"There you go, Sirius, Harry thought, dully. Nothing rash. Kept my nose clean. Exactly the opposite of what you'd have done."
-J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
CHAPTER FIVE
The card game was to take place in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor, off the main corridor and around the corner from the ballroom. Luckily, like most posh git families with huge mansions, the Malfoys had large ornamental vases and suits of armor cluttering up their hall, so it was easy for Sirius to plant himself behind one such art installation—in this case, a statue of Armand Malfoy the First—and wait for the men to start filing into the room. When they did, it would be very easy to slip in with the rest. He could always play it off to Frank like he got strong-armed by Abraxas and couldn't see a way of refusing without blowing his cover—but hopefully Longbottom and Moody would be so pleased by the results they wouldn't bother to question how he'd achieved them.
There were quite a few guests spilling out from the ballroom, now—it being the part of the evening where women and the more retiring of the family party were likely to wish to go home. The reedy, imperious voice of an elderly woman carried over the hushed murmuring of the other exiting party-goers—and as soon as Sirius recognized it, he pressed himself against the wall, instinctively.
"We're retiring far too early, Pollux."
The statue's arm was positioned jauntily, and so Sirius was able to clearly see her through the gap between Armand's sleeve and hip. Adorned in a full-length black lace gown, white curls pinned back in an old-fashioned chignon, and leaning heavily on the arm of her husband of fifty-seven years, was Sirius's one living grandmother—Irma Crabbe Black, looking as ill-tempered as her maiden name suggested.
"Honestly, woman," Pollux Black groused back at her. "If we didn't leave now, you'd be complaining tomorrow you didn't get enough sleep. Nothing satisfies you."
His mother's father was on the stockier side, as far as Black men went—but he had the same dark hair (now graying) and cold gray eyes as the rest, and right now Sirius could see—and hear in his voice—that he was profoundly fed up with his wife. This was nothing new, as his maternal grandparents were believed to have been having the same, continuous argument since 1956.
Sirius rolled his eyes. Some things never changed. At least he'd managed to avoid interacting with them.
"Not being snitted at by my husband would be a good start!" Sirius's grandmother squawked.
"No, it wouldn't," his grandfather replied, irritably. "You'd say I was ignoring you, then."
Irma—or as Sirius and Regulus had always known her, Granny—sniffed loudly—but the sound of hurried footsteps that bespoke a person desiring to go undetected spared Grandfather her from the tart reply
"That isn't—Rodolphus Lestrange—is that you?" Irma exclaimed, loudly. "Come here and say hello, young man! I didn't even know you were here—did you know Roddy was here, Pollux?"
Sirius leaned over to get a better look. Their grandson by marriage shuffled over, looking annoyed that he had been spotted by his wife's high-strung grandparents. He muttered something in such a low voice Sirius couldn't catch it.
He narrowed his eyes in on Lestrange's face. Frank was right—there were dark circles there. He did look like he'd been traveling, and he was gaunter than usual, as if he hadn't been sleeping well.
"Where's Bellatrix, then?"
"She's—indisposed."
The bells of the hallway clock struck eleven.
"The time, Irma—we have to be off, remember?" Pollux stuck out his hand and very quickly grasped his granddaughter's husband's. "Don't be a stranger, Rodolphus. It's been an age since you and Bella visited."
One muted apology later, and Lestrange had managed to shake them off with a promise to visit as soon as he and his wife were able. Sirius watched him slip inside the drawing room, and the two elderly Blacks shuffled down the hall, past the long line of Malfoy family portraits and out of sight.
Sirius waited until he heard the distant noise of the front door shutting again before he stepped out from behind the statue.
In two seconds he had crossed the hall. He placed his hand on the gold doorknob just as the last stroke of the clock. Just in time—
In time…time…time.
Shit.
In his urgency to get into the game as quickly as possible, he'd nearly forgotten—the potion! It had to be close to when he needed to take it—or close enough. He released his hand from the knob and reached into his front pocket to pull out the silver hip-flask full of the disgusting, gelatinous liquid.
But his pocket was empty.
Something gripped Sirius's chest and held it tightly, making it difficult for him to breathe. He knew at once intellectually that it wasn't there, that no amount of groping about would make the flask full of Polyjuice potion materialize (as if—ha!—by magic), but that didn't stop him from trying. Surely it was just—somehow—it had to be—
He began searching the other pockets in his robes, concern turning to alarm turning to blind panic with the speed of a deranged Thestral.
He peered around the hallway—there was no sign of Frank yet, he must've still been in the ballroom, giving their excuses to Abraxas Malfoy and the rest. He spotted an ajar room two doors down and rushed inside.
It looked as though it might be Abraxas's private study, or one of them—the room was dominated by a handsome oak desk next to a stone fireplace.
He started to empty his pockets onto the desk—the pack of cigarettes followed his broken watch, clattering onto the wooden surface—this was bad. He had lost track of time—could literally change back at any second if he didn't take another draught of potion, and he had set his meeting place with Frank in a completely exposed area of the house. Where could it be? Had he really been so idiotic as to carelessly leave the one thing he needed on a table or chair—no, he hadn't set it down, he'd known better than to let go of it when he had it out. Sirius closed his eyes and retraced his steps that evening, trying to recall his last clear memory of having the flask out.
He had taken some of the potion when he was in the corner with the girl, he had toasted her—
That girl…when he had kissed her hand, she must've—she'd palmed it out of his pocket. He swore under his breath. Colette Battancourt had pilfered it from him, the bloody minx! She must be the one who had it. The girl had probably expected him to notice its absence much sooner and come back for it—
Absorbed in his own abject stupidity, he failed to hear the sound of light footsteps entering the room—but his head jerked up at the soft click of the study door being shut.
"Looking for this?"
At that voice, Sirius's heart froze.
He opened his eyes and turned around slowly.
Orion Black was standing directly in front of the door, and in his left hand, held up at eye-level, clearly visible, the object Sirius needed most: the silver flask.
His father took a single step into the room. That was all it took for Sirius to shrink back against the desk.
"You should take more care with your possessions," Orion said, his voice impossibly calm and smooth, careless tossing the object up into the air. "This seems…rather important."
Without even thinking, Sirius drew his wand. Mr. Black raised both eyebrows, but he remained calm, eyes fixed on his prey.
