AN: Just want to start with a warning that this is as sad as I'll let this story go. Mrs Miller will be faced with consequences for what she did last chapter and while she expected Mr Miller to be cross with her, she did not, however, expect how much it would affect her. She also did not expect the creativeness of the price for forgiveness. (Standard disclaimer applies.)

And thank you to everyone who reads, clicks favourite and/or follow and reviews. It makes me so happy to know that I have a continuing and invested audience for this. If there is but one request I would humbly make, it is that I would absolutely love for a few more of you to leave reviews. I know where the rest of the story is going and I'm fully committed to finishing it regardless, but that kind of feedback makes the process so much more fun, easier and inspiring. So why not leave a few words to let me know what you think. Or maybe someone could let me know if you spotted the literary character I quoted last chapter (who, despite being created quite a while back, has a lot in common with Mrs Miller) or the well-known children's book I reference in this one. ^^

Anyway, hope you can all enjoy this "downer" chapter before things really start to kick off in the next, but more on that at the end.


Flexing her fingers to try to alleviate the cramp in her hand, Mrs Miller still smiled with satisfaction as she looked at the stack of letters in front of her. It had taken a while, but her task was finally complete. Well, almost. She still needed to put the stamps on, but that would have to wait. Currently, she did not trust her hand to be steady enough to perform the precision needed.

When she was still a girl, still Miss Jennings, she had asked the local postmaster what the correct way of placing a stamp was. The man, being as devoted to his work as anyone could hope for, if not more, had explained the exact measurements that were recommended for the optimal handling and she had strictly followed those ever since. So, for now, her ruler lay unused at the side of the desk, and would need to stay there until the morrow.

Instead, she needed to get started on lunch and then it was off to Mrs Sutton for tea and planning. Not that she looked forward to lunch all that much, what with Mr Miller still being cross with her from yesterday. At least he would be dining out in the evening and his easier disposition ought to make sure he had forgiven her soon enough, she hoped.

Then again, she had rarely seen him as unhappy with her as he had been last night, though the impression might have been enhanced by the humiliation she was already feeling after discovering the mistake she had made about Mr Black's first name. At least it had given her a new starting point in uncovering the man's past sins.

Putting the letters away in one of the drawers, Mrs Miller went to the kitchen and started pulling out the ingredients for a hearty vegetable soup. No need to waste any of their finer groceries on a meal that would turn out unpleasant.

About half an hour later, the table was laid, the bred sliced and the food ready. After calling for her husband, Mrs Miller sat down and listened as his steps approached, apprehension growing in her. She never wanted to be quarrelling with Mr Miller, but why could he simply not see she was doing this for everyone's good, including his own. He was friends with a criminal and she dreaded the day he would face the hurt of finding out. Still, the risk of continuing the acquaintance could very well place them in actual danger, which was worse.

That, thankfully, unfamiliar stony expression was still firmly in place on Mr Miller's face when he entered the kitchen and took his seat without a word. He did not even look at her and Mrs Miller felt her heart ache. Never had she been more tempted to give up on her righteous mission to rid the neighbourhood of the Blacks than in that moment.

"Ernest I-"

"I don't want to hear it. We've been over this already."

His voice was perhaps not as cold as the older Mr Malfoy's, but it cut so much deeper.

"But I only-"

"No!"

Mrs Miller flinched at his raised voice. A voice he had barely even used with their children those few times they had been out of line. It made her feel small.

"Not only did you go behind my back and bought a second gift, but you bought something with the intention to insult them rather than to celebrate the birth of their child. I know you don't care for them, but you should at least have the decency to treat them as the friends they are to me."

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that she had heard from Mr Black himself that he had been in prison, but knew he was in no mood to absorb the information. In all likelihood it would only make him angrier with her, thinking she made it up to justify her actions. It was difficult to swallow the words through the growing lump in her throat.

"How are you, dear?" Mrs Sutton asked as soon as she had entered number ten. "You look a little pale."

"I am afraid Ernest caught me crossing one of his lines regarding the Blacks yesterday and is in a foul mood over it."

