were the bare facts—that his mother had been nearly thirty when she'd married his father—in their family that was considered practically ancient—and that his aunt often hinted Walburga had been the cause of this delay. The latter point was murky, and whenever it was brought up, usually at party events (and sometime between the fourth and fifth glasses of sherry) it invariably lead to vehement denials and Lucretia being told to keep her mouth shut in future. The rest he had pieced together through inference and third-hand sources.

As far as he could tell, the marriage of the two second-cousins had been the idea of one—or maybe both sets of his grandparents, and it had almost entirely been a matter of convenience and expedience. By marrying his mother off to his father, Walburga's not inconsiderable dowry had been kept in the Black family—consolidating her fortune with the heir apparent's, and ensuring that the family did not have to jockey for position for several generations.

He was sure the feelings of the cousins in question were an afterthought.

Orion and Walburga had, as always, done their duty. They weren't unhappy—at least not with each other. To their credit—at least, he was willing to give it to them, in this case—when Sirius was growing up, in the early days of his childhood, before he'd gone to school, he'd never seen them show anything but polite courtesy to one another in front of their sons. All arguments, all conflict was handled discreetly—which is why he'd gotten in the early habit of listening at keyholes. It was the only way to find out what was really going on in their family.

But nothing he'd overheard—nothing he'd witnessed—could compare to the scene between them he'd witnessed last night. Once Sirius had gotten over the shock of it, he could admit it was really interesting to see how Walburga spoke to his father when she thought they were alone. He had never seen her lose control with Orion like that—hell, before he ran away she never even used to raise her voice to her husband, now she was fighting with him at the table, getting into public arguments in front of her sisters-in-law—and his behavior had been no less startling.

There had been nothing cold about that passion.

Maybe the years had changed them. It was far easier to think that than that he had fundamentally missed something—that he'd never known it.

That he understood them as well as they did him.

The sound of a throat being cleared startled him. Dazed, he shook his head—a pair of bright blue eyes blinked up at him, curiously.

He'd let his mind wander again.

"Well, they're second cousins, he's four years younger than she is, and it was an arranged marriage. Still—" He looked out over the twinkling lights of the city, in the direction of Regent's Park, and smiled, wryly. "I'd say, on the whole—everything taken in the balance—they're far happier than they have any right to be."

He seemed sad again—melancholy, and Colette found she was sorry for having brought the subject up at all.

"So—let me see if I understand your situation correctly." He cleared his throat, and shook his head in a way that reminded Colette irrepressibly of a dog trying to get the water out of his ears. "Your mother wants you to marry well, more or less to prove a point to some irritating relations of yours—and to make herself look better than them, and your father is willing to go along with this to—what, appease her gallic temper?"

This dispassionate summary made Colette's temper flair up.

"That is—that is only what people say, I told you. It is all vicious gossip, nothing more."

She sounded as if she was trying to convince herself as much as she was him.

"I'm sure it is," he said, gently.

For a minute the only sound on the roof was of the crisp bag crinkling when the girl rifled through it with her hand.

"I—just…know how happy it would make her."

Sirius's eyes softened.

"Is that what you want? To make her happy?"

"It's not the only thing, but—I would like to," Colette twisted her bracelet around her wrist. "Sometimes I think—I know I am not the daughter she would have wished for."

"Marrying well is not going to change that," her new friend told her, gently. "And it wouldn't please either of you, in the end. You have to live your life for yourself—not for her, not for anyone else."

Colette handed him the now empty-bag back with a sigh.

"But with no fortune, with no prospects—what other choice do I have?"

"You could strike out on your own."

Colette did a double-take, aghast—of all the shocking things he'd said, this was the most—but he wasn't joking.

"How?"

"Do what most people do, Ms. Battancourt—leave your parents' house and get yourself a job." He snorted at the look of utter bewilderment on her face. "Unless you think you're too good for working."

"I don't think that!" she cried, offended. "But I couldn't! Women in my family don't—work in professions." She clasped her face with her gloved hands at the very thought. "What would Maman say?"

He smirked and draped one hand elegantly over the edge of the roof-ridge.

"A mouthful, I'd imagine." His smile broadened at the look of scandalized outrage she gave him. "She would get over it eventually—"

"—You do not know my mother, sir, clearly—"

"—And if she doesn't, well—that's her problem." Colette dropped her hands into her lap. He was giving her one of those intense looks that made her cheeks heat up. "If she can't accept you for who you are—"

"—Who you say I am, you mean," the girl interrupted him, dryly. "A woman who has to get a job because she cannot get herself a husband!"

She clapped her hands over her mouth—but he was laughing at her for her slip.

"My, my—touchy, aren't you, when your female pride is wounded?" he teased, pulling his legs up and resting one hand on his knee. She could see from the light of the flame in the jar his silvery gray eyes danced with mischief. "I said you shouldn't, not that you couldn't. Big difference. The point is that you don't really want to marry any of those prats, and you just don't want to admit it because you know it would upset your mum and dad."

Colette opened her mouth, prepared to argue furiously with him—then froze. That knowing look was too much to fight with, so she snapped it shut again, and contented herself with a half-hearted glare.

"What would I—even do?" she sniffed, after another long pause.

She seemed deeply ashamed to be even humoring him in this conversation. Sirius almost laughed again.

"You're a witch, aren't you? You have a head on your shoulders, and arms and legs and a wand that works." She laughed, hollowly. "I'm sure you could get any number of jobs, if you put your mind to it."

"They require references—and skills," She picked at a loose thread on her cloak. "I have neither. I'm not qualified."

"Rubbish. I don't believe you. Everyone is qualified for something. Anyway, didn't you go to school—to Beauxbatons? What was that for, if not to learn magic that you could use to—find employment?"

She stared down at her shoes, suddenly looking glum.

"I only went for the last two years." The boy's face fell, and she continued, hastily. "Battancourt witches are always educated at home, by their mothers—I had to beg them to let me go, and my parents only agreed after several years and under—certain conditions."

Both of his eyebrows flew into his hairline.

"What conditions?" he repeated, sounding utterly bewildered. Colette smiled, sheepishly—she knew that this particular rule of her family's was unusually old-fashioned, even among their social set.

"I was only allowed to socialize with my cousins and—their friends." She shuddered at the thought and drew the cloak around her shoulders, tighter. "And I was not allowed to live in the dormitories, and mix with the—with the rest of the students. I had to board with my grandfather—he is a professor at the school, you see."

"Of what subject?"

Her expression became, if it was possible, even more downcast.

"Numerology." He pulled a face—Colette felt it summarized her own feelings on the subject perfectly. "He is one of the foremost Arithmancists in all of Europe. And he studies alchemy, and is published on many subjects. A very sober and—academic wizard."

Sirius could tell she was sugarcoating it. He had to be a dead bore, and from the pained look on her face thinking about him—probably something worse.

"You had to live with your grandfather while you were in school?" Sirius could hardly think of anything worse. She nodded, slowly, to which he pulled another face. The injustice continued. "That's my nightmare. Did you at least make some friends while you were there?"

Another sad shrug.

"Not really. I didn't have much chance for socializing outside of the—my cousins' set, and they all thought me…odd." She stretched out one leg under her skirts—it was falling asleep, and so she missed the profound look of horror on his face. "I did learn some things, at least. Though I was not encouraged in my studies much by Grandpere. He—does not believe so much in female education. He was the most opposed of Maman's family to me attending Beauxbatons. If my English grandmama had not stood up for me, I do not think I would have been allowed to go at all."

Sirius stared at her, the full import of this sinking in. It was a grim picture. No friends, a confined life, family that didn't understand her—Colette Battancourt really was a princess in a tower.

And the worst part of it all was that she didn't even seem to realize how put-upon she was.

An irrepressible urge to fix this came over him. Sirius blinked, tried to banish the thought—what could he do to sort out the life of this girl he'd just met?—but it was a stubborn one, and would not be dislodged.

I've enough problems of my own, without taking on hers.

He looked down at her. Colette was chewing her lip and staring off in the middle distance, her mind very far away from that roof above London. He was overcome with a sudden need to take her out of herself—if only for a little while.

"Alright. Forget what you think you're qualified for for a moment." He tilted his head down, considering her seriously. "What do you like to do?"

Her cheeks pinked and she stood up.

"Nothing," Colette said, her back turned to him as she stared out over the back side of the the roof. The Muggle children's voices had faded away, but the light from their torches was still faintly visible through the tree-line.

"You liar." She heard the sound of his light steps behind her. "That's not what my birdie tells me. I hear that you are a budding writer—a regular authoress." Colette felt as though her heart had dropped clear into the pit of her stomach. "Apparently you like it so much you even have been known to jot down your inner musings on the backs of napkins or fancy doilies—"

She whirled around, wand out, ready to curse him—and found this time that the laughter in his handsome face was good-natured, not at her expense.

She lowered her wand, more annoyed at herself than anything. It really wasn't fair—when he looked like that, who could stay angry with him for long? No wonder her mother distrusted handsome wizards.

"Who told you that?" she demanded, not bothering to keep her voice down. "Who is this—this birdie of yours, who is telling you all my secrets?"

He leaned one arm against the smoke stack of the house and winked, cheekily.

"I was having dinner with some people and the subject of you came up. And would you believe it, I wasn't even the one who started the conversation." She glowered at him—what nonsense. "See—you're already famous in this country! Everyone wants to know all about you."

"You are feeding me utter rubbish," she shot back, peevishly, shoving her wand back in her robes. It gave her something to do that wasn't looking at his stupid face, with the smug smirk she was sure she'd find there.

"Fine—don't believe me. Doesn't change the fact that I have proof—" He rummaged around in the bag and pulled out an embossed notebook. Colette looked up, and at the sight of the object that he dangled in front of her, tauntingly, her face lost all color. In a flash she had crossed back over to him and snatched it from his hands, looking horrified. She stared from the diary to his face, and when she lifted it, as if to smack him on the chest, he raised his hands to ward off the weapon.

"Before you jump down my throat, you should know—you dropped it on the ground with all those packages, and it ended up in my things by mistake." He made an 'x' over his chest. "Cross my heart and hope to be cursed."

"A likely story," she muttered, suspiciously. "I believe you stole it out of my purse when I was wasn't looking."

He pulled a pretend face of shock and dismay.

"Why would I do that, and not even read a single page?"

"Because you couldn't," Colette shot back, tartly, clutching the book to her chest. "It is charmed so that no one can open it but me."

"And look here—I wasn't even aware!" He smoothed the front of his leather jacket. "That's how respectful I am—I didn't try to sneak a peak." Her companion grinned and took a step toward her.

"So, are you any good?" Sirius asked, feigning casualness.

At this question, the girl's shoulders drooped.

"How am I supposed to know?"

"Well, have you shown it to anyone else?" he pressed, voice impatient. "That's generally the way to find out if it's good or rubbish."

She looked ill at the very thought.

"Of course I haven't."

He looked down at the book, undeniable mischief in his eyes.

"Well—" Colette let out a startled gasp as he yanked the notebook back out of her hands. "That changes tonight." He examined the spine of the book critically. "Right, so I'm going to need you to lift the security spell on this—" He lifted the diary above his head, just out of her reach.

"What do you think—" Colette huffed, jumping on her tip-toes. "Hand that back—!"

"One paragraph." Ms. Battancourt dropped back onto the balls of her feet. He lowered the hand clutching the book slowly. "Just one, I swear—one little dramatic recitation—" Colette let out a strangled protest. "—And I'll hand it back over."

The girl chewed her lip, nervously.