"It is." He could tell by the shrewd and calculating look on his father's face that there was no reason for him to fake a foreign accent. Orion knew the contents of that flask—he understood half of this situation, and Sirius had no desire for him to learn the rest. "And it's in your best interest to just hand it back, walk out the door and pretend this conversation never happened."
This would have been a stupid thing to say to almost anyone, but when he caught sight of his father's scornful expression, he realized just how idiotic it had been to say it now.
Mr. Black laughed—a pitiless, dry chuckle, and in a flash his own wand was out and pointed squarely at Sirius's face.
"You're as brazen as you are stupid," He lowered the flask and watched the imposter's eyes dart down to it. "And desperate. Now drop your wand."
"This isn't what you—"
"Drop it."
It was a voice that he knew well, and it brooked no argument; Sirius opened his hand and the oak, square-handled wand—not his own—clattered to the parquet floor. Mr. Black stepped forward, glanced down, and after a single, derisive look kicked it across the room. It rolled behind a bookcase in the corner.
He looked back up at Sirius.
"Now. I am a civilized man. I have no desire to create a scene, upset the ladies." He lifted his wand up elegantly—sharp eyes still fixed on the stranger. "Our host is in the drawing room—with the other gentlemen. Why don't we join them, and we can…discuss this further?"
Orion pointed his wand toward the door, indicating that the other man should walk through it. The Nordic wizard made no move to do so.
"I don't think that's a very good idea."
"Would you rather be stunned and have your carcass dragged into the drawing room?"
"No, I wouldn't fancy that much, either," Sirius said, flatly. His father's face froze in a look of shock. "What I would fancy is you giving me back that flask, but as it's going to take this potion wearing off for you to see reason, I'm content to wait it out."
At this profoundly unwise cheek, Orion Black stepped forward, pushing the man against the front of the desk, wand inches from his face.
"Why you impudent cur," he spat, furiously. "Don't you know who I am? Men have been killed for daring to say less impertinent drivel to a Black!"
At this, his son's own temper snapped, and red in the face, Sirius burst out, furiously:
"Then by all means, kill me, please—anything to get out of another lecture on what happens to they that dare insult the Black family name. I've only heard it from you about a thousand times."
The sarcastic verbal expulsion was no sooner out of his lips than he would have paid gold to take them back—but it was too late. The damage was done.
Mr. Black slowly lowered his wand. He stared at Nicolaus Svensson—pale, gaping maw open still, though the sheepish expression was otherwise uncannily recognizable—and a look of profound revelation came over Orion's face.
His eyes narrowed into slits.
"To whom am I speaking?"
It came out barely more than a whisper, and every syllable burned with a quiet fury.
Sirius looked up into those fathomless gray eyes and gulped.
"Take a wild guess," he replied, in a minuscule voice.
"I have an inkling," Mr. Black said, voice so tightly wound he sounded like a Cuckoo clock whose strings were about to burst. "I want to hear you say it."
Sirius opened his mouth—but his body had decided, in that moment, to answer the question all on its own.
He raised a hand to the top of his head just as the blond, nappy hair turned straight and grew. A strand of black fringe fell into the eyes he was sure were changing back to their natural gray, just as his stubby nose was lengthening into its usual aquiline shape. He was shrinking in height, his dress robes grew loose in the shoulders, and the fringed ends now trailed around the floor past his shoes.
In less than thirty seconds he was himself again.
Mr. Black stared down at his eldest son—once again, half an inch shorter than his father—in stunned, angry disbelief.
"I did tell you you were going to want to wait."
"Be quiet," Orion hissed, venomously, gesturing to the swivel chair behind the desk. "And go sit down. Now."
Remembering how unpleasant being unarmed had been in their last one-on-one 'chat', Sirius made a move towards the corner where Orion had kicked the wand—but one glowering look from his father relieved him of the notion that was a good idea, and so he instead circled behind the desk and plopped down in the oak chair.
From this spot Sirius watched Mr. Black pace up and down, in a state of profound agitation. Occasionally he glanced over at his son, and every time he did the middle-aged wizard quickly darted his eyes away, as if the very act of looking at the boy caused him physical pain.
It took about thirty seconds of this for Sirius to grow impatient. He cleared his throat, and Orion stopped his pacing and turned very slowly to look at him, his expression masked and stony.
"Listen, I know what you're probably thinking—"
"—You don't have the faintest idea what I'm thinking," his father snapped, icily. "And I don't recall giving you permission to speak."
"Look, we really don't have time for this right now." Sirius swiveled his head towards the door. "They're going to come looking for you—or me. Any second someone might come bursting through that door—"
"By the time I'm done with you, you'll be wishing for that!"
Orion leaned over the desk, his expression more livid than his son had ever seen it. Sirius wanted very desperately to scoot the chair back, but his feet didn't seem to be working—or maybe it was the fact that his extra-long robes were caught in the swivel chair, trapping him in place.
"This is a rather extraordinary situation we find ourselves in." Sirius said nothing, still frozen. "From your attitude the past week, I was under the impression that you were rather looking forward to a day free from our presence. I need hardly add that feeling on my part was mutual."
Orion's son felt a stirring of defiance, and he glared back.
Mr. Black placed both hands palms-down on the table, boxing his son in.
"And yet—here we are." He gestured around the room. "Would you care to explain yourself?"
"No, I wouldn't."
The response had been automatic. He had never been able to resist the urge to respond to Orion's sarcasm in kind, and at the lethal glare this cheeky answer had elicited, Sirius's nerves faltered and he shrank back a little.
"'You wouldn't'?" Mr. Black repeated, voice dangerously soft. "You don't think I'm entitled to some explanation for this?"
Sirius struggled to recall what the Order protocol was when being interrogated by enemy combatants. Nobody had ever explained what you were supposed to do when they were also your father, and he looked like he was about to strangle the life out of you.
"I think you believe you're entitled to a lot of things, an explanation for why I'm here being one of them, but as it stands—" He gulped again. "I'm…not at liberty to say."
Orion's face froze in an utterly unreadable expression.
Considering the urgency of the moment, Sirius could not seem to make his tongue work. He stared blankly up at his father, then around the room, as if the walls of Abraxas Malfoy's study would provide him with some avenue for softening up the enraged wizard in front of him.
No such solution materialized.
The Black patriarch's eyes bored into his for a long moment.
"'Not at liberty to say'?" Orion repeated, silkily, and he leaned his face closer to his son's. "You know what I think? I think that I'm your father, and you're at 'liberty to say' whatever I damn well please." Sirius winced and gripped the edges of the chair. "And right now what damn well pleases me is to learn how it is that I find my son sneaking about at his own grandfather's birthday party masquerading as some damned Norwegian!"
