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']

7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

"'Black family tradition decreed that the house was handed down the direct line, to the next male with the name of 'Black.' Sirius was the very last of the line as his younger brother, Regulus, predeceased him and both were childless. While his will makes it perfectly plain that he wants you to have the house, it is nevertheless possible that some spell or enchantment has been set upon the place to ensure that it cannot be owned by anyone other than a pureblood.'"

-J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

"Where's my brother?"

Lily Potter—sitting, legs crossed on the floor of Sirius's living room, looked up from the lump of wool she was prodding with her wand and smiled. She had been trying to turn the ball of now hopelessly tangled yarn into a baby bonnet for over an hour, and as she was not making much headway, any distraction was welcome.

At the sight she found when she looked up, her smile widened, and her green eyes twinkled with mischief. Sirius's younger brother was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, still wearing his silver pajamas, green dressing gown and a surly expression she instantly recognized.

It was the one Sirius always wore when he hadn't gotten enough 'beauty rest'.

"He left early this morning. Had to…meet someone, I think." Lily blew a stray strand of hair out of her eyes and stood up, checking her watch as she did. It was past ten. "I was wondering when I was going to see you. Did you sleep well?"

"Did he say when he'd be back?" Regulus asked, ignoring her polite question in favor of a haughty glare. Lily brushed imaginary dust off of her jeans and walked over to the table where Witch Weekly—with its featured household charm of the month article—lay open.

"Sometime this afternoon." She looked down at the article to check for the forth time that she had the wand movement right—if she, Flitwick's favorite student, couldn't get this stupid knitting charm to work, the young wife was resolved on writing the magazine a strongly-worded letter. "Remus is coming at noon to relieve me—he'll keep you company until Sirius returns."

"I see."

Regulus marched over to the sofa, managing to look quite haughty and disdainful in spite of his sleep-tousled hair sticking up a bit in the back.

Though…just to look at the dark circles around his eyes, Lily guessed he hadn't slept much the night before.

"Are you hungry?" The steak and kidney pie that she'd made the previous day for him and James was still sitting forlornly on the coffee table—Regulus pulled his feet up on the sofa and glared at it, as if the sight was a personal affront to him. "I put a cooling charm on that—it's still good. Do you want me to heat it up?"

Regulus's stomach gurgled.

"I'm fine," he said, coldly, picking up a heavy black book next to the pie. "I'll have Kreacher fix me something."

He gave her one last haughty glance over the page—as though she were a servant beneath his notice—then buried his face in the book. Lily's smile wavered a bit, but she forced herself to keep the polite tone of voice.

"Suit yourself," she said, cheerfully.

Regulus scooted around on the couch very deliberately so as to be facing away from her. She sighed and flopped back down on the floor next to her knitting needles and yarn. As soon as she was confident he wasn't watching her, Lily rolled her eyes.

She was determined to be pleasant and polite to the Blacks, no matter how rude or cold they were to her. Her reasons were twofold: Professor Dumbledore had impressed upon her the importance of making Regulus and his parents feel comfortable—but more personally, Lily had a stubborn streak that was always roused by challenge.

The young mother-to-be twirled her willow wand around the spool.

She was going to kill them with kindness. When Lily had confided her plan to Sirius, he had flatly informed her that if it worked, he would be happy to help her hide the bodies. His sarcasm had only spurred her on more—there was something so satisfying about proving Sirius Black wrong.

The needles rose up feebly for a moment before flopping back down. She pressed a hand over the stomach that was still flat and sighed.

At least I have eight months to get this right.

"What time did Sirius get back last night?"

Lily glanced up from the wool, now tying itself into intricate, useless knots. Regulus was evidently making about as much progress as she was on his project, for the black book lay open and abandoned at his side.

"A little past two," she replied, evenly. "You were already in bed."

He chewed his lip. She had noticed over the course of the week that he had a habit of doing it when he was nervous.

"How did he—" Regulus faltered. "I mean, did it seem as though…was he…"

He tugged at a stray frayed edge of the cushion and trailed off, awkwardly. Lily raised both eyebrows. Evidently indirectness and emotional constipation ran in the family.

"Sirius wasn't exactly…in high spirits when he got in," Lily said, wryly. "But he wasn't hurt."

Regulus looked unsurprised by this news—though he hid it well. He had a much better poker face than his brother, who always wore his emotions on his sleeve.

"So whatever he was—his mission." Regulus carefully modulated his voice to be as neutral as possible. "It…didn't come off?"

The miserable expression on Padfoot's fact flashed through Lily's mind, and she hesitated, wondering, in the circumstances, what she should say. She knew Sirius wouldn't thank her for telling Regulus anything about his mission for the Order without running it by him first, and the two of them really needed to work things out on their own.

"I don't know the particulars," she said, settling on an honest answer. "You should ask him your—"

"Sirius Orion!"

A loud cry emanating from the direction of the kitchen cut Lily off. She and Regulus both turned in unison—they didn't have to wait long for the source of this imperious summons to appear at the doorway.

