Sirius wasn't quite sure why he'd agreed. Well, actually he did: Artemesia had asked him to. Unfortunately, White was acting more spare than usual, even if Dorcas was oddly serene. Of course, she was the only one properly dressed for Australian summer. Despite the fact that it was six o'clock in the morning in London, it was five in the afternoon in Melbourne, but that was not why Dorcas was the only one properly dressed. Fine, so White might just be cold all the time, but Sirius had stupidly dressed for English winter. He had never been to Australia before, but Sirius decided it was nice. He wouldn't mind living there.
Sirius wasn't quite sure how the three of them had ended up where they were, though. Yes, White had mentioned that the purpose for this little trip to Australia was to visit his nephew and drop by Artemesia's parents' house, but none of them had expected who answered the door. Even Dorcas seemed to want to escape. White looked halfway between terrified and trying too hard to be polite, but Sirius could only wish he were back in London, where it was cold and he only had to deal with the hellish painting of his mother while trying to keep the kids' spirits up about Christmas. It really would have been better.
The point was that White, Dorcas, and Sirius were all sitting on a couch in the parlor of Artemesia's parents' house. Mr. and Mrs. Vector were away for at least another hour or two for Merlin knew what reason, but the houseguest had let them in. Therein laid the problem. This particular woman happened to be staying in Melbourne for a few days before going back to her safari on the African savannah and then heading on to Buenos Aires for Mardi Gras and Lent. She had so informed the three of them while escorting them to the parlor.
"Why is Ophelia here?" Dorcas demanded in a whisper, seemingly slightly afraid that the woman in question could overhear her from a couple of rooms over. Sirius didn't blame her. The old bat probably could or at least would imply she could.
"How the bloody hell should I know?" Sirius demanded in return and at the same volume. It wasn't like it was his job to keep tabs on the woman. She was over a hundred, after all.
"She's your bloody grandmother!" Dorcas snapped back. Sirius had been trying not to think about that. His mother's mother reminded him far too much of a female version of Yoda, except with quite a bit of money and a penchant for travel. "Hasn't she written you or anything?"
"I haven't seen her in years," Sirius likewise snapped, not in the best of moods. Bloody White and his bloody issues. They just had to go to Australia. Well, now they'd run into Grandma Ophelia, and they were never going to be able to leave. More calmly, Sirius admitted, "I had the feeling she was still alive, but I assumed she would just show up on her own schedule. She marches to the beat of her own saxophone."
White seemed to have picked up on Sirius's ever-worsening mood, and before either of the other two could blame him, he explained, "Look, guys, I thought she was still in Africa. She wasn't supposed to be anywhere near here. If I'd known she was around, I'd have just visited everyone in New York."
Dorcas and Sirius shot White glares, but Dorcas was the one who demanded, "Why is she here, anyway? I assume she knows Mr. and Mrs. Vector, but how in the world did they meet? This could have been planned—you always said she had relative radar."
"She knew Mr. Vector's father. He served in the Great War with one of Ophelia's brothers. Her brother died in the war, but she stayed in contact with Mr. Vector's father," Terry explained quickly, hoping Ophelia wouldn't show up in the parlor as she was apt to do when people spoke of her. "You know how Ophelia is," he continued, warily watching the door. White paled suddenly and tried to explain, "Shit, I almost forgot, but your grandmother thinks I'm—"
"She still mixes people up?" Sirius repeated, again wishing he'd just stayed at Grimmauld. His grandmother avoided that house like the plague. He didn't blame her by any stretch of the imagination, but Ophelia could only be handled in small doses. Sirius cursed and said to Dorcas, "You better hope she doesn't think you're someone else. The only other blondes she knows she despises. Aside from Cissy, whom she believes still has the mind of a five-year-old. Of course, Narcissa never bothered to correct her, because Grandma always brings her presents. That might have changed, but I doubt it."
Dorcas was amused by that, but White, on the other hand, was bordering on frantic as he exclaimed, still quietly, "Sirius, listen to me! She confuses me with—"
He did not have the chance to finish his sentence, because Ophelia waltzed into the room. Two out of three on the sofa reflexively sat up straight. White's reaction was obviously a result of prior prolonged exposure to Ophelia. Dorcas had mostly been spared from Ophelia, although Sirius did remember when Dorcas had met his grandmother when they were about seven and Aunt Cassiopeia was still trying to set Sirius up with someone completely unsuitable (but still pure enough) behind his mother's back. Of course, Sirius had been under the impression that Dorcas was a boy, which had put a bit of a dent in Aunt Cassiopeia's plan.
Ophelia set the tea down on the coffee table and sat in the chair opposite the couch. Smiling, she turned to Sirius and asked quite cheerfully, "So, Sirius, my boy, how have you been? I don't believe I've seen you in years."
