A.N.: So here we meet two characters alluded to in the first chapter…

And I've thought of the perfect name for Harry's theoretical future firstborn…Ruby…after the kindest, bravest and gentlest person in Harry's life, and his first ever friend, Rubeus Hagrid.

Eldest of the Pleiades

The Ancient and Most Noble House of Black

The high-ceilinged Georgian townhouse was stubbornly vile, the dank walls oozing mould and an ominous ticking noise like a distant but fast-approaching horde of locusts. It had once been a grand neighbourhood, and a manicured home; vestiges of a prestigious past were hinted at in the huge age-blackened oil-paintings and silver candelabrum glinting dully on antique furniture buried beneath a solid inch of dust.

The hissing, ticking, scuttling, the eerie neglected paintings, the sound of damp, the pervasive shadows and mirrored windows and the generally oppressive, caged feeling of being entirely enclosed made the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end, and his breath come in short, shallow bursts, reminded far too vividly of Azkaban.

And of the memories he had been forced to endure as a prisoner there, a good portion of them in this house…

He hadn't been back to Number Twelve since the summer he had walked out, months shy of his sixteenth birthday and his fifth year at Hogwarts.

Sirius may have joked that the House of Black just kept getting blacker, even when he was a boy; but his parents had been nothing if not house-proud. What he remembered most from his childhood was the cold: The house had always been very beautiful, very clean, and he wasn't allowed to touch anything - for good reason, as half the artefacts in the house were Dark by nature. But it had always seemed perfect, nothing out of place, not a speck of dust or smear of grease anywhere it ought not to be.

Ten years without his mother's Evil Eye to notice an incorrectly-folded napkin or an eyelash that had shed on her inlaid occasional table, and this is what the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black had deteriorated to.

Finally, the house reflected its former owners.

He might have enjoyed leaving it as it was; a relic of glorious pureblood pride, passed down through the generations.

Sirius hated this place; he was amused by the state of it. He also regretted that it would need to be cleansed from top to bottom before it was suitable for habitation. He may be used to Azkaban, but he wouldn't inflict squalor on others. Maybe his worst enemies…

The house had its own unnameable smell, a kind of cloying tang that made the eyes water, the closeness of the air suffocating; it had its own sound, too, a strange mixture of scuttling, moaning, soft hisses, the rude chatter of a jarvey infestation in the large library, the sluggish sound of damp, the rustle of leaves through the shattered conservatory windows, the greenhouse overgrown, something phosphorescent glowing amid the gloom and the Devil's Snare that was slowly but surely taking over the corridor.

Two of the best days of his life had been the day he had left to take the Hogwarts Express for the first time; and the day he had packed up his trunk just after breakfast in early August, and left without a backward glance.

The only room he had ever liked was the drawing-room: it was a very long, wide hall, and was the one place he used to be able to practice flying - he wasn't allowed, of course, but that had never stopped him. Once, the drawing-room had been a gallery, and the most beautiful of the public rooms in the house, with huge tall windows, polished floors and silk-lined walls hung with oil-paintings of his ancestors, plinths topped with busts of notable forefathers, priceless antiques on display. With a sprung floor, it had been intended to be a ballroom; due to their rigid prejudices, his grandparents had kept a very limited social circle and the room was rarely used. His grandmother had turned it into a drawing-room; she had been the one to charm all the windows in the house to be mirrored. If one squinted, one could see through to the street below, but his family had had no interest in keeping up with the movements of their Muggle neighbours, except to ensure they came nowhere near the front-door. Sirius had spent a lot of time squinting through the windows of Number Twelve, wondering at the world outside.

"I imagine this is what the cleft between Slytherin's buttocks resembles," he murmured, staring at the ancient, grubby tapestry on the wall, peppered with small burn-marks, as a shadow slipped into the room behind him.

"Never given it much thought, personally," Moony said, glancing around the room, taking in the peeling ceiling, the damp silk wallpaper and the writing-desk in the corner, which seemed to be shuddering. The heavy velvet curtains over the windows were humming loudly; and Dark objects glimmered eerily in glass-fronted cabinets. Sirius was never stupid enough to touch anything inside those; his parents' coveted treasures, inherited from wizards who had lived during "better days." The Dark objects seemed to glint malevolently at him.

"What do you reckon?" he asked his old friend.

"A little more light, perhaps," Moony said dubiously, and fire suddenly crackled in his palm, which he held aloft, examining the damage further, a family of mice twitching their whiskers at them from a hole in a cushion on the sofa, embroidered with the Black family crest by, if Sirius wasn't mistaken, his Great-Aunt Elladora. "I'd hoped the firelight might improve the state of things: I was wrong."

