"'Were—were your parents Death Eaters as well?"
'No, no, but believe me, they thought Voldemort had the right idea, they were all for the purification of the Wizarding race, getting rid of Muggle-borns and having purebloods in charge. They weren't alone either, there were quite a few people, before Voldemort showed his true colors, who thought he had the right idea about things…they got cold feet when they saw what he was prepared to do to get power, though…'"
-J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
CHAPTER 4
"You're late."
The man being addressed so curtly stepped out of the fireplace of the drawing room of Malfoy Manor. He was thickset, clad in hooded robes, and the heavy, fur-lined cloak he wore made the long shadow he cast on the wall look more like a bear's than a man's.
Rodolphus Lestrange lowered his hood and stared into the cold, gray eyes of Lucius Malfoy—intimate childhood companion, schoolmate and, for four years, his brother-in-law.
"Are we alone?" Rodolphus asked, brushing clumps of snow off his shoulders. His cloak was caked with a layer of ice so thick it had survived traveling by Floo.
"I was beginning to think you weren't coming," Lucius snapped back, impatient, ignoring the question. "I've been making excuses for you to Cygnus all night."
Explaining Rodolphus's absence to their father-in-law had evidently been a heavy burden, for Malfoy sounded very put-out. His friend shrugged.
"I came as soon as I was able," Rodolphus said, flatly. Lucius narrowed his eyes. "That should be enough for you, at least, Lucius, even if it doesn't satisfy him."
Lucius watched the other man pick up a bottle of port that been left on the mantle and take a straight swig. Though he voiced no objection, he did little to hide his distaste for the behavior. Manners had never been Rodolphus's strong-suit, and thirty years of age, it seemed unlikely he was going to change due to fraternal correction from this quarter.
"Where is Rabastan?"
"Coming," Lestrange said, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve.
"…And your wife?"
He lowered the bottle, slowly. Rodolphus's dark eyes flickered with something unfathomable—it might have been an emotion. It was difficult to say.
"Staying," he answered, after a moment. He slammed the empty bottle back on the mantle with unnecessary force.
Lucius's own eyes glittered.
"For how long?"
His brother-in-law grunted and turned his back to Lucius, warming his hands by the fire.
"When I find out, you'll be the first to know," he said, in a leaden voice. Malfoy stared at his friend's back and considered his next words very carefully. Of course, he always chose his words with care—he was a fastidious man, both by birth and inclination—but Rodolphus had a touchy temper, and he needed a light touch.
"Bellatrix is very fortunate that Regulus is also not here." Lucius looked over the mantlepiece, at his own ghostly reflection in the gilded mirror, then back down at Lestrange. "His absence is drawing all the attention away from hers."
"He's still not back from France yet?" Rodolphus turned around again. He looked surprised at this piece of news—and displeased.
"I gather…not."
The thickset wizard sneered. While Lucius could carry off such an expression—his pointed features contorted thusly only increased the aura of disdainful urbanity that he fostered—on Rodolphus it made him look even less polished, more brutal. He was the sort of man one could picture more easily in a boxing ring than a ballroom.
He had been bred, true—but to hunt, not to be shown.
"It was stupid of him to go in the first place," Rodolphus spat, harshly. "He lets his mother walk all over him. He needs to cut the apron strings—or have them cut."
"Regulus may be young—but he is no fool," Lucius said, coldly. "He knows to come if he's been summoned, whether he's in France or England."
"Bella thinks he's soft."
"Bellatrix thinks everyone is soft," Lucius retorted, quietly.
At this, Rodolphus laughed—a flat, humorless snigger that betrayed how bone-tired he was.
"Compared to her, everyone is."
This was a statement so self-evident no reply was necessary.
"What news?" he asked, instead. "What of tonight?"
"The plan goes ahead."
Lucius let out out a soft hiss of displeasure, rather like a snake. His brother-in-law merely stared at him, dark eyes shining dully in the firelight. It was always difficult to guess what he was thinking—most people didn't think anything was happening behind those dark and shuttered windows. Malfoy knew better. Rodolphus might've had a mind that was slow and deliberate—but he was also methodical, and when Lestrange came to a decision, he was relentless in his pursuit of his ends.
A predator at his core.
"I don't like it."
Rodolphus let out a cold laugh, then threw himself down into one of the nearby high, wing-backed chairs.
"You want to argue the point, be my guest." He jabbed at the fire with his index finger. The nail was jagged and dirty. There was something dark under his fingernails—Malfoy suspected it was not, as first appearances suggested, dirt. "I don't envy you the reception you'll get."
Lucius sat down across from Rodolphus. The traveler pulled off his cloak, revealing more of the same mysterious stains on his robes—even in the low light of the drawing room, it was obvious what the larger man was covered in.
"You're going to want to change, of course," Lucius remarked, idly, giving him a critical look. "Given the…occasion."
"What occasion?"
"Arcturus's birthday," Malfoy said, his silky voice betraying his impatience. Rodolphus blinked up at him—whether he was playing stupid or had actually forgotten the reason his father-in-law was present at the manor, it was difficult to tell. Either way, it wasn't of much concern to him. He shrugged again.
"I'm sure that wily old bastard has seen worse."
"I'll see if I can find you some spare dress-robes," the other man said, with a touch of coolness. Not even Rodolphus, never known to be a great study in character, could miss it. He rubbed some of the dark substance off his hands and looked up at his brother-in-law, watching him with distaste.
"You seem in a mood, Lucius," Rodolphus said, his voice hoarse. "Not happy with the arrangements?"
Malfoy steepled his fingers.
"When I…offered the manor, I didn't think my wife would be here," Lucius pointed out, severely. "I wouldn't like it even if I didn't know for a fact there was an intrusion of filth in my father's house."
Rodolphus blinked slowly, again.
"So the worm's information is good?" His close-set eyes narrowed with interest. "He's here? The Auror?"
Lucius smile was cold and thin-lipped, but his eyes gleamed with ill-disguised triumph.
"Yes."
Lestrange hissed.
"And—he's not alone."
A sharp intact of breath.
"Who?"
His brother-in-law shrugged.
"I don't know who the second one is." He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair, thoughtful. "There's only a few it could be. Not many could have made it past the enchantments my father set. He knows well how to guard his house from…undesirables."
"So we have him, then," the said, shifting restively in the chair. The firelight danced in the reflection on his black eyes—so dark they scarce had irises—lending him an air of brutality.
"It would be much easier to dispose of him with alacrity," Lucius said, a touch of irritation in his voice. "If half the purebloods in England weren't here."
Rodolphus smirked.
"Didn't he tell you?" he asked, lip curling up. "That was by design. It was Bella's idea."
"What was she thinking?"
"That a crowd this size will lure him—them—into a false sense of security."
"And she thought her own family best suited to the task," Lucius drawled, raising both eyebrows. "How very like her."
Malfoy clearly found his sister-in-law's unwomanly lack of sentiment off-putting, but her husband was used to it, for he only laughed once more.
"It's an honor to serve the Dark Lord…even unknowingly." Lucius gave a sarcastic 'ha' under his breath—but his brother-in-law was quite serious, and he raised his shoulders—a dismissive gesture. "They won't know. It makes no difference to them. They shouldn't have cause to object."
"You do remember exactly who it is we're talking about," his friend rejoined, dryly.
Lestranges were said to have a natural leer—at this reminder of the prideful tendencies of his wife's family, Rodolphus's became more pronounced.
"Arrogant as sin, the whole lot of them. My father did warn me, when I married her." Rodolphus let out a self-deprecating snort. "'A great pair of tits won't make up for a wife who thinks she's been given them by divine decree', he said to me. Fucking wiser than the day was long, that man, may he rest in hell."
Lucius didn't laugh. His expression as guarded—almost wary.
"Of course—Bella's not over-fond of most of her family. Particularly in the main branch." Rodolphus continued, and he slunk back in the chair, a brooding shadow crossing over his face. "She says Reg gets the softness from his father. Can't say I see it, myself."
This mention of their uncle by marriage reminded Lucius of something, and he scowled.
"My father put Orion onto the task of dealing with our…intruder problem," Malfoy said, ill-tempered. He was starting to regret telling Abraxas in the first place—but the elder Malfoy had a talent for sniffing out falsehood, and he had found half-truths useful in their relationship. "I told him not to worry, that it was probably a false alarm—but I have a feeling it didn't take." He narrowed his eyes. "I don't want him meddling."
