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']

30. Chapter 30

Percy Weasley stuck his head through the door, looking disapproving. He had clearly gotten halfway through unwrapping his presents as he, too, carried a lumpy sweater over his arm, which Fred seized.

"P for prefect! Get it on, Percy, come on, we're all wearing ours, even Harry got one."

"I — don't — want —" said Percy thickly, as the twins forced the sweater over his head, knocking his glasses askew.

"And you're not sitting with the prefects today, either," said George. "Christmas is a time for family."

-J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

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CHAPTER 30

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December 25th, 1979 - Christmas Day

It was past midnight when they arrived at the cottage. He lifted her out of the sidecar and onto the hard, frost-covered ground in the dilapidated garden that surrounded the modest house Eugenie Fawley had lived in ever since her parents had died nearly forty years before and left their spinster daughter dependent on her sister's charity. Sirius's joke that he would have to check to make sure that Walburga wasn't lurking behind the rusted pig troff on the side of the cabbage patch did not evoke so much as a smile from the girl.

Colette had been quiet ever since they left Godric's Hollow, and as they made their way slowly towards the cottage, whose windows were all dark, Aunt Eugenie having long-since retired for the evening, he had the creeping feeling that she was steeling herself to say something to him that he did not want to hear.

"I—have something for you." Sirius reached into his pocket and pulled out a small package wrapped in gold paper. "Happy Christmas."

Colette let out a soft exclamation of delight as she plucked the present from his fingers, shaking it like a little girl trying to discover the contents.

"It's—just a little keepsake. Something to—" Sirius swallowed. "—Something to remember me by."

Colette's smile dropped.

"You imagine I shall—" Her voice, soft but clear, caught in her throat. "Have cause to forget you?"

The twinge of hurt in her voice was unmistakeable, and Sirius felt a pang of guilt.

"No—I don't intend to let you forget me."

She looked up from the small package she had been turning over in her hands—then, to his surprise and dismay, she handed it back to him.

"I cannot accept." Her fingers trembled. "I have—nothing to give you in return."

"You've already given me my gift." He grinned and tucked her present into her cloak's front pocket before she could so much as let out a protest. "You put up with me for a week, didn't you?"

Colette shook her head, her expression wry.

"I thought that you were angry that I gave you up to your father."

"I already told you," Sirius frowned. "I forgave you for that."

"I did not think you really had," she rejoined, deftly. "Not in your heart."

She reached out with her gloved hand and touched the place under which that noble organ beat. Sirius hoped she couldn't feel through the fabric of his jacket that it beat faster at her touch.

"If I was angry when I saw you in Diagon Alley, it had far more to do with my feelings for him, than my feelings for—about you."

The full meaning of his words hit them both at the same time.

"Did you have feelings—about me, then?"

Sirius touched the hand that was still resting on his jacket. She flinched and tried to pull it away—but he held it and squeezed tight—an act of instinct or desperation, he wasn't sure which.

"Sure, I did—" He laughed and bent his head. "Profound annoyance at your Norwegian language skills, for a start."

Colette turned her head up and towards him, just as at the moon came out from behind a cloud, illuminating her pale face. She flushed when she met his eyes—expectant—her full lips parted, just so—and Sirius heard the faint, nearly inaudible sound of her hitching breath as she leaned close—

"Sirius Orion Black! Are you awake?"

Sirius let out a loud groan and rolled over—straight off the edge of his cot and onto the floor.

"Damn!"

Sirius muttered obscenities he hoped couldn't be heard through the walls as he crawled back into his bed. He groped around for a pillow to cover his face—flushed with more than just the heat of the stifling bedroom, with its roaring fireplace that didn't belong and its windows through which light that had no business being so damned bright streamed directly into his face.

His mother took this series of uncouth noises as an affirmative and rapped against the door again.

"Sirius Orion—your brother has been up a half-hour already." Another groan. "Do you intend to sleep all of Christmas Day away?"

He pulled the pillow away from the face still burning at the dream—memory—and peaked up at the clock above the mantle. It was just past 7:30 in the morning.

Look at that! She's let me have a lie-in.

"If I answered 'yes', would you take me at my word and leave me alone?" There was a dangerously long pause. "…I'll be out in five minutes."

"Two. Your breakfast is getting cold."

"What, Kreacher can't serve it to me in bed?"

Sirius propped himself up in bed and tried to imagine what the expression of the woman on the other side of the door was.

"It is Christmas, Sirius Orion," his mother finally got out, in a stiff voice, as if that explained everything. "I shall see you in a minute, I am sure."

Grinning, he dragged himself out from under the comfort of the blankets that covered his cot. The bed, usually occupied by the lump that was his brother, was empty and neatly made. He ignored the set of smart robes that had been helpfully laid out for him on it and stumbled out of his room in his disheveled pajamas and bare feet and into the short hallway that lead to the kitchen. He followed it and the delightful scents of food cooking.

Kreacher had covered every surface with delectable food in various states of preparedness. Sirius ducked the spoon that whizzed through the air and greeted the elf with glad tidings that shocked Kreacher so much that he nearly let the goose he was stuffing slip out of his claw-like hands and onto the lino floor.

"You want to be careful there, Kreach—you got to use those the rest of the day." Sirius jabbed his wand at the goose, and it levitated out of Kreacher's slippery grasp and over to the kitchen table. "Don't want to be ordered to rap them for dropping a mince pie, do you?"

The servant was forced to grudgingly agree with his young charge, though he muttered some choice suggestions for the manner in which Sirius would do well to take care under his breath.

"Well—" Walburga looked around, her hawklike gaze taking in his appearance the instant Sirius appeared at the doorway. "I'm glad you managed to pull yourself out of slumber before noon."

"In the spirit of this great feast, Mother, I am going to refrain from arguing with you about the state of my dress, my sleeping habits and the world, writ large—until after I've had coffee."

Sirius glided over to the dining room table, covered in an elaborate breakfast spread (Kreacher had been busy), and ignoring the plate of food which had been lovingly laid out for him, like his clothes, poured himself a steaming cup of coffee from the silver service.

"Where's Reg?"

His mother told him that she believed her younger son was in the lavatory, and coffee in hand, Sirius wandered back the way she came to investigate the matter for himself. He returned in under a minute, eyes glinting with irritation.

"I can't believe that runt," Sirius grumbled. "Doesn't your son know it's poor manners to take a bath in someone else's flat on Christmas morning?"

"I am sure he will be out soon. And anyway, if you had your own way," his mother said, briskly. "You'd still be lolling about in bed, so I hardly see the point in complaining about your brother's bathing habits."

"He's hogging the loo!"

Walburga, dressed in a handsome burgundy day gown, glided over to him, and handed an equally handsome midnight blue dressing gown to her eldest son, informing him that if he was going to parade about in a state of undress, he might as well make use of one of his Christmas presents. Sirius reluctantly allowed himself to be "helped into" it.

"There." Walburga dusted off her son's shoulders, stepped back and gave him an appraising look. "That's better."

Sirius ran his fingers over the delicately embroidered silver S.O.B. on the breast pocket.

"When you named me," he said, looking up, eyebrow cocked. "You'd think you'd have a bit more concern about the unfortunate connotations of my initials."

She met his gaze steadily—Sirius could see from her flushed face and the ruby holly-shaped pins in her hair that she was in one of her rarer moods: ready and willing to be pleased.

"I don't know what nonsense you're speaking of."

The corner of her mouth twitched slightly, a smile threatening to break free. Her son grinned back.

"It's very simple. You see—"

The sound of a throat being loudly and pointedly cleared cut off what would have undoubtedly been an amusing explanation. Sirius turned his head in the direction from which it had come.

"Oh. You're here early." He walked over to the chair where he normally enjoyed his morning coffee. "I would have thought after last night you'd want a break from family—at least for a few hours. How long have been parked in my chair?"

Orion flipped a page of his copy of the Daily Prophet and looked up at his son.

"I believe you were warned of our arrival," he said, impassively. "And to expect our presence for the duration of Christmas Day."

Orion was immaculately dressed in dark green wool robes, from under which peaked out a tartan waistcoat. Sirius suddenly pictured him in a tweed suit.

"What, dare I ask, are you smiling about?"

Sirius sank down onto the floor. He scooted around to the backside of the armchair and propped his head up against it.

"Nothing. It's just Christmas." He settled himself down on the carpet, over his mother's protests. "I'll eat something when Reg finishes his toilette."

Walburga, feeling indulgent—or perhaps sensing that it would be better to let him have his coffee before she began work on insisting he eat and dress—left him to his silent revelries in favor of checking on her servant in the kitchen. Grateful to her for this small mercy, Sirius made a silent pact not to start an argument with her—at least until lunchtime.

His complaints about his parents invading the flat were without heat. In truth, Sirius was glad to have not to have woken up to a home empty save one younger brother eager to hear about his evening of clandestine romance. With any luck Walburga would hover so closely all day that they wouldn't be together alone long enough for Reg to get the chance to ask him if he'd finally kissed Miss Battancourt.

Sirius was not a good liar—not even to himself, and his self-interrogation on that subject had not produced an answer he was willing to admit out loud.

One thing was certain: she'd wanted him to kiss her. She'd been ready, willing, waiting for it, and that knowledge had made the prospect all the more desirable for him, because Sirius would've bet money that Colette had never kissed anyone before. He liked to think she'd never met someone she wanted to kiss before she'd met him.

But Sirius had not kissed her. At the last moment he'd pulled back. He'd lifted her hand and kissed it instead, like he had the night they met, and wished her goodnight, as if they were in some corny chivalric romance.

As if they were not two people who fancied each other, standing outside in the middle of the night alone and both in the mood for a good snog after a week of dancing about the subject—and each other.

The imperative question was—why had he not kissed Colette Battancourt?

Because it would've meant more for her.

It would've meant something, a lot, maybe everything—for Colette. Her first kiss was a gift Sirius couldn't give back. Restraint might not have been something he was known for, but he had some self-control, after all. One had to, when it came to delicately nurtured witches, sheltered and brimming with the romantic dreams that could only come from reading too many novels.

It would've meant something to you, too.

Sirius glared down at the carpet and gulped his coffee, as if he could dispel the thought by scalding it away. It didn't work.

You're not afraid of how she feels, the snide inner voice muttered. This isn't about what it means to her. It's what it means to you.

What it meant to him was not something he had any intention of examining, no matter how often her face crept into his dreams. Surely when Colette was back in France, at home, on her little farm in the Norman countryside that image would fade from his mind, just as any thought of him would fade for her.

She'll be lonely on that farm all alone.

Sirius felt something light brush against the top of his head, along with the rustle of paper. He looked up and found that Orion holding out

"What's that for?"

"You're looking pensive. I thought you might need some…amusement."

Sirius opened the section of the paper and found himself staring at the large daily crossword puzzle.

"Oh…"

His father reached into his pocket and pulled out a quill which he handed to Sirius. He took it and stared down at the blank crossword, surprised—and touched.

"I—thanks."

Orion hadn't forgotten how much he enjoyed doing the crossword.

Being one of his few quiet amusements, the hobby was encouraged by his parents. Once he was old enough to eat breakfast in the dining room, Orion had taken to giving Sirius the single sheet from the back section of the Prophet every morning. Occasionally he would even offer suggestions for clues, if Sirius needed help (and he was in a particularly indulgent mood). It was a sort of ritual between them—or peace offering, depending on how bad things were.

