A/N JK Rowling gave some of the Death Eaters full names (ie. Evan Rosier), but for a lot of them she only gave surnames. If I didn't see a first name on the wiki, I scrounged for one that seemed appropriately Purebloody. Don't me.

(Also, don't ask how Mulciber knows what Spirit Halloween is. Artistic license etc.)

James squinted sideways at Sirius. "You sure this won't kill me?"

"Not at all," Sirius said agreeably. "That's the fun part." He took a seat on the broom, swinging his legs with indolent kicks. Sirius didn't like flying all that much, actually, and flying in the Forbidden Forest even less, but there were few things that cheered James up quicker. Sirius could stand the gross indignities of tearing through Acromantula webs at eighty miles per hour for such convenience.

"Need a head start?" James asked with magnanimous insult. A little sparkle had come back into his eyes.

"Oh, shove off," said Sirius, and scorched away at once, cackling madly. James whooped in joy and gave chase.

And a good time was had by both, at least until James took a corner too fast and slingshotted himself into a tree. After Sirius rescued him and his glasses (dangling by one leg and from his face, respectively), they concurred that their high-speed antics should be removed to a place with fewer things to slam into. On the nearby Scottish moors, their game devolved into a contest of pure speed. Sirius had the advantage in brooms (he had borrowed one left unsecured in the Slytherin locker room), but James had the advantage in skill.

They quit playing entirely once James cut the magic to his broom and dropped onto Sirius like a stone. It was a move that would have been illegal in any Quidditch match and Sirius survived by pure and stupid luck.

"That was cheating," Sirius said around a mouthful of dirt.

"Sorry. Holdover from when I walked in unrighteousness."

"Those were the days." Sirius wiped his tongue on his sleeve and tried to climb back to his feet. Here was the problem that had led them out here in the first place. James's parents had found out (and were not pleased) that James was playing in the Slytherin sandbox, and under threat of complete removal from Hogwarts, James had been compelled to agree to undergo reformation. What that meant for the future, Sirius didn't know. But what it meant for the present was that Sirius was losing more access to the person he cared about the most. (Sorry, Remus.)

James sighed, still straddling his broom although his feet were on the ground. "Why's it so boring being good? Have you seen the things I could've played with? The trouble I could've got up to?"

Sirius swatted at him, too far away to hit. "Bad Gryffindor."

"You're a worse Gryffindor." James sighed again.

"It would've only been another four years anyway," Sirius said consolingly, although this was not, strictly speaking, true yet since the Voldemort problem was not quite solved. "You didn't have to join the Dark Side on my account anyway." (The real tragedy of this situation was that A New Hope wouldn't come out until '77—Sirius was watching it in theaters this time no matter who he had to kill to do it.)

"Well, we're still friends in private," James said. "And you've still got Remus and Lily, and Severus if he ever gets his head out of his arse."

"If, huh." Sirius wasn't so sure about Severus anymore. It was all well and good to stuff the cracks in one's soul full of something material—sex or drugs or rock'n'roll—but there came a point at which the cure was worse than the disease. Severus' obsession with controlling the timeline had hit that point back in September, and now it was March and Sirius still hadn't been coaxed into letting Severus poke around in his head.

"He can keep it up there, actually," Sirius muttered. "Safer in the long run."

James rolled his eyes. "Sure. Come on, let's go get breakfast."

Later that afternoon, with James cheered up and the unwelcome subject of Severus and Their Latest Conflict of Interest (in which Sirius wanted to remain an autonomous free-thinking being and Severus said but what if you weren't) out of the way, Sirius waltzed into the Slytherin common room for book club.

He'd never yet gotten used to seeing about twenty would-be baby Death Eaters sprawled in various postures of repose on the fat black leather sofas around the fireplace, shoes off, shirts untucked, hair puffed out in unflattering ways. Most of them still had spots on their faces and fat deposits in unappealing places. They looked absolutely nothing like evil minions and absolutely like teenagers who occasionally liked to pretend to be evil minions, and Sirius could not pretend that this didn't cheer him up in a most schadenfreudian way.

It appeared he had walked into the tail end of a discussion about one's Domain of Evil™.

"—they're a classic decorating element!"

"If tastefully done, Dorian. Do try not to be so gauche."