"On a positive note, it's the last place anyone would think to look for us," Sirius said, grinning at Remus. They made their way around the house, poking heads into bedrooms and dressing-rooms, the study, the parlour and breakfast-room, the billiards room and the two libraries, the nursery and schoolroom. There was dust and rot everywhere, strange things growing, unseen critters scuttling behind skirting-boards – Sirius knew every secret passage, cupboard, drawer and alcohol-cache in the place (had emptied them when he'd run away!) and knew they were probably infested with magical creatures and fungi and mould that festered determinedly – was surprised and rather impressed that the house hadn't been laid waste by an ashwinder nest or a chizpurfle infestation.

A grandfather clock nearly concussed Moony when it shot a bolt at him as they passed; there was an aggressive ghoul in one of the upstairs bathrooms; and strange fungi and spores grew in the danker rooms Sirius couldn't remember being used even when he had grown up here. At every turn, Sirius anticipated attack; whether from a lethifold or a nest of rats. They explored the dining-room, with its serpentine chandelier, sweeping silver-inlaid table and enormous Chinoiserie-style Chippendale cabinet displaying all the Black family's antique silver - though it was as age-blackened as the portraits on the walls, covered in dust, now, and glinted only dully in the light from Moony's conjured fire.

"This room doesn't seem so bad," Remus said, gazing around, taking in the massive cobwebs in the corners, but at least the ceiling showed no signs of damp or rot. The chandelier did seem to hiss aggressively at them like so many silver snakes, but that was more a trick of the light and the emeralds embedded into the arms.

"No, it wouldn't be; this room was rarely used, except when my aunt and uncle descended for a visit," Sirius said grimly. "I doubt very much was kept in here at all. Only the finest family silver."

"And a rather large bird," Remus said, indicating a very large silver cage shaped like a pagoda in the corner of the room. His lips twitched. "Unless this was for you?"

"My father had an augurey," Sirius said, rolling his eyes. "The greenhouse was my father's, he liked to nurture poisonous, carnivorous plants. Was never bitten; I'm assuming the plants sensed he was toxic. The augurey let him know when he could expect rainfall. I expect my mother moved the bird in here when my father died; she never could stand the moaning - from the bird, or my father."

Moony opened the door to the hall, and a soft voice said, "You know, Remus, this is not a very nice place to meet."

Out of instinct, both wizards drew their wands and fired hexes through the door.

"What was that?!" the same voice asked indignantly.

"For one thing, rude," answered a smoky, feminine voice.

A grinning face appeared, a young and already very handsome boy with warm cocoa-caramel skin and a strong jaw, peering at them in the wand-light. Sirius stopped still, his stomach turning to lead. He knew those high cheekbones, that jawline; he had been born with wide, plump lips like Sirius' - he knew those vibrant, changeable grey eyes… The very best of him and Ellaria mixed together…

He flitted a glance at Remus, who was stowing his wand and rolling his eyes. "Rigel!" he exclaimed, not truly annoyed, but shaking himself. "We almost hexed you!"

"Hence the Shield Charm," Rigel grinned, and his smile was straight and white and infectious and very like his mother's - though not quite as rare. Sirius' heart stopped.

"How did you get in here? The front-door was locked," Remus frowned, and Sirius followed him into the entrance hall, on edge.

"How's a girl to resist?" purred the sultry female voice. Sirius' heart squeezed, and started thumping wildly. They were both here?

"Hello, Maia," Remus said warmly. They stepped into the entrance hall, which had been transformed by large golden bubbles that drifted across the ceiling, exuding a soft amber glow that somehow seemed to cast the room in a warmer but nowhere near flattering light. They illuminated the severed troll's leg umbrella stand, the doxy-eaten carpets, the dank walls hung with velvet curtains and the decade's worth of cobwebs draping the serpentine chandelier with its jade lamps etched with the Black family crest and the single bauble of tarnished silver filigree.

In a state of numb disbelief, Sirius stared. There they were. His babies.

In scuffed boots that seemed too big for him, with his dark denims tucked haphazardly into them, his wrists packed with textured bracelets and a chunky watch, his t-shirt betraying how slender his frame was, how young he still was, Rigel was draped languidly against the wall as if it was natural to find himself in a festering, eerie place full of Dark artefacts, and to deflect hexes flung at him by adult wizards. Sirius narrowed his eyes at the boy; he hoped the tattoos drawn intricately on his arms were fake. He twirled a sleek oak wand between clever fingers decorated with chunky silver rings, his cheekbones popping as he smirked and glanced over his shoulder at his elder sister - his eyes briefly flickered with delight mingled with concern as they landed on her.