Mrs. Black was wearing her elegant ermine cloak over a royal blue day gown, along with her customary expression of haughty disdain. The house-elf Kreacher stood faithfully at her side, clutching a basket brimming with pastries, fruit and cold meats.

The elf made an instant beeline for Regulus with his basket of goodies, depositing the food—easily enough to feed a family of four—in easy reach of his young charge. His mistress's swept over the scene before her, lingering for a fraction of a section on the half-eaten pie and then the young woman sitting Indian-style on the floor.

Lily scrambled to her feet. Despite a week of watch duty, she had not yet gotten used to the older witch's sudden dramatic entrances.

"Mrs. Black—good morning," she said, a tad too brightly. Her hand involuntarily moved to smooth out her unwashed hair, for Sirius's mother was a master of making one feel self-conscious. "We—weren't expecting you."

The Black matriarch gave Lily a single scathing once-over—just enough to indicate clearly that she believed the younger witch was beneath her notice—before marching over to her second born son.

Lily reminded herself of her vow and repressed another aggravated sigh.

"Good morning, Mother," Regulus murmured, dutifully, though he made no move to stand.

"Where is your brother?" Walburga demanded, without preamble. Regulus scrunched up his shoulders and shrugged—and at this action, which had a tad more attitude than was typical, she narrowed her eyes, taking in his appearance. "And why aren't you dressed yet? It's past mid-morning, for goodness' sake."

"What does it matter when I get dressed?" Regulus muttered, sullenly, sticking his face back in his book. "It's not like I'm going anywhere."

"I do not want you lolly-gagging half the day away in your sleep things, Regulus Arcturus," Mrs. Black scolded him—then took in the dark circles around his eyes with a sharp, maternal eye. "Are you feeling ill? You look drawn."

"I didn't sleep well," he admitted, still staring at the page, his eyes unmoving.

She reached over and without warning and grabbed his chin, pulling it this way and that in motherly inspection. Unlike Sirius, Mrs. Black's younger son submitted without argument—though when he met Lily's eyes over his mother's shoulder, he turned a little red in embarrassment.

"Why didn't you sleep?" she asked, absently. "I suppose you were up half the night playing Exploding Snap with your brother."

Lily's mouth twitched as Regulus rolled his eyes in the mildest fashion

"We haven't done that since we were children, Mother."

She let out a little snort of disbelief.

"I wasn't aware you weren't children," she said, and she at last let go of his chin—deeming the inspection a success. "If you don't know where he is, I don't suppose you know when he'll return, either."

The red-head loudly cleared her throat.

"Sirius said he'd be back this afternoon, Mrs. Black," Lily said, in a helpful, slightly elevated voice. "He had an appointment early."

Slowly, Mrs. Black turned towards Mrs. Potter—who practically beamed with politeness. The older woman's response to this unsolicited information—delivered in tones that suggested the girl thought she might be hard of hearing—could be at best described as 'frosty'.

"I was just going to make a pot of tea for Regulus and myself." Lily bent down and swept the tangled mess of yarn and knitting needles into her arms. "Would you like a cup?"

Walburga kept staring. Before Lily had met this woman, she had not known how much cool disdain could be leveled in a single look.

She can't give me the silent treatment forever, Lily thought, forcing herself not to blink. Sirius had told her that his parents viewed it as a sign of weakness—Lily had not been able to tell if he was joking, so she was trying to avoid it when speaking to his mother, just in case it was true.

Sirius was full of these ridiculous stories about things Orion and Walburga had done and said—she thought he was probably exaggerating, trying to put her off of her attempts to thaw the ice. Remus was content to take Padfoot's advice and avoid conversation as much as possible in the flat, but Lily thought that was wanted, and she was not inclined to give them their way. The stories of their Victorian manners and outrageous snobbery, far from putting her off, had the opposite effect of what her friend intended.

The more she learned of the Blacks, the more Lily found them almost…too absurd to be offended by.

"I'll just—go and do that, then," the younger witch said, very aware that her smile probably looked like a grimace at this point. "You take cream? Sugar?"

She looked to Regulus, who gave her a barely perceptible nod behind his mother's back. Grateful, Lily winked at him—taking a little undue pleasure in the flash of annoyance in Mrs. Black's eyes at this impertinence, for she had to take her victories where she could get them—and hurried into the kitchen, pointedly closing the door behind her.

As soon as they were alone, Mrs. Black dropped her austere facade. She looked nearly as tired as Regulus—and distracted. Her youngest took a bite out of one of the pears from the basket and studied her face.

"How was grandfather's birthday?"

"Hm?" His mother looked back at him. He was watching her with one of his fixed, blank looks that she had once erroneously thought were evidence of his slowness. "Oh—it was…fine. I'll tell you all about it at dinner tonight, when your brother is around. I don't want to bore you by repeating myself."

"Have you been paying calls, Mother?" He had noticed she was wearing a particularly fine gown that she usually reserved for social occasions.

"I had tea with your Aunt Lucretia this morning," Mrs. Black said, her voice taking on a tinge of irritation at the statement of this fact. She suddenly looked rather put-out and distracted.