"We're talking about human skulls, Cissy, not flower arranging—"

"More is more! Less is for the poor!"

"—no, no, she's right, you have to be careful about placement—"

"Where are you even supposed to get those? Can't exactly buy them, can you?"

"Not legally."

"Sure you can, just need to have the right permits. That's how my granddad imported that Veela skeleton of ours."

"Oh, the one in your foyer?"

"You can acquire them by—other means—too. Just saying."

"What are we talking about?" Sirius wriggled into the fray and ended up on Wilkes' lap through the power of gravity. Wilkes shoved him off in pure panic.

"But Virgil," Sirius wailed from the floor, screwing up his face, "I thought we had something." He crawled up and clung to Wilkes' knees, ignoring how Wilkes was trying to slap him away. (Wilkes wasn't known for his upper-body strength.) "Why don't you love me anymore?"

Rabastan Lestrange, fourth year, cackled and sprawled out over his brother, a seventh year. "Don't take it personal, he doesn't want Bella to think he's being unfaithful."

Rodolphus snorted, watching the show with slitted eyes. "Yeah, that's how you go from having a small family heirloom to none at all." He took Wilkes' smack without flinching and smiled ingratiatingly over the back of the couch. "With love, Bella."

"Accepted," she said, sounding not at all put out. She hadn't shown any inclination toward reciprocating Wilkes' affections, but in Sirius' professional opinion, that was the best for Wilkes' health. Having a crush on Bella was the equivalent of introducing one's genitals into the mouth of an extremely toothy alligator.

Interestingly, Bella didn't seem interested in getting cozy with Rodolphus either. Maybe she'd realized she had more options this time around instead of settling for the first man that fell groveling at her feet.

(Something nibbled at the back of Sirius' mind. He ignored it.)

"I'm with Cissy on this one," Sirius said loyally, gesticulating for effect. "A single skull, tastefully placed—"

A general scoff rippled through the assembled scions.

"You're kidding, right?" asked Mulciber, a fifth year. "We all know that if anyone put you in charge of decorating, you'd make the place look like a bloody Spirit Halloween. You don't have an ounce of good taste in your body."

"I know! It's why I hang out with you guys."

Mulciber didn't get the couched insult, but Avery did. Sirius ducked the thrown pillow and stuck out his tongue.

"Bella, would you control your monkey?" said a new voice, low and glowering from an armchair to the side. That was Cecil Nott, seventeen in body and seventy in mind. Sirius wasn't sure why he even sat in on these meetings, since he rarely contributed more than a disapproving grunt when they got off topic (which happened often).

"He's not flinging feces, is he?" Bella smiled and sat on the arm of the couch, swinging her feet. "It's too much to hope for more."

"Hmph!"

"Why are you all so mean to me?" Sirius complained.

"Your existence invites it," said one of the Carrows from the other's lap. They hadn't yet hit puberty and were still, as second years, basically indistinguishable. (And possibly incestuous. Neither love nor money nor threat of violent death could incite Sirius to snuggle that closely with his brother.)

Sirius sulked and rummaged around in his bag. "Hold this, would you?" he said to Rosier, thrusting a giant mess of unshuffled papers at him.

Rosier, a broad and doughy third-year, took it placidly. He came off as quiet and unthreatening, but not so long ago Sirius had seen him rattling around a bag of fresh molars with a smile just as toothy. His family had got their start by grave-digging and all the Potions advantages that implied.

"You're just the worst at this," Rosier said kindly.

Nott hmphed in agreement.

Sirius pointed at them in stern reproach. "Then you should've done it first!" He banged his gavel on the lectern in front of him. "Let the thirty-fourth meeting of Precocious Purebloods for Posterity come to order!"

(He'd Transfigured both the gavel and the lectern from items from his bookbag. If the gavel pounded a little softly because it had been a quill and the lectern still shimmered with the gilt lettering from his Transfiguration text, then that was a feature, not a bug.)

He banged again, louder. "Order, order, I said!"

"Nobody's talking," Avery said sourly. "And that's a stupid bloody name."

"No one's come up with anything better!" Sirius said, reclaiming the papers from Rosier. He'd thought last meeting that he ought to get them bound together, but then he hadn't really cared enough to do it, and so he hadn't. He tapped them together, ignoring the grumpy scowls directed his way.