"I am sorry to hear it. While he has not grown as friendly with Mr Black, even my Howard likes him well enough and admires his skill with crossword puzzles, so I cannot confide in my husband either. It seems to be much the same for Agnes."

They remained in the entryway, talking about their spouses' shared inability to grasp the truth about the Blacks, while they waited for Mrs Jones to arrive. Soon enough they were all seated in the sitting room, sipping at tea and getting the common gossip out of the way before focusing the rest of their time on the inhabitants of number eleven. The most noteworthy news was that Janet Barker had given birth to twins three days ago, which Mrs Sutton could reliably inform them of, being an aunt of the father, Thomas Barker. Unluckily, the Barkers lived on the other side of the small town and would therefore not take any attention away from Regulus Black in the eyes of the neighbourhood.

"Now, do tell us of yesterday" Mrs Sutton said after Mrs Jones had told them about the cauliflower she had bought down at the local shop which had turned out to be mouldy at the centre. There really was not much else to get out of the way after the quality of food these days had been lamented.

"First of all, I just want to say that Regulus Black, despite his unfortunate name, seems to be a well-behaved baby. He did not cry even once while we were there, and the drooling was near non-existent."

"Regulus!" both of her friends exclaimed simultaneously, just as disinclined as she had been to hear that someone would willingly bestow such a name on their child.

"Yes. And here is where things get truly interesting. There is apparently a tradition in the Black family to name children after the stars, or at least celestial objects. Sadly, that means Mr Black does not spell his first name S E R I O U S, but S I R I U S. We will need to redo all the letters, on which I have already started. However, in order to minimise our embarrassment, even if it was an honest mistake, we will switch who writes to which institution. I have already taken the liberty of writing to those that you, Agnes, wrote last time, so you will take Mildred's while she takes mine.

"What?" It was Mrs Jones that had spoken. "Do you mean we have to write all those letters again?"

"Of course" Mrs Sutton replied calmly as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Which it obviously was.

"But do you not think they would have mentioned if they had a Sirius Black on record if asked for a Serious Black?"

"These kinds of requests are doubtless controlled by strict rules and regulations and they cannot make a suggestion like that if it does not match with the name stated" Mrs Miller said.

"But… I had cramp in my hand for a week last time" Mrs Jones said, "could we at least not use e-mail this time?"

"Absolutely not" Mrs Sutton replied, making a slashing gesture with her hand, nearly hitting her cup and spilling tea all over her genuine Persian rug. "We have no computer in this house, and I will be dead before one ever enters. Such modern contraptions will not be borne. They are only for the lazy. My mind is still perfectly capable of performing every calculation I might need and I never had any trouble with spelling."

"And just think of how it has decimated our once proud postal service, which used to be one of the great hallmarks of our proud civilization" Mrs Miller said. "I shudder to think of the day, which I am sure cannot be far off by now, that they will close the local office. We must all do our best to keep that day at bay for as long as possible."

Mrs Sutton nodded in agreement while Mrs Jones looked resigned but accepting. The latter's inferiority in years, even if the gap was not a large one, did show itself at times. And working as a teacher, even one close to retirement, in this new digital age had acquainted her with the technology Mrs Miller felt sure spelled the end of polite society.

Mr Miller had not insisted on a computer as of yet, but Mrs Miller knew it was only a matter of time. Both of their children had encouraged them to buy one and there was also the fact that he had taken a short course on computers for senior citizens that was held down at the library a few years back.

"But" Mrs Miller went on, "that is not all I found out. While we were there, some relatives of Mr Black showed up. And the rudeness of it all! Apparently, we were only invited because they had to reschedule for a later time that day and then they had the nerve to show up anyway, completely unannounced. Not so much as a phone call to say they were on the way. But it was the three blondes and one brunette I told you about."

"Oh, the strange frightening man?" Mrs Jones asked, sounding improperly exited.