"How was she?"

Regulus approached this question with polite caution. Lucretia was his mother's oldest friend, in addition to being her second cousin and sister-in-law, but he sometimes got the impression that his aunt, with her flippant manners and teasing ways, annoyed Walburga more than anything else. Orion also had little patience for his only sister, even on the best of days, and Sirius had always thought her a meddling gossip.

"She's—the same as ever. Full of flights of fancy." Mrs. Black pursed her lips. "Today, she was on a tear about—the ludicrous things young people do these days when they're courting. I couldn't believe the things she told me—nonsense about going out together with no chaperones, carrying on in public places. I'm sure not a word of it was true."

Regulus's brown eyes widened at this of all abrupt turns in the conversation. Embarrassed, he busied himself with one of the croissants in the basket.

Walburga's sharp eyes caught wind of his awkwardness at once.

So…what Lucretia had said was true. The wizards in this country had let everything go to hell, honestly!

"Regulus Arcturus—" Mrs. Black snapped, sharply. "I hope for your sake you weren't taking young girls out to Hogsmeade on…" She furrowed her brow, trying to remember the common word Lucretia had used. "'Dates'."

"Of course not, Mother!" Face flushed, he looked utterly mortified. "I never, I mean…"

Before he could even get out the line of defense, she patted his shoulder, approvingly. It wasn't necessary—of course he wouldn't have done such a thing. Regulus Arcturus was a good boy who knew better than to disgrace his family name and sink to behavior beneath himself. And he'd been in Slytherin, the only place in that dratted school where she was certain they still had a sense of decorum.

As usual, it was not Regulus she had to worry about.

"And what about your brother?" Walburga pressed, none-too-gently. "Did he ever disgrace himself in this manner, by taking girls out?"

It was an old tactic she had developed for ferreting information about her problem son from the more pliant one. She would assure her youngest that she had every confidence in his seemliness, and immediately follow with sharp probe into the behavior of his brother. The compliment and assurance of the great credit Regulus did his family by behaving well softened him up, making him far less likely to lie for Sirius.

Divide and conquer.

Predictably, Regulus looked alarmed and flustered by the question.

"I—I don't know!" he answered, stuttering. "Why would I know anything about what he got up to with…"

Mrs. Black's nostrils flared. It wasn't as though she was surprised—after all, Sirius Orion had been practically taunting her with the implication of his indiscretions the past several days, and even her staid husband had suggested to her it was likely.

No, what annoyed her presently was that Regulus had not immediately caved to her demands for information. Was this stubbornness the work of Sirius's influence? She was going to have to start leaving Kreacher to watch them more often, if her younger boy was picking up the elder's bad habits.

"Don't lie to me, Regulus Arcturus Black." She narrowed his eyes—he flinched. "You were at school with Sirius Orion, and your brother makes a spectacle of himself wherever he goes. If he did anything untoward or indecent, you know all about it, I'm sure."

It was at that moment the meddling and dreadfully common Potter girl came back into the room, hefting a silver tea tray with her wand. Walburga's son's eyes fell on her and he instantly saw a means of escape.

"I don't! Sirius and I weren't even in the same house—" Regulus pointed to Lily, who was quietly setting out the tea and trying not to make her eavesdropping obvious. "Ask her, she was in Gryffindor in the same year, and she's married to his best mate. I bet she knows all about his…girlfriends, if he had any."

Mrs. Black's eyes flashed at this vulgar word, and then she surprised Regulus by turning in Lily's direction. The young woman stifled a laugh at the realization of exactly what she had walked in on, but the moment Walburga's eyes fell on her, she forced herself to look serious.

"You—girl." Lily froze over the cup of tea she was pouring from the silver pot that Mrs. Black had insisted her sons use over Sirus's battered Tesco-brand kettle. "Come here. I want to…speak to you."

Mrs. Potter was too surprised at the rare acknowledgement of her existence to protest the rudeness of the address or the demand. She set down the pot and walked over to mother and son, plastering on the expression of forced politeness she always wore around the Blacks.

At the prospect of actually conversing with Lily, Sirius's mother seemed almost as uncomfortable as the younger girl.

"My son—you…" Walburga hesitated. "You knew him well in school, didn't you?"

Mrs. Potter had to school herself not to raise an eyebrow.

"Oh, yes—very." Lily laughed to think of it. "He and my husband were practically attached at the hip. And then after James and I started going out, Sirius and I became very good chums."

Walburga's eyes narrowed. From behind his mother, Regulus was making none-too-subtle slashing gestures with his hand.

"So I've heard," Mrs. Black said—and Lily was surprised by the tone of civility in her words. "So—if you knew him so well, you'll be able to tell me…" She paused for dramatic effect. "Was my son ever…attached to any young women?"

The words tumbled out of Walburga's mouth, as if she had had trouble even forming this disagreeable thought circumstances had forced her to voice.

Lily's mouth twitched. She was not surprised by this line of questioning. From her first meeting with Mrs. Black the week before, she had been convinced that underneath her austere, Victorian demeanor, Walburga was a mum, just like any other.