He couldn't remember the last time they'd done it. Near the end of his time living in Grimmauld Place he had stopped coming down for breakfast altogether.

He leaned back against the chair and propped the crossword on his knees, happy for anything that took his mind off disarming French witches.

A few minutes later, Sirius was so absorbed in trying to figure out a ten letter word for 'magical' that he almost didn't notice the slight pressure of the hand resting on his head—until it started to affectionately ruffle his hair.

"Dad," he mumbled, ears going red. Sirius half-heartedly batted the hand away. "Stop it."

He did—and Sirius found as soon as the hand was withdrawn he wanted it back.

"I trust you had a pleasant Christmas Eve?" Orion asked, casually, turning the page of his newspaper.

Sirius looked up from the crossword and met Orion's gaze. The look was as impenetrable as always, but there was nothing accusatory there—only honest curiosity, and unless he was mistaken, concern.

For one of the first times since their reunion he didn't feel as though answering his father's question was walking into a trap.

"It was…alright," Sirius shrugged. "How was yours?"

"About what you would expect."

"That bad, eh?"

Sirius gave his father a look of profound innocence over the rim of his coffee cup.

"I believe I am in your debt." Mr. Black took a sip from his cup of tea.

"For what?"

"Oh—just some advice you offered." He glanced up at Walburga, deep in discussion with Kreacher over the finer points of Christmas dinner across the room.

"That you actually took?" Sirius snorted. "You sure it was from me?"

Sirius drained his cup and picked the paper back up. Six letter word—magical menagerie occupant…

"Was it not you who said I ought to speak to Regulus?"

Sirius dropped his crossword on the floor and turned around—but his father had already folded his copy of the Prophet and stood up. He tapped on the edge of his empty tea cup, indifferent to Sirius's shock.

"When did you—"

"—There you are!"

Sirius turned his head in the direction of Walburga's cry—scold, with a touch of impatient excitement she tried to conceal under maternal reproof. Regulus stood at the doorway, his hair damp and exuding the unmistakeable scent of lavender bath soap. Sirius was irritated but not surprised to see his younger brother wearing a dressing gown that matched his own—except that it was dark emerald green and R.A.B was stitched in gold.

"Ah—Regulus. Good." Orion poured tea into his cup and sat down at the head of the table. "As you can see, your mother has finally managed to rouse Sirius. We won't have to wait until noon to eat after all."

Walburga darted over to her youngest and flicked her wand at his head. His hair dried instantly, and he allowed his mother to smooth it with a patient forbearance that Sirius couldn't have managed, even under wand point.

"Did his royal highness have a luxuriant soak?" he asked. "I thought you were setting up camp in there."

Regulus rolled his eyes and tugged himself free of his mother's grasp.

"Happy Christmas to you, too."

Regulus crossed the room to the dining room table and sat down at his usual place. Walburga nodded in approval, then turned to her other son, who was still sitting on the floor next to the now-vacant armchair.

"Breakfast—now."

Remembering his promise not to argue, he stretched and got to his feet and followed Reg's suit, dragging his feet to table with minimal fuss. Their mother's order prevented further bickering, and by the time Sirius had finished bolting down his eggs, bacon and toast, he was sufficiently distracted by Walburga's fussing over his plate that he almost forgot what Orion had said.

He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

"So—what precisely is on the schedule for the day?"

"Do you have some pressing engagement that stands in competition with your mother's plans?"

Sirius let the chair drop back down on the floor.

"I'm just curious what her plans are."

He shot his mother a look across the table. Walburga took a sanguine bite from the modest heap of berries she'd doled out for herself.

"I have a few ideas," she said, vaguely, dipping a toast point in her tea.

Sirius narrowed his eyes. There was something strange about his mother today. That tightly-wound mass of nerves and magic, the aura that hung around her that made his shoulders involuntarily seize up in dreaded anticipation of being on the receiving end of her fury—was wholly absent this morning. There wasn't even the whiff of a plot hovering about her person.

Which is not to say that she didn't still have her secrets—he was sure she did, and Sirius was dismayed to find himself so relaxed and at ease, when his senses should have been sharpened, his defenses raised—poised for the inevitable battle that would come.

He couldn't remember the last time Christmas with just the four of them had felt so…ordinary.

"What ideas?"

"You needn't worry, Sirius Orion. I know about what you're most concerned." Walburga smiled over her cup of coffee. "Presents will come soon enough, I daresay."

"I am not five years old!" Sirius said, voice indignant. "I don't care about presents."

Regulus let out a short, disbelieving huff—Sirius nudged his brother under the table.

"Besides—" He tugged at the sleeve of his new dressing gown. "If this is a precursor, I can guess what the general tenor and genre of them is going to be already."

Walburga set her cup down on its saucer and pursed her lips. Sirius knew he was right. It would be just like her, to use Christmas as an excuse to buy him a bunch of stuffy sets of robes that he'd never pick for himself.

"You may find yourself surprised by my selections, Sirius Orion," she said, not bothering to deny it. "And anyway, you're a grown wizard. What are you expecting, toys?"

"I'm not expecting anything. I thought only well-behaved and obedient children got presents."

"If those were the preconditions for receiving gifts," Orion cut in, dryly. "I fear that neither of her children would qualify, and your mother would have had a very dull time shopping only for me."

Sirius's head shot around, and he was about to give his father a smart reply, when he caught Orion's eye. They gleamed with amusement—and when he turned back to Regulus, he found his little brother biting his lip to stifle a laugh.

Everyone was damned relaxed, Sirius thought. What had Kreacher put in their tea? He looked out the window, hoping for an answer, and saw—

"Wait—a—tick—" Sirius rose from his seat. "What's that—"

He rushed over to the window and pressed his face up against it.

"Was no one going to tell me it snowed last night?"

"It is the weather, Sirius Orion," his mother said, in a tone of forced patience that made her sound even more harassed than usual. "It is hardly of great concern to you, at any rate."

That explained why it had seemed so oddly bright in his bedroom—the snow that blanketed London reflected the light.

"It's of very great concern!" Sirius turned to his brother, grinning. "Come on, Reggie. Get dressed!"

"What—"

"No questions!"

He hauled his little brother up by the arm from his chair and dragged him through the kitchen door, ignoring their mother's protests. Five minutes later the brothers emerged from the bedroom, wearing what looked like a combination of all the muggle clothing that had survived Mrs. Black's last purge of the closet. Sirius sported a brand new, slightly lumpy red jumper, courtesy of one Lily Potter—with a bright smile to match.

"Sirius Orion, what are you wearing—" He darted to the front door and unbolted it. "—And where do you thinking you are going?"

He flashed his mother his most innocent smile over his shoulder—then pulled an old tweed overcoat Lupin had left off the hook and flung it at Regulus.

"Out. Reg and I are going to nip down to the boulangerie for a bit."

"You will do no such thing!" She turned to her husband for support, but Mr. Black was too busy watching Sirius bully his brother into the muggle coat to notice. "Need I remind you that your brother is in hiding?"

"It's just a short walk in the snow." He pulled out his wand. "Look, if you're really worried about us being spotted, I'll transfigure Regulus, so no one will recognize him. Not that anyone would anyway."

Sirius grabbed his brother by the arm and intimated that in three waves of his wand he could give him a warty long nose, red hair and, in short, 'make him even dafter looking than he already did.' Regulus wrestled out of Sirius's grip.

"Will you get that thing out of my face?"

The elder brother turned to his parents, expression entreating.

"Come on. It's Christmas." He jerked a thumb at Regulus. "Reg hasn't been out of this flat in weeks. He's so pale he's practically turning into a vampire."

"Thanks."

"And it's snowed."

"What's that got to do with anything?" his younger brother grumbled, tugging at the turtle neck Sirius had forced over his head.

"It's tradition," Sirius said, haughtily. "Brotherly tradition—family tradition."

Regulus avoided looking at either of their parents—instead he kept his eyes fixed on the carpet—which for Sirius was a sure sign that he wanted to go on the excursion but wouldn't admit it. Who could blame him, in the circumstances? Even a homebody like Regulus had to be sick to death of being stuck between these four walls.

Unfortunately for him, Reg had never shared his older brother's shameless streak when it came to begging for things from their parents. He'd always seen it as beneath both their dignities, since these tactics so rarely worked on Walburga—and almost never on Orion.

Occasionally, though—very occasionally—they did work, and Christmas Day was exactly the right time to put them to the test.

"We always used to go out in the first snow of the year together, Regulus." He let out a wistful sigh. "And to think—now our own mother and father are quashing a Black family tradition in its infancy. The shame of it all—the utter shame. What would our great-great grandfather say?"

"Nothing you would like to hear, Sirius Orion," Walburga muttered, tartly.

As she was apparently unmoved by his begging, Sirius turned to his father and found—to his delighted surprise—that Orion had also noticed Regulus looking at the floor, and more surprisingly still, seemed to understand what it meant. He slowly turned his eyes back to Sirius.

"I trust that forty-five minutes—" Mr. Black said, enunciating each word with careful precision. "—Will be enough time to get this excessive high-spiritedness out of your systems?"

Sirius tilted his head, the picture of cherubic innocence.

"We'll be docile little angels."

Their father's lip twitched.

"I very much doubt that." Regulus looked up, expression hopeful, and Orion succumbed at last to his better nature and smiled—the beneficent father in an indulgent Yuletide mood. He nodded towards the door. "Go on, then."

Sirius pumped his fist in the air in triumph.

"Yes!"

"Mind you behave yourselves."

Walburga threw her hands up in the air and let out a sigh of dramatic exasperation—but when Sirius caught sight of her face as he herded Regulus through the door, he saw their mother was smiling, too.

---

Breakfast on Christmas Day at Malfoy Manor was always served late.

The house elves knew that their masters and mistress, having spent much of the night feasting and reveling at Miss Cissy's family home in London, would not be eager for an early rise the next morning. When Colette and her Aunt Eugenie arrived in the front hall fireplace—just after ten o'clock—the intimate family party had only just roused themselves from their assorted bedchambers and wandered down to the breakfast parlor.

Narcissa kissed her airily on each cheek and waved them inside ("You must have something to eat, Miss Fawley—you're all skin and bone!") Colette was grateful Mrs. Malfoy did not seem inclined to press her about her unceremonious disappearance from the party. All Narcissa said was that she was glad whatever business had taken Colette away had not kept her so for long. If she was a trifle cool with her friend, it was easy enough for the French witch to chock it up to her being distracted by the presence in the house of some of her relations.

Miss Battancourt was only too happy to be seated far down the table from her hostess and Lucius and Abraxas. Sitting between Narcissa's parents provided a welcome distraction.

"Where the devil is that daughter of yours, Druella?" Cygnus complained, loudly. "I thought she was supposed to be here."

"Patience, my dear—I am sure Bella is simply tired from last night and sleeping in."

"Tired? Pft. If we have to be up she's got no excuse."

Cygnus made no secret of the fact that he found spending Christmas with the Malfoys and his elderly parents a torture. If his dislike of Lucius wasn't clear enough, he seemed to find everything around him, from the food to the furnishings, a subject worth complaining about. Colette would have been able to guess that he had jealous temperament even if Sirius had not told her as much. Druella, by contrast, had a temperament that was both excessively conciliatory and neurotic, and she spent half the time trying to get her husband to lower his voice, lest Narcissa hear what he had to say about her in-laws.

"What does she have to complain about?" he said, raising his voice. "I let him have her, didn't I?"

