Black Mask

by Ieyre

Christmas 1979—danger, secrets, lies and their shared history loom large over the Blacks' first Yuletide season as a reunited family. While life as a fugitive proves bleaker—and more boring—than Regulus could have imagined, a botched espionage mission at Malfoy Manor draws Sirius deeper into the Black family web. [Sequel to 'In the Black']

6. Chapter 6

ACT II: JOYEUX NOËL

CHAPTER 6

When Sirius wrested a large golden ring bearing the Black crest from his grip Kreacher actually burst into furious tears and left the room sobbing under his breath and calling Sirius names Harry had never heard before.

'It was my father's," said Sirius, throwing the ring into the sack. 'Kreacher wasn't quite as devoted to him as to my mother, but I still caught him snogging a pair of my father's old trousers last week.'

-J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

December 20th, 1979

Overnight the weather in London had taken a turn for the worse. Miserable, driving rain had become sleet in the early hours, and so the fire was roaring when—at exactly three minutes to nine—a tall figure stepped out of the green flames and into the cavernous basement kitchen of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

Sirius dusted the soot off his robes and surveyed his surroundings, critically. Copper pots hung from the ceiling, a pile of sparkling china lay next to the sink—it would be taken upstairs to the dining room, no doubt, to be placed back in the handsome cabinet where it was usually displayed. His eyes slid past the dishes to a side table, where a rag was polishing a silver tea pot all on its own.

In three years, not an object out of place—not a single solitary aspect changed. They hadn't even sprung for new tea cozies.

Sirius couldn't decide if this comforted or depressed him.

There was a loud clanging noise—the boiler—and he turned towards it, reflexively.

"Kreacher?" He took a step forward, towards the cupboard where generations of the family's house-elves had slept. "You here?"

No answer. He sighed and turned away, feeling strangely disappointed by the elf's absence. A familiar face—even one as unpleasant as Kreacher's—would've been nice right about now. He looked over at Melchior's perch in the corner—but it was empty, too, and so Sirius had no pretense to linger here, and he trudged up the steps that lead to the front hall.

Sirius tried to ignore the furtive whispers and looks of unabashed curiosity from the portraits on the walls as he hurried up the steps. He'd been called to the study, and as he wanted to get there as quickly as possible, he avoided letting his eyes linger on anything else. There were a lot of miserable memories attached to his father's sanctuary, but he was under no obligation to relive the ones he associated with everywhere else in this mausoleum.

The grandfather clock on the second-floor landing ticked—one minute till, he glanced at the second hand as he walked past, now with more urgency—towards the far end of the hallway. His hand touched the silver, serpentine handle of the heavy walnut door just as the clock struck nine.

"Cutting it rather close, aren't you?"

Sirius jumped, as if he'd had an electric shock. Annoyed, he turned towards the source of the familiar voice and glared at it—it was his great-great-grandfather, Phineas Nigellus, currently lingering in a dreadful landscape of the Dardanelles.

The former Hogwarts Headmaster did not return his glare of dislike. Instead, he merely fixed the young man with a look of feigned boredom. His descendent had always thought this particular family portrait the most irritating of the paintings in the house. Perhaps it was the fact that he had another portrait at Hogwarts and had, as a consequence, been able to quickly relay information back to his parents about his wrong-doing when Sirius was at school—or perhaps it was just his ancestor's personality that made him such an irritating verbal sparring partner.

It was very annoying, feeling as though a painting had outfoxed you.

"I made it on time," Sirius pointed out, sarcastically. Phineas Nigellus raised an eyebrow and looked his descendent over. His clever eyes lingered on the wrinkled cuffs of his robes—the boy had tossed them onto the floor of his bedroom in a fit of pique a few days earlier, and not bothered to smooth them out again, which lent an aura of dishevelment to a young wizard who was already known for his lackadaisical sense of dress.

"Barely," the portrait drawled, and when Sirius looked towards the door and turned the doorknob a fraction, he coughed. "I would not do that, if I were you."

His hand froze on the door.

"If I don't do that in the next five seconds, I'll be late."

Phineas Nigellus looked down at his fingernails.

"Yes, well—I have been bid to tell you that the Master of the house begs your forgiveness, but he is exceptionally busy this morning—" The painting's lip curled upwards. "—And I'm afraid your audience will have to wait."

Sirius dropped his hand from the doorknob and turned towards Phineas Nigellus.

"…Until when?" he asked, warily.

"Until he is done with whatever occupies him, I assume," Phineas Nigellus answered, voice bland. "I did not press for details. You are to wait in the drawing room in the meantime."

The young man glared at the door, consumed with a desire to kick it open.

"He's going to make me sit here all day, isn't he?" he asked, indignantly. His ancestor did not bother to answer this pert question, though he kept his sly gaze fixed on his great-great-grandson, now pacing about the hall with agitation. "If he thinks he can ice me out with this passive-aggressive lord of the manor routine, he's got another thing coming!" He stomped down the hallway, past the clock and down the stairs to the main hall. Other members of the family had begun to stir fitfully in their mahogany frames, and Phineas followed, striding through a series of portraits of maiden aunts on his mother's side. "I came when that snake asked, if he doesn't want to talk, well—that's his damn affair. He knows where to find me."

Upon making this melodramatic proclamation, he grabbed the handle of the front door and pulled, only to find it had been magically sealed shut. He knew that this fact had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the war, but Sirius couldn't help but feel that this was just another attempt of Orion's to spite him, and he growled and pulled harder, as if by sheer force of will he could make it open. The door remained shut fast, and after half a minute of tugging in vain, Sirius slammed both his hands against it and let out a string of profanities.

"I see you are in no better control of your temper than you were the last time you graced this house with your presence," Phineas Nigellus observed, dryly, as he watched his descendent petulantly kick the door.

"If you had a night like I did," Sirius shot back, moodily. "You'd be in a foul temper, too, believe me!"

"I will have to take your word for it. Of course, if I had been foolish enough to be caught by my father sneaking into a house," the wily old Headmaster drawled. "I would not be so imprudent as to try to sneak out of one under his nose the next morning."

Sirius froze mid-tantrum and turned around, slowly.

"How do you know about last night?"

His great-great-grandfather shrugged, casually—but his sly eyes told the real story. Sirius marched up to the portrait, and jabbed a finger at Phineas Nigellus—ignoring the squawk of protest from Old Aunt Megora.

"Where did you hear—" Sirius's face went white. "—He hasn't told her, has he?"

"I assume by 'her' you mean the mistress of this house, my great-great-granddaughter." Sirius rolled his eyes, impatiently, and the painting continued. "As to her knowledge of the incident in question, I could not tell you. Mine comes from being regrettably disturbed from my sleep at three in the morning by the Headmaster's guest—" His grandson winced, and so the portrait delivered the final blow with relish. "—a certain Auror, who I gather was present during aforementioned escapade. He had quite a story to tell."

Sirius shut his eyes, as if this could block out Phineas Nigellus as well. Dumbledore knew already?

"Was anyone else there?"

"Let me see…" Phineas Nigellus pretended to think. "I seem to recall there was a rather unpleasant sort of sinister man with abysmal manners. Another Auror, perhaps? I wasn't paying much attention to who he was…though I must say, he seemed most displeased by what he heard."

Moody. Shit.

Sirius opened his eyes again and glowered at his ancestor.

"You aren't making me want to stay, you know, by piling on the bad news."

"Well, if you'd prefer to run away…" The old Slytherin headmaster trailed off, significantly. "You do have a known propensity for that, after all. Of course, I thought you were a brave Gryffindor who wasn't 'afraid of anything.' I must've been mistaken in that."

Sirius huffed and threw him another ugly look. His ancestor stared back, impassively, entirely unaffected by the display of open dislike.

He knew what Phineas Nigellus was doing—that taunt was meant to provoke him into not leaving the house. Orion had undoubtedly told the portrait to make sure he stayed put, once he was here, and he was taking the duty seriously—he was fonder of his great-grandson than most of his descendants, and the portraits, as a general rule, followed the directives of the most senior Black in near proximity to them. Sirius ran a hand through his hair, thinking it out—there wasn't any point in leaving now, was there? Much as he was dreading it, he couldn't put off this conversation indefinitely.

Better to just get it over with.

"My mother isn't here, is she?"

He felt sure he knew the answer already—if Walburga was in the house, she would have already made her presence known to him. His distinguished ancestor evidently thought his demand for information about the whereabouts of the mistress of Number Twelve rather impertinent, for he tutted quietly before answering.

"I believe that she is out paying a call on one of her relations," Phineas Nigellus said, coldly. "Not that it's any of your concern."

Sirius snorted. He would've thought his mother had gotten quite enough "family time" last night. She was probably still stewing over her fight with his father, and was avoiding him by getting tea with one of his aunts.

And if that were the case, Orion wouldn't make him wait too long. He would want to get him out of the house before she got back and found him here.

Abruptly, he turned and marched up the stairs again.

No sooner was he through the door of the drawing room, than Sirius had flung himself down onto the long, narrow sofa. Like most of the furniture in the house, it was ornamental and wildly uncomfortable. He kicked one of the decorative cushions down onto the floor and put his legs up, dangling a foot over the scalloped back in a manner most unbecoming for a Black. He didn't care—in fact, he savored his own bad manners. Perhaps if Orion was feeling particularly vindictive, he would leave his eldest son here long enough that said son could get a good nap in.

He tucked his hands behind his head and sighed. Knowing full well that he wouldn't be able to sleep until this audience was over and done with, Sirius restively looked around the room instead.

Like the kitchen, the drawing room of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place looked very much the same now as it had when he had lived in the house—though the distance of time spent away from the house drew into sharp relief how unnatural still and quiet it was—nearly lifeless. The cabinets, chock full of Black family heirlooms that varied in degrees of sinisterness, gleamed on either side of the fireplace. The grand piano still stood in the corner—Regulus was the only one who still played, and Kreacher had kept it gleaming bright for his young master, currently holed up a mile and half away in his elder brother's far less stately flat. No doubt he was missing it, for he liked to practice every day for at least an hour.

Sirius rolled over and stared out the windows at the sleet currently pouring outside. If this weather kept up they really were in for a dismal Christmas. The piano had unexpectedly reminded him of the holiday, as it was celebrated in the house of his fathers. Regulus used to always play it for them on Christmas night, when all the rest of the relations had gone back to their own homes. It was a kind of tradition they had, just the four of them. Sometimes his mother bullied Sirius into singing, while his brother accompanied him.

He hadn't thought about that in years. Did they still do it, without him? Something twisted in his gut at the thought.

The subtle sound of a throat being cleared drew him from his thoughts. He raised his head and cursed again—Phineas Nigellus had followed him from the front hall into the drawing room by way of a painting of his great-grandmother, snoring loudly in her frame. The wily headmaster's eyes were fixed on his great-great-grandson with equal parts interest and disapproval.

"What are you looking at?" he asked, crossly.

"From what I understand," Phineas Nigellus remarked, in a dry voice. "I am looking at the future of the Black family."

His tone of voice and general demeanor suggested he felt this state of affairs boded ill for the Noble House of Black. His great-great-grandson snorted—apparently his parents had been discussing him. Great.

"I'm not any happier than you are about the will, and still being the heir, and all that." The portrait scoffed, and his descendent sat up and threw him an accusatory look. "You can thank yourself for it, as it's all your fault."

"I have been deceased for several decades, and am now a work of art," the portrait pointed out, sardonically. "In what respect can anything be 'my fault'?"

"You did plenty of damage when you were alive, trust me," Sirius groused—then his face turned shrewd. "You were the one who set the entail that's got me shackled to this damn family."

"I did set the enchantments on the entail," Phineas Nigellus conceded. "But I hardly think that is what currently ails you."