"I'm not going to make fun of you," he reassured her, gently. "I really am just interested—and I want to give you my honest opinion. Truly."

She hesitated, until—

"Just one, really?"

"Just one."

"And you won't—laugh?"

"That depends on if I'm meant to or not—" He ran his thumb down the spine of the notebook, thoughtfully. "Do you write comedies or tragedies, Ms. Battancourt?"

"Sometimes I think I don't know the difference," she admitted, her voice soft.

It was one of the saddest things he'd ever heard anyone say—and Sirius found he had no pithy reply that could do it justice, so instead he just held out the journal for her. She raised her right hand—still gripping her rowan-handled wand—and gently tapped the front cover. Instantly it fell open.

He let her take the book out of his hands—in a show of trust Sirius thought rather admirable, given the circumstances.

"I mostly write in French, but—I have been practicing my English—" She thumbed through the pages. Sirius caught glimpses of her neat penmanship—and scribblings in the margins which had been ideas evidently so pressing she did not have the time to perfectly form the words. "I wrote a little something last night."

"Was it about me?" he joked. The girl glanced up at him and rolled her eyes.

"Hardly." Colette had, of course, put a rather extensive entry about him and their encounter in her personal diary, but that was hidden back in her trunk in Grimmauld Place, and she was not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing she'd found him interesting enough to write three whole pages on. "I jotted down some—studies of people I saw. Sketches, really."

"Anybody I'd recognize?"

Ms. Battancourt found her place. She gently earmarked the page, and very slowly handed it back to him.

"You tell me."

Sirius looked down at the page. Her handwriting was neat and small—designed to cram as much as possible on the page, though he noticed that she tended to get sloppier at the end of long sentences, as if the ideas were coming out of her mind too fast for the quill to keep up.

His eyes fell on the longest paragraph on the page by far.

He cleared his throat aloud and read,

"'Tonight I met the most interesting example of a marriage I have ever seen. An old woman and man were engaged in a debate about the size of the ballroom, and whether the number of guests at the party made it appear larger or smaller than it truly was. The wife declared the hall over-crowded, blaming it for the vapors which she said made her on the edge of fainting (I have never seen a heartier lady over sixty in my life, she ate half a duck on a platter right in front of me), while her husband, in between snifters of tokay, wondered aloud why their hosts had not thought to invite more people—perhaps they did not know any others—or at least make the young people dance, to give the impression by constant movement that there were more of guests, for it was a paltry affair indeed."

Sirius cleared his throat and looked up to catch the girl's eye—but found she was staring resolutely in the opposite direction, nervously clutching her clasped bag in her lap as she listened to her words being read aloud for the first time by somebody else. Amused, he looked down at the page and, mouth tugging up with an irrepressible smile, continued,

"Every declaration was followed by a rebuttal, louder than the last—the room was overflowing, it was bare, the hosts were indiscriminate, they had no friends! It became apparent to me after the several minutes of going on in this way, that they were not interested in convincing each other of anything, and were quite enjoying themselves in the exercise, as one would sport. By the fourth cycle, I became convinced the entire thing was rehearsed. This argument seemed to be coordinated like a ballet, with crescendos and dramatic act breaks, meant to entertain passerby as a traveling theatre troop would—which it did, though most people who walked by did not stay for the entire show. These two have become my model for marital felicity, for I have never met a pair in such total accord—in thorough agreement of the disagreeableness of the world, and each determined to never let the other forget."

There was a long pause after he finished this word recitation. Colette glanced over at him—he was staring hard at the words on the page, mouthing some of what he'd just read.

He looked up at her, their eyes met—and he burst into a wide grin. Her heart sank—no, it was just as she'd feared—he thought it was dreadful and was laughing at her.

"One paragraph—!" Colette blushed and grabbed the book back. "That was what you said, just one—"

"—It would be a crime to read only one, though!" He cut her off, still grinning. "You've nothing to hide, you know—it's brilliant, and I bet your French stuff is even better."

The notebook slipped from her fingers.

"You—you really think so?"

He stooped down on the roof and picked it up, holding it out to her with a flourish of the wrist.

"Yes—it was quite funny—and surprisingly cutting." Colette didn't take the book—she was too busy eying him suspiciously, as if she didn't believe he really liked her story. "You want to be careful that Narcissa doesn't get ahold of it. I'm not sure she'd appreciate her grandparents being described in such, erm—flattering tones."

Colette's mouth fell open open.

"You knew it was—"

"—Pollux and Irma Black?" He laughed. "From the first sentence. I think I've heard them have the same argument. Harping is the only language they understand." Her companion grinned. "Was the narrator supposed to be you?"

She smiled, sheepishly.

"I mean—a little," Colette admitted, with a laugh. "It was—some part of me, anyway."

He liked that part of her, if his admiring look was anything to go by.

"Well, she's right about them doing it for their own entertainment." He flipped through the book, idly. "Do you have more like this? It was a little prosey for my taste, but you have some real talent. An editor, some practice—" He snapped the book shut. "You could make a living with your quill, if you wanted to."

She flushed with pleasure at the compliment and toyed with her necklace.

"You are just—saying that to be polite."

Sirius rolled his eyes.

"No, I'm not. I never say anything to be polite—I say things because I mean them." He leaned forward, eyes gleaming intently. "You're clever—and perceptive. I know it firsthand. You're the only one in that ballroom who saw through my disguise without needing a tipoff first." He frowned, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Maybe you could turn these vignettes into short stories—your first step on the way to becoming a first-class writer, famous the world over."

The idea was so ludicrous to her that Colette giggled aloud. What a notion!

"You have quite an imagination, monsieur."

"So do you," he rejoined, dryly. "You just haven't yet learned how to apply it to your own life."

The words cut her like a slap to the face. She swallowed and turned her head away, startled by the sound of her own heart, sped up—like the wings of a thrush against the trap.

"I will confess…" She leaned her head back on the chimney of the roof and stared up into the night sky. The North Star was shining particularly brightly over them. "The idea is—intriguing."

He could hear the caveat in her voice.

"But…?"

"But," she turned her face towards him, smiling sadly. "To me, I think that is all it is—an intriguing notion. Nothing more."

Sirius let out a groan of audible frustration—he found this girl's refusal to budge maddening, and considering the relatives he'd had to put up with his entire life, that was saying something.

"So you still plan on—going through with it?"

She nodded, amused at how affronted he looked at even having to ask. Colette didn't know exactly how to explain it to him. She might not have understood much about the world, but she had seen enough to know what she lacked—and what she wanted.

Perhaps her reasons were not very good. In her heart of hearts, Colette saw that there was something mercenary in her at work—that she was trying to fill an empty corner in her own heart—that children and a vague, insubstantial idea of a man who was, if not a figure of romance, at least of a stronger will than her father—had an appeal far greater than any other ambitions.

Or perhaps she was only eager for escape from her narrow world, and this was the quickest and most expedient path.

But how could he understand? She doubted her companion had ever taken the easy path in his life. He spoke in the way of a man who sees only long horizons—possibilities, and most impressively of all, does not shy from them. She was envious—but also wary.

Those sort of ideas were dangerous—to jump off a cliff meant risking the fall.

"You know, with my plan," he said, voice maddeningly sarcastic. "You could still marry and have children and all that bit, if you really wanted to."

"I do not think any of the young wizards my mother has introduced me to would approve of a wife who has a career."

Colette thought this plain common sense, but her conversational sparring partner guffawed at it.

"So marry someone she doesn't approve of!" he replied, bluntly. "There are plenty of people out there, in the wide world—you might fall in love with any number of them—a fellow writer, an editor." He grinned wickedly at her scandalized expression. "—An adoring fan, perhaps. Maybe they'd rather have a wife who writes novels over one who cooks and does the washing up."

Her blue eyes, normally so mild, flashed with annoyance. What was he talking about? What foolish men would want their wives to be more concerned with a job than children and their home? It was true that domestic concerns had never been her métier, but she had always seen that as a gross fault, not something to celebrate.

"I would—I would never 'fall in love' with someone my mother hadn't approved of first!" Colette exclaimed, clutching her purse.

Sirius rolled his eyes to the heavens—back to this, were they?

"Oh, come on—you read novels, you know that's not how it works." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "You can't control who you fall in love with."

She sniffed, clearly a little affronted at the idea that she had so little self-control.

"Well—I would never—get involved with someone unsuitable. Or at least I would—" He grinned at her, impertinently. "I would take great care to avoid it, in any case."

"You don't know that—unless you're a seer and haven't told me." Colette tossed her head. "Let's say—purely hypothetical—you met a charming, clever wizard who fancied you and just happened to be—" He searched around for a good example of someone that he guessed her mother would find unsuitable. "—Muggleborn. What would you do then?"

Her face turned bright red.

"That would never happen."

"It could—it might." He laughed. "I notice you haven't answered the question."

"That is because it is très absurde to even suggest it. What would I have in common with such a person?"

He let out a derisive laugh—one that made her blood stir.

"They aren't a different species, you know," he answered her, voice dry. "The only difference between them and you is that their parents don't happen to have magic."

"From where I am sitting that is a rather large difference, sir," she said, airily.

Her reply gave Sirius pause. It seemed inevitable that their conversation would come around to the subject—what conversation didn't, these days?—but he could not help but be a little disappointed.

He could already guess where it was going.

"As you seem offended by my suggestion you might even associate yourself with a Muggleborn—" His haughty tone turned chilly. "I have to ask—where do you stand on the subject of blood, Ms. Battancourt?"

To her credit, Colette seemed quite as much unhappy with the turn in conversation as he was.

"Oh, I—it doesn't seem much worth arguing over," the girl said, in a halting voice. At this answer, he couldn't keep his real feelings in check.

"'Doesn't seem worth arguing over'—?" Sirius repeated, incredulously. "Some people think it's worth dying for, in this country!"

Colette shifted awkwardly. She was torn between her natural desire to avoid conflict with the very unnatural desire he stirred in her to argue. It was like the pull of a magnet—one couldn't resist it when around him.

Argument must follow him around like a black cloud.

"I do not see the point in pretending that all people are the same," the witch replied, in a rare moment of combativeness. "Or that they are all equal. You will no doubt say this makes me a trifle old-fashioned—"

"—I'd use a less delicate word, actually—"

"—But it is how things are done in my family, and have been done, for many generations. And besides—" She hesitated. "I have…I have not seen proof that tells me anything to the contrary would be better."

Sirius was tempted to point out that he was fairly certain she had not been looking for evidence that disproved the idea—or, as he suspected, that she had been deliberately avoiding seeing this truth.

She was not beyond rescue yet.

"I thought your country was known for 'Liberté, égalité, fraternité'? Isn't that—the motto of France?" She crinkled her nose. "That was what the Revolution was all about, so I'm told."

"Those butchers are hardly who I would look to as model Frenchmen, sir."

Sirius started, taken aback at her coldness—but of course, he had heard that some French wizards had been swept up in the Revolution, as well as the Muggles, and in a few cases had not even been able to save their lives with magic. The Battancourts were the exact sort of family that probably would have been on the side losing their heads.

He crossed his arms in front of his chest and quirked up an eyebrow.

"Do you even know any? I suppose you went to school with loads of Muggleborns and half-bloods."

"Oh, yes—but I would not have…socialized with them." Colette didn't feel it necessary to add that her own feelings on the matter had never been taken into consideration, for with so many cousins surrounding her and ready to send a letter the moment she took a step out of line, she had not been in a position to defy directives from her parents. "I was not allowed to. No one did much mixing, anyway. The half-bloods and the Muggleborns all associated with their own kind."