Happily for Druella, Narcissa was engrossed in a discussion with her father-in-law and didn't seem to notice her papa's outburst—nor his frequent glares down the table.

Breakfast plodded along at a sluggish pace. Colette knew this was informal by the standards to which she was accustomed, but as she made her way through the four courses offered, each appearing and disappearing by magic—the efforts of a veritable army of house elves—her mind kept wandering back to the sitting room of the cottage in Godric's Hollow. The picture of all his friends sitting on chairs squashed into corners, drunkenly shouting at one another while loud music blared from a turn table appeared in sharp relief to the proceedings. The contrast of then to now was so severe and unflattering—that the company and social mores she would have once appreciated now seemed stodgy and artificial.

Was this how things had begun to change for Sirius? New ideas, ways of thinking, people—all creeping in like ivy through the cracks.

Colette saw his influence on her was even greater than he knew. Had she really let a rebellious runaway upstart work on her this way, convert her to his way of thinking? She had been so determined not to let him, and yet—

It's not just that he's reasonable.

At half-past, Bellatrix wandered down the stairs and glided towards the only seat left at the table—the one across from Colette. Her sister and husband both glared at her, but she took no notice, languidly stretching her arms above her head.

"I don't think we ever were formally introduced," Bellatrix said, bluntly. "You're Cissy's little friend. The French one."

"I believe it's customary to say 'happy Christmas' to one's father," Cygnus interjected sourly. "Or at least acknowledge his presence on the day."

Bella's eyes flitted to her father.

"In honor of our company—joyeux noël, dear Papa."

Both the greeting and appellation were infused with a heavy sarcasm.

Colette stood up and curtseyed. To her surprise, Bellatrix offered her hand. Colette took it, murmuring her name. Madame Lestrange's fingers were icy cold, and her smile, brittle.

"Enchantée, Mademoiselle Battancourt."

"Ravie de faire votre connaissance."

Bellatrix cocked one eyebrow—Colette bit her lip. She found the family resemblance to him disconcerting.

"Vous avez apprécié votre séjour au London?"

Colette's eyebrows flew up with surprise.

"I did. I enjoyed it immensely." She sat back down in her seat. "Your—French is very good, Madame Lestrange."

Even better than your cousin's.

Bellatrix shrugged and plopped down in her chair.

"I find it has its uses." She pulled out the napkin and laid it on her lap with an elegant sweep of her wand. "When one is being eavesdropped on, for example, it is very good to be able to speak another language."

Colette busied herself with readjusting her napkin in her lap.

"Is that a—common problem for you?"

She stared into Bellatrix's face, looking for some sign of recognition—that the comment was pointed. The older woman poured herself a generous helping of champagne.

"It happens more often than one would think," Bellatrix remarked, off-handedly.

"You're a fine one to talk about eavesdropping, girl." Cygnus leaned across the table. "I can't think of a keyhole you haven't stuck your nose through."

"Don't worry, Papa. When it was you on the other end I never heard anything I couldn't have guessed on my own."

"Bellatrix!" Druella said, a nervous quiver in her voice. Madame Lestrange's mother looked harassed and a bit of afraid of her eldest daughter. "Consider the company you're in."

"I am considering it, Mummy."

Bellatrix turned her gaze back to Colette, her lips twisted in a slightly vicious smile. The younger woman focused her eyes on her food. Her instincts told her that spending a prolonged period of time staring directly into Bellatrix Lestrange's eyes would not be a wise course of action.

"I hear you are a great favorite with my aunt."

Colette looked up from her plate. She found Madame Lestrange watching her with a lazy, predatory grace. There was nothing about that look that spoke of approval. Whatever charms she had for the youngest of the Black sisters, the eldest was unmoved by them.

Which wasn't to say that she wasn't interested in Colette. She reminded her of a cat waiting at a mouse hole.

"I wouldn't say a—favorite." The sound of clattering silver made her words so indistinct to Colette's own ears. "She has been kind to me."

"That's being a favorite with her." Bellatrix twirled a piece of ham around her fork, taking great pleasure in mangling it. "I'd be careful. She probably has some ulterior motive."

"I am sure your warning is well-meant," Colette lied, giving the other woman a steady gaze which she hoped affected the bravery she most certainly did not feel. "But it is not necessary."

"Because you already know what her ulterior motive is?" Bellatrix asked, flatly. "Or merely that she has one."

Colette felt the faint creep of flush across her face.

"For God's sake, Bella—" Cygnus Black sighed. "You know I don't like your roundabout cryptic interrogations. It's unwomanly. Why can't you talk about the things every other woman talks about?"

Bellatrix turned her head the bare minimum half an inch in in the direction of her father and gave him a cool look.

"Sorry, Daddy. But you're the one who has always says Aunt Walburga never does anyone a good turn for no reason."

"She's not the only one in this family," he muttered, crossly, gulping down some coffee that Colette noticed he had fortified with a generous lacing of brandy.

Cygnus had enough breeding to look embarrassed at being caught out speaking ill of his sister.

"And anyway, that's the sort of thing all women do talk about. And it's of interest to me." Bellatrix took a sip of wine—which very quickly turned into a gulp. "If Cissy has had one of her rare social successes and her plan to push her friend forward as a bride for Reggie has come off, I'm sure she'd be the first to want to brag about her conquest."

Colette was amazed at her own ability to hold her knife and fork without her fingers trembling.

"Oh, Bellatrix—" Druella fluttered, alarmed. "You cannot speak so."

"What, honestly?" Bella turned back to Colette and gave her a haughty look that said she thought herself above her company—but the intimation of intimacy gave the impression that she saw Colette on a level above that of her parents. "Miss Battancourt must forgive me for being so ill-bred as to dare to say what she and every other person she's met the last week is thinking."

"I am not offended," Colette said, quickly. "If Narcissa has told you as much, it would seem rank hypocrisy to pretend the subject has never come up."

"How refreshingly frank of you."

Bella toasted her—she would have guessed that Madame Lestrange meant it. Colette could imagine a version of this conversation that she quite enjoyed. There was something vital and appealing, as well as shocking, about the manner in which Bellatrix spoke about the world.

Unfortunately, she knew—or suspected—far too much about the woman sitting across from her to feel at all at ease in her company.

All the warnings rang in her ears, not to mention what she'd heard herself…

"As to Regulus—I do not know him well," Colette said, taking a sip from her own glass. "Whatever Narcissa may think or want, I do not pin any hopes on it. And I—I do not think it wise to marry a man I hardly know. I should want to—to care for him, a little, first."

"What a progressive viewpoint." Bellatrix tossed her fork on the china plate carelessly. "Next you'll be saying we should do as the mudbloods do, and breed with whatever filth takes our fancy."

She caressed the slur in her mouth and before spitting it out like a curse. Colette studied her across the table. The restless energy, her obvious boredom with the proceedings of her sister's house, all the trappings of rank and position that surrounded them—made Bellatrix's resemblance to him more obvious than ever.

Typical. On a day when she was trying to put him out of her mind, there would be a constant reminder, that drew her eye in every room they shared. Colette wondered if she ought to have told Sirius about his cousin's sudden reemergence—she had considered it, the confession had been on the tip of her tongue—but at the last moment she had held back.

He holds back, too, when it suits him, she thought. She'd spent far too much of the wee hours trying to discern his true feelings—and her own, for that matter. You know how you feel. He's the mystery…

And anyway, Sirius Black had so many secrets of his own, Colette thought, resentment stirring in her breast. Why wasn't she entitled to some of her own? He was always banging on about how she ought to learn to take care of herself.

"Whatever it is my aunt has seen in you, you're good at hiding it from the rest of us."

Colette blinked up at her and tried to affect a look of polite puzzlement. Her pulse sped up.

"If Cissy weren't so vain she'd realize it has nothing to do with her influence. Walburga's not likely to leave precious Reggie's bride to chance or whim."

"You assume Mrs. Black's interest in me is as a daughter-in-law—"

"—There's no other reason she'd care for you," Bellatrix said, bluntly. "A bride for her son is the only use my aunt would ever have for a witch like you."

Colette's face turned red—she felt a sting of pride and unexpected hurt at the words—most of all because deep down she knew they were true.

"If you were in my position, what would you do?"

Bellatrix's eyes flashed with surprise. Colette imagined it to be a rare expression for her, for she seemed to have cultivated a kind of cruel bored affect—when she was in company, at least.

"What, do you mean would I marry Regulus, if I had a chance for him—and was as poor as you are?"

Colette nodded—the intended insult of Madame Lestrange's description of her went ignored. It's not as thought it wasn't true, after all. The older woman considered the question with a kind of casual indifference.

"I wouldn't, if I could help it," she said, after a moment. "I don't happen to trust Regulus."

Colette's eyes widened.

"At least—no more than I do any other man. They aren't to be trusted, as a general rule."

Madame Lestrange gave her father a pointed look. Down the table, her husband, sitting between his brother and Colette's aunt, caught her eye. The two exchanged some inscrutable look—not like any between her parents, or any other husband and wife that Colette had ever met before.

The Lestranges were not like most married couples of her acquaintance.

"Of course in terms of rank, position, and fortune, you couldn't do better than my cousin," Bellatrix drawled, looking back at Colette. "If that's what you care about. One simply has to sort out one's priorities."

"What were your priorities?"

Bellatrix's eyes flashed with annoyance at this presumption—but she quickly concealed the emotion, and put on an expression of contemptuous amusement.

"Being a good and dutiful daughter, of course—and blood. It's what matters most in my family, in case you haven't noticed."

Bellatrix's eyes lingered on her sister, exchanging words of tender gallantry with Lucius.

"Now you have a taste of what being a member of our family is like. I'm sure it gives you a different perspective on the prospect."

Yes, Colette thought, uneasily. It certainly does.

"Personally," Bellatrix yawned. "I don't think it's worth it to have her as a mother-in-law."

Colette could almost have laughed.

"You are the second person who has said as much to me."

"Really?" Mrs. Lestrange laughed, coldly. "You keep brave company."

---

It was amazing the effect just three inches of snow had on London. When the streets were muffled by the blanket of brilliant white, and taxies and lorries could not barrel along as fast as they usually went—a terrific, hushed and reverent silence fell over the city.

It felt like he and Regulus were the only two people in all the world—so much so that he had had no qualms about showing off his particular abilities as they walked back from the bakery.

"Check this out, Reg."

He shoved the bag of pastries into his brother's arms and ducked into a narrow alley off the main road, emerging a moment later as a gigantic black dog.

Regulus made a valiant effort pretending he was not impressed—but it didn't take long for Sirius to grow weary of being ignored, and he barked and tugged on the edge of his brother's trousers, nipping playfully at his heels and chased him around the square before transforming back into a man.

"Cool, right?"

"Merlin!" Regulus shoved his arm. "How old are you, again?"

"Older than you. Always have been, always will be."

They stumbled back into the ground floor lobby of the flat, noses red with the cold. Sirius pulled one last bit of ice from his pocket and smashed it into his brother's cheek before running up the walk. Regulus followed close at his heels, shouting bloody murder through laughter.

Ever since they'd left the house, Reggie had been in the most strangely relaxed mood—like a burden had been lifted, or at least the stick had been taken out. Sirius found it difficult to overrate the effect the outside world had on one's mood. The moment he stepped onto the street Regulus had looked as though he'd never seen the sun before.

He was so glad to see Regulus happy that he even accepted his brother's "nothing much" answer to the question of what had happened in the flat the night before without comment.