"Well then, what does?"

"Your complete lack of common sense, for a start."

Sirius ignored the insult—something had just occurred to him.

"Wait a tick. If you were the one who set the entail—you must know how to break it!" He put his feet down on the carpet, suddenly full of renewed energy. "Tell me how. You must want Regulus to inherit over me—you've always liked him much better."

"My other great-great-grandson has a sense of family pride and comports himself with dignity. I find it difficult to imagine anyone not preferring him to the…alternative."

Sirius flung another pillow at the portrait, but he missed by a foot.

"Why'd you follow me in here, anyway?" he complained, loudly. "Just to pick at me, like a scab? You taking a page out of my mother's book now?"

"I enjoy your company even less than you enjoy mine," the portrait said, snidely. "I followed you because I have a message from Albus Dumbledore." Sirius started, and he grew very still, like a hunting dog. "Nothing else would have compelled me to spend more time than was strictly necessary in your company."

"What—Dumbledore sent you?" Sirius stood up. "What—what did he say?"

"That he wishes to see you," Phineas Nigellus reported, in a bored voice. "In his office, the day after next. That is all."

"What—then?" Sirius frowned, genuinely surprised at the instructions—which had no more urgency than the typical owl sent to summon him to an Order meeting. "He doesn't want to see me—sooner than that?"

He had been expecting an unpleasant conference with Dumbledore—and maybe even Moody, which would make it infinitely worse—today.

"The headmaster is a very busy man. Apparently the foibles and exploits of my impudent great-great-grandson are not high on his agenda. He will see you in his office in the afternoon, day after next." Phineas Nigellus bowed, ironically—he saw no reason to wait for an answer. One did not refuse such requests when given by Dumbledore. "I will retrieve you when your father is ready to see you. I would advise you to straighten your robes."

And with that, the portrait swept from the frame and out of the drawing room. Sirius threw a rude hand gesture in his direction and turned the other way.

His eyes immediately fell on the eastern wall of the drawing room. Sirius started, as though the object was looking at now—the tapestry that had been in the family for seven centuries and had adorned this room for his entire life—had sneaked up on him and taken the young man unawares.

His eyes lingered on the header, the family motto and crest—a proud proclamation of nearly eight hundred years of Blacks, starting with old Ophiuchus the first, who had come across the channel with William the Conquerer—and ending here.

With Regulus—and with him.

He walked over to the family tree and crouched on the floor. Sirius scoured the bottom carefully—as if he needed to, as if he didn't know the exact location of what he was searching for. Perhaps he was trying to delay finding it—for the need to see proof was at war with an unexpected fear—that he wouldn't know how to feel when he did.

There it was. Right next to Regulus's name, shining in gold on the faded silk—a small hole, no bigger than a cigarette burn.

So the last three years hadn't been a hallucination or a dream.

He ran a thumb over the tiny scar in the fabric—a seemingly insignificant blight on a sea of history—and tried to will himself into relief—or absent that, anger. He was surprised he felt neither…or was it that he felt both, simultaneously? It had all seemed so clear-cut back then, so definitive, getting blasted off the tree. He had thought of it like wiping a slate clean, but to see the mark with his own two eyes, now, he realized just how untrue that was. There was a scar—he was a scar, an echo of something that had been, that still was.

He remained—noticeable by his absence.

Sirius's eyes slid past the place where his own name and '1959' had once been, past Regulus, to his cousins—there were Narcissa and Bellatrix, the hole where Andromeda had once been between them. Andi, nine years married to Ted Tonks, with little Dora, a daughter of her own—neither of them had ever been on here, of course. He didn't see as much of Andromeda as he'd have liked. She never said it, but he always had a feeling he reminded his favorite cousin of them too much, and it made Andi sad to be around him. He was another reminder of the past—more proof it was never really over.

Another scar.

He raised his gaze up to Cygnus, the girls' father, his uncle—and was surprised to find a new hole—not one that he'd expected.

A burn mark between his mother and her youngest brother.

Uncle Alphard.

He had a surge of startled shock, like a lightening bolt—then, just as quickly and unexpectedly—anger. When the hell had that happened? Alphard had made it nearly fifty years straddling—but never crossing—the family line. As fond of him as Sirius had been, he could admit that his favorite uncle was as much a Slytherin as the rest of the Blacks—shrewd and careful, prudent, above all else. If he had controversial views about the usual subjects of contention, he would never have voiced them in front of the hardliners. The family mattered to Alphard in a way that Sirius had never understood.

His favorite nephew glared at the burn mark. What exactly had Alphard done at the eleventh hour to merit getting removed from the family tree?

He didn't know how long he crouched there, staring at the blight—only that it took the sound of a throat being cleared to snap him out of his thoughts. Sirius stood up and turned around, unsurprised to find Phineas Nigellus, back in the portrait of his daughter, still sleeping blissfully.

"Oh…it's you." He gave Phineas Nigellus a sour look. "What do you have to say now?"

His great-great-grandfather sized him up, cooly. He seemed to notice that that his young descendent had a new aura of determination about him—but whether the portrait approved of this was difficult to say.

"The master of the house will see you now."

He felt a flicker of fear, the old trepidation at what an audience in the study with his father would bring. Sirius tempered it, stuffed it back down, and steeled himself for battle. He was a man now. There was nothing to be afraid of—it would be unpleasant, but he didn't answer to Orion anymore.

He walked out of the study, determined not to look back.

---

"More tea, dear?"

Mrs. Black gave no indication she had heard the question. As she had been staring blankly out the window of Mrs. Prewett's sitting room for close to quarter of an hour, this was not a great surprise to her sister-in-law.

Lucretia sighed and rolled her eyes. It was the third time her oldest friend had drifted off since she'd arrived—and it was only Mrs. Prewett's great desire for news that kept her as patient as she had been, for the witch was not, as a general rule, accustomed to being ignored. She tapped her wand against the willow-patterned teapot, and it floated up and over her sister-in-law's cup, filling it again—the milk jug and sugar bowl followed. Walburga hardly noticed the cup and saucer floating towards her—until Lucretia flicked her hand, and the cup overspilled into her lap.

Mrs. Black let out an unseemly yelp.

"Watch what you're doing, Lucretia!" She dabbed at her skirts with her wand while Mrs. Prewett hid her smile by stuffing another scone in her mouth. "You practically scalded me."

Lucretia patted her lips with the napkin. She'd successfully gotten Burgie's attention, at least—even if she was annoyed, now, and likely to be cross for the rest of tea.

"I'm sorry, dear. An accident—my wand slipped," Lucretia soothed. Walburga continued to glower at her. "You could've come this afternoon, you know, if you were still tired from last night's festivities."

Mrs. Black finished dabbing at her dress and snatched the still-floating cup from the air. She took a dainty sip, still fuming.

"I couldn't stand to be in that house," she admitted, setting the cup back down. The other woman watched her fixedly, still chewing on the scone. "I felt shut up. I simply had to get away."

"From the house—or your husband?" Mrs. Prewett asked, innocently. Her sister-in-law gave her a withering look. "Oh, come now, you weren't exactly making a secret of it last night. You and 'Rion were rowing something dreadful."

"Your brother is an insufferable fool," she informed Lucretia, primly. "I can't imagine what I was thinking, marrying him."

"I seem to recall he didn't give you much of a choice," Lucretia remarked, blithely. "Of course, after you lead him 'round by the nose for all those years—it was only right he should get his own back." She took another long sip of tea. "Turnabout's fair play, after all."

"That is not what happened!" Walburga snapped, irritably. "Whatever stories he's filled your head with to make me out the villain, they're fibs—every last one. That man has caused me nothing but grief for a quarter century."

Walburga's voice had risen, and she was being very dramatic—a sure sign to Lucretia she didn't mean a word of what she was saying. As debating the finer points of her brother and sister-in-law's courtship was not the reason she had invited her to tea, Mrs. Prewett decided—for now—to drop the argument.

"You don't mean that, Burgie…it hasn't all been bad," she said, her voice overly innocent. "After all—he gave you that magnificent son of yours you've got tucked away in Lisson Grove, didn't he?"

Mrs. Black's face went the color of clotted cream.

"I knew that man couldn't be trusted," she hissed, furiously. "How much did he tell you?"

"Not nearly enough!" Lucretia laughed, clapping her hands together. "Why do you think I've summoned you? All I know is that you've been going to see my disgraceful nephew on the sly—it's too delicious, you must tell me everything."

"I must tell you nothing," Walburga shot back. "You know more than you should already—and mind you keep it to yourself and not blab like your fool of a brother."

"Don't be hard on Orion. I wheedled it out of him—he was very reluctant to spill the beans." Walburga snorted into her cup. "And from what I hear, your eldest is giving him quite the time of it—picking right up where he left off, I'd say."

"A father who can't control his own son is no man at all," Mrs. Black sniffed, haughtily—her sister-in-law only laughed.

"And a woman who can't control either is—what, exactly?" Mrs. Prewett rejoined, archly. Walburga stood up, looking so incensed her cousin thought she might actually storm out, so she raised a hand in supplication. "It was a joke—only a silly joke, dear! I would never impugn your talents at—domestic management."

Her friend huffed—but Lucretia could see that she wasn't going to leave—not now. Now that Walburga knew she was in the know, she would want her as a confidante.

"Certainly not," she replied, tartly, her silvery grave eyes glittering in the drab winter light of the morning. "I've always kept—a good house, haven't I?"

"The best," Mrs. Prewett lied, in flattering tones—though Walburga wasn't much paying attention to her. Her sister-in-law thought she looked rather tireder than would have been expected from the evening—Burgie had confessed to having left soon after her—and a little red around the eyes.

"Regulus behaves himself," she murmured, half to herself. "He listens to me, at least—even if the other two don't."

"A most respectable young man," Lucretia agreed, solemnly. "Good gracious, what will he think when he comes back from France and finds you've been holed up with his disgraceful elder brother?"

Walburga's eyes snapped up, and she threw the other woman a piercing look.

"Orion really didn't tell you much, did he?" she asked, voice shrewd, her eyes narrowed. "About how all this came to be."

"Not a word, darling—that's what I've been saying!" her sister-in-law exclaimed, waving a licorice stick around in excitement. "I want details, and Orion wouldn't give them to me."

"Quite right. You have an indiscreet tongue, Lucretia Black. I tell you, you'll spill it to half the wizards of this country."

Mrs. Prewett dropped the licorice into her tea with a pout, feeling very put-out. She did not see her sister-in-law's refusal to relay sensitive information as a precaution—only robbing her of a good treat.

"If you aren't going to tell me how it happened, at least tell me how me how my nephew is." She smiled, wickedly. "Has he grown very handsome since I last saw him?"

"Very." Mrs. Black was clearly torn between maternal pride and annoyance at this fact. "And he knows it, worst of all."

Lucretia nodded. This was old wisdom at its finest—handsome men who were aware of the fact were a dangerous breed.

"I suppose he's rather wild, now," she asked, with a tad more timidity. Walburga's nostrils flared. "What has he been up to, in exile?"

"From what I can tell, Sirius Orion spends his evenings flinging himself this way and that, gadding about the country getting into all manner of scrapes." At this florid description of her nephew's activities, Mrs. Prewett laughed. "He dresses like a common Muggle and lives in a cesspit—it's almost too much for me to bear. He is living completely beneath his station, Lucretia—you wouldn't believe that place."

Lucretia's mouth twitched. She had known Walburga her entire life, and could tell when her cousin was truly upset and when she was posturing—and it was quite obvious to her that beneath this harping, the mother was utterly delighted at the renewed challenge taming her elder son presented.

"Well, what can you expect?" Lucretia said, dipping a biscuit into her cup. "He probably can't afford better. Young men who've been disowned must make their own fortune in the world, after all."