Mums wanted to know what their children were up to.

She weighed her two options: telling Sirius's mother what he would want her to say (about his love life—as little as possible) or telling her the truth.

As he was not here and she had a strong inkling Mrs. Black was only looking for a confirmation of what she already knew, Lily chose the latter.

"I would say it was more a question of them being attached to him," Lily replied, cheerily. "Sirius was the best-looking boy in school by miles. I don't think there was a single witch who didn't fancy him at some point, apart from me."

The older woman raised an eyebrow and made an impatient scoffing noise in the back of her throat. That her son was the most handsome wizard of his age she was naturally sure of—it hardly need be said. His father had been, after all—and he looked just like Orion at that age, though her husband had never seemed much aware of how good-looking he was, and Sirius certainly was.

The question was the degree to which he had taken advantage of these trollops who had slobbered after him.

Lily read the look in Walburga's eyes and smiled, patiently.

"He never had a steady girlfriend, if that's what you're asking."

"That's truly what they call themselves now? Girlfriends?"

"And boyfriends," Lily confirmed, helpfully.

Mrs. Black goggled at the younger woman.

"But you and your husband engaged in this practice?" The forbidding witch was so confused she forgot to narrow her eyes. "You—went around together before you were married?"

It took a moment for her to realize exactly what Mrs. Black was asking—and with total sincerity.

"Are you asking if I was James's girlfriend before I was his wife, Mrs. Black?" Lily asked, stifling an incredulous laugh.

She got a confused stare in return. Nothing about this question seemed strange in the least to her—apart from Lily's amusement.

"Yes," the older woman replied, drawing herself up with utmost dignity. "I am."

Lily controlled her smile. Beneath the hauteur, the coldness, the imperious manner—it was quite obvious that the woman really was out of her depth—genuinely lost.

And she was actually looking to her—to Lily Potter, a Muggle-born witch, for answers.

"Anyone can change, Padfoot."

"Not my mother, Lils—I'm telling you." Sirius had shook his head and shoveled another mouthful of potatoes into his mouth. "She's just pretending she doesn't know you're Muggle-born because it's convenient, you having helped save Reg's life, even she knows she wouldn't come off well complaining about you—as long as you don't bring up that your dad was an insurance salesman, you can get by with her ignoring you like she would a half-blood. Or anyone outside my family, come to think of it. They think they're a bloody king and queen—most everyone else is a peasant."

He had a point, even an optimist like Lily could see he did—it would be easier to give Walburga up for a bad job if she had not seen her crying over Sirius's bed that night.

Lily glanced down at spool of yarn and knitting needles in her arms. Maybe it was the hormones that were making her feel it, but she felt a strange kind of bond with Mrs. Black. If she could feel so much protectiveness over the baby she carried, that she had only known for six weeks, how much more would she care in twenty years?

"Well…" Lily gave her a kindly look. "Then I'll tell you how it all happened. James and I started going out in seventh year—he would take me out to Hogsmeade on weekends, and he came with me to my sister's wedding—as a date." She shook her head at that particular memory. "But it didn't take long for him to pop the question. He'd liked me for ages—so we got married about a year after we started dating. Not that unusual of a case, I'd say."

Mrs. Black looked more bewildered than ever.

"So that's…really how young people court these days, is it?" she asked, her voice carrying none of its usual authority.

She sounded rather deflated, at a loss perhaps?—not imperious at all.

"I'm afraid so."

"I see." The older woman tapped her perfectly manicured fingers against her handbag, thoughtful—clearly she was processing this new information. "Well, I…that is…I suppose I should…thank you. Lucretia can be droll. I didn't know whether to believe her or not."

"Your sister-in-law was not having you on, Mrs. Black, let me assure you." The older woman shifted her weight from one foot to the other in a manner uncannily similar to her eldest son. "And you're welcome."

Lily kept her smile firmly in place, and to her surprise, Mrs. Black was the one to break eye-contact first.

Inwardly, Mrs. Potter cheered. It felt like a victory, however small.

The Black matriarch straightened up, addressing Regulus now.

"I'm leaving now, Regulus Arcturus. Kreacher will remain here with you until supper." There was no question here, and if her youngest had any objections to the family servant being left to watch over him, he did not voice them. She turned towards the elf. "When Sirius gets in, be sure to make him eat something of substance."

"Yes, Mistress Black," the elf agreed—but he looked a little grumpy at the prospect of this particular order.

She turned back to her younger son, who by now had abandoned his half-eaten pear.

"I hope you will at least bother to dress before dinner this evening, Regulus," she remarked, dryly. "Seven o'clock sharp."

Regulus mumbled a non-committal reply. His mother's drop-in had left him no less gloomy than he was when she'd arrived, and he curled his feet under him and picked up his book, an unrepentantly sullen gesture. Mrs. Black rolled her eyes, then drew herself up and took a few steps towards the door.

Lily, filled with newfound confidence, intercepted the formidable older woman before she made it to the kitchen.

