Tonks stumbled through the flue to find her father beating out flames on the kitchen table. 'Don't tell me. Dingbat's Lost Theorem?'

'Still lost,' replied Ted, sadly, attempting and failing to 'reparo' the dishcloth he'd been using and then hiding the smoking remains behind his back.

'So what was wrong with the study?'

'Too much magic in there.'

'There'll be too much magic in here if mum catches you.'

Her father pulled a face. 'Tea?' he suggested.

'I think I might just go to bed.'

'Yes, well, I'm afraid the guest room is occupied. Your mother's made you up a bed in on the sofa.'

Tonks made her way through to her favourite room. While there were piles and outbreaks of books everywhere throughout the house, the large room on the ground floor with its doors to the garden was subject to a sort of literary pandemic. Every wall, excluding windows and chimneybreast, was covered with shelves stacked, in places, two, three and even four deep with books. Pairs of rotating bookcases, heavily over-stowed sat either side of facing desks. As a small girl, she had often fallen asleep in here while her parents worked. It would be no hardship to get comfortable on the worn chesterfield that had been ancient when they'd acquired it.

'So who's in the guest room?'

'Your aunty Narcissa.'

'What?'

'Bellatrix left all her personal property to Narcissa who brought round a few things she thought your mother might like.'

'What sort of things?'

'Some jewellery, silver, wine . . .'

'They were drinking?'

'What do you think?'

'Is that why Narcissa's in the guest room?'

'The Malfoys are not universally popular, so risking arrival at an unintended destination? Not clever. And Andy insisted. To the point it would have been rude to refuse.'

She noted that her mother's favourite Venetian mirror was resting on the ground; in its place was a painting. 'What's that?'

'Oh that. A portrait of each of the Black sisters was made when they were thirteen or fourteen, all of them connected to each other. Your mum's picture was burned with the rest of her things. What they didn't know was that her portrait had taken refuge with her sisters through the linked frames.'

'Bellatrix and Narcissa let her in?'

'Their younger, portrait selves did. At that age, I suppose, she'd done nothing wrong.'

Tonks snorted. 'So much for Damnatio memoriae.'

'Or perhaps they hoped she'd change her mind. Witches live a long time. Maybe it was because they loved her and maybe it was because there were three of them.'

Tonks got closer. 'It looks a bit like a reflection. A sofa, chairs around a table. Even the daylight's from the same side. Not so many books, though.'

'It does, a bit.'

Tonks dismissed the vacant painting. 'Do you know if Snape and Longbottom are back yet?'

'Not yet.'

'And the . . . thing?'

'Has some very interesting properties.'

'And you're not allowed to discuss it.'

Nighty night, darling.' She was hugged and kissed goodnight. Her father paused by the door. 'Lights off?' The house had originally been set up to pass for muggle and had retained most of its original features, diligently protected against the side effects of magic use.

She leaned over and switched on a standard lamp. 'Please.'

.

She awoke to the sound of an owl hooting and it took her a few moments to realise that it was simply an owl rather than a mail delivery. 'Half two ish,' she decided. Like most people in similar professions, she had a keen sense of the time.

Tonks got up. A long time ago, in order to reduce the chance of waking up as something peculiar, she had taught herself to put her body under a sort of lock down when she went to sleep. While she might allow her bladder's capacity to increase while on a stakeout, she slept in her base form. Which meant that she now had to go somewhere. A drink of something cold wouldn't hurt, either. And then, perhaps, some more sleep.

She returned to find the recently hung frame occupied by a face it took her a couple of seconds to place - her own, at least as she had been, years ago.

'Mum?'

'Nymphadora.' Smiling broadly, her eyes moving rapidly, the girl in the portrait appeared to be quite fascinated by her. 'I hear you're a metamorphmagus?' Tonks shifted to replicate her youthful appearance. 'Brilliant! And . . . is it true? A dragon?'

'Yeah.'

