AN: Mrs Miller continues to face some consequences for her actions, Mr Miller finds the story about Sirius' appreciation of the book hilarious, and information comes from a most unlikely source. (Standard disclaimer applies.)

I will never tire of seeing that you wonderful readers follow me through this story, leaving favourites, follows and reviews in your wake. It never fails to make me smile. Thank you so much for that! And a special thank you to those who take the time to review. It warms both my muse and my soul to read what you have to say and sometimes even gives me a little bit of inspiration, so please, keep writing them. I'll answer so long as you're logged in. ^^


With Mrs Sutton coming down with a bad cold and Mrs Miller feeling too off centre to face Mrs Jones on her own, she spent the next week mostly in the confines of her home. In her restlessness she cleaned the house from top to bottom, spending a whole day in the attic, going through all the things they had saved from Eleanor and Oliver's childhood. There were some baby clothes that had gone so out of style that they had politely declined to use them for their own children, along with some toys. Two boxes held their respective various school uniforms, with Oliver's being a bit more tightly packed due to his rugby uniform. Her son had excelled at the sport and she could still remember with fondness all the trophies he had brought home. Those he had taken with him when he found his own place after university. Matthew seemed to share his father's athletic talent and would no doubt soon bring home trophies of his own once he settled on which sport he preferred.

Another, slightly smaller, box contained all the sheets of music, organised alphabetically by order of composer, Eleanor had played in her childhood. Emily was on her way to amassing a similar collection, but played a bit more modern music than her mother had. Letting her fingers run over the notes, she could remember watching her daughter's fingers run across the keys of the piano that still stood in a corner of the living room.

Finding herself in a nostalgic state of mind, Mrs Miller proceeded down to the study next, where she pulled out the old family photo albums from the bookcase they kept them in. It started with a few pictures from before their marriage, one of them from the day Mr Miller had proposed. It all seemed as if it was only yesterday that he had looked so young and fully in love when he bent down on one knee in front of her and held up the ring before asking her to share the rest of her life with him. Where had all that time gone?

It felt equally jarring to see the pictures of her children as babies and know that even her grandchildren were not as young any longer. No, the only baby in her life at the moment was Regulus Black, and that was certainly not by choice.

Finding that even her past could not distract her thoughts from the present, she put the albums away, hurried to the cupboard under the stairs and pulled out some of the stronger chemicals she kept in there. It was high time to scrub the bathtub in the second guest bathroom.

The one bright spot during the week was that Mr Miller was almost back to normal. He had laughed merrily when she told him what Mr Black had said about the book, but had then proceeded to tease her about fidgeting when mentioning why he was thankful.

"Maybe I should ask the lad for some advice on exercising" he then said, winking, which caused her to blush in mortification.

"Well, it would not hurt you to take better care of yourself a little more" she rebutted, while busying herself with brushing out some imaginary wrinkles from her perfectly ironed skirt with her palms. "But I think he is in better need of the address to someone who can remove tattoos. You should have seen how many he has."

"All over his chiselled chest, yes you mentioned."

"Oh. I did not use that word. You are hopeless, you know."

"I try."

Mrs Miller huffed, but felt nothing but relief at his words. Or at least almost only. Because, if he was in the mood to tease her like this, he could not be cross any longer.

That Wednesday the first reply to the new letters arrived. It was sadly negative. There had never been a Sirius Black at HM Prison Wandsworth. Similar letter arrived on both Thursday and Friday.

There had also been a letter with an invitation to attend Emily's birthday party in four weeks, so it was not all gloom. Eleanor had thankfully inherited her own sense of propriety and knew to send such things with the mail. Oliver had the terrible habit of communicating it over the phone. And since Julia felt much the same, there was precious little Mrs Miller could do about it except for dropping a few hints. Sadly, they both seemed immune to them.