"Maybe he'll do our work for us," Rodolphus remarked, slouching down even further. "I'd put money on Orion Black over that Auror, if he had him cornered. I don't care what Bellatrix says—under that mild-mannered act, her uncle's as much of a bastard as the rest of them. And moreover—he's sly."
"Maybe so."
Malfoy was careful to keep his answer polite and neutral. Whatever he felt personally about his wife's uncle, the man was the acting head of her family, and he was not about to give Rodolphus a mutinous comment—not when it might get back to Bella. He'd learned to be more judicious than his friend in voicing 'controversial' opinions about the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. His sister-in-law had a penchant for wielding indiscretions like a sword.
"How did Cygnus take the news, by the way?" Rodolphus asked, abruptly jerking his head in Lucius's direction.
"What news?"
"About Narcissa," Lestrange said, aggressively. "About your son."
At this mention of Lucius's great triumph, his face became even more mask-like. He summoned a glass from the sideboard and another bottle of amber liquid, poured a generous drink and handed it to his friend.
"He's very pleased," was the reply, couched in carefully neutral tone. "Naturally."
"Naturally," Rodolphus repeated, with scorn. "I bet he is. A grandson at last. I bet he's through the roof."
Rare indeed was the moment when Lucius Malfoy was at a loss. The silence stretched uncomfortably between them for a moment, until Lestrange broke it again.
"Between the two of us and the two of them, I think you came off the better in the bargain, Lucius."
"You don't really mean that."
It was a rare moment of candor between them—something approaching intimacy.
"You're right," Rodolphus admitted, staring moodily back into the fire and sighing. "I don't."
They fell into silence. Lucius was impatient of the other man, of news—but knew better than to pull him out of his thoughts, not when they tended there. Rodolphus was stewing over his marriage—a union much celebrated at the time in its infancy, but that had, after eight years, failed in the two primary aims that her parents had had when they arranged it: grandchildren, and the tempering of their eldest daughter's wild spirit.
If anything, marriage had made Bellatrix wilder. Her family didn't know the half of it.
"Why is Regulus so eager to wed, anyway?" Lestrange said, darkly, breaking the silence. "He just graduated. You'd think he'd be eager for a few years of freedom before shackling himself."
"I imagine it's more about pleasing his parents than anything else."
"For him, that's always what it's about," Rodolphus sneered. "When he gets back, remind me to set him straight on what women are really like."
"How will that help our cousin?" Lucius asked, sardonically. "I think it unlikely his wife will bear much resemblance to yours."
A ghost of a smile crossed Lestrange's face.
"For his sake, I hope not. Of course…what Bellatrix lacks in wifely gentleness—" Lestrange tipped the glass of port back, a single jerky motion, and swallowed it in one. "She makes up for with other qualities."
Lucius smiled, thinly—but Rodolphus only furrowed his brow.
The two men shared a look of private understanding, before Lucius stared back into the fire. His brother-in-law watched him for a moment, his face knowing.
"Are you still worrying about Cissy?" Rodolphus asked, with a derisive snort. "You're almost as soft a touch as Regulus. You'd best get used to it…until he returns, this is what life is. Send Narcissa to stay with her parents, if it really bothers you to think of her…touched by it."
"Over Christmas?" Lucius asked, sarcastically.
Rabastan stared at him, confused. He didn't seem to understand why the festive season they found themselves in should make a difference.
"Throw some gold at her and pack her off to London, then," he said, unconcerned. "Shopping should keep her occupied—she is a female, after all."
"You have the soul of a romantic, Rodolphus," his brother-in-law told him, sarcastically. Lestrange only laughed. "When is Rabastan due?"
Lestrange looked up at the large grandfather clock on the wall, just as it chimed ten times.
"Soon." He rose from the chair and stretched. The port seemed to have mellowed him—or perhaps it had been the brief unburdening onto his companion of his troubles. "He's meeting us in the library. He'll be interested to know about the other one."
Lucius rose from his chair as well.
"It is…intriguing. The question is—" He stepped past Lestrange to a section of the wall covered by a long tapestry depicting a unicorn locked in a struggle with a dragon. "—Do we dispose of both birds, or do we let one…fly back to the nest?"
He pressed a panel, and a hidden door instantly sprung open behind the painted silk. Malfoy lifted it and gestured that Lestrange should follow him through the passage.
"He will have told Rabastan what he wants us to do in case of a spare," Rodolphus pointed out, slipping past him and into the dark passage. "That is—if he even cares."
"You think that likely?"
"It may be a test in judgment," Rodolphus pointed out. "In that case, I'd say it's at the host's discretion—you decide what we do to the other one, if we catch him. You know my preference."
Lucius chuckled quietly—it echoed down the long, dark corridor.
"Haven't you ever heard the expression, 'Dead men tell no tales', Rodolphus?"
"That's why you get them to tell their tales first."
In the darkness, Lucius Malfoy indulged in one of his rare, snake-like smiles.
Published works about Quidditch and flying, James decided, were all well and good in theory—but in practice, all they served to do was remind you that you were down on the ground reading a book instead of up there doing it.
He glanced up from the page of Seeker Weekly and across the coffee table at Regulus. Sirius's brother had not looked up from his enormous, dusty book in over quarter of an hour. His eyes were running over the words with a kind of rote determination, as if he thought if he broke focus from whatever it was he was doing (James had not yet asked) for even a moment, he'd have to start all over again.
James took the creased forehead as a sign things were not going well As good a time as any to take another crack at a conversation. He cleared his throat.
"So, Regulus—" The younger boy's eyes froze on the page, but he didn't look up. "Been—out flying much lately? Since school ended?"
Regulus looked up at him with a look of utmost scorn, and James inwardly cringed. He sounded like someone's uncle who was trying to be 'fun' and reconnect with a nephew he hadn't seen in a long while.
"Not much," the younger boy said, and though the answer was cool—Regulus did not immediately look back down at his book. "Haven't had time."
"I heard Slytherin won the Cup last spring." Regulus continued to blankly stare, face devoid of emotion. "I wasn't surprised."
Regulus let out a snort of disbelief very akin to his elder brother's.
"You 'weren't surprised'?" he repeated, with faint disbelief, and he snapped the book shut. "Really? Gryffindor won the tournament the previous five years."
James could not resist grinning.
"Yeah—but I was on the team, then." He flipped the pages of the magazine idly. "Did you ever think about going pro?"
"Of course not!"
"Why 'of course not'?" James asked, closing the magazine. "You were the best player on your side by far. Best Seeker of all the teams the final two years I played. You could've played professionally. Still could."
Regulus opened his mouth to retort with something snide—then closed it again. He fidgeted on the couch—thrown off by the praise, clearly. James Potter would not idly flatter—not where Quidditch was concerned.
"It's not considered a…suitable career in my family," he admitted.
"Oh."
There was an excruciatingly awkward pause. James had a feeling Regulus knew what he was thinking—it seems a hell of a lot more suitable than what you've been doing—and was trying not to let it bother him.
"Well—what about you?" Regulus retorted. "Why didn't you go pro? Everyone used to say you could be a Chaser for England."
Touch of resentment aside, Black the younger didn't deny that he agreed with 'everyone' who said this. James's smile broadened.
"That was my dream for ages. I thought I was going to, after school. I even spoke to recruiters for the Wasps and the Magpies. But you know—" He shrugged. "Priorities change. People change."
His tone was a little too casual—and Regulus went pink, but said no more. James bent down on the ground and picked up a few magazines he'd carelessly dropped to the floor.
"Do you want this?" He held up a new copy of Which Broomstick? in the air for Regulus to see. "I'm finished with it."
Regulus looked down at the shut book in his lap, then up at the glossy broom magazine, with its bright and colorful cover.
"Maybe…in a bit."
"There's a pretty good article about the new Cleansweep model," he said, waving it tantalizingly.
Regulus's expression turned superior at once.
"I only fly Comets," he announced, slightly pompously. James made an equally derisive noise in turn.
"So, you mean you enjoy broomsticks that start to drag after three months and fall out of the air at the slightest gust of wind?"
The boy's shoulders stiffened instantly. If his mulish expression was anything to go by, this was a subject he felt some passion about. James, amused, made an effort to keep his face straight.
"That's a total misrepresentation. They're much faster than Cleansweeps," Regulus argued. "And they have a better turning radius. They're far better brooms for Seekers."
"Well—those are the things they've improved about the new Cleansweep—"
"If they couldn't get it right the first two times, I fail to see why I should trust them with a third."
He sounded so serious about this that James actually burst out laughing.