"How progressive!" he remarked, voice heavy with sarcasm. "I had heard the French were snobs—I guess it only makes sense that a French pureblood witch would be the most abominable example of it."

Her face flushed an unseemly red.

"I am not political, monsieur, you know—and I will remind you that I did not bring this subject up—you did!" Colette pointed out, archly. He put up his hands in apology, and she continued, angrily—though she was clearly more upset with herself for getting drawn into the debate in the first place than she was at him. "I do not generally like to talk about politics—it always makes people cross, and you never convince anyone of anything they don't already believe. It's so tedious."

"Well, it doesn't help that you just parrot what your parents think." He tilted his head. "You should really work on developing your own ideas about the world—and about politics."

Colette scoffed—who was he to tell her anything? He was the height of presumption—and it was this fact alone which helped her ignore the sneaking suspicion she had that the things he said, insolent though they may be, were not entirely untrue.

But it wasn't his place to say them!

"Why should I? When I am married, I shall have a husband I can trust to—keep me informed, and tell me how I should think about political matters," Colette told him, with the absolute certainty of a girl who has been well-taught on such things. "So I see no point in wasting my time developing ideas that might not be—in line with his."

Sirius couldn't resist scoffing—of course that was what she thought about marriage. Just like his mother, God help her!

Hopefully you don't marry old Rabastan, then, he thought, cynically. Or you really will end up like Narcissa.

"I guess all I can do is hope your future husband has more of an open mind about all this than you do, Ms. Battancourt."

Colette pursed her lips—but then, her curiosity poked its head, practically egging her on to ask him what his opinions were. She knew they must be dreadful and completely inappropriate, but still—

"You don't—" She lowered her voice, as if she was worried about being overheard, even though they were on top of the roof of a house in the middle of a forest. "You don't really think that those witches and wizards are—just the same, do you?"

He opened his mouth to give her a sharp rejoinder—then saw the look in the girl's eyes.

She genuinely wanted to know what he thought.

"Yes," Sirius said, quietly. "I really do."

She fidgeted and went back to fiddling with her bag. When she bent over her lap, Sirius noticed how Colette's forehead crinkled—as it always did when she was thinking hard. That quizzical expression suited Ms. Battancourt.

She had a good head on her shoulders—and she knew how to use it, in spite of growing up in a world of people who weren't encouraging her to.

"I think you are saying all this just to—shock me." Colette looked up from her lap. "I mean…they aren't of our order."

"'Our order'?" Sirius repeated, incredulously. "Putting aside your regrettable use of that phrase, Ms. Battancourt—since when did you and I become a 'we'?" At his sly tone, the girl blushed bright red. "Awfully presumptuous of you. For all you know I'm Muggleborn myself."

"You aren't," she replied, coolly. "You are a pureblood—of that I'm quite sure, monsieur."

"How can you be so certain—?"

"—Because only a pureblood wizard would spend so much time and exert so much energy complaining about his own people, rather than doing something to improve them," she answered, smartly. She took a great deal of pleasure in seeing the smug look knocked straight off his face. "And you are certainly as overbearing and high-handed as most that I have known."

Sirius's face flushed. The insults aside—and his ego was surprisingly stung by them—he found himself most annoyed by her suggestion of his indolence. What, somehow it was his responsibility to fix the system, now?

"So—you admit to finding men from your own social class tedious," he replied, recovering quickly from her onslaught.

"I do." She smiled, serenely—her soft eyes twinkled with amusement. "—Just as you admit to being one of them."

It took half a second for Colette's companion to realize that the witch had caught him, completely.

"I did not admit to—that's just—completely not the point of what I was—" She raised both eyebrows in triumph as he continued to sputter incoherences. "I mean, it's beside the—"

Her dimple became more pronounced.

"But I am correct, am I not?"

He grimaced and flopped back down onto the roof.

"Alright, alright—" He pulled his coat around his shoulders, sulkily. "So you had a lucky guess."

"It was not a guess!" she exclaimed, laughing. "I knew you from the first. I could always tell."

"You think so, eh?" He eyed her, skeptically. "You know, I've a friend—brilliant, charming, beautiful—cultured, with good manners. Top of her class at school, Head Girl, even—the brightest witch I know." Colette shivered and wrapped her cloak around her shoulders with a tad more aggression than usual. "And I think that if I introduced you, you'd never be able to tell she's Muggleborn."

She shrugged.

"That is what you say, sir—it is too bad you will never have an opportunity to do so."

"You mean you refuse to meet my friend?"

"Absolutely!" she said, hotly. "It wouldn't—it wouldn't be proper."

He sighed, heavily, and flopped back down on the roof. It hardly seemed worth it to point out how improper this entire situation was—on this point, for whatever reason, she wouldn't budge. Her attitude was the product of too much steady indoctrination, clearly.

"You know who you remind me of sometimes?" Sirius asked her, speaking to the sky above him. "My brother."

Colette would not have needed his earlier comments on the brother in question to know that this was not a complimentary comparison—his tone of voice said it all. She took a few timid steps towards him, then lowered herself gently down beside him again.

"Your brother?"

"Yeah—he also has a perfectly good brain and conscience he occasionally disregards so as not to offend his family."

"I do not ignore my conscience," she murmured, silkily, but he ignored this offended muttering. "And my brain works perfectly fine, thank you very much."

"You are a lot like him, when it comes down to it." Abruptly, Sirius sat up and stared, as if he was seeing Colette Battancourt clearly for the first time. He began a checklist, counting on his fingers. "You're both good at hiding what you really think—keeping all the most important things bottled up inside. And by your own admission you're proficient at fooling your parents about what you're actually up to, which is something he excels at. I mean, if there was one person I know who could use being deceptively mild-mannered to their advantage to keep a secret, it'd be—"

He stopped himself mid-sentence.

A look of profound revelation passed over the young man face, and then, just as quickly—a string of foul curses, all directed at himself. Colette shrank back from him, surprised.

"What's the matter?" she asked, faintly alarmed. His repeated banging his forehead with the palm of his hand was quite concerning to the young witch.

"Me! I'm such a bloody idiot, I—" He dragged a hand through his hair, obviously agitated. "I just—realized something that should have been so damn obvious, except as usual I'm too blind to notice what's right in front of my bloody—"

He remembered himself and stopped. The French witch was blinking at him rather owlishly, evidently content to let Sirius insult himself and ramble on incoherently for hours.

"What is it you have been—" She considered her next word carefully. "—Foolish about?"

"Oh, it's—to do with last night." He dropped a hand uselessly to his side. "Remember how I told you I was…meeting someone?" She nodded. "Well, that was sort of—arranged for me, that is—someone gave me the information, but it was secondhand." He turned his head toward the flashing lights in the woods.

"And I think I just figured out who the original source was."

Colette did not reply. They had not yet come back around to the subject of why he had sneaked into Arcturus Black's birthday party, but she had not forgotten it—though the girl was keenly aware that she was not likely to find out the answer to that question by direct means.

"And now that you know—it is a cause for concern?"

"To tell you the truth, I don't know what it means." When he turned back to her, she found she could not read his expression—but there was something stormy in his gray eyes. "Anyway, please forget it. It's nothing, really. Nothing I want you worrying about, anyway."

She wouldn't forget about it—she couldn't, but Colette Battancourt nodded, promising to him that she would at least try.

The distant sound of a church bell struck half-past twelve.

"Listen—" He was back to watching her now, closely. "I know we keep going 'round in circles, with this argument of ours. What if we approached our disagreement from a different angle?"

She leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm, propped on her knee.

"What do you propose?"

"A wager." If she'd been a cat, her ears would have perked up with interest at that. "Remind me—how long are you staying with Mrs. Malfoy, again?"

"We are supposed to be in London until Christmas Eve, then we will return to Wiltshire—I will go back to my auntie's house on Boxing Day. After that…" She shrugged, helplessly. It all depended on what Narcissa decided. If she was not being entertained and meeting eligible bachelors, her mother had ordered she return to Paris for the Battancourt family New Year's celebration to 'try her luck' there.

She rather hoped she wouldn't have to.

"So—a week, give or take." He frowned, thinking about their options, here. "And do you know what you're doing—where she's taking you?"

He stood up again and began pacing up and down the roof in front of her.

"Some parties—we are going to a concert at the Orpheum theater tomorrow, with her husband—" A shadow crossed over her companion's face, but he didn't interrupt—just continued to pace. "And she said on the twenty-third I will meet all their friends at a party—"

Sirius shook his head and tutted—that wouldn't do at all.

"—Well, that settles it, then. I can't allow you to leave England having only experienced it through Narcissa Malfoy's eyes." He tapped his chin, a world of possibilities churning through his mind. "A week—yeah, that's all it will take. A week to show you the real England—to introduce you to all the best people (my friends, of course)—and a week to convince you to give up this arranged marriage business."

She shook her head in astonishment.

"That is the wager you propose?" Colette goggled at him. "You think that is all the time it will take to convince me to upend my life?"

"Hell—give me until Boxing Day. Six days. That's how long it took God to create the Universe, after all." He grinned, then tilted his head—it should have been an obnoxious gesture, but of course, he managed to make it look charming. "What's the matter—afraid I might have a chance?"

She breathed in slowly, then out her nose. The alcohol was starting to wear off, and it was giving Colette a slight headache. Either that or his impertinences were simply wearing on her, at last.

"I am not." She fiddled with her dress, suddenly very aware of the lateness of the hour and the impropriety that had marked her entire brief acquaintance with the man standing next to her. "I merely wonder how you think you are going to convince me of such things, when I will be spending all that time with Narcissa."

Sirius's eyes gleamed with the promise of mischief.

"I'll just have to steal you away from her, won't I?"

Colette glared at him—he had an answer for everything! This had been the silliest idea she'd ever had, to agree to come up to this horrible (wonderful, magical) stupid house and sit on the roof in the middle of the night—like some kind of loose woman! Of course, if he'd tried to attack her, she was fully prepared to curse him—but as she only knew one curse, and was in doubt of the efficacy of making his hair grow over his face as a long-term strategy for repelling her companion—it wasn't much comfort.

She had a feeling he had a lot more experience with dueling than she did.

The girl got to her feet—swaying slightly as she got her bearings. Her eyes fell on the ridiculous black motorbike he called 'Elvira'. All at once Colette was struck with the realization that she had ridden in it—in a Muggle vehicle, for the first time in her life!

It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once—like the vertigo she'd gotten from the first broom ride she'd ever taken.

"And if I don't change my mind?" Colette delicately smoothed the creases in her petticoats, watching him from the corner of her eye. "What then?"

Sirius beamed at her—he radiated the kind of confidence this girl had only ever dreamed about, apparently, if her hesitation now was anything to go on.

"Then I shall find you a husband myself," he said, with utmost solemnity—though the mischievous sparkle in his eyes suggested he found that very unlikely. "I give you my word of honor."

She snorted—who knew how much that was worth?

"You're very confident, sir." She stopped adjusting her skirt for the third time and turned her head to him. "What do you get out of this wager, if you win?"

"The satisfaction of having helped a new friend," he replied, sincerely. It had not been the answer Colette had been expecting, and she was momentarily speechless. "Well—how about it? Are you game?"

Ms. Battancourt's expression turned rather haughty.

"I shall—have to think on the matter. De—deliberate."

He laughed.

"Think quickly, then. The hour is getting late—you should probably be getting back." He jabbed a thumb in the direction of the glow Big Ben, far in the distance. "And, full disclosure—I'm only going to help you sneak into the house if you agree."

It took her only a moment to full comprehend his words.