Her sister-in-law's scowl turned into a Cheshire smile.

"But he hasn't been disowned," Mrs. Black said, calmly.

"What?"

"He hasn't been disowned," she repeated, with ill-disguised triumph. "Orion never changed his will—he never took Sirius out of the line of succession."

This bold declaration had the immediate desired effect—Mrs. Prewett dropped the spoon she'd been stirring her tea, it clattered loudly on the saucer. She looked up at Walburga, astonished.

"You don't mean that Sirius is still set to inherit under the entail, do you?" Her sister-in-law nodded, grimly. Lucretia was genuinely astonished. "After three years? How could Orion of all men overlook that?"

Mrs. Black popped a grape into her mouth and shrugged, unconcerned.

"I don't know or care why he did it. All that matters is that my son remains his father's heir and the future head of this family." Her eyes glittered. "And it's going to stay that way, if I have my druthers."

Something of the threat lingered in Mrs. Black's words. Mrs. Prewett eyed her across the table, a wary expression playing across her face.

"I'd know that look anywhere, Walburga. You're scheming," she said, voice accusatory. "What exactly do you think you're going to do?"

"What I should have done three years ago," Walburga replied, her voice resolute. "I am going to restore my son's reputation in the Black family, of course!"

The aura of a general preparing herself for battle hung about Mrs. Black. Her sister-in-law decided that it would be prudential for her to choose her next words—and express her opinions about this proposed course of action—very prudently.

"That's a very bold plan. Darling—" Lucretia hesitated when she saw the flash of displeasure in her friend's eyes. "I am very sympathetic to your plight. I would take your eldest back in a heartbeat—he's charm itself, as far as I'm concerned—but has it occurred to you there are rather a lot of large obstacles in the way of…reinstalling him?"

"Like what, for example?"

Mrs. Prewett resisted the urge to roll her eyes and her sister-in-law's indignance at this perfectly rational question.

"Convincing the rest of the family, for a start! Sirius has always been a trouble-maker, and after that disappearing act he pulled, well—" Lucretia shuddered. "It will take a minor miracle to get my father to forgive and forget that."

At this mention of her formidable father-in-law and his infamously long memory, Mrs. Black drew herself up.

"I am not afraid of Arcturus Black," Walburga sniffed, cooly, the subtext clear: unlike you and your brother. Her sister-in-law rolled her eyes. "I can handle him."

Mrs. Prewett doubted that, knowing her father—precious few people could.

"And what about your son?" Lucretia pressed. "Have you told him this idea you have, this grand scheme to bring him back into the fold?"

Walburga looked evasively down at her uneaten treacle tart.

"He has…some inkling of it," she admitted, with obvious reluctance. "He knows he's still the heir—Orion told him."

"And how did he take the news?" Mrs. Black fidgeted in her chair, and her friend sighed heavily and tapped the teapot again, signaling that it should pour another cup for her. "Oh, honestly, Burgie—you tried all this years ago, and where did it get you? He ran off and left you heartbroken."

Mrs. Black's cheeks flushed scarlet at this recollection of the worst moment in her life, her supreme failure—not even Orion on the best days dared bring it up directly to her, knowing how worked up she could get at the mere memory.

"It's entirely different now!" Walburga insisted, hotly. "Orion finally has him under control. He's actually behaving himself, for once!"

Mrs. Prewett frowned as she watched her sister-in-law dump an inordinate amount of sugar into her cup. Lucretia was more than a little skeptical. Considering Orion's dour mood, and what she'd managed to glean from the twins about her nephew's exploits, she found the notion that he had suddenly 'settled down' and was behaving himself highly suspect. How much did Walburga know? She'd said he was gadding about—did she realize that her precious eldest was doing so on Dumbledore's orders, fighting in his illicit gang of soldiers, outside of Ministry control?

Most witches wouldn't be fussing over reputations if they knew their son had thrown himself directly into the path of the Dark Lord—but then again, this was Walburga she was dealing with. A clever woman, but she could be remarkably obtuse when it came to things like 'war' and 'politics', the sort of subjects she had long-since consigned to the men to sort out.

Maybe she didn't realize—or perhaps she simply viewed that part of the taming of Sirius as her husband's domain.

"Gotten your naughty boy to behave, at last?" Lucretia asked, in a dry voice. "How did my brother achieve that feat?"

Her companion dunked a scone into the sludgy tea and nibbled on the end, thoughtful.

"I haven't figured out how he's doing it quite yet. It's working marvelously well, whatever it is." Walburga smiled, pleased at the thought. "Sirius Orion is dressing as we tell him, and eating dinner with us—even holding his tongue, occasionally. I think my husband is exerting considerable—pressure, if you know what I mean."

Lucretia, as it happens, did know what Walburga meant. A spot of blackmail, was it? She smirked. Well—wasn't that devious of Orion? To her surprise, the matron found herself a little impressed with her younger brother. He was cunning, and unlike his wife, he didn't parade about crowing over it. 'Rion wouldn't be the first Black to dragoon an unruly son through coercion—but Lucy wouldn't have thought he had it in him.

What dirt did he have on Sirius? Perhaps Orion had found out about the flying motorcycle, and was now threatening to tell the boy's mother. Burgie couldn't have yet known that detail—Lucretia would have already had to listen to a half-hour long stricture from her sister-in-law if the woman had gotten wind that her son was riding around on a filthy Muggle contraption.

"Of course, he still has his stubborn streak—and occasional bouts of defiance." Walburga pursed her lips. "I'm eager to snuff that out, naturally—but it will be easier after I've secured his position to…smooth over the rough edges."

'Smooth over the rough edges'…good heavens. Lucretia did not envy her poor nephew. What would be left of the boy, after his overbearing mama had sandpapered him down?

She studied her cousin's face. Mixed in with her stubborn determination she thought she caught a whiff of desperation—though Burgie was too proud to ever admit it. She needed Lucretia's help, whether she realized it or not.

"Alright, dear. I see you're determined to see this venture through." She sighed and set her cup down on the saucer again, resigned. "And though I think it fool-hardy…I am curious to hear what your strategy for accomplishing it."

"It's very simple." She lowered the half-eaten pastry to the table. "I'm going to find him a wife."

Mrs. Prewett choked, spraying crumbs over the table.

"I beg your pardon?" she managed to get out, after a moment of recovering herself with liberal gulps of tea. "You're going to do what?"

"I'm going to arrange a marriage for my son," Mrs. Black said, matter-of-factly and with utmost dignity. Her sister-in-law started to laugh.

"What on earth is that—how is that going to help?"

Walburga narrowed her eyes, irritated. Was Lucretia pretending to be dull-witted just to annoy her?

"Isn't it obvious? My sons are the only young, unmarried men in the family—they are the soul hope for the continuation of the Black name," she said, unable to keep the pride from her voice. "If I find Sirius a bride with an impressive lineage and dowry, and they have strong, healthy sons—no one is going to remember some—ridiculous folly in his youth. "

Mrs. Prewett did not think her father or Walburga's parents would ever see being a Gryffindor blood traitor that had run away from home as a mere 'folly'—but she had other, more pressing issues with this idea.

"Putting aside my reservations with your logic—and I have many—do you honestly think Sirius likely to agree to an arranged marriage?"

Walburga's expression would not have been out of place among barracudas.

"I'm not planning on giving him a choice." Lucretia groaned inwardly. "I have no proof, but I think that there have been…women."

She paused for dramatic effect, thinking this scandalous behavior would shock Mrs. Prewett—but it didn't.

"Of course there have been women, dear." Lucretia shrugged. "He's a man, like any other. If there weren't, he'd be the first of his kind in our family."

"That is not true! My husband never carried on with Muggles tramps!" Walburga snapped, indignantly. "And nor does my younger son."

"Well, I suppose that's fair," her friend conceded. "Orion was a picture of uprightness and propriety—and Regulus is much the same." She smiled, and continued, casually. "Have you cursed any of these unfortunates, yet?"

"He's clever enough to keep them well away from me," the other woman grumbled. "Rest assured, if I ever see of one of those hussies—" She made a threatening motion with her wand, then sighed—wanting to put the distasteful thought of her son's paramours out of her head. "The point is that marriage is the easiest way to quash such things, and anyway—we'll have to find someone for him eventually, so why put it off?"

Mrs. Prewett stared at her in frank amazement—she was really serious about this. It appeared marriage to her stodgy and old-fashioned brother had taken its toll on Walburga Black. Was it too early for a brandy? Lucretia sucked in a long breath and prepared herself for what was sure to be a painful conversation.

"Dear—it's just….that's all well and good, but things have…changed since we were married." Mrs. Black stared at her, blankly. "Arranged matches—they aren't really done anymore."

Mrs. Prewett might have grown two heads, for how perturbed her sister-in-law looked at this new information.

"What do you mean, 'they aren't done anymore'?"

"I mean that they've fallen out of fashion."

"But then—how do young people meet?" Walburga asked, flabbergasted. "Without parents making proper introductions, how do they find wives and husbands?"

"Nowadays they choose for themselves, as I understand it." She almost enjoyed the look of shock and displeasure on her friend's face. "No parents involved at all."

"The parents don't have a say? What utter foolishness." Despite her misgivings, she seemed intrigued by these modern notions. "How do they socialize?"

"It's de rigueur for young men to take girls out to cafes or the theatre—dates, they call them." Mrs. Black looked faintly horrified—she found herself enjoying it. "Quite alone, from what I'm told."

"Wizards taking unmarried witches out—unchaperoned?" she asked, scandalized. "That is utter barbarism. Purebloods aren't doing this sort of thing, are they?"

"Everyone's doing it, darling." Mrs. Prewett lowered her voice. "They've even started living together."

"Before they're married?" Lucretia giggled at the amount of incredulity her friend managed to pack into that question. "If this is the current state of wizard-kind in this country, it's no wonder we're at war."

"What interesting political commentary you provide!" her friend laughed. "Oh, don't get the vapors, Burgie—you aren't that shocked. People used to sneak off behind the greenhouses when we were at school from time-to-time. I seem to recall that even you got caught more than once—or am I misremembering?"

"At least then we knew it was shameful behavior," Walburga snapped, coldly. "We weren't proud of ourselves."

"It's so funny to see Orion's influence at work on you," Lucretia observed, thoughtfully. "You were never this much of a traditionalist when you were a girl."

Walburga's stare over the rim of her cup was chilly, to say the least.

"I married the man my parents picked for me, didn't I?"

"True…of course, they picked him for you when you were fifteen, and you were nearly thirty when you wed." Her sister-in-law grinned. "Hardly a docile bride, by my reckoning! I can't imagine your son being any more docile of a groom."

Walburga clenched her jaw mulishly.

"Arranged marriage was good enough for his mother and his father, and it will be good enough for Sirius Orion," Mrs. Black said, firmly. "That is how we do things in our family. It is traditional and it is right."

There was an air of finality to this; Mrs. Prewett shook her head and tutted. It was obvious that her line of logic wasn't going to work—Walburga hated to have her the indiscretions of her youth brought up, and she was so stubborn that now that her plan had been criticized she was only going to dig her heels in.

"If you aren't going to help me find a suitable match for my son, I'll take my leave of you," she sniffed, haughtily, pushing her chair out roughly. "Narcissa is staying with us, and I'm meeting her for lunch at the Club. I have many errands I need to run in the meantime."

She marched towards the door where her coat and purse hung.

"Will your errands take you to Lisson Grove, by chance?" Walburga froze, then turned on her heel. This innocent question elicited a fierce glare. "Walburga, don't be cross—you know I mean well and want the best for you."

"Then why don't you help me, instead of criticizing?" her sister-in-law demanded, throwing her coat on with a huff. Mrs. Prewett rose from the table and crossed to her.

