'He was younger than me,' said Sirius, 'And a much better son, as I was constantly reminded.'
'But he died,' said Harry.
'Yeah,' said Sirius. 'Stupid idiot…he joined the Death Eaters.'
-J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
Chapter 2
December 19th, 1979
There was something they were keeping from him.
Peter Pettigrew was not, contrary to popular and widespread opinion, an idiot. While never a stellar performer in the world of academia—or magic—he had other, less obvious qualities to recommend him.
What else could explain the recent and dramatic upswing in his fortunes? When the initial terror—and it had been terrifying, he could not deny it, certainly not in his private thoughts—when that initial fear had subsided, Peter was amazed at the feeling he was left with.
Importance. A sense of consequence he'd never felt before, not even at school, when he had been part of the most exclusive, dangerous social set around.
Now he had something no one else did—he was someone no one else was.
No, he was not an idiot—he knew exactly where his value lay. It was in his access. The fact that he had been around them for so many years that they took him for granted gave him an advantage no other wizard in England could boast of. He was unassuming, he was careful—he was sly.
He was forever underestimated, most of all.
Peter was also very good at keeping his mouth shut, which was more than could be said for the dark-haired man who now sat across from him at the corner table of the Leaky Cauldron.
"You know what I've been thinking about?" Sirius said, gulping down his ale. They were the first words he'd spoken in nearly ten minutes—which his short, fat friend was sure must've been a record.
"You think now, Padfoot?" James asked, smirking on his right side. Sirius didn't return the smile—he ignored the joke altogether in favor of staring off in the middle-distance. Peter found that disquieting.
Sirius rarely failed to follow James's cue—they all always followed James's cue.
"I've been thinking—" Sirius stared down into his half-full tankard and lowered his voice. "—It might be a good idea for us to get registered."
Peter and James goggled at him.
"No, you haven't."
"Yes, I have," Sirius said, a bite of impatience in his voice. "Isn't Lily always getting on you about it?"
James exchanged an incredulous look with Peter—who, unlike Sirius, did follow the cue—and then turned back around on their friend.
"Yes…" he said, slowly. "But that's Lily, and this is you." James laughed and set his drink down on the table. "You're the one who always says the fact that no one knows is a huge asset—"
"Yeah, well—now I'm starting to think it might be a liability," Sirius snapped, and after a moody stare at the pair of them, took another gulp of his drink.
"Why?" James asked, his frown deepening. "I mean—why now? You really think this is the time to worry about it?"
"I'm just—wondering if it might not come back to bite us in the end, that's all." Sirius sighed. "Forget it."
James made eye contact with Peter and rolled his eyes, good-naturedly. Peter returned the smile, timidly—his naturally nervous demeanor was useful in these situations—it masked his real concern.
Sirius had been acting oddly all afternoon. He'd been distracted and distant the entire time the three of them had been here sitting here—nearly an hour of monotone, monosyllabic replies. This was not strange in and of itself—he was prone to moodiness and fits of sullen temper—but James's reaction was telling. Though he was clearly concerned about Sirius, and at times annoyed, he was not at all surprised by his best friend's behavior.
That meant James knew what was bothering Sirius.
And Peter didn't.
"What do you think, Wormy?"
Upon being asked to give his opinion, Peter started. Sirius was looking at him—looking through him, more accurately—but not seeing him at all. He was sure he'd been asked the question in a perfunctory way, or because Padfoot was irritated with James's cavalier dismissiveness of his concerns—not because Sirius really cared what he thought.
Peter had been friends with Sirius Black for over eight years, and did not think he had ever changed his mind about anything.
"W-well…I mean—isn't it sort of—too late?" he asked, tapping his fingers against the table. "I mean, we—they monitor your progress, could we—we couldn't pretend to do it all over again, could we?"
As he expected, Sirius ignored this answer and looked back at James.
"What if we went to Dumbledore and told him?" he half-whispered—as if he was trying to keep eavesdroppers from hearing. "Came clean?"
"I don't think we should be discussing any of this without Moony."
"I mean—technically," Sirius laid back in his chair. "It's not really Remus's decision to make—"
"You try telling him that," James said, flatly. "We're not speaking to Dumbledore if Remus doesn't agree, and I'm going to tell you now, he'd rather die than do it."
"So we should risk going to prison to assuage Moony's feelings?"
"There's no more risk now than there was four years ago," James said, irritably. "And the whole damn thing was your idea, if you recall."
The bar was remarkably quiet for a weekday afternoon—so they did not even have the ambient sounds of the Leaky Cauldron to drown out the heavy atmosphere around the table.
Peter looked between Sirius and James, wondering at what his best approach was. Usually when the two of them argued, Remus was the one who patched things up.
Well—he had his opening, and he needed to suss out that part of the situation.
"Where is Moony, anyway?" Peter asked, looking around. "I thought he'd come meet—"
"He's not coming," Sirius cut him off, briskly. "He's—doing a favor for me, so he can't."
"Is he—"
"Yeah, he is," Sirius answered James's unfinished question, bluntly. "What time is it?"
Rather than commenting on the curt change of subject, James reached into his pocket and pulled out the heavy gold watch that his father had given on his 17th birthday.
"Almost four." Sirius sighed. "What is it now?"
"I've got to leave soon—I have a meeting." Sirius shifted around in his seat. "I need to swing by the flat first and—pick a few things up."
"Where are you headed?"
"The fucking Hog's Head, of all places," Sirius said, bitterly. "Scotland at this time of year is miserable—and Aberforth doesn't heat the bar."
Peter chewed his lip. Sirius had always loved Hogwarts in December—had made a point of lamenting that his parents didn't let him stay over the hols. The weather was not why he was agitated.
"What—"
"It's for—you know," Sirius told Peter, smiling in spite of his mood. "Not allowed to say anything more, Wormy—you understand."
Wormtail's eyes widened. Oh, yes—he understood. Far better than Padfoot did, in fact.
"Cheer up, Padfoot," James said, nudging his grumpy best mate in the foot. "Come on, it's nearly Christmas!"
This mention of the Yuletide season, rather than cheering Sirius up, only seemed to make him surlier.
"Christmas—bah."
"Lily and I are having everyone over on Christmas Eve," James continued, pointedly annoying the Scrooge-like behavior coming from his left. "Remus is coming. What about you, Wormtail?"
"Well…" Peter chewed his finger. "I should be able to pop by. I told my mum I'd have dinner with her—"
Sirius let out a loud and inexplicably bitter laugh that cut him off, and he rounded on the shorter man.
"How is your mother, Peter?"
There was an odd sort of aggressiveness in the question that caught Peter off-guard.
"She's—fine, thanks."
Inquiring after Mrs. Pettigrew—that was another Sirius Black first.
"I'm sure she'll be very happy to spend the night with you—it is a holiday that's supposed to be about family, after." He slouched in his chair, surly and distant again. "Well, it goes without saying that I won't be able to come on Christmas Eve."
Peter didn't even bother to hide his shock—that was the biggest tell that something was off. Sirius Black, not spend Christmas with Lily and James Potter?
Even Prongs seemed surprised by this bit of news.
"You're not—why the hell aren't you coming, Padfoot?" Sirius shot him a dark look and James's face fell. "…But—you're not saying you have to worry about that, even on—on Christmas Eve?"