"Your taste in brooms is worse than your brother's taste in fashion, Black."
Regulus turned scarlet and opened his mouth to sneer something back—until he realized that the smile on James Potter's face was not malicious.
He was joking. He was kidding with Regulus. The younger man returned James's smile, albeit with some reluctance. James beamed at him, encouraging, than slouched down in the armchair again, looking pleased with himself. It was a look he wore often enough—even Sirius's brother could recognize it.
The silence between them was far more comfortable now. It was true what they said—Quidditch was the great equalizer.
"Can I ask you a question?" he said, after a moment. "About…your brother?"
"You can try," Regulus said, warily. "I may not have an answer."
James hesitated—then he glanced down at the magazine cover, the image on the front gave him a boost of confidence.
"Why doesn't Sirius like to fly?"
Regulus's eyebrows flew up. Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn't that.
"Who says he doesn't?" he asked, his face expressionless. "I thought you were always out with him on that flying thing he's got."
"I mean why doesn't he like flying on broomsticks. I know he's not afraid of heights, but he always puts me off when I ask if he wants to go out flying." James paused. "He has the entire time I've known him, since first year. I've wondered if there was something to it…and I figured you might know."
He trailed off. The other boy considered him thoughtfully.
"Oh. That." There was the shadow of a smile on Regulus's face, and he shrugged. "The truth is, he's got a bit of a phobia."
"Really? Why?"
Sirius brother stared down at his book, as if he was considering how much to say. James found himself sitting up straighter. When Regulus looked up again, he gave him an encouraging smile, and the teenager's mouth turned up as well.
"Because the first time he ever took a broom out he fell off it," Regulus answered, simply.
James's jaw dropped.
"I never knew that," he said, intrigued by this previously unknown tidbit. "What happened?"
He leaned forward in his chair, and Regulus, surprised to find a rapt audience, laughed at the memory.
"It was his eighth birthday, and we were at our grandfather's place out in Suffolk. He'd just gotten done telling us—the other kids, I mean—all what a great flyer he was—" He rolled his eyes. "Of course I knew it wasn't true, because our father never let Sirius have a broom before then—then he jumps on his new birthday gift, and what's the first thing he does? Shoots straight up in the air, tries to do a flip and rolls off his Comet 130 and onto the coach house roof." Regulus raised his hands to dramatically illustrate the rise and fall—Potter let out a whoop of shocked laugher. "He broke his arm and knocked half the shingles off into the bargain."
"So he's always been a mad prat," James clapped his hands and rubbed them gleefully. "I suspected as much. How come he's never told me this?"
Regulus indulged in a rare grin. James was startled by it—the smile's resemblance to his brother's was striking.
"He's embarrassed about it, of course," Regulus said, delighted. "Once all the adults realized he hadn't broken his neck, our grandmother screamed at him in front of all the guests and he started to cry."
"No!"
"Yes. He got sent to his room with no supper. He was the only person not as his own birthday dinner that year. And he didn't touch that broom again for ages—and he never really took to flying when he did—I mean, he was perfectly fine, but he never liked it much. It's because of that day, I'm sure."
James was still grinning—looking forward for the opportune moment to spring this story onto Peter and Remus, preferably in earshot of Padfoot—but something about the last comment struck him as odd.
"You think he was skittish for life?" James asked, disbelief evident. "Over that?"
Regulus shrugged again.
"Sirius doesn't like things that aren't easy for him. He never has."
It was a simple profundity—but it struck James as being so painfully astute that for a moment he didn't know what to say. Regulus's brown eyes burned quietly in his face.
"I suppose he thought he wasn't good at flying because he wasn't ace at it to begin with," Regulus continued, the lightness gone from his expression and voice. He sounded older and far wiser than his years, now. "After all, he was naturally good at almost everything else. I'll bet he was afraid of making a fool of himself in front of the family again. He used to care about that sort of thing."
He let out a long sigh, unaware of the effect of his words on his brother's friend.
James was blind-sided by the truth of it—something painfully obvious when said, but that had never once occurred to him—at least not in those terms. For Sirius did have a disdain for things he wasn't the best at. How many times had he heard Padfoot proclaim potions as a frankly useless subject, and only because Snivellus and Lily, even James himself, had all been better at it than him?
It bothered James that he had never noticed that before now. It went part and parcel with what had been bothering him the past week—that there was some part of Sirius's life that was closed off to him, that he couldn't help with…
That he wasn't capable of understanding, no matter how hard he tried.
Regulus opened his book again and buried his face in it once more. For James the conversation was just getting interesting, and he rose from his chair and crossed over to the younger boy, the copy of Which Broomstick? in hand.
"What is that you're reading, anyway?" he asked, not really interested in the answer. He was eager to press his advantage with Sirius's brother while he had it. Maybe the younger Black brother could help him break through the wall the elder had erected around the question of his family.
"It's…a research project. Family inheritance dispute," Regulus said, vaguely. James bent over to to read the cover. "It's for my father."
"Merlin, whatever it is, it looks dull. Does your dad make you do stuff like this often?" James asked, throwing himself down on the end of the couch. This familiarity made the other boy fidget, but James didn't seem to notice. "Sirius told me he's a bit of a taskmaster."
Later he would realize that was the exact moment the conversation went wrong, but in the moment it didn't seem anything more than a light observation.
"What else did Sirius say about our father?" the younger Black brother asked, his voice cold. James barely noticed—Sirius's younger brother was so oddly formal, compared to Padfoot, he could hardly tell the difference.
"Not much. He doesn't like to talk about your parents, as a general rule." James rubbed the back of his head and yawned. "There's no love lost there, as you know."
The room might've dropped in temperature, for the sudden iciness of Regulus's demeanor.
"Yes, well, even so—" He turned back to the book. "It doesn't stop my father for making plans for him."
James dropped his hands to the couch and turned, to gape at Regulus. He was not smiling.
"What do you mean, 'making plans'?"
Regulus's lips curled. He was not about to share the intimacies of his family with this interloper—not that Potter could even understand such things—but the old resentment of his brother's friend made it too difficult to resist rubbing it in what he knew and Potter didn't.
"I don't know for sure, but…" He took a kind of malicious pleasure in the look of surprise on Potter's face. "I think he and my mother are working on rehabilitating his reputation in our family."
James was more puzzled than ever.
"I mean…he did tell you he's still the Black family heir, right?" Regulus asked, casual but pointed.
Potter dropped the magazine on the floor.
"What?"
"My father never actually disinherited him when he ran away—and I don't think he intends to now." There was just the trace of bitterness in Regulus's voice—though it was drowned out by his grim enjoyment of shocking the other man, who looked at this point as though he was the one who'd fallen off a broom onto a coach house.
"Your dad doesn't think Sirius is actually going to…to—come back, does he?" James asked, his bewilderment fast turning to shock and outrage. "Take over the Black family, come live in their house, and all that?"
Regulus had slipped back into the haughty Black mask with ease.
"Sure seems like it," he said, quietly.
James leapt off the couch. Regulus watched him pace the length of the room, his stare impassive and in-control.
"But—there's no way he'll agree to that!" he said, turning around. "Sirius hates all of that pureblood, aristocratic nonsense. He hates it! He always said he'd fling himself off a bridge before he went back to that life—"
"Yeah, well," Regulus sneered, and examined the corner of his book, utterly unconcerned. "That was before my father got something on him."
Another shoe dropped. James stopped pacing at once, and his face froze in shock.
"What makes you think that your father—"
"—Because Sirius all but told me," Regulus said, bluntly, looking up. Potter was still frozen in place—to the teenager on the couch, in that moment his old Quidditch rival almost looked like a startled deer. "He won't say what it is—only that he's doing something illegal and he stupidly let our father find out about it. I guess that's why every time our dad snaps his fingers Sirius jumps to attention. He never used to before."
Regulus laughed unpleasantly and closed the book, his taste for the work evidently at an end. He stood up, Phineas Nigellus's masterpiece under one arm, and glided past the table where Lily's uneaten half of a pie still lay. Potter stood by the television, shell-shocked as anything. The broom magazine lay forgotten on the floor.
When he reached the door, he turned around.
"If you don't believe me, you should ask him about it," he said, mildly. "I'm sure he wouldn't lie to you."
And with that, he shut the door behind him, leaving James Potter to stare at the smooth reflection of the old black-and-white television set—alone.
Lucretia had wanted another smoke, and at her brother's urging—he was too much a lover of books to let his sister damage them with her filthy habit—had wandered out of the library a quarter hour before and left Orion brooding by the fire.