The two boys raced up the stairs and stumbled through the door, laughing with a boisterousness that they hadn't shared for years. Both brothers froze in shock at the sight that greeted them.

"Oh—eff—what has she done?"

Mrs. Black, her arms draped with garlands that were strewn over the now cleared dining room table, looked around at her two wayward children.

"There you are," Walburga groused. "Your father said forty-five minutes, and it has been over an hour."

The flat, which had been so bare only an hour before, was now transformed—or half transformed. Walburga seemed to have brought every golden Christmas bauble, every holly branch and ivy bow to be found in the City of London and covered Sirius's home with them.

Regulus walked up to the large, bare German fir in the center of the room and gaped. The floor of the flat above had been enchanted to accommodate its immense size—presumably the Muggles above them wouldn't notice the tree-topper shaped indent in their sitting room floor.

"You didn't—strip the one at Number Twelve to bring it over, did you, Mother?"

"Certainly not. We needed a tree here, and so I procured an extra." She rounded on Sirius. "Well—what kept you?"

Sirius attempted to pull the wings off a porcelain angel that had been stuck to his mantle.

"We got caught up in conversation with Madame Planchet."

Mrs. Black narrowed her eyes.

"Is that a muggle?"

"She's a patisserie."

"Sirius was using it as an excuse to practice his French," Regulus remarked, pointedly. Orion, who had retreated back to his son's favorite armchair, looked up from his history book and inquired of Sirius (cheeks now pink with more than just the cold) why he would do such a thing.

"You forgot already that you're making me read up on all that Anglo-French trade bilge! Half those books you gave me aren't in English. It's almost like you just did it to spite me."

"It's good to be challenged. It will keep your mind sharp." He turned the page of his book. "And how is your French, incidentally?"

"Apparently I've got a naturally good accent." Sirius smiled. "Poor Sylvie, our much benighted nurse, was evidently good for that, if nothing else."

"Nothing else indeed!" Walburga agreed, waving her wand in the direction of a box filled with glowing, enchanted baubles in the shape of various constellations, which began to hang themselves over the family's heads. "She was the most useless nanny we ever employed."

"Except for all the others," Sirius said to Regulus, in an undertone.

Regulus muttered back that it was from Sylvie that Sirius had got his taste for continental women. In retaliation, he trod on his brother's foot.

Walburga bustled over to the boys, 'helping' them out of their wet coats with a single elegant sweep of her wand. She launched into a minor interrogation of her younger son, convinced that Sirius had taken him to additional low places, a crime for which the accused criminal took umbrage.

"Relax and have a pain au chocolat." Sirius pulled the treat out of the bag and handed it to her. "It will fortify your strength as you make my flat up like a Dickensian Christmas Palace—"

Sirius's eyes froze on the far corner of the room.

"Mother—two questions."

He dragged his head around, forcing himself to look at her.

"One—is that or is it not the piano that is normally located in the drawing room of your house?"

"Don't ask absurd questions, Sirius—"

"—And two," her son cut her off. "How the hell did you get it into this flat in broad daylight?"

Walburga gave him a withering look.

"I am a witch," she said, in a superior tone of voice. "I have my ways."

Sirius tried not to fantasize about the Ministry coming down upon his mother and slapping her with a heavy fine for violating the Statue of Secrecy by levitating a grand piano down the hallway of his building.

"Well, what's it here for?"

"We cannot have Christmas," she said, firmly. "Without music."

Walburga kept them busy for the late morning and early afternoon with her decorating scheme. When she had managed to effectively wallpaper his flat with scarlet and green, and the tree was covered with fairly lights, its bows charmed to glow faintly (they would light up as the night fell) she dismissed them from these duties, and the two brothers were sent to their rooms to 'dress properly.'

Sirius steeled himself for her usual harsh criticisms of his sartorial choices—but when Walburga caught sight of him in this dark red dress robes, trimmed with gold, her voice caught in her throat, a noise suspiciously laced with uncharacteristic maternal sentiment.

"Well—appropriate, smart attire. What a surprise, Sirius Orion." Beaming, his mother smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from his shoulders.

"Madam Malkin wouldn't sell me pink and purple striped satin, unfortunately." He gestured at himself. "I had to settle for this."

He puffed his chest out and waited for the other shoe to drop. Surely his mother would not let his choice to wear the Gryffindor house colors at her Christmas party go unremarked upon?

"Of course, it's not the color I would have picked out…" She trailed off, thoughtfully. "But you're such a handsome boy that any color suits you."

Orion gave him a barely perceptible nod of approval, and Sirius felt his face grow hot and scarlet, to match his robes.

Regulus, dressed in dark green, emerged from behind his brother. For a moment no one in his family recognized him—for he had crossed the threshold between 'boy' and 'man' without any of them realizing it. His mother glided over to him.

"Well, Regulus Arcturus—" She couldn't find any fault with his appearance, and so she restrained herself from smoothing wrinkles or adjusting a collar. "You look—very grown up and handsome."

"Reg is grown-up, Mother."

Sirius flung himself down on the carpet, the picture of handsome and aristocratic indolence. He summoned a glass of Christmas cheer from the table, and might have passed the cocktail hour there, if Regulus had not plopped down across from him with his chess set—the same set that had been gifted to Regulus the Christmas they were eight and ten years old. He was about to tell his brother to shove off when he caught Orion's eye and saw that his father was interested in watching them play. Chess was one of the few games that Mr. Black had a passion for.

"Alright—" Sirius grumbled, sitting up. "One game."

"Only one?" Regulus tapped the board with his wand, and the white and black pieces exchanged places.

"That's all it will take to crush you."

"'Pride goeth before the fall,' Orion remarked, sagely.

"If that were true, our entire family would've all been slaughtered at the Battle of Hastings."

Kreacher had outdone himself. He passed in and out of the kitchen continuously, whisking every possible canapé, tart and other Christmas delicacy to his charges. The elf's desire to please his mistress was so great that he even managed to restrain himself from the usual muttered insults in Sirius's direction.

They made it through the cocktail hour in relative peace—until the siren call of music proved too much for Regulus.

"Please don't."

The moment he played the opening notes to "Hark the Herald Angels Sing", Sirius knew he was doomed. Regulus always seemed to come alive at the piano. The instrument was the medium through which he expressed all the emotions he never showed otherwise.

"I think," Walburga said, with a coy smile. "That this wonderful playing demands vocal accompaniment, don't you, Orion?"

"Absolutely not."

"Sirius—"

"I am not your performing monkey!"

An old, familiar argument—the younger brother shot his father a knowing look from behind the piano. Orion rolled his eyes and winked.

Mrs. Black's mouth fixed in an expression that some might have called 'pout'—the foolish would have said it within earshot, Lucretia cheerfully to her face.

"What do you think all those years of music lessons were for, Sirius Orion?"

"Socially proscribed torture?" Sirius offered, stretching out on the carpet.

Mrs. Black frowned—but her eyes sparkled at the challenge her eldest son always provided. This was a battle that had been fought between them before. She let out a long sigh.

"Were they such a trial for you?"

"Sirius didn't like our music lessons because I was better than he was," Regulus answered, matter-of-factly.

"You wish, runt."

"You have such a lovely voice, though," Walburga needled. Her son muttered a few choice words on the subject of being paraded and shown off like a prize show crup.

"Honestly—you and Bella." Walburga rolled her eyes. "The two of you would curse off your noses to spite your face."

Sirius sat up.

"What does Bellatrix have to do with it?"

"She wouldn't sing last night either."

Regulus stopped playing the piano.

"Bellatrix was at the Christmas party?"

Walburga looked between her sons, eyebrow raised. Orion kept his eyes fixed on Regulus.

"Of course she was. It's the family to-do. The only absences were you two."

Mrs. Black's pronunciation of these words very much suggested that she did not see their absences as being a matter that would be allowed in future years.

"I somehow doubt people were expecting me to turn up," Sirius snorted. "When did Bellatrix resurface, then? I thought she was, er—indisposed."

The question was addressed to the group writ large, but Sirius had his eyes on his little brother. Regulus gave him a furtive look.

"She was at Evan Rosier's night before last," Regulus said, quietly.

"How d'you know—"

"—I just do, alright?"

Sirius rounded on him.

"Well, were you planning on telling me, or—"

"—Your cousin's social calendar is hardly something either of you need concern yourselves with," Orion interrupted, his voice pointed. Sirius and he shared a long look and silent battle of wills—but to everyone's surprise, it was the younger Black who relented.

"And here's me," Sirius shrugged, airily. "Taking an interest in family affairs and getting in trouble for it."

He settled back onto the carpet, is mind working double-speed. So—Bellatrix had emerged from whatever hole she'd been hiding in, had she? The thought wouldn't have bothered Sirius so much if he could shake off the nagging suspicion that Colette's failure to mention her presence at the party had some hidden significance. She might be at Malfoy Manor today, too—but there would be dozens of people there, in all likelihood—Narcissa would want to show off as much as possible. And Bella had no reason to take an interest in a young French provincial naïf.

Colette was perfectly safe.

"In any case—" Walburga continued, as if the dispute over Bella's location had not occurred. "We were all displaying our talents, and she positively refused to accompany Narcissa on the harp." She walked over to Sirius and looked down at him, hands on her hips. "Sound familiar?"

"I wish you wouldn't compare me to Bellatrix all the time."

"I don't do so for my own amusement," Mrs. Black said, crisply. "I happen to see the resemblance between the two of you, that's all."

"Like how?"

"You're both willful, stubborn—always convinced you know best and determined to have your own way and no one else's." She shook her head and tutted. "I quite despair of her marriage. Poor Cygnus. I wonder if that union shall ever produce a grandchild."

"If that was what he wanted out of the arrangement, maybe Cygnus shouldn't have made his daughter marry a man she didn't give a toss for."

"Sirius Orion!" Walburga said, scandalized. "What a shocking thing to say."

"It's the truth. I have it on good authority."

Technically, Bella hadn't said it—Andromeda had told him that was what she always suspected about her sister's marriage, and as far as Sirius was concerned, that was as good as God's own truth. There was no one in the family he considered a higher authority on her elder sister's mercurial mind than Andi.

"Rodolphus gives a toss for her," Regulus said, voice subdued. "He always has."

"Poor, miserable sod. If it were anyone else, I'd almost feel sorry for him."

"Perhaps marrying as young as they did was not wise," Walburga conceded, grudgingly. "But far less well-suited witches and wizards than the two of them have had successful marriages. Any match can be made the best of, if one makes up one's mind to do it."

At what he saw as a mixture of hard-headed Victorian practicality and naïveté, Sirius laughed.

"Even if one party never wanted to get shackled in the first place?"

"If Bellatrix learned to bend her will—to yield, if only a little—perhaps her life would not be so very difficult as she seems intent on making it."

Her pointed tone of voice made it clear that they were no longer discussing Bella.

"She's the sort intent on fighting till the bitter end."

"The end need not be bitter if one does not treat every difficulty as an engagement in the long campaign."

"Death before surrender—that's Bella's motto, I guess. And mine, too."

"And does that make either of you happy?"

No, Sirius thought, with a sudden burst of clarity—it makes us ideal soldiers, though.

"Personally," Orion interjected. "I think Sirius resembles another willful and stubborn member of this family who shall go—unnamed."

His wife spun around and gave him a severe look which Orion answered with the most innocent of smiles.