Maia.

She was no longer the little poppet of his memory, or the skinny little girl who commanded Fiendfyre against an army of the dead. Standing within an inch of her mother's height, she had grown into a beauty. And she looked so like Rigel it was quite unnerving - or rather, Rigel resembled his older sister a great deal; the two shared the same jawline, the same high cheekbones. Maia's lips were even plumper than Rigel's, naturally pouting; she had neater eyebrows, hovering expressively over extraordinary hazel eyes, soft sage-green striated with amber and smoky quartz, inside a ring of dark grey-green. Her nose was more delicate than her brother's, more like Ellaria's…

But Sirius was struck a painful blow, emotionally winded by the sight of his children who so closely resembled him, and who were strangers. The two resembled their parents, but with deliberate mistakes: Maia had the delicate mole on her chin that Ellaria did, and Ell's long, fine eyelashes, and Rigel's smile was more like Ellaria's, the shape of his eyes were hers. It had never mattered that their skin-tone was different: he loved Ell's, and loved their children for inheriting it. And they were Sirius' children; it was never more evident than now, now that they were adolescents, now that his son was growing into maturity that would reflect just how much he resembled Sirius, and now that Maia was grown, with the extraordinarily beautiful eyes he had noticed the moment she was born, inheriting his large hands and long clever fingers and the same constellation of tiny moles down her front that he had.

Maia had been a gorgeous little truffle when she was a baby, delicate and cocoa-skinned and, before she was even born, unnervingly magical.

He had seen with his own eyes, through Ellaria's memory, the power Maia wielded as a child.

Now she stood, a young woman, tall and beautiful, long legs tucked into heavy boots like Rigel's, a delicate hem fluttering from under the oversized leather jacket that shrouded her body, and that Sirius recognised from one of its past incarnations. Her natural curls were no longer allowed to grow rampant like a lion's mane; she had arranged her headful of tiny glossy box braids to frame her face, some of them pulled back into a bun, the rest loose down her back to her waist, partly undone, shining, some of them glinting with tiny gold rings and bells, even a small, colourful feather. When she raised her face to examine the chandelier, the light glinted off a tiny gold septum-ring and glittered off the multitude of studs piercing her ears and the earrings tangled with her braids.

Sirius hadn't had the time to dread his estranged children's reaction to meeting him for the first time; he hadn't had time to even think about the possibility of meeting them so soon. But here they were.

And he had no idea what to do or say.

It suddenly felt a very long time since Sirius had seen his children.

They weren't babies anymore. Rigel was no longer the tiny baby screaming through dragon-pox; and Maia was no longer the little darling he had held while he sobbed, broken by the sight of James and Lily… Before he had headed off to do what only he knew needed to be done, he had held the daughter he loved above anything, one of the two best things he had ever done in his life…

"Excuse me," said a tiny voice, making him jump, and look down at the floor, "but you're standing on my skirt." Beneath an occasional table was a little girl. She had to be four or five, fair-skinned, with glorious golden ringlets, impish blue eyes and a pearly smile. She was lying under the table, cradling something in one hand on her stomach, and Sirius was indeed standing on the hem of her skirt.

"Very sorry," he said sincerely, removing his foot. He raised an eyebrow, squatting down beside her. "And you are lying under my table."

"I'm truffle-hunting," said the little girl.

"Pardon?" She pointed at the underside of the table, and Sirius twisted to get a good look.

"Fungi." The girl beamed.

"Oh," he grimaced. The underside of the table was now host to a mass of rather impressive blood-red mushrooms, which had obviously discovered prime growing conditions. "Oh, now, that's rare. Look at that colouration, you won't find another like it growing wild in Britain."

"We're in London! Not exactly the wilderness," said Rigel, grinning easily.

"You haven't seen the greenhouse yet," Sirius warned him darkly.

"Opal, come out from under there, you'll get mould all over your clothes," Maia said gently.

"I'm earning my keep!" Opal said, tongue sticking out in concentration as she stared up at the mushrooms. Sirius bit his lip, and glanced over at his son. Maia shot her brother a shrewd look.

"Did you teach her that?"

"I would never."

"Raja says I'm a shameless freeloader," Opal informed Sirius, who realised that she spoke with a lisp on her Ss and Rs, which made the entire sentence sound more hilarious than it should.

"Did he giggle when he taught you to say that?" Maia asked, strolling over elegantly, to offer her hand and pull Opal to her feet.

"Yes. But I don't know why - OW!" She yelped loudly, waving her hand and darting away from the table.