Sirius wondered if his grandmother had become senile yet. While White had said that Ophelia confused him with someone, she may have done that on purpose. Sirius remembered how Ophelia had mistaken people to annoy or otherwise confuse them when he was a child. Take his father's side of the family for example. Patiently, Sirius replied, "I was in Azkaban, Grandma. For twelve years. It was in the papers."
Ophelia continued to smile as she informed him, "I know that, silly. How were you? Was it as bad as everyone says?"
Nope, his grandmother was just as batty as ever. Sirius personally thought it was her private rebellion against the Victorian era. Her public rebellion against the Victorian era was refusing to stay in England for prolonged periods of time after Sirius's mother was of age. Sirius couldn't remember if she'd taken his grandfather with her. "Yes, Grandma, it was horrible," Sirius replied civilly. There were definitely downsides to having this conversation in the presence of Dorcas and White. Mostly White. He was never going to let this go. "The Ministry should upgrade the prison system," Sirius continued neutrally.
"Well, that's nice. You aren't eating enough. You're far too skinny," Ophelia decided with a tone of finality in her voice. Sirius hoped to God that her tone meant she was going to turn the focus of her interrogation on one of the other two. Alas, she continued, "How is your darling wife?"
Sirius twitched. What? Who had given Ophelia the impression that he was—Actually, Mr. Vector might have mentioned that Sirius had asked him for Artemesia's hand in marriage in December of 1980, but Sirius had never proposed. He hadn't wanted Artemesia to think she had to say yes because of how depressed he'd been, so he had put it off. When Sirius had finally started to feel better, Voldemort went and killed James and Lily. "I'm not married, Grandma," Sirius reminded her, trying not to think about how stupid he had been.
"Close enough, young man," Ophelia replied sternly. "I do hope you still plan on making an honest woman out of the poor girl." Sirius tried not to cringe and decided that if he were to reassign the properties of the circles of hell, one of them would be being trapped in a room with his grandmother. He loved her; he really did, but she was in some ways a relic of the late nineteenth century. Ophelia continued, "You should feel badly, Sirius. You have put that girl through far more grief than she should have been exposed to. I should have expected behavior like this from you. I told your mother that your father was nothing but trouble, but did she listen to me? No, of course not. She never did. Speaking of your mother, you missed her funeral."
"Grandma, I was in Azkaban. They wouldn't have let me out for that. For heaven's sake, they had a betting pool on how long I'd last in prison," Sirius protested, but he knew that she wouldn't listen. She never did. "They wouldn't let me go to Dad's funeral, either."
"That's no excuse. You should have escaped earlier. It's simply improper how long you waited, especially if you could have escaped at any time," Ophelia scolded him. She sighed exasperatedly and said, "I suppose I should forgive you. It's not your fault that you have bad breeding." Sirius was again reminded of his grandmother's vast array of eccentricities. She believed that his father's side of the family consisted of scoundrels and resulting from bad blood. Thus, she had the belief that everyone else on the planet was exceedingly far more pleasant, Muggles and witches and wizards alike, and treated them as equals. Unless, of course, they were part of his father's side of the family, then they were the scum of the earth and unworthy of notice. Abruptly, Ophelia focused her attentions on Dorcas and resumed smiling. "Miss Meadowes, I was operating under the mistaken impression that you were deceased," Ophelia mentioned conversationally. Approvingly, she continued, "Death becomes you."
"Thank you?" Dorcas replied, too confused to really say anything else.
"You always were such a dear," Ophelia reminded herself, still addressing Dorcas. White was bracing himself for what came next, because Ophelia would indeed move on to him now. She found Dorcas nice but dull. Sirius wasn't sure how his grandmother found Dorcas dull, but she managed. Sirius had long since stopped questioning her. He was proved correct when Ophelia turned to White and asked, "And how are you, young man? Are you still frustrated with your colleagues?"
Why was Ophelia being so nice to White? This was totally unfair! Still nervous for some reason, White replied, "Well, um, I've been reassigned. I'm working in the embassy in London." He was being unnecessarily vague. Sirius had been vague, too, but that was beside the point.
"Oh, that's wonderful news! How are your lovely wife and the little ones?" Ophelia asked, continuing the interrogation. Sirius began to wish for an interruption so he could escape with Dorcas. White would be a necessary casualty of war, but Sirius could live with that.
"Macha and Leo are doing well," White answered, hoping Ophelia would not continue along that line of questioning. Sirius noticed that White was less angry at the world recently. It was probably because his wife left the hospital. Artemesia had mentioned that White had been far more stressed than usual before his wife had been given a more or less clean bill of health.
"Oh, dear, has that cursed girl Bellatrix been acting out again?" Ophelia asked, bothered by the possibility. Sirius was not even going to start thinking about his grandmother's theories about Bellatrix. "I knew she was nothing but trouble even before she was born."
White squirmed in his seat and explained carefully, "Vesta was injured in a Death Eater attack, and Bellatrix Lestrange is believed to have been present." Sirius noticed that White seemed to be hiding something. Granted, he was always playing his cards close to his chest, but White seemed to be greatly unwilling to mention anything else.