It was widely recognized that Sirius was, indeed, the single worst person to be the secretary of anything, but he had appointed himself the position before anyone else had thought of it and that meant it was his. As much as everyone complained, no one challenged him for it. The allure of power didn't outweigh the threat of getting on Bella's bad side, and Bella herself was so touched at Sirius' new efforts to be Evil that she turned a benevolent blind eye to the incredible regularity with which he managed to cock it up.

There were several benefits to this arrangement. Taking minutes let Sirius keep track of who expressed what dangerous and morally concerning ideas (answer: baby Death Eaters and too many to keep track of, respectively), and it also meant he didn't have to read aloud.

More importantly, this motley group of baby Death Eaters formed a sort of Voldemort early warning system. Sirius hadn't wanted to be so involved with the Kill-Voldemort-Soonish Campaign of '73, but ever since Severus had taken a swan dive off the deep end back in September, someone had had to step up. As the someones available for the job were limited, Sirius had thusly, though reluctantly, field-promoted himself. And as the newspaper route had failed, Sirius was trying something new. A Voldemort alert.

(Heh heh, Voldelert.)

Sirius eventually found what he was looking for in the stack and cleared his throat. "Avery and Mulciber were going to demonstrate the—" he squinted at his own handwriting "—Incest Curse—"

"It's the Invert Curse, moron," Mulciber said from the couch. "God, you can't even read."

Sirius waved him off. "I don't see how that's relevant. Anyway, no one wanted to be the guinea pig because no one trusts you since Noel Fredricks' cat went missing."

Mulciber didn't even blink. "I don't see how that's relevant."

"I told you we should have saved it for the demonstration," Avery muttered at his shoulder.

"Right, well either you can bribe Crabbe or Goyle to take one for the team, or we can move on," Sirius said.

Goyle twitched into slow grinding awareness near the fireplace. "What?"

"Nothing, Julian," Avery said kindly. "Wake up Tybalt, would you?"

Crabbe was asleep with his chin on his chest and his mouth open so wide that all his lower molars were visible. His sudden rattling snore made everyone jump. (Much like a pug, generations of inbreeding kept him from being able to breathe through his nose. But unlike a pug, he wasn't cute even in an ugly way.)

Both of these charming individuals had somehow reproduced once upon a time. Miracles really did happen.

The rest of the meeting was largely uneventful, in that nobody was irreparably injured and only one peripheral first-year had to be threatened into silence after seeing something he shouldn't have. Quite good actually; usually Bella had to spend about half the meeting crushing dissidents into trembling obedience, and then the way that the readings tended to grind to a halt without her there to crack the whip made her bristly and unpleasant. A win for everyone involved, this week was.

"And that concludes the bi-weekly meeting of Slytherins Striving for Societal Stagnation—"

"That's a dumb name, we never agreed to that—"

"Dismissed! Everyone, enjoy what little remains of your weekend and also the imminent terror that your cat will disappear." Sirius banged the gavel again.

"You can't prove that it was me," Mulciber said with a smug assurance that did nothing to suppose his innocence.

"Hurry up, Dorian!" Avery shouted from the doorway. "Let's go look for another one!"

"Pretty sure it was you," Sirius said.

Heads around the room bobbled in agreement.

"Shut up, Black."

The rest of the Slytherins dispersed, but Cissy lingered on the sofa with a magazine, ankles primly crossed. She usually didn't speak during these meetings unless it was to correct someone's idea of Fashion.

"How'd Reggie beg off?" Sirius asked, trying to change the lectern and gavel back into what they had been. He mostly succeeded.

"He tripped in Herbology and fell into the patch of gatecreeper that the sixth-years are cultivating. He's been in the infirmary since dinner yesterday." She raised her eyebrows and looked at him meaningfully.

"No one tells me anything," Sirius complained.

"I'm telling you now," Cissy said, like that settled the matter. She went back to her magazine.

The sad fact was that Sirius was almost completely divorced from the Gryffindor gossip mill now, even though in his previous life he'd had a solid hand in running the thing together with Mary Macdonald. Worse, once the Slytherins had gotten used to having him around, he'd found out that their gossip mill was a hundred times juicier and more entertainingly vicious than anything he'd been able to contrive. It almost made Sirius wish he had been Sorted into Slytherin—instead, he just had to glean what he could with his time in Bella's Illegal and im-Moral Book-club Ordeal.