Telling her so much had probably been a mistake. In the moment it had felt a relief, to unburden himself to a sympathetic ear—with a quarter hour's distance, though, the damned recklessness of it struck him. Lucy was not known for her discretion, after all.
He sighed. Of course—what good was discretion going to do him? It was only a matter of time before the truth came out, and then there would be only one way it could end for Orion's family: in disgrace and shame. Once Arcturus found out he was cooperating with Dumbledore, no excuse was going to be good enough: taking orders from a Muggle-lover was an unforgivable crime, never mind if the alternative had been death to them all.
His father probably thought death was preferable.
Orion laughed, bitterly—Sirius was so afraid of his mother trying to bully him back into the family, when it was far more likely that the three of them would be joining him in exile. He pictured Walburga and he on the doorstep of his son's Lisson Grove flat, trunks dragged behind them as they prepared to make their stay permanent. It wasn't such an absurd thought—could very easily come to pass, in fact.
If something worse didn't happen to them first.
A gust of cold, strong air blew through the library, drawing him out of his thoughts. Orion looked up from the fire and in the direction it had come from—the crystalline French doors that lead out into the gardens. Though he did not let it show, when Mr. Black saw the man who had opened the doors and stepped inside the library, he felt a jolt of surprise in the pit of his stomach.
"Rabastan?"
Rabastan Lestrange started. The tall, dark-haired man of nearly thirty had stepped into the library and, busy with unfastening his heavy winter cloak—Orion could see from a dozen steps away that it was covered in ice—had not noticed the sole occupant of the room.
"Orion!" Rabastan stopped brushing the snow off his cloak and hastily threw it onto the window seat. Mr. Black had stood up and walked towards him. The older man noticed there was a slightly nervous tremor in his voice. "I thought—I was expecting…."
He had much the look of his brother—they had the same heavy brows, though the younger, unmarried brother lacked Rodolphus's self-assurance, he had never seemed quite comfortable in his own skin. That fact was made painfully obvious by his twitchy manners now.
Mr. Black instantly knew that he didn't want him there.
"I seem to have startled you, Rabastan." Orion held out his hand. "I apologize. I didn't know you were here."
"I—I just arrived," Lestrange said, taking the hand. "You're…the first person I've seen."
Mr. Black raised an eyebrow.
"Do you normally come in Malfoy Manor by way of the library?"
Rabastan laughed—Mr. Black immediately heard the falseness of it.
"Not usually, no," he replied, his smile tight. "I—well, being so late, I was eager not to draw attention to myself."
"I see." Orion's eyes narrowed, and he gestured to the cloak hanging off the window seat. Snow and ice were dripping onto the carpet. "Have you been…traveling?
"Ah—"
He was spared having to answer by the library door opening. Orion caught the tail-end of a hushed but audible conversation.
"—Won't be coming back until after the new year. Karkaroff will have made sure of that."
"I bet he will, the forked tongue—"
Abruptly the first man shushed the second one, and when Mr. Black turned around, he was unsurprised to find his two nephews-in-law: Lucius Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange, the former wearing his customary guarded and sly expression, the latter eying him with something more akin to outright dislike.
"Orion!" Lucius's cold eyes flashed in surprise , then darted to the younger man, still standing by the window. "And—Rabastan—at last. What a pleasant surprise." He smoothed his robes, absently. "How long have—the two of you been here?"
His voice had an unusually strangled quality. Orion's presence in the library had obviously taken him off-guard—but Mr. Black could see quite plainly that he was not surprised in the slightest that Rabastan was here.
Curious…
"I came in the library to have a private conversation with my sister a while ago and—thought I'd stay. Rabastan is a recent welcome interruption to my…reverie." He nodded at his other nephew by marriage, curtly. The elder Lestrange returned the gesture with rather less politeness. "Rodolphus—you must've arrived not long ago as well. How are you?"
"Fine," the thickset man said, brusque and unsmiling. "You?"
Mr. Black's eyes flitted between the two brothers, but he made no comment on the oddness—or lack-thereof—of the two Lestranges coming to the party late and minutes apart—and yet, apparently separately.
"Well. Very well indeed," he replied, with polite courtesy. "And is Bellatrix with you?"
"She's not," Lestrange replied, still terse. "Couldn't come. Sends her regrets, and a happy birthday to your father."
Rodolphus stepped forward into the light; it was then that Mr. Black noticed the dress robes he wore were slightly too small for him, the dark green velvet stretched over his broad shoulders and chest. They were Lucius Malfoy's robes, not his.
Orion raised a single eyebrow. Bellatrix's husband hadn't come to this party dressed properly. He cleared his throat.
"I hope she's well," Mr. Black replied, a tad colder. "Not under the weather. She's never been of a…delicate disposition."
Lestrange sniggered, humorlessly.
"That's certainly true." Lucius shot him a look, and Rodolphus fixed his expression into the usual dull blank. "Bella's not ill, she's just…indisposed."
There was a long pause. Orion looked between the three younger men, all staring at him, and he was suddenly keenly aware that it was not mere coincidence that had brought them to this room. Whatever their purpose, his presence was serving as a hindrance to it. This stirred his curiosity.
Lucius stepped forward, and swept an elegant bow.
"I've actually been looking for you, Orion," Malfoy said—he had managed to recover his sleek smoothness of manner and voice. "I didn't see you in the ballroom, so I came into the hall—and who should I run into but Rodolphus?" Malfoy tossed his head elegantly in the direction of his taciturn brother-in-law, still regarding the older man with suspicion. "Naturally, I recruited him to help me look for you."
The story was such a blatant fabrication that Orion could've laughed at it—if he were in a mood to laugh.
"Naturally," he said, eyes sliding back over to Lestrange. "And what did you need me for, Lucius?"
"I wanted to ask you for a favor."
"I hope I can oblige you."
"You see, Narcissa—has grown rather weary of the country, and as my father and I are tied up with estate business until Christmas, I can't entertain her as I feel she…deserves." From behind him, Orion heard Rabastan shuffle his feet. "I wondered if she could stay with you in London for a few days."
Now it was Orion's turn to be thrown off. It was really not such an absurd request—Grimmauld Place was the family seat, and there was not a single Black who had not at some point stayed as a guest while visiting London. His wife was fond of Narcissa—she was her favorite niece—there was no reason for him to say no.
Nevertheless—there was something about the look on the shrewd Malfoy heir's face that gave him pause.
"I'd—have to check with Walburga," he said, slowly—already acutely aware that his wife had little desire to entertain in their current situation. "But I see no reason why she shouldn't be able to stay."
"Thank you, sir. I think a change of scene would suit her immensely."
Lucius stepped aside to let Orion pass, and he felt a jab of displeasure in his chest. He narrowed his eyes at this unsubtle gesture—so they thought they were going to get rid of him that easily, did they?
"Well—" He took a step towards the door. "I suppose I ought to—get back to the party."
All three of them relaxed in unison. Orion stopped and turned around.
"By the way, Lucius—" he said, casually. "Any word on your…intruder problem? Did you find the culprits?"
The light was dim, but Orion was sure he saw Lucius exchange a knowing look with Rodolphus.
"Oh, that?" Lucius drawled, waving his hand with a studied carelessness. "A total false alarm. Bad information. I beg you not to think of it, sir."
Orion put his hand on the doorknob and turned it. The low chattering grew louder as he opened the door.
"So you're certain that there's no one here who shouldn't be?"
Malfoy's smile looked more strained than ever.
"I'm sure." Lucius paused. "Why do you ask? I hope none of the guests roused your suspicion."
"No. Of course not."
He gave each of them a polite smile and left the library, closing the door behind him. Orion looked out over the sea of relations and Malfoy family friends, milling about the party.
He was overcome with a single-minded purpose: and it was not, as Narcissa's husband would've liked, to find his wife and ask permission to host her. He had no desire to tousle with her over domestic concerns—he'd had quite enough of his family tonight, frankly.
What Orion wanted was a distraction—and sussing out this supposed intruder was just the thing to do it. It stirred his pride—and curiosity, though he was more focused on the former than the latter. Curiosity was not looked at as a virtue in his family.
He scanned the room, looking for potential suspects—then noticed movement from the far corner which drew his eye like a magnet. Two people, barely visible, hidden by a stone pillar. It was the tall, Norwegian man—Nicolaus Svensson—deep in an animated conversation with the Battancourt girl.