"Who else is there to do it?" Sirius pointed out, bitterly. "It's not like I have holiday leave. I have to be there."
"But surely—"
"I'm not exactly thrilled about it myself, Prongs—" Padfoot cut him off, coldly. "But I don't have a choice."
The other man opened his mouth to argue—but his eyes fell on Peter, and he closed it again. Wormtail had not the slightest idea what they were talking about—but as was usual in arguments between them, they were so absorbed in each other they'd both forgotten he was there.
Abruptly, Sirius stood up. His unfinished ale sat on the table.
"Well, anyway—I'm off."
He clasped Peter on the shoulder, distractedly—but not without affection.
"I'll see you later, boys," he said, vaguely—he could have been addressing either or both of them, and he walked over to the front door of the Leaky Cauldron without giving either a second glance.
As soon as the door had swung shut behind their friend, Peter's head swung in James's direction.
"What is going on with him?"
His friend's smile had a distinctly strained quality that Pete picked up on at once.
"Don't worry—he's just…" He waved his beer in the air and trailed off, helplessly. "You haven't done anything wrong, anyway."
This was no help at all. Peter hadn't thought he had done anything wrong. He was not so stupid as to think he had the power to bother Sirius to that degree.
Well, he did, but Padfoot had no idea, and he had no intention of letting him find out.
"D'you think he really means it, about…you know…?" Peter asked, tapping one foot nervously against the chair. James shook his head.
"Of course not! Even if we were found out—" James lowered his voice again. "—In the middle of a war, you think that's a high priority for the Ministry?"
This was couched as an obvious statement, so Peter nodded, furiously. He had been doing this for so long that it was second nature for James to just assume Wormy always agreed.
"And it's dead useful for the Order that no one knows. Sirius is just…" James leaned back in his chair and ruffled the back of his head, distractedly. "You know how he gets about Christmas, and the holidays and—everything. He'll be in a better mood after the new year."
James clapped him on the shoulder as Sirius had done and gave Wormtail what he probably thought was a reassuring smile. Wormy let himself be reassured—even though the drink, the smile—the entire exchange—had done little to ease his mind.
In fact, it had all but confirmed his suspicions.
Sirius was, it was true, tetchy around the holidays—but Peter had spent eight Decembers with his friends, and he could spot the difference between normal surliness and whatever this was a mile away.
"I hope so…"
Peter bit his thumb.
What was it that Sirius was concealing?
If it were a secret between only Sirius and James, that would be one thing—the two of them had a privileged relationship, after all. He and Remus never openly talked about this fact, but they had both intuitively grasped early on in school that they were apart from 'Sirius and James'—later, 'Padfoot and Prongs'.
All three of them loved James best—but Sirius was and always would be his favorite.
Whatever was going on now, though…Moony was a part of it, too. Why else would he have missed the chance to meet them here at the Leaky Cauldron? The four of them hadn't been together in weeks, and the group as a whole probably mattered more to Remus than any of the rest of them.
This was bad.
("Do you want to get dinner tonight, Prongs?" Peter asked, forcing himself to take another sip of his gillywater. "Lily too?")
If James, Remus and Sirius had a secret—it meant they were deliberately keeping it from him. One secret might turn to several. They might decide they liked things better without him—it had been a fear that he had carried around since first year and never really been able to shake—that he was the tagalong, the fourth wheel, the one that everyone liked least.
("I wish I could, Peter…" His look was one of sincere regret. "Dumbledore has me doing something for him. I have to head out soon, too.")
With his new position, being cut out was not a luxury he could afford.
("Well—let me know if you need me.")
So, it followed, he had to find out what the secret was.
And he would.
"I know what you're doing tonight."
Sirius looked up at the reflection of the teenager stonily glaring through the mirror by the door of the room they were ostensibly sharing. He rolled his eyes. While he cared deeply about his younger brother—the last week had reminded him how much—Lord, could Regulus annoy him sometimes.
At least in Grimmauld Place they each had their own room.
"Ever hear the expression, 'Little Porlocks have big ears', Reg?" he said, cooly, tucking the mission dossier and vial of potion in his dress robes. They hung loosely on him, for Svensson was at least three inches taller. "It applies here."
"I know what you're doing," Regulus repeated, snapping the door shut behind him. "And I'm not going to cover for you."
"What would I need you to cover for?" he asked, bored.
"The fact that you're going out tonight," Regulus said, crossly, plopping down on the bed.
Considering Sirius was putting the finishing touches on adjusting his cravat, it would have been difficult for him to pretend he didn't have a social engagement. That didn't stop him from snorting dismissively.
"In the hypothetical scenario that I was leaving this flat," Sirius said, smoothing the front of his robes. "Why would I need you to cover? Our charming parents are otherwise occupied this evening."
Regulus crossed his arms and looked up, his disapproval obvious. It was a look he had given his older brother from a very young age, and though he was basically inured to its effect, it had never really stopped irritating Sirius.
"And when they come over for dinner tomorrow," he insisted, watching Sirius cross to the dresser and pick up the pair of silver cufflinks. "I'm not going to lie and say you were here!"
Sirius spun around.
"Come on, Regulus," he said, dropping his disinterested act in favor of brotherly annoyance. "Just—do me this favor, won't you? All you have to do is say we spent the evening in reading—or playing chess, or whatever." Regulus continued to glare, and he added, weakly. "It's—it's nearly Christmas!"
This appeal to the season did not soften his brother.
"That reminds me." Regulus reached over to the bedside table and picked up an unassuming piece of parchment. He slid back over to the side of the bed and handed it to his brother.
Sirius stared around at the neat, familiar handwriting.
"What is this?" he asked, despite being quite capable of reading and very aware of what it was.
His brother had just handed him his Christmas shopping list.
"Well, as I can't very well go out and get them," Regulus said, glumly. "I need you to…pick up a few things."
He laughed.
"Oh, come on, Reggie—given the current climate, I think we can probably forgo the gift exchange," Sirius snorted, eyes scanning the list with increasing amused disbelief. His brother had actually taken care to provide multiple 'appropriate options' for both parents.
When he looked up, he saw immediately in Regulus's eyes that this was not a joke.
"So at last it comes out," Sirius remarked, voice caustic. "The real reason you're in hiding—you wanted to fob buying all this off on me."
Regulus rolled his eyes and flopped back on the bed—a very Sirius-like action.
"Oh, yes, that's what taking the Dark Lord's locket was about," his brother muttered, peevishly. Sirius ignored the remark in favor of inwardly marveling that Regulus knew the name of their mother's favorite perfume. "Getting stuck under the same roof as you again is what I was aiming for all along."
"Careful, Reg—you're a guest in this house. Mind you don't get lippy and overstay your welcome." Sirius looked up from the list. "Merlin, this is a lot. Whose gold am I supposed to be spending on all this rubbish?"
"Mine," Regulus huffed, clearly insulted. "Father said he'd take it out of my vault."
"You've talked about this with Dad, already?"
"Yes—and don't put it off till Christmas Eve when nothing good's left." Regulus frowned. "And I hope you'll get them something as well."
The elder let out a bark of sarcastic laughter.