"Mrs. Black—before you go, I've been meaning to talk to you about something." Lily gulped in a breath of nerve-steadying air. "It's more of a…favor I wanted to ask, really."

"A favor?" Both of Walburga's perfectly arched black brows went up in unison. "What favor could I possibly do for you?"

Regulus peaked over the edge of his book. Kreacher, too, was staring at Lily—he made his disbelief at her nerve even more obvious than his young charge.

"It's about your Christmas holiday plans."

Mrs. Black's hand froze on the door-handle.

"What about them?" she asked, her voice tense, and she jerked her head around to give Lily a piercing look.

Lily's eyes glanced at Regulus—he was subtlety shaking his head—then back into the silver-gray eyes of the older witch.

"Well—from what I understand, you and your husband are spending Christmas Day here in the flat with Regulus and Sirius. Which sounds lovely—" Lily said, hastily cutting off any snide remarks at the jump. "I'm sure it will be, being all together again, since you haven't for three years—and that your erm, family traditions are—"

"—I assume you have a point?" Walburga interrupted, her voice icy. "Beyond idle flattery, I mean."

"Yes. Well. I was wondering—that is to say—" She fumbled a bit before regaining her bearings. "I understand that on Christmas Eve you have a family party at your house in Regent's Park, and Regulus and Sirius will both be here in the flat…alone. So—I was wondering if it would be possible for Sirius to come to mine and my husband's place on the 24th."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop about ten degrees. Both Kreacher and Regulus stared at Lily like one would a criminally insane person.

"You want Sirius Orion to leave his brother unprotected and alone on Christmas Eve so that he can cavort with you and your—friends?" Mrs. Black asked, stiffly.

"Well, that's where the favor comes in. I thought, maybe—you, or even Mr. Black could slip out and stay here with Regulus, just for an hour or two." Walburga's eyes widened—but the impertinences kept coming. "It would mean so much to James and I if he could come to our cottage for dinner. Sirius is—he's like family to us."

If there had been even the slightest possibility of Walburga Black yielding to Lily's request, the last sentence shot her chances to hell.

The look proud matriarch gave her was contemptuous in the extreme.

"I am sorry to disappoint you, but my son will not be going anywhere on Christmas Eve." Lily's face fell, and Walburga continued, her voice colder than the younger woman had ever heard it. "We understand the holidays to be a time for family, and our obligations are such that leaving Grimmauld Place is impossible. Sirius Orion will spend Christmas Eve with his brother, as has been planned—and I need hardly add, as is right."

Mrs. Black took a moment to relish deflating Mrs. Potter's dreams like a punctured balloon before she turned the handle of the door and marched out of the flat.

Lily stood rigid on the spot—it had all happened so fast, she hardly knew what had happened. There was a soft sound of throat clearing, and she turned her head to look at Regulus.

"I could've told you that wasn't going to work."

Lily groaned and marched over to the armchair. She collapsed into it, a solider who had barely escaped from battle unscathed, and threw her knitting things on the table in a fit of temper—the temper she had been trying very hard to control, since entering the married state, though who could blame her for losing it, after such a frustrating exchange?

"I thought I was making progress with her," she groused to the slight boy on the sofa. He was nibbling on a croissant, watching her intently from across the coffee table. "Now I'm back to square one. Brilliant."

Regulus shook his head in pity, and he scoffed quietly.

"You shouldn't have said the bit about you and Potter considering Sirius 'family'."

"Is that what got her back up?"

"Among other things." Regulus brushed some crumbs off his lap. "Sorry about your party."

Lily looked up, and when she met his eyes—found that he actually meant it.

"It's not your fault. Making sure you're safe is far more important." Lily ran a hand through her hair. "I wanted to surprise James, that's all. His mum and dad both died a few months back, so it's his first Christmas without them. Sirius being around would have cheered him up."

Regulus's brown eyes gleamed with some indiscernible emotion. He offered her a thin, apologetic smile.

"If it makes you feel better, I'm sure my brother would much rather be with you on Christmas than stuck in this flat with me."

Lily smiled back, sadly.

"Why was she asking about his love life at Hogwarts, anyway?" she asked, trying to change the subject. "What was that really all about?"

Regulus let out the long-suffering sigh—one Lily recognized well. It was the sigh of the younger sibling.

"Just my brother being an idiot, as usual," Regulus told her, scornfully. "He pushed too far. Sirius is going to regret crossing Mother."

He curled up a little further on the couch and scowled, then he turned back to her. Lily thought he looked very young, just then—and tired.

"He really didn't tell you what happened last night?"

Even Lily's monumental patience couldn't take it anymore.

"Look, Regulus—" He started at her informality—but she was not going to call him 'Black', even if he wanted her to. "He'll be back soon. Why don't you ask your brother yourself?"

"What would be the point?" Regulus asked—his bitterness was unmistakeable. "He won't tell me anything."

"How can you know if you haven't even tried?"