Ophelia blinked owlishly and demanded, "Has she been terrorizing you again?" When White wouldn't answer, Ophelia declared, obviously directed at Sirius despite appearances, "Bellatrix is just more proof that nothing ever came from your father's side of the family."
"Yes, Grandma," Sirius said, starting to feel a headache coming on.
"Sirius, what have I told you about interrupting?" Ophelia demanded, still displeased with him. Sirius hoped that she wouldn't start on her list of grievances against the family. That was never-ending. The rant was amusing at times, but that didn't make it less interminable.
"I shouldn't do it, ma'am," Sirius replied as contritely as he could manage.
"Take care to remember that," Ophelia advised him, pleased with his reply. She resumed staring intently at White in order to receive a reply from him. Sirius wasn't positive, but the tactic might have been working. With a melodramatic sigh, Ophelia said, "Fine. If you do not wish to discuss what has happened, you do not have to. You are far too much like your mother for my tastes, young man." Was Sirius surprised that Ophelia knew White's mother? Hell, no. Worse, it seemed that Ophelia had decided to approve of White's family. No endless barrage of complaints about his comportment or how his father's side of the family was terrible, which thus rendered him partially as useless as the rest of them.
Sirius mused for a moment how the conversation would have continued to play out were Reg sitting there instead of White. Ophelia would go on to say that she guessed that Reg's similarity to their mother was just a side effect of being the better-behaved one. Then she would turn to Sirius and call him useless and an utter fool. Dad would usually walk in at that point, and Ophelia would say, "Speak of the devil!" and inform him that they were just talking about him. Mum used to think it was funny, back when the real world still held some interest for her.
"I'm sorry I'm too much like Mum," White murmured, sounding somewhat sad. Sirius was about to ask why he was apologizing, Ophelia be damned. However, the sound of someone shutting the front door of the house distracted all of them.
Peter had just returned from playing a game of cricket in the cul-de-sac where his friends Tir and Reynard lived. (Rey had an unfortunate name, but that was beside the point.) Jimmy had managed to convince his parents to let him go and play, too, which was lucky, because otherwise the girls would have outnumbered them. Anyway, they lost. Camellia was triumphant and wouldn't stop rubbing it in Jimmy's face that he had lost the sixth pick-up cricket game in a row. Rey did his usual act of refusing to help Jimmy talk Camellia out of being so enthusiastic. Peter, however, had been joking around with Tir until he realized what time it was. He was supposed to have been home by five, not realize he was late at half past five.
Peter had quickly said goodbye to everyone except Doreen, who was too busy having a staring contest with Rey's dog, which had to be the laziest animal on the planet, bar none. Well, Tir was lazier, but he was a person. Peter had rushed back home, hoping his grandparents wouldn't be too upset with him. Grandma always became rather angry with him when he broke rules. Peter didn't mean to, most of the time. Rules were just so inconvenient.
On the other hand, Peter found it very convenient that he only lived two or so blocks away from Tir and Rey. Jimmy lived more like fifteen blocks away, which was why he always convinced his parents to drive him over. Kind of a bother, if anyone cared to ask Peter. Regardless, Peter paused to catch his breath after he barely kept himself from running into the front door. When he walked in, no one was there to reprimand him, and he realized that his grandparents probably were stuck in traffic or something. That could mean only one thing. Ophelia was still around. Peter had hoped he would dodge that bullet, but alas it was not to be. He heard a woman exclaim, "I'll go see who it is!" Peter knew an escape attempt when he heard one. He had tried that before. Repeatedly. It never really worked out too well.
"Oh, no, dear," Ophelia insisted in that maddeningly cheerful manner of hers. Peter considered just going into the parlor, saying hi, and then escaping, but he decided that might be a bit too cruel. Unfortunately, Ophelia made the decision for him and called him in, "Peter, would you please come into the parlor? Your uncle's here."
Dropping his cricket gear near the door, Peter sighed and trudged into the parlor. He plastered a smile on his face and hoped that it didn't look as fake as it was. The first thing Peter noticed when he entered the room was that Ophelia was holding court again. Uncle Terry, of course, was one of the three unfortunate victims. Peter didn't know who the blonde woman sitting next to Uncle Terry was, but the man on the other side of the sofa looked oddly familiar.
Peter wasn't sure if he should acknowledge the presence of Ophelia first or if he could just go and save his uncle from the crazy lady. The blonde woman and the other man were unfortunate casualties, but he was willing to make the sacrifice. Deciding to hell with it, Peter grinned and exclaimed, "Hey, Uncle Terry!" He bounded over to his uncle, who stood and gave him a hug. "I thought you were going to come to Great-Aunt Juno's Christmas party like usual."