They all jumped out of their skins as moth-eaten curtains flew open, and a hideous old woman, apoplectic with rage, frothing and drooling, eyes rolling, started screaming at them:"FILTH! SCUM! VERMI - !"

It took no more than two seconds: one moment Walburga Black was shrieking at them, the next, no fewer than three curses had been flung across the hall.

It was Maia who had cursed the painting of Sirius' mother, and Sirius noticed something then: His daughter was traumatised. He had seen that look on grown wizards before, on her mother, too, anyone who had had a near-miss in the Order. He and James had had more than their fair share. He had seen that look on Maia's face as they crossed the lake.

Maia had reacted instantaneously to the unexpected shrieking: Her eyes were wide, her chest rising and falling in shallow pants beneath her leather jacket, her features seemingly carved from stone, her body-language thrumming with tension, predatory, wary. She stared at the now-silent portrait for a long moment, as the rest of them shivered - both at the shock of Mrs Black's verbal attack in the silence, and at the ferocity of Maia's reaction. She had extraordinary duelling reflexes.

"It's only a painting," said Rigel, breaking the silence. He approached his sister slowly, always within her line of sight, and reached out to clasp her wrist, gently lowering her wand-arm. "C'mon…it's alright…c'mon…"

Exchanging a darkly significant look with Remus, Sirius started when little Opal tucked herself behind his leg, hugging his knee, her eyes on Maia and her expression very sad, and strangely understanding for such a young face; she held her hand in front of her, and Sirius could see it was starting to turn blue.

"Oh dear!" he ducked down, squatting in front of her, to take her hand tenderly and try to unfurl the swollen fingers.

"It bit me," she sniffled, casting the table - and its fungal freeloader - a wounded look. Sirius glanced around when a pair of boots appeared next to him; and Maia contorted to look under the table.

"You're lucky it didn't eat you," Maia told the little girl, glancing back to examine the mushrooms. "They feed off the energy created from Dark magic. They like to snarfle little dumplings for a treat." Opal's lip trembled, and she scooted a little closer to Sirius, who couldn't tell by Maia's expression whether or not she was joking.

"Only thing for it," sighed Rigel resignedly, peering interestedly at Opal's hand. "Amputation. Muggles do it all the time. One blow, just below the elbow - we can borrow Patmore's cleaver."

"No," Opal moaned tearfully, tucking herself against Sirius, who caught Rigel's eye and tried to hide a smirk, and failed. He rolled his eyes, and rested his palm on top of Opal's blonde curls.

"Don't wind her up," Maia chided quietly, and another door opened onto the hall. Sirius stared.

"Kreacher?"

His ear-hair as soft and fluffy as cotton-wool, draped in a blindingly white towel clasped with a hat-pin enamelled with the Black family crest, wearing a malevolent expression and wielding a cleaver, was his family's ancient elf.

"We heard a Banshee screeching," Kreacher said, narrowing his eyes on the now-cursed portrait directly opposite the front-door. The moth-eaten velvet curtains were still flung aside, but Walburga Black's screams were now stifled by a gag, and the decrepit old woman was writhing in her shining silver bindings that hissed where they touched skin. Sirius grimaced; tiny tentacles appeared to have started sprouting all over sickly purplish-grey skin that was rapidly decaying. "My mistress's portrait…"

"I think it's an improvement," Sirius said idly, approaching the painting. Even through agony, Walburga Black locked eyes on her disappointment of a son and hissed at him, snatching her claw-like hands at him, as much as the silver bindings allowed.

"Welcome home, Mr Black," Kreacher said, in his unforgettable bullfrog's croak. Sirius gaped as the elf swept him a deep bow, was further shocked by the kindly smile on his face, as if Kreacher was genuinely happy to see him.

"We should probably get that off the wall," Rigel said, wincing at the painting. "Maia, what curses did you use? I like the skin-rot, adds a real flair. What could be more welcoming, really?"

"Kreacher will see to it," Kreacher told Rigel, and Sirius was flummoxed by the tender look on his face when Kreacher sidled up to Opal, as if approaching a coveted treasure. "How is you always getting into hijinks, Miss Opal?"

"It was the mushroom that bit me!" Opal said tearfully, her fingertips now turning purple.

Remus flicked his wand, and the velvet curtains drew across the painting, blocking it from view. They were left in an unsettled sort of silence. Sirius was hyper-aware that he was with his children for the first time in thirteen years. He exchanged the briefest of looks with his old friend, who sighed softly.

"I believe you're taller again since last time I saw you, Raja," Remus said, and Rigel grinned, capturing Remus in a fierce embrace that seemed to take him by surprise, but Remus smiled, pleased.