Another invitation had also arrived. One she knew she ought to have foreseen but had forgotten about what with everything going on. It had been a tradition since before she and Mr Miller moved into the neighbourhood that old Miss Gilchrist would host a tea party every ten years to celebrate the anniversary of when she had opened her teashop. It seemed even in her advanced age and frail body, the reclusive woman was determined to entertain everyone on the street once more. It would likely be the last time, Mrs Miller thought, not knowing how to feel about it. The prospect of yet another house becoming available was daunting to say the least, yet she had been her least favourite neighbour before the Blacks moved in. There was something about her that had unnerved Mrs Miller from the very start, and she had always felt grateful that the old woman kept mostly to herself. And since Mr Miller agreed, she felt fully justified in that opinion. Still, it was a tradition and those were meant to be kept, so even if it was with some reluctance, Mrs Miller accepted the invitation.

Then Saturday arrived and Mr Miller accompanied her out of the house once more and since she was going up to the Ellisons and he to the Donovans, they could keep company more or less the entire way.

"Welcome" Mrs Ellison greeted her in the door, gesturing for her to come inside. "We're making vanilla and mango cupcakes today.

Mrs Miller detested cupcakes. They were too sweet and originated in America. They could at least have gone for the more British fairy cake so they could have skipped the icing. There was at least some good news regarding who was attending. Mrs Black, it seemed, would alternate weekends with her husband, meaning either of them would be at home with Regulus while the other attended their activity, with a time limit of two hours. The other person to be absent was Mrs Jones, who was away for the weekend with her husband. They had gone on a trip to London to do some shopping, watch a show and stay at a fancy hotel. However, it did not feel good to have to learn of it through these women rather from her supposed friend directly. Could she really have lost Agnes without noticing?

After somehow being able to force the entire monstrosity, tiny piece by tiny piece, down her throat a while later, Mrs Miller vowed to never eat a cupcake again in her life. And with the book still being lacklustre, she felt as if she had wasted half her day by the time she got back home.

She was at least initially cheered by Oliver calling to talk to her a while. He sounded a little stressed, however, and when asked about it said he'd had to stay at home Thursday and Friday with Matthew, who had managed to injure his hand. Apparently, he had run into the kitchen Wednesday evening while Oliver was cooking a light supper, shouted something about being superman and put his hand on the still hot stove. It had ended with an emergency visit to the hospital. At least, it had only been a mild burn, with the heat having been low by then so he should heal fairly quickly without visible scarring, but he needed a few days at home first to minimize the risk of infection.

Mrs Miller thought her eight-year-old grandson ought to know better than playing with the stove, but decided not to say anything. Oliver did sound tired and she was certain he had learned his lesson on parenting well enough not to have to hear it from her as well. Neither he nor Eleanor had even burnt their hands on anything as children due to her watchful eyes, but he was his father's son.

On Sunday, she had tea with her recovered friend and told Mrs Sutton what she had learned about Mrs Jones. They agreed that they needed to talk to her since she appeared to have fallen victim to D.R.A.B.S. for whatever inconceivable reason and they needed to set her straight. It was an uphill battle to save the neighbourhood as it was, so they did not need to lose one of the only three people willing to take up the fight and defend their homes.

Mrs Miller managed to get them all together the next day, while their husbands were away for The Monday Dining Club, but was not prepared for the sight that greeted her when Mrs Jones arrived. Ever since she had advised her friend shortly after she had moved into number three of the appropriate dress code for the women living in their neighbourhood she had kept to the moderately cut and coloured clothes any respectable lady should prefer. Not today. Today she wore a black skirt that stopped just below her knees, which was at least two inches to short, and a red blouse, with a hint of cleavage, that matched her lips. The whole thing reminded her of Mrs Howard in one of her most sensible ensembles and she shuddered at the thought of having to wash that garish colour off the teacup later. Even her second-best tea set was too precious to risk in the dishwasher.

"Welcome. Please, do come inside. Mildred is already here, so you can go ahead. I will just get the tea."

"Thank you."

It all continued to go downhill from there.

When Mrs Miller entered the sitting room not a minute later, Mrs Sutton looked as if she had bit into a lemon and was pointedly looking away from Mrs Jones. Mrs Jones on the other hand appeared to be angry, her lips tightly pressed together, while she sat still and quiet in one of the armchairs.

"Enid, dear" Mrs Jones said when everyone was sitting down, affecting a deceptively calm tone, "would you agree with Mildred's assessment that I look like a trollop today?"