Mrs Miller put that down to the collection of trashy romance novels her friend had on the lowest shelf in their living room, mistakenly thinking no one would look there. The sleazy longhaired and mysterious looking men that covered the fronts of those glued together stacks of defiled paper - Mrs Miller hesitated to call them books – might be mistaken for the older Mr Malfoy by description alone. None that had actually seen or, worse yet, met the man, however, would ever make the connection. Not even one of those airheaded heroines would be able to warm up that block of ice, who somehow managed to be more intimidating than the old headmistress at her primary school, Miss Trunchbull. And that was saying something since that woman had locked disobedient children inside the cupboard in her office. But this was not the time to think on that old hag, who had thankfully departed this world long ago.

"The very one" she replied. "And he was no better up-close, I can tell you. Did not speak a single word to either me or Ernest and the few words he did utter before we felt compelled to leave due to their appalling manners towards us, were so cold I felt as if winter had followed him inside. Most unpleasant."

Pausing her tale in order to take a large gulp of tea to fend of the chillness she suddenly felt creeping up on her, Mrs Miller looked at the expectant faces of her two friends. Her only two allies in this whole mess. They were silently encouraging her to share the rest of the valuable information she had managed to gather, and it strengthened her resolve once more.

"However, I did learn their names so I think we will have to write your cousin again, Mildred. They appear, even more so than Mr Black, to come from an old and prominent family. The cost of their clothes alone would surely exceed what either of us or our husbands make in a month I am sure."

"Was it a surname you recognised?"

"Sadly not, but more unique than Black, so there should be no trouble finding them, hopefully. Malfoy, that is their name. And their first names were mostly as strange as those of the Blacks. The older couple are Lucius and Narcissa while the son and his wife are Draco and Astoria. The older Mrs Malfoy is Mr Black's cousin and it would not surprise me if her maiden name was Black, seeing both of his parents were born Blacks."

"What!"

Once more Mrs Sutton and Mrs Jones had expressed their disbelief in unison.

"Yes. Unless he has made it all up, it would seem Mr Black truly did have something of an extreme family. He even spoke of them having some sort of blood purity dogma, which was why his parents, who were second cousins, married."

"No wonder the man has turned out the way he has, then" Mrs Jones said, a note of sympathy in her voice. "One might even say it is a wonder he did not turn out worse."

"What could be worse than a criminal?" Mrs Sutton scoffed.

"That depends on what kind of criminal. Did we not agree that his crimes are most likely economic?"

"Indeed we did" Mrs Miller said, not even wishing to contemplate what some of the alternatives could mean for them all. She had been worried enough the two times Mr Miller had been taken on a ride by Mr Black in the sidecar of his bike, that adding the possibility that the younger man might leave her darling Ernest dead in a ditch somewhere would risk pushing her over the edge. Maybe she ought to apologise to him tonight when he got home. No point in being cross when no one knew when life might end.

After giving her friends the full story of what had happened the day before, it was not long before Mrs Miller returned home, still eager to see her husband. However, when she found the front door to be locked, she knew he must have already left for The Three Elves.

Her attention was captured by the door of number eleven opening and she stood still, hand on the door handle, as she witnessed Mrs Black kissing Mr Black goodbye. He was apparently joining The Monday Dining Club today, which would be a first since Regulus had been born. The easy affection between the younger couple was clear to see, but it only highlighted Mrs Miller's own current woes and she hurried inside before they could spot her.

Trying to entertain herself with the telly, Mrs Miller waited for Mr Miller to return home. It was long past his usual time when she finally gave up and went to bed. Still, her heartache was magnified in the dark silence by the absence of the presence next to her she had always taken for granted. And in her loneliness, doubts started to seep into her mind. What if she had pushed too far this time? What if Ernest was thinking about leaving her? What would she ever do without him?

Spiralling closer and closer to despair, Mrs Miller was pulled out of her mental vortex by the sound of steps coming up the stairs. It seemed she had been so lost in her thoughts she had missed the front door opening, for she knew it could not be an intruder. She would recognise the sound of her husband anytime.

Before the door to their bedroom opened, Mrs Miller closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep, suddenly afraid to make the apology. So, she lay still while Mr Miller got ready for bed, in the quietest way he was capable of, and then slipped into bed beside her. Immediately, she could feel the warmth radiating off of his body and felt her own relax. Making up her mind that she would indeed apologise in the morning, she was at long last able to fall asleep.