"Stretching Jinx," Maia murmured, eyes on Opal's hand, and Rigel grinned easily. Remus leaned in and Maia gave his cheek a delicate kiss before she gently hugged him; Remus lingered a moment longer, and Sirius saw the sad look on Maia's face as she relaxed into Remus' embrace.

"You look tired," Remus said, which Sirius found ironic. The full-moon had just passed; Moony always faintly resembled an insomniac. Maia gave Remus a tiny, tense smile, little more than a twitch of the corners of her lips; her eyes remained tired, smudged with dark circles under them.

"We've missed you," she told him.

"I've got loads of new recipes to try out on you," Rigel said, grinning enthusiastically, and Remus stifled a grimace, casting a wary look at Maia.

"You don't have to eat them," she told him, barely moving her lips, and her eyes glinted with amusement.

"Oi!" Rigel gasped at her. "I'm an excellent cook!"

"Meatballs à la crème brûlée would suggest otherwise," Maia said, her lips twitching.

"It was an experiment," Rigel said, his expression defiant. "Did it work? No. Who would've thought?"

"Everyone. Everyone told you it wouldn't work."

"But you liked the paprika meatballs," Rigel said, and Maia's lips twitched again. She shared an indulgent look with Remus, who stooped to give kisses to Opal, and a cuddle, which made her beam.

"Uncle Remus," Opal said innocently, gazing at Sirius, "who's your friend?"

There was a moment's hesitation, then Remus said quietly, "This is Sirius Black."

There was a moment of silence, then Maia flicked her intense hazel eyes at Sirius. She murmured, "He's our father, Opal." So they knew who he was: They weren't screaming, or throwing more curses. That was something.

"Mine, too?" Opal asked, turning owl-eyes on him.

"No…no, not yours," Maia said, even more quietly, looking very sad. Sirius could see the dark smudges under her eyes, the unhappy tilt to the corners of her plump lips. She still had freckles on the bridge of her nose, unexpected and pretty, but she looked exhausted. "You know that, Opal."

"He has your nostrils, Maia," Opal observed, peering up at Sirius. She twinkled at him. "Only I can see that." He chuckled softly.

Rigel flashed Sirius a grin, before giving Sirius the same bone-crunching hug he had given Remus, and an enthusiastic grin. It shocked him. He hadn't been in a habit of imagining any kind of reunion with his children - not so soon, at least; Ellaria had made no mention of arranging a meeting. But this was just her style; throw them all in with dragons and see who survived.

"See, Mai, I told you we looked like him. Look at him! I can't wait to grow into my jaw! Like an anvil!" And he reached up to clasp Sirius' jaw in his hands, grinning broadly. His bright grey eyes - Sirius' eyes - glowed vibrantly as they scanned Sirius' face, seemingly trying to memorise every detail. Behind him, Remus was smiling warmly, shaking his head. Six months younger than Harry, Sirius had just missed Rigel's fourteenth birthday. He was slender as a sapling but already inches away from his sister's height; he had broad shoulders, and would bulk out the same way Sirius had by the time he turned eighteen.

Maia was months away from her sixteenth birthday. And she was more hesitant; she gave Sirius a cool, penetrating look, her hands in the pockets of her leather-jacket - his ancient leather jacket, with a few creative modifications - hugging it across her front.

"I'm glad to see my jacket's still getting some good use," he said, because honestly he couldn't think of anything else to say. He wasn't prepared for this! At least it was going better than meeting Harry for the first time… Maia glanced down at her front, the faded leather, studded and embellished, embroidered and patched, even painted in places.

"Mother gave it to me," she said quietly.

"She used to wear it all the time," Rigel told him. "Ellaria, I mean. She gave it to Maia after school sports day -" He broke off quickly, shooting his sister an almost frightened look; Sirius thought Maia's eyes had hardened, but she was looking resolutely down at the glinting zip of her inherited jacket. "Anyway - Mother says the jacket's saved her life a few times."

"The Shield Charms worked well, then," Sirius said, eyeing the jacket. He wondered what stories each of the embellishments and repairs told.

"They'd worn off a little," said Maia quietly, slinking tentatively forward as if she was a cat not quite sure of the new person in her territory, delicately scenting the air and assessing the danger.

"Well," Sirius sighed, motioning for her to turn around, which she did, slowly, so he could see the personalisation on the jacket, "time's been kinder to the jacket than it has me."

"Mother loved this jacket," Maia said quietly, and Sirius nodded, smiling sadly, reminiscing. Of course Ellaria loved this jacket; he loved this jacket. It was forever tied with memories of his motorcycle, their breathlessly intense courtship, the thrill of war…

"Now it's yours," Sirius said.