"Fat chance! Like they'd even want anything from me," Sirius crushed the parchment in his fist and shoved it in his pocket. "And as for Christmas Eve—I won't be doing shopping then. It'll just be you and me stuck here all day, remember?"
Annoyed, he tugged hard at the cravat and accidentally unknotted it.
"You're not doing that correctly," Regulus said, watching him fumble with the fiddly bit of cloth. "You have to slip the long bit under your collar, see?"
He stood up on the bed and walked to the end, where his brother stood, head brushing the top of the chandelier. Regulus reached over and pointed to the offending part of the cravat.
"Thanks," Sirius snapped, slapping his Reg's hand away. "If I needed your sartorial advice I'd ask for it."
Regulus glared and sat back down. Three years out of the family, and Sirius's younger brother could still recognize a 'mood' when he saw it, so he went back to silently observing his elder brother try and fail to fix his cravat—still leveling him with the look of disapproval.
Sirius ignored him. Regulus's list of presents had reminded his brother of the real source of his bad temper today—the holiday that was fast approaching.
James inviting him over to his and Lily's place had only worsened his mood this afternoon, because he knew that he would be spending his Christmas Eve stuck babysitting the littlest Death Eater. Though, he reasoned—it could be worse. At least Orion and Walburga wouldn't be around. Absent their oppressive hovering, he was hoping he could convince Regulus to get into a drinking contest.
His brother was such a lightweight Sirius felt confident that, under the influence, he could get him to spill his guts just as easily as he would under truth serum.
Plus—it would funny to see Regulus get tight.
"Speaking of Christmas Eve—" Sirius continued, airily changing the subject—he'd finally gotten the damn neckerchief on. "Was wondering what you wanted to do. I was thinking I'd order us Chinese in. You've never had it and it's brilliant—pairs nicely with Firewhisky, too."
He smiled grimly, imagining their mother's reaction to this suggestion—and what she would say if she ever saw sweet and sour pork.
Regulus fiddled with the coverlet of the bed.
"Hasn't Mother spoken…to you about Christmas Eve?"
"Maybe she has. I can't remember—I've started to selectively filter out what she says." Sirius shrugged. "But what's there to say? Their plans are always the same. And if it's only you and me here, well—might as well liven it up."
"Thing is—" Regulus hesitated. "I don't think she wants to have the party at the house this year."
Sirius slowly turned around and stared at his brother, face expressionless.
"What are you talking about?"
The Black family Christmas Eve soirée at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London was the crown jewel of the family's social calendar. In the hundred and forty-seven years since the first of these parties was held, it had never once been canceled.
This party was one of the many reasons he had never been allowed to stay at Hogwarts for the Christmas holidays—attendance was absolutely and unequivocally mandatory for every Black, no exception. This had been drilled into him from such a small age that even now, years after he'd run away from home, Sirius still approached December the twenty-fourth with fatalistic dread, and usually spent most of that day sloshed out of his mind.
He still felt irrational guilt over ditching it.
"The Christmas Eve party," Regulus clarified. "I don't—think she wants to host it."
"Of course she will—I mean, is going to." Sirius lifted his hands and shook them. "They always do. Why would they?"
"Well, since I'm supposed to be in France, I think—I think the idea is Uncle Cygnus is going to host it instead."
"You think this," Sirius asked, and there was a slightly dangerous quality to his voice. "Or you know this?"
"…She mentioned it the other night," he mumbled.
"So—if Cygnus and Aunt Dru are hosting, then—they're going to be there?"
Regulus shook his head, slowly.
"I'm fairly certain they plan on begging off, actually."
"To do…what?" Regulus grew more visible uncomfortable. "To be where?"
His younger brother didn't reply, but the expression on his face answered the question.
Here. They planned on coming here.
"You don't mean—" Sirius's face twisted in horror. "I thought we were only going to have to spend Christmas Day—you mean we're going to have to spend Christmas Eve with them as well?"
Regulus's apologetic look quickly turned back into a glare.
"It will be fine—even nice, if you bothered to try," Regulus scolded him. "Just stop harping on them for five minutes and be polite."
Sirius opened his mouth to argue with his brother—then snapped it shut again. He was not going to let Regulus distract him from what mattered right now—getting in the right headspace for this mission.
He had plenty of time to brood over his shite holiday in the next five days.
"Well, that settles it—you're definitely covering for me tonight," Sirius said, turning back to the mirror and scowling at himself. "That'll be my Christmas gift from you—one solid lie."
His brother crossed his legs on the bed.
"What's my Christmas gift, then?" Regulus asked, peevishly. "And I suppose you're just leaving me here to fend for myself, tonight."
"I am not, for your information." Sirius fixed on the cufflinks—he was ready. He stepped back from the mirror to admire the effect. Of course, in a few hours he would be a blond-haired, blue-eyed Norwegian, so it wasn't really worth scrutinizing—but it gave him an excuse to ignore Regulus a little longer. "I'm leaving you in the most capable hands I know."
There was a knock at the front door. Regulus flinched and turned around. He had not stopped doing that since the first night—Sirius wondered, bleakly, if Regulus really expected the Death Eaters or Voldemort to knock before they came here to do him in.
"Stay here," he ordered, unnecessarily. "That's probably him now."
Thirty seconds later, James Potter—looking almost as irritated as Regulus—bustled into the flat and unceremoniously dumped his cloak on the sofa.
"What the hell was your problem this afternoon?" James said, wiping his glasses—it had started to rain, clearly.
"Well, happy evening to you, too," Sirius said, sourly, slamming the door shut behind him. When he turned around James had already flung himself onto the couch.
"Seriously, Padfoot—I know this is rough for you, but you can't take it out on all the rest of us—"
"I don't have the time to talk about this with you right now," Sirius said, feeling himself growing surly again. First Regulus—now James. Would no one give him a break?
"But—"
"Coast is clear, Regulus—why don't you come out and say hello!" Sirius called, eager to postpone the telling-off. James opened his mouth to protest, but Sirius silenced his best friend with a look.
"Later," he muttered.
There was the light padding sound of Regulus, in his socks, and a second later he appeared at the door and peaked into the room. The moment he clapped eyes on James, the younger boy scowled.
"What is he doing here?" he demanded of his brother.
James wasn't bothered by the rudeness—which was good, as his best mate did nothing to correct it or apologize for it.
"I just told you I wasn't leaving you with no one," Sirius said, cooly studying his brother, pointedly ignoring the rather ugly look on Regulus's face. "James is going to to stay."
"I don't need a babysitter!"
"Just a minute ago you were complaining about me leaving you here alone," Sirius remarked, ironically.
"That was before—" Regulus stopped himself, then forced his eyes to meet James's. His brother's friend gave him a steady, neutral look. "Potter."
Like a tap being turned off, he switched—expression cool and haughty, all Black reserve and haughtier, not the teenaged boy who'd been arguing with his brother a minute before.
"Regulus," James said back, though in a less curt voice. Whatever grudge the younger boy held against him—and even he was not so naive as to think it was over their Quidditch rivalry in school, though that certainly played its part—he did not return Sirius's brother's ire.