Mrs Miller opened her mouth, but not a single word came out. They were supposed to talk reason into Mrs Jones, not insult her, so what had happened?

"I would say you look different" she replied at last, "but hardly anything like… well…"

"Like a hussy?" Mrs Jones asked archly.

"Erh… yes."

"For your information, I bought these clothes while I was in London this weekend, at Marks & Spencer, which is a place I highly doubt one could find unsuitable clothes."

"Pish posh" Mrs Sutton said, turning towards them. "We can see your knees when you sit down for heaven's sake. No respectable woman-"

Mrs Jones cut her off by standing up, her eyes narrowed and shining with supressed fury, and replying in a voice that would no doubt scare any student into obedience if she ever used it in her classroom.

"Now you listen to me, you prissy busybody."

Mrs Miller was vaguely aware that the gasp she heard came from herself, but was simply too transfixed by the sight of Mrs Jones to intervene in any way. This was clearly a woman with some pent-up anger, and it was best not to get in her way.

"For near two decades have I lived here, supressing myself in order to fit in. In order to not go the same way as the Saunders, who you actually brag about having driven out of the neighbourhood. And for what? Because they did not fit your lofty standards of propriety? What kind of nonsense is that? Had my students tried to pull something similar I would have named them bullies and called their parents."

Somewhere at the back of her mind, Mrs Miller was aware that her jaw still hung open and that it was a most unbecoming thing to do, but the only parts of her body that functioned at present were her eyes and ears. Along with the part of her brain that found it near impossible to trust the other two. Was this truly what Mrs Jones thought of them?

"But since you are not my students but the ones that more or less set the rules for the neighbourhood, I have put up with it. I have dressed like you said, even if I love strong colours. I have sat with you so many times over the years drinking boringly bland tea and eating cakes and biscuits that are little better. I have gossiped and laughed about people I might even like better than you. I have even forced myself to use your silly diction to the point I can barely break it. No sane person speaks without contractions. But no more. I have had it. Things have changed. It is now several years since Howard sat on the district council and at least a few since Ernest was the local solicitor, lending their power and status to you. If you haven't noticed, there has been a shift since the Blacks moved in. Everyone but the two of you have accepted them, most of us even befriending them. And let me tell you, they are some of the nicest people I have had the pleasure of meeting and I pity you for missing out."

Turning around, Mrs Jones headed for the door, but stopped on the threshold, looking back at them over her shoulder.

"I won't be attending any of these little gathering again until you have seen the error of your ways. I know this is in part my own fault for going along with your nonsense, but I have wasted enough years on it. From now on I'll only socialise with people who enjoy all the differences life has to offer."

Both Mrs Miller and Mrs Sutton sat in stunned silence while they could hear their former friend – or had she ever truly been their friend to begin with? – exit the house and a few more minutes after that.

"I will be mum then" Mrs Miller said eventually and proceeded to pour tea for them.

Looking at the third cup after filling the first two, she felt as empty as it was. Suddenly, she would have welcomed the lipstick stain on it if only it had meant that Mrs Jones had stayed, and things could have gone back to the way they had always been. Or that they had been true friends all along.

How could she have been so blind? To have missed that one of the two people she considered her best friends had only been pretending for such a long time. Was she so adherent to propriety that all it took was the appearance of it for her to accept someone? And the reverse would also be true then, would it not? That the appearance of a lack of propriety would make her reject them.

"What a disgrace."

"What?" she asked, turning towards Mrs Sutton, who seemed to have moved on to contempt while she still struggled with comprehension.

"Mrs Jones has lied to us for nearly eighteen years."

"That is true. But maybe-"

"There are no buts about it. Most unbecoming. We will have to get rid of her too now."

"Why?" Mrs Miller asked, feeling taken aback by the harsh words.

"Why? Dear Enid, just imagine what she can tell Mrs Black, if she has not already done so. Do you wish for the Blacks to know of our effort? To be prepared to counterattack."

"No, but-"

"Then we are in agreement."

"I just do not see how we could make her and Frank move. She has other friends here now that she seems to like well enough."