"You can…have it back if you -"

"No," Sirius shook his head, taking in the vision of his slender daughter shrouded in his heavy leather jacket, with her tiny braids, colourful hem and heavy boots. "No…it's yours." His eyes drifted to the studs glittering in her ears, the flashes of blue from her earrings. He reached out, and her eyes were wary, but he merely tucked some braids over her shoulder so he could touch her earrings, one of them a small glass Evil Eye. There were tiny delicate gold hoops with little gold balls, a vibrant diamond star, a diamond stud, the tiniest of gold bumblebees. "How many holes in one's head does it take to be deemed cool these days?"

"Find someone cool and they'll tell you," Rigel snickered, and Maia's lips twitched toward a smile, even as she rolled her eyes delicately.

"And where is Ellaria?" he asked the room in general, glancing around.

"She's corralling her contacts," Maia told him quietly. "She did say she should be back before the Hogwarts Express reaches King's Cross, otherwise we're to make our way by ourselves; Mother wants us to meet Harry Potter before he goes to his aunt and uncle's house." She stifled a yawn just then, tucking her face against the shoulder of her jacket, her curtain of braids concealing her face, but he did notice a new but fading curse-scar slashed across the right side of her neck, as if someone had tried to magically garrotte her.

"Miss Mai isn't sleeping again," Kreacher accused shrewdly, giving Maia a scrutinising look. "Kreacher can tell; he knows her rambunctious cousins is keeping her up all night, but Miss Mai needs to sleep. She is getting irascible as a Horntail. My poor mistress's portrait…"

"In Mai's defence, it is hideous," Rigel said fairly. "What poor sod had to paint that old hag?"

"Lorenzo Di'Nofrio is a most respected pureblood portraitist, Master Rigel," Kreacher said, somewhat defensively. "Mistress Black paid one hundred gold Galleons for her picture…if my mistress knew it was her grandchildren come to the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, oh, she would be in raptures. Babies in the house, and about time, too…" He gave Sirius a rather pointed look that could mean anything, and Sirius felt suddenly as if he was being admonished by Professor McGonagall when he hadn't actually been misbehaving.

"Well, that's one hundred Galleons we're never getting back," Sirius sighed, shaking his head. "I can think of a dozen things they would've been better spent on."

"Downstairs, if you please," Kreacher said, ignoring Sirius' comment, bowing slightly to the children, and Remus, then Sirius. "We mustn't wake the portraits."

Sirius saw Maia briefly pause to gouge a sample of the mushroom from the underside of the table with her wand, levitating it into a glass jar, before following Remus downstairs.

They might have walked into another house, the difference was so startling. An almost tangible wall of scent hit him, warmth and noise mingling for an atmosphere that was almost cosy, compared to the dank, neglected stairwell. The kitchen was the only part of the house that resembled what Sirius remembered; the high-ceilinged room was filled with light and warmth from the huge stove, copper pots and pans shone and reflected light from their shelves. The flagstone floor had been swept, and was so clean it could be eaten off of. The glass-fronted cabinets in the butler's pantry gleamed, the contents glinting in the light streaming through the open windows, which let in the afternoon's breathless warmth. The table had been scrubbed to gleaming, polished and draped with a fine linen tablecloth, places already set for a large gathering, bottles of wine decanted, jugs of iced cordials set along the table, garnished with fresh fruit and mint.

Sirius jumped, as a tiny elf barely two feet tall scuttled past, wearing a set of elegant black chiffon dress-robes, a tape-measure draped around her neck, a pin-cushion bracelet on her wrist, repairing the crochet trim of an old linen pillowcase, murmuring to herself about her "wasted talent." Their industry seemed to make their numbers even greater, but Sirius thought there were at least six house-elves besides Kreacher, stirring at the stove, folding robes in the laundry, servicing the boiler, reorganising the pantry shelves, planting fresh herbs in pots on the deep windowsill, examining the contents of the vast wine cellar.