The expression on the Svensson's face when they had locked eyes rose up in Orion's mind, and he had the same feeling he had gotten when he'd first spotted him walking into the ballroom, an oddly familiar sensation of knowing a deceiver at work.
That man is not who he says he is.
That was the man.
He narrowed his eyes. Orion intended to find out who he was—and why he was here.
Arcturus would no doubt be pleased when he presented his father with the proof that his orders had been obeyed—a fitting birthday gift for the irascible patriarch.
Maybe he'd actually be pleased with his son, for once.
Sirius wanted a smoke. Desperately.
He was in doubt about how plausible Nicolaus Svensson with a Winston light in hand would seem to the objective observer, and blowing his cover over a cheap cig did not seem worth it at this stage of the game, so he resisted the urge to reach into his robes for the pack that he always carried.
A smoke would have soothed his nerves, though. It also would have provided a concrete reason for standing out here on the balcony of Malfoy Manor, waiting for Frank.
They called it a balcony—but it was really more correctly a stone terrace shaped like a balcony. When Roland Malfoy had decided to renovate the seat of his family, a balcony had been one of his desired additions, and he had paid a not inconsiderable amount of gold for one made of Italian marble. When the commission arrived in three separate pieces, in a carriage suspended by thestrals, it quickly became apparent that the pieces were so ornate and overlarge the only room it could be attached to and not be an eyesore was the ballroom.
Roland was not about to let his money go to waste. As the ballroom was on the ground floor, so in it had gone—suspended less than four feel above the sweeping front lawn of the house.
Sirius had been the one to suggest this spot as a place for he and Frank to rendezvous, if they got separated. When he'd told the Auror he knew Malfoy Manor, Longbottom had wanted to know where it was they'd be unlikely to be disturbed, and Sirius had thought of this place at once.
It was not the first time he'd needed a place to hide in this house.
The night was warm—a bright and dusky July day had turned into a languid summer evening, as they so often did. The fifteen-year-old boy leaned far over the stone balustrade, like he was ready to spring from the terrace into the flowerbed of crocuses below, and he surreptitiously sucked down the single cigarette he had managed, against all odds, to sneak in.
The best thing that could be said about today was that it was almost over.
Only forty-seven days until September first, Sirius thought. They would make it back to Grimmauld Place after midnight, so he could tear another sheet off the makeshift countdown calendar he'd made from spare parchment and stuck on his door. Forty-six days.
"There you are!"
A wave of sickly dread came over him, and he hastily threw the cigarette into the flower bushes and spun around.
Tonight his mother was dressed to the nines—pearls and an elegant silver gown—but the expression of severe displeasure at the sight of Sirius she wore was an everyday look. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and glared, ready to fight at a moment's notice.
One always had to be, with her.
"Have you been hiding out here all this time?"
"I am not hiding!" he lied, and he risked a peak back around and down at the flowerbed. His cigarette, still lit, was teetering between a leaf and rosebud. If he got rid of her quickly he might be able to salvage it.
"Come back inside at once. Everyone is asking after you." Her voice was severe, but not cold. "There's a large group of young people, I saw them. You should join in."
"I don't want to talk to any of those people—"
"Your brother doesn't seem to have any trouble socializing."
And there it was. The comparison. It had only taken—what, thirty seconds for her to make it? Wasn't even a record.
"That's because they're his friends, not mine," he answered, trying to keep the resentment out of his voice—it would give her too much satisfaction to know that she got to him. "They don't like me, anyway."
Walburga tutted and rolled her eyes. He was long past the point of trying to explain to his mother why he would never be friends with the Evan Rosiers of the world.
She looked beautiful tonight—and the festive atmosphere surrounding the wedding in conjunction with several glasses of ratafia had put her in such an unusually good mood that he had been very much hoping to avoid this confrontation, because he felt sure he was going to spoil it for her.
His mother put her hands on her hips.
"Nonsense. Why shouldn't they?" she demanded, unable to see a sensible reason why her friends and acquaintances' children shouldn't like her son.
"Because I'm in Gryffindor" was the obvious answer—but he had no interest in kicking over that rock, and anyway, most of them hadn't liked him before Hogwarts, either—and that had been, ironically enough, because of his family. The Blacks thought so well of themselves that they failed to grasp the rest of wizard-kind didn't share their enthusiasm—that their so-called 'friends' were waiting with baited breath for the first whiff of a scandal that would lead to the family being knocked off its self-styled pedestal.
Sirius suspected all his parents' friends had told their children it was likely to be him that caused the ruin of the Blacks—or maybe they were just jealous he was cleverer, better-looking and more popular than all of them.
"Must be a personality problem."
She narrowed her eyes.
"You are perfectly capable of making yourself agreeable, Sirius Orion. That is not an excuse—"
"Well it's the only thing I could come up with on short notice." Walburga's cheeks colored. "Look, I didn't even want to come to this. I told you."
"It is your cousin's wedding!"
"And she doesn't give a damn if I'm here," he pointed out, shoving his hands into the pockets of his dress robes moodily. "In fact, she probably wishes I wasn't."
"Don't be rude."
"Is telling the truth 'being rude', now?"
All good will vanished from her face. Her nostrils flared, dangerously.
"I'm not going to stand out here all evening having absurd arguments with you. You'll go socialize with your brother and the other children if I have to march you over there myself."
This humiliating mental picture made his stomach turn—or perhaps it was the residual nausea from the fag. He wasn't really used to them, yet.
"No, I'm not."
She glided towards him, her wand out, and on pure reflex he pushed his back up against the balustrade.
"Yes, you are—"
"Walburga? Is that you out there?"
The voice came from behind her, at the door, and Sirius peaked around her shoulder at the source of the mild-mannered voice. It was a portly, stout man of about forty—bearded, clever eyes twinkling in the light that streamed in from the ballroom. His hands were full, carrying two champagne flutes.
"I'd wondered where you'd gotten to, Burgie," Over her shoulder, Alphard Black smiled at his nephew. "Both of you."
Walburga stiffened at her brother's invocation of the dreaded childhood nickname.
"Alphard," she said, turning to face him. "I just came out here to find out where my son had hidden himself away, and why," She turned back towards said son and fixed him with a severe look. "Apparently he thinks all the other children here are beneath him."
"Well, I mean—he isn't wrong, is he?" her brother said, cheerily. "They are. Though I suppose it's not good manners to show it."
Sirius had to admire his uncle's nerve. He didn't even lose the twinkle in his eye at her withering glare in his direction. He winked at his nephew, and safely out of his mother's eye-line, Sirius allowed himself a small smile.
"That is not the point!" Alphard walked across the balcony, past his sister and to the railing where Sirius still stood, and he set down the two flutes of champagne. "What are you doing here, anyway?"
The words were full of unspoken accusation, and she rounded on Sirius, now looking hopefully at his uncle, eager for an ally.
"Papa sent me to find you, Burgie." His eyes swept over the scene—and it was obvious from the clever snap of his gaze that he had ascertained the true state of things rather quickly.
"I will go to him when I am finished dealing with—"
"He said it was urgent. Mama needs attending to, I think." She fell into a rare bout of speechlessness—Alphard had said the magic words. Granny Irma was the one person Sirius's mother never dared cross. "Best not dawdle."
He put a hand on his nephew's shoulder.
"I'll see that your son makes his way back inside, Walburga. Don't worry."
Eyes narrowed, she looked between nephew and uncle, deeply suspicious—as if she thought left to their own devices they would plot against her.
"Fine," she said, haughtily—eyes still fixed on her son. "But don't think you're getting out of this, Sirius Orion. We will discuss your behavior when we get home."
With that promise, she turned around and swept out of the terrace and back into the house.
Sirius turned back around and peered over the edge of the bannister at his lost fag. The cigarette had fully burned out. A thin, sad trail of smoke wafted up in his face—he slouched against the stone. Great.
He looked back around at his uncle and found Alphard fixing him with a curious, intent expression. Sirius cleared his throat, awkwardly—he wanted to thank him, but to thank him would admit that he had needed help.
"Who's that for?" the teenager asked, pointing at the extra flute of champagne. Alphard smiled.
"It's for you."
Hand trembling slightly, he picked up the glass of champagne.
"…Thanks."
His uncle picked up the second glass and raised it in the air.
"I think a toast is in order. There were about fifteen to the bride in there, so let's say—" He shot a sly smile to Sirius, who returned it—with less enthusiasm. "To the groom?"
Sirius raised his own flute and clinked it into Alphard's in a kind of ironic salute.