"That is easy. We will simply do as we did with the Saunders."

The mention of them made a feeling of unease settle in Mrs Miller's chest. At the time, she had done what she thought was right. The couple were kind enough, but were unfortunately working class that had done well enough for themselves to afford a house on Carnation street. It was admirable to be sure, wishing to make a better life for themselves and give their daughter a better start in life than they themselves had had, but it also meant they did not fit in. They had no manners above basic civility and had even been confused by the cutlery that one time she had invited them to one of her candlelight suppers. She always made several courses on those occasions, so more than the basic knife and fork were needed.

By the way, she had not held one of those for quite a while now. Maybe it was time she did so again. Though, would anyone wish to come? If Mrs Jones had truly disliked her company all along, what was everyone else thinking?

No! Mrs Jones was the anomaly. She had to be. Many of the people on the street had lived her longer than her, and Mrs Miller had always been friendly to all of them. At the very least she would have to hope it was true, or they might find trouble with ousting the Joneses, since they needed as many as possible to believe the rumours.

Next Saturday, Mrs Jones, dressed in a purple dress, simply ignored her during D.R.A.B.S. They were at Mrs Henderson' for the last time as she would have moved out by the time it circled back to her since she had already found a suitable flat down in Madrid. It was a harsh reminder of the uncertainty the future held. An uncertainty made worse by the fact that she could no longer rely on information about prospective buyers from Mrs Jones. To make up for this, she and Mrs Sutton had agreed to try to keep a watchful eye on number seven in the hopes of catching sight of whomever Mr Jones would bring by.

It was a week and a half later when Mrs Miller nearly choked on her first afternoon cup of tea. Not only was a familiar silver car pulling up in front of number seven, rather than number eleven, but that orange atrocity followed just behind. The door of number seven opened and Mr Jones stepped outside, arm outstretched and in all likelihood his sales-smile in place. It was too far away for Mrs Miller to make out such details, but she knew the man well enough, as well as his routine. Trouble was, it tended to work.

Both of the Potters emerged from the silver car while only the twins, thankfully, exited the other. But there actually was a fifth person along, Mrs Miller realised, as Mrs Potter gently pulled out what could only be a baby from their car and held it close to her chest. It would make sense for the Potters to wish to move in, she supposed, as they were in a similar situation to the Blacks, but could the twins really be there as prospective buyers as well? She truly hoped not since it was sure to spell doom for Carnation Lane.

As soon as they had disappeared inside, she hurried to the phone and dialled Mrs Sutton's number. Her friend soon picked up and they could lament together and rack their brains for anyone they knew who had the money to afford it and they could persuade to make a bid as well. If only one could decide who one had for neighbours.

By that time, they had both received nearly all the expected replied from the prisons and courts they had written, all in the negative, and doubted if Mrs Jones had even sent out her share to begin with. Not that she would share anything with them now regardless. Mrs Sutton's cousin had also come back to them only to say that he had found nothing on the Malfoys and please not to contact him again about obscure names. He was a busy man, after all, and needed to focus on his own work. Once more it seemed as if they had hit a dead end and along with the fact that they had spotted no one else arriving at number seven they were starting to feel desperate. Not even the fact that spring had truly begun, and nature was growing greener and greener by the day all around them could lift their spirits.

Old Miss Gilchrist's approaching tea party was also something that needed addressing. Since the entire neighbourhood was invited, a select few of the guests were always asked to bake something to bring along. With her baking skills, Mrs Miller had always been one of them, and she needed to plan what to make. Talk at D.R.A.B.S. had let her know that Mrs Ellison had declined this year, citing old age, meaning the spot for most delicious baked goods were up for grabs. Still, it was a shame she would not be able to taste her strawberry and vanilla pie. Then again, maybe she would be more open to passing on the coveted recipe now that age had caught up with her.

Dear Emily's birthday party arrived first, but then, at the beginning of May, everyone who lived on Carnation Lane congregated at number thirteen. As usual, everything started in the room that had been decorated to replicate the fabled teashop, where their hostess held a speech, commemorating her little venture, before tea and cakes were served.