After thinking for a moment, Sirius unexpectedly got to his feet. He stalked up behind his brother and shuffled through the pages of sheet music that Kreacher had been diligently flipping for his younger master. After a minute or so of rooting about in the various books he found what he was looking.

"Here." He shoved it in front of Regulus's face. "Play."

Regulus frowned down at the choice, then looked up at his brother. Sirius's expression brooked no argument, or teasing—and it occurred to Reg that his elder brother had taken the comparison to Bellatrix to heart.

He smiled and played the familiar chords.

"Good King Wenceslas looked out on the Feast of Stephen…when the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even—"

Sirius had a fine baritone, though a little out of practice, and he studiously avoided looking at his beaming mother. As he continued the first verse, his confidence grew.

"Brightly shone the moon that night, though the frost was cruel…when a poor man came in sight, gathering winter fuel—"

Sirius dropped the lyric, abruptly. He pretended to scan the living room while his brother, confused, kept playing.

"Well, there's absolutely no poor people in here, so I guess—" He pointed at Orion. "You'll have to do."

Mr. Black raised an eyebrow and gestured at himself.

"Yes—you, sir—in the front row. You're going to have to be the peasant. Not exactly typecasting, but we make do with what we have. Now—I'm afraid this is a duet." He squinted around the room, hand shading his eyes. "I would ask what brave woman will play the page, but we've only got one woman here, so there's no choice."

Smiling, he bounced over to Walburga—her face fell like a soufflé.

"Sirius Orion—!"

Sirius grasped her by both hands and hauled Walburga to her feet.

"Hither page and stand by me, if thou knowst it, telling—"

"Sirius Orion Black, let go of me this instant!"

He laughed, mischievously.

"Now, now—that's no way for a page to speak to a king—" Sirius turned his mother to face their audience of one. Her cheeks burned scarlet when she met Orion's gaze—her husband was so odiously amused. Sirius pointed at his father and, holding her firmly by the shoulders, shoved her in his direction.

"Yonder peasant, who is he, where and what his dwelling—?"

"Oh, honestly!"

Walburga jabbed him in the stomach with her elbow, but Sirius's abdomen was all lean muscle, and he deflected the blow easily.

"I know you know this one," he said, bouncing up and down to the beat, as if if were a jig. "You used to force me to play the page, so you have to sing it, now. No getting out of it. You were the one who wanted music, after all!"

"Fine, fine."

She threw her one free hand into the air like she was preforming a vaudeville rendition of Hamlet.

"Sire, he lives a good deal hence—Underneath the mountain—" Walburga sang with a clear mezzo-soprano voice, well trained, if marked by a certain woodenness of performance. "Right against the forest fence—by Saint Agnes fountain—"

Sirius pulled her into his arms, with that cultivated and well-bred grace that came from years of dance lessons no dingy flat or flying motorcycle could stamp out of him. Flustered, she tried to wriggle out of his grip—but at some point over the last three years her son had grown stronger than her, and without access to her wand she was quite at his mercy.

"What's the matter, Mum? I thought you liked music." He spun her in an impromptu waltz. "Had enough yet?"

"You," she scolded, out of breath. "Are the most impudent scamp that ever lived."

Disapproving she may have been, but Walburga kept pace with her impish son's dancing. Several glasses of ratafia to the wind, and Mrs. Black did not object to this insult to her dignity nearly as much as her station demanded. She was as naturally graceful as Sirius, and her eyes glowed with poorly-concealed enjoyment.

"That's what makes me charming," he laughed, pulling her close. "I bet you'll think twice about making me sing next time."

"What would the family say?"

"Who cares?" He twirled her about the carpet with elegant derring-do. "It's my house, we're doing things my way. No stuffiness allowed."

There was something about the atmosphere of that cramped flat. No matter how many decorations Mrs. Black covered it with, she could not erase the shabbiness, the rebellious spirit that had driven its occupant of the last two years—a young man with access to a small fortune—to live here, of all places. His stubborn and contrary nature permeated the place, and when one was here one accepted it as the standard by which all things were measured, just as rigid well-bred decorum reigned in Number Twelve.

As her son deftly steered her around the room, Walburga was left in the rare position of having to submit to a will at least as strong as her own. Her husband and younger son, far from envying Sirius, enjoyed seeing her on the back-foot for once.

"Alright page, we're tromping about in the cold—" He let go of her waist. "I think you've got something to tell me about freezing your backside off—"

"—That is not the lyric!"

She met her husband's eye—Orion raised his glass of wine to her in appreciation of the performance. Embarrassed and blushing scarlet, she gave her husband a few choice words to which he only smiled wider.

"Careful, you," Sirius warned Orion. "You're supposed to be the peasant we're bringing flesh and wine to, I won't have you provoking my servant—Reg, play louder!"

Laughing, and over the protests of their mother, Regulus obeyed.

The sound of knocking on the front door sharply cut through the laughter and tinkling of the piano. Regulus abruptly took his hands off the keys. The smiles dropped from each Black's face. Mr. Black turned in his seat to the door.

The gentle, persistent knocking continued.

Sirius, ignoring the furtive looks of each member of his family, walked up to the door and peeped through the keyhole. He pulled back, surprised, then unlocked the door and opened it a crack.

"…Mrs. Jenkins?"

On the other side of the door stood his elderly landlady, wearing a red housecoat and holding a bottle of gin in one hand and a Christmas cracker in the other.

"Sirius, dear. Happy Christmas."

"Erm—happy Christmas." Sirius glanced behind him. His family was the most amazing frozen tableau. "What're you—I mean, that is—"

She gave him a cheeky smile.

"You've forgotten, haven't you?" Her eyes twinkled. "About the Christmas drink we were going to share."

Sirius stared at her. The promise, like his plans to go to the pub with Andromeda, had been made only weeks ago—but for him, it might as well have been in a different life.

"I'm—sorry—I did. I completely forgot."

"It's alright, dear. I thought as much, so I made up my mind to pop in and remind you. And I had a favor to ask—" She craned over his shoulder. "Goodness me, I didn't know you had company."

She peered at the three Blacks, still frozen in place.

"Heavens! Is this your mother and father, Sirius?"

It was very lucky that Mrs. Jenkins was short-sighted and couldn't see details all that well, for she might've remarked on the strange clothing choices of his family.

"Erm—yes, it is." He swallowed hard and rubbed the back of his head.

"But you always said that you had no family."

Her voice was merrily accusatory, as if him saying this had been a mere silly trick that he had played on her and not how Sirius had felt ever since Alphard's death. He looked down at the carpet, then back at his parents and brother.

The awkward moment stretched on for what felt like a century, until—

"How…do you do?" Mr. Black finally said, in a stiff voice.

Mrs. Jenkins beamed through the crack in the door.

"Very well indeed, sir!"

To Sirius's surprise and palpable horror, the old woman bustled inside the flat.

"Goodness! You have done this place up. When did you get a piano?" Sirius didn't answer. His landlady crossed to Walburga, grabbed her hand and shook it vigorously. "Never mind—this must be your work, madam. I can see you fixed the place right up. Good thing, too—the furnishings your boy brought into this flat were ghastly."

"What was that favor you wanted to ask me for, Mrs. Jenkins?" Sirius interrupted, quickly. The sooner he got her out of here, the better.

"Oh, that. It's my telly—it's broken." She pointed to one of the many Victorian clocks his mother had stuck on the wall. "I wondered if I could watch the Queen's address on yours." She gave a slightly worried look to the family. "If it's not too much of an intrusion."

Once the shock had worn off, Sirius found himself laughing. The discomfort on his family's faces was amusing, but for once in his life he wasn't worried about what they would say to his old muggle landlady. She was half-deaf anyway, and she obviously disconcerted them more than they did her.

"No intrusion at all."

He went over to it and turned on the television for her.

"And this must be your brother." Regulus started at being addressed. "Come here, dear, let's have a look at you, then."

Regulus, not knowing what else to do, rose from piano and walked over to the Muggle woman. She gave him a look up and down.

"Well, you look sensible. Are you?"

"I…think so."

"It's not a question of thinking, dear—it's a question of knowing."

"I'm more sensible than my brother."

Mrs. Jenkins' eyes twinkled.

"That goes without saying."

The arrival of her Royal Majesty on the small black and white television provided a much-needed distraction from his parents' inability to get out more than monosyllable. Regulus, at least, had seen a television before, but his parents' reaction was something Sirius thought would be burned into his memory forever. They stared at the telly like he would've imagined muggles would look at a manticore, or the Bloody Baron.

"I can't believe you actually care about this stuff, Mrs. J."

"Listen to you!" the old woman exclaimed, indignantly. "Young people don't know what they're about. When I was your age we had respect for the king. I'm sure your parents will agree with me."

"This country has not had a legitimate monarch since James II," Orion remarked, staring at the television. "But I suppose this German arriviste is more tolerable than some. She's better than her uncle."

"An awful man," Mrs. Jenkins agreed. "Imagine abandoning your country and your family for some American trollop."

"Revolting."

Sirius and Regulus exchanged a look. One of the few muggles that their father had any willingness to discuss or praise were members of the Stuart line, but the elder of the two had long-since learned that pointing out the moral degeneracy displayed by Charles II during his reign was a surefire way to get told he was a 'foolish whelp.'

When the address was over, it lead into a concert of the Boys' Choir as Westminster Cathedral. He got up to switch the set off, then caught his brother's eye—Regulus shook his head and discreetly pointed at their mother. Walburga's eyes remained fixed on the screen, though she was pretending very much not to like it.

The two brothers exchanged smiles. This was one way to get out of playing more music.

"Would you like to stay for dinner, Mrs. J?" Sirius asked his landlady, voice innocent. "I'm sure we'll have more than enough."

At this suggestion, Walburga turned towards him. She looked like she had been force-fed a spoonful of salt. The old woman shook her head.

"No, no, I wouldn't dream of intruding upon your privacy." The old woman stood up. "Christmas is a time for family, difficult as that may be for some people. You have to spend Christmas with your family."

She pulled Walburga by the elbow to the door and before leaving, murmured something in her ear.

"What did she say to you?" he asked, when the old woman was safely out of the apartment.

Walburga busied herself with smoothing the ruffles of her gown.

"Never you mind," his mother sniffed.

"If I didn't know better," Sirius said, when his mother had left the room to monitor her poor and beleaguered house-elf as he slaved over their twelve-course Christmas Dinner. "I'd say the two of you are getting positively tolerant."

Orion looked up from a book, which he had pulled out when he settled back into his armchair—from that seemingly endless supply he could always be counted on to produce when there was a comfortable chair and a moment of peace to be found.

"Well," he remarked, voice dry. "It's a good thing that you know better."

---

"Are you planning on returning to your French roots, Malfoy?"

Lucius turned towards his sister-in-law—restraining his desire to let out a long-suffering sigh as he did so. Her eyes burned with that inner fire that nothing, not even the strongest of spirits, could replicate the effects of in Bella's face—that restless, pent-up energy of a caged panther, read to spring the moment the latch slipped.

Her blood-red lips turned up and settled into a rather spiteful smile.

This was the longest and most indeterminable cocktail hour of his life.

"You'll have to explain yourself, Bellatrix. I'm not that good of a Legilimens."

She ran a finger down the delicate silk embroidery around the collar of his robes.

"I mean now that you've successfully provided your father and my sister with an heir, will you be finding some new bed in which to…occupy yourself?"

Lucius curt rebuff of the question alerted his sister-in-law to the fact that he did not find it in good taste.