"To the groom. May he prove to be less of a prick than common report suggests."
Sirius tried to down the entire glass of champagne, but it was stronger than he'd expected, and he choked. His uncle, chortling, slapped him on the back.
"Now—that sort of remark doesn't seem in the spirit of the occasion."
"I'm not in a festive mood, Uncle Alphard."
He leaned back over the bannister and stared out at the front lawn. Over the tops of the ornamental bushes, to the wrought-iron gate that separated the estate from the road. There were heavy trees—he thought he could just see the twinkling lights of the nearest Muggle village through the thicket.
He could feel his uncle still watching him.
"It's not like my favorite nephew to be a wall-flower," he remarked, casually. "What exactly is your objection to your cousins' set?"
"Only that they're all a bunch of stinking Slytherins," he answered, bluntly—then, remembering who it was he was talking to, added, "No offense."
Alphard laughed and took another sip of wine.
"None taken."
Sighing, Sirius turned back around to face his mother's brother.
"You've grown very tall since Christmas. And you look more like your father than ever, you handsome devil." Alphard grinned. "I hope you take more advantage of that face than he did at your age."
Sirius snorted. He heard it often enough to know it was meant to be a compliment, but it never felt like it.
"I was just talking to Orion about you." At the mention of his father, Sirius's frown deepened. "I hear you're doing very well in school—top of your class—but that you're also a notorious rabble-rouser. Is it true your head of house sends owls twice a week?"
"It's the only thing that makes me wish I had Sluggy as head instead of McGonagall," Sirius said, glumly. "He wouldn't bother to write, except to flatter them by going on about how brilliant I am."
"Why're you in detention so much, anyway?"
He slugged down the rest of the champagne—it was too sweet, but he wanted the feeling of numbness it would give him, anyway—and chucked the glass into the bushes, near where he'd dropped his cigarette.
"Because I like to have fun! Is that a crime?"
Alphard's smile turned rather sad, and he set his own flute down.
"I'm afraid in this family it can be," he said, his tone light.
Sirius let out another protracted and heavy sigh.
"I can't believe you actually traveled here for this, Uncle Alphard," Sirius said, staring at his uncle in disbelief. Alphard shrugged.
"It's not every day you get to see the last of your nieces married." His nephew crinkled his nose. "Or your entire family in one place."
The teenager threw a dark look at the doorway through which his mother had disappeared a minute before. The entire family, minus Alphard and himself, were all in there. It was like a misery parade—he had needed to come out here just to breathe.
"How far do you think I could make it, if I ran?"
Sirius was looking over the lawn again, gauging the height of the stone balcony. Humoring him, Alphard looked from the boy to the countryside in front of him.
"Oh—to the edge of those box hedges, I'd think. There are enchantments all over this house—and you still have the trace on you."
"And there's her," he murmured, quietly. "I guess she wouldn't let me get far."
There was a long silence between them, broken only by the sound of crickets and the distant drum of the wedding celebration, still in full swing.
"Sirius…I know you it's hard for you to understand, but your mother—" Sirius sucked in a sharp breath. "She is trying to do right by you, in her own way."
"That's rich! Tell me another one."
"I mean it."
His face twisted, nostrils flared just like his mother. The boy was suddenly very angry—though not at Alphard, or even his mother. He couldn't pinpoint the exact cause of it, which only made him angrier.
"The only thing she cares about is making sure I don't make her look bad in front of her friends or the rest of the family." He pulled out his wand and waved it at at the azaleas. One of them burst into flames. "Apart from that, she doesn't give a damn about me."
Alphard looked very much as if he wanted to say something—but he held back, instead carefully watching the teenager, strong but brittle—always itching for a fight.
"I can't wait until I'm of age," Sirius said, quietly. "I'll never have to come to another party like this again—ever."
"What do you mean?"
He looked 'round at his uncle, squared him up—considering. Was it worth the risk admitting the plan he'd been pondering in secret all summer?
"Once I'm of age…I'm going to leave."
This admission didn't shock his uncle, as Sirius would have expected. Alphard looked neither surprised by it nor disapproving. There was no judgement in his expression.
"When you say 'leave'…you mean leave the family?"
"Yes."
Another long pause.
"That's not going to work," his uncle said, calmly.
Sirius turned red, and his eyes widened.
"Yes, it will!" he stammered, defensively. "I don't need their money. I'm smart—I'm good at fending for myself—"
"I'm not talking about gold, Sirius." Alphard gently turned Sirius around with a hand to face him. His expression was grave. "A man can do without gold. Most men do. There are other things, though…"
"What are you talking about, Uncle Alphard?"
He was angry—he had expected Alphard to understand, to support him, even if he hadn't walked away, everyone in the family knew he kept his distance for a reason.
"It's a lesson everyone has to learn, sooner or later."
"What lesson?"
"That not everything in life is a choice." The bearded man's eyes crinkled good-naturedly, but his tone was deadly serious. "Some things just are."
"I don't understand—"
"You'll be a Black until the day you die, my boy—whether you like it or not. You can try to deny it all you want…" Alphard trailed off. "But it won't make it any less true."
The door opened behind Sirius, and the sound snapped him out his remembrances of a half-decade before with the man who had been cold in his grave for two years. Before he could think or look or wonder why he was doing it, he had flung himself over the bannister and into the thick bushes below the balcony.
Heart pounding, he peered through the gap in the stone—at the feet of the approaching interloper. Was it Frank, at last?
No…the bottom of the gown, the delicate steps—a woman had stepped out onto the balcony. Pressed up against the base of the stone dais, he didn't risk a look up at her face. It was bitterly cold, so he was surprised to see anyone besides Longbottom—let alone a woman dressed in a thin gown—braving the elements.
He heard her shuffling around, the snap of what must surely be a clutch being opened. And then smelled the smoke, and he knew who it was—Aunt Lucretia.
The door opened again, this with a bang, as if it had been flung open by someone in a bad temper.
"Ah-ha. So here's where you've been hiding, my girl."
The cold imperious voice made his blood freeze. Arcturus.
"Oh—Papa…" Sirius heard the catch of hesitation in her voice. "You shouldn't be out here. It's so cold."
Slow, deliberate steps and the clink of an ivory walking cane—oh yes, that was granddad, alright, Sirius thought, glaring at the buckled shoes just visible from under his velvet dress robes.
"Concerned about my health, are you, Lucretia?" The steps stopped. "Put that away at once. I don't care if you have it on a diamond-encrusted stick, smoking's unwomanly."
"Fine."
There was a soft but irritated sigh, the hiss of the cigarette being put out and the snap of the clutch being hastily shut.
"You really shouldn't be out in this chill, Papa—not at your age."
"Speaking of my age…" Arcturus lowered his voice. He was so naturally commanding that even in a whisper Sirius could've picked the words a room away. "It's supposed to be my birthday, and my own daughter hasn't seen fit to greet me."
For once, Lucretia didn't have a smart rejoinder.
"You've had so many people to entertain, I didn't want to interfere—"
"—Interfere? Pah! Every time my back's turned I catch you creeping out of the hall. Don't think I didn't see you drag your brother off into the library a little while ago." Sirius's eyes widened. "I suppose my children thought it would be a lark to cavort behind my back."
"We were not cavorting!"
Sirius was amazed—though he'd never been overly fond of his aunt, he did have a grudging respect for her—she had guts,in her way. This harassed-sounding woman being mercilessly bullied by her father didn't seem like the Lucretia he knew at all.
"I suppose he sniveled to you?" Arcturus sneered. "Dragged my name through the muck, cursed me?"
"Orion has never said a harsh word about you in his life, Papa, and you know it!" Lucretia shot back, indignant. Sirius was surprised to find in his chest a burning feeling of his own indignance —on his father's behalf.
The feeling startled him…where had it come from? But before he could think too hard on it, Arcturus was speaking again, in his customary imperious voice.
"He's thought plenty of 'em, I assure you—he just doesn't have the nerve to say them out loud." Arcturus let out a humorless laugh. "A grown man who needs his sister's protection—"
"Any man would, with you as a father."
Sirius heard Lucretia gasp, and he was sure that his grandfather had grabbed his aunt by the arm and yanked her towards him.
"I will not be spoken to like that." She murmured something Sirius couldn't catch—an apology, probably. "Where's Ignatius, anyway? I give the man my only daughter, and not only does he see fit to let her run about like a hoyden, he doesn't even show his face at family events."