While she stood in line, Mrs Miller listened to those around her, hoping to hear some talk about the Joneses. To her disappointment, no one mentioned Mr Jones' supposed dalliance with one of his female co-workers and her prediction that they would be hard to get rid of proved true so far. It was not that long ago that everyone had not only listened attentively to her, but also taken her every word for truth. And while she very rarely bent facts, rightfully earning such faith, it hurt to see herself become so marginalised now, even if she had not exercised honesty.

Just then, it was her time to serve herself some tea and cake. Mrs Miller had handed over her Victoria sponge cake, which she had painstakingly decorated with sliced strawberries and whipped cream on top, when she arrived and now looked forward to seeing it presented at the centre of the cake table. Mrs Gilchrist had praised it when she received it, and with Mrs Ellison out of the running she felt sure the place of honour belonged to her creation.

However, now that she had reached the table, she found that her masterpiece was off to one side while a pie was once more the centrepiece. It was almost identical to Mrs Ellison's, save for the decorative flower made out if dough placed in the centre of the crust and the lemon balm leaves which surrounded it.

"I see she's done a marvellous job" someone said next to her and Mrs Miller turned to the side to find none other than Mrs Ellison standing after her in the line.

"I am sorry, who has done what?"

"Why, Hermione of course. When I realised I would be unable to bake for today and Miss Gilchrist was so saddened to miss out on the pie, I asked her to make it instead."

Mrs Miller could not help but splutter as she took in the meaning of the older woman's words, then closed her eyes in the hope of opening them again to find that it was all some horrible nightmare. Regrettably, nothing had changed at all when she opened them.

"Are you… are you truly saying you have entrusted Mrs Black with the recipe to your strawberry and vanilla pie?"

"Mrs Granger Black, yes. After everything I have seen her do during our society's gatherings, not to mention taking the initiative to start it, I have found her to be a worthy successor. The future of cakes, biscuits, pastries and other sweets and desserts in our neighbourhood is in safe hands with her."

Having suddenly lost her appetite, Mrs Miller still took a small slice of the pie, wanting to evaluate Mrs Black's capabilities. Bringing along a hefty cup of tea to rinse it down with, she sat down at the table near the bookcases in the sitting room. It was still unoccupied, and she needed this moment to herself.

Just as with the outside, there was a small change to the inside, and it was to the better. It tasted as if the vanilla had intensified while the strawberries felt fresher somehow and even Mrs Miller had to admit defeat. She would never have been able to make such an improvement. Would probably not even have tried.

Feeling suddenly drained, Mrs Miller allowed herself to slump in the chair. Was she truly to be bested in everything by the Blacks? Were they somehow so superior despite their improprieties?

Hearing their voices, she turned around just in time to see them enter the sitting room with the Joneses and her husband. They were all smiling and seemingly talking about something amusing. Regulus rested peacefully in his father's arms while the others had divided the small plates and cups between them so they could bring his as well. At least he was clothed this time.

Not wishing to be seen, she turned back around and started studying the books in front of her. At least there were no sordid romance novels on the lower shelves. Maybe she ought to have seen that as a sign of Mrs Jones' true disposition? What there was, other than what must be every book ever written on the topic of tea, was a large amount of detective stories. Many different authors were represented but standing out was a complete collection of Agatha Christie's works.

"Do you like my collection?"

It seemed Miss Gilchrist had joined her, standing by the table with a cup of tea in hand, and, to Mrs Miller's dismay, a small plate with only a slice of Mrs Black's pie on it in the other.

"You are an avid reader of mysteries then?"

"Ever since I was a little girl. Murder has always fascinated me. And you would be surprised at the advice on the topic that is to be found in those books."

"Advice?" Mrs Miller asked sceptically. "Does not the murderer always get caught?"

"Only because it's a made-up story. No, if one applies some of the methods described in there, with some modifications of course, I'm sure one could easily get away with murder. May I join you?"

"Of course" Mrs Miller replied, feeling she could hardly deny her hostess, even if she wished to.

They sat in silence for a while before Miss Gilchrist spoke again.

"Don't you find it intriguing?"

"What?"