Uncle Terry smiled sadly and explained, "Your aunt Vesta got hurt pretty badly recently. None of her doctors thought it was intelligent to take a trans-Atlantic flight or Port-key." Peter realized that his uncle looked pretty depressed. Uncle Terry seemed to pick up on the fact that Peter had noticed and reassured him, "Peter, she's fine, you know. She's all right."
Peter nodded absentmindedly. Who did Uncle Terry think he was trying to fool? Well, he did believe his uncle was telling the truth about his aunt, but it was kind of obvious that whatever had happened had hit his uncle hard. Was Peter imagining things, or did Uncle Terry have more scars than the last time he'd seen him? Peter then realized he was being kind of rude. There were three other people in the room. With the intent of addressing them in turn, Peter said first to Ophelia, "Nice to see you again, ma'am. Nice to meet you, um—" He turned to his uncle for a cue.
Uncle Terry grinned and said, "Peter, I'd like you to meet two friends of mine. Dorcas Meadowes—" He gestured at the woman. Peter was glad for that. He wouldn't have known Dorcas was a woman's name. It sounded vaguely female now that he thought about it, but he wouldn't have known right off the bat. Uncle Terry continued, "And Sirius Black."
Peter nodded and said, "Oh. Okay. Cool. Hi, I'm Peter. Nice to meet you." What his uncle had said then had the opportunity to sink in. The random familiar-looking man was Sirius Black. Well, maybe he wasn't that Sirius Black. After all, Black was a common last name, and it could be a complete yet unfortunate coincidence that the man had that first name. Of course, Uncle Terry could just be acting par for the course and befriended the man who spent twelve years in Azkaban for a crime he didn't commit. That theory would also explain why Mr. Black looked familiar.
Judging by the fact that his uncle had an ever-suffering look on his face, apparently Peter hadn't been as covert with his expressions as he had thought. Ms. Meadowes looked like she had caught on to an inside joke she knew at least one of them didn't understand. Peter saw a similar expression on Jimmy frequently, usually whenever they pulled one over on a teacher and didn't get caught. Rey could talk them out of anything. Mr. Black, on the other hand, was vaguely smiling but still managing to look a little resigned, as if he had expected Peter's reaction. He was probably all too used to it, Peter realized, which caused him to immediately feel like crap. Strangely enough, the next person to speak was Mr. Black. With a voice that again reminded Peter of someone else, Mr. Black said levelly, "It's a pleasure to meet you, too."
"Now that you've been introduced, Peter, be a dear and show Sirius and Dorcas around the house. I'd like to talk to your uncle alone," Ophelia said, smiling in that creepy way she did. Peter used to call her a dragon lady, but his grandmother had forbid him to do so the first time she heard him say it in her presence. Grandpa thought it was an apt description but admitted that only once Grandma was out of earshot. Still. Ophelia was one tough cookie, and Peter found it wiser to just do what she said.
"Uh, okay," he said hesitantly. Uncle Terry did not look very thrilled at the idea of a prolonged conversation with Ophelia, but he wasn't complaining vociferously, so Peter supposed he wasn't too much against the idea. That, or he was taking one for the team. Turning to Mr. Black and Ms. Meadowes, Peter said, "I guess I'll give you a tour, then."
Less then a minute later, the three of them were in the kitchen. Ms. Meadowes hadn't been able to exit the parlor fast enough, but Mr. Black hadn't been in as much of a rush. Addressing Mr. Black, Ms. Meadowes said, "Look, Sirius, I have to get out of here. I'm sorry to leave you in the belly of the beast, but Ophelia's scary as hell. I'd rather go up against your cousin again with only a sharpened spoon and a roll of duct tape at my disposal. On second thought, only the spoon. The duct tape would give me a fair chance at winning."
Mr. Black grinned and said, "Dorcas, it's fine. Run while you still can. Make sure you go somewhere where magic isn't prohibited. I'll send a patronus when it's okay for you to come back." Ms. Meadowes said thanks in a very bizarre manner before disapparating with a loud crack. Mr. Black shook his head ruefully. Peter wondered if the two of them were going out but dismissed the thought as soon as it occurred to him. Mr. Black would have escaped with her if they were.
Peter took a moment to look at Mr. Black. He didn't seem like the same person in the newspaper photos from the Daily Prophet. Aside from looking generally healthier, he was also a lot calmer. At least, it seemed that way. Peter realized with a start that Mr. Black looked a lot like Uncle Terry. Granted, Uncle Terry was noticeably shorter and slighter than Mr. Black, but the resemblance was definitely there. Peter was slightly frustrated, because while his uncle and Mr. Black were physically alike, it wasn't completely why Peter noticed the similarity. Their voices, maybe?
"You're White's nephew, right?" Mr. Black asked, breaking the silence. He was leaning against the counter, looking kind of tense. Mr. Black seemed a lot less self-assured than Peter would have guessed he would be.