They all wore clothes, Sirius noted, even the tiniest and most ancient of them, who wore what resembled Buddhist monks' robes in a vibrant blood-red, twisted and draped over his frail-looking form, as he peacefully sat polishing silver, legs crossed. The barrel-shaped elf at the stove wore an apron over her sundress, shouting distractedly at a tiny, nervous-looking young elf called Roux, who wore a pretty pinafore-dress over a floral-patterned blouse and tried desperately to fulfil her orders as the older female elf familiarised herself with a foreign range, and found it equal to her talents. The elf in dress-robes shot a nasty look at the elf by the sink, who had finished potting fresh herbs, and managed to spray compost over the floor as he climbed down from the side, wearing patched corduroy breeches, a linen shirt and a sun-bleached waistcoat. The elf in the wine-cellar wore a three-piece suit tailored beautifully to his tiny frame, with an ascot, a pocket-square folded like a rose, and a golden watch-chain glinting from the pocket of his silk waistcoat; another elf wore child-sized jeans and a t-shirt purchased from a Muggle shop, and which might have been Rigel's hand-me-downs; and an elderly elf snoozing by the fire in a tiny rocking-chair wore a velvet smoking-jacket and carpet-slippers, wrapped in a silk shawl, extremely frail, a halo of white hair glowing in the sunlight.

Remus caught Sirius' eye, communicating without speaking: They knew Ellaria came from an unconventional family, of course, but even they hadn't expected a small contingent of free elves perfectly at their ease in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place.

As they entered the room, Rigel told off Patmore for "working Roux so hard she doesn't know her arse from her elbow!" Kreacher asked Snodgrass to wipe up the dirt he had spilled; and Opal cooed to the house-elf in dress-robes, Thimbletack, to wake up Tootles for dinner. As pots and pans levitated to pour their contents into tureens and bowls, Magwitch and Jax lifted them out of thin-air to place on the table, in between continuing their other tasks. Other pans were left simmering on the stove, ladles and spoons stirring occasionally, and the gentle hum of activity from the stove and the worktops and the far end of the table - jams were bubbling sluggishly; bread was kneading itself; liquor was pouring itself over great mounds of dried fruit in mason cache bowls; batters pouring themselves into cake-tins; spices were measuring themselves into dishes and rubbing themselves over joints of meat; invisible hands were icing biscuits; pastry was laminating itself with sheets of butter; broad-beans were shelling themselves - were subtle indication that Patmore's magic extended beyond the wood-fired range she dominated like a general overseeing her troops.

"Oh, Miss Opal, what is you doing to yourself?" one of the little female elves asked, peering at Opal's hand in concern as she levitated an enormous ball of linen sheets past the table. Maia and Opal climbed up at the end of the table, and Sirius watched, unnerved by the presence of the elves and by Kreacher's transformation, curious about his son and daughter, and the little girl who had appeared with Maia and Rigel.

Out of the tiny embellished leopard-print handbag that Maia wore draped across her front, she withdrew a handsome apothecary box by its handle and set it on the polished table. Opening the compartments and drawers, she set out a white granite tray with delicate gold handles, a small granite mortar, a beautiful purple blown-glass oil lamp she lit with a twitch of her wand, levitating a tiny silver cauldron over it that revolved and tilted, and the offending mushroom sample, which seemed to be secreting some sort of toxic violent orange sap that smoked inside the jar. Using the contents of the glass jars and phials, Sirius watched, mesmerised, as Maia created an antidote to the venomous spores exuded by the mushroom's bite, which were now turning the little girl's hand purple, her entire body shivering with misery.

"What's that in your other hand, Opal?" Maia asked gently, as she worked deftly, cutting up the mushroom and levitating it into the silver cauldron with the contents of several jars, her focus intense as she measured out another ingredient to the last minute granule on tiny milky-jade scales before adding it with a splash of some viscous liquid that hissed and smoked and sparked on contact.

"His name is Loki," Opal sniffled, and Sirius saw that she cradled in her other hand a tiny cream-and-fawn mouse with a tiny pink nose and enormous ears, which were twitching subtly, curled up fast-asleep. "He's my darling."

Maia had removed her inherited leather jacket, revealing a patterned sleeveless romper that showed off slim arms covered, like her brother's, in elaborate tattoos that Sirius hoped, again, were fake. One was vibrant, detailed, and he thought it depicted a Zouwu, a magical creature from the Far East with a long, flowing pink tail, unusual fangs and a mane that lit up like Filibuster fireworks. It was quite charming to see that she had sunburn on her shoulders; the subtlest hint of imperfection, like the freckles on her nose. They were utterly endearing. Sirius watched as she kneaded, pounded and stirred the contents of the silver cauldron in the mortar with a silver knife, then an onyx pestle, before pouring out the contents directly on the white granite tray to scoop and fold with a very Muggle-looking dark-aqua mini-spatula to create a thick, creamy balm.

Eyeing the mouse, Maia warned gently, "Mother might not let you keep him, Opie."

"But Mummy let you keep me," Opal said fairly, gazing at Maia.