The words hung in the air, and the full impact of the ridiculousness of that sentence coming out of Orion's mouth seemed to hit Sirius in waves.
"You know, when you describe it like that," Sirius said, in a strangled voice. "It…really does seem absurd, but let me assure you that there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for why I'm—"
"—'Perfectly reasonable explanation'?" Mr. Black cut over his son, sharply. "In what universe do you dwell that you think there's an acceptable excuse for subterfuge, gatecrashing and deceitfully misrepresenting yourself to your own relations?"
"Well, if you calm down and just let me—"
"I'll calm down when I damn well feel up to it, boy, and not a moment before—" Orion snarled over him. "Now tell me, once and for all: what the devil do you mean by it, pulling a stunt like this?"
"What do you think, Dad, that I'm here for the fun of it?" Sirius exclaimed, exasperated. "I'm working—this is an undercover mission!"
Orion straightened up and gaped at his son.
"What does that mean, an 'undercover mission'?" he repeated, incredulous in the extreme. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm on a mission, you know—for the…the Order of the Phoenix."
At the mention of the illicit secret society that his elder son belonged to, Orion's expression darkened even further.
"That old fool sent you." His son nodded. Mr. Black's eyes narrowed. "To do what?"
Sirius's eyes darted from the flask back up to his father's face.
"It's a—it's a highly classified…intelligence-gathering operation," Sirius said, hoping that vagaries of euphemistic language would hide the substance of the mission.
His father wasn't fooled for a second.
"Spying, in other words," Mr. Black said, his tone of voice smooth and pleasant—eyes still hard as diamonds. He reminded his son of a cobra, luring the mouse into a false sense of security right before it strikes. "My son is a spy, now."
"I'm guessing from your tone of voice that you don't consider 'spy' to be an appropriate career choice for your son," Sirius replied, sarcastically—the entirely wrong tact to take.
"How astute!" Orion shot back, furious. "You don't miss a trick, do you?"
Sirius flinched and broke eye contact with his father. He stared at the side of one of Abraxas's book shelves, trying to ignore the unpleasant stabbing sensation of Orion's piercing stare.
"Is this how you've been occupying yourself the past three years? Tell me, do you frequently sneak into social events disguised as wealthy foreigners?"
It took every once of his son's self-control to keep him from rolling his eyes.
"Of course not," Sirius replied, tersely. He was fast losing patience—he did not have time for this. "This is a—a highly unusual situation."
Orion snorted.
"The master of understatement, as always." He folded his hands behind his back and studied the young man sitting behind the desk, apparently in control of his emotions once more. "So this is what you've sunk to—sneaking about, peering through key-holes and spying for Dumbledore. On your own family, no less!"
"I am not spying on the family," Sirius said, pushing the chair up roughly and getting to his feet. "I had no idea that the family was even going to be here. Believe it or not, this has nothing to with you or the family."
"Nothing to do with—this is your grandfather's birthday party!"
"It wasn't supposed to be!" Sirius exclaimed, indignantly. "You were all supposed to be in Suffolk tonight! What are you even doing here, Dad?"
"You're asking me to account for my presence?" Orion was staring at his son in utter disbelief— the impudence and nerve of him was astounding. "I am an invited guest in this house—which is far more than you can boast of. Now sit back down!"
Sirius collapsed back in the chair with an angry huff. His father watched him like a hawk, eyes glittering, hand still clutching the silver flask so tightly his knuckles were white. His wand was still trained on his son.
"Now, once for all—without dickering about or dancing around it—" The words were so cutting Sirius recoiled. "—Tell me the real reason you're here. I want all of it, the truth, not another one of your tall tales."
He glared up at his father for a long moment—then glanced at the carriage clock behind him. Time was ticking away, and he knew enough of the man in front of him to realize that he could tell as many lies as he wanted—Orion would not settle for anything less than the real story.
He let out a long sigh.
"Alright, alright—you want the truth, I'll tell you the truth." He eyed Orion's wand warily. "Just—stop waving that in my face, please."
His father lowered his wand a fraction and drummed his fingers on the desk, expectantly. Sirius tried to steady his nerves, and when he managed to speak, his voice was calm—though the words came out quickly.
"There are a—pair of Death Eaters here tonight, in the manor. They've just arrived from way up north—" Sirius didn't notice the flicker of understanding that crossed his father's face. "—Where they've been with their master for the last few weeks, recruiting from Durmstrang, we think—and supposedly he gave one of them important information they are going to pass to some other Death Eater, in code, during that card game in the drawing room."
There was a short silence following his admission. Sirius watched his father absorb the information—but he could not have ventured a guess at what he was really thinking. The expression on Orion's face was his most guarded—the perfect mask.
"This is the reason you've come?" Mr. Black asked, his voice calm and unreadable. "To intercept some kind of secret message from the Dark Lord, being passed by one of his followers during a game of cards?"
His father had a certain tone of voice that he employed to make even the most mundane or ordinary behavior seem preposterous—he had it on full-blast now. Sirius clenched his teeth.
"Yeah—more or less."
Orion let out a snort of derisive laughter.
"That is the biggest crock of nonsense I think I've ever heard!" he sneered, coldly. "Secret codes—it's like a some intrigue from a melodrama on the wireless."
"I'm not disagreeing with you, but the fact is he doesn't trust any of them enough to let them speak freely to one another." Sirius shifted anxiously in his seat, staring at the ticking clock, then back at his father, expression serious again. "Now you understand why I'm here, and why I need that flask back."
Orion goggled at his son, who right now looked about ready to spring from the chair and vault to the door.
"Oh, I apologize—is this boring you?" Mr. Black said, with heavy sarcasm. "Is 'debriefing' your father on your 'mission' a tedious task?"
Sirius let out another calming breath and forced himself to be—as polite as he felt he was humanly able, given the pressure of the moment.
"Look, Dad—I understand and appreciate that you're angry, you're—entitled to that, this is very awkward, obviously—but I honestly do not have time to get chewed out by you right now. Can we just postpone the lecture until tomorrow? You can scream at me at your leisure in the morning, I promise you—but it'll all be a waste if I don't get out of here soon."
Then, feeling the urgency of the moment and the need to speed the process of getting out of here along, Sirius stood up and—in an act of supreme nerve—actually held out his hand. He looked just as brashly confident as the little boy who had once stuck out his hand and expected a toffee to be pulled from his father's inner pocket and deposited there on his command.