Peter nodded and replied, "Yeah. Uncle Terry's my favorite uncle. Well, I don't have any other uncles, but even if I did, he'd still be my favorite. Grandma thinks he's disrespectful, though." Grandma thought Uncle Terry was not courteous enough around his social superiors. Peter always wondered why she said that. Uncle Terry was polite to most everyone, but he really didn't like Peter's grandmother's politics.
Smiling, Mr. Black said sincerely, "He's a good guy. You're lucky to have him as your uncle." Peter knew that. Uncle Terry had defended Mum when Grandma had threatened permanently transferring guardianship of Peter from his mum to her. Uncle Terry likewise hated it when Grandma started badmouthing Peter's father. His uncle rarely said a harsh word, but he frequently tried to change to a more neutral subject. The only time Peter had actually heard a heated argument between his uncle and his grandparents, his uncle had been absolutely furious. After Uncle Terry had stormed out of that room, thinking no one was around he had muttered, "God dammit, Hera, my brother would have rather gone through hell than have left Artemesia like this." Only Uncle Terry knew Peter had listened in on some of the conversation, but he would never acknowledge the implication that his brother was Peter's father. Uncle Terry never tried to dissuade him of the notion, either, so Peter assumed that it was true.
"How do you know him?" Peter decided to ask. There wasn't much else to talk about. It wasn't every day he talked to someone this infamous. "My uncle, I mean."
Mr. Black turned serious and hesitated. Peter guessed that meant Mr. Black had to fiture out what he couldn't say, so he was probably was working with Uncle Terry on his secret-agent business. Uncle Terry took that job very seriously, and Peter had always guessed that whatever it was had to do with the war with Voldemort. Uncle Terry had very strong feelings about that war. Aunt Vesta had once told Peter about when his uncle had landed himself in the middle of a bar fight on Halloween a really long time ago. Uncle Terry insisted he had been trying to stop it, but everyone kind of knew that he was lying.
Finally, Mr. Black sighed and answered frankly, "I'm not quite sure. We're working together now, but I may have met him in the past." He looked a little frustrated for a moment, but he recovered quickly. Mr. Black asked in return, "So you're really close with your uncle?" Peter realized at that moment that his uncle might not have told Mr. Black his entire life story. Well. That was new. Was Uncle Terry learning to be reserved?
Peter assumed his uncle trusted Mr. Black, so he replied, "Yeah, we are. I think he may be trying to make up for what happened to Dad, but he doesn't like to talk about it." Mr. Black seemed somewhat surprised. Peter tilted his head to the side and asked, "Did Uncle Terry tell you anything about my dad?"
Mr. Black was obviously trying to figure out what he should say, or maybe what he couldn't say. That answered Peter's question. Uncle Terry must have said something, but what did he say? With hesitation, Mr. Black replied, "Yes, he did. Maybe. I'm not completely sure. Are you his brother's son or are you related via your aunt? Neither White nor 'Sia were very clear." (FUTURE REF: PETER'S AUNT=VESTA)
Peter blinked, a little confused. "Who's 'Sia?" he asked, feeling mostly clueless.
Mr. Black looked a little confused and strangely embarrassed, but he replied, "Artemesia Vector? She's the cousin of your uncle's wife, has a daughter about your age."
"Oh," Peter said, feeling majorly stupid. Of course, then he realized why he didn't make the connection immediately. Mum hated being called 'Sia. A lot. As in, she wouldn't speak to Uncle Terry for a month the last time he accidentally called her that to her face. That had been years ago, though, and Uncle Terry seemed to have broken himself of the habit. The question was, how did Mr. Black know his mum? Again, stupid question. In her naturally roundabout way, Gemma had mentioned that their mum was going out with a new guy. She had probably neglected to tell Peter who simply because she wanted to break the news in person. Gemma could be so obnoxious sometimes. He said, "You mean Mum."
Mr. Black smiled at that and looked down at the ground. "Ah. 'Sia is your mum. I should have guessed," he murmured, sounding chagrined. Mr. Black looked back up and inquired, "So, Gemma's your older sister, then? But, why do you live apart?"
"Er, Gemma's my twin," Peter corrected, momentarily ignoring the second question. He didn't really want to air his mum's dirty laundry to her boyfriend of the week. Although… Mr. Black called Peter's mum 'Sia and had apparently lasted more than a week. Of course, if Mum hadn't even told Mr. Black about Peter, then maybe Peter shouldn't say anything. There was one way to determine if it were all right to tell Mr. Black. That said, Peter didn't want Mum staring disapprovingly at him the next time he saw her if he wasn't sneaky enough and thus insulted Mr. Black. Trying not to sound suspicious, Peter hesitantly asked, "How do you know my mum?"