'Show me!'

'Not right now. It's too big. I'd knock something over.' Tonks made herself comfortable on the sofa and turned off the light.

She began to drift off.

'One thousand and one green bottles . . .' This, in a voice to set every nerve on edge.

On went the light. Tonks pointed her wand at the portrait.

'Hold your horses! Permanent sticking charm. Same as Aunty Walberga's. This picture's going nowhere and the other isn't anywhere you're likely to find yourself. So. It has to be here.' Tonks stared reproachfully. 'Come on. You can do it. You just have to be a bit careful.'

Remembering how stubborn she herself had been at that age, Tonks acquiesced. Cautiously, quietly, in the middle of the night, the Auror moved furniture until she was confident that there was enough room and then, crouching down, shifted.

The dragon turned to watch the girl's mouth open silently before both hands covered her lower face, her eyes dancing. 'Wow!' she said. 'That is . . . Just . . . . . . No. No, it won't do at all. You do know that?'

The dragon gave her a dirty and enquiring look.

It's beautiful and all. It really is, but it's unique. You'll never get away with anything. You need to be something more common - a Common Welsh Green, around here at least. And . . . She gave a wide, wicked, Cheshire cat sort of a grin. 'I know. We can start with the Hebridean Black. I think that's just a bit smaller. Darker. You'll need to ditch the feathers. Well? What are you waiting for?'

Given how much she'd drank, Tonks realised that she probably wouldn't be getting back to sleep immediately and the dragon was definitely intrigued. The painting now occupied the place of honour previously accorded to the mirror brought back from her parents' honeymoon, so damaging it was probably not a good idea. And none of them had been able to silence Walberga's portrait, not even Dumbledore.

Deciding to start with the easiest part and carefully observing her own reflection, she began getting rid of the feathers.

It would be five o'clock in the morning before her tormentor had decided that she was satisfied with Tonks' ability to shift between forms and by that time the dragon was feeling somewhat fractious. She shifted back, tiredly stood up and stretched. 'Enough,' she said. 'You've seen two dragons and neither of them much like you.'

This provoked a giggle. 'Queen Bitch; I know. You will practice?'

'Goodnight, mother.' Tonks climbed back in under the duvet and slept.

.

A gentle knocking awakened her. 'Dora, darling?'

'Mum?'

'There's tea and crumpets in the kitchen.'

'Right. I'll be through just a minute.'

'I've brought you your robes.'

Tonks rubbed the sleep from her eyes to discover, in place of the expected uniform, a pile of black cloth. She picked it apart. Velvet. Brocade. Lace. And gauze – a curtain of gauze. Gloves and . . . sweet Merlin, a hat with a veil attached. In other words: High Victorian Mourning. 'Mum!'

'They're for the funeral, dear,' Andromeda's voice called from the kitchen. Tonks wrapped a sheet around herself and went to take issue with her errant parent.

'Morning darling.' Breakfast was on the table. Her father pulled out a chair for her beside her mother. 'Sit.'

Tonks sat down. Her parents exchanged looks. Her mother began. 'The Lestrange family has declined to accept Bellatrix's body for burial. She had no children. They are within their rights.'

'"Evanesco" works.'

Andromeda pursed her lips while Ted sat down beside her. 'Darling,' she said, 'Cissa and I swore that she would have a proper burial.'

'Why?'

'It was when we were children. We swore on our lives that there would be the proper observances. We'd been reading ancient Greek tragedies. The story of Antigone? Anyway, we all swore. This morning Draco, Narcissa and I went to prepare the Mausoleum and, I'm sorry to say: we were attacked by it.'

Tonks choked and tried not to smile. She'd no intention of going anywhere near the place. 'Draco did threaten to turn it into a muggle amusement park.'

'Quite,' said Andromeda. 'And fortunate it is that he's not the heir.'

'There is no heir. The family is extinct.'