"I don't recall mandatory attendance of your birthday being one of the agreed upon details in the marriage contract," his aunt replied, coldly, and she let out another gasp. Sirius peered through the gap and saw he was eye-to-eye with her, still gripping her arm—by the looks of it, hard.
"Don't be smart with me—or I'll make you regret it," her father ordered, in a dangerously soft voice. "If your husband's going to let you loose and can't even be bothered to control you, he can't object when I do it for him."
He released her just as quickly, and Lucretia stumbled back from him.
"Really, Papa!" she said, and Sirius could see she was rubbing her wrist. "First Orion, now me…what an odd way to spend your birthday, haranguing your children."
This chastisement was so feeble her father didn't even comment on it.
"So he did complain to you," the sly old man said, his voice shrewd. "He was licking his wounds, last I saw him. I suppose he told you why he got a dressing down."
She didn't respond for a long while. Sirius strained his ears, afraid he wouldn't be able to catch his aunt's words.
"You…you really ought to ease up on 'Rion over the—over Regulus and the marriage, Papa," Lucretia said, after another long pause. Sirius noticed her feet had backed up a healthy distance from his. "He's under a lot of—of strain—"
"Why should he be under any more strain than the rest of us?" A pause, then—in a voice of undisguised calculation. "…Did he by any chance make a confession to you, girl?"
"No—of course not!" Her voice had caught in the telltale way. "Why—why would you even ask such a thing?"
"Orion's hiding something from me, that's why."
Concealed in the shrubbery out of sight, Arcturus's grandson shivered.
"I'm sure that's not true! He never lies—"
"Well he's lying now!" Arcturus barked. "Don't argue with me—a man always knows when his son is deceiving him…or in his case—trying to deceive."
"You're wrong, Papa."
"He's been acting odd all night," Sirius's grandfather continued, grimly. "Says he won't play cards with the rest of us—he's been distracted—more-so than usual. Mark my words, that boy's up to something—" His voice turned low and dangerous again. "And if you know anything about it, speak now—because if I find out you've lied to me as well, my girl…"
The thinly veiled threat lingered in the air.
"I don't know anything," Lucretia said, in a frigid voice. All of a sudden she sounded like she had a cold.
Sirius watched the feet start to walk towards the door—until his grandfather sprung forward—with surprising speed for a man of his age—and grabbed her by the arm.
"Where do you think you're going?" Arcturus hissed in his daughter's ear. "We are not done here, Lucretia Black! Don't you dare walk away from me."
"My name is Lucretia Prewett, and I am going home." She violently jerked her arm out of his grasp. "To my husband. He—he said he wanted me back before midnight, and you know I do like to obey him."
The anger and hurt in her voice rang clear, and Sirius was certain that if he were to look in his aunt's face he would find tears there, now. It was all he could do not to vault back over the railing again and deck the miserable old bastard, forget his wand.
What a great bully Arcturus was—and his heart had grown even more calcified in the past three years.
"Happy birthday, Papa," she said quietly, from the door. "I'll—see you at Christmas."
She opened it, and there was a scuffling sound, and to his surprise a third set of feet and third voice entered the conversation.
"Ah—Mrs. Prewett!"
It was Frank.
"Oh, Mr. Klöcker—" Lucretia tried to discreetly wipe her eyes so that Klöcker—Frank—wouldn't see, but it was too late. "I didn't see you there. I'm sorry. Have you…" She shuffled around awkwardly to let the new set of feet past. "Have you met my father, Arcturus, yet? Papa, this is Mr. Klöcker, Mr. Svensson's—associate."
Frank stepped forward to shake the Black patriarch's hand politely.
"Mr. Black—it's a pleasure. May I offer you my felicitations and many happy returns?"
"You may," Arcturus replied, cooly. "You're that Swede's translator, aren't you?"
Sirius rolled his eyes. He was lucky he was talking to Frank and not his elder grandson, because he sure as hell wouldn't have tolerated that kind of lip.
"And friend, yes."
"Hm." The old man cleared his throat. "Let me see you out, Lucretia."
"That's quite alright, Papa." The appearance of Frank seemed to have roused her courage, for her voice was firm again. "I really need to get back to Ignatius. Mr. Klöcker, it was a pleasure. I do hope you and Mr. Svensson will not be strangers, that we'll see you again. I found him to be a most stimulating conversationalist."
"I'm sure the feeling was mutual, Madame," Frank said, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice. "I hope we meet again."
"Goodnight, then. And you, Papa."
She closed the door behind her, leaving her father and the young foreigner alone. There was a long moment of protracted empty air that Sirius had to imagine—as he could not see for himself—consisted of his elderly grandfather glowering at the Auror in disguise.
And he didn't even know who he was.
"You came out her for a smoke, did you?"
"Was that why Mrs. Prewett was on the balcony?" Frank asked, in his mildest tone of voice. "No, sir, I did not wish to smoke. I was looking for my…associate, Svensson."
"So you lost the Swede," the old man remarked, dryly. "You work for him?"
The sneer in his voice was not subtle.
"It's—more informal. We are friends, but I handle some of his business, and assist in…matters that require a more delicate touch."
"So he is as dull as he looks." A thoughtful pause. "He must pay you well, to drag you about to things like this. Everyone thinks you're his man, you know."
Frank evidently didn't see being mistaken as a wizard's valet as the great insult Sirius's grandfather thought it, for his reply was as polite as ever.
"He is shy—and I have no cause to complain. He is an attentive friend," Frank said, slowly. "Have you seen him?"
Sirius heard the exaggerated yawn and rolled his eyes, scoffing into the roses. At least the old man was catching on that Frank wasn't an entertaining plaything, and would get bored and wander back inside to terrorize some other poor sod.
"Can't say I have. I suspect Abraxas Malfoy is working him over as we speak." Arcturus lowered his voice. "I'd watch your employer like a hawk when you do find him—and tell him to be very careful in the game."
"Why should I do that?"
"Because they know how much he's worth. You haven't been in this country long, so I'll give you a tip—" Arcturus chuckled, dryly. "Never leave an open pocketbook in clear sight of a Malfoy—he'll dump the gold out, fit the leather from it to his shoe and try to sell it back to you at twice the price."
This homespun Black wisdom, generously given from the old man, left Frank momentarily speechless.
"…I'll bear that in mind."
"Do. Even if you don't leave this country richer, at least you won't be a pauper." The Black patriarch clicked his ivory cane against the marble. "Best of luck in your search."
Before Longbottom could even venture an attempt at a farewell, the cantankerous septuagenarian had marched back into the hall and slammed the door shut behind him.
He waited three seconds before popping his head up.
"Charming man, isn't he?" Frank started in surprise, and he turned to find Sirius taking advantage of Svensson's long limbs to pull himself back up over the balustrade. The Auror's face split into a relieved smile.
"There you are—!" He crossed to the edge and seized Black by the hand, pulling him back onto the balcony. "I was beginning to get worried."
"Why? You're the one who's late." He brushed some of the dirt off his dress robes. "What took you?"
"Got caught up with Malfoy—" They exchanged a dark look—then Frank began to grin. "Merlin, does your grandfather have that family pegged! I almost broke my cover from laughing when I heard his little aphorism."
"And that was him talking about his best friend." Sirius shook his head. "You should hear him on his enemies."
"Is that actually something people say about the Malfoys, or did he make it up on the spot?" Frank asked, still holding back a laugh. Sirius smiled, grimly.
"I wouldn't put it past him. He's a complete and utter bastard—but a clever one." He sighed and ran a hand through the short, blond hair. "I'll tell you, Frank, I have not missed the old man—nor anyone else at this party."
Longbottom's expression turned serious.
"How's it been?" he asked, and even disguised Sirius could see the familiar Frank expression—kind concern under his resolve. Longbottom was a good man, even if he was rather by-the-book. "Any…hitches?"
Sirius thought of the girl and hesitated—but only for a moment. Surely if she was going to give him away, he'd have already been caught by now. She wasn't—he didn't know why, but he was certain Colette Battancourt would not have willingly ratted him out.
He just had a feeling about her.
"Apart from my own aunt making a pass at me," he said, tone heavily sarcastic. "I'd say it's gone about as well as it could."
Frank looked over his shoulder to check that they were still alone.
"Did you see them?"
At the conversation turning to the two brothers—the ostensible targets of their operation, the real reason they had come in disguise—Sirius furrowed his brow.
"No. They were no-shows, as far as I know—but I did hear they were both supposed to be here—" Frank shot him a questioning look, and he added, hastily. "Those women you left me with were talking about it."