"But I—I do not need your help! I can—" She looked around, desperately. "I shall apparate back to the Leaky Cauldron, and use the fire to—"

"Floo back into the basement?" he supplied, grinning. "Not going to work. You'll set off the wards. You could get out by that method—but not back in, I'm afraid."

Colette's face drained of color. That had been her entire strategy—her assumption was that he would take her back to the Leaky Cauldron. She became aware, all of a sudden, of how he was apparently on the edge of bursting out laughing—and it occurred to her.

He'd known about the fireplace all along.

"You did trick me—you wanted me to get caught tonight!" Colette pointed one shaking hand at him—he was fighting back a smile.

"I knew it—I knew you were a—a scoundrel of the first order!"

She called the gentleman a few other things in French, which only served to amuse him all the more.

"I confess—there was a point this evening where I was hoping. Good thing I changed my mind, isn't it?" The girl trailed off mid-curse. He brushed some dirt from the leather jacket, not an ounce of shame on his face. "Don't worry—there's more than one way to skin a Niffler. I'll get you back in—we'll just have to be…creative about it."

He pointed his wand at the motorcycle, and it revved to life, the lights turning on of their own accord. Still looking disgruntled, her gaze shifted to the vehicle. Her one ride had not rid Colette of her mild aversion, and she eyed the bike with as much suspicion and distrust as she had the first time she'd seen it.

"Does that thing actually belong to you?"

"What's got you so convinced it doesn't?" He asked, grabbing his helmet from the sidecar. "That's the second time you've accused me of not owning this motorbike—there must be a reason."

She nibbled on her lower lip—clearly considering whether it was wise to admit the truth to him. After a moment of dithering, Colette cleared her throat.

"I got the idea because I—saw a picture of one on the wall in the Blacks' home, and I thought—well, that you might have…requisitioned it from—"

"—You saw one on the—" He broke into his widest grin yet. "—You were creeping around the upstairs bedrooms and made your way into the disreputable elder son's, didn't you?"

Colette tossed her head and shrugged. As if he hadn't done as much—or worse.

"I was just trying to find the door that led to the kitchen!" she exclaimed, in her own defense—as if there was one for sneaking about in places she had no business being. "I didn't mean to—intrude…but once I was in there, it's not as though I could help myself from looking, at least a little bit."

She looked back out over to the city—to the spot where she imagined the house was, thereabouts.

"And what did you discover, Ms. Battancourt?"

His voice was almost too casual.

"Oh—a lot of old pictures, mostly. There was at least one wizard photograph, but I didn't get a good look—and some of those motorbikes. It seemed as though he liked these things so much."

She gestured vaguely at Elvira.

"It was so strange. All untouched—his whole room…I was surprised his parents didn't take the pictures down. They couldn't have approved of them."

When she looked up at him, he was busy tying his satchel to the bag—Colette saw his fingers slip on the strap.

"I'm sure they didn't."

"I think…" She hesitated. Colette would have never dared to voice this possibility to Narcissa, but around him, she felt like she could say almost anything. "I think they must miss him, at least a little."

"What—makes you say that?"

He spoke quickly, and his voice sounded—rather odd, as if he were struggling to keep a frog out of his throat.

"Because the bed had been turned—recently. It must've been by Mrs. Black." Her companion's shoulders tensed. "She would not have done that unless she was thinking of him, would she?"

Colette remembered hearing of the English queen who'd had her husband's clothing laid out for him every day for forty years after his death. That was what it had made her think of—a ritual meant to recall the memory of someone long lost.

"I wouldn't be too sure," he replied, in a flat tone. "Things aren't always what they seem with the Blacks."

It was a rather ominous statement, and it hung in the air between them for a moment, before—

"You have very good instincts, you know." He turned towards her, his expression suddenly rather guarded. "About—a lot of things. He did—he does love motorbikes. And he's…just about the only person in this country mad enough to enchant one to fly."

The French girl took a step towards him, aware that she had somehow managed to surprise.

"So then you…you did borrow it?" Colette asked, in a cautious way—she wasn't quite sure why. "From him?"

Her companion's strange mood passed—and then his mouth twitched, as if he were trying to fight back a smile.

"She—belongs to who you think she belongs to, yes." He sighed heavily as he slid the helmet over his face. "You're so clever—no pulling the wool over your eyes."

"I knew it!"

She clapped her hands together, delighted—and missed the irony buried in his compliment altogether.

"Come on—you can crow about it on the way. We've got to get you back." He jerked his head towards the bike, his voice and manner at once businesslike and clipped. "Before you turn into a pumpkin on the stroke of one, or whatever it is."

Colette gave him a wry look as she gathered up her things.

"That was on the stroke of midnight, and it was the carriage that was a pumpkin."

As he pulled on his leather gloves, he laughed. The distant sound of the teenagers in the woods had died away completely. Apparently it was late, even for them.

"So she reads Muggle fairy tales," he muttered, quietly. "Ms. Battancourt, our closet subversive."

"Don't think I've forgotten our other agreement," she warned, getting primly into the sidecar again—though this time she let him lead her gallantly by the hand to one of the eaves, which acted as a foothold for her to step into it. "I shall not be making any wagers with you until your debt to me on that score is settled."

Though his helmet muffled it somewhat, she could still make out his boisterous laugh as he climbed onto the seat and revved the engine.

"Oh, don't you worry—the night's not over yet. I'll tell all once we get to Grimmauld Place—" The motorcycle reared back on its wheels—he called out cheerily over the sound of the engine. "—I can't see us being overheard there!"

Another engine rev, and they were off and up into the night sky.

---

The clock in the hall struck one.

Mrs. Black glanced at it as she glided past, her steps as light and noiseless as they'd been ever since the summer when her mother had forced her to wear a pair of slippers cursed to pinch every time her feet made an indecorous sound.

She had certainly learned the hard way how to not clomp about that July. As much as Walburga had hated Irma for it at that time—and she had gone back to school in the bitterest of dudgeons—the scar remained on her pinkie toe to this day—she could hardly fault her mother for it now. Not with how often she needed to make a stealthy approach. It had been a lesson well learned.

Nobody currently residing in Number Twelve would have been able to hear her prowling the halls, even if they had been awake.

The matriarch checked each gas lamp in the hall as she passed—a perfunctory ritual, for she knew she'd not forgotten to turn them down at the stroke of eleven sharp, as she always did. Mrs. Black was still dressed in her dinner things, having spent the previous two hours waiting—in vain, it would turn out—for Mr. Black to barge in, demanding rightful entry to his bed. Truthfully, she'd been counting on it—how else was she to pick up where they'd left off in the argument her dratted husband had so abruptly fled from?

Two hours of escalating frustration later, and she'd had no choice but to leave her post and seek out what would not come to her.

This checking the lamps business gave her an excuse to walk past the study and see if her husband was still awake and easy prey. As long as there was a light on inside, she had free reign to come in on some pretense or other—since he was forcing her to attend to his father, the Christmas preparations would be a suitable excuse—and after a few minutes wrangling over that, they could get back to the matter at hand.

Namely, what was to be done about their son.

Of course, the light that bespoke his presence did not pour out from the crack under the door. Her eyes narrowed on the spot. No, Orion knew her too well—he'd have guessed she'd be too stubborn to leave her room unless absolutely pressed, and had probably skulked to the interior dressing room an hour earlier.

The coward's retreat.

Walburga traced her hand over the subtle carving on the door to his study. It was of the family crest and motto, and one of the newer additions to the house. She had had it done for him—a gift, for their fifth wedding anniversary. That had been right after Sirius was born. He had been so pleased with the boy—everyone was. Even Mama and Papa had been happy, for once. Only a few months old, and he was already showing signs of great magic.

He'd even told her he wanted to try for another.

At these remembrances of happier times, Mrs. Black curled her hand into a fist and yanked it away from the door. She stared down, and realized after a moment of furious blinking—there must be dust in here, to have made her eyes cloud over—that her fingers were trembling.

Damn him.

Walburga hoped the dratted man was having as miserable and sleepless a night as she was.

She turned away from the door, furious at herself for her infernal weakness. Walburga pushed aside the treacherous sensation of having been wounded by Orion, after his cold pronouncement that a second night away from her was not only acceptable—but his desire. Between the two of them, she had always been the one to do the refusing—and Walburga had discovered she did not particularly enjoy being on the receiving end of a rejection—particularly when it came from one of the men in her family.

Perhaps their firstborn took after his father in ways she hadn't even realized.

Another irksome thought to be pondered—she frowned at the snoozing portrait of her great-aunt and marched past it and down the hall, all thoughts of returning to her own bedroom forgotten. It was the fault of the lateness of the hour—that was what to blame for her mind wandering to and fro, like a stumbling drunkard.

Her pace quickened, and she hurtled around the corner and hurried up the staircase to the next floor—her ladylike gliding became something more like the fifteen year old girl with the cursed shoes. Mrs. Black could barely keep herself from sprinting, for she was going to her refuge—the only spot in the house where she could ever have a moment to think—the window-seat in the willow bedroom.

A neglected spot of the house—the smallest bedroom. These days they rarely had so many guests they needed to use it. The willow bedroom had always been where she stayed when she visited Number Twelve as a young girl. She could remember staring out the window for hours on end, always dreaming of being somewhere—anywhere—else.

She flung herself down and scowled out the window at the empty square, lit only by Muggle streetlamp. There would be no rest for her tonight—not until she worked out the problem.

The problem of Sirius Orion.

She closed her eyes tightly to stave off the dull ache in her forehead. A colt who'd slipped the harness and could bolt at any moment—lassoing him was not the worst way to describe what needed to be done.

What a problem he was.

A problem that would be far easier dealt with if her husband gave a damn, Walburga thought, unable to resist stewing on her prime resentment of the evening. How dare he make a mockery of her notions, and not even contribute any of his own! Of course…bullheadedly determined though Mrs. Black was, she hadn't really been surprised by Orion's reaction to her proposed plan to marry off the boy. She knew there was something going on between her son and his father—Walburga had a dim idea that there always had been, and being thrown together had only exacerbated the natural friction between father and son when the latter was trying to come into his own.

Whatever her husband was holding over their son was clearly the root cause of all this resentment between them. That would have been fine, except that instead of holding him fast and preventing all means of escape, all Orion seemed to be doing was pushing Sirius away with both hands.

She dearly wished they would sort it all out between them—but it seemed her life was to be a string of disappointments on that front.

You might've thought Orion wanted him to run again.

Well, forget Orion—she would do this on her own. Mrs. Black was as determined as ever—and even more sure that her instincts on that first night had been right.

She must find him a wife.

Except…well, she couldn't quite shake off Lucretia's point about how unlikely it was the boy would submit to a…traditional arrangement. Sirius was, above all else, willful—he always had been, and as secretly thrilled as she was at the progress she had made in the past week of reminding her son who he was and where he rightfully belonged, even her motherly esteem could not deny the obvious.

He was not going to walk obediently down the aisle.

Her son was stubborn, and he was difficult—Sirius Orion had a contrarian spirit by nature. It was the paradox of his appeal—he never did what one wanted, and it made the desire to tame him all the more enticing. When two strong wills met, one must always seek to overpower the other.

Walburga could not help admiring his—he had inherited it from her, after all.

But it did pose challenges in the question of a bride. He needed a witch with a light touch, to guide the bridle gently—but firmly. She sighed and rested her forehead on the windowpane. It wasn't as if she hadn't tried in the past. She had attempted several times in Sirius's adolescence to throw him in the company of suitable potential future wives—socializing was natural among the children of good families—but of course after his dreadful sorting mishap, her son acted as if every Slytherin and every pureblood he met had the plague.