Orion looked down at the hand, then up at his son's face, face cooly blank again.
"What is it you believe is about to happen?" he asked, calmly, holding up the silver flask in his left hand. "Do you think you're getting this back?"
His son let out an undignified snort.
"Oh, come on. Are we really doing this right now?" Mr. Black's left hand dropped to his side. "You can posture all you like, but there's only one door to this room, and it's either Svensson or your blood-traitor son who's walking out of it. You don't want the latter any more than I do." Sirius leaned over the desk and opened his palm ever wider. "You're going to hand the Polyjuice Potion over to me, sooner or later—I'd rather it was sooner, that's all. It's not like you have a choice."
Orion considered this point with his characteristic placidity. The ticking of the clock was all his son could focus on—it was maddening.
Sirius had thought couching the problem in eminently sensible terms would help speed the process of his father seeing reason along, but it seemed to have temporarily slowed him down. He tried not to let his impatience show—Orion was measured, he always thought carefully about every decision, and though he might not be happy about this, his elder son was confident that he would eventually see what must be obvious to any rational person.
"No choice, eh?" Mr. Black said at last, weighing the silver object in his left hand deliberatively. "That's what you think?"
Orion lifted his arm, and for one glorious moment his son believed that his powers of cool reasoning had salvaged this situation.
It was then Sirius looked into his face—and found his father's eyes were narrowed with such cold fury that he could not have miscalculated more.
He realized what was going to happen a second before it did.
Orion Black reared back his arm and hurled the flask into the stone fireplace with such strength that the top shattered. Sirius gaped in transfixed horror as the globs of gelatinous liquid oozed out of the bent silver into the ashes in the grate. He vaulted over the desk, pushing past the older man—and watched the rest of the Polyjuice Potion congeal into the ashes, rendering it contaminated and useless.
Shaking with shock, Sirius turned around. Placid as ever, and eyes still fixed on his son, Mr. Black raised his wand towards the fireplace and vanished the remains.
"Well, I trust I've disabused you of that notion."
Sirius goggled at his father.
"Are you out of your fucking mind?"
Mr. Black narrowed his eyes.
"That question," Orion replied, in his most frigid voice. "Would be better served directed at yourself."
"How—how can you be so calm?" Sirius demanded, no longer bothering to keep his voice down. His father remained as impassive as ever, and as usual this served to further agitate his distraught son. "You just chucked my only means of escape into the—what am I supposed to do now? How the hell am I supposed to even get out of here?"
Mr. Black was utterly unmoved by his son's distress. Sirius might've asked him to help with a crossword clue, for all the concern he showed at having that question half-shouted at him.
"Oh, that shouldn't be too hard," he remarked, blandly, tilting his head. "I believe you have another, highly effective way of concealing your identity, after all."
His son went pale—and then his father waved his wand, and the object that he conjured left no doubt as to the meaning of his words.
It was a collar and lead.
"No." Sirius raised his eyes to his father's face and glared. "Not happening. No way in hell."
"I wasn't aware you had any other options available to you," Mr. Black remarked, with an idle shrug.
His son was practically vibrating from the force of his anger.
"I did—I did until about five seconds ago!" He hissed, staring back down at the profoundly humiliating object, then back up at Orion. The older man watched him patiently. "I—I'll transform into a dog, but I am not letting you put a lead on me!"
Mr. Black's smile was cold and pitiless.
"Since I cannot trust you to do as I say, I need a guarantee of your cooperation," Sirius's father sneered, holding up the leash. "This will do nicely. It has the added benefit of lending the unfortunate task authenticity. If anyone should ask, I can simply tell them I'm removing an unwanted whelp from the house." His eyes glittered with contempt. "It's not even a lie."
Sirius took a step away from the offending object—as if he thought Orion had conjured it to beat him. He honestly would have preferred that to what his father had in mind.
"That thing is humiliating, and I am not wearing it!" Sirius hissed. "Merlin, if you felt this strongly about me leaving, why didn't you just say so from the beginning?"
Mr. Black snapped the lead against the wooden desk—his son jumped to attention.
"Because I didn't think it needed to be said!" Orion hissed, and the force of his anger made Sirius visibly wince. "Has three years away dulled your wits so, that you thought I would let you waltz out of here and continue with this inane scheme of yours? Does that seem likely to you, Sirius—does it sound like something your father would do?"
Sirius fingers curled into fists, and he raised them in a defensive posture.
"I knew you wouldn't be thrilled about it, but I thought if you knew the mission was important, you'd—I don't know, relent, or something!" his son replied, through gritted teeth. It really did sound imbecilic when said out loud. "God, what a mistake that was."
"A colossal mistake—and it's going to cost you dearly." He advanced on his son, leash in hand. Sirius eyed it with loathing and let out an actual growl in the back of his throat. "Tonight the price will be your dignity."
He stared up into his father's face—the one that he knew in thirty years would be his own—and felt a surge of repulsion at the sight of it. In moments like this the resemblance between them was useful: it was easy for him to project everything he hated about himself onto Orion, and Sirius's secret self-loathing was far less complicated than his real feelings for the implacable man standing before him.
Orion was in his way in every sense of the phrase.
His father's dark eyebrows were drawn up, his mouth a fixed, unyielding line—supremely arrogant in every respect. He patiently waited for for his son to obey the order he hadn't even bothered to issue.
Orion's son glowered at him. He looked just like he had up on the fire escape—unflappable, shrewd cunning wrapped in a paper-thin veneer of respectability. In that moment Sirius forgot about the mission, forgot why he was angry, why was even here—all he wanted in this moment was to shatter his father's ironclad self-possession, make Orion lose control, feel as powerless as he felt. He wanted, above all, to royally piss him off.
And he knew how.
"You really are in a foul mood," he said, cooly matching his father's gaze. "Arcturus must've reamed you out something fierce, to get you in this state."
Mr. Black froze.
"What did you just say to me?" he asked, hardly more than a whisper.
Adrenaline and a kind of blind self-destruction had taken over. Sirius had lit the match, now he was dangling it over the straw roof.
"I said your father, Black the Eldest…the man of the hour, the 'birthday boy'—only I gather he's not too pleased with you at the moment." A black cloud seemed to pass over Orion's face, and his son continued, recklessly. "Doesn't buy your fibs about Regulus being in France. All this talk of getting caught in lies and paying the price for it—must be weighing pretty heavily on your mind."