"I am helping!" She patted her friend's arm gently. "I'm telling you, this plan of yours to force your son into a marriage is…ill-advised."

Walburga lowered her wand, suddenly looking tired and careworn.

"Well—what do you suggest?" she asked, silkily. "I don't suppose you have any better ideas."

It was very rare for Walburga Black to admit that she needed help, so Lucretia thought for a long time before she answered the question.

"Maybe don't—hold on quite as tightly as you did last time. You've been handed a great opportunity, here, however it came about—you must take care you don't make the same mistakes." Walburga's lip trembled. "You push him too hard, you're liable to lose that boy again."

Mrs. Black said nothing—a sure sign she was listening at last.

"Sirius is not going to marry a woman his mama tells him to, full-stop. He'll want to choose for himself," Lucretia continued, gently but firmly. "If you're determined to match-make, stick to focusing on Regulus, where you actually have a chance of success."

Mrs. Black frowned, confused by this abrupt subject change.

"What are you talking about?" she asked, confused. "What does Regulus have to do with any of this?"

"Well, you did send him to France to get married, Burgie!" Mrs. Prewett laughed. "Goodness, I know Sirius eclipses his poor brother, but you gave me a letter from the child just yesterday."

"Oh—right." She fiddled with her handbag, looking pensive. "I'd…forgotten."

She snapped the bag shut, adjusted her coat and made a move towards the door, more eager than ever to leave. She seemed even more upended and distracted than she'd been when she arrived. Lucretia put a hand on her shoulder.

"You will think about what I've said, Walburga." Lucretia gave her an encouraging smile. "About taking care?"

Mrs. Black did not return the smile—she was lost in her own thoughts again.

"I'll…consider it."

Well, Mrs. Prewett thought, watching her sister-in-law summon the elf from the pantry and sweep out the front of door—that was probably the closest she was going to get to a 'thank you.'

---

Sirius loudly cleared his throat—an affected and wholly undignified noise, akin to a Kneazle hacking up a dirt clod.

His father gave no indication he had heard his eldest son, or that he was even aware of his presence in the room. As this was the third time he had tried to get the older man's attention in this manner, Sirius was not surprised the method had failed—but he was left no less irritated by the fact.

He had been standing here being ignored by Orion for nearly ten minutes.

Sirius should have known that being made to wait in the drawing room for a mere quarter-hour was too good to be true. After Phineas Nigellus's somber declaration that the he was ready to be received, Sirius had marched up the stairs to the study door, knocked, waited for the gatekeeper of the inner sanctum to grant permission for him to cross the threshold, a placid voice had said the magic words, "Enter", and he had obeyed.

Mr. Black was sitting at his desk, just as his son had expected, with a magnificent ostrich-feather quill poised over parchment he was writing on. As soon as Sirius had stepped into the dark, mahogany-paneled room—elegant bookshelves filled with questionably licit tomes, the Black family and Orion's personal collection of magical artifacts lining the walls—the door had creaked shut behind him.

That had been ten minutes ago. In that time, Mr. Black had not looked up from the parchment once.

Sirius shifted his weight from one foot to the other, feeling fidgety and cross. In these audiences, one never dared sit down unless one was invited to, and so he stood—half-way between the door and desk, rubbing his toe into the Persian carpet, waiting for Orion to look up and actually acknowledge him.

As much as he would have liked to tempt fate and plop down in the chair, permission be damned, Sirius felt it would be a show of weakness—a tacit admission that he was tired and standing was unpleasant—and he was determined not to let his father see that he was getting to him.

I'm not going to give him the satisfaction.

Of course, even if Orion was enjoying himself, he would never be so ill-bred as to show it—Sirius's father had turned freezing people out into an art form. There were none of the usual tells that would indicate this was a performative act—no surreptitious glances up to see how the routine was being received, no strategic coughs to punctuate the torture—no, it really did seem as though Mr. Black had gone temporarily deaf and blind, and was going about his daily rituals, oblivious to the impatient young man waiting for him to speak.

Of course, Sirius knew better.

After a lifetime of having the man for a father, he understood this game well enough—Orion was a master of it. It was all deliberate. He might make his son wait another five minutes—or another five hours—but the moment Sirius let his guard down would be the moment Orion would spring the trap.

So his son would wait, alert and watchful—and try not to get too bored in the meantime.

That was tough, though. The study was as frozen in time as every other room in the house, and so looking around did nothing to distract him from his current situation—it only brought back unwanted memories of similar audiences, years ago, better left undisturbed. He would've bet good gold that not a single object on the shelves that adorned this room—the darkest in the house, for there was only one window, and Orion rarely opened the velvet curtains—had moved since the last time he had stood in this spot.

August 18th, 1976.

That was the last time I was in here.

The sound of the quill being dipped in an ink-pot startled him, and Sirius turned back towards the desk.

That was the moment that Orion chose to raise his eyes.

"Oh—Sirius." Mr. Black blinked up at his son, as if he was a little surprised to see him. "How long have you been standing there?"

Sirius blinked. Orion raised a hand and carelessly waved towards the chair, gesturing that he should sit. His son didn't move.

"Not…long." He tried to keep his own voice neutral, but he could hear the edge in it.

"Well, you should have said something," Mr. Black remarked, blandly. "I would've told you to sit down."

His lip twitched, but remembering his vow, he resisted his natural urge to snap something back. Very slowly, Sirius stepped forward—the five paces it took for him to reach the enormous desk—and lowered himself into the interrogation chair, as he used to call it.

On the desk were the only signs that time had continued to pass in the house since Sirius had left it. A stack of large, heavy books towered above them on the far right corner, next to a seal letter, and, odder still—a large sack of gold. As his father hated clutter above all else, Sirius's eyes were drawn to these things—but just as quickly as he had glanced at them, they flitted back to his father.

Orion folded his hands on the desktop and looked at the young man across from him.

His expression was placid—not a trace of last night's anger. To look at him now, you'd never be able to guess what the crafty old snake was thinking.

Mr. Black was at his most dangerous, now.

"It certainly has been a long time," the middle-aged man said, after a short pause. "Since you've been here, I mean."

"It sure has." Sirius peered around the room in an exaggerated fashion. "I love what you've done with the place. Is that a new paperweight you've acquired?"

There was just enough sarcasm to elicit a raised eyebrow from Orion. He picked up the object—a heavy ivory coiled serpent with ruby eyes—and held it out to his son with an air of faint irony.

"No, it's the same one I've always had. A family heirloom. I'm surprised you've forgotten," Sirius did not take the carved snake monstrosity, and so he put it back down on top of a stack of fresh parchment behind his ink-blotter. "In your youth, you often told me you thought it was watching you."

So, they were warming up for this with the old 'casual smalltalk' routine, were they? Well, he was more than game for that.

"Did I?" Sirius tapped his chin, theatrically. "Fancy that. What an imaginative child I was."

Once again, his father ignored the sarcasm. Orion could not have been calmer—Merlin, did it piss him off.

"I quite agree," the wizard remarked, idly. "I seem to recall you even insisting it was going to spring to life and bite you."

God, if only it had—then he'd be dead and buried and not stuck here having belligerent chitchat with his father.

Sirius sat up straighter in his chair.

"Well, this is pleasant and all—but don't you think we should get down to it?" Sirius crossed his arms and slouched in a provoking manner. "I would hate to take up too much of your precious time."

Orion nodded, slowly—expression still guarded.

"And I yours." His voice remained that perfect level of unconcerned placidity. Mr. Black picked up the parchment he'd been writing on, the ink now dry, and held it out to his son to take.

"For you. I apologize for keeping you waiting—but this took quite a bit longer than I thought, and I wanted it to be done for you when we met."

Confused and suspicious, he leaned over the desk and snatched the parchment from the outstretched hand.

Sirius stared down at it for a full five seconds, reading and then—rereading the utterly improbable words on the page.

"This is…a shopping list."

Mr. Black began to gather stray pieces of spare parchment from around the desk, and with a wave of his wand he bundled them together and vanished a stray ink stain from the woodgrain.

When he looked up from this task, he found his son staring at him perplexity.

"An unexpected amount of family business has suddenly come up, and it all needs to be dealt with before the new year—as a consequence, I find myself quite short on free time." He gestured to the parchment, which Sirius had just realized, horrified—was double-sided. "I need you to pick up a few, ah—items for me before the holiday."

It was the second time in as many days that Sirius had been handed a Christmas list from a member of his estranged family—and from Orion, sitting smugly behind his massive desk, it was far worse than from Reggie.

"You need me," Sirius paused, dramatically. "To do your shopping for you."

"Mm, yes. There's enough gold there for you, I think." Orion flicked his head in the direction of the heavy sack of galleons on the desk and the sealed note. "Regulus told me he's already given you his list, but I've had him write it out again, in case you were unfortunate enough to have…misplaced it."

Sirius curled his lip. If by misplace, he meant chucked in the bin, then yes, he had 'misplaced' Regulus's shopping list.

"This is why you called me here?" He waved the parchment impudently in the air. Mr. Black looked at him from across the desk, nonplussed. "To give me a…list of presents to buy, for you and Regulus?"

"Yes—well, there was one other thing." Orion pointed at the tower of books next to the gold that Sirius had, thus far, made no move to reach for. "Those are for you, as well."

He looked back around at the stack with as much trepidation, as he would if he'd been told they carried spattergroit.

"What are they?" Sirius asked, through gritted teeth.

"The family letters, compiled by Phineas Nigellus—for your opal project, remember?" Orion clasped his hands together, thoughtfully. "1815 to 1900. That should give you a wide enough berth of correspondence, if your brother's hunch about them being tied to the main estate is true." Sirius looked from the mountain of books back at his father, fresh horror in his eyes. "You two have your work cut out for you, I must say. There have to be at least a three thousand letters from the period in question. Still—" Orion stood up and crossed around to the right side of the desk. "—You're both clever. I'm sure something useful will come of your…sleuthing."

Before Sirius could loudly protest the injustice of this, Mr. Black had picked up the impossibly tall stack of books and deposited them into his arms. The boy practically staggered under the weight, and was too caught off-guard to protest the heavy sack of gold also being shoved into his hand, along with the sealed letter that contained Regulus's list of gifts.

While his son tried desperately to keep his balance, Orion crossed back around the desk and sat down, calm as ever.

"That was all." He pulled out a fresh piece of parchment from the stack and Sirius watched him—from around the wide books currently obstructing his vision—actually begin writing again. "You may go."

Sirius gaped at his father in undisguised fury—and then he roughly deposited the stack of books into his chair and tossed the sack of gold back onto the table.

"Is this your idea of a punishment?"

His father looked up again. Outwardly, he appeared genuinely baffled by this line of inquiry—and he paid no mind to the furious expression on his son's face while he considered his answer.

"A punishment? Goodness, no—I don't think so." Mr. Black tilted his head, quizzically. "When I was your age, I would often do errands like this for my father. It's part of a young man's education."

"Education—really?" Sirius squinted down at the parchment still half-crumpled in his fist. "Granddad had you buy great-aunt Cassiopeia a fox-fur muff to teach you something, did he?"

"Well—my sister Lucretia would probably have been the one to do shopping for him, if it was necessary," Mr. Black admitted, blandly. "But as you have no sister, only a house-bound brother, the task falls to you. I have every confidence in your abilities, of course."

Sirius watched Orion open the top door of his desk and pull out a container of sealing wax and bronze seal. He was actually—he was finishing up a letter, the bastard!

"This is all you wanted to talk about, really?" He sarcastically waved the list above his head. "Didn't have anything else on your mind—had no other reason for calling me here?"

Mr. Black looked up from his letter—the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

"No, I did not." Orion's eyes glinted, coldly. "What other reason would I have to summon you this morning, Sirius?"