When she woke up next morning, Mrs Miller felt rested. Looking to the side she saw Mr Miller lying there, still asleep, making that familiar light snoring sound that never failed to make her smile. Not wishing to disturb him, she got up, pulled on a dressing gown and went down to the kitchen to make a full breakfast. It might only be a Tuesday morning, but she needed to start it off right.

Just as she had predicted, she was nearly done with frying the last sausages when her husband entered the kitchen, lured there by the scent. The fact that he kept his lips tightly pressed together disheartened her at first, until she saw her own apprehension mirrored in his eyes. He disliked their argument as much as she did, but would not back down from what he perceived to be the truth of the matter. And since she had bought and gifted that book for the very reason he was cross with her over, she could not claim he was wrong.

"Good morning" Mrs Miller said, not feeling brave enough to even attempt a smile, knowing he would see how forced it was.

"Good morning" Mr Miller replied. "I must have slept longer than I thought if it's already Saturday."

"Oh. Well, I thought you deserved a good start on your day. I also wanted to say…"

"Yes?"

Swallowing heavily, her pride trying to keep her quiet, she then forced the words out.

"I am sorry."

"About?"

Mr Miller was clearly not going to make this easy for her.

"I am sorry about the book. It could have been a thoughtful gift, but I did not intend it to be so."

"I know."

"And it was also wrong of me to do what I did to you."

"It was."

"I understand if you will be angry with me for a while, but I cannot stand us being like this. Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?"

Mr Miller did not reply immediately, but looked thoughtful instead, his eyes turning toward the window, gazing out, but also not looking at anything in particular. Holding her breath, Mrs Miller awaited his judgement, while steeling herself for whatever it might be. The thought that he might insist she apologise to the Blacks as well briefly crossed her mind, but she discarded it, with a temporary and perhaps unearned burst of optimism. Still, it would be better for everyone involved to let the young couple remain in the belief that it was a kindly meant gift rather than having to announce her dislike of them so openly.

When her husband's gaze focused again, Mrs Miller knew the verdict had been made and her atonement was to be announced. The smile that had suddenly appeared on Mr Miller's face seemed a bad omen, but there was nothing for it. In for a penny, in for a pound.

"I want you to join their baking and reading group."

Only the beginning of a faintly burnt smell saved Mrs Miller's jaw from hitting the floor at a speed that would have put rockets to shame. Quickly turning back towards the pan, she was able to grit her teeth instead, though she felt sure she must be doing it at such force her dentist would remark upon it the next time she had an appointment. Every ounce of her being screamed in protest at what she was about to say. About what she was about to do. But this was larger than D.R.A.B.S., or even the Blacks. This was about her marriage.

As calmly as she could, Mrs Miller placed the sausages on their plates and then put them on the table before sitting down in her usual spot. Mr Miller joined her but did not say anything, nor did he touch his food. Taking a deep breath, she looked up to meet his eyes and committed herself to misery.

"I will join them then."

"Good. You can head over today and inform Hermione. Sirius told me she's going to attend again soon, though perhaps a bit irregularly."

Having exhausted her ability to vocalise her agreement to this mad idea with those first five words, Mrs Miller simply nodded in reply. They then ate the breakfast in silence, though, the atmosphere had thankfully lightened.

Usually, procrastination was a concept Mrs Miller frowned upon most pointedly, but today it seemed to be her best friend. Suddenly, she could come up with a myriad of little things that needed doing right that very moment and her visit to Mrs Black was pushed up time and again while she watered the plants, sorted the mail, devoted two hours to putting those stamps on correctly - for there was no need to halt operation 'Exposing Mr Black' because of a single bad gift – and baked a fresh batch of ginger biscuits. There was only a dozen or so left in the tin, after all.

She also received unexpected help in the form of Mrs Henderson, whom she spotted entering number eleven while she cleaned up after lunch. She could hardly go over while the young woman had another guest. In the end, it was the level of darkness Mr Miller's looks had descended to that made her, about four o'clock, at last trudge across the street and ring the doorbell.