Not entirely a lie—but he'd neglected to mention it was only one, Colette, and she'd told him directly, in English, the language he'd been pretending he couldn't speak or understand. No need for Longbottom to learn that part.
"'Those women', eh?" Frank repeated, giving Sirius a probing look. "Tell me, Black—which one of those women was your mother?"
The younger man shot him an annoyed look.
"The one who looked like she'd sooner rip out your throat than talk to you," Sirius muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. "That wasn't funny, leaving me alone like that!"
"All part of the job." Frank gave him an encouraging clap on the shoulder. "Trial by fire."
"You've no idea how literally true that is, with her," Sirius said, half under his breath. "Bloody dragon, that woman."
The smile dropped from Frank's face and he let his arm fall to his side. He cleared his throat.
"—Alice told me you, eh—didn't see much of them." Frank bit his thumb and shifted his weight from one foot to the other; he suddenly looked rather sheepish and almost embarrassed. "Your…erm, you know…"
He trailed off. The Auror didn't mean his eyes, instead looking over his shoulder—Sirius had never seen him so awkward. Suddenly self-conscious, he felt his ears burn. He knew what the look on Frank's face meant, he'd seen it enough times to recognize that particular mixture of pity and discomfort. Usually he made a great show of laughing it off.
He didn't feel like laughing now.
"Who has Alice been talking to?" he asked, sharply. "Lily?"
"I think it was James, actually," Frank admitted, quietly. Sirius's stomach fluttered unpleasantly. "He mentioned how you lived at his mum and dad's place during the holidays for a while, and she was…curious about why."
The pause was just long enough to be uncomfortable.
"Yeah, well, it's—it's a bit—" He waved his arms vaguely. "—Complicated. With them."
"That's only natural, given…" Frank hesitated. "The circumstances."
Sirius didn't like that tone one bit.
"They aren't Death Eaters," he snapped—feeling a wave of defensiveness, his second of the night—just as foreign a feeling now as it had been a few minutes before. "My parents. They're not."
"I didn't say—"
"You were thinking it," Sirius laughed, bitterly, running a hand through his hair again. "Why wouldn't you? It's a natural assumption. You know my brother's one, after all."
Frank fell silent. The December air was frigid—their breaths were visible, and each man watched the other's as they stood together, alone.
"I didn't realize you knew." Sirius swallowed—something seemed to have gotten caught in his throat. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. Forget it. It's not…" He let out another long sigh. "It's not why we're here."
The mission. Forget about the family, his troubles, for one night—that's what this mission was supposed to have been, and it was not proving a great success. Far from it, in fact. Everywhere he turned, everywhere he looked—they were there.
He couldn't escape it.
Frank cleared his throat again.
"Listen, that gossip about the Lestranges you heard…" Sirius turned, surprised. "They were right. You may not have seen them yet, but I did—just now, coming out of the library."
"Both?" Sirius's eyes lit up. "Rodolphus and Rabastan?"
"The Brothers Lestrange." Frank's eyes flashed with the old steely determination. He was no longer smiling. "In the flesh."
Excitement stirred—and unexpected rush of adrenaline at the prospect.
"How did they look?"
"Tired—like they'd come from a long journey," Frank said, in a flat voice. "Tired but pleased with themselves."
Sirius let out a sound under his breath not unlike a growl—of course they were.
"Were they alone?"
"No—they were with Malfoy—Lucius, not his father."
Sirius clenched his fist and let out a low whoop of triumph.
"So our information was good." He looked around at Frank, eager and excited again. "What about you? Did you get us into the game?"
Longbottom shook his head, looking rueful. Sirius felt his shoulders droop.
"Yeah—you see, that's where we hit the snag."
"What snag?"
Frank rubbed his forehead, more tired than Sirius had ever seen him.
"I only got one of us in—you." His partner stood up straighter, alert. "Abraxas knows this Klöcker man—the real one—has no gold of his own. The house rule is that if you're not playing for stakes, you're not allowed in the room."
"I'm not supposed to be able to speak English, though! How am I supposed to be able to communicate with them if I don't have a translator?"
"With gestures—you know, universal card language?" Sirius nodded, running the hand symbols—hold, fold, raise—through his head. He did remember them, thankfully: yet another useless thing he'd picked up from the Black family. "Svensson's a notorious gambler—he plays for high stakes all over Europe, in plenty of countries where he can't speak the language. They say it helps him with bluffing, he has a reputation for it." Frank paused. "Personally, I think Abraxas doesn't trust me not to temper his wealthy guest's tendency to bet big."
The younger man threw a look of derision at the glass doors.
"So—I'll go in alone, then?"
Frank's expression hardened.
"No. Whole plan is off." He squared his shoulders and held up his hand, stopping Black's strangled protest before he could even get it out. "We're getting out of here—quickly and quietly."
Sirius stared up at him in shock, mouth hanging open.
"What?" he yelped. "You want to bail now? After we've come this far?"
"I don't like it any more than you do." Voice heavy, Frank leaned against the railing. "I don't like any of this. I'm starting to think your initial instincts when we walked in the door were right. Something's off here."
"Beyond all the stinking Death Eaters about, you mean?"
Frank nodded.
"I can't shake the feeling they know, somehow."
"But how could they? The plan was a secret, only Moody and Dumbledore—"
"—I don't know how they figured it out—but it's an instinct I have, and Moody's always told me to follow them. Maybe I wasn't very convincing—Or…" Longbottom hesitated. "Maybe the source of information for this operation isn't trust-worthy."
The source of information…Sirius realized he hadn't even asked how they'd found out about this in the first place. Before he could ask if Frank knew where they'd gotten the intel the Auror continued.
"Either way, the fact is that I'm not sure if our cover's been blown—and Dumbledore told me to get out of here if it was even a question. It's not worth the risk."
"But the information—"
"—Probably isn't even reliable, Black!" Longbottom said, his voice as blunt as a bludgeon. "You know who he told me is going to be in there, playing? Augustus Rookwood!"
"Rookwood…" He knew that name—he ran through the roster of his family's social circle and it came to him. "The Unspeakable?"
"Apparently Rookwood's an old pal of Abraxas—he's here, and he asked to be cut into the game at the last minute." Frank frowned. "I doubt even the Lestranges would be stupid enough to pass You-Know-Who's plans in front of a Ministry wizard of his reputation."
Sirius opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again. The last thing he wanted to do was accuse Frank of being naively optimistic over the Lestrange brothers's capacity for stupidity, even if that's exactly what he was thinking in this moment. Longbottom read his expression at once.
"I know you're willing, but I don't want you going in there alone, Black—it's too risky."
"But—"
"I'm not willing to put your neck on the line with no back-up, Sirius!" Frank said, his voice brooking no argument. "That's an order."
The younger man fell silent. Sirius fidgeted uncomfortable under Frank's penetrating, stern gaze.
"Look, I know you're disappointed—but that's how these missions go sometimes." He grasped Black's shoulder in a comforting gesture. "It's like the game: you have to know when to bluff and when to fold and walk away."
Sirius bit the inside his cheek.
"Right."
Frank gave him a friendly pat, then let go of his shoulder and began walking towards the door.
"Come on. I've got to make our excuses to the ladies. I don't want to give them the satisfaction of thinking they scared us off."
"In a minute."
Frank turned around and narrowed his eyes. Sirius stared back, impassively.
"I just want to check one more thing, Frank. I'll catch you up—I promise."
The Auror looked less than enthused.
"I'll meet you in main hall outside the ballroom—ten minutes, tops. If I'm not there you can even come looking for me. Deal?" Frank eyed him skeptically. "I thought this was supposed to be a relationship of mutual trust, Longbottom. It'll be worth it, I promise."
Frank sighed.
"Okay, fine. Ten minutes. I will come looking for you, Black—so be sharp."
Sirius nodded. He would be. The younger man watched Frank turn and walk back inside the ballroom, full of resolve.
Well, he had resolve, too—just of a different kind.
Dumbledore had wanted him for this mission—and what was he known for if not free thinking, creativity—being willing to take the risks to do what needed to be done? That was what was required here. They couldn't let all this be for nothing.
Sirius had an idea—if he pulled it off and managed to get the information, Frank would have no cause to complain.
And if Longbottom did, well—better to ask for forgiveness than permission.
He was not quite ready to fold.
Next chapter will be the finale of the party sequence and part 1. I felt a little bad leaving it here, but the chapter would have been 25k words, so...