"You should be very careful—" Mr. Black hissed. "—Before speaking of things about which you know nothing."
"Oh, I know more than you'd think."
"You are treading on dangerous ground."
He knew it. It was deliberate, and Orion might've seen that it was, except he was already so angry—Arcturus could push his buttons like no other—that he didn't see the provocation for what it was. Judging from how incensed his father was, Sirius guessed he was far closer to the mark than he'd even realized.
"Maybe. Doesn't make it untrue, does it?" He shrugged. "Your sister and wife were talking about it right in front of me!"
Sirius watched his father's fist curl around his wand.
That's right, Dad—just take a swing—please, I beg you, just lose it for once in your life—
"Oh, were they?" Mr. Black advanced another step, and though his voice was still calm, his face was contorted with barely-suppressed rage.
"Yeah, they were. Aunt Lucretia even said he gave you a drubbing." The older man's eyes flashed. "Speaking of humiliation."
Orion raised his right hand—his son didn't even flinch. This was working better than he'd even predicted.
Do it. Come on, you sanctimonious, uptight son-of-a—
Mr. Black tossed the lead onto the desk.
"—I really should have beaten the insolence out of you when you were a child."
Sirius glanced from the wand-tip up to his father's face and smirked.
"It's not too late."
Time seemed to slow down in that moment—the hand began to move, but whether it was being raised or lowered, whether he had successfully pushed Orion over the edge, he would never know, because at that exact moment—a sharp rap on the door brought father and son crashing back to reality.
It was a confident knock, a warning rather than a request for permission to enter. Both men swore in unison—Orion hissed an order, but Sirius didn't need to be told what to do, his survival instincts had kicked in quite on their own.
The door to Abraxas's study swung open with another bang.
"There you are."
Mrs. Black strode briskly into the room stopped dead at the extraordinarily odd sight before her: her husband, wand raised in the air, staring at her, utterly dumbfounded—and at his feet, a gigantic black dog wearing an identical expression.
"Walburga—what—what are you doing here?"
She narrowed her eyes at her husband—he was so flustered, his ears were actually turning red.
"Looking for you, of course. What on earth are you doing in here?" Her eyes trailed down to the animal on the floor next to him—who, at her scrutiny, immediately went rigid. "And what is that?"
Orion jerked his head awkwardly and stared down at the dog—it looked up and let out a low whine—then back at his wife.
"It's a—stray," he answered her, tersely. "Got into the house somehow. I was about to get rid of it."
"A stray?" she repeated, raising one eyebrow at her husband, sardonically. "Rather handsome creature for a stray."
"You think it's handsome?" Mr. Black said, incredulously. "It's a mangy beast, in my opinion."
She looked back down at the dog. For some reason the animal was very nervous at being scrutinized—though it remained in place, it didn't quite seem to want to meet her gaze.
"He seems tame to me." She looked back up at Orion. "Are you sure it's not the Malfoys'?"
"Positive," he said, in a clipped voice. "Abraxas only keeps Irish wolfhounds—and he never lets them in the house. That is an unwanted pest."
Walburga stepped closer to the dog, and to her husband and son's great surprise, bent her knees—gracefully, it was true, she could have curtsied to a queen if she ever met one—and patted him on the head. At first the creature flinched at her touch, but after a few brisk pats it lost its odd skittishness and actually leaned into her hand.
For some reason her husband seemed extremely annoyed by this.
"Do not pet it, Walburga—" Mr. Black ordered her, irritably. "It could be rabid—or have fleas."
The animal whined again and turned its head toward her husband—Orion only had to glare at it and the creature immediately flattened its ears.
She rolled her eyes.
"Oh, I doubt that very much." He scratched him behind the ears, and the dog very cautiously wagged his tail. She looked up at Orion, a small smile on her face. "He looks like one of the dogs my grandfather used to breed—like one of the Black dogs."
"Of course it's a black dog—"
"No Orion, I mean like one of the Black hounds. You remember." Both her husband and son blinked up at her, confused. She let out an impatient noise. "My grandfather bred them. He wanted to create a Black breed—a hunter for the family."
"I'd forgotten that," Orion said, slowly, and he considered the dog at his feet, eyes narrowed. The dog gave him a little glower before turning its head back to Mrs. Black, hopefully. "I seem to recall he wasn't very successful in his ventures."
"No—everyone said they were handsome but useless as hounds—better sheepherders, and what use had the family for that? So he gave it up. He was fond of them, though." She stroked under its chin and then stepped back to gaze at it critically. "This fellow looks just like my grandfather's favorite, Magpie. It's uncanny."
Orion snorted.
"Sounds like a womanish fancy," he scoffed, glowering at the animal. "If you ask me, that creature is a first-class mongrel."
The creature in question let out an affronted growl and stood up on all fours. He made a move to scamper towards the door, but Mr. Black was too quick—he grabbed the animal by the scuff of his neck and dragged him back. She noticed a collar and lead had been thrown carelessly on the desk, her husband picked them both up and snapped them onto its neck. The creature put up a fight, trying to squirm away—perhaps it was a wild stray, it certainly didn't like the collar one bit—and then he waved his wand, and in another flash Orion had summoned a muzzle for it.
"Is that really necessary?" she asked, watching him practically shove the dog's nose into the leather harness. His head kept slipping out, but Orion was nothing if not determined, and he got it on at last and snapped it in place, triumphant.
"It might bite me, and I'm not taking any chances," he said, curtly, then he stood up again and addressed his wife with no less curtness. "I suppose you came to find me for some reason besides defending this beast's honor?"
Walburga fixed her husband with a chilly stare.
"Your father sent me to find you, of course." She smoothed the skirts of her gown, and sniffed haughtily. "He says you're to attend him in the drawing room."
Mr. Black frowned and stared at her—as did the dog, whose intelligent gray eyes were still visible through the straps of its muzzle.
"What for? They're playing for stakes in there. He knows I don't gamble."
"You do tonight, apparently." She tilted her head and shrugged—these wholly masculine concerns were of no interest to her. "He needs you to play. I gather some wizards dropped out of the game and they're a man short."
"Which wizards?"
"Those foreigners, of course." Orion's eyes widened. "That Klöcker—the translator for the rich one, the Norwegian—Abraxas told him he couldn't join them in the room if he wasn't playing for his own stakes, and he had the effrontery to tell old Malfoy that if both of them couldn't be there neither of them would come."