Father and son stared at each other for a long moment. Orion's expression remained as placid as ever—but there was unmistakable steel behind those slate-gray eyes.

Sirius's own widened. Oh—so that was how it was going to go. Well, if those were the rules they were playing by—so be it.

"No reason," he replied, in a casual voice, and he cleared the chair of books, shoving them onto the floor—and sat back down in the chair. "No reason at all."

Mr. Black had pulled out a large accounts book that he was now studying. When he glanced up from it to find his son back in the chair, his eyes flickered with some emotion Sirius couldn't identify.

He hoped it was anger.

"You probably shouldn't linger," Orion drawled, casually, head still bent over the page. "After all, you have a lot to get to—and not many daylight hours in which to do it."

"Oh, I think I have a little time to chat with my father," Sirius remarked, studying his nails. "Did you have a good time at the party last night?"

Mr. Black's quill hovered over the page for a fraction of a second longer than it should.

"I'm sure we'll discuss the celebration at dinner tonight in mind-numbing detail," Orion replied, a very slight warning in his voice as he began to write. "I would hate to bore you by…repeating myself."

"And how's your father?"

"He's well—much the same."

"So he's thriving. Fantastic. Good to hear the old boy's alive and kicking at seventy-eight." Sirius leaned forward. "And that everyone enjoyed themselves. The festivities were suitably—festive?"

"As far as these things go, I would say—yes."

Sirius put one of his elbows on the desk and propped his chin up. His father was staring down a the page—but he could see quite plainly Orion's eyes weren't moving.

"So Suffolk was as lovely as ever? Noire House was dolled up to the nines, packed with Blacks?"

"We didn't have the party in Suffolk this year, actually," Mr. Black said, his voice still pleasant—though a tad clipped. "Abraxas Malfoy offered to host it for us at his manor house in Wiltshire. Very hospitable of him, I thought."

Sirius gasped in theatrical surprise.

"Did he, really? That is thoughtful. Beautiful house, Malfoy Manor." Sirius paused. "Funny story about that house—I actually lost something inside of it, last time I was there."

"Oh? Did you?"

Orion's fingers tightened around his quill—Sirius could see it trembled.

"Yeah—a silver flask. It's pretty distinctive. Got a dent in the corner from when this astoundingly uptight wizard I know—in a state of supreme rage—hurled into it into a stone fireplace." He tilted his head down—his father was now staring hard at the page—and his eyes weren't moving. "There's sentimental value, though. You didn't happen to say…find something like that lying around, did you?"

For a raw moment he thought he'd succeeded in cracking the old man's icy facade—but then, to his surprise, Orion actually reached into the inner pocket and pulled out the object in question.

He tossed the flask on the table in front of his son—it landed with a clunk.

"It's a very odd thing," he said, coldly. "But as it turns out—I did."

The younger man smiled in delight. Clearly Orion was willing to take this all the way. Sirius almost respected it.

"Wow—what are the odds of that?"

Sirius picked up the flask and examined it, thoroughly. He held the dent to his eye and let out a low whistle.

"Will you look at that impression?" Sirius asked, in exaggerated awe. "Man, the tosser who did this must've been really pissed off, don't you think? The temper on the person who did this must be—"

Mr. Black slammed his accounts book shut and looked up from the desk, red-faced and mouth frozen in a hard line. Sirius tilted his head, all innocence.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Orion asked, in a thoroughly aggravated voice.

His firstborn son smiled broadly and tossed the bent silver object up into the air a few times before tucking it into his pocket.

"I'm having a ball." He put his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. "This is fun. It's like a parlor game—I could keep it up all day."

"You should leave," his father snapped, icily. "I have nothing more to say to you."

"I don't think that's true." Sirius lowered the chair back onto the floor and looked his father straight in the eyes. "I think you have a lot more to say to me—and I don't believe for one damn minute you called me here just to give me a list of errands to run."

Orion stared at his son for a long moment—his eyes narrowed.

"I have no interest in playing games."

"No—you have no interest in losing games," Sirius shot back. His father froze in a pose of dangerous calm. "You're the one who started this. What's the matter—don't like having your old tricks used against you?" The younger man sneered. "Can dish it out, but you can't take it?"

Mr. Black let out a slow, calming breath—but his son could see the tell-tale sign that Orion was very close to losing control again—the throbbing vein in his neck, for one.

"What exactly do you hope to accomplish, here?" he asked, in a soft voice. "What is this getting you?"

Sirius stared back—trying very hard not to blink.

"I want to talk about last night." He tried to keep his voice even, for to lose his temper now would be to cede the field to his father early, and he might never get it back. "That's all. It's what I thought this was about."

Orion's lips were as thin a line as Sirius had ever seen them.

"The events of last night," the middle-aged man said, through gritted teeth—forcing himself to be calm. "Were highly unfortunate for all parties involved. I have no wish to revisit them with you—now or ever." Sirius bolted up straight, expression mutinous. "Frankly, given the unpleasantness of our…tete-a-tete, I would have thought you'd be eager for a reprieve."

Sirius laughed—a loud, mocking, humorless laugh that had the desired effect—Orion bristled, visibly.

"Oh, give me a break—a reprieve? Whatever this is, it is not a reprieve. With you, it never is." He stood up again, slamming his hands on the table. "Last time I walked away from a fight with you, I gave you three years to stew on it, and the next time you saw me, you nearly threw me off a building!"

Orion's expression blackened. Sirius slouched back down in his chair, defiantly crossing his arms across his chest.

"Here's the thing—I've learned my lesson, Dad. I'm not leaving this unresolved between us, not again." He glowered at his father. "If you want to have it out with me, you're going to have to do it here and now."

There was a long pause. Sirius stared up at his father, impatiently. Orion stared back—face calm, the mask firmly back in place. They maintained this for nearly a minute, neither one moving, until Orion actually started to laugh.

"What exactly are you waiting for?"

"I'm waiting for you," his son snapped back, peevishly. "Come on—just do it. Yell at me."

To Sirius's extreme annoyance, this response prompted a sarcastic smile from his father.

"I am not going to raise my voice," Mr. Black informed him, calmly. "I have no desire to shout."

"Of course you want to shout," Sirius exclaimed, hotly. "It's all you want to do."

"No—it's all you want me to do," Orion said, cutting off the inevitable string of profanities about to issue forth from his firstborn's lips. "You want me to scream and bellow and carry on. You're practically begging for histrionics—but I'm not your mother. You're not going to get them from me."

Orion stood up, crossed back in front of the desk—for once, his son had no response. He paced up and down, arms folded behind his back.

"Shouting at you would only satisfy me if I thought it actually had an effect," he spat, turning sharply on his heel. "But it doesn't. You won't listen. You want me to shout so you can shout back, and then walk out that door, wallowing in your injuries, a 'tragic hero', as fully convinced of your own righteousness as you were when you walked in. You have been trotting out this tedious little martyr routine with me since you were eight years old, and to tell you the truth—I'm sick to death of it."

This speech ended like the crack of a whip. Sirius glared at him, stonily, his breathing loud and harsh—but he couldn't seem to decide what to yell at his father for, first—or perhaps it was the the risk of doing exactly what Orion had accused him of that held him back.

Mr. Black stared down at Sirius, whose eyes were now fixed on an empty stretch of canvas on the wall.

"If you're that desperate to discuss last night—" he continued, sharply. "—Then you can be the one to speak first. I think you'll agree you owe me that."

Sirius jerked his head around.

"What the hell are you expecting from me?"

"Two things," Mr. Black said, holding up the fingers, as if he were talking to a child so slow he needed to illustrate the point in this fashion. "Your keenly expressed gratitude…and your sincere remorse." Sirius let out an involuntary sputter. "You may give them to me in whichever order you prefer."

His son openly gaped at this absurd demand.

"You want a thank you for last night?" Sirius snorted, full of incredulous disbelief. "You're waiting on a 'sorry'? Well, here's one—I'm sorry you caught me. It's the only thing I'm sorry for."

The sarcasm had no effect on Mr. Black—who continued to watch the seated young man, with the expectation of a snake outside a mouse hole.

"And how do you think that came about?"

His voice was silky smooth now, but the cold gray eyes glittered, hard and unrelenting. Sirius stared up into them—momentarily forgetting his anger, he was so taken off-guard by this question.

"W-what?"

"How is it that I caught you, Sirius?" Orion reiterated the question, tersely. "I would've thought that would be the first thing you'd ask, considering the unusual circumstances. But apparently you haven't even considered the question."

His son stared at him, alarmed to realize that—Orion was right. He had been up most of the night staring at the ceiling—and how his father had figured it out hadn't crossed his mind once. It was like the second he'd stepped in the room he'd known the wily old bastard would sniff him out—a bloodhound for his son's trouble-making.

It hadn't occurred to him there was no real rational explanation for it.

"Well—it was—" He hesitated, suddenly disoriented by the sharp turn. "It was—the girl, obviously—"

"The girl?" Orion laughed, coldly. "The girl told me nothing. When I asked her which gentlemen had dropped that flask she was holding, and if I could do her the service of returning it on her behalf, she looked petrified—I practically had to pry it out of her hands."

Sirius went pale. Orion put his hands behind his back again and resumed his frenetic pacing.

"I have no idea how she ended up with that object. I can only assume it was ineptitude on your part, a botched attempt at flirtation—" Sirius's cheeks flushed. "—But I was onto you well before I got the proof from her. And do you know why?"

Orion stopped and turned to him, waiting for an answer. Sirius didn't give one. He only looked up at his father, now towering over him.

"It's simple, really." He loomed over his son. "They knew you were coming."

The scant remaining color in Sirius's face drained away.

"Oh, yes. The men you came here to spy on were quite prepared," Orion said, contemptuously—his son's eyes grew wide, making him look much younger than his twenty years. "They were expecting you, in fact—I was told that a pair of imposters might turn up, and to keep a sharp eye out. It didn't take long, once I knew what I was looking for, to see one of them was you."

His son's eyes flashed with alarm—he turned in his seat towards his father, pacing up and down with a martial gait.

"Of course, your friend the Auror was a bit quicker on the uptake. I assume that's why he ordered you to stand down…an order you were completely disregarding when I stumbled upon you, naturally."

Sirius swallowed—his mouth felt dry.

"So, as far as the expectation of gratitude from my son is concerned—" Mr. Black drawled, scornfully and he turned once more to stare his son straight in the eye. "—I think it should be fairly obvious why I believe I'm owed that courtesy—after all, I did save his worthless hide from barreling headlong into a trap."

Sirius looked up at him—in a rare moment of stunned silence. Orion's eyes boring into his. His father was waiting for satisfaction—to be pried forcibly from his lips, if necessary. The younger wizard fixed his face into the same cool blank, mask.

When he looked into that face, it was easy for Sirius to ignore all the truth of what he had heard—and embrace that old feeling—the unfairness of being denied what he wanted from this man, the great stonewaller of his childhood, law and order personified.

"If you really want my gratitude," he said, quietly, at last. "You'll tell me what you heard them say."

The sheer audacity of this demand took Mr. Black by surprise for only a moment. His eyes narrowed into slits.

"Do you think that is a wise course for you to take with me, just now?"

Whether his son did or not—he was willing to try, wisdom be damned.

"So you did get the information, then," Sirius pressed—recklessly. "The message—that Rabastan Lestrange passed on to one of the other Death Eaters—you heard it—you probably figured out what the coded bit was, too—you're not stupid."

"Your confidence in my intellect is flattering," Orion shot back, coldly—but Sirius, thrumming with manic energy, didn't seem to have heard him.

"I'm right, aren't I?"