Maia's face melted into a warm look, not quite a smile, as she murmured, "Yes, she did." Sirius glanced at Remus, who gave a tiny shake of his head, as if to say, Not now. It would be explained later.

Roux beamed as she skittered past, levitating a dish piled high with blood-orange slices and pale-green melon balls, a tower of choux puffs drenched in thick, vivid raspberry coulis and a tureen of spicy fish soup to the table. She patted Opal's knee on the way back to the range.

Sirius glanced between the two girls: Rigel grinned at him, as he helped Patmore at the stove, wand held aloft like a conductor in front of an orchestra. Feeling suddenly like he had walked into someone else's home, at a loose end for what to do, Sirius decided to sit down, out of the way, and watch Maia, who focused on her task and never turned a hair as Roux tripped over, pirouetting and teary-eyed as she attempted to carry out six contradictory orders from Patmore, sending a dish of spiced okra and mashed sweet-potato splatting against the door to the butler's pantry, and the elves named Magwitch and Dashy, respectively mending the boiler and doing the laundry. The chaos of the house-elves seemed to be normal; Rigel just laughed, and used his wand to clean up the food, which returned to its dish, steaming, leaving Maia to focus on her antidote as Patmore berated tiny Dashy for a minor collision between soiled linens and a dish of fresh garden peas, and Thimbletack quarrelled with Snodgrass about the scent of compost overpowering Roux's creamy étouffée.

Supremely patient in the midst of all the noise and disruption, Maia removed all her rings and scooped up the lotion, coating her palms so they glowed phosphorescently, and Opal sniffled, her little lip trembling, but held her painful-looking hand out bravely to Maia - it was a great show of her unquestioning trust in the older girl, Sirius thought. Maia started massaging the little girl's hand between hers, kneading with her thumbs, ignoring the girl's squirms and discomfort, until Opal sighed softly, and relaxed in her chair, and her eyes went heavy-lidded as Maia continued to massage her from fingertips to elbow, her skin slowly returning to its normal pallor, her fingers unfurling, healthy-looking - tipped with glittering nail-polish. Maia finally picked up a tiny crystal phial, held it to the puncture-wound on Opal's finger, delicately squeezing, and collected the large, spiky-looking spores that had poisoned her. She capped the phial and neatly labelled it; as Maia scooped up the last of the lotion into another little jar, Opal frowned and peered closer at the spores.

"No touching anything in the house, Opal, until we tell you it's safe to," Maia warned her.

"Alright," Opal sighed, glancing at her hand, which still shimmered from the residue of Maia's balm.

"You can wash your hands now. With soap, Opal," Maia said, and Opal smiled brightly and said, "Thanks, Kreacher!" when he slid a footstool beneath the sink so she could reach the tap. Opal smiled, did as she was told, humming contentedly to herself in the sunshine streaming through the window, lifting her tiny nose to scent the herbs potted on the sill, then gathered Loki the mouse back into her hands, before trying to edge her way onto a chair at the kitchen-table, leaving Maia shaking her head as if wondering why she had bothered.

"Maia - what have you done to your hand?" Remus asked suddenly. Sirius initially thought Moony meant her left hand, her thumb and forefinger marked with delicate henna tattooing; but, no, Sirius saw quickly that a phosphorescent glow came, not from the lotion as he had thought, but from her. Her right hand was scaled, and glowed iridescently. One of her fingers was black with bruising beneath the shimmering light, another was wrapped in a plaster, which she changed deftly, revealing a semi-healed puncture wound.

"It's not contagious," Maia reassured them, gazing at her hand as if seeing it for the first time, and only remotely interested. She slipped her rings back onto her fingers. One featured a tiny lifelike lizard; another, a Native American-style thunderbird, and a third held a large, round misty aqua stone. "It was all the way up to my neck in January; as long as I don't aggravate it, I should have it cleared up by October."

"What happened?" Sirius asked, unsure whether to be concerned or amused.

"I miscalculated," was all she offered, and Rigel grinned over his shoulder. "It doesn't bother me; I rather like it."

"And it changes colour with her mood," Opal beamed, giggling; Maia scooped her up and lifted her into a chair beside hers.

"Tell me you've not been using the house-elves to conduct your experiments," Remus said, frowning at Maia.

"Uncle Remus! How dare you insinuate such a thing?!" Rigel gasped, looking horrified, as he helped levitate more plates and bowls on the table, dishes Sirius had never seen before, as fragrant as they were vibrant.

"House-elf physiology is entirely different from human!" Maia said, giving Remus a reproving look. "On an unrelated note, they're spry."

A.N.: I hope you still like her! And the addition of her little brother and adopted sister! Because I couldn't write out Opal.