Or, as he liked to think of it, BIMBO.

Severus had tried not to be bothered that Black wouldn't let him poke around in his mind with Legilimency. And he had failed, and failed most grievously, more and more spectacularly every time.

What was Black worried about, anyway? It wasn't like he had anything to hide. His mind was probably still as it once had been, like a great big empty ballroom after a party, Severus thought spitefully. All hung with streamers and glittering chandeliers, tables strewn with empty champagne flutes and hors d'oeuvre plates. Once a place of crafted appeal, made to entertain, filled with light and music and people—and now echoingly empty. The band had all gone home, and even the staff couldn't be bothered.

(Azkaban hadn't been good for Black.)

Severus scowled at his own intrusive sentimentality, which was interfering with his spite. He didn't even like Black, he thought viciously, and shoved his hands down in his pockets in what was certainly not a sulk. Severus did not sulk. Black sulked because Black was a child. Severus was an adult. Adults brooded.

He neededto find out where Black had come across the name Riddle. He had to.

How far are you willing to push him? asked an annoying little voice that sounded like the Sorting Hat. What are you willing to do?

Severus bit the inside of his cheek and resolutely ignored the question. Frustrated by the narrow dorm room and the path he was wearing down into the blue carpet, he traded feet for thin fluttering wings. There was nothing like solitude for a good brooding, and there was nothing like being a bat to ensure that no one could possibly find him. Hogwarts was spooky enough that no one would remark upon a stray pipistrelle in the castle.

He went along in the gloomy overhead muttering unpleasant things about Black and Black's ancestry to himself—it must be all that inbreeding, that must be why Black could only hold a single thought in his head at a time—but it wasn't nearly as satisfying when the muttering came out as little chittering chirps. What a pain it was to be a small furry mammal when one was trying to nurse a dark mood.

The hex hit him without warning and locked up his wings mid-stroke.

Severus fell for a single terrifying moment and smacked the floor so hard that he bounced. The world that had been vibrant in shades of sound went fuzzy and gray to his ears.

"Nice shot," a familiar voice said, and Severus' tiny batty heart almost stopped in his chest.

The tip of a shoe nudged Severus over onto his back. His wings flopped limply.

Avery and Mulciber stared down at him.

A satisfied grunt. "Told you I could hit it," Mulciber said.

Avery picked Severus up by a wing and let the rest of him dangle, but the pain was small to what Severus knew was coming.

He fought grimly with mind and might against the magic binding him.

"Look at that, it's got fingers," Avery said, sounding impressed. He scraped the back of his thumbnail up Severus' tiny forearm, the bone protruding against the thin velvety membrane of his wing. "Its skin is so soft." He pinched and rolled it between two ungentle fingers.

A little pip of effort, unrelated to the pain, escaped Severus' frozen throat—absolutely not on purpose, and absolutely a mistake. Avery's gaze sharpened and he pinched harder, a smile starting to coalesce around the corners of his mouth.

"Don't hog it, Aldway," Mulciber grunted, smacking him on the shoulder with a great meaty fist.

Avery took a step back. "You'll get your turn. If I let you have it first, there won't be anything left for me to play with."

"Hurry up, then."

"You can't rush appreciation of the natural world, Dorian, you troglodyte. Look, come here. See how little its bones are?" Avery asked, tracing them with a finger. "So fragile." He snapped one.

Severus loosened the hex enough to turn his head and chomp.

(Again, a mistake, but a natural one in the circumstances. After everything, to die at the hands of Mulciber and Avery? What nerve. Severus refused.)

"Ouch!" Avery cried out, lifting Severus high like was about to spike him right into the floor, and at that moment Severus was certain he was about to die. "Damn rat bit me!"

Mulciber laughed.

Avery glared at him. "Oh, it's funny now? What if I get rabies?"

"You'd deserve it," Mulciber said. "Come on, hurry up and let me have it."

"Oh no, not yet," Avery said, voice suddenly sweet and vicious. He raised Severus up to eye level. "I think our little friend here needs to learn some manners."