Mr. Black replied with ease, "She was a very good friend of mine when we were in school." If he had left it at that, Peter would have called him a liar. There had to be more to the story. However, Mr. Black looked kind of embarrassed. Peter found out why when Mr. Black continued, "And, well, we were involved later on." Peter's eyes widened. Ah. If his mum had still been with Mr. Black when he was sent to Azkaban, then his mum probably had a very good reason for disliking anyone calling her 'Sia. Mr. Black noticed that Peter was spiraling into a state of horror and said, "It didn't end well, as you probably guessed, but we're still friends."
All Peter could manage at the moment was a mute nod. Certain math didn't quite make sense. Well, it might have, but that would be weird and creepy. Granted, Uncle Terry was a little spare, but even he had limits. But what if this was the limit? Peter wasn't sure if he wanted to consider what he just deduced. Okay. Logically. He was going to look at this logically. Fact 1: Uncle Terry had said he was Peter's father's brother. Fact 2: Uncle Terry and Mr. Black were very much alike (practically clones). Fact 3: Mr. Black had been involved with Peter's mum from some point up until Mr. Black got in trouble with the law, and it sounded like they had been together for a while before that. Fact 4: Peter and Gemma were born in June, so the dates fit.
Peter hoped at that point that it wasn't obvious he was having his own private nervous breakdown. Anyway. Conclusion 1: Mr. Black was his father. Conclusion 2: Uncle Terry was completely insane. Wait, no. That was a fact. So, conclusion two was that either Peter's uncle was lying about who Peter's father was or he was lying about his identity. Conclusion 3: Uncle Terry was lying about his identity, because it was kind of scary how similar he and Mr. Black were. Being a zealous student of history, Peter realized one more thing. Uncle Terry had been at one point a Death Eater and was supposed to be deceased. Rather horribly, at that.
Mr. Black—Peter was going to pretend this revelation never happened—looked concerned. Maybe Peter hadn't hidden his utter shock and horror well enough. Peter was not happy with his uncle right then, not at all. Peter came to another realization at that point: Mr. Black didn't seem to know or have drawn any conclusions about things. That, or he was denying things, too. Peter was good at denial. Denial was his friend and not just a river in Egypt.
Looking resigned again, Mr. Black said, "You don't like me, do you?"
Even if Peter were wrong (oh, please, if there were a God, please let Peter be wrong), it wouldn't do to alienate his mum's boyfriend. It also wouldn't do to alienate an ex-con. (Or his father.) Peter just had the luck of being able to do so in one neat package. He was going to yell at his uncle. He really was. Breaking out of his reverie, Peter replied in a distracted tone, "No. I was just thinking about how crazy Uncle Terry is."
Mr. Black grinned at that, causing him to look years younger and that much more familiar. Peter wondered if Azkaban was the reason Mr. Black normally looked older than he should. With a laugh, Mr. Black agreed, "Yes, your uncle is a little mad."
Well, at least they had found something they could both agree on. (Shortly thereafter, they'd also agree that Ms. Meadowes was even crazier than Uncle Terry, but that had more to do with her interaction with the next door neighbors, the Archers, and their pet wallaby than anything else. Peter would always wonder where she found the parachute.)
Terry had spent too much time around Sirius not to notice that he was furious. He knew he should have told Sirius about Peter, but Terry hadn't known if Artemesia wanted him to. Thankfully, Grandmother Ophelia wanted to grill Sirius now, so the argument to end all arguments would have to wait for a while. Terry had actually been relieved that his grandmother hadn't referred to him by name while Sirius had been in the room, even if she had done her level best to hit Sirius over the head with the truth. On a related note, Grandmother thought Terry should visit his psychiatrist to have his prescriptions adjusted. Fifteen years ago, his first experience with psychiatry had produced a vast quantity of Valium, and Terry knew far more entertaining ways of self-medicating. Vesta had periodically suggested he might want to try again over the next year or so, but she had stopped when he had told her everything that had happened to him in the war—everything. As expected, he had had trouble telling her, but it had become easier as he kept talking. For a couple months afterward, he had noticed that she had treated him differently, but as time went on, she had thankfully reverted back to normal. Sometimes it still surprised Terry how much that had meant to him. Eventually, she gave him the name of a doctor a friend had recommended, and he to get help again for her sake. Thankfully, that time, it had helped.
In the here and now, however, a very angry Sirius had him by the collar and demanded, "What in the hell happened between 'Sia and her parents?" Terry let out the breath he had unconsciously been holding. Oh, thank God and Merlin and all the stars in the sky. Sirius wasn't going to beat the tar out of him. Well, to be honest, he still might, but Terry was more concerned with the motive.
"Her mum disowned her, Sirius," Terry replied as calmly as he could, which in the circumstances was calmer than he had a right to be. That said, unless Sirius was pissed off at his younger brother for lying to him for fifteen years, Terry was fine. Really.
"I got that, White!" Sirius growled. Terry had underestimated how angry Sirius was. "Why else would she have been completely cut off from her inheritance? What about the kids?"