Mr. Black's eyes narrowed and flicked down to the creature at his feet. It flinched.
"Is that what Klöcker said—that neither of them were going to play?" She nodded, noticing that the dog had flattened its ears again. Her husband threw it another piercing look. "That's very interesting."
"Is it? I don't see why," she sniffed. "Anyway, that's why he sent me. They haven't started yet and they're all waiting for you."
Her voice had a touch of impatience, but Orion didn't notice—he was absorbed in his own thoughts.
"Where's Klöcker now?" The dog whined again, and he yanked the leash to silence it. "Is he still here?"
"How should I know? He was saying goodbye to your father and the rest, last I saw—I suppose he'll go find his Norwegian clod and they'll both leave."
"Hm." He narrowed his eyes towards the door. "Yes—I suppose he will."
"Good riddance, I say," she continued, passing over his odd interest in the movements of some no-name valet. "I can't imagine how those foreign wizards ended up at your father's birthday party in the first place." She let out a huff of disdain. "Anyway, they're gone, and you're to take their place in the drawing room."
There was a short, awkward pause, broken only by the dog nudging Mr. Black's leg with its still-muzzled snout. He ignored the creature, instead staring intently at his wife.
"No. I'm not going to play," he said, after a moment, and he pushed the animal away. "I—have no interest in cards this evening."
Walburga frowned, faintly surprised.
"What does you having an interest in cards matter to your father?" she asked, with faint disbelief. "He just wants another player."
"I don't give a damn what he wants!"
At this, Mrs. Black laughed—chillingly disdainful, the kind of laugh that spoke to danger.
"Really? You don't?" Her husband's face flushed scarlet. "That's odd—I thought it was the only thing you did give a damn about."
For the second time in the evening, Mr. Black was struck momentarily dumb by an insult from a member of his family. His shoulders went rigid as Walburga fixed him with a mulish look—in that moment, the resemblance between her and her elder son was uncanny.
On the floor at his feet, the dog had gone similarly stiff.
"I have no interest in arguing with you, madam," Orion said, coldly. "Not here. Now go out into the hall and tell them I'll be along in a minute, and then we will take our leave of this god-forsaken event."
"Are you trying to get rid of me, Orion Black?"
She made no move towards the door—and standing in front of it, arms crossed, slightly forbidding, her husband had no way of getting past her.
"No, I am not trying to—" He glanced back at the dog—still on the leash, but now looking like he wanted to get out of the room for very different reasons. "I have something I need to do, and it's very important—"
"—You were the one who practically dragged me out of the hall an hour ago!" she interrupted him. "Now you can't wait to see the back of me. What are you trying to hide?"
Exasperated, he tried to step around her to get to the door—but she blocked him. At this, the man—already on his last nerve from the antics of Walburga's son—lost his temper again.
"Nothing! For once in your life, woman, can you just do as I ask you without questioning it?" Mr. Black hissed. "Do you know what it's like to have a wife who never obeys?"
"I imagine it's like having a husband who won't stand up to his own father."
A heavy silence followed this statement. Even the dog appeared to have stopped breathing.
Mr. Black's expression had turned icy.
"…I assume from the tenor of that comment, and your unseemly displays of temper," Orion said, in a glacial voice. "That you have discovered your scheme to get out of hosting Christmas Eve at our home is for naught, and for some irrational reason you blame me."
Mrs. Black gripped her wand tightly—her hair had fallen out, but she did not seem to care much. She stepped forward and jabbed him in the chest.
"It's your fault, of course I blame you!" she shot back, angrily. "You knew it was important to me, but you caved to your father, like you always do."
"What choice did I have, Walburga?" he retorted, furious—exerting every effort to keep his voice down. "What was I supposed to do, tell him the truth—that you don't want to host that dratted party because you'd rather be with your misbegotten sons?"
She threw him a scornful look.
"If my sons are misbegotten, whose fault is it?"
His face was now beet red, and he had let go of the lead—but he had ceased to mark the dog, who at this moment wanted very much to crawl under the desk, but was afraid of being noticed by either of his parents during this colossal row.
Mr. Black took a few deep breaths, attempting to regain control over himself.
"You will get over this new disappointment, madam, I assure you," he said, in a flat and emotionless voice. "And you'll have all of Christmas Day with your children—though why you should be so eager for their company, I can scarcely imagine." He folded his arms behind his back. "I've never met a bigger pair of fools in my life."
His sarcasm was blistering, and it had the desired impact of angering her even more.
"Well, they do say sons take after their father."
Husband and wife stared at each other for a long moment—hurtful, proud words filling up the space between them, and the chasm seemed to widen with each passing second. Abruptly Mrs. Black broke eye contact with him and turned on her heel, marching to the door.
"I am going home and going to bed," she informed him, coldly, turning back around. "As you will undoubtedly be playing cards late, I ask that you sleep in your dressing room. I do not want to be disturbed in the middle of the night."
"As you wish."
"Then I'll bid you goodnight." Scorn dripped from every word. "Give Arcturus my regards."
She glided out of the study, slamming the heavy door shut behind her.
Mr. Black stared at the door, wishing very dearly in that moment he had another object in his hand that he could hurl into the fireplace. Then he slowly turned around.
The dog was nowhere to be found—the only sign of him being the end of the leash, which poked out from underneath Abraxas's desk.
So he thought he could hide, did he?
Orion crossed the floor swiftly and snatched the end of the lead up.
"If you're not out here in two seconds I'll drag you out."
A low whimper emanated from under the desk, and then a moment later, Sirius slinked into view, Still wearing the muzzle, ears flattened, body slouched as low to the ground as it was possible for a massive dog to be. Mr. Black did not think he had ever seen a more pathetic creature.
He crossed his arms and glowered down at it. The dog stared glumly at the floor.
"Remember what I told you?" Orion asked him, snidely. "About how it can always get worse?"
The dog slowly raised his head from the floor. Sirius tried to bark—but not being able to open his mouth, it came out as a rather feeble yip. Mr. Black laughed.
"This suits you, I must say." He watched his son paw at the muzzle furiously. "It won't come off and it's not breakable, so don't even think of trying to transform. I would hate to see you injure yourself."
Sirius lowered his front paws and glowered at his father through the muzzle, letting out a low growl of displeasure.