"No need to get stroppy, Lucius," she said, in that horrible, condescending baby-voice she sometimes used when she was feeling, in her words, playful. "It's only that you—well, you keep watching that girl. I only drew what I thought were natural conclusions."

"Colette Battancourt," Malfoy said, stiffly. "Is not to my taste."

"More's the pity. She's more interesting than Cissy, I think." Bellatrix's smile was cat-like. "But, alas—that's where your taste lies."

"You think she's interesting?"

"I am as surprised as you to have found her so, believe." Bellatrix scowled. "She surprised me this morning."

"Where is Rodolphus, Bella?"

At the mention of her erstwhile husband, Bella narrowed her eyes. Lucius cursed his luck—if she'd been ignoring him all day, he was going to be in the foulest mood possible tomorrow. What did Rod expect, anyway?

"Don't change the subject," Madame Lestrange said. "If you're not interested in bedding her—there must be something else that makes her so fascinating you can't take your eyes off her."

Lucius blinked, keeping his face a perfect blank. Had his interest been so marked? He looked down in his glass and wondered if the festive cheer of the day had contributed to this obvious blunder. With any luck it was only Bella who had noticed.

"Certainly. Narcissa means to have her for Regulus—to wife. If that's the case, she will be part of our circle. One of the family, stop to speak."

"It's not your family," Bellatrix said, coldly. "Is that really all?"

Malfoy stared at her, expression cold.

"As it is Christmas Day, dear sister, let us not beat about the proverbial holly bush." He wanted to get back to Narcissa. In her condition she had a delicate constitution, and Lucius knew she never liked him to spend an excessive amount of time in Bellatrix's company. "You may speak freely with me—always."

Bellatrix took a dainty sip from her champagne—somehow making the gesture both girlish and grotesque.

"I just thought—" She ran her finger over the rim of her champagne flute. "Perhaps, that if you had learned something interesting about that girl, you could tell me—and then I would tell you the interesting thing I learned."

Lucius watched her grip tighten on the glass, and imagined her snapping the edge off with her teeth and fashioning it into a weapon.

The art of war, he found, was best fought like the art of love—armed with the weapon of innocent ignorance. Bearing that cardinal rule in mind, Malfoy preferred to reveal as little of what he knew or thought as possible. It left the refuge of perceived innocence available to one, if things went south.

About the girl he suspected much. Bellatrix possibly suspected the same things, or knew more than he suspected—but of course, she might know nothing at all—or at least nothing useful to Lucius. To tell his sister-in-law that Colette Battancourt had made contact with her wayward, blood traitor cousin underneath this very roof was a risk.

Lucius didn't take risks if he could help it.

He'd been weighing the matter in his head since the night before—considering what was possible—or probable. The girl might know nothing about Black but his identity. It would explain the aunt's marked preference for her. If Walburga, like her husband, had found out that her son had been at the party in disguise, and that Colette had discovered this—she'd want to keep the girl quiet, naturally.

Obviously it had worked, for Narcissa hadn't said a word to him on the subject, except to vent her irritation that the girl had been snooping around Black's old bedroom and asking questions about him.

She was a slip of a witch—not a threat—a pawn. Her curiosity was natural, if distasteful to him personally.

But if Bellatrix knows more than you do—

"When I learn something worth knowing," Lucius said. "I'll come to you first."

"Don't wait too long."

Bella grimaced and—to his great relief—slinked back into the shadows from which she'd come, her disappointment obvious.

Perhaps, Lucius thought, this had been the time to take the risk.

Malfoy was comforted by the knowledge that Bellatrix wouldn't be able to keep something useful to herself for long—not if she needed his help, and she was so proud, Bella would never have come to him with this offer unless she did need it.

In that respect, if no other, her impatience had a purpose.

She'd be back soon enough.

---

All Sirius had ever thought about on Christmas when he was a child was when they were going to open the presents. It must have been a mark of his maturity that he had forgotten they still hadn't done it when Walburga drew attention to the fact during dessert.

"I suppose they have waited long enough," she said, to her husband.

Mrs. Black waved her wand at the tree, and a pile of brightly wrapped packages roughly the size of a mountain appeared at the base of it. Sirius gaped at the monument to excess.

"Gone a bit…overboard, haven't you?"

She gave her eldest son a look which said that he would open his presents and enjoy them—or face her wrath. This was put to the test ten minutes into the exercise.

"Come on, Mum!" Sirius exclaimed. "When am I going to wear this?"

Sirius held up the set of gold-brocaded silk dress robes—the fourth set he'd opened so far. Like every set she'd given him, it was perfectly tailored and cut to fit him—and by his estimation, completely over the top.

"One never knows when one needs formal attire," his mother said, simply.

"It's like you think I'm going to a ball every other night."

"If you're invited to one," Orion took a generous sip of his wine. "At least we'll know you're prepared."

"If I'm invited to one, I think I'll go starkers, actually."

Mr. Black did not take the bait. He was enjoying Sirius's embarrassed discomfort at being fussed over far too much.

"You'll do nothing of the—whatever it is your brother just handed you under the table, Regulus Arcturus," Mrs. Black said, her sharp eyes meeting her younger son's. "You will take it out and present it."

Reg pulled the package Sirius had tried to smuggle to him from his lap and, having no choice, opened it. It was a large bottle of brandy.

"What?" Sirius said, at Walburga's disapproving look. "It's something he'll actually use. Not like he needs any more books."

Regulus had a stack of new books on the table next to him—as well as some robes of his own, though not nearly as many sets as Sirius had ("You have far more of a need than he does!") While his mother berated him for encouraging Regulus in drinking, he slipped his brother another slim and square package under the table.

"That's from Lily," he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. Regulus carefully ripped the paper off the cover of a magazine. When he read the splashy headline, he turned bright red and shoved it under the seat. "She got it for you special."

"Who told you?" Regulus hissed, mortified.

"Remus. And James. It's payback for telling him about the incident on my eighth birthday." Sirius pulled a face. "Honestly Reggie, Coronation Street? That's what you enjoy watching? Not even, I don't know, Starsky and Hutch?"

"Shut up!"

"What are you two speaking about so secretively?"

As secrets were one of many things Mrs. Black believed unacceptable, a quick flick of the wand had the offending present out of her younger son's lap and onto the table. She stared at it for a full ten seconds, utterly bewildered.

"'TV Times Coronation Street Christmas Special Issue'…" she read aloud, then looked up, aghast. "Regulus Arcturus, what in the name of Merlin is this drivel?"

There followed a comical attempt by the two brothers—Regulus stammering, Sirius laughing fit to burst—to explain soap serials to their parents. Orion grasped the concept before his wife did, though he seemed more bemused than disapproving of Regulus's interest. By the end of the conversation the magazine had been confiscated, and Regulus had promised not to expose himself to any more 'vulgar Muggle trash' while in his brother's care.

"She didn't burn it on sight—" Sirius muttered, when their mother was directing the elf in serving what must've been their third pudding course—a gigantic Nesselrode Cream. "I call that a step in the right direction for progress the world over. Don't worry, Reg, we'll think of some way to nick it back for you."

They were halfway through eating the old-fashioned pudding when a small package appeared in front of Sirius.

"Another set of diamond cufflinks?" he asked Walburga, innocently.

"Certainly not," she said, haughtily. "I've been saving this one."

Sirius bit back a sarcastic retort. His mother always liked the presents to be opened in a very specific order, so she was want to vanish them and make them reappear in front of their recipients 'when the proper time came.'

Always has to control—even the gift-giving.

He looked down at it, warily—this was obviously her grand finale. Walburga's gray eyes glimmered with excited anticipation. It made Sirius uneasy. He could remember many a Christmas past when she had expected him to be excited for a present—she could always tell when he wasn't and it infuriated her.

"It's from your brother and I."

Surprised, Sirius looked round at Regulus, who had suddenly got very interested in pouring himself another glass of wine. Orion kept his eyes firmly fixed on his eldest son.

"I can only imagine with the two of you cooked up."

Interest piqued, he ripped off the paper and opened the lid of the box. For about thirty seconds he just stared down at it.

"What—is it?"

Sirius knew it was a stupid question, for he could see precisely what it was.

Fingers trembling, he pulled out a heavy brass and gold seal stamp. At the bottom of the package was a slip of parchment—on which was drawn, in red and black ink, a handsome facsimile of the image carved into the brass.

At first Sirius thought it was the Black family crest—but when he looked closer, he saw the distinct differences.

On the shield, in place of the elegant chevron argent ordinary was a plain black band—a fess. Like his family's crest, on the lower half of the shield was the symbol of the sword pointed upward—but instead of two stars, the upper half was marked with a star, a crescent moon and the sun. Flanking the left side was the greyhound associated with his family, but on the right side there was a lion, instead.

Sirius looked up. His mother's eyes burned unexpectedly bright in the low light of the candles.

"It's a personal crest," Walburga said—her voice faltered uncertainly. "I—designed it for you."

"Oh."

"Naturally—your brother helped." Sirius jerked his head in Reg's direction and found the twerp, ears reddening, looking down at his plate of Christmas pudding. All of Regulus's secretive drawing the last couple of days made sense, now—why he kept hiding the pictures with his elbow whenever Sirius bothered to look over and see what he was doing.

"And even your father made suggestions for the design. It was he who suggested changing only one of the supporting greyhounds to a lion."

He turned his eyes to Orion.

"Why?"

"I would think the significance of both animals to you would be obvious." Orion drank from his glass of after-dinner port. "A man named 'Sirius' must have some canine representation on his heraldry."

"I notice you've taken off its collar."

"We thought you'd prefer him...unchained."

Sirius looked back down at the drawing. His eyes were draw to the empty escroll.

"The bottom—where the motto should go…it's blank."

"As it's yours, Sirius Orion, I thought it better that you…" Walburga hesitated. "Chose the motto for yourself. I'll have it carved in for you when you've done so."

He ran his thumb over the blank square on the piece of paper.

"Do you like it?" she asked, voice eager.

"I…"

He looked from one face to the other. Each was, in their way, in expectation of his answer—but it was Walburga whose face stood out to him. His mother had never looked at him in that way—that anticipation laced with vulnerability.

His mouth felt inexplicably dry.

Sirius knew his answer meant something to her—he could feel the weight of the effort she had put into not only the gift, but this whole day, this fragile peace, not unlike that famous Christmas truce in the Great War.

He wouldn't wipe his eyes in front of them.

He put the seal and the beautiful drawing that his brother had done back into the box.

"I do. Thank you."

He kept staring down at it, so much so that it was only his mother's voice that broke him out of his stupor.

"Who is this from?"

Sirius looked up—he recognized the plain brown paper around the box in Walburga's hands.

"Er, that's from—me." As he watched her methodically tear the strips of wrapping paper off, Sirius felt his nerves bubble up. She'd already opened the perfume from Regulus—a safe choice that was well received. "If you hate it I can take it back, it was just a stupid idea of mine, I won't be miffed—"

"Oh, Sirius Orion—it's lovely!"

Sirius stopped, shocked—he hadn't expected that tone of delighted surprise. She pulled the broach out of the box that it had been so clumsily wrapped in and held it up to the light.

"Did you enchant it to glitter this way?"

The emeralds changed shades of green with each touch of her fingers.

"Yeah."

"It's a very clever charm." Sirius felt his face grow hot with embarrassment and pleasure. "And a unique piece. Where ever did you get it?"

Sirius tapped his fingers against the table and muttered something non-committal about speciality shops and 'secrets of the trade.'