"Mr. Vector was against it, Sirius, but you've met Artemesia's mother. She makes Ophelia seem only merely intimidating," Terry continued, hoping Sirius didn't start a fight when Mr. and Mrs. Vector finally got back. "Look, Artemesia always knew that her salary wasn't high enough to raise two children. Before the two of them went to school, both of the kids spent their summers in Britain. Peter doesn't go to Hogwarts because he wanted to stay with his friends here, and before you ask, yes, the school is world-class." Terry wondered if he should continue, but he had never been a very cautious man around Sirius, so he added, "He's a lot like you, you know. Peter, I mean."
"No, he's not," Sirius said, slightly glaring at Terry. After a moment, his expression softened, and Sirius continued with some regret, "He's nothing like me, and I hope to God he stays that way."
Well, it seemed like Sirius had indeed drawn the conclusion that Peter and Gemma were his children. About damn time, really. Unfortunately, Sirius was now going to blame himself for even more circumstances that were out of his control. Yes, what had happened in the wake of Voldemort's death sent all of these current problems into motion, but Terry knew that was not his brother's fault. Sirius couldn't have known what Pettigrew had been planning, and he had no reason to suspect that Pettigrew would ever have done that. Yes, Sirius shouldn't have sought revenge against Pettigrew without telling anyone, but Sirius hadn't expected to end up in prison because of it. Pure chance had led them all to where they were now, but Sirius wouldn't stop beating himself up about it, and that still drove Terry crazy. However, he couldn't let Sirius go into an emotional tailspin before talking to their grandmother, so Terry corrected him, "Sirius, he is like you. Don't sell yourself short." Sirius was about to protest, but Terry cut him off, saying, "Yes, he is different, too, but he hasn't had to go through what you did."
Sirius had a dark look on his face, but he sighed and gave in. "Fine, White, but would you tell me the whole truth later?" he asked. Sirius didn't wait for a reply before asking somewhat nervously, "Ophelia wants to talk to me, doesn't she?"
"Sorry, Sirius," Terry replied, meaning it. Sirius cursed before making his way back to the parlor. Terry hoped Artemesia's parents did not return until after the conversation was finished, because otherwise Terry would avoid the ensuing firestorm for as long as possible. Mr. Vector would probably join Terry and Peter in avoiding the loud, tumultuous results. Speaking of Peter, Terry had better go talk to his nephew. He hoped that the ensuing conversation did not turn into a test run for trying to calm Sirius down.
After a brief search of the house, Terry realized Peter was hiding in his room. (Dorcas was likely AWOL, but Terry did not want to know.) Hesitantly, he knocked on the door to Peter's room. There was no answer. Terry knocked again and asked, "Peter, are you there?" He heard some shuffling from within the room, but he received no answer. Terry should have expected something like this. With Sirius in his current mood, there was no way that Peter could have escaped unscathed. Sighing, Terry requested, "Peter, please, may I come in?"
"No," came the muffled reply. Terry grimaced. Peter was very angry with him, then. Terry guessed that his nephew's reaction meant that if Sirius hadn't constructed psychological barriers against the merest implications of the truth, his brother would have recognized him all too easily. Peter shouted, still slightly muffled, "Go away!"
Terry grimaced and said, "Peter, I'm coming in. If you don't want to talk to me, fine, but please let me explain." He heard some more shuffling and then the door unlock. Terry smiled and said, "Thank you, Peter."
He entered the room. Peter was curled up in his bed under the covers. This conversation might be more difficult than Terry had initially expected. He sat down on the corner of the bed. Peter still said nothing. Terry pinched the bridge of his nose. This felt as bad as it had been when he had tried to make peace with his brother after their falling-out.
"You're a murderer," Peter murmured. He sounded like he had been crying only shortly before. Terry wondered how much Peter had figured out. Unfortunately, Terry didn't reply quickly enough, so Peter cried, "You aren't even going to deny it?"
"No. No, I'm not," Terry replied quietly. He smoothed a patch of quilt on the bed absentmindedly. The real answer was far more complicated, but the short of it was that Terry was a bloody-handed murderer. "How did you find out?"
Peter sat up and hugged his knees to his chest. His eyes were red, which caused Terry to feel even guiltier. Peter sniffed and murmured, "You're Mr. Black's brother." Terry's face went slack in shock before he tensed. Terry's reaction was hard to miss, and Peter certainly didn't miss it. Looking angrier but visibly distressed, Peter accused, "You won't even try to deny it!"
Terry sighed and glanced toward the door. Making his decision, he stood up and shut the door firmly. As subtly as possible, he cast a soundproofing spell on the room. Sitting back down on the bed, Terry couldn't bring himself to meet his nephew's eyes. How in the world could he explain this to Peter? The boy was barely even a teenager, and sometimes Terry—the adult, supposedly—had trouble making sense of it all. Tracing the pattern on the quilt, Terry took a deep breath to brace himself to explain. He knew he was going to regret this, but this order was made to be broken. Troubled, Terry grimaced and asked, "What do you want me to tell you?"