The girls were no exception. He never gave them a chance—too stupid, too ugly, too spotty—he'd say those things in earshot of the parents as well as the witches. She had the sense that he understood her intentions precisely, and was finding defects on purpose just to spite her and sabotage her attempts to make a future match for him. Infuriating boy! She could remember more than one night that had ended in screaming and slammed doors.

No, she thought, squeezing her eyelids shut—Lucretia was right. He would not willingly agree to marry just any woman—and not at all if he thought it was her idea, for stubbornness and pride were in his blood. An obstacle—but not an insurmountable one.

And then, of course, there was Regulus—

Walburga's eyes shot open—she shook her head, trying in vain to banish the image of his arm, the flesh torn from it, bleeding onto the floor. No—no, she'd have to think about that later. First, to the most pressing matter at hand—she was only one woman, and she could only focus on one matter at a time. Regulus would have to come second.

Anyway, she thought, tamping down a vague sense of motherly guilt—he was used to it by now.

Walburga lay a hand on her stomach, trying to tamp down the queer fluttering of nausea. She comforted herself—small comfort though it was—that whatever Regulus had—whatever Regulus had gotten himself into, it was well beyond her comprehension—or indeed her ability to change. At least Sirius's problem was one she could actually amend.

The vague thought that she really ought to check in on both the young females in her charge flitted across her mind—and no sooner had it crossed it, then her eyes saw, out of the blackened window—

Two flashing lights—the source of which was an ugly Muggle contraption, pulling into the square of Grimmauld Place.

Her sharp eyes narrowed. Despite the dim light from the street lamps, it took her only a second to take in the full and dreadful scene. There was a man driving—she couldn't even bear to think of the name of the two-wheeled thing—with his head covered by some sort of bulky mask, and a girl in an attached cart on the side. The man cut the lights and with them, the corrosive black smoke ceased spewing forth from it.

At first she had thought it was only a pair of degenerate Muggles—uncivilized brutes, they would be out at all hours—but then she noticed what the female being helped out of the cart on the side was wearing.

A cloak—it was not a girl, Walburga bolted up, alarmed—it was the girl, climbing out of that strange carriage with the help of a man—

She was with a mudblood.

Instantly, a wave of anger overtook her—anger at herself, for her total lack of judgement and poor instincts, and anger at Narcissa for having foisted this fast and artful young witch upon her—she pressed her face against the glass and watched in amazement as the girl—there was no mistaking her, not after the hood had slipped off her head—and her low companion brazenly crossed the square and approaching her house.

She had scarcely time to wonder at the mudblood being able to see it, for the man was waving at the side of the building and out of her immediate view—and it didn't take the little imagination Mrs. Black possessed to understand what was happening.

That Battancourt hussy was actually trying to sneak back into her house, and—most insultingly of all—she thought her Muggle paramour would be able to help her do it!

That thought was almost worse than the illicit rendezvous.

In a second Mrs. Black had apparated to the foyer, had undone the enchantments, pushed open the door—the hinges freshly oiled, so no one would hear it—and glided down the steps, employing her customary lightness of touch.

Walburga heard the sound of whispers from the side of the house, the one gap on the street between buildings, placed there by her ancestors so that their dwelling would not have to touch bricks with the Muggles'. This little idiot clearly thought she was going to scale the wall somehow. Walburga slowed her gait as she approached the corner around which her targets lay in wait—a dead end.

She was going to catch this filth unawares. Colette Battancourt had picked the wrong night to trifle with her—for she was out for blood.

"—Plenty of times." Mrs. Black caught the snatch end of a sentence, very muffled, as she craned her neck around the edge of the wall. "Don't worry. I'll make sure you don't fall."

Walburga could barely contain her snort of contempt at this ill-fated promise. They were lucky they hadn't made it to the wall, for if they had they'd be dodging her curses. The girl asked him something she couldn't quite make out, or demanded it—it was half in French, and when the man actually stopped to laugh before replying (were they going to banter on her doorstep in the middle of the night, the fools?) she lost all semblance of patience.

To hell with waiting.

"So—" Walburga stepped out of the shadows to make her presence known. "—This is where you've been."

The girl's gasp of terror was very satisfying.

"Madame Black—"

"We have enchantments set around the house," Walburga cut her off, coldly. "To prevent people coming and going whenever they please."

The Battancourt chit's face had now drained of all color. The Muggle, meanwhile, froze—you might have thought he was one of those mannequin dummies they stuck in their shop windows.

At least he wasn't talking to her, the Black matriarch thought, viciously.

"I swear, it's not—" The girl sputtered, stupidly. "—What you think—I wasn't—"

"—Gallivanting out in the middle of the night with filth?" How dare this little ingrate try to make excuses for herself? "Taking advantage of our hospitality? Shaming yourself and your parents by having a liaison with—this?"

From the dim light of her wand she saw clearly that the girl's shoulders had begun to quiver. She turned to gesture at the Muggle for the first time—and found that he had unfrozen and actually had the temerity to step in front of the girl—as if he was capable of protecting her.

She'd known they were slow, but not this idiotic.

"Move out of the way." It was the tone of voice she would have used on an unruly farm animal.

He didn't, though. The brazen man only raised his arms wider. She sneered and raised her wand—Statue of Secrecy be damned, this wretch was attempting to break into the house of her fathers. He would get what he deserved.

"I told you to move, you mudblood scum—"

"—For your information," a pert voice interrupted her, muffled by the ungainly black contraption on his head. "I have it on good authority I have the finest pedigree of any wizard in this country."

Walburga's wand arm froze—then the rest of her body followed suit. She felt her mouth drop in an unseemly manner, vaguely she was aware that the girl standing behind him had gone rigid about the shoulders, but that didn't matter now—she didn't care a fig about the girl, not when he was—not when it was—

There was only one man—no, Walburga corrected herself, fiercely—one boy who would dare speak to her in this way.

Her eyes, which had up until now barely taken in the scum's appearance—she could hardly bring herself to distinguish between their fashions of the best of days—raked over him now. Denim trousers which were far too tight, and a leather jacket uncannily similar to the ridiculous one that she had confiscated a week before, ratty gloves that looked as though they'd been dug out of a rubbish bin—

She could have shrieked with exasperation—for heaven's sake, his wand was sticking out of his belt loop!

Walburga's eyes at last rested on what she could only describe as an upside-down black goldfish bowl.

"What—what is covering your face?"

"A helmet."

An answer that answered—nothing. Her eyes narrowed into slits.

"Remove it."

"Now, I don't think I—"

"—Take that thing off, this instant!"

One thing could be said for her firstborn, Walburga thought, as she watched him remove the offensive 'helmet'—when it came to direct orders for immediate action, he usually didn't need telling twice.

Usually.

Sirius Orion shook out his dark hair, his expression appropriately grim, considering the circumstances—though she could see quite plainly that beneath that 'brave front' he had mastered putting on for her, the boy was nearly as skittish and shaken-up as the girl shivering behind him. Perhaps even more so.

After all, he knew what was coming.

Eyes still trained on her son, she ordered the foolish young witch inside the house—and out of the way, which at this point Mrs. Black thought a greatly undeserved mercy. To Walburga's surprise, even shaking like a leaf as she was, Colette Battancourt did not move to obey any more than her son did. She was about to reiterate the order, sharply, when—even more surprisingly—Sirius Orion did it for her.

"Just—do as she says. It's easier, trust me."

His commanding authority reminded her of her husband. She might've been charmed by it, if she wasn't fed up with the pair of them.

The girl, still looking scared out her wits, rushed past both Sirius and herself and scampered up the stairs behind Walburga, closing the door behind her with a thud.

And leaving her alone with her prey.

Well…this feels a bit familiar.

In the dark, Sirius could hardly make out Walburga's face—but he could read her body language and mood well enough.

This was a 'no sudden movements' situation, for sure.

Not exactly how he'd planned the evening to go, everything taken in the balance. Now he was stuck improvising—what was the best approach here?

I mean, from the incensed look of sheer rage on her face, Sirius knew he was facing a lose-lose, bad on all sides outcome—but after the previous night's escapade, he was prepared to make the best of it—at least he knew not to be combative.

She would like that even less than Orion had.

"So, erm—I guess…" He fumbled around for a point on which to grab hold and disarm her. "I guess—security's gotten a bit better around here."

Joke—check. Almost sort of a compliment—check. Yeah, he thought, experimentally inching in her direction. That was, erm—alright.

"No, it hasn't."

Eerily calm voice—check. Completely unreadable expression—check. Not even a hint of a smile.

Check.

She wasn't yelling—she was still staring at him. Staring like a snake—one that could strike at any moment. He felt as though he was in a full-body bind.

"But how did you—how did you know we were out here?" Sirius ventured, cautiously. His eyes darted to the gap between her and the walls of the other house—he mentally calculated his chances of making past her before she had time to react.

Then his eyes fell on the wand, still pointed directly at his chest.

I'd say that's…less than zero.

"I didn't—I didn't even know she wasn't in the house," Walburga answered him, smoothly. "I happened to be looking out the window, that's all."

Sirius goggled. He found her calm voice damned unsettling.

"What, at one in the morning?" he blurted out, voice incredulous.

He cringed as soon as the words left his mouth.

"Yes. Very lucky, I'd say." He tried inching toward the narrow gap between her and the bricks of Number Eleven—but then his mother raised her wand, and he froze again. "You might've gotten her in, otherwise."

Sirius couldn't help himself—he swore under his breath. Seriously? Two fucking nights in a row?

What had he done in a past life to deserve this? He sure as hell hadn't done anything in this one that merited punishment on that level.

"Well—" He lowered his hand to his belt loops, casually laying the right palm on his wand. "I'm sure you—have a lot of questions about…this."

His mother's eyes gleamed in the dark.

"Actually—" Her voice went deadly quiet. "I only have one."

"What are you—"

But before he could even get out the question Walburga had turned on her heel and marched back in the direction of the square.

"Hey! Where are you—" Sirius threw one panicked look up at the house, irrationally thinking somehow Orion would hear them—except there were noise muffling charms, and then he realized what Walburga was on a direct collision course with—

"Wait, don't go over there—!"

He sprinted out of the alley after her, but by the time he'd caught up—it was far too late.

The beam of light from his mother's wand shone directly over Elvira the motorcycle.

"What—" She turned her face towards her son. "Is that horrible thing in the middle of the square, Sirius Orion?"

His mouth opened and closed several times before he managed to choke out the words.

"It's a—motorbike."

"A motorbike." He could hear the fury crackling in her voice as she spat out the phrase. "And who does this 'motorbike' belong to, perchance?"

Her son looked furiously between his mother's wand—gripped tightly in her right hand, the arm raised in the aggressive stance of poised attack—and Elvira. If he ran, could he make it in time?

Through the darkness of the square he heard her agitated breathing—huffing and puffing out of her nose, like a dragon about ready to launch a breath of fire over his poor bike and melt it into scrap.

"I belongs to…me…"

For a few seconds she said nothing, then, eyes blazing, she turned back towards it and raised her wand—

Sirius dived in front of his bike with almost as much enthusiasm as he had the girl. Walburga's son pulled his own wand from the makeshift holster in his jeans and, before she could even think of a spell terrible enough to rid the world of the ugly and dirty offense to her eyes, Sirius had swung his right arm, and twisted it into a furious flourish.

A wave of blue light knocked Mrs. Black back a foot—and nearly off her feet entirely.

"Did you—" She sputtered in indignation, recovering her balance quickly. Walburga scowled at her son, who was guarding the wretched thing doggedly, his wand raised—as if he was going to do that again. "Did you just cast a shield charm against me?"