This was not the first time that the younger Black brother had seen James Potter since becoming his best friend's unlikely house guest. James had flitted in and out of the flat—usually meeting his wife, always when Sirius had assured him that Mr. and Mrs. Black would not be there—but the two of them had not been alone since Reg's defection from the Death Eaters, and that was as much by Sirius's design as it was Dumbledore's.
His little brother severely disliked James—and in a far more personal way than their parents, after six years of school with together. Sirius was only now beginning to grasp the reason for it.
Lily kept telling him that Regulus saw James as his "replacement", and as absurd as that idea was—could their be a more striking contrast than Prongs and Reggie?—he couldn't deny that envy and resentment were mixed into every hostile look.
Well—they would have the whole night to sort it out between them.
"Great. You've been reacquainted," Sirius said, flatly, gathering up stray papers from the coffee table. "I'm sure you'll have a pleasant evening."
Sirius was eager to be shot of both of them.
"Why're you dressed like that?" James asked, looking away from the shorter boy to take in what his friend was wearing. The dress robes were over-the-top, but the fur-trimmed sleeves and cap were nothing Orion would have worn, and every time James had seen Sirius in robes the past week, they had been his father's.
"I'm not at liberty to get into it at the present time," Sirius said, airily. He checked in his interior pocket that he had his flask of Polyjuice Potion for about the fourth time.
Regulus let out a hard, humorless laugh.
"Don't you know where he's going?" he sneered at James. "I thought it was obvious."
Sirius turned and gave his brother a rather condescending look.
"What's 'obvious'?" he asked, staring down his nose at the shorter boy, still standing in the doorway.
Regulus hesitated—but only for a moment.
"That you and that Auror Frank Longbottom think you're going to sneak into Malfoy Manor tonight in disguise."
Sirius's face flushed, and he narrowed his eyes suspiciously at his brother, who now looked somewhere between fierce and petrified at his own daring.
"Well, well—a week of 'mum's the word, I don't know anything,'" Sirius said, silkily. "And suddenly you're a wealth of Death Eater intel."
"You're just not very good at keeping your mouth shut, that's all," Regulus shot back, coldly. "Why else would you have asked Father if Lucius was coming to the party at dinner last night? You're so obvious."
But Sirius was not interested in his brother's perfectly reasonable explanation—or admitting the fault was his own indiscretion. James remained glued to the couch—eyes flitting between the brothers.
"What do you know about tonight?"
"Nothing," Regulus retorted, but his eyes flitted down evasively. "All I know is that you're being an idiot. You're going to get caught."
"If you really think that, tell me what you know," Sirius pressed, with growing frustration. "You can help me end this. Unless you want to be stuck in my flat for the rest of your life."
"You think you're invincible, Sirius," Regulus said, crossing to his brother, and he actually pulled out his wand. "But you've no idea what you're up against."
It was the most candid Regulus had been with Sirius since the night he'd brought the locket, but Sirius couldn't help but lash out at the implication he couldn't handle himself—from Regulus, of all wizards.
"I'm know what I'm doing," he said, coldly.
"When have you ever known what you were doing?"
"D'you think you're really in a position to be lecturing other people on bad life decisions, Reg?" Sirius asked, coolness punctuating every word. "With the company you've been keeping?"
"Maybe you should look to the company you've been keeping."
Regulus's eyes flicked to James, still sitting on the couch watching them, expressionless. Potter didn't even blink, but for Sirius, it was impossible to miss the implication.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he snarled.
"Nothing—just," Regulus's voice faltered. "You've been lucky up until now—and you don't know how much they hate you."
"I've got a pretty good idea, actually," he laughed, carelessly.
"Well, it's going to get you killed!"
"Then at least I'll have died for something—"
"—Leaving me to clean up your mess, as usual!" his brother snapped, his voice rising a decibel. "Explain to Mum and Dad what happened, when they find what's left of you—if there even is anything to find."
Sirius clenched his jaw—fresh out of comebacks.
Regulus turned on James, his sneer more pronounced than ever.
"You're his mate, aren't you? Since he refuses to listen to me, maybe he will you."
He turned back around, marched to the kitchen door and slammed it shut behind him. The muffled sound of the bedroom door being slammed followed closely.
There was a long period of silence. Sirius's best friend cleared his throat delicately and stood up.
"Erm—sorry about that." As his friend walked over, he threw James an apologetic look.
"It's fine, Sirius."
"It's really not." Sirius shook his head, ruefully. "He's going to be even more of a pain tonight than usual, I'm—"
"Padfoot—" James interrupted him, quickly. "Is that really what you and Frank are doing tonight?"
He stared at the door for another long moment, then sighed. Was there any point in lying about it, now? If Reggie knew—he was still wrapping his mind around the plausibility of him having figured it out from a single question at dinner—why shouldn't he admit it to Prongs? He trusted James with his life. Dumbledore, Moody and Frank couldn't expect him to keep this from his best friend.
"Yeah," he said, ruefully. "It is."
Prongs's reaction was immediate and could not have been more different than his little brother's.
"Damn—that's brilliant!" James said, his voice filed with envy. "How're you pulling it off? How're you getting in?"
Sirius pulled the flask out of his pocket and shook it in front of James's face.
"Polyjuice potion. Frank, too. It's near fool-proof, the plan."
That wasn't true, not by a long-shot: but to see James's expression now, Sirius felt like it might be. The glint in his best friend's eye was fast on the way to shoving Regulus's concern to the back of his brain, to only be examined after the deed was done—if ever.
"I wish I was going with you."
Sirius's saw the flash of that familiar grin, and he felt an immediate surge of affection for the bespectacled git with terrible hair. All the anger and resentment of the day was, if not forgotten, forestalled for the moment. Prongs had that effect on him.
He gave his friend a little pat on the shoulder.
"I'll tell you all about it when I get back tonight," he assured him, smirking deviously. James punched him on the arm.
"If you aren't caught, that is," James laughed.
Sirius joined in his laughter—the very idea was absurd, after all.
If the years of their friendship had taught him one thing—it was how to avoid getting caught.
"Good news about Narcissa, isn't it?"
Orion Black looked up from the glass of punch he'd been staring at for well over four minutes to meet a pair of eyes that were—like so many in the room—cold, gray, identical to his own, and watching him with an intentness he did not particularly care for.
It was a look he'd known his entire life—one only his father ever gave him.
"It is," he agreed, setting the untouched cup back on the table. "Overdue news."
Arcturus Black—slightly stoop-shouldered, dark hair elegantly gray at the temple—gave his only son a brittle smile and raised his hand, gesturing that he should follow.
Orion did so without comment. If his father wanted to speak to him, he had no choice.
They crossed the room, stopping at the back wall.
"You're not wrong. I was starting to wonder—after four years, you know," Arcturus said, settling into the corner from which he was best situated to observe the throng of people. "—If there was something—amiss."
Orion snorted, amused.
"With the marriage?" he asked, voice dry. "I would hope not—not after she pushed so hard for it."
They exchanged knowing looks. Narcissa had been smitten with Lucius in a manner considered faintly indecent by much of the family, including her own father.
"True enough," Arcturus laughed. "Let's say I was concerned there might be—a deficiency."
'With the groom' was the unspoken end to that sentence.
"He managed to produce a son on the first go, at least," Orion remarked, his eyes wandering over to the gaggle of women by the punch table. His niece stood at the center, her face flushed, an unmistakeable air of self-satisfaction hovering about her.