"Well, it's better than any jewelry your father's ever got me," Walburga said, holding the broach up to the light. "Did you come up with this idea all on your own?"

"Of course I did," Sirius said, defensively. "What, you think I need help to pick out my own mother's Christmas gift?"

She gave him a knowing, sly smile.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing at all." She shook her head. "The clasp on this looks a little fiddly, Sirius. Come over here and help me pin it on." He rose from his seat and obeyed. When he reached her, his mother stood up and kissed him on the cheek.

"Mother!"

Sirius pulled away, embarrassed, and caught his father's eye – just as Orion opened up Regulus's gift of the eagle feather quill. Mr. Black did a passable impersonation of surprise at the present.

"What an excellent and—practical gift," he said, and Sirius was amazed to see his father manage to keep a straight face. "Thank you, Regulus."

His elder son restrained himself from asking if Reg had opened up their father's gift yet. A quick cursory glance at Reg's pile didn't yield any obvious evidence of the identical eagle-feather quill…

"Well," said Sirius looking around at the piles of boxes that towered over him. "Now that we're done, I feel fully prepared for my future career as a model for French Vogue. Is there a set of dress robes left in all England I don't now own?"

Mr. Black cleared his throat.

"I don't think you've opened everything," Orion addressed his sons. Walburga gave him a surprised look. "Take another look under the tree, Regulus. In the back."

Confused, Regulus circled the tree—he let out a loud exclamation and emerged carrying a long package in his arms which any self-respecting wizard would have recognized the contents of immediately.

"Oh, honestly Orion!" Walburga exclaimed, as Regulus carried his treasure to the sofa to open it. "These children are completely spoiled."

But Mrs. Black's scolding was half-hearted at best. No one could have seen her younger son's naked enthusiasm as he tore off the paper which concealed his brand new Comet 240 broomstick and not shared in his effervescent joy.

"Oh, Father!" Regulus turned to Orion, the broom clutched to his chest—he could barely stammer out words of thanks. "It's—it's wonderful."

Orion crossed the room to to his son, who man-handled his present with expert glee.

"I'm glad you like it." He gently squeezed Regulus's shoulder and bent over to look at the broomstick. "You shall have to take it out for a test flight very soon."

As Sirius watched his brother pull the broom out of his packaging and hold it out at every angle, he was reminded irrepressibly of James. It was impossible not to smile at the sight of Regulus looking happy, actually happy—like the flying-mad kid that Sirius remembered, not the wane stranger who'd shown up half-dead on his doorstep such a short time ago.

"I'm guessing that there's not a second broomstick-shaped package under that tree," Sirius joked, when his father walked up to him.

"I thought you didn't care for flying," his father said, innocently. "Have you taken it up in the last three years?"

"Not as such." He thought of Elvira—apparently his mother had kept her promise not to mention the flying motorbike to Orion. Last night he'd even taken the risk of bringing her back to London, and she was safely tucked away on the roof of the building. "Are you saying that if I had, you'd have got me a broom, too?"

Mr. Black's lip twitched.

"Perhaps."

"I didn't think I'd been that good of a boy."

Sirius forced a laugh—and Orion's expression changed. He glanced over to the sofa, where an amused Walburga was being treated to an enthusiastic catalog of all the broom's manifest virtues from her younger son.

"I have—something else for you, actually."

Mr. Black reached into the pocket of his robes and hesitated before pulling out a small, square package.

"Bit smaller than a broom."

Sirius eyed the package—innocent and unobtrusive on the outside—uneasily. He had that creeping sensation of dread at the sight of it, and at his father's hand holding it out for him. The moment he took the box into his hand and felt its weight his dread increased.

When he forced himself to look into his father's eyes, he saw his own uncertainty reflected back at him.

"You don't—" Orion cleared his throat, suddenly awkward. "You don't have to open it now."

Sirius slipped it discreetly into his pocket and stepped away from his father. His presence, so comfortable and warm all that day—suddenly felt suffocating.

"Sirius Orion—" His mother called, across the room. "You still haven't given your father his present yet."

Sirius's insides froze. A nagging doubt he'd had in the back of his mind that he'd forgotten something returned with the force of a train crashing into him—he saw that tedious list of gift suggestions, that Orion had deliberately left himself off of it, and remembered how in the heat of their row he had offered to get out of his father's life as a Christmas present.

He'd forgotten to get Orion something.

His mother poked around the bottom of the tree, looking for the present that was not there. He felt the blush of embarrassment creeping around his collar and rising panic.

"Well?" She put her hands on her hips. "Where is it?"

So much for peace on earth and goodwill towards men. She was going to flay him alive for this.

"I—I…I don't—"

"You missed it, Mother," Regulus called, casually. "Sirius's present is right here, see?"

At the sight of Regulus pulling a heavy parchment envelope out of the branches of the Christmas tree, Sirius unfroze.

"He's been holding out," Regulus continued, walking over to them and handing it to their father. "It's a surprise."

Orion opened the letter and pulled out an ancient parchment page that was tied in red string. He undid the bow and unfolded it, reading the words on the page slowly.

When he looked up at Sirius, his expression was keen and intent.

"Where did you find this?"

"I—I didn't—"

"—Folded inside of one of Phineas Nigellus's old court records, isn't that what you told me?" Regulus interrupted him, in a loud voice.

The two brother's locked eyes. Regulus had never looked so innocent and inscrutable in that moment. Sirius looked back at his father and nodded, slowly. Orion smiled.

"I knew my faith in your abilities was not unplaced."

"What is it, Orion?" Walburga demanded.

"The solution to our little problem. Proof of the provenance of those opals, madam. I shall send this over directly to Burke, and I'm sure by the end of tomorrow we will have that necklace back in possession, and then I will never have to hear anything more from Druella about the matter ever again." He folded it up again and put it in his pocket. "I'm very pleased at your perseverance, Sirius. Well done."

Sirius forced himself to smile back.

He wondered, as he watched his brother from across the table—the brother who had sacrificed his own achievements to make up for his folly—if there would ever be a time in his life when Regulus was not covering for his shortcomings.

Sensing he was being watched, Regulus looked up and met his gaze. Like their father, Sirius found him impossible to read, so all he could do was stare at him and look embarrassed.

"Erm—happy Christmas, Reg."

Regulus raised one eyebrow.

"You're welcome," he mouthed—then his face split into a grin. "I'm sure you'll think of some way to pay me back."

He kicked him under the table.

"Smug git."

---

The two notes sat side-by-side on the end table by the sofa in the corner of the drawing room. The dinner party had broken up into the various factions, everyone relaxing and speaking in low voices as they sipped their after-dinner brandies and enjoyed their presents and games of cards. No one was at all concerned with her. The French girl was happy for this moment of solitude—the first she had had all day.

She looked down at the one on the left first. The parchment was crisp, perfumed—smelling faintly of rosewater and gardenias—and stamped with the Malfoy crest. She smoothed it out and read, again—

Dearest Colette,

Happy Christmas. Please enjoy this token of my esteem and great attachment, and my sincere hopes for a long future of close connection between us. You will find a surprise enclosed within the gift—one you'll need for tomorrow.

Fond regards,

Narcissa

The note had come, folded up and neatly sealed with a wafer, attached to a box that held a small silver bracelet, a delicate chain, on which hung a pendent inscribed with a miniature greyhound—the same one that she had seen flanking the Black family crest. Whatever the 'surprise' hidden in the bracelet was, she had not discovered it yet.

Her eyes slid from the note—formal but warm by the standards of female intimacy that she'd known in her short life—to the second, scrawled on a small strip of notepaper in a daring and familiar hand. The edges curled up, for it had been wrapped around the present it accompanied—a magnificent fountain pen, whose ink changed colors as it dried, glittering on the page.

A gift for the imaginative authoress—to use hers, and relay all the adventures yet to come.

Yours,

N.S.

Yours, it said. An endearment that could be thrown around lightly—it didn't have to mean anything. She didn't want it to, not really—but it could mean something, whether she wanted it to or not—

"Sickle for your thoughts, Miss Battancourt?"

Colette crushed the notes in her fist and and spun around. At the familiar, spotty face her mouth broke into a smile of relief.

"Monsieur Bletchley!" Bewildered, she shook his hand. "I did not expect to find you here."

"I didn't expect to find myself here." Martin Bletchley sat down next to her on the sofa. "I made the mistake of posing that question you asked me last night to my employer, and he decided that my ignorance on the subject of domestic politics was so shocking I needed remedial lessons."

"On Christmas Day?"

He sighed and laughed, ruefully.

"There's no better lesson than to go to five different parties at five different manor houses owned by five different rich wizards, apparently."

Colette stared into the fire. Her grip around the notes tightened.

"Given that it cost me my holiday," the clerk added, giving her a sideways look. "The least you could do is ask again."

"If I had known what distress it would cause you, sir," Colette said, softly. "I would never have asked in the first place."

Bletchley shrugged—he'd come to terms with the loss of Christmas with his family. Perhaps he didn't miss them…Colette missed hers less than she thought she would.

"It's Dumbledore," he said, leaning towards her. "Albus Dumbledore."

"What is?"

"The Order of the Phoenix. It's his, you see—his organization. The phoenix is—associated with Professor Dumbledore. He has one as a pet." He gave her a pained smile. "I suppose if either of us had gone to Hogwarts, we would have known that."

"But I thought he was merely—the headmaster of the school. A brilliant alchemist and academic—"

"—He is—among other things. There's nothing in this country that Dumbledore isn't involved in."

"Including the war?"

"Yes. He has disagreements with Bagnold. I gather this—Order is a network of highly placed individuals who answer to him, and not the ministry. It's caused some degree of confusion and distrust, but I—suppose the old man has his reasons."

Bletchley sounded as though he doubted the validity of said reasons. Colette bit her lip and frowned.

"Are the people who belong to this Order—known?"

"Not officially, no. But Burke says it's likely to be anyone he's particularly close to. Easy enough to guess, if you know the lay of the land. Which he does, even if I don't."

Colette suddenly felt as though the room had grown smaller, the wall porous. She needed air, to breathe. She was conscious of being observed, exposed—or the danger of the possibility.

"And what do they do, exactly?"

"I suppose contribute to the war effort in an—unofficial capacity. The advantage would be in using people no one will suspect."

"Is that why it is a secret?"

"That and—because it's not legal. They don't want people to know who they are. A bit like the Death Eaters, really. Other side of the coin."

"Both hiding in plain sight," Colette said, her voice distant.

"And probably from each other," Martin said, giving a furtive look around the room. "The work requires a certain degree of secrecy."

"Like…spying, I suppose. Gathering information."

Martin nodded.

"Mr. Burke says it attracts danger."

And people who like danger.

Colette stared into the fire. She felt remarkably calm—and utterly unsurprised. It was merely like putting two puzzle pieces in place that had been sitting next to each other for some time.

"Do you know a Mr. Rowle, by any chance?" she asked, looking up. "Who works at the Ministry?"

Martin blinked, surprised at this abrupt turn in the conversation.

"Do you mean Alan Rowle?" She nodded, uncertain. "Well, I—not personally, no. His father's influential in banking. He got him a choice posting as Crouch's personal secretary, or assistant to the undersecretary, or something, I think—in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. One of those easy jobs that make it easy to traffic in gossip with the right sort of people."

"And what about—" Colette hesitated. "Mr. Longbottom?"