"I'm afraid I don't speak mongrel," Mr. Black said, in a mocking voice. "So I don't know what it is you're after. Did you want to go meet your Auror friend, the one you came with? I could bring you to him."
The dog stopped growling at once, and, terror-stricken, shook its head from side-to-side.
"Oh—so you don't want that." He sneered down at him. "What shall we do with you, then?" The dog let out another low whine. "Any ideas? No? It's not like my clever son to be at such a loss."
Sirius snorted and let out another whimper. Orion pulled the lead taut, and his son, still looking miserable, got to his feet.
"Well, in the absence of any brilliant suggestions from whelps in the room," his father said, sarcastically. "I suppose we have no choice."
The pack of cigarettes and broken watch still lay on the desk—Orion gave them a single contemptuous look before vanishing the offending objects. He picked up the bent flask from the ashes in the fireplace, and then marched to the corner of the room and snatched up Svensson's wand.
The hall was empty when Mr. Black opened the door, and so his son was spared the humiliation of any additional witnesses to the sight of him muzzled and being literally lead by the nose. The second his father had put the horrifying object on him—in front of his mother, no less!—his instinct had been to fight it with all the force of will he possessed. Sirius had wanted to make Orion drag him down the hallway—if he was going to be treated like a stray dog, he'd sure as hell act like one—but the thought of anyone else seeing him like this was even more unbearable than submitting to it, and Mr. Black was pleasantly surprised to find his charge so complacent, following closely at his heels.
Of course, at this point, what choice did the boy have?
By the time they made it to the Malfoy family library the room was dark, the fire that Orion had been staring into an hour before reduced to nothing more than smoldering embers in the grate. The wizard and his unfortunate offspring crossed together to the French doors, Sirius practically straining against the leash in his eagerness to get away.
Sirius raised a paw to open the door—and his father put a hand on the latch.
"Wait a moment." Sirius looked up at his father and gave him a pleading, doleful look. "I'd have thought you'd want that thing off before you left. Don't you?"
The black dog slowly nodded, looking utterly forlorn. His father felt an instant stab of pity at the sight, and then, just as quickly, annoyance at himself for feeling it.
Mercy was the last thing his son deserved.
Of course—he wouldn't be able to get back to London quickly stuck as a dog, and if the little idiot caught cold and died, all of this effort in getting him safely away would be for nothing, wouldn't it? Mr. Black let out another weary sigh and raised his wand, vanishing the offending muzzle, collar and leash.
Sirius's ears perked, slightly. Orion's eyes hardened again. He was glad for it—it was easier to be furious at him when he didn't look like the most miserable creature on the planet.
"We are not done here, my boy—not by a mile," he said, voice steely again, and he turned the latch and opened the crystal door. "Expect me to be in touch."
The wintery air night air blew into the library. The dog hesitated, then looked back up at his father.
"Now get out of my sight."
He didn't need telling twice. The black dog vaulted onto the terrace and into the garden. Mr. Black watched him jump through the rose bushes and over hedgerows—he had never seen a dog run that fast. He didn't take his eyes off of Sirius until his son vanished into the fields beyond the garden.
When Orion stepped back into the main hallway, it was no longer empty. Mr. Klöcker stood near the entrance to the ballroom, shoulders relaxed, waiting patiently for his son. Orion watched him for a moment from the shadows, his eyes narrowed with suspicion and dislike.
He cleared his throat loudly, and when he approached, and the Auror turned to him, he was satisfied at the look of perturbation he found.
His contempt must've been obvious.
"If you are waiting for your associate," Orion said, in his coldest and most imperious voice. "I feel compelled to inform you that he is not coming, sir."
Klöcker fixed his face in an expression of polite puzzlement.
"And why is that?"
"Because I just threw him out on his ear."
Mr. Klöcker—Frank Longbottom—was much better at masking his emotions than Mr. Black's son, for he didn't even blink. Orion pulled the wand he'd picked up from the floor out of his robes.
"Please return this—" He thrust it roughly into Frank's hand. "—To its real owner, with my compliments."
Longbottom looked down at the wand in his hand, and recognizing what it was, very quickly put it in his own pocket and looked up again. Orion could see in the man's keen eyes that this Auror was far faster on the uptake than Sirius.
He wouldn't be arguing with the wizard over the wisdom of leaving, that was for sure.
"I'll be sure to do that for you, sir," Frank said, quietly. "Was there…anything else?"
The older man's sneer became even more pronounced.
"Only this," Mr. Black continued, blandly. "You seem cleverer than your partner. I assume you were the one in charge of this scheme—well, you might be interested to know that he completely ignored your orders. If I hadn't caught him, he'd be in that drawing room right now—alone." Longbottom's jaw tightened. "Of course—you seem to know him, so his insubordination likely doesn't surprise you."
The Auror stared up at him, at a total loss. Orion savored this. By Salazar, it was nice to speak to somebody who didn't always have a smart reply.
"Now I suggest you leave, before I'm forced to call Mr. Malfoy and inform him I have caught a prowler in his home—not that he doesn't already know. I suppose it occurred to you you were expected." The other man nodded, unsurprised. "Tell that fool you report to that he should chose his spies with more care from now on."
Another curt nod.
"I'll convey the message," Longbottom said, cooly—and to the other man's surprise, he actually stuck out his arm. "You aren't what I expected at all, Mr. Black. I guess I…owe you one."
Orion stared down at the proffered hand with contempt—did this scamp think he was actually going to shake it? Apparently his son wasn't the only impudent member of the Order of the Phoenix skulking about this evening.
"You owe me nothing," the older man informed him, blandly, eyes flicking back to his face. Why was this cur so damn cheerful? "And in all honesty, I hope to never set eyes on you again."
A sarcastic smile flashed across Frank's face, and he lowered his hand and bowed to the older man instead.
"I'll try to make that happen—but no promises." His smile was as grim as Orion's. "In my line of work, I don't always get a choice in whose path I cross."
Before Mr. Black could even begin to formulate a reply to this supremely cheeky remark, Frank Longbottom hurried down the hall and out the front doors of the house, leaving the older man quite alone once more.
Orion stood there, blessedly.
A long line of Malfoy family portraits watched him from above. The sound of music and a few straggling party-goers filtered into the hall—the wives and daughters of the men who were sequestered in the drawing room, no doubt. He stared down the hallway—then back at the front doors of the Manor.
Longbottom had left it open.