Peter looked up, far more hurt than angry. Betrayed, he demanded, "Just who are you?"
Terry met his gaze. There was no going back. Now striving to remain calm, he began, "My name is Regulus Arcturus Black. I was born November 11, 1961, and I died January 28, 1981. I was nineteen. At least, that's what it says on my tombstone." He paused, wishing he could dispel the memories that immediately resurfaced. He had to continue. He had to explain. He couldn't let Peter hate him.
Peter was studying him, starting to look vaguely nervous. He had relaxed slightly and now murmured, "We're studying the war against Voldemort in school. We're reading this book, and it mentioned that you were killed for backing out of the Death Eaters." He looked away at the last sentence, nervous but ashamed of what he had said for God knew what reason.
Terry looked down, trying to keep his breathing steady. This was far more difficult than he remembered. He had been able to explain to Artemesia well enough, hadn't he? Veritas vos liberabit, right? The truth would set him free. Terry admitted, "I was a Death Eater, but I didn't want to be, not really. I was trying to stay out of the war, but I was forced to pick a side. My brother tried to keep me out of the war, but our cousin was far more forceful." Re—Terry tried not to show any emotion. He didn't want Peter to even theorize about what might have happened. Making sure to keep his voice steady, Terry continued, "I made the decision to switch sides the first time I was taken out on a raid. Two weeks later, I was working for the United States government. I volunteered for what was effectively a suicide mission that had already killed their top field agent. God knows why they took me in. I didn't tell anyone. When I was found out, Voldemort ordered me to kill your father. I couldn't even contemplate any of that. Afterward—" Terry stopped before he risked triggering a flashback. He couldn't let Peter see that. Let Peter hate him, but he couldn't let Peter see him break down like that. Terry murmured, "You can guess the rest."
Peter noticed that his uncle was not going to say more on the topic, so he tried an alternate route. Hesitantly, he asked, "How did you meet Aunt Vesta?"
That question surprised Terry. Granted, it wasn't unwarranted. How on earth would a princeling from one of the most highly respected English pureblood families end up with a woman whose Muggleborn father grew up in the Bronx? Boggled the bloody mind, didn't it? Trying and mostly failing to remain placid, Reg—Terry replied, "She was working at St. Mungo's, where I was learning to be a healer. It took me forever to work up the courage to speak to her. I never cared about blood status. All I knew was that I loved her. I always will."
Now Peter was simply watching him. Terry looked down and continued, "Look, Peter, I understand if you hate me for lying to you. I'd hate me, too, to be honest." He wanted to add more, but Terry wasn't sure what else there was to say. Under no circumstances was he going to talk about his life as a Death Eater, but there had to be some memory or detail that might cause Peter to consider forgiving him. After all, if he couldn't convince his thirteen-year-old nephew to forgive him, then how on earth was he going to convince his older brother to do so?
Peter was considering what he had been told. On one had, he could decide he was fine with what Terry had said. On the other hand, he might never speak to Terry again. It was hard to tell. If this argument had been with Sirius, Terry would have had more information to work with because Sirius never censored himself in front of him, but Peter was being scarce with his words. Then again, when Sirius was incredibly angry, he didn't speak much, either. There was no point to staying here if Peter was truly that angry with him. Terry smiled sadly and murmured, "I'll leave you alone, then."
There was no response from Peter, who had again wrapped himself in a blanket cocoon, so Terry stood with the intent to leave. No use staying where he wasn't wanted. He hadn't crossed half the room when Peter whimpered, "Uncle Terry? Please don't go." Terry stopped and turned back. Peter was on the verge of tears when he cried softly, "Please don't be mad at me."
Needless to say, Terry was startled. It was what he deserved for expecting the worst, but the Blacks conditioned their children well. Wait. Sirius. How could Terry be so stupid? He sat back down on the bed, and Peter attached himself to Terry much like Gemma would when she was upset. As Peter sobbed into his shoulder, Terry reassured him, "I'm not angry with you. I couldn't be. You've done nothing wrong, Peter. You've done nothing wrong." Terry felt like an idiot for not immediately realizing Peter was upset because of his father.
After Peter calmed down enough to speak again, he was nervously picking at the corner of the quilt and asked with a sniff, "How did Mum and Dad meet?"
Regulus smiled and said, "Well, it all began when your mum chucked a chocolate frog at your dad. I mean, she was aiming for that Hufflepuff girl with the awful hair, but you know how cramped passenger trains are, and God only knows what Sirius was doing. Anyway…"
Notes: So clearly "irregular updates" translated to "er, I'll not be updating for a year". I apologize. I thought I could finish both the fic and my edits to it in the past year, but nothing was written for various reasons. Unfortunately, I'll likely be either updating once a month or every two months from now on. I've got to deal with my thesis and graduate school interviews. Sorry.
Coming Soon: Nervous breakdowns are had, and Christmas is more or less celebrated.