"The Auror?" He frowned. "Yes, as it happens…I do. Not well, though. I met him last week at the Ministry. We were—introduced, that is."

"Through our…mutual friend?"

Martin Bletchley gave her a long, hard look—as if he had suddenly realized they were in an entirely different conversation than he'd believed.

"I don't think our mutual friend would want me to answer that question," he said, finally. "But as you already seem to know, I don't much see the point in denying it. How did you know they'd met at the Ministry?"

Colette's face reddened.

"It was just a guess," she muttered, trying to sound innocent.

"A shrewd guess rather than a lucky one." Martin narrowed his eyes. "And I can guess the rest of your suspicions. This explains why you were so curious about the Order. You think our mutual friend is a member."

"I believe you are in a position to tell me if I am right or wrong, Monsieur Bletchley."

He stood up and walked towards the fire.

"I don't know for certain. But let's just say—" Martin sighed and turned back around to face Colette. "Based on the impressions I've got from Burke, not to mention the man himself, and some of the people I know he associates with—that I wouldn't be at all surprised." He frowned. "The real question is—do his parents know?"

"I have no doubt they do."

Her own certainty on this matter gave Colette no pleasure. It was the truth on which all others rested. Every conversation she had ever had with Sirius Black on this point had been thrown into a new light by these revelations. A picture had formed in her head—no, not a picture, a story.

"He and his brother Rodolphus had a bit of a reputation…"

"Promise you won't tell anyone about Regulus."

"Try not to go looking for answers…you may not like what you find."

A story of two brothers. Improbable, fantastical, even—not one that her imagination could have ever conjured by itself. But there were more things in heaven and earth than were dreamed of in her philosophy.

"Suppose…suppose someone should belong to one group…and wish to join the other." She looked into his eyes. "Would that be possible?"

Martin sighed and glanced around the room. Nobody appeared to be paying much attention to them—not even his employer. For that, he was glad. The clerk had begun to regret this whole conversation.

"You mean—if someone wanted to switch sides?" She nodded. "I don't know about tailcoats in the Order. You'd think Dumbledore would have picked people he trusted—but I suppose it's possible. You-Know-Who is definitely recruiting."

"But what about—the other way?"

Martin raised an eyebrow.

"Are you asking if anyone has defected from the Death Eaters?"

She looked around furtively and nodded.

"Not that have lived to tell the tale, as far as I know. I doubt they'd allow it. I don't think You-Know-Who tolerates disloyalty."

She blanched and then, to the eternal discomfort of her conversational partner, buried her face in her hands.

"How could I not know any of this?"

"You didn't come here to fight in the war." He patted her on the hand. "I'm sure your family thought it would be unnecessary to tell you about it, not when you're not in danger—"

"—Because of my blood?" she sniffed, looking up at him.

Bletchley stiffened uncomfortably.

"Well—yes."

Colette's lip trembled.

"I feel like such a fool."

Martin tried to give her a reassuring smile.

"You're only as much of a fool as you allow yourself to feel," he said, gently. "And you're only as ignorant as you allow yourself to be."

"Stirring words, Bletchley."

Martin flinched and started—Colette let out a gasp. They both turned around and found Mr. Burke standing behind the sofa. The old lawyer gave Colette a polite smile—but he kept his eyes fixed on his protégé.

"We're going. Make your goodbyes to our host, and try to be a credit to me, will you?"

Bletchley colored, stammered out a few words to the girl, then beat a hasty retreat, leaving her to the mercy of his employer.

"I hope my clerk wasn't bothering you," he said, when they were alone.

"Not at all. Mr. Bletchley was merely helping me understand…politics."

"The blind leading the blind," Burke said, dryly. "Next time you have such a question, you should bring it to me, mademoiselle."

"I shall—make sure I do so."

He kept his bland, unreadable stare fixed on her. Colette tried not to blink.

"I have something for you, Miss Battancourt."

He pulled a box out of his pocket and handed it to her, all polite graciousness. Having only briefly met the lawyer at Grimmauld Place—a party that she had not remained at for very long—she did not pretend to think for one moment the gift was a token of his flattery.

Colette opened the small box—inside it was a silver pearl ring. It was 19th century, with a delicately carved filigree flower and branch relief snaking round the center.

"From Mrs. Black," Burke said, unnecessarily. Colette stared at it in bewildered shock.

"When did this arrive?"

"With myself—about twenty minutes ago."

She raised her eyes to Burke's face and found him scrutinizing her in a way she did not like at all.

"It seems very strange," Colette said, in a clipped voice. "That a Christmas gift would have to go through the family solicitor."

"Not at all," Burke said, without missing a beat. "This particular piece is an heirloom and was kept in my office for safekeeping. Walburga Black sent an owl requesting that I bring it out and present it to you. It was no trouble at all—I had to go pick up some papers at the office, anyway."

His voice had a mild and self-effacing quality to it that Colette sensed was being put-on for her benefit. She was being handled.

"Did Madame Black send a message with this gift?"

"Unusually, she did not." Burke paused. "I think, perhaps—the gift is meant to speak for itself."

She met the old lawyer's gaze calmly.

"I must be very dull for not being able to understand the language," Colette said, holding it out to him. "What do you think, Mr. Burke?"

Burke took the pearl ring from her and examined it with expert care.

"A charming piece—late Victorian. I would venture to say the gift-giver feels great…esteem for her intended recipient." He set it back down in its velvet-lined box. "Heirlooms are not given out willy-nilly in this family."

"Is it very valuable?"

"Its value is more—sentimental than monetary. Walburga received this ring as a gift from Orion's mother, when she was first engaged."

He hesitated just long enough to leave Colette wondering if he had really made an effort to pull out that particular detail from his memory.

"And to whom did it belong before that?"

"If I'm not mistaken—it was Hesper Black's," he remarked, conversationally. "She was Arcturus's mother."

Colette stared at him hard for about ten seconds. Mr. Burke, no doubt used to such looks, remained politely unfazed.

"Is this ring always owned by the wife of the head of the family?"

Burke blinked slowly and tilted his head, thinking. The idea had apparently not occurred to him until this moment.

"An…interesting question."

Colette sat back down on the sofa, the ring in its box still clutched in her fist. She opened it again and examined the ring more closely. It was very finely made, the delicate carvings intricate and to her taste—the little of her own taste she'd ever cultivated separate from her mother's, anyway. It was so easy to imagine it on her own finger—the temptation to slip it on right now was almost irresistible.

Almost.

"Now that I think of it—I believe this ring has been traditionally given to the future wife of the head of the Blacks. A coincidence, I'm sure."

"I'm sure." Colette snapped the box shut. "Have you worked for the Blacks for a very long time, Monsieur Burke?"

"I have been the Black family solicitor since my father's death." Burke paused. "And—I am one of them, in blood, if not in name. My mother was a Black, you see."

Miss Battancourt examined his face in the light of this knowledge. In it she could see that trace of sly cunning on his brow, in the shape of his lips, which were now fixed in a pleasant, bland smile that promised nothing and said less.

Oh, yes. He was a Black.

"I imagine there is little that happens in the family about which you do not know."

Burke's smile broadened.

"In my position—one cannot afford not to know."

"They must be interesting to work for." The firelight danced in her eyes—the flat, cool and controlled expression she bore made Colette look much older and wiser than eighteen years had yet proven her to be. "There are so many contradictions."

"No more contradictions than in any other family. Forgive me, mademoiselle—but you are very young."

"Not so young," she rejoined. "That I cannot see a house divided in front of my very eyes."

Burke considered her, for a moment—then gave Colette an indulgent pat on the arm—like a schoolmaster would a favorite student.

"In all bloodlines, my dear girl—there are strains. Distinct patterns of reoccurrence. In my experience—it is often in the most extraordinary families where one will find the most extreme contrasts. Where you see contradiction, one with a broader sense will see the differences wrought by—choices."

She shivered. In the firelight his lined face resembled the plaster cast of a dead man that Colette had once seen in a great house—an ageless face, one that could dispense wisdom from the place between life and death, if it so chose.

"The Blacks have always liked to make their mark, you see—and history is not painted in pastels." He looked up from the fire. "Bright lights cast long shadows. The difference between fame and infamy very much depends on who is telling the story."

Burke walked around the chair. Before she could stop him, the old man picked up the pen and the bracelet and held both up to the light of the fire.

"Take these, for example. Would anyone who looked at them ever think that these two gift-givers sprang from the same bloodline? And yet…"

When he waved his wand, a brilliant purple smoke crept out of it and snaked around the pen and bracelet. Narcissa's gift glowed silver, and a second pendent grew next to the greyhound—a small golden flower, encased in glass. Beside it, the pen's cap expanded like a balloon, and Colette saw the engraved image of Big Ben appear beneath the glass. Sirius must have bought the Muggle trinket for her when they were in London and then concealed its secret with this charm.

"The enchantment," she breathed out, slowly. "It is…the same."

"Fascinating, isn't it—the way two minds so different, two lives marked by radically different choices—can yet draw from the same source?"

He waved his wand again, and her presents returned to their previous states. Burke set them back down on the table.

"It's what a shared point of origin will do."

She looked back down at her ring—the piece of jewelry appeared in a new light to her. Did it hide a magical secret? Or was it merely the price being paid for her own silence—a reminder that she must keep secrets herself?

"It is too precious." She held it out to him, palm up. "I cannot imagine taking such a beautiful ring out of Madame Black's sight."

Burke didn't take the ring from her outstretched hand.

"I imagine Walburga anticipates seeing it on your finger." Colette's face flushed at the double-meaning. "I have no doubt she hopes you will extend your stay in England."

"Do you think it wise for me to stay in this country, Mr. Burke, given the—state of affairs?"

"Miss Battancourt, in your case—" Burke paused, significantly. "I would consider it unwise to leave."

Colette gave him a long, hard look—her eyes turned to her presents, then to the ring in her hand—the ring she could not seem to get this sinister old lawyer to take back, no matter what she said.

Well—she didn't need him to take it back, did she?

She opened her fist and dropped it onto the floor. The ring bounced and clattered off the carpet and rolled on the hearth towards the fireplace, stopping at the grate. Colette let it. Neither she nor Burke made any move to pick it up.

"Please return the ring to her, with my sincere gratitude for her attentions—and my hope she will find a friend more worthy of her esteem on which to bestow it."

Burke's smile turned rather grim. He stooped down to the carpet—it took some effort—and carefully picked up the treasure he'd been charged with guarding. It glittered strangely in the low light of the fire as he put it back in its box.

"If you prefer I hold this for you at present, I do not object—but I see no reason to trouble Mrs. Black with such a message, miss—not when you may change your mind."

"My mind is made up."

As soon as Colette spoke, and heard the feeble indecision in these words, she realized how little they mattered. Her mind had never been what was in dispute.

It was her heart that was the trouble.

"Nevertheless, I will keep it for the time being, and say nothing of our conversation to her. I believe this to be in your best interest."

Colette opened her mouth, ready to condemn him for his impudent presumption in the strongest language possible—but the old man preempted this speech with a simple shake of his head.

"I wouldn't want your actions to be…misinterpreted, that's all." He smiled as if he knew something she did not. "Some words cannot be taken back. Better to—think carefully than act on the impulse of the moment."

He tucked the ring back in his pocket.

"Of course, if you really feel strongly about the matter—you can always tell her yourself." He bowed. "You seem brave enough for anything."

---

Happy Christmas! During the fifth week of Easter. There will be a part two which I hope will come faster than this one did. Please let me know what you thought.