It took roughly a minute for it to be answered by Mrs Black and the young woman did look slightly surprised to see her standing there. Mrs Miller could hardly blame her as she was feeling the same.

"Eh, good day" Mrs Black said, remaining in the doorway.

"Good afternoon, Mrs Black. I only just stopped by to ask if it is at all possible for me to join the Carnation Lane Women's Society of Baking and Books."

It was painful to have to use the name, but necessary. Calling it D.R.A.B.S. to Mrs Black's face would surely ensure her being excluded for life and Mr Miller would be even angrier with her. It was of some comfort, however, to see the nonplussed look on the younger woman's face and it was a struggle to keep the corners of her mouth from rising.

Then, that nagging tingling at the very back of her memory that signalled that there was something vaguely familiar with the Blacks returned. It usually did not manifest when Mrs Black was her normal calm and in control state of mind, but when she caught a glimpse of an unguarded moment, such as this, it would appear. For some reason she associated it with first insecurity and then sadness, but in an abstract way she could not pin down to a specific situation or even person. But as always when this happened, she felt convinced it was important she did remember.

"I thought you said you were too busy for such a thing" the young woman said, calling her back from her musings.

"True. But things have changed since then and I would truly be happy to join at this time."

"I see. Well, there's always room for one more. We'll be meeting here this Saturday, so why don't you come over then."

"Thank you, I will" Mrs Miller replied and was happy to finally be able to leave when she was stopped in her tracks by a new arrival to the scene.

"Love, who was that at the door?"

Mr Black's voice sounded from down the hallway and soon the man himself came into view. And if Mrs Miller had thought him changed on Sunday it was nothing compared to his appearance today. It was like a car wreck she just could not look away from.

His hair was still pulled up in a small bun and he was at least two or three days past his last clean shave, but that was where all the similarities ended. With not only his feet bare but also his torso, the only piece of clothing on his body was a pair of scandalously low hanging red and gold sweatpants. Numerous tattoos littered his upper body and were so distracting Mrs Miller could barely appreciate the physical shape he was in. She loved Mr Miller, but would not have complained if his body had looked like that at Mr Black's age. Or any age for that matter.

Luckily, she could excuse her distraction – surely, he must have been in prison for a very long time if he had accumulated so many tattoos! – with the fact that he held Regulus against said chest. The baby was in nothing but a nappy, but seemed calm and content in his father's arms anyway. What on earth was going on?

"Ah, Mrs Miller. Didn't know you were dropping by" the man said, firing off a charming smile.

"O-Only to ask your wife a question. I really must be getting back now."

"Then let me thank you before you leave."

"Thank me?" Mrs Miller asked, wondering what they could possibly have to be grateful to her for. It was definitely nothing intentional on her part.

"Your book, it had a whole chapter on bonding that described this skin-to-skin method as good for the baby. And as you can see, Reggie loves it."

"Then I am happy you liked the gift."

"And he really likes the dragon as well. It's so colourful it always catches his eyes. Please give Ernest our thanks as well."

"I will make sure to let him know. Well, good day."

"Bye."

"Goodbye."

It was both disappointing and strangely satisfying that her gift had been of use after all. Perhaps she still did not wish for it to have been so, no matter how Mr Miller felt about it, but at least now she would be able to tell him it had been appreciated and of good use.

Saturday arrived far too soon for Mrs Miller's taste and there was no procrastination to fall back on since she had a fixed time to abide by. Mr Miller had even made sure they left the house at the same time and walked her across the street where he met up with Mr Black to head over to the Howards.

There had been mixed reactions when she had told Mrs Sutton and Mrs Jones about her changed weekend schedule, with the latter being happy for the company while the former had berated her for giving in to such a ridiculous demand. She would never allow her husband to do something like that. It was only after saying she could use it as an opportunity to get a look at the first floor of number eleven that Mrs Sutton let the subject drop.

That intention would soon turn into disappointment, however. With so many women, many of whom were surprised to see her there and subsequently sneaked many glances her way, it was impossible to get away from the kitchen unnoticed. There was also the fact that Mrs Miller found herself genuinely interested in the chocolate and walnut cake they were making that day and did not want to miss any part of the baking process.