Mr. Black raised an eyebrow—then marched back around the desk and sat down, face placid again. He steepled his fingers on the table-top. Sirius spun around in his chair and gripped the corners of the desk.

"It would be…unwise for you to continue on your present course, Sirius."

"Just tell me what he said." His father remained unmoved, eyes fixed on the boy across from him with unnerving resolve. Sirius let out a growl of frustration. "Come on, Dad—you know I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't really important."

Mr. Black studied him for a moment—his son recognized the hard, shrewd look in the older man's eyes—he was thinking.

Orion cleared his throat and raised one hand to rest under his chin—the fixed expression on his face hardened.

"I do not recall ever giving you permission to use that familiarity."

This cold non-sequitur hit Sirius with the force of a slap. For a moment, he stared at his father in wondering incomprehension, not sure what to say.

"What are you talking about?"

Mr. Black separated his hands and laid them flat on the desk.

"That insolent word you insist upon using as a form of address." Orion stood up, punctuating each syllable with his prickling disdain. "I never gave you leave to call me that—it's one of your many impertinences I've allowed go on for far too long." He drew himself up, towering over his son, frozen like a cornered rabbit. "From now on, you will address me as 'father' or 'sir' at all times, is that understood?"

The imperious pronouncement had the desired effect—Sirius was actually taken aback. For a moment he stared at his father in stunned disbelief. Unexpectedly, he was stung.

He quickly rallied, though. He raised up his shoulders in a shrug of supreme indifference.

"If that's what you want—fine. Makes no difference to me," he said, cooly, tapping his wand against the chair. He leaned back and crossed his arms in insolent repose. "But—for the record, 'dad' is meant to be a term of affection."

The middle-aged wizard laughed—a single, mocking 'ha!' that set his son's teeth on edge.

"A term of affection?" Orion repeated, scathingly. "Have I ever indicated, in either word or deed, that your affection was something I desired? Having known me for twenty years—would you say that affection has played a large role in our relationship up until now?"

Sirius, utterly stone-faced, considered this question.

"Not really, no," he answered, airily, after a moment of mock-consideration. "I would say, overall, it's played a minimal role in the proceedings."

Orion curled his lip.

"Well, then—why not look to our history, before saddling your father with undesired endearments?" Mr. Black's son turned an ugly shade of red. "If I wanted your affection, I'd ask for it. As it is, I don't—the only thing I want from you is respect."

"Right now you don't have either!"

A long, chilly silence between them followed these words, broken only by the ticking of the carriage clock on the study's mantle.

Sirius looked over at it. It was not quite ten o'clock. Less than an hour back in this miserable house, and he already felt like he'd aged fifteen lifetimes.

I can't stand this place—or him.

He stood up, pushing the chair out roughly and—making no move to pick up either the stack of books still lying on the carpet or the sack of gold on the desk—he marched over to the door, grabbed the doorknob and pulled.

It didn't budge.

The same petulant urge he had felt when he tried to walk out the front door less than an hour earlier seized him, and Sirius tugged once more, knowing full well that the door was shut tight, and would remain so until Orion saw fit to open it.

Fifteen seconds of fruitless pulling was all he could take.

"I'm going now," he muttered, still facing the door. "So you can unlock this."

"You'll leave when I dismiss you—not before," a silky voice from behind him said, briskly. Livid, Sirius spun on his heel. "And you'll take the items and instructions I've given you when you do."

"Like hell I will!" he exclaimed. "Open the damn door."

Mr. Black rose from his desk. He no longer wore the expression of controlled placidity—indeed, he was just as angry as his son, though the controlled fury that marked the same features on his lined face made him far more intimidating that his young son.

"Do I need to remind you of the reprieve I offered—that you refused to take?" Orion sneered. "Let this be a lesson for you: never start something with me you're not prepared to finish."

His son marched back across the room, wand in his hand, face blazing with hot-blooded, youthful anger. Orion's eyes flicked from the ebony instrument up to Sirius's face.

"What the hell is there to left to finish between us?" he growled, eye-to-eye with his father. "You refuse to give me the message, I refuse to apologize for trying to get it. It's a classic impasse—nothing more to say."

"There's plenty more to say—now sit back down."

He flung himself back in the chair with a huff—for all his impulsiveness, he was level-headed enough to realize that he would not be leaving this room until he was told to do so.

More dignified, Mr. Black sank back down into his own high-backed chair. He folded his hands together and set them on the desk—all business.

"I see now why you were so eager for our audience this morning. You thought you were going to ply me for information," Orion observed, his voice cutting. Sirius snorted and crossed his arms. "So, not only is my son a spy, he's one so incompetent he has to ask his father to cover for his blunders."

Sirius rounded on him, fiercely.

"I wouldn't have to ask you if you hadn't interfered—"

"—I thought I made my feelings about spying for that Muggle-lover you report to quite plain," Mr. Black cut him off, coldly. "If he wants to send his agents into our midst, that's his affair—but I have no intention of assisting them in their efforts, even if they do happen to be my offspring. I am not going to be used by that man—or anyone else."

The boy—for slouching down, Orion could think of nothing but the unruly child he had been, never mind that it was definitely a man sitting across from him—let out a bark of a mirthless laughter.

"Not going to be used? Really?" Sirius repeated, and then he sat up, a look of undisguised contempt dancing across his face. "You sure didn't seem to mind much last night, when Lucius Malfoy was the one using you."

Mr. Black's face froze. Sirius, seeing an opening, went on the offensive.

"Generous thing, don't you think—Abraxas Malfoy offering to host the entire Black clan for your father's birthday? A last minute soirée from a wizard as famously tight-fisted as him—well, it does beg the question of why, doesn't it?"

Orion's stared at him, stone-faced.

"What are you implying?"

Sirius offered a casual shrug.

"Only that his Death Eater son realized it would be prudent to fill the manor with respectable witches and wizards—more people would provide some nice cover for his little game of Chinese whispers, see?" Sirius's smile was uncharacteristically grim. "And since dear Narcissa's family had a big to-do that day anyway…well, you can guess the rest."

He took a vindictive pleasure at the disquiet that flickered across his father's face.

"And your point is—"

"—That Lucius Malfoy saw an opportunity with the in-laws and he took advantage. He used you—in fact, he used your entire family."

If Mr. Black had been, at first, surprised by these accusations—he very quickly schooled his face to hide it, put the mask back on, and so, looking across the desk at him, his son was left to wonder. Had he been surprised? Had he really not known—or was he play-acting dumb to save face? One could never tell with him—there was a fine line between Orion's willful blindness and his cunning.

If Sirius's father hadn't known the Black family had figured into Lucius's plans, he had certainly adjusted to the idea with alacrity. He was now considering his son with a newfound sense of gravity.

"The motivations you ascribe to your cousin's husband are—not absurd," he admitted, after a long while. "I would not be shocked if they turned out to be true."

Sirius laughed, quietly—that was about as close to Orion admitting he might be right as it was going to get.

"You know, it's very telling, the things that do and don't shock you," he said, leaning back in his chair. "You nearly had the vapors last night when you caught me doing a mission for the Order, but you don't bat an eyelash at the thought of Lucius fucking Malfoy staging a Death Eater get-together in the middle of your septuagenarian father's birthday party. It's almost like you aren't surprised."

"So, am I a naive dupe or a willing accomplice, in your eyes?" Orion asked, voice heavy with irony. "I can only be one of the two, after all."

"I think you might be a rare case—" his son returned, his voice cutting. "A willing accomplice who pretends to be a naive dupe to ease his conscience."

Sirius saw the telling flash of displeasure in his father's eyes that signaled he'd landed a hit.

"If this intelligence is so important, I wonder at your strategy in attaining it." Mr. Black clenched his jaw, his eyes hard. "What is insulting me supposed to accomplish, precisely?"

His son laughed at this question—and tilted his head, thinking about his answer.

"Well, it's satisfying," Sirius admitted, and he dropped his chair legs back on the floor with a loud clunk. Mr. Black remained stoic. "There's no point in trying to reason with you! Nothing I do is going to change your mind—so I might as well tell you what I really think. The truth will set you free, they say—" He glowered up at his father. "—Maybe it'll work on you, get you to unlock the fucking door."

Orion raised both eyebrows, surveying his eldest with what could best be described as mild scorn.

"I'll let you go," Mr. Black said, quietly. "When I'm satisfied you understand why I even called you in the first place."

Sirius let out another sigh of frustration and rubbed his temples—God, he was tired. Talking to this man was worse than staring into the sun after a night of binge-drinking in SoHo.

"Please. I know why you called me here," he muttered, sullenly. His father let out a quiet scoffing sound—it raised Sirius's hackles, and he sat up, eyes narrowed into accusatory slits. He had no idea how much like his father he looked, just then. "You're enjoying yourself. You always loved dressing me down in this room. I bet you couldn't wait for a chance to have a go at me in here—just like old times."

Sirius slouched back down, in a pose that unwittingly recalled his school days. Orion had always gotten on him about his poor posture—he could feel the familiar look of paternal disapproval, and it made him want to stick his feet up on the table.

"You vastly overrate the charms of your company—and as for 'old times'—" Mr. Black said, his voice terse. "It gives me no pleasure to recall our shared history in this room."

"So then why are you so hell-bent on reliving it?"

His father didn't reply, but when Sirius raised his eyes—he found something stormy lurking behind Orion's. He was also thinking of that final audience between them.

As the younger man stared across the desk, into the face so like his own—though fixed in an expression of perfectly controlled placidity that Sirius knew he would never be able to master—for the first time in the week since their reunion, it struck him how much older Orion looked at 50 than he had at 47. There was gray at the temples where there had never been, bags under his eyes, and more than any physical sign—there was a heavy, invisible weight on his shoulder that, if it had been there before, his father had never before allowed himself to show it in front of one of his children.

This fight was taking its toll—and Sirius could tell.

To see a weakness from Orion was not giving him the heady rush of satisfaction it should've—instead, he was left with the disquieting sense of having lost something.

It just made him more pissed off, when he got right down to it.

"You know what really gets me about all this?" Sirius asked, breaking the silence between them. "It's not you refusing to give me the information—it's that you won't admit the reason why."

A thunder cloud passed over Mr. Black's face.

"You actually have the effrontery," he hissed. "The nerve—to think I owe you an explanation for why I refuse to—to debase myself in this way?" Orion was full of more righteous indignation than he'd shown up until this point. "You are an impertinent wretch who has no right to demand anything. You dare—"

"—Yeah, I dare!" He interrupted—and to Mr. Black's chagrin, son started to laugh. "Debase yourself? How exactly did I ask you to debase yourself?" Sirius's face twisted with derision. "You don't want to tell me what those Death Eaters were saying to each other, fine—but spare me all the pompous posturing, like I've wounded your precious dignity."

Orion's face went an ugly shade of brick red.

"What, is aiding and abetting Albus Dumbledore a violation of some sacred principle for you?" Sirius continued, incredulously, and he continued, with unexpected ferocity, "Hate to break it to you, but that broom has already flown. You're already working with him."

Orion rose from his chair, slowly—the anger seeping out of him.

"I never asked for that fool's help," Mr. Black sneered, brandishing his wand. "I never asked him to meddle in my family's affairs, and I don't answer to him any more than I do you." He pointed one finger—the same one that bore his signet ring—and stabbed it in the air, aggressively. "I am not going to be made a pawn on his chessboard."

"Then you'll be made a pawn for the other side!" Sirius replied, jumping to his feet. "Don't you get it, yet? For God's sake, Lord Voldemort could be staring you straight in the face, and you'd still pretend like this war has nothing to do with you."

His father recoiled in shock—both from the name and the force of Sirius's words, and when his son crossed around the back of the desk, Mr. Black was too surprised by his nerve in doing it to protest.