"That signifies nothing," Arcturus snapped, coldly. "All that matters is that one produces a son eventually."
This abrupt turn surprised Orion, and he turned sideways to look the Black patriarch. The older man's eyes were flinty.
He realized, with a start, that his father thought the idle comment—a throwaway one meant only to fill a gap in conversation—had been a suggestion of some deficiency in him.
After all, Orion was nearly four years younger than Lucretia.
"And of course—" Arcturus continued, his icy stare fixed steadily on Orion. "A son who is a disgrace to his family is far worse than even the most mediocre daughter."
The intended meaning of this remark was like a glacier in Arctic waters—largely hidden beneath the surface, but blazingly obvious to anyone with the slightest bit of.
Orion gave his father an impassive nod. He was the last one who could argue with Arcturus on that score.
Particularly now.
"I'm sure Narcissa will take great care that the Malfoy name is not…discredited," the younger Black replied, voice heavy with irony.
There was a long pause, then Arcturus raised a glass in the direction of the center of the hall and spoke in a smooth and perfectly personable tone.
"Walburga seems well," the old man said, his gaze traveling back to the grouping of women. "Though…distracted."
Orion followed his gaze and looked at his wife, in between two of her sisters-in-law.
"It's the boy," he answered, shortly. "She's—concerned."
It wasn't entirely a lie—but Arcturus Black knew it wasn't entirely the truth, either.
"Is that really it?" Arturus's eyes narrowed in the direction of his daughter-in-law. "Doesn't seem like her, somehow."
"Women—it's always the same," his son said, still staring at his wife. Druella was chattering in her ear, and she was plainly not listening to a word. "When it comes to their sons, even the sensible ones fall to pieces."
"That's true," Arcturus murmured in agreement before taking another sip of his port. "Your mama used to fuss over you something terrible. I had to break her of it."
"Did you?" Orion said, vaguely. If that were true, Arcturus must've done it when he was still in his cradle. He had not a single memory of his mother doing anything that could be remotely described as 'fussing'. Melania had always done exactly as her husband told her, of course.
A wife who did as she was told, he thought, still watching his. Rather like a son who did as he was told, it was a novel concept for him.
"As for Regulus, and this marriage business—" His father's tone turned brisk and businesslike, and Orion knew instantly that this was the real reason he'd been dragged to this remote spot, that up until now the small talk had been a perfunctory introduction to the meat of the audience. "Frankly, I am astounded I wasn't consulted."
"I'm sorry, Father," Orion apologized on reflex—a habit born of a lifetime of cultivation. "It all happened rather suddenly."
"Very suddenly—as you seem to have seen fit to ship him off in the middle of the night," Arcturus said, archly.
He didn't reply. He could read his father's tone well—no reply was necessary, and to talk back would be dangerous.
"As a consequence—you've left me at my own birthday party with no grandson."
Orion suppressed a snort, thinking of what Arcturus would be doing if Regulus were here—browbeating the boy for being soft, no doubt.
"He was very sorry to miss it," he told his father, evenly. "I have a letter from him to that effect."
Arcturus's waved his hand impatiently, signaling in no uncertain terms that birthday greetings from Orion's son were of little importance.
"You should have insisted these people bring the girl here," Arcturus said, severely. "If it comes off, she'll have to move to England, anyway."
"Perfectly true," he said, masking his wariness.
"What was the surname, again?"
"Melonponce. It's the Provencal branch, I don't think you've met the parents."
"And I suppose the dowry being discussed is—substantial?"
"It is," Orion lied, smoothly. It wasn't a difficult lie. If he and Walburga were truly going to throw away the only son they had—in the larger family's eyes, at least—on a no-name house like the Melonponces, there would definitely be a large exchange of gold in the offing. "I will get your approval before anything's agreed to."
This answer, far from mollifying him, only seemed to displease Arcturus more.
"Gold isn't what that boy needs—not with the amount he's coming into, Orion," his father snapped. "What he needs is a girl with a name—a real name. And one who preferably comes from good childbearing stock."
It made sense that on his father's birthday Arcturus would be preoccupied with his legacy, but that didn't make his son any less annoyed about the sniping that a Black son hadn't been born in nearly two decades, as if that was entirely his fault.
"What would you have me do?" Orion said, and he didn't have to feign his impatience. "There aren't any of the right age in this country."
"I'm not opposed to a French chit—if the name and breeding are good enough. A Theriault or Vigouroux would suit perfectly well—from what I understand, the pureblood men are thin on the ground in France—he'd have his pick. If you'd spoken to me you'd know you didn't even have to send him over."
"Why not?"
"They're already coming to us." Arcturus pointed one clawed hand back towards the gaggle of females. "See?"
Orion looked in the direction his father was pointing and frowned.
Narcissa was talking to a girl—brown hair, average height, utterly unremarkable from a distance—that if he had noticed at all, he would've assumed was one of her friends from school.
"Who is she?" he asked, turning back towards his father, knowing that he was expected to beg the question.
"A Battancourt—from one of the Norman branches," Arcturus remarked, with dispassion of a man talking about horse stock. "Eugenie Fawley's great-niece—freshly arrived from Rouen just yesterday."
Orion raised an eyebrow. The Battancourts were one of oldest and largest of the French magical families—in no small part due to their supposed propensity for producing fertile daughters and virile sons. They had a history of intermarrying with the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, which supposedly went back to before the Blacks had even been English—or so it was said.
But there hadn't been a Battanoncourt-Black union in at least two centuries, of that Orion was certain.
This particular Battancourt, upon closer inspection, was rather younger than his niece—she couldn't have been older than eighteen, barely out of the schoolroom. She appeared attentive enough to Cissy—though, as Narcissa and she were the only two young women in the room, it made sense that the mademoiselle had been thrown in with her.
"So she's a quarter English, then?" Orion asked—his father nodded. The fact that the girl had a grandparent who was a Fawley made her mildly more interesting—he knew nothing of the northern branch of her French relations, but the Fawleys were purebloods of the first order. "How did she end up here?"
"Your father-in-law invited the aunt, I think. No doubt he felt pity for the spinster Fawley—living in the middle of Cornwall, all alone."
"And I suppose you've a point to make by drawing my attention to this girl?" his son asked, keeping the sarcasm out of his voice only with great difficulty. His father's expression blackened.
"Only this," he said, voice curt. "In terms of name alone that chit is a far better match for Regulus than whatever Melonponce you have him bowing and scraping for."
"Well—if this marriage doesn't take, I'll keep that in mind," Orion said, voice tight, dragging his eyes away from the undoubtedly very silly girl he had no interest in whatsoever. "How are you enjoying your party, Father?"
"Don't try to change to subject, Orion," Arcturus said, narrowing his eyes.
"What else have you to say?" his son replied, temper finally up. It was rare that he lost his ironclad control, but the last week had tested his patience like none other in his life.
"About your slip of a son getting married? Plenty." The Elder Black took another long drink from his goblet. "He's far too young. You should wait a few years. Some English girls will come of age and be suitable. The Greengrasses have a few girls who must be fourteen or fifteen now—better Regulus marry youth than wisdom, I'd say."