One opportunity presented itself when the cake was placed in the oven and everyone made ready to head over to the sitting room and she excused herself with needing to go powder her nose. Trouble was that the moment she approached the stairs she realised she truly needed to use the toilet.

When she entered the sitting room a few minutes later, everyone sat around the coffee table in the various armchairs that had been moved there in order to accommodate the large number of guests. They were already discussing that week's chapter of 'The Namesake', which was a book Mrs Miller though she would never have picked up if she had not been forced into joining D.R.A.B.S. It had been published only last year and received some good reviews, but following the life of a son of Indian immigrants in America that had such trouble naming him that he would suffer for it seemingly the rest of his life was not what she considered diverting. It was enough to have one boy who would doubtlessly come to suffer for his name in her life.

Making little to no contribution to the discussion, Mrs Miller felt as if she was counting down the seconds to when the cake would be done and she could finally taste it, along with some much-needed tea. She was even seated at the opposite end from Mrs Black, which meant she could barely see little Regulus, who lay sleeping peacefully in a Moses basket next to his mother, unaware that they were essentially discussing his future. Watching babies, even if they were sleeping, was always a worthwhile way to spend one's time.

Mrs Jones, on the other hand, was the lucky one to have snagged the other armchair that bordered the child and took full advantage of that fact. However, despite her frequent looks down at Regulus, she was taking an active part in what was going on around her and even seemed to be genuinely enjoying being a part of it. She was certainly more animated than Mrs Miller had ever seen her when in her and Mrs Sutton's company.

At long last the timer went off and everyone went back to the kitchen. Even before the oven was opened it smelled divine and when she, some twenty minutes later, was seated in the comfortable armchair in the sitting room again and tasted her first piece of the delicious cake, Mrs Miller came perilously close to admitting to having a good time.

It all came to a crashing halt shortly after, though, when Mrs Henderson raised her voice and said she had an announcement to make.

"As you all know, I have gone through some turbulent times recently, but with the support of some great friends" here she gave Mrs Black a grateful look, "I have not only learned to accept what has happened, but to embrace it. To see that my son is finally happy and that I can give him even more happiness through my support. And with that in mind, and after having thought it through for some time and talking it over with him, I have decided to take a leaf out of his book and move down to Spain as well."

Half the room were eager to support and congratulate while the second half merely nodded and smiled politely. Mrs Miller did not notice, however, as the only thing on her mind was that if Mrs Henderson moved out, number seven would be up for sale and the last time a house on the street had been sold it had slowly but surely turned her world upside-down. And the memory of Mrs Potter talking about moving in rose, unbidden, to the surface of her mind, playing out like a waking nightmare.

Only when Mrs Henderson grasped Mrs Jones' hand, both of them smiling, did she force her attention back to the present. And it was just in time to hear another piece of awful news that brought with it a terrible implication.

"And thanks to Agnes here, I've talked to Frank this week about selling the house, so be prepared to see some new faces visiting in the near future."

Judging both by her expression and Mrs Henderson's words, Mrs Jones had been aware of this new development at least a few days and not said so much as a single word about it. She had kept her two closest friends in the dark and allowed one of them to learn of it like this. Trying, but failing, to catch her supposed friend's eye to let her know she had some explaining to do the next time they met for tea, Mrs Miller had to resign herself to spending the rest of the gathering in miserable silence. No amount of cake or tea in the world would ever come even close to make up for this.

When she slowly walked back home about forty minutes later, she forlornly looked around her. The sight of the familiar houses and front gardens were suddenly not of the same comfort they had always been in the nearly forty years she had lived there. Or maybe it had all been cursed the day the Blacks moved in and she had been blind to it up until now. And with no frogs or princesses around to kiss, how did one even go about breaking a curse? Her last hope seemed to be that the new batch of letters would finally yield some results.


Next chapter: While living with her new reality of being a member of D.R.A.B.S., Mrs Miller is also anxiously following the talk about who the potential buyers of number seven are. At the same time, letters start to arrive, but it might just be the one she least expected it to be that allows her to stumble upon a vital piece of information.