"The thought that there must be so many murderers who've never been caught, simply living among us."

"Hardly not" Mrs Miller replied, feeling uncomfortable as always in the older woman's company. "I think I would rather find it frightening. A person who has murdered once might very well do it again."

"It depends on their motive the first time I should think. I mean, if one can reach one's goal with only the one murder, why ever would one do it again? No, that is a silly thought."

Mrs Miller had no idea what to say to that. She wished that she could just stand up and leave, but that would be unforgivingly rude. Maybe adhering to social rules as strictly as she always did had some drawbacks at times.

Looking around with the hope of being able to silently call for help, she realised that Mr Miller was not in the room. He, the Joneses and the Blacks must have ventured outside, seeing as the door out to the garden was open and it was a warm and sunny day. She thought she had spotted a table or two out there earlier and the fact that more people were missing seemed to confirm it.

"I guess we could always ask Mr Black about it" Miss Gilchrist continued.

"What?" she asked, turning back towards her host so quickly she was in danger of spraining her neck.

"I cannot be fully sure, of course, since it was about eleven years ago now and I sadly did not save the newspaper clipping. But how many Sirius Blacks could there possibly be?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You don't remember the story then? It was the summer of 1993 when the news broke that a dangerous criminal by the name of Sirius Black had escaped prison. He had been convicted of murder and was described as extremely dangerous. They had even set up a special hotline. Other than the colour of his hair there is, however, little resemblance between the man now and how he looked in the photo they had of him, if indeed it's the same person. The man in the photo looked as if he had been on both a hunger and hygiene strike for a few years at least as I recall it. Then the story just went away. There was no word on his recapture or anything."

Mrs Miller could not believe her ears. Could it really be that she had written so many letters and the answer had been with her neighbour the whole time? Thinking back, she remembered that she had been on a long holiday abroad with Mr Miller that summer. They had helped arrange Oliver and Julia's wedding in mid-July and needed some time to rest. Four weeks in the south of France had done them wonders. But apparently, it also meant she had missed a particularly important news story. Though, it seemed even those who had been in the country at the time had forgotten it, save the blessed Miss Gilchrist, so she was hardly to blame in this.

However, she needed confirmation. All of the prisons had responded in the negative, but maybe the man's file had been classified if he had never been caught again. The authorities likely wishing to cover up their mistake. Maybe a newspaper would be a better source of information instead? Yes, she would write The Daily Telegraph and ask if they had the story in their archives. She knew for a fact that Miss Gilchrist read the proper newspaper so there was thankfully no need to turn to any other publication. The Daily Telegraph was also likely to have reported on the story most accurately, so she felt sure she might learn something more than her hostess could remember.

Mrs Miller's head was still so full of plans when she arrived back home with Mr Miller some hour later that she barely heard him prattle on about the Blacks. Or Mr Black in particular as they were planning another trip with the bike. There was also some nonsense about the Black family tree. Her husband had been fascinated with the topic of the names in the Black family ever since they had been introduced to Regulus and wished to learn more. Not that he was alone in wanting to learn more about the absurdity the Blacks based their choice on when naming their son. The topic of naming children after the stars had, in fact, been discussed at the tea party, while not a word on the Joneses was mentioned. She thanked her lucky stars that their own days of naming children were long behind them or Mr Miller might have come up with some horrible suggestions.

Perhaps they could get a dog and use one of the names on the family tree for it. Maybe even Sirius? Yes, Sirius would be a good name for a dog, would it not? And with evidence of his crimes soon within her grasp, the neighbourhood could always use with someone else to carry on the name. A memento of sorts, to always remind them that she was worth listening to. It might also help Mr Miller get over the hurt he would suffer when his friend was exposed.

Smiling in satisfaction, Mrs Miller envisioned the bright future that now lay ahead of her. Not only would she be proven right, she would also be hailed as a hero who had finally put a man who had evaded justice for over a decade back behind bars. The Blacks would be gone, the Potters would have no reason to move in and it would be easier to be rid of the Joneses once it was known that Mr Jones had allowed such a man to live among them. Yes, things were finally looking up.


Next chapter: Mrs Miller and Hermione have a talk.