Lily had abandoned politeness in favor of her more natural and open demeanor, and it did the trick in disarming the younger Black brother. He stared down at the sofa upholstery, absently petting Kreacher on the head—but clearly thinking very hard about her question.

"He doesn't trust me," he said at last, looking up.

Her almond-shaped eyes widened in shock.

"Of course he trusts—"

"No, he doesn't," Regulus insisted, running a hand through his hair in a very Sirius-like gesture. "Sirius might care—but that doesn't mean he trusts me. I can't blame him, either. If I were the one in his position—I probably wouldn't trust him."

"Whatever has happened, the two of you are brothers," she insisted. "You're family."

"And for him, that makes it worse," he returned, tossing the basket of food back on the floor next to Kreacher. The elf was staring up at him with undisguised concern. "Don't pretend he hasn't told you awful things about my parents and me. The way you speak to me and my mother—I know it's all an act—"

"It's not an act," Lily shot back, angrily. "It's called being kind. You might want to try it sometime. Don't follow your brother's example, though—he's not very good at it either."

Regulus's face flushed.

"He's been angry with me ever since Kreacher brought them here."

"I know it's complicated," Lily leaned forward in the chair. She would have liked to her a hand on his arm, but he was like a skittish animal, and it seemed as though he'd run away if she tried it. "And that between you all there are a lot of hurt feelings, and it won't be easy—but whatever has happened, you will be able to move past it. Anyone can start over."

He stared at her for a long while.

"You really believe that, don't you?" Regulus asked, finally, not bothering to conceal his cynicism. His eyes glittered like his mother—it didn't suit him much.

"Of course I do."

"So if Severus Snape had been the one who turned up half-dead on that doorstep, you'd be sitting here giving him a speech about starting over, would you?"

Lily was naturally pale, so when color drained from her face she looked ill. For a moment she just stared at him, at a loss.

"That is not the same thing," she said, at last, her voice subdued.

"Isn't it?" Regulus asked, wryly. "You used to be friends with Severus. Best friends, I thought. That's what he told me."

It had never occurred to Lily that Regulus might've spoken to Severus—she had never seen them together in school. And it certainly had never crossed her mind that if he would ever talk about her to any of his Slytherin mates, let alone Sirius's younger brother.

"We…we were."

"And why did you stop?"

"Because I knew what he was going to—"

Regulus smiled, without humor—Lily stopped herself. He had caught her, hadn't he?

"So, Sev—" She shook her head, correcting herself. "—Severus—he's really one of…of your lot, now?"

"Their lot—and yes, of course. You must've suspected." She didn't reply—it wasn't necessary. Of course she'd suspected. That was why she and Severus had stopped being friends in the first place. "You know, the Slytherins always thought it was so strange, that you were mates. Everyone gave him a hard time about it."

"You too?"

There was a hint of coolness in her voice now—but Regulus clearly preferred that to her 'nice' act. Lily was done for the day trying to prove her sincerity to Sirius's high-strung relations.

"I had a blood traitor brother in Gryffindor that they all loathed, so I was hardly in a position to talk," he pointed out, dryly. "…How did you even become friends?"

It had been such a long time since anyone had asked her that question—and it was perhaps the first time that it had been asked without any judgement, that she felt herself momentarily incapable of speech.

"We met before school. We're…from the same town." Lily hesitated, unsure if she should go—but Sirius's little brother was looking at her with such honest curiosity, that she found herself up to the task of "Sev—saw me doing magic in the park, one day. I mean, I didn't know that's what it was, yet, but he came up to me…and he told me I was a witch." Her mouth felt dry, and she swallowed. "He was the first one to tell me, actually."

Regulus looked astonished.

"Does Potter know that?"

"No," she answered, giving him a rueful look. "Severus is not his favorite topic." Regulus chose not to say anything, but the knowing look in his eyes made her face flush scarlet, and she continued. "Anyway, after that we became friends. When we started school, and we were sorted into different houses…everything got harder. Except for the summer hols, of course. It almost felt normal, then…like it used to."

"I know what you mean."

Regulus had spoken without thinking, and he turned red at the look of unspoken understanding in her eyes. Lily and he stared at each other, each feeling sympathy for the other they would have never expected.

"He defended you." Regulus broke the silence with this blunt statement. "Severus, I mean."

She clenched her jaw—a stab of anger and pain at the thought of the man who she would always think of first as the little boy hiding in the hedges—in his way, the first person to see her for what she really was.

Her face went cold.

"I can't imagine he's been defending me much lately, considering he joined up with the people who want me dead."

Regulus seemed—oddly enough—satisfied by her anger. He tilted his head, then fell back on the couch cushions.

"So you're saying you wouldn't be trying to make up with him, if he were here?"

Lily glared at him—but she wasn't angry, not really. He had a point, after all. It was easy enough for her to tell him his problems with his estranged family could be fixed, but considering her own history…well.

As they said—do as I say, not as I do.

"I feel compelled to point out," Lily observed, her voice unusually dry. "That if Sev were here, Sirius and he would have already killed each other by now, and the question of patching things up would be moot. For both of us."

Reg cracked a dark smile.