"I used to think you were just naive about him—but that's not true anymore, and it makes it all so much worse," the young wizard continued, his disgust evident. "You've cottoned on to the fact that Voldemort is a brutal murderer who'd kill us all without a second thought—but you still won't lift a finger to actually stop him or do anything about it."

Mr. Black's face twisted in fury—and his son continued, savagely, looking about the dusty, dark room—and he swept one scornful hand over the sum of his father's life.

"If you thought you could get away with it, you'd spend the rest of the war locked up in this study. I doubt you even care who wins in the end, as long as it's over and you can go back to your comfortable, narrow life full of all the purebloods who share your completely narrow view of the world."

Orion raised his right hand, clenched around his wand, and Sirius unconsciously shut his eyes and flinched from the blow.

But it didn't come.

He opened his eyes again, to find the arm still poised above Mr. Black's head. There was no tension in his forearm, his face was bloodless—the gesture looked posed and feeble.

No—of course he wouldn't—that would have been doing something.

Mr. Black lowered his arm and tossed his wand onto the desk. It landed with an inelegant clatter on the gleaming polished wood and rolled a few inches.

The moment passed—and Sirius's father was himself again.

"So—this is what my son thinks of me." He put his hands behind his back and looked down his elegant nose at the younger man, every inch of him in control once more. "He thinks I'm a spineless coward with no principles."

"I'd throw in 'insufferable snob', too—but yeah, that about sums it up." Sirius's lip curled. "What are your principles, Dad? What do you actually believe in? I've known you my entire life, I'm your son—and I don't even know what you care about. Does anything matter to you?"

Something stirred behind Mr. Black's impassive face—a glimmer, a flinch of pain—and then the shutters behind his eyes went up.

"This family is what matters to me," he said, quietly. "The Black family is what I care about—it is the only star that governs my life."

Mr. Black's son gaped at him—had he really just said that?

"You're incredible. You actually believe that. You think there's some inherent nobility in your bloodline—" Sirius shook his head slowly. "—That the Black family is so special and important the stars themselves shine out of your orifices. That line your father fed you in the nursery—you've bought into it."

"There's nothing to buy into," Mr. Black said, coolly. "And it's not a line. It's the truth."

The utter certainty with which Orion said these words elicited a guffaw from his son—which only aggravated him further.

"I feel compelled to tell you—since no one else will—that there's nothing 'noble' about the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black." Sirius marched back around the desk, picking up the serpent paperweight as he did, he turned on his heel to find his father seething, utterly incensed.

"This family has attained its vast fortune and influence for the simple reason that it is chock full of cunning and ruthless pragmatists—Slytherins to their core—your father chief among them. Arcturus—that great tyrant that sired you—is the Black par excellence, and the only star that governs your life is doing exactly as he says."

He tossed the ivory snake up and down in his hand, carelessly, signifying his contempt.

"Don't you dare speak to me about my father," Orion hissed, grabbing the paperweight out of his son's hand and slamming it down on the desk. "Do you think that makes you a man? You're just parroting your mother, you insolent cub."

Bringing up his parents' awful row had been the last thing he wanted to do, except the blood was pounding in his ears, his killer instincts had taken over—it was equivalent for a leap at the throat.

"There is nothing that woman said to you last night that I haven't thought myself, a hundred times," his son shot back, jeeringly. "Even she can be right about some things. You do everything he tells you to. You'd turn spy in a heartbeat, if Arcturus ordered you to do it, and if it were him and not me asking for that information, you'd give it over without a second thought."

The elm wand that Mr. Black had thrown down on the desk vibrated from his anger—Sirius leaned forward, to give the killing blow.

"You've never once stood up to that man. You've bowed and scraped and let your father bully you your entire life, and you can't stand that I refuse to let you do the same to me."

The silence that followed this accusation was the most deafening either man had been party to. Orion, arms still folded behind his back, face frozen—expression glacial—stared into his son's eyes.

"Are you finished?" he asked, quietly.

"Yeah," Sirius replied, curtly. "I'm done."

His father settled himself back into the chair, centering himself. Sirius remained standing, but he felt drained, utterly spent, and even though by all accounts he should have seen himself the victor, he still felt like Orion was somehow—improbably—in control.

"Well, thank you for that. It was…illuminating. At last I understand your true feelings." Mr. Black picked up his wand and toyed with it, thoughtfully. "My path forward is now clear."

There was an ominous, vaguely threatening edge to this statement. The hairs on the back of Sirius's neck prickled.

"Since I obviously don't have your respect," Mr. Black said, silkily. "And I'm determined to get it from you, I shall have to redouble my efforts. I believe instructing you in the duties and responsibilities attached to your station as my heir will be a good starting place for us—" His son went pale. "—And I think I'll start looking to my father as an example in future. He's a man who understands how to garner the respect of his children."

The younger wizard gripped the back of the chair.

"How long do you plan on doing this?" he demanded, all thought of civility or control long past.

Mr. Black had returned to his accounts book, which he was now perusing, leisurely.

"Doing what?" he asked, eyes not straying up from a long column of expense sums. Sirius let out a low growl.

"You know," he snapped, fiercely. "Pretending I'm still your heir, that's what."

"You are still my heir," Orion said casually, dipping his quill in the bottle of red ink and making a neat correction. "If anyone here is pretending, it is you—pretending that you're not."

"It's only legally—" Sirius replied, crossing his arms and scowling. "That doesn't—it doesn't really count."

He sounded as though he was trying to convince himself as much as he was his father.

"You will find in the matter of inheritances from entailed estates—" Mr. Black blotted the page with an elegant wave of his wand. "—It is the only way in which it 'counts'."

"I know why you're doing it, and it's not going to work!" Sirius squeezed the edges to the chair and rocked it back and forth, on the verge of throwing it at Orion to get his attention. "It's all just to appease Mum—but the joke's on her, because even if I was insane enough to want back into this damn family, it's never going to happen." Orion glanced up from the page. "Your father thinks I'm a filthy, disgraceful blood-traitor, and he hates my guts."

Sirius's dramatic tone of voice suggested that as far as he was concerned, this feeling was mutual.

"He'll never reinstate me—and you and the rest of the Blacks will follow his lead, as always, so as far as me being your heir is concerned—" He leaned over the desk, voice full of cocky and entirely forced triumph. "This is all just for show. It's a big bluff."

Orion turned the page of his accounts books. He was utterly unconcerned by his son's assertions, and had gone back to his old mode of managing Sirius—which was to ignore and condescend in equal measures.

"Maybe. We shall see. Who knows what the future will bring?" Abruptly, he shut the heavy tome and tucked it back in his desk drawer. When he looked up at his son, Mr. Black was calm, though there was a gleam of malice in his eyes. "Your grandfather is an old man—quite feeble, really. He could keel over tomorrow, and then the decision would be wholly mine to make." His smile was smooth as silk. "And then I could present my wife with what she wants most for Christmas—a fully broken-in firstborn son."

Sirius's breath caught in his throat.

"You don't own me!" he shouted, angrily, clenching his fists. "I don't belong to you—I don't belong to anyone."

His father stared at him across the desk, face impassive, unmoved.

"You really can't stand it, can you?" Sirius hissed, like an angry cat. "I don't want this—your house, your gold—I don't even want your name, and you cannot comprehend it. You think people should be queuing out the door for a chance to live your life, and it wounds your pride to think your own son doesn't want it. That's why you're doing this, you stubborn bastard—it tears you up inside, that I have a mind of my own!"

Orion chuckled.

"You still have a taste for high melodrama, I see!" Mr. Black observed, with a sneer. "And for histrionic displays of temper. By Salazar, you are your mother's son!"

Sirius flushed pink.

"Hysterical, high-strung, convinced of your own rightness in everything—" Orion stabbed his quill in the air to punctuate each point. "Prone to throwing colossal tantrums when you don't get your own way—you're just like her. The two of you deserve each other—for Christmas I should stick you on a deserted island with that woman, then I might actually get some peace."

"Yeah, and with us out of the way, maybe you'll actually pay attention to your other son, for once."

These—more than any of the insults, the slights, the screaming and carrying on that he had been forced to endure—stunned Orion.

"It's the great irony, you know," Sirius continued, harshly, and he paced up and down in front of the desk. "You wasted years hounding me, trying to get me in line—never leaving me alone, which is all I wanted, and meanwhile you had a son waiting in the wings—one who actually wanted your attention—and you completely ignored him."

Orion's shock gave way to fresh anger.

"I—I do not ignore your brother!" he exclaimed, hotly. For once he didn't sound elegant or controlled.

"Oh, please—yes, you do!" Sirius stopped his pacing and turned round. He had never seen Orion so surprised—for this attack had come from an unexpected quarter. "He almost died last week, and you haven't come to see him once since he's been in my flat."

"I see my son every night at dinner," Mr. Black sputtered, furiously. "I speak to him every day."

There was an unusual amount of defensiveness in his voice, and Sirius seized upon it at once.

"Not one-on-one—and not about anything that matters." Sirius said, with a dismissive snort. "Have you talked to him about anything that's happened? Have you told him you're proud of him? You should consider it—you see, unlike me, Regulus actually cares what you think."

He could see the sting of the insult, for once—and he relished it.

"Of course, maybe you aren't proud," he continued, coldly. "Maybe this is all a big bother to you—just a nuisance. It wouldn't be the first time."

Every other attack Mr. Black had been prepared for—but this stricture against his treatment of his younger son had come out of seemingly nowhere, and he was blindsided by it. Of course, being a Black—he quickly rallied.

"You are in no position to be holding court on failing one's family," Orion said, in a deadly soft voice. "Who are you to lecture me about how I treat my son? You've been gone from this house for three years."

"I was around for fifteen before that!" his son snapped back. "He hangs on your every word, Dad. Reg is desperate for your approval—and he wants this life. Why bother lecturing me, when you have him? He wants to hear it from you—"

"—But he doesn't need it!" Orion said, furiously. "Regulus understands his duty, he behaves himself, he acts like a proper son—he knows his place. You are not the same—you never have been. If I'm not having constant audiences with your younger brother, it's only because he doesn't demand it of me."

"He doesn't demand anything of you," Sirius snapped back, waspishly. "He never talks out of turn, he never complains—a very convenient son, and like any good Slytherin, you take full advantage."

"That is absurd—"

"Regulus thinks that you've passed him over in your will because you have no confidence in him. Do you know that?" Sirius laughed, coldly. "'Course, you're only doing refusing to change it to punish me, but he doesn't see it that way. It wounds him, the poor idiot."

Orion dropped his quill onto the desk—through his still-visible anger, the man looked shaken.

"Your brother…confided this in you, did he?"

"He didn't need to. I have eyes in my head—I know the one thing he wants more than anything in the world," Sirius replied, bluntly. "It's how he got mixed up with the Death Eaters in the first place—yet another misguided attempt to please the two of you.

"He's probably spied for them, you know. Maybe you should yell at him next—it would give him a thrill. That's probably why he joined up—he'd run out of other ideas on how to get your attention, short of dying—but if we've learned anything from the last week, it's that not even that can get you to look up from the paper."

They both knew that this was the final insult.

Orion closed his eyes and breathed in, very slowly.

"I have taken all I can bear from you this morning," he said, in an even voice. "I can see you have no intention of thanking me for preventing you from killing yourself last night, and you aren't sorry in the least for what you did. I am not going to beg for an apology or gratitude—but I am also not going to sit here and listen to you sanctimoniously blame me for everything that has gone wrong in this family, while you take no responsibility for your own actions."

Orion pointed his wand at the door to the study—it burst open, hitting the wall with a bang. Sirius flinched at the noise, but didn't take his eyes off his father.