"Desperate times call for desperate measures!" Sirius shot back, all fear forgotten in the wake of his adrenaline rush. "I'm protecting my property!"

She hissed like an angry cat.

"Get out of the way—"

"No!" Her son planted his feet firmly on the pavement in front of her target, fully prepared to cast any number of protective charms. "You want to have a go at it, you'll have to curse me."

For a moment it seemed as though Mrs. Black would take her son up on his generous offer. Her wand hand shook—and with a self-control he would not have thought her capable of, Sirius watched Walburga lower it back down to her side.

Still trembling with anger, she struggled to collect herself. She was close to losing it, he was sure—which would have been fine, except it was the middle of the night and the Muggles who'd been her neighbors for thirty years didn't have the benefit of sound-proofing spells on their homes.

But then…the expected screech did not come. Her trembling hand stilled.

"Go back to your flat," she hissed, through gritted teeth. "And take that filthy thing with you."

Sirius dropped his arms to his side, gobsmacked. Walburga was…dusting off her dress, looking completely calm again—though still furious, she had pulled back from the edge with an alacrity he'd never seen from her. He felt—impossibly enough—let down.

What an anti-climax.

"You mean you don't want—we're not going to—?"

"It is late, and I am tired," Mrs. Black said, her voice dangerously low and calm. "We will discuss this in the morning. Over breakfast." Her eyes narrowed. "Just you and I."

Her son gulped.

"But what—what about the girl?" Sirius took a few cautious steps towards his mother. "What are you going to do to her?"

"Nothing untoward for a chaperone," Mrs. Black said, cold eyes glittering in the dark. "Rest assured—she will be dealt with."

Far from reassuring him, Sirius clutched his stomach—the combination of heavy wine, food and terror might lead to him emptying the contents of his stomach on the pavement, here and now.

His mother took no notice of this. Shrugging carelessly, she continued speaking in a brisk and businesslike tone—ever the busy and industrious pureblood matron.

"Seven o'clock—be dressed and in your sitting room." Her voice turned rather sinister. "Do not even think of being anywhere else."

He wouldn't be dissuaded, now that the shock had worn off. Sirius glanced up at the third floor—the light was on in her bedroom. Damn.

He looked back down and around at Walburga, and found his mother watching with with dread-inducing cold expectation that always prefigured punishment.

"Just—just leave her alone, okay?" Feeling bold, he took another few steps towards his mother—well within easy reach of her wand. "She didn't—she didn't do anything. None of this was her idea, or fault—hell, she doesn't even know who I—"

"—If I have to tell you to go one more time, Sirius Orion—" Like a cobra strike out of nowhere, her arm seized his and yanked him forward. "—I will go wake your father and bring him out here to have a gander at that monstrosity of yours."

Sirius's face lost all color. He'd instinctively tried to wriggle out of her viselike grip the second she put her hand there—but at that threat he stilled.

"Mum—you wouldn't." Sirius couldn't help pleading with her, even though he knew it was pathetic and useless. "You know if he sees it he's going to have a conniption!"

"You can hold court for him out here in the street—" Walburga continued, her face only an inch from his. He was mesmerized by her. "—As you explain to him how long you've been hiding its existence from us."

He yanked his arm out of hers with a furious jerk and stepped back, glaring at her like a poisonous asp. It was the lowest threat she could have leveled—for Orion was the only person in their family who had hated his elder son's fascination with motorcycles even more than she had.

The one thing he could be relied upon to go absolutely berserk over.

The sudden image of a leash and muzzle flashed through Sirius's mind.

"I am not going to warn you again."

Mrs. Black crossed her arms, indicating her impatience. She watched him dither, rocking back and forth on his heels, debating whether it was worth continuing the argument—but not, she was pleased to see, for very long. The threat of bringing his father out here—a threat she had absolutely zero intention of carrying out, incidentally—did the trick, for after a single hopelessly defiant look (she had expected no less) he snatched up the helmet from the pavement and bolted.

Walburga watched her son drive off—no, slink off was more like it, for he didn't even have the nerve to turn the lights on while he was still in the square.

Only when she was sure Sirius Orion was safely away did she turn back to the house—and towards the lit window. Now—to business.

She was going to get some answers.

---

"Madame Black, I—truly, I didn't mean—"

"Be quiet, girl!"

Colette, who'd gotten to her feet the moment Mrs. Black entered the room, sank down into the covers and shrank back.

Trembling with shock and terror on the bed, she watched as Mrs. Black bolted the door behind her and put a series of stringent spells on it, sealing them in. In the absence of any order more specific than 'get in the house', the young witch had run straight back to her room, treading lightly to avoid waking up the sleeping portraits—and to alerting anyone else of her shame.

She had briefly entertained packing her trunk—except she felt so sick she couldn't stomach moving, let alone pulling gowns out of the wardrobe.

"Where is the…the…" Colette stumbled over the dreaded word, which she tried to blame on the alcohol and not her great fear of Narcissa's aunt's wrath. "I mean, is he…where is he?"

Ms. Battancourt flinched at the excoriating look her question garnered.

"He's gone," the matron said, shortly. "That's all you need know."

There was warning in the older woman's voice, but Colette was so far down the hole of disgrace, she almost felt she had nothing left to lose.

"What's—going to happen to him?" Colette blurted out. Immediately upon uttering this impertinent question, she covered her mouth with both hands. Mrs. Black glared at her.

"He will be dealt with in time."

Her muttering portended a veiled threat, Colette thought, her eyes widening with fear. Wild scenarios flashed through her head—technically they'd been breaking and entering, hadn't they? Had they—had they actually broken the law? Could he be brought up on charges? Her active imagination and the drink churned about and conjured up the horrifying picture of her companion rotting in a dungeon somewhere.

And all because she couldn't leave well enough alone when he'd asked her to. Colette couldn't let it happen.

"Please, Mrs. Black—it's not that man's fault, not really. It was all my doing, the whole scheme was my idea—" The Black matriarch rounded on her sharply. "I made him take me to that—to that spot. Please don't…do anything rash."

She trailed off, wringing her hands in her lap. For a moment Colette thought Madame Black hadn't heard her, for she was staring in such a peculiar way—but then, just as quickly, the formidable witch regained her composure.

"It is foolish of you to waste all this anxiety on him, girl," Walburga snapped. "You'd be better served worrying about yourself."

She looked down at the bedspread. Mrs. Black was, of course, entirely right. She was the one who had been caught sneaking into her chaperone's house with a strange man in tow in the middle of the night, and she would pay for it.

The older woman began pacing back and forth in front of the door, like a manic sentry on guard duty. Colette's head bobbed back and forth as she followed the dizzying woman, who had her eyes glued to the floor, and seemed to be mouthing words to herself, deep in thought.

A minute or so after this had begun, and Colette had nearly worked up the nerve to ask if she should begin packing her trunk—when Mrs. Black abruptly stopped pacing. Her head turned sharply in the direction of the girl, her eyes narrowing in on the slim frame.

"Where did you meet that boy?" she demanded, imperiously.

Colette's shoulders went rigid—the frightened rabbit facing down a fox. Her terror was at war with her innate sense of loyalty—for she felt certain answering Mrs. Black's question truthfully was the last thing her new friend would have wanted her to do.

Of course, he wasn't the one actually in the room alone with the woman.

"I…I don't…"

She stammered a few more unintelligible syllables before falling silent once more. Mrs. Black, completely still, sprang forward, inches from Colette's face. The witch jumped and shrank back.

"Let me make myself plain, girl," she murmured, softly. "You will answer every question I ask you completely and truthfully. If you try to lie, I shall know—and you will make things infinitely worse for yourself if you attempt it. Do you understand me?"

The girl managed a feeble nod.

"Good, now—" Mrs. Black pulled back and, eying the French witch keenly, folded her hands in front of her. "One more time. How did you meet that boy?"

Not for the first time in her life, Colette cursed her lack of quick-wittedness under pressure. Why had she not prepared a cover story in the event of this happening? Some story teller I am…

She tried to improvise a tale less incriminating than the truth, but—her mind was as blank a page as any she'd ever set pen to—and it took only a moment of looking up into Walburga Black's fathomless eyes for her to see that the woman's threats were not empty.

If she were a caught in a lie, it would be the end for her.

"It was last night." Colette took a deep breath to steady her nerves. "At the p-party at—at Malfoy Manor."

Mrs. Black expression went from angry to bewildered in half a second.

"Don't be absurd." She pulled back from Colette. "He—he wasn't at the party. I told you not to lie to me, and the first thing you do is—"

"—I swear to you, Madame Black—I am not lying!" Colette exclaimed, standing up, her voice borderline hysterical. "He was there, only it was not him, exactly. That is—he was in disguise with the—comment dit-on en anglais?—with the…the Polyjuice potion."

It was Madame Black's turn to step backwards. The girl didn't think she'd ever seen a more confused woman in all her life.

"What are you blathering about?" she demanded, aggressively waving her wand about with such force that one of the bed curtains on the four-poster fell on the floor in a heap. "What do you mean 'he was in disguise'? Who—who was he disguised as?"

Colette's lip trembled.

"One of those foreign men we were introduced to—Mr. Svensson."

"'One of those foreign—?'" Mrs. Black repeated, stunned—but Colette could see plainly that if the Black matriarch had found her explanation confusing at first, she now grasped it completely. "Svensson—you don't mean that Swede?"

"He was N-norwegian," Colette corrected, timidly—but the nationality of the man in question was hardly Mrs. Black's main concern, if her purpling face was anything to go by.

"Swede, Nord, Finn, Czech—it doesn't make one whit of difference, you silly girl!" she snapped, coldly. She was practically radiating anger. "Clearly that boy is none of them!"

Like a bird of prey, she swiveled her head towards the girl—who flinched.

"Did he tell you all this last night?"

"No—that is, he did, but only after I realized that he…wasn't who he said he was."

Her stomach fluttered at the memory of the imposter's shocked face when she'd told him his French was better than his Norwegian.

Mrs. Black expression now was eerily similar.

"And how, pray tell, did you deduce that?" Colette's interrogator demanded, tapping her foot impatiently on the floor.

The girl focused her gaze on a spot just above Mrs. Black's left shoulder—the only way she could keep herself from fainting in terror was to not look continuously at the older woman's face.

"When he was standing in that circle with us, I could tell that he understood what we were saying—you and Mrs. Prewett and Narcissa and her maman." Mrs. Black's mouth fell open in shock. "I went up to the punch table and…and I told him I knew he was an imposter, and then we went into the corner of the ballroom and…we spoke."

The older woman took in this new information swiftly. Each new fact left her more astonished and upended than the last—by the time Colette had finished her paltry explanation, she was convinced she had never seen a more livid person in her life.

"Let me see if I understand you fully." Mrs. Black crossed her arms and scowled down at the young girl. "You recognized that this…boy had sneaked into a respectable party in disguise, posing as someone he was not—and instead of immediately telling one of your elders and betters, you decided to approach the scoundrel instead? Is that the sum of it?"

Colette forced herself to nod twice. The older woman threw her arms up in the air, utterly exasperated.

"Of all the feather-brained notions—this is what comes of witches reading novels!" Mrs. Black scolded her, sneeringly. Colette cringed at the rebuke—surely deserved. "Sakes alive, girl! What if he had been dangerous? Or a low and common thief?"

She blushed hotly.

"He wasn't—I was sure he wasn't."

"If a man doesn't tell you his real name you can never be sure," Mrs. Black said, darkly. "He could have been any manner of scum."