The pointed sneer in his voice was too pronounced not to be a deliberate jab at his son—whose wife, the wife Arcturus had selected for him, was four years his senior.
"I'm not disagreeing," Orion replied, curtly. "Only it's an idea of Walburga's—"
"Stop indulging your wife's every whim, then!" his father cut him off, sharply. Orion started, surprised by the vehemence in the older wizard's voice.
"I would hardly describe a mutual decision for the benefit of our family an 'indulgence," he said, rather cooly. Arcturus was either in a bad temper or in his cups—possibly both, to be speaking to Orion this way.
"You let her get her way far too often—and you do indulge her," his father sneered. "Pollux told me she has some absurd notion that the family is not having Christmas Eve at Grimmauld Place this year."
Orion resisted the urge to rub his temple. Of course his father-in-law had spread the news around—he must've heard it from Walburga's brother, the only one they'd floated the idea to. Cygnus never could resist the urge to needle him—the temptation to spread gossip that solicitous around was too great at a family affair of this size.
His father was taking it about as well as one would expect.
"It was only an idea we had—"
"She can forget it," Arcturus said, flatly. "We have never not had the Christmas Eve celebrations at Grimmauld Place, and I see no reason why we wouldn't this year. You will kindly tell her if she's in such an uproar over the loss of her son's company that she can't comport herself as a wife and hostess, she should have her husband recall him from France for the occasion."
A long silence followed this bloodless pronouncement.
"Is there anything else, sir?"
"Yes—if you really intend to marry Regulus off," his father said, icily. "Then I trust you've got the estate and will in order—everything made right?"
"I've an interested party looking into the matter as we speak," Orion replied, cryptically. "It'll be dealt with before any marriage."
"Good. You've been putting that off far too long, anyway—" His eyes narrowed. "And don't think I don't know why."
"I don't know what you mean, Father."
Arcturus turned towards him, his sneer more pronounced than ever.
"Your wife isn't the only one in this family with sentimental notions about sons."
His father drained his goblet and tossed it, carelessly, on the floor. Orion watched it fall to the ground and roll under a table. An elf appeared, almost immediately, to pick it up and clean the dregs of wine off the stone. His father hadn't noticed and didn't care—he doubted Arcturus Black had noticed the presence of a house-elf he hadn't called for himself in at least forty years.
"I trust you understand me, Orion."
"Perfectly," Orion said, in the mildest voice imaginable. His father stepped back from the wall, apparently to rejoin his birthday party, the friendly conversation over and done with. His only son had never in his life been happier to see the back of him—and then Arcturus turned around, presumably to deliver the final blow.
"One more thing—" He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "I want you to do me a favor."
That meant he was to do what his father said, of course.
"What is it?"
"Keep a sharp eye out."
"For what?"
"Gatecrashers." He pronounced the word with distaste. "I've been reliably informed some might turn up."
The idea that someone would dare was bewildering to his son—but they lived in a bewildering age.
"How could they possibly get it?" Orion asked, lowering his own voice. They were still alone on this side of the room. "Doesn't he have secrecy sensors?"
"I gather he has them calibrated for blood. If it were mudbloods or half-bloods trying to sneak in, we'd know at once." Arcturus's mouth flattened. "Blood traitors are another matter. They're always harder to suss out—so I need you to be watchful."
"And what am I looking for, exactly?" Orion said, sarcasm heavy in his voice. Arcturus pretended not to notice it.
"Anything unusual. If they do manage to get in the door, they shouldn't be hard to spot. After all—" Arcturus shrugged. "—It won't be anyone from our family."
And with that the old man, spritely for seventy-eight, turned and walked over to join the other elder statesman present, who was waving at him merrily from across the hall.
The unlikely host of his birthday party: Abraxas Malfoy, whose Wiltshire manor they were all currently standing in.
He'd have been spared this new drama if the family had remained in Suffolk, Orion thought, bleakly, as he looked out over the magnificent main hall of the stately manor where his family—and a few of Narcissa's in-laws' friends and relations—were milling about. The Malfoys' ballroom was already decorated for Christmas, with a 12-foot-tall tree at every corner, handsome silver and gold ornaments sparkling in the candlelight of a hundred floating tapers.
All the guests—save him and his wife—were in high spirits.
Every other Black had been positively thrilled at the last minute change in the arrangements, but Orion, ever the cynic, saw the gesture for what it was. What his father's friend and sometimes-rival had done was akin to crowing—though he claimed spiriting the Blacks away from Noire House was an act of goodwill in honor of his grandson's impending birth and the great friendship between their two families, Arcturus and his son knew better.
Friendship indeed—Orion could have laughed. The Malfoys and the Blacks might do business together, socialize—even occasionally inter-marry—but they weren't friends.
Abraxas's idea of 'friendship' was rubbing this unborn child—the elusive Malfoy heir and continuation of the dynasty—in Arcturus's face, and his father had seen fit to take out his displeasure on his own son. It might've been an evening of entertainment at the Malfoys' expense, but Orion was the one paying the price—for now he had been given a task that by all accounts should have been Lucius's—making sure these intruders were dealt with quickly and quietly.
He looked around the room, wondering what his father's 'source' of information was. Who would dare infiltrate a room full of the members of the two greatest wizard clans in Britain?
Orion's eyes fell on his father, deep in conversation with the elder Malfoy—he was laughing—and briefly fantasized about how quickly Arcturus's preening expression would change if he were to be told where his younger grandson really was. How would he react upon learning that Walburga was using Phineas Nigellus's portrait to pass messages to Albus Dumbledore, a wizard whose views, philosophy and manners were antithetical to everything Arcturus held dear?
If his father knew that he would probably keel over on the spot.
He pictured the old man gripping his chest, collapsing on the floor—and found the image of Arcturus's death far less disturbing than it ought to have been. It was actually perversely gratifying to imagine himself well shot of his father. He found it easier to control his anger at the old man for speaking to him—his grown son—as if he were a child straight out of the nursery.
Orion hadn't earned it. How dare that cantankerous, cold-blooded old—
You're starting to sound like Sirius, now.
Orion pushed the treacherous thought aside and scowled. He needed a real drink—whisky. The wizard strode back towards the table where the refreshments were, determined to summon a servant if necessary.
God knows he needed to fortify himself for this interminable evening.
When he arrived at the long oak table there were no house-elves to be found anywhere. Thoroughly irritated, Orion served himself another cup of wassail, muttering curses under his breath—curses that were not directed at either Arcturus or the absentee hosts of this damned party.
Mr. Black leaned back on the table and looked at the group of women, again. Walburga was talking to his sister, now—or rather, being talked at. Normally she was a veritable social butterfly—his wife never let other women control conversations, she was keenly aware that she held the highest social position of any of them in the family and was not afraid to exert it—but he could see even across the room how distant and distracted she was. Her mind wasn't here, and he knew exactly where it was.
It was back at the Lisson Grove flat with their two sons.
He had to give Sirius credit, Mr. Black thought, swirling his glass absently. He had a talent for making himself the center of attention—even three years gone.
All morning long he had been forced to listen to his wife's strictures against her firstborn—the low women she believed he was cavorting with, the stratagems she planned on using to stop it—until Orion had almost been glad for this blasted party, if only because it gave him a break from her incessant harping.