"He might hate my brother—but he hates your husband even more." Regulus's eyebrows drew together, and he frowned. "You ought to warn Potter. Tell him to watch his back."

Lily felt a flutter of fear in the pit of her stomach.

"Shouldn't I watch mine?" she asked, sarcastically. Regulus smiled—and there was the barest hint of mischief there that almost reminded her of his brother.

"As far as Severus Snape is concerned, I wouldn't worry too much."

Her face flushed—for though he was as cool and blank-faced as ever, it was impossible for Lily to mistake his meaning.

"But where all the other Death Eaters are concerned?"

He blinked, slowly—the shutters came up behind his eyes.

"From them—" He paused, that slightly haunted look she had spotted in his eyes more than once over the past week casting a shadow over his thin face. "From them you have something to fear."

Lily picked up her knitting needles and rose to her feet.

"I knew that already." She traced her stomach over her bulky sweater. There was more than one person to worry about, now, as far as her safety was concerned. "And as for Severus Snape—I find it hard to imagine him changing sides—or wanting to make up with me." He continued to stare at her, and she continued, for the first time letting bitterness creep into her voice. "That's the difference between the two of you."

She settled back down on the floor, ready to start afresh on her project of making a hat for the baby that would be born in a little more than seven months.

Regulus chose not to argue with her.

---

"Where did you get that, Ms. Battancourt?"

She jumped at Mrs. Malfoy's question, for she had been scanning the hall, looking for him—he had managed, against all odds, to slip out of sight, like a phantom from a dream. She looked down to see where Narcissa was pointing.

At the small metal object gripped tightly in her right hand.

"I found it—on the floor," she lied, quickly—Narcissa had already tugged her arm up and was examining the silver flask she had clasped in one hand. "I think it belongs to one of the gentlemen."

"It must." Narcissa dropped her hand and smiled, haughtily. "Probably that Norwegian clod. I'm sorry for leaving you on your own, if I'd known that man spoke French, I'd never have let you get trapped in a conversation with him. He seemed a dreadful boor."

"He wasn't, really," she said, quickly, her face turning red. "He was—"

"What about this one, Colette?"

The loud crow of her Aunt Eugenie Fawley forcibly yanked Colette Battancourt back to the present.

She blinked rapidly and stared around the shop, confused. For a moment she could not recall where she was—until the racks of robes, hats, scarves and gloves that lined the walls of Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions came into focus, and the mundanity of her surroundings came back to her like a bucket of ice water on the head. No longer was she in the glittering ballroom of Malfoy Manor of evening last, that place and time her imagination had conjured so perfectly.

Shopping for new dress robes with her aunt was about as far from the intrigues of the night before as it was possible to be.

"I—I'm sorry, Auntie," she said, still dazed. "I didn't hear what you said."

Ms. Fawley narrowed her beady eyes.

"Honestly—that's the third time you've drifted off, petite sotte." The old woman shook her head and clucked her tongue. "Your mind isn't on the task at hand at all."

Colette winced at the scolding. Madam Malkin's shop assistant—a plump and good-natured witch, arms full of discarded robes—gave her a sympathetic smile. She had taken the young French woman's measurements a half-hour earlier, and had since been forced to endure back and forth between the girl and her aged maiden-aunt over the best color and fit, and how many sets they should buy. Ms. Fawley was determined not to leave the shop until her great-niece actually picked something of her own accord, but she couldn't get the silly girl to focus on fabrics and ribbons to save her life.

She must not have been able to sleep, after the overexcitement of that party—of course, her mind was in the clouds. It always was.

"Well?" Ms. Fawley pressed. "What do you think of these?"

Colette dutifully considered the set of bright pink robes her aunt had practically shoved into her face. She stared at the lace collar—she had no feelings whatever about this ensemble, but she forced a smile just the same.

"If you like this set, we should get them."

"You are the one who is going to be wearing the robes, Colette," Eugenie sighed, exasperated. "What matters is if you like them."

"I trust your taste, Aunt Eugenie," she replied, innocently. "And anyway, you know I don't have a head for these sorts of things."

"That's the problem." Her great aunt tutted, not bothering to hide her disapproval. "A girl of your age should take an interest in fashion, and know what suits her complexion and figure best. You should only have a head for these sorts of things."

Inwardly, Colette sighed. These words were an echo of what her mother had been saying to her since she was thirteen years old—but she had long since resigned herself to the fact that she could not force herself to care about things that were, to her, fundamentally uninteresting. Anyway, she had a mother who cared very deeply about fashion, who was known from Rouen to Avignon for her impeccable—if perhaps a little old-fashioned—taste, and who had a keen interest in her only daughter looking her best.

All that was taken care of. What was there left for Colette to have an opinion about—why even bother pretending she cared?

Eugenie held the gown up over the cloak her grand-niece had put back, giving it a critical eye.

"Narcissa Malfoy is going to introduce you to all of her friends—" She lifted the dress to Colette's pale cheek, to see how it looked against her skin. "Don't you want to show yourself to your best advantage?"