Insane as it was to argue with her chaperone at this crucial stage, Colette couldn't help feeling a tad offended on her friend's behalf—and defensive of herself. He had not been scum—didn't Mrs. Black think she could tell the difference?"

"I'm certain you're right, only—well, he didn't seem low. I thought he was very…that he had good manners, even if they were a little…forward." Mrs. Black raised an eyebrow, and Colette pressed on, before she lost her nerve. "He made it out as if it was a game or a—a joke he was playing—and he seemed to know everyone in the ballroom so well, I did not think he could be at all dangerous."

This gave Mrs. Black pause. She considered the girl, thoughtfully, before asking—

"What did he say about the people in the ballroom?"

"Only that he wished to avoid detection by them." She shrugged her shoulders, helplessly. "He seemed to think all the Blacks would be most displeased if they knew he had come."

Mrs. Black's eyes rolled to the ceiling.

"They most certainly would have." Walburga rounded on the girl, her eyes fixed shrewdly on Colette's. "Did he tell you why he was behaving in this disgraceful way?"

Colette stared up at her. She felt her courage rising. Mrs. Black was not nearly as angry as she had been led to believe she would be—and she did not want to give all her absent companion's secrets away…not if she didn't have to.

"Non…that is, I think it was to meet someone—but he did not say who it was."

The eagle-eyed stare suggested that Walburga Black didn't believe her quite so ignorant as she claimed, but the matriarch let the question go, for the present.

"What did he say to you, girl?" Madame Black asked her, shrewdly. "You must've spoken about something."

"Oh…nothing all that interesting." This answer got her a severe look—not good enough. Mrs. Black knew her friend, so she must've realized that was ridiculous.

"He asked me about my holiday, what brought me to England—and he remarked on the…people in the hall. He wished to amuse me, and—keep me from giving him away."

Technically true—though vague enough to arouse suspicion. Walburga Black snorted at it.

"He rattled off a lot of foolish nonsense, I'm sure—and unflattering observations about all the party guests."

Interesting nonsense and amusing observations, Colette thought, rebelliously. Mrs. Black read something of these private thoughts in her expression, for her next words were decidedly more pointed than the last.

"You must've found this rogue quite charming," she drawled, carefully. "If you made plans for an assignation with him the next night."

Colette's cheeks colored—she was guilty of much in this business, but she was not going to own to that!

"I did no such thing! I found him to be—rather impertinent, in fact!" she replied, with more indignance than she would have thought herself possible of at this stage in the game. "He had just insulted me when we parted ways, and before that he had not told me anything about who he was, or why he was there, which was all I was interested in."

"So—you approached him and did all this out of curiosity."

Mrs. Black clucked her tongue and shook her head disapprovingly. As Colette was so used to this from her own mother, she hardly let the rebuke at her curiosity bother her.

"Truly, Madame Black—I did not think I would ever see him again—and nor did I—I even want to—"

The matron loudly cleared her throat, and Colette realized her mistake—denying her desire to see the imposter was just about the silliest thing she could say, considering Mrs. Black had just caught her traipsing about with him.

Perhaps waiting to be asked direct questions would be the wiser course, here. Colette didn't have long to wait—her chaperone was very keen for information, even though her questions were a little surprising to the girl.

"How did tonight's…meeting come about?" Mrs. Black asked, after another moment of consideration. "If you didn't make plans at the party, how is it you contrived this?"

"This morning he…came into the shop where I was having my robe fitting," she confessed, meekly. "It was all by chance, not design! And then later I bumped into him in the street, when I was coming to meet you for luncheon. When I saw him again I simply could not resist the chance to—to—"

She colored and fell silent again.

"—To find out who this man was," Walburga finished for her, dryly. "Which I gather you have still not yet done."

"How…how do you know?"

She let out a hysterical little laugh.

"You would not be speaking to me in this way if you had, believe me."

Underneath her sternness Colette thought she detected a smidgen of humor in Mrs. Black's tone. The girl frowned—that was the last thing she expected, but there was no time to reflect on it—

"When you saw him again in Diagon Alley—I can only assume he was not disguised then," she continued, dryly. "It does make me wonder how you recognized him…unless he frequently traipses about masquerading as that clodhopping Nord with the dull face."

Colette frowned—she supposed there was no getting around the part of the story she'd been trying to skirt at all costs.

"Oh, well—that was because he dropped the flask that he had been drinking the Polyjuice potion out of on the cobblestones, and I recognized it—"

A sudden thought struck her, and before she had a chance to consider the wisdom of saying it aloud, she blurted out—

"—Oh! je vois—he must've gotten it back from Monsieur Black last night."

Mrs. Black's reaction was instant—and strong.

"What do you mean—from Monsieur Black?"

The woman advanced on her, aggressively. Her hawklike gaze narrowed in on the girl—who now felt the full power of it, for she had frozen instinctively on the bed, like a rabbit that had been spotted.

"What does my—does my husband know about all of this?" she demanded, forcefully.

Colette paled. It was far too late to cover her blunder, now—Mrs. Black had certainly caught her slip, and she looked, if possible even more astonished.

And more furious.

"He told me not to speak to anyone…" Colette murmured, weakly—the venom in the look this excuse got her made the girl's blood run cold. Mr. Black had intimidated her very much when he demanded secrecy—but he wasn't here, and his wife was.

And anyway, between them, she was the vastly more frightening of the two.

"What did my husband say to you, girl?" she hissed, through gritted teeth. "And who did he tell you not to speak of?"

Colette shrank down on the bed, as if by making herself look smaller she could also render herself invisible.

"That—that man. The imposter." Mrs. Black's high cheek bones flushed scarlet, and her eyes narrowed into slits. "You see, he—Mr. Black…he caught him."

Mrs. Black's gray eyes widened in shock.

In an instant Colette's hostess had begun her frantic pacing up and down the front of the room once more. The girl watched her—too petrified to speak—until the older woman abruptly stopped and turned her head.

"You will tell me everything."

Her voice was terrifyingly calm.

Before she even knew what was happening, Colette was confessing the whole of the night's events to Madame Black in detail—how 'Mr. Svensson' had admitted to Colette he was trying to avoid her husband particularly, how she had pilfered the flask containing his Polyjuice potion and had then given it to Mr. Black against her will—how much later in the night Orion Black had approached her again, now demanding to know if she knew the identity of the imposter and, upon learning she did not, ordering her not to speak of him or their encounter to anyone.

A little prodding on this point, and Colette was forced to concede to Mrs. Black that her husband had not stipulated any exceptions to this order—not even to his wife.

The flash of anger on the woman's face made Colette hope she'd already be thrown out of the country by the time it got back to the man that she had been the one to tell Mrs. Black that he had lied to her.

Colette continued, at a rattling pace, speaking of the second encounter in the shop, and later in the alley—and of what she'd learned had happened—that after Mr. Black had caught her companion he had, unbeknownst to anyone else, somehow managed to smuggle the gatecrasher out of the Manor in secret again!

On this point Mrs. Black seemed particularly interested, grilling the girl relentlessly. Once she saw Colette knew nothing of how the two men had done it, the older woman dropped the subject without explanation, her shrewd look suggesting to the girl that she might have her own ideas about how this impossible feat had been achieved.

Mrs. Black clearly understood the situation far better than she did, at any rate.

Somewhat shamefacedly, Colette admitted she'd agreed to meet him outside the Leaky Cauldron that night, spurred on by his refusal to tell her his real name under any other conditions. She also mentioned his strange amusement at her inability to guess who he was, and how it had only made her more curious.

Now she saw Mrs. Black was truly interested—each new revelation, even the most insignificant details, had her hanging on Colette's every word.

How she'd gotten out of the house was, to the older woman, immaterial, but about the flying motorcycle Mrs. Black wanted to know everything, though all descriptions of its abilities and the ways that it had been magically enhanced only seemed to repulse and annoy her ("Did you like that horrible thing?" "No, of course not—I only thought it was rather clever of him to enchant it." "Hmph. I suppose. That doesn't make it any less unsuitable.")

It was only when they got to the topic of what had been discussed on the roof of Kenwood House on Hampstead Heath that she lost the thread of her story. So many personal confidences had been shared between them up there, and Colette found them painfully embarrassing to recall now, in the harsh reality of lamplight and in the comfort of her own head. How much harder was it to recount such things to the respectable witch who held her fate in her hands and who Colette was now throwing herself on the mercy of!

When she was with him, it was easy to forget the complete lack of propriety she'd shown by speaking in such a familiar way to a strange man. What would her mother say if she found out Colette had been discussing choosing her own husband and—having a career? Associating with Muggleborns?

Lucky for her, she wasn't grilled on the details of their conversation on that roof. Colette had the odd sense Mrs. Black knew that inappropriate subjects had come up without her even confessing to it.

"—But didn't you wonder how he knew all these things about us?" Mrs. Black demanded, after Colette had mumbled a few sentences about the ways that her accomplice had spoken unfavorably of Narcissa. "Not that I'm sure even half of them were true."

"Of course I did!" Colette replied, fiddling with her skirts. "But he told me he was an old friend of a family, and I assumed that was…telling the truth."

The matron let out a snort of impatient disbelief.

"Well, you shouldn't have. 'Friend of the family'—what utter nonsense. He was filling your head with tall tales."

She narrowed her eyes, looking sharper than ever.

"Did he try to…do anything to you?" Mrs. Black asked, pointedly. "Take advantage?"

Colette blushed hotly.

"Not at all," she replied, recovering her primness. "He was—a perfect gentleman. That is how I could tell that he was—well-bred." She nodded her head and added, derisively, "No matter what he says to the contrary, I could tell."

At this, Mrs. Black blinked—mildly surprised—and intrigued. She gestured at the girls face, circling it with her index finger, impatiently.

"Turn around—let me see the back of your head."

Confused, she obeyed, scooting around in the bed so that her back was to the foot. She felt Mrs. Black literally breathing down her neck.

"You are telling the truth." She tapped Colette's shoulder and the girl turned back around, question in her eyes. "Your hair, girl—it is still properly done up. When a man accosts a witch, he inevitably leaves her in a…disheveled state."

Embarrassed at the mere thought, Colette stared down at one of the ornamental pillows on the bed. She wondered if Mrs. Black was speaking from personal experience, but she didn't have the nerve to ask.

"Did you—like him?"

Her head shot up. Mrs. Black was staring at her with the strangest look—very intent, keener than anything she'd ever shown.

But—what a question to be asked! She could only bring herself to gape at her chaperone. Impatient of her fish-faced stupefaction, Mrs. Black sighed loudly.

"I mean, well—you apparently liked him well enough to agree to this idiotic plan."

Colette played with a stray thread on the covers—a nervous habit. When she saw Mrs. Black noticed her pulling the embroidery out of the stitching, she dropped the thread-end back down.

"Yes, I—I suppose that's true."

"Why?"

"I thought he was—amusing." She felt her face flush pink. "Interesting, and…clever—"

"—You said before you found him impertinent."

Though Mrs. Black's words were carefully modulated to be as neutral as possible, she still had that oddly expectant look on her face. Colette found it unnerving, so she looked down at the covers again. She noticed that there were little constellations stitched in gold on the coverlet. She traced the pattern that looked like Scorpius. It was exquisite work.

She dearly wished the scorpion would crawl out of the picture and sting her, here and now, if it would get her out of this humiliating conversation.

"Sometimes I…like impertinence," she admitted, softly.

A telltale blush followed this statement. The room fell silent, the only sound the occasional tapping of Mrs. Black's fingernails on one of the carved four-posters. Colette waited for the lecture, for Mrs. Black to summon a fire so that her aunt could be called, for the elf to come and remove her stockings from the laundry so she might be tossed onto the street, for—

"Do you want to see him again?"