'Actually, it isn't.' Andromeda took a deep breath. 'You know the lake visible from the mausoleum?'

'Yes?' said Tonks, finally taking a bite out of her crumpet and wondering where this was going.

'That's all that remains of the site of Black Hall. After the incidents that led to its destruction, we were forced to resort to primogeniture. A less than ideal system, excluding, as it does so many potentially excellent leaders, but it did codify matters in such a way as to reduce the number of actual deaths.

Deliberately, Tonks took another bite. Andromeda resumed her explanation.

'Up until the late fifteenth century the title of "Dux" or "Head of Family" was awarded to whoever could hold it, usually as a result of something like an election. At that time, females of the line were entitled not only to lead but to keep their name upon marriage. Also to pass it on to their children, including any born out of wedlock. "Toujours pur" in fact referred to such children. "Toujours" being taken to mean 'still' in this case.'

'I beg your pardon?'

Her mother shrugged. 'Madame Black is the family solicitor . . .'

'Really?'

'Yes. Of course, Narcissa was pretty shocked, but . . .'

'Do we know why she was talking with Madame Black?'

'The situation with Alexandrina Urquart. I don't know what was said. Madame Black can be quite forthright. Anyway, Narcissa has invited Draco and Sandy for a fortnight in France. Getting back to the selection of our "Dux": a reversion to the earlier system was always possible. Under the circumstances . . .'

'There's an heir?' Tonks wasn't all that surprised. Sirius had been popular, even among witches who should have known better. And there had been muggles too, which might be a bit more problematic. Or perhaps Regulus . . . This line of thought was cut off by another telling exchange of looks between her parents.

'What do you know about contracts?' This came from her father, sounding somewhat subdued. 'Specifically, the circumstances under which a contract is void?'

Andromeda interrupted. 'Darling, you will recall that your father and I have a muggle marriage certificate?'

'Yes, and I have a muggle birth certificate. It still causes the odd comment but, at the time, it was safer to avoid the magical world.'

Another speaking look.

'The thing is . . . ,' her mother trailed off.

Her father took her hand and spoke gently. 'As I was, and still am, under the influence of a love potion, the marriage was not considered valid.'

Tonks got up from the table, crossed the kitchen and stepped out into the garden where the sun shone and birds sang while the things she knew about her family rearranged themselves in her head until the last vestiges of the spell had dissipated.

Finally, she turned around; her chin came up. 'So, I'm a bastard. And I'm guessing that was one of those "nameless" spells we're not supposed to speak about.'

There they stood, hand in hand, like a pair of naughty children. Ted sighed. 'I'm afraid so.'

'Please tell me that wasn't the reason choice of the name "Nymphadora"? So that every time I refused to use it and called myself "Tonks", the magic was reinforced?'

A wince. 'Sorry.'

'Fabulous. And you, mother. You potioned an unspeakable. You pissed off probably the most powerful Dark family in Britain. How are you still breathing? How are you not locked up?'

'Because, when I discovered there wasn't an antidote, I drank the potion too. Why not? I loved him. Drinking it made no difference that I could discern. And, legally, it threw the cat right back among the pidgeons. The Wizengamot - all those "Ancient and Noble" families with any number of potions and some very strange branches in their family trees? Well it wasn't somewhere they wanted to go. Especially not with Madame Black snapping at their heels. There was the odd assassination attempt but, overall, the resistance was pretty feeble.'

'Dad?'

'I'm happy.'

'Of course you are.'

'You're forgetting; I'm an arithmancer. I took a look at the numbers.'

'Oh?'

'You know I can't tell you. All I can say is that it could have been a great deal worse.'

Tonks swallowed. 'So why are you telling me all this now?'

'Because you are a Black,' said her father, putting his arm around her shoulders. 'You are Head of the House of Black.'

'Because you have to open the mausoleum,' said her mother, stiffly.

'Of course.' She had forgotten the mausoleum.