"Let's take it back to the common room, come on. You know Bella doesn't want McGonagall on us again."

"Yeah, but Bella told us not to bring anything back. You heard her. Too messy, she said."

"You're too messy, maybe."

"Not all of us can enjoy bloodless carnage, Dorian."

"Maybe you should learn how. Merlin, the way McGonagall stared at us—it was like she knew."

"She couldn't have. Anyway, what's it matter? It's Sunday night, that old witch's got to be in bed by now." Avery took the other wing in hand. "Who'd care about a bat anyhow?" He broke a few more matchstick bones, deliberately, one at a time to punctuate his words. "Snap, snap, snap," he said, in a coaxingly singsong manner, and then he and Mulciber both flailed wildly like they'd suddenly lost their balance.

Peter Pettigrew, traitor of another life, came in clutch with a sliding tackle and his wand held high.

The brief altercation and rescue that followed was only possible because Avery and Mulciber would have never expected any third-year to have the audacity. Much less the little fat Gryffindor that stuttered and tripped over himself in the halls.

Severus peeped in desperate relief and surprise, cradled against Pettigrew's soft stomach. Pettigrew had his wand out toward Avery and Mulciber, who were still picking themselves off the floor and not looking too pleased about it.

"Look at that, Aldway," Mulciber said in a soft dangerous voice. "Baby wants to play." He raised his own wand.

"I wouldn't," said Pettigrew, and Severus was familiar enough with him to hear the tremble under his bravado. The hand that was holding him was shaking.

"Aww, baby thinks we shouldn't," Mulciber said to Avery in a mocking aside, lips peeling open in a smile. "Isn't that cute."

Avery wiped a hand across his split mouth, smearing blood over his face. "Baby needs to learn how to play nice," he said, and went for his own wand.

"It's almost curfew." Pettigrew put his shoulders back and raised his chin. "McGonagall will come looking for me if I'm missing."

"And what'll she do if she can't find you? Nothing, that's what," Avery said, still smiling that bloody smile, and Pettigrew actually scoffed.

"You mean, if you kill me like you killed Noel Fredricks' cat?"

"Can't prove it was us," Mulciber said, still soft and deadly.

"Maybe not," Pettigrew said. "But if I go missing, no one has to prove it was you to make the Wizengamot lose their minds."

Avery and Mulciber stilled.

Pettigrew pressed on. "Bet your families wouldn't be too happy with you either. Is it really worth it?" He lifted Severus just a little, as though to show him off. "Over a bat?"

"What's a bat worth to you?" Avery snapped, but Severus could tell that the threat had cooled his bloodlust.

"Come on, let's go," Mulciber muttered, sheathing his wand. "It's just a bat."

Avery shot a furious look over his shoulder but followed.

Pettigrew seemed to wait until he was sure they were gone before he took a deep breath and the tension went out of his shoulders, although his hands were still shaking when he sheathed his own wand and raised Severus up to his eye level. "You can change back now," he whispered, and at first Severus didn't understand what he could mean.

Severus required much more coaxing before he finally took his real form, halfway between the hallway where he'd been attacked and the infirmary. As soon as he did, Pettigrew—no, Peter now—flinched and gasped at his mangled mess of fingers, swollen and wrenched and purple on both hands.

"How'd you know—me?" Severus mumbled through numb lips as Peter led him the rest of the way to the infirmary. He hoped that they didn't run into anyone on the way there. No one needed to connect the battered bat with the battered boy.

"The bat that always stays with Remus went missing after your parents died," Peter whispered, checking over his shoulder as though there might be someone who would overhear. "It came back when you did. But we didn't know for sure until you were in the infirmary a few months ago when there was a full moon, and it wasn't with him then either."

"How long—about Remus—?"

"He told me last year." Peter said earnestly. "But I know you know too."

"How—about me?"

"Remus always thought you smelled a little batty—or maybe that the bat smelled a little like you. And besides, you look like a bat. We figured it definitely had to be your Animagus form."

"Stupid," Severus said muzzily. "Could've been—real bat, give you rabies. Then where'd you be?"

"In the infirmary next to you," said Peter with remarkable cheek, considering. "Now come along, you're dripping blood on the flagstones."