She lifted her head up, eyes wide in shock—and then both hands flew to her cheeks. Colette could feel the heat rising off them.

"Mrs. Black—!" she protested, weakly. "I do not—I can't…"

To her amazement, though, the older woman was entirely unsurprised by her charge's embarrassment. If Colette hadn't known better, she would have thought Madame Black seemed gratified by it.

"Well, I suppose that answers that question." Mrs. Black laughed and tilted her head, inspecting the girl with newfound interest. "Did you make arrangements to meet him again, by chance?"

For a moment Colette wondered if this was a trap—or a trick—but then she saw the completely nonplussed look on the woman's face. Feeble protests were not going to be tolerated.

"Not…not formally," she confessed, red-faced. The details of her wager had been one of the many things she'd left out—though they had spoken of it only a half-hour ago, it hadn't occurred to her to confess that, a foolish venture that now seemed as distant as the ocean. Beyond her desire to conceal the embarrassing details of her home life and marriage prospects, the only slim hope Colette was still clinging to was that she might make it out of this audience and country without her reputation entirely in tatters.

She had not the faintest hope of ever actually seeing him again…

…Did she?

What was happening?

"No—" Mrs. Black's brow furrowed. "No, I suppose he'd be waiting for the opportunity. He did say he wanted to, though, didn't he?"

She looked so formidable—and her head was spinning so much from confusion—that Colette could only nod, dumbly.

"I thought so. He seemed quite worried about you, when I sent him on his way—didn't want to leave." The girl pinked. "I thought I might have to prevent him from coming up here to…defend you."

Something swooped in Colette's stomach. She was glad her friend had gotten away—though clearly Mrs. Black had some power over him—but she could not help wishing that he had come up.

He was so naturally daring—she felt sure he could have borne this much better than she could.

Mrs. Black made a noise of derision at the very thought.

"It was a lucky escape, girl." She rolled her eyes. "He knew better than to try my patience—so much the better for you."

Mrs. Black fell into another one of her thoughtful silences. Her charge, who had gone from terror to nausea to simply wishing she could be alone to cry into her pillow in peace, couldn't handle the suspense any longer.

"A-are you going to tell my great-aunt about this?"

Mrs. Black snapped out of her revery and looked back over at Ms. Battancourt—almost as if she'd forgotten she was there.

"What, that I caught you breaking into my house after an evening spent cavorting about London with a strange wizard on his Muggle deathtrap?" Colette, who was dreading her sentence like the fall of the guillotine, nibbled her lip. "I should, of course—"

She paused, her silvery gray eyes suddenly opaque.

"—I'm not going to, though." She gave the girl a haughty look. "And nor will you."

Colette thought her heart must've stopped—or her ears had stopped working.

"But, I don't understand—why not?"

The middle-aged woman let out a rattling sigh.

"Because it might prove rather embarrassing to me—admitting to your aunt that I failed so, as a chaperone." Mrs. Black paused and raised both her eyebrows, her expression and tone taking on an unexpected air of drollery. It was then Colette had an unpleasant prickling feeling, familiar to her, of being about to hear the punchline of a joke.

A joke at her expense.

"—And if she asked me who I caught you with, I don't much fancy telling her it was my son."

For a second it seemed as though the entire world had stopped, mid-rotation.

Colette's entire body seized—the witch felt as if she'd been put in a full body-bind. Her intuition had been good—she had an uncanny ability to sense when a blow was coming, a defense mechanism which had made her better at recovering than she might've been, had she not been stealing herself for it.

But in this case, she might has well have been blind-sided by a Muggle lorry.

"Your…you don't mean that man is—is your—your—"

"—My son. Sirius Orion—the elder of the two, and I hardly need add, the more brazen." The seizing turned abruptly to total limpness. Colette had to grip the bannister to keep herself from sliding off the bed. "I seem to recall you mentioning that man was surprised that you couldn't guess who he was."

A fresh wave of horror rolled over Colette—she went chalk white.

"I hope I don't need to explain why he found it so amusing."

The girl was shaking—with shock, but in short order it was with anger, too. In this moment she thought that was just about the least funny thing she'd ever heard. Mrs. Black tapped her chin with her thumb, expression thoughtful.

"You know—I did think it was odd. When we had dinner with him tonight, Sirius Orion asked quite a few questions about you." Walburga was apparently immune to the effect her words were having on the witch—who was gripping her face, and looking more livid and horrified by the second. "He's never much cared for Narcissa's friends before now, I did think he was unusually curious. Of course—" Her voice turned cold. "—If I'd known you met him last night, I would've realized he had one of his schemes afoot. Certainly my husband did. Orion was furious with him all through dinner—I thought they were going to have it out at the table."

The girl's face went from white to green.

"Now I know the reason why."

Colette stopped fighting the losing battle with the slippery silk bed linens—she slouched and bent her head down over her skirts to hide her face. Something had gotten in her eyes, for there was moisture that was dangerously close to spilling out and over her cheeks. The witch tried and failed to muffle the sound of a sob.

Then she felt the pressure of tapping on her arm. When Colette looked up, she was surprised to find Mrs. Black standing over her, holding out a silk square and wearing an expression of exasperated pity.

"Oh—dry your eyes, girl." She thrust a handkerchief into Colette's trembling hand. The girl took and raised it to her face and hastily wiped it. "You wouldn't be the first witch to lose your head over a handsome face."

She blew her nose loudly.

"I did not lose my head to a—to a—"

Colette had meant to only repeat Mrs. Black's word in the form of a denial, but now she had to resist the urge to fill in the blank with a far less savory expression. The older woman's eyes sharpened—through her tears, Colette couldn't quite see the smile that accompanied it.

"So—you don't think my son is handsome, then?"

The girl looked up from her lap, terrified again.

"…I—I didn't say that," Colette muttered, shoving the handkerchief into her lap. "I only meant that I didn't, I mean, that is—"

"—Naturally, I am biased," Walburga cut her off, briskly. "He takes after my husband, after all—everyone says so, anyway." She smiled, proudly. "Don't you think so? It might be a bit more obvious now that it's been—pointed out to you."

Colette opened her lips, but no agreement—not even a polite and cursory murmur. Her mind didn't seem properly connected to her brain.

Mrs. Black then did a rare thing—Colette didn't yet realize how rare, so she would come to see just how uncharacteristic it was of the frankly ruthless matriarch in the days to come.

She comforted her.

"Now, now—don't be too angry with Sirius Orion. He doesn't have any real malice in him—" She sat down on the edge of the bed next to Colette and patted her arm. "Not most of the time, anyway."

The last thing that he'd said before they'd been caught suddenly came back to the girl.

"No. I'm not going back on my word. Just—try not to be too angry with me."

The memory of his voice—good-natured as always, amidst all the other turmoil, softened her. She fiddled with the drenched handkerchief in her lap and let out another dry sob.

"I'm sure he planned on telling you, but found he rather enjoyed stringing his little joke along," Mrs. Black continued, wryly watching the girl dab her face with one of her bedsheets. "He does have a mischievous streak. It gets him into trouble."

Mrs. Black sounded so exasperated as she said it that Colette found herself timidly smiling—in spite of everything.

"I—I got the sense," she said, softly.

The rare soft look that had come over the woman disappeared as soon as the younger witch had noticed it. Mrs. Black stood up, looking formidable as ever.

"Rest assured—he will pay for this. I won't have any more of your ridiculous excuses about this all being your fault—it has my son's mark all over it. I'm sure it was all his idea. It was unwise of you to go along with this inane scheme, but I can understand how he persuaded you—" She rolled her eyes—now Colette could see plainly how motherly the exasperation was. "That boy could charm the scales off a dragon, if he put his mind to it."

Colette could hardly deny this fact—so she only nodded, meekly.

"I take it Narcissa knows none of what happened," Mrs. Black said, abruptly changing the subject. "She told me you went to bed before we got back—that's what she believes to be true, I take it?"

Colette murmured a quiet 'yes'. The older woman evidently believed her, for she nodded, satisfied by this. She considered her wayward charge for a long moment. The impressionable Ms. Battancourt had the perplexing sense that—after all of this—Mrs. Black held her in slightly higher esteem than she had this afternoon at the restaurant.

"I think there is quite a lot Sirius Orion said to you that you haven't told me."

Her blue eyes widened in fear, but to her surprise—the matron smiled. It was rather sly and feline and it didn't lessen Colette's anxiety one jot. If anything, it increased it.

"That's good," Mrs. Black continued, approvingly. "A girl should have some secrets—and a backbone. I approve of discretion—within reason, of course."

She let her captive audience mull over this suggestive statement for a moment before she walked over to the window.

"If you wish to see him again—" She continued, and as her back was facing Colette she could only guess at expression the inscrutable lady wore. "—And I imagine you do, if for no other reason than to give him the dressing down he so richly deserves—I will—"

She turned on her heel. She was twirling her wand in her hand with the expertise of a witch who knew her way about the world. Colette watched the action, transfixed.

"—Allow it."

The girl dropped the handkerchief onto the floor.

"Madame Black—!"

"—There will be conditions, naturally," Walburga added, tone brisk and matronly. "I can't allow anything like this to happen again, of course. No more galavanting about on that thing, for one." Her nostrils flared at the thought. "However, other meetings could be…arranged."

Ms. Battancourt, who was used to quiet country living, and was therefore currently at her far limit as far as excitement went, didn't have the wherewithal left to protest against her desire for another meeting with Mrs. Black's son, clandestine or not.

Maybe that liquor really had gone to her head. Was she having a drunken episode?

"I don't…I don't understand at all what you mean…"

Mrs. Black's feline smile widened and became something else entirely—serpentine. Whatever she was scheming, it was very clear to the girl, at least, that her understanding—or lack thereof—mattered very little to her chaperone.

"You're not altogether hopeless," she observed, giving the girl a once-over. "You have a chance to make something of yourself—a rare chance—of course, like most silly young girls you could just as easily squander it." She walked up to the end of the bed and leaned over. "You understand that well enough, I'm sure."

Whether she did or not was hard to say. Exhausted and humiliated, Ms. Battancourt looked every bit the part of the petrified mouse, frozen in terror, ready for the cat to strike the final blow and end it. Mrs. Black examined the girl for a long time, carefully considering what would be the best words to put her out her misery.

"Don't you want to make your mother and father proud?"

Colette gulped and swallowed. Silvery-gray eyes were the only thing moving in that face, as still as a beautifully carved statue waiting—expectantly. At the mouse hole.

She did the only thing she could think of, then—she nodded.

"Y-yes—of course I do."

The corners of Mrs. Black's lips turned up, and there was a fluttering in Colette's chest. It was an odd feeling, not unlike what she'd felt in that narrow alley so many hours earlier when she'd agreed to meet the young stranger.

No, not a stranger—that was Mrs. Black's son.

Colette felt—without quite knowing the reason why—that in that moment she had sealed her own fate.

"Good…" The dark-haired woman's smile was pleasant—this answer pleased her. She laid her hand on Colette's shoulder. Mrs. Black's grip was far stronger than the girl had expected it to be. Her fingers were as cold and hard as ivory.

"…Then you'll do exactly as I tell you."

---

Poor girl.

And thus, another day of drama ends, and we finally see the aftermath of Sirius getting caught breaking into Grimmauld Place. 200k words later. Expect a little hiatus after this—and no chapter to ever again be this long, because this took about 10 hours to edit. Would love to hear your thoughts! Thank you for all the lovely comments. They mean a lot.