By Salazar, he thought, taking a swig of his drink, could Sirius rile Walburga up.
How could a boy as clever as he be so stupid when it came to his own mother? He must've realized that she took his threats to marry a Muggle girl seriously. He almost felt sorry for his son.
The key word was 'almost'.
Pity was, in truth, the last thing he would claim to feel, now. Pity was not something that came naturally to him, anway—not even self-pity, which he was veering dangerously close to. He no more wished to pity himself than the one he blamed for all of this.
For this was all his elder son's fault, in the end. It had occurred to Orion the night all of this had begun, and once he had the idea, nothing could dislodge it.
If Sirius hadn't run away from home, none of this would have happened.
Orion's certainty on this point was unequivocal—without knowing quite the reason why, he knew it, and it made his anger far more potent. He could date everything that had gone wrong in his life in the past three years, everything that had lead them to this point in time—to that single event. No rational argument—and he had made many in his own head, spent hours arguing with himself over it—could sway Mr. Black.
If his life was like a watch—precisely ordered, exact—three years ago it had been dropped from a great height, and no amount of replacement springs or fiddling would make it run right again. The blow had left permanent damage.
A simple, neat and clean explanation that allowed him to singularly focus his anger—and conveniently ignore that the feelings of intense disappointment did not naturally tend in that direction.
"I thought I was preempting you."
He set the cup back down on the table, the taste in his mouth soured.
That wasn't the only thing his stubborn son had said of late that was haunting Orion. He had been turning Sirius's outburst from dinner over in his mind all day. As much as he had taken great pleasure in ordering the insolent boy to be silent, he had to admit that his son was right. What they were doing now was hardly sustainable.
The cracks were already beginning to show.
He should have known his father would lash out over the supposed marriage—Arcturus was probably very close to actually forbidding it out of spite, and ordering his son to recall his grandson from the Continent. The best-case scenario would be several weeks of protracted fictional negotiations—and then Regulus would be expected to return to England to present his fiancée. There was no such witch.
They had a Christmas reprieve. He stared down into his glass, gloomily.
January would be bleak.
"You look as though you could use something rather stronger."
The soft drawl in his ear startled Orion out of his thoughts.
"Am I that obvious?" he asked, dryly, turning to the young man he had not even noticed approach him.
Lucius Malfoy, resplendent in black velvet and smiling faintly, held out a goblet to the older wizard. Orion took it and looked down at the rich mahogany liquid.
Lucius's eyes lingered on the punch bowl.
"That was put out for the ladies."
Orion nodded and took a drink from the goblet. It warmed his chest.
"Better?"
"Infinitely."
They stood together in comfortable silence. It gave Orion time to study his nephew by marriage unabated. At twenty-five, Lucius was everything the Malfoy heir should be: married to a witch of impeccable reputation and breeding—Orion had never had much attachment to any of his nieces, but he could hardly deny that Narcissa was at least the best behaved—who was now pregnant with a male heir. He was poised to take over his elderly father's holdings, the best-respected pureblood wizard of his age.
Once upon a time Orion had been in much the same position. Alas—pride before the fall, always. He told himself that was where the source of his disquiet over Lucius originated from—and not any irrational dislike he might've felt for the younger wizard.
Looking so smugly pleased with himself in the Malfoy family seat, it was difficult not to think of Sirius's less than flattering descriptions of him as being rather apt.
"I was very sorry not to see Regulus, this evening," Lucius said, breaking the silence.
"You weren't the only one," Orion said, his smile mainly ironic. Lucius followed his gaze in the direction of their fathers, still deep in conversation.
Lucius paused—considered his next words carefully.
"Narcissa was…surprised to hear about the possibility of a marriage," he drawled, casually. "As was I. We assumed it would be several years off still."
His uncle said nothing.
"How are the negotiations?"
Orion snorted. Apparently everyone in this family thought the business of who Regulus married was their affair.
"They're…progressing," he answered, vaguely.
Subtext: not well, and Lucius, in a uncharacteristic misread of the situation, took it as an opening.
"Narcissa is inordinately fond of him, you know—and like many women happily married, wishes everyone else the same."
Lucius's eyes rested on his wife and he smiled, fondly. The look did not go unnoticed by the woman's uncle. Whatever his less desirable qualities, Orion thought, at least Lucius's affections for his young wife were sincere.
When the younger Malfoy turned back to the older wizard, his expression was smooth as silk again.
"I've been bid to tell you that, should his current venture fall short, she is happy to suggest her new friend, Mademoiselle Battancourt, as an alternative."
Not even having been introduced to this Battancourt girl, and already Orion felt predisposed to dislike her.
"It seems after only a short time married," he observed, caustically. "You've come to see the wisdom of keeping a wife placated by doing as you're told."
Lucius chuckled.
"Guilty. It's a silly idea, I'm sure—" He sipped from his drink again. "I didn't see the harm in passing it on: and now I can say honestly that I have."
"Not so silly. She and my father are of the same mind, actually."
"Oh?"
"He is…old-fashioned. He believes a name is more important than a dowry."
"I hope you didn't argue, sir."
Orion's expression turned rather cold.
"A mere—disagreement," he remarked, annoyed at the assumption of familiarity between them. At least Lucius had enough sense not to call Orion 'uncle'—they were only related by marriage, after all.
Lucius took a deep drink from his own glass, and Orion took his own opening.
"I understand we're to expect unwanted guests," he remarked, evenly. Lucius choked on his wine. "Two of them, he said."
Lucius recovered quickly.
"My father knows how to keep a secret—"
"—About as well as mine," Orion finished for him, not without humor. Lucius's smile did not meet his eyes. "He told me no particulars, only to keep a sharp eye out. You've nothing to fear from me."
"I wouldn't concern yourself with it, Orion," Lucius reassured him, smoothly—too smoothly for his liking. Orion could hear the dismissal implicit—and it stirred both his interest and his pride. "If there are intruders, they will be…dealt with. And in all honesty…" His lip curled. "I have doubts about my source of information."
Unlike his niece's husband, Orion was not so green as to press for further information on that point.
"I must admit," he continued, keeping his voice purposefully bland. "I find it hard to believe there are wizards foolhardy enough to try to deceive a man such as your father—or yourself."
Malfoy laughed and swirled his drink, the very picture of well-bred urbanity.
"Alas, I'm afraid these days there are many such fools."
Mr. Black couldn't help but notice how coldly unamused the younger man looked as he said those words.
"I thought you said there were only going to be a few people here," Sirius muttered to Frank. "This line is taking forever."
"Shut up," Frank hissed and jabbed him in the ribs. "You don't speak English, remember?"
He bit back the sharp retort as the line of guests waiting to get into Malfoy Manor moved forward.
Keep your mouth shut and your eyes and ears open. That was the inner mantra Sirius had come up with for tonight. He didn't have to say anything, which made his part of this job far easier than Frank's, as Svensson's 'friend' Frederick Klöcker—business partner and lackey—he would be doing the talking and 'translating' for him in every social interaction.
The thickset blond man of thirty-two whose skin Sirius was currently inhabiting spoke little English, was of a purportedly shy nature (though from the report Sirius had read, he seemed to have a never-ending string of mistresses) and had an astronomical amount of money.