He stared at the cracked oak doors. Orion was overcome with an almost irresistible urge to push them open and walk to the lane, leave this dreadful night behind—shove the unpleasant revelations to the back of his mind like a book being shoved behind a shelf—to be examined later, perhaps, but more likely to gather dust and be forgotten—
He took a step forward. He thought of the people back in the hall—he had never left a social event in his life without saying goodbye to his family—the thought of doing something that ill-bred revolted him to his core, but the social graces were at war with his instincts, and his instincts were to get away from this place, from this choice.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?"
A voice and a sound, the most familiar sound in the world to him—the clacking of an ivory cane on a marble floor.
He turned slowly and found an equally familiar sight: his father, Arcturus, looking bad-tempered and annoyed. Behind him, light spilled out from the drawing room door, left ajar. Abraxas was just visible from the hall, sitting at the circular card table between Augustus Rookwood and his son, Lucius.
Orion felt an unexpected dread in the pit of his stomach at the sight of the room—and at the sight of the people inside of it, men he knew—or thought he knew. His father noticed, and fixed him with one of his patented eagle-eyed stares.
"What on earth is the matter, boy?" Arcturus barked, suspiciously. "You look like you've seen a damned poltergeist."
Orion swallowed, but when he looked back at his father, his expression was smooth and placid again.
"It's nothing, Father," he said, calmly. "I was—just coming to attend to you."
"Hmph. A likely story. Looks to me like you were about to sneak away, like your damned sister." He narrowed his eyes at his son, all shrewd cunning. "Come in the drawing room at once. We need another man playing at the table—everyone is waiting for you."
"I—"
"I don't want to hear one of your cock-and-bull excuses about not gambling, Orion!" Arcturus snapped. "Salazar knows you can afford to lose the gold, even if you are worthless at cards."
Orion blinked slowly, murmured an apology—naturally, all it garnered was a sneer of contempt—and very slowly he followed Arcturus into the drawing room.
The door closed behind them with a snap, leaving the hall empty once more.
When Sirius had made it back home—sometime past two in the morning, he guessed, not having a working watch he didn't know for certain—he was surprised to find Lily on the other side of his front door, tired but cheerful, her dark red hair in a plait.
"I came to meet James, and he—seemed off, so I told him to go home and rest," she explained, then she took in his expression, and her own fell. "Oh, darling—are you alright?"
His gloomy expression said more than words, and before he could answer, Mrs. Potter had wrapped her arms around him in a bone-crushing hug. Sirius hugged her back—he would never stop being amazed at how much strength God had seen fit to squeeze into one petite redhead.
"So, I'm guessing your mission didn't go—quite as well as you hoped?" Lily asked, in a gentle voice, pulling away. Sirius let her go with extreme reluctance.
"It was an unmitigated disaster," he replied, miserably. "I don't even know if Frank made it out alive."
Lily gave him an encouraging smile and patted him on the arm.
"He did. He sent a message for you." Sirius's face fell. "He says he's alright—and that he knows what happened, and he'll talk to you about it—soon."
He swore loudly.
"What about my brother?"
"He went to bed ages ago—before I even got here." Her face fell at his continued look misery. "Sirius, whatever happened—I'm sure it wasn't—"
"—It was, Lily. Trust me." He ran a hand through his hair and looked around the living room of the apartment. James had left several Quidditch magazines strewn about the floor. Prongs's leavings only served to depress him further—he could've really used the real thing right about now. "Listen, I know this is a big ask—but I was wondering if you wouldn't mind spending the night."
"Of course I don't mind—it's a bit late to go home, anyway." She stared at his back, curiously. "Why d'you need me to?"
He let out a long sigh and turned around.
"Because I'm going to be summoned," he said, grimly. "I'm going to need to leave the flat—probably sometime in the morning, and I need to make sure someone's here with Reg."
"Summoned? By—"
"—By my father," he said, curtly.
"…Oh."
She saw how tired he looked—and if she was being honest, dreadfully downcast—and decided to spare anymore questions for the night.
"Of course. I'll stay as long as you need me to."
It happened a half-hour later, just past three o'clock. He was out on the fire escape, a cigarette in hand, still in the over-long dress robes—he would probably collapse on the cot still wearing them—just waiting for it, and then he saw him, swooping down in front of a dingy street light.
Melchior, Orion's great-horned owl, who Sirius had once jokingly referred to as 'the Angel of Death' because of the inevitably bad news his presence augured—with a letter clutched in his talons.
Melchior landed on the bannister next to him and threw the young Master Black a curious look, as if to ask, "where have you been?" Absently, he stroked the creature under its feathery chin. The bird gave him a haughty look—of course—and stuck its foot out.
"Do I have to?" he grumbled. The owl hopped up once, impatiently, and after a nip at Sirius's finger ("Alright, already—I'll take it!") fumbling slightly, he removed the letter which bore the dreaded wax seal.
The Black family crest, complete with a 'Toujours Pur' in neat script at the top. He took pleasure in tearing it down the middle. Sirius pulled the single sheet of parchment out of the envelope and stared down at the neatly written message, perhaps the tersest he'd ever received from its sender.
9 o'clock—tomorrow morning—in my study.
Don't be late.
No signature necessary. He'd have known that handwriting anywhere—a perfectly even hand, probably born from hundreds of hours of diligent practice at penmanship, not like Sirius's own careless scrawl. Clearly he had not been in a state of chaos when he'd written that note a half hour before—unlike his son, who was facing the prospect of the audience with an almost morbid dread.
To him, returning to Grimmauld Place felt like crossing into the ninth circle of Dante's hell.
In a childish pet, Sirius crumpled the parchment up in his hand and threw it off the fire escape, then rounded on the bird. It was still staring at him, with what he took to be pity.
"Are you waiting for me to write a reply?" he asked Melchior, moodily. "Fine. You can tell him to—" Sirius made a rude gesture with his hand. "—Off. Okay? Tell him that, from me."
The owl hooted softly. Sirius sighed and leaned on heavily on the railing.
"…You won't really tell him I said that, will you?" He stroked its head again, and the owl made a little noise Sirius could at least pretend was of solidarity. "Good. I guess I'll see you tomorrow, Mel."
After another nip—this time more affectionate—Melchior stretched his wings and took off again into the night sky, to return to the house of Sirius's ancestors—where he was, God help him, soon to make his triumphant return.
And thus ends Act I! Thank you for all your kind comments about this story—it means a lot. I am well into writing Act II, but will be taking a slight break in posting to build up a few more chapters. Stay tuned for much more.