Mr. Black's eyes swept over the scene—the books of family letters scattered haphazardly on the floor, the shopping lists crumpled next to them, the sack of gold half-hanging off the corner. A wave of wand, and everything was stacked and ordered neatly on his desk again—the books neatly tied together and in a drawstring sack.

His son stared at the items, sullenly.

"You will take these books back to your flat—you and your brother can start going over them this afternoon—" Sirius opened his mouth to protest again, but Orion was too quick for him. "—After you start in on your shopping. You have four days to do it, so I'll expect you to have at least a quarter of those gifts purchased and in your flat by supper this evening."

Sirius nearly let out a violent exclamation at this injustice.

"And if I don't?" he asked, through gritted teeth.

"Then I'll be forced to tell your mother that handsome creature she was fawning over last night was her handsome son," he replied, sleekly. The younger wizard grabbed the sack of gold, shoved the papers in his pocket cursing under his breath. "If you thought this audience was bad, imagine one with her."

"It's so low, holding her over me," Sirius muttered, his voice sulky. He levitated the stack of heavy books over to himself—muttered a charm to make them feather light, and slung it over his shoulder. "Anything else—sir?"

"Yes." His father stood up and inspected his elder son's appearance—his cold eyes lingered on the wrinkled cuffs of his robes. "You'll be spending Christmas Day with your family. Pick yourself up new dress robes—it's a formal occasion, and I expect you to be properly attired."

Sirius pulled a face—both at the idea of 'dressing up' for a Christmas turkey in his flat, of all places, and yet another tedious shopping excursion.

"Why would I buy dress robes for one night? I'm never going to wear them again." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "I don't do formal engagements."

"Oh, I don't know about that," His father said, circumspectly. "I have a feeling you have many formal engagements in your future. Better to be prepared, I always say."

His son glowered at him—if he'd been in his Animagus form, he'd have growled.

"Am I spending my own money on this, or are these dress robes I don't want or need supposed to be an early Christmas present?"

"You're a grown man—I think you're old enough to buy your own clothing," Mr. Black said, haughtily—and gave Sirius another shrewd look. "And while we're on the subject of my gold—I will expect fully itemized receipts of everything you purchase with it. I want evert galleon accounted for."

His son's face twisted into a grimace.

"What—do you think I plan to skim off the top?" Insulted, Sirius pulled the bag of gold out and dangled it in front of him, as if it was diseased. "I would've thought by now I'd made it pretty clear what I think of your family's gold."

"It's not so clear to me," Orion said—eyes glittering with contempt. "After all, you didn't seem to mind collecting a hefty sum of 'my family's gold' two years ago, when your uncle died."

Sirius let go of the draw string of the bag and the books dropped to the floor.

"How the hell do you—are you spying on my bank transactions, now?"

"Of course not, you ignoramus," Mr. Black sneered. "Alphard was a Black—it was handled through the family's solicitor, as you know, having been the beneficiary of that not insubstantial bequest. I know it's your uncle's gold that you've been living on, which is why I find your preening about your so-called 'independence' from this family more than a little mendacious." He smiled, mockingly. "You've been sponging off of the Blacks for years."

"That was Uncle Alphard's money—"

"—And where do you think it came from?" Orion shot back, his tone withering. "That gold didn't materialize from thin air, boy. Alphard may have written some trifling travelogues and diverting novellas that made him a tidy profit, but he inherited the starting capital from his father—just like every other Black."

But Sirius had cottoned onto the larger point—he stared up at his father, incredulous and wide-eyed.

"Is that why he's been removed from the tree?" he asked, in stunned disbelief. "Mum blasted her own brother off because he had the nerve to leave me money?"

"I see you found something to occupy yourself with," Orion said, incapable of hiding the chilly edge in his voice. "Taking an interest in family heraldry, at last?"

"Just checking to make sure Mother dearest did her job," Sirius replied, jeeringly. "Got to say, it was a real mood-booster, to not have to see my name connected to yours anymore."

"I'm sure it gave you solace. You always did enjoy your little little flights of fancy." Mr. Black picked up the snake paperweight—it's ruby eyes seemed to glitter in the dim light of the study. It looked alive—and just like the Sirius of old, the young man felt as though the creature was laughing at him. "You still like to play pretend."

"I am not pretending anything," Sirius said, fiercely. His father laughed—the mocking sound echoed in the tall ceiling of the room.

"Please—of course you are. You think you can make yourself over in whatever image you see fit, be whatever you want." Mr. Black sneered coldly at this absurdity. "Well, as your sire, allow me to disabuse you of that inane notion, here and now, with the simple truth."

Sirius stepped up to the desk, jaw squared—and leaned close. His father stood up, met his eyes—an unusual amount of steel in them.

"You are what you are. And you—" he said, words icy and implacable. "—Are a Black and my son. You will never be anything else."

Sirius recoiled, as if he'd been burned. Orion's eyes narrowed into serpentine slits.

"I intend to drill this lesson into your head—every day for the rest of my life, if necessary—until I'm certain you won't ever forget it again." His eyes and face hardened. "Resign yourself—I am your father, I have been your father since the day you were born, and I will be your father until I take my last miserable breath on this earth."

"May that day come swiftly."

This cold, bloodless oath elicited no discernible reaction from Mr. Black. He stared, unblinking, into his son's eyes, utterly unmoved by the look of loathing he found there.

He was the one to break the gaze. Sirius's wish for his eminent demise went unanswered and unacknowledged. It was of no consequence—did not change the facts one jot. Sirius realized, with an uncomfortable jolt, that he could've said he hated Orion to his face, and it would not have altered his father's course of action.

Once he made a decision, it was final.

Mr. Black pulled out his gold watch—attached to a fine filagree chain—from the inside of his robes and checked the time, with the casual air of any other audience.

"You ought to get a move on." He looked up—Sirius had still not picked up the bundle he had dropped on the floor. There was nothing left to say—far too much had been said, three years or more of unspoken ugliness unleashed in a single conversation—and yet the young man, trembling with anger, was still not ready to surrender the last word. "I'm sure you have your own shopping to do, in addition to mine and Regulus's."

Orion Black surveyed his son, calmly. The young Black scion schooled his expression to match his father's—though he was less capable of hiding the turbulence lurking behind his stormy gray eyes.

"No, I don't," Sirius said, his voice clipped. "I—finished my shopping ages ago."

"Of course, that was before you knew you would be celebrating with us—your family," Mr. Black replied, casually. "I'm sure it's occurred to you have your own gifts. I took the liberty of providing you with a few helpful suggestions, should you be at a loss for what is…appropriate."

Hands trembling with rage, he dug around in the pocket of his robes and fished out Orion's list. Sirius's eyes scanned it for a minute, and his lip turned up in an ugly smile.

"I see you've only given me ideas for what to get Mum and Reg," he remarked, flatly, glancing up from the paper. His expression was deeply sarcastic. "What's the matter—don't you want anything?"

Orion rolled his eyes and returned his son's sarcastic smile with malicious pleasure.

"Right now all I want is for you to get out of my sight."

"Done." Sirius clenched his fist around the parchment and shoved it back in his bag. "In fact, I can I do you one better—I'll get out of your life."

His father refused to rise to this bait. The steady look he wore was unmistakably paternal in origin—the pater familias, absolutely certain in his ironclad grip—and the fact that Orion dared look at him that way, as if nothing had ever changed, as if he, Sirius, was still the twelve-year-old boy caught sneaking out his bedroom window over the summer holidays—that made his son more angry than anything else.

He was burning up with resentment, Rabastan's information—his responsibilities to the Order, to Dumbledore, to James and Lily—everything forgotten in the wake of how much, in this moment, he despised everything about the man in front of him.

I'll never be free of him.

"I will see you at dinner," Mr. Black replied, his voice serene. "Have a productive day. I look forward to inspecting the fruits of your efforts."

Orion's son clenched his fists, hands trembling, his face absolutely murderous—obviously on the verge of shouting a phrase akin to 'I'll get you for this!'—except he wouldn't give Mr. Black the satisfaction of humiliating himself further, and he grabbed the books off the floor. Throwing one last look of loathing in the direction of the desk, Sirius turned on his heel and marched out of the open door, slamming the door behind him so hard that plaster dust fell from the ceiling onto the Persian rug.

For several minutes, Mr. Black sat alone in the study, not moving, hand still clutching the carved snake. Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place—the house his elder son called a mausoleum—was in this moment as quiet as tomb.

His shoulders remained rigid, his face as implacable as a marble bust.

Then, unexpectedly, the ironclad control that had taken a lifetime of discipline to cultivate collapsed in on itself like a dying star, Orion Black reared back his arm—and for the second time in twelve hours hurled an object into the fireplace.

The ivory snake shattered against the wall with a magnificent crash. He had missed the fireplace entirely—overshooting it in favor of the mantle.

The silence that followed this was deafening. Orion stared at the product of his anger, for a moment disassociated, not knowing how he'd gotten to this point—and he let out a shuddering gasp and clutched at his chest. He let out a wheezing, painful noise, bent over the desk. He had never been more grateful to be alone in his life.

After a full minute of this the gasping quieted, and Orion—tired and drawn, careworn in every respect—circled around his desk and approached the mess he had just made in a fit of temper that he (unlike his son) at least was ashamed enough of to hide from his family. Mr. Black stared at the spot on the floor where the paperweight lay in hundreds of pieces.

"Reparo," Orion murmured, quietly, pointing his wand at the floor.

The shards of the ivory snake shuddered, then flew back together. He bent over and picked it up. The little snake's red eyes glittered up at him.

It really did look alive.

Orion crossed back behind his desk—his personal sanctuary—and slumped into the chair. He ran a hand through his graying hair and leaned back staring at the ceiling and the night sky painstakingly painted above his head.

His eyes found it at once. The brightest star in the heavens twinkled down—as bold and insolent as the boy who shared its name.

It was with a heavy sight that he tore his eyes from it and looked back down. Orion pulled open the lowest desk drawer of his desk, and after digging for a moment, he found out what he was looking for. Taking great care—for the grass was cracked down the middle—he gently pulled the tarnished silver frame from where it had been banished, blowing the dust off the front and examining the picture behind it.

It was a family portrait. A handsome couple and their two children—boys, close in age. Neither could've been older than ten. The photographer had had a gift for symmetry, and when he had posed this family, he had framed it so neatly it was as if they really were more one whole than four parts.

His eyes traced each face. Young Regulus looked like he was about to sneeze, and was holding it in for the sake of his dignity. The echo of Walburga was visibly restraining the shoulder of her elder son, who—if memory served—had shot out of the frame the second this had been taken. Even then Sirius had been full of energy, had never wanted to sit still. The father and husband standing in the back appeared to have noticed none of this. He was staring into the camera, waiting for the dratted man behind it to tell them he'd gotten the damn picture so they could go home and he could get some peace, at last.

Only a decade gone—and to him, the image, the people in the photograph—might as well have been from another life.

Mr. Black set the silver picture frame face-down on the desk and stood up. His lined face was grim, marked with another quality unusual to him.

Resolve.

He crossed to the coat rack, where his cloak hung—the same velvet trimmed black he'd been wearing for over two decades. He put it on, and fastening the front, opened the door to his study and strode out the door.

Like his son, he did not look back.

---

And we're back for Part II! Thank you all for your comments and well wishes. I really enjoy your feedback-it means a lot. My work schedule has sadly slowed down my writing, but I'm well into part two of this story. I hope you'll keep reading and enjoying! I have some kind of exciting news...

'In the Black' has been nominated in the 2018 Marauder Medals Shrieking Shack Society contest in the category of Best Sirius Characterization. As a favor to me and a thank you for writing over 200K words of Black family shenanigans, would really appreciate if you could take five minutes to VOTE. Will provide the link in my profile momentarily. Thank you so much!