It was Frank's job to sell the idea that they were trustworthy enough to be let into the room where the target would be supposedly passing the information.
All Sirius had to do was shut up and listen.
He was beginning to understand why Moody was reluctant to give him this assignment—he wasn't particularly good at either of those things.
"Invitations?"
Frank held out the gilded cards to the door-wizard—a oily-voiced elderly man that Sirius would have taken for a servant if he didn't know that the Malfoys kept house-elves.
"They are genuine, you will find," Frank said, with a heavily-accented voice. His partner had been told not to speak unless spoken to by a clear equal, and then to only say 'yes', 'no', or look to Frank for a translation, so Sirius merely fixed the door-wizard with a look of utmost contempt. It wasn't difficult—he had a rather shifty and unpleasant demeanor. He looked vaguely familiar—Sirius thought he might've been guarding the door at Cissy's wedding.
The wizard eyed them with suspicion—perhaps because of their foreign appearances—but he took the gold cards from Frank's hand without comment. He waved a wand over them, and the pink glow of the spell clearly indicated their authenticity, for when he looked up his oily smile had turned gracious.
"Mr. Svensson, is it?" he asked, in a manner meant to ingratiate.
"Mr. Klöcker," Frank said, cooly. "This is Mr. Svensson. I trust the host is expecting us, yah?"
The wizard bowed them into the antechamber—the front doors closed behind them, and as soon as they were shut, a heavy chain came up and snaked its way around lock, bolting it firmly shut.
"He is. Everyone is in the ballroom."
"Ballroom?" Frank repeated, as they followed the doorman down the handsome, carpeted hallway. A series of impressive portraits of blond witches and wizards stared down at them as they glided through. "We were told—there were to be no ladies."
"A—last minute alteration in plans," their guide said, courtesy dripping from every word. "Do not worry, gentlemen—Mr. Malfoy has not changed his intentions where the planned festivities are concerned. You will merely be treated to more engaging company."
The heavy mahogany doors of the ballroom swung open to reveal the glittering hall, decorated sumptuously for Christmas. The man bowed them inside with a promise that their host would see to them shortly, and shut the ballroom doors again.
Instead of ten or twenty guests, there was something closer to eighty witches and wizards milling about the magnificent ballroom of Malfoy Manor. A long food and drink table stood on the far side of the hallway. Fairies hovered about the four Christmas trees, each situated at a corner of the hall. A string quartet was playing, all on its own, next to a raised dais.
A wave of immediate, inexplicable dread rolled over Sirius.
He turned back towards the door and faced Frank. The Auror was also surprised—but Longbottom was trained to adapt to any circumstance, and he was clearly already evaluating their options in light of the new development.
"I don't like this," Sirius hissed in his partner's ear. "This isn't what we were promised."
They'd been in the room for two seconds and he was already panicking—what was wrong with him?
"We need to scope it out before we jump to any conclusions," the older man soothed. "More people could make this job easier for us."
"I'm telling you, there's something not right—"
"Pardon me."
Very slowly, Sirius turned around to face the intruder into their private conversation.
At the sight of her, his entire body went rigid.
The witch was tall and fashionably dressed, a dark-haired woman of about fifty-five, with a glittering diamond clutch in one hand. She surveyed the pair of them cooly.
Frank looked between the witch and Sirius—who looked as shocked as a deer about to be run over by a train—with bewilderment.
"I am sorry, madam?" Frank said, glancing sideways at Sirius. He was gaping unabashedly at the woman in shock, and the rudeness of it had drawn her attention. "We did not hear you."
"I said, pardon me," the witch huffed impatiently, her eyes narrowing a fraction. "You're blocking the door."
"Yes—excuse us, madam." Frank nodded stiffly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sirius do the same—even more stilted and awkward than he was, if that was possible. "No offense was meant by it."
Black had gotten so into his character that he was apparently incapable of speech—for all he did was gape. Frank kicked his companion, and Sirius stepped mechanically out of the way and watched as the woman marched past them and into the hallway, looking haughty as she did so.
"Who is that?" Frank asked, as soon as the door shut behind her. Sirius was still staring, glassy-eyed, looking as though someone had died. "Do you know her?"
"Her name is…Lucretia Prewett," he answered, automatically.
"Prewett?" Frank repeated, surprised. "Like Gid and Fabe?"
"She's their aunt," he informed Frank, woodenly. "But she shouldn't be here."
"Why not?"
"She's supposed to be in Suffolk, that's fucking why."
He knew what that feeling had been when they entered the ballroom—damn it, he had recognized that feeling.
It couldn't be.
He spun around and scanned the hall—everywhere his eyes looked confirmed the awful truth.
The room was teaming with them. There wasn't a single huddled group of party-goers absent at least one tall, dark-haired tosser.
And then his eyes fell on the person he'd been dreading the most—there, in the center of it all, deep in conversation with Abraxas Malfoy, looking just as ageless and self-satisfied as ever, a crowd of sycophantic courtiers hovering about him—just the picture his grandson had in mind the previous evening, in fact.
The patriarch of the Black family, his paternal grandfather: Arcturus Black.
Fuck.
"We've got to get out of here, Frank," he said, pulling the other man close to him so he could whisper. "Now."
"Why?"
"Because this place is crawling with them."
"Death Eaters?"
"No—even worse."
Someone began to clink a champagne glass—and an echoing wave followed, everyone in the hall delicately chiming their crystal to hush the room for a toast.
Abraxas climbed onto the dais, and to Sirius's horror—though not shock—his grandfather followed.
The room fell into a reverent hush.
"Welcome, welcome all," the Master of the house addressed them, voice pleased and preening. "Thank you for coming to this—impromptu celebration. We are gathered here to celebrate the most important of all things: the birth of wizards of pureblood."
Sirius slowly backed towards the door. Frank held him fast by his arm.
"I am to expect a grandson in the early summer, as you know," Abraxas drawled, looking about the sea of faces. Many of them must've smiled back, for he looked pleased at what he saw. "And it is thanks, in no small part, to the man at my right—who allowed my son to steal away one of the many glittering jewels of his family—my daughter-in-law, Narcissa."
The room tittered appreciatively at this quip, and Arcturus nodded to Cissy, who curtsied back to him, her face flushed with pleasure.
"His family—and hers—are my special guests this evening, which as many of you know is an important occasion." There was a smattering of polite laughter. "In honor of his birthday—and the newest addition to both of our houses—I ask that everyone in the room raise their glass to my dearest friend—"
He gestured, with one gnarled hand, to the man at his right, and then raised his goblet high.
"—To Arcturus Black."
Everyone in the room—even Frank, who had managed to grab a glass of champagne from a passing tray—also raised their glasses.
Everyone but Sirius, who was still staring around the room, searching frantically for the two people he hoped for and dreaded even more than his grandfather.
"—To Arcturus Black," the guests echoed, a monotonous thunder.
Sirius had a sudden prickling on his neck: another feeling he recognized, the sensation of being observed by one person. His searching about the hall became more frantic.
As every other person in the room drank deeply from their glasses, their eyes met.
His father, Orion Black, glass still aloft in the air, the toast clearly forgotten—was staring right at him.
"…Blacks."