"Of course, Aunt," Colette said, dutifully.

She tried to focus on the pink party gown, and determine whether she really liked it or not. The color was bright, meant to draw the eye—as the daughter of a provincial branch of the Battancourt family, she had never been the center of attention—nor had she wanted to be, despite an ambitious mother with ideas to the contrary.

"I think everyone will stare at me if I am wearing that," she said, honestly.

"That's the point." Eugenie tossed it into the growing pile of keepers in the other witch's arms. "You have beautiful eyes, and it will make them stand out—young wizards notice that sort of thing, you know."

Colette hid a smile. Fabienne had warned her not to pay too much mind to her aunt's advice where attracting a husband was concerned, as she was an old maid, and could hardly be trusted on that score.

"Of course, auntie," she said, her voice sweet and coaxing. "I think this one is lovely—though I am not sure I need another one."

"Your mother was very explicit," Ms. Fawley pointed out, voice bone-dry. "Ten in total, that was what she said."

Ms. Battancourt stared at the massive pile of gowns already piled up in the shop assistant's arms, chagrined. Was she really going to have occasion to wear ten different party dresses while she was in England?

Fabienne seemed to think so. Of course, Narcissa Malfoy had invited her daughter to stay as her special guest for the entire week leading up to Christmas, and the Malfoys were known for socializing with only the best. Colette suspected her mother was afraid of what 'the best' would say if they caught Ms. Battancourt wearing the same gown twice in one season.

So—ten gowns it was.

"This is the tenth, I think—the last one." Colette peaked up at Eugenie. She did not want to make her desire to leave the shop too obvious, lest she get another scolding for not taking this exercise in the feminine arts seriously. "Shall we have them wrapped up?"

The elderly witch, clearly not used to the physical exertion shepherding a young girl required, sighed and nodded. It had been a fatiguing three days since this slip of a girl had shown up on her doorstep.

"Yes, I think that will do for getting on with." The beleaguered shop assistant hurried away the mountain of clothes to be altered. "What time are you meeting her for luncheon?"

"In a half-hour," Colette fibbed. "If you're tired, Auntie, why don't you head back to the cottage? It will take a little time for all my dresses to be done, and by then I'll have to meet Narcissa directly. There's no reason for you to stay."

"Are you sure?" Ms. Fawley looked hopefully out the shop window—the sleet of earlier in the morning had stopped, but there was still a gloomy pall hanging over the scant shoppers roaming about. She had never seen Diagon Alley this empty so close to Christmas.

She turned back to her niece.

"You'll really be fine on your own?" She thought longingly of the tea and crumpets awaiting her in Cornwall. "You—remember where the restaurant is?"

Colette recited the address from memory.

"Well, then—" Eugenie hesitated. It wasn't, strictly speaking, proper for her to leave the girl unchaperoned—but if her luncheon really was in only a half hour, there was little time for her to get into trouble… "I suppose you'll be fine. It is just down the road."

Inwardly, Colette smiled. That had been far easier than it should have been. Of course, she was so naturally guileless, no one ever suspected her of being capable of deceit—and the time of the lunch was hardly a great falsehood.

"I'll say goodbye to you, then—until Christmas, anyway." They bumped cheeks. "You'll be far too busy here in London to pop into the cottage and see a doddering old fuddy-duddy like me, I'm sure."

Colette rolled her eyes. Her aunt—just like all the other unmarried women in her large extended family—was always making these kinds of disparaging remarks about herself. She was very independent, hardly a burden to anyone, but the way she talked one would think Colette was the one who was inconvenienced by the visit.

"I should not count my dragons before they are hatched, as you English say." Colette raised an eyebrow. "We don't even know if I'm invited to stay, yet."

"I'm sure Narcissa will have worked all that out by now, girl!" She laid one withered hand on Colette's slim shoulder. "Be polite to the aunt and you'll be fine. You'll have a lovely week in London."

Ms. Battancourt smiled—Eugenie's mind was already occupied with the letter she was going to write the elder Battancourt matron, so she missed how strained the expression on her niece's face was. After giving her one last hard squeeze on the arm and the rest of the gold she needed to pay for her dresses, Ms. Fawley hurried out the front door of the shop.

Colette waited until her great-aunt had disappeared around the corner of the cobbled street before she let the smile drop off her face.

There was a chair in the corner near the counter for patrons waiting for their alterations to be done. She crossed over to it and slumped down, a very unladylike pose she knew she could only get away on the rare occasion she found herself without family or guardian to scold her about her posture. There was no point in pulling out the novel she'd been reading, or her diary to write in—she already knew she wouldn't be able to focus on either.

The witch contented herself by staring out the window at the soggy street beyond the glass. She sunk back into her thoughts, let her mind wander, free from the snap of a voice telling her to pay attention to what was right in front of her instead of her imagined 'fancies'.

For once, reality was stranger than her imagination.

She frowned, thinking about the luncheon to come. She was far less certain than Eugenie of her chance at being invited to stay with Narcissa at the Black family's London house for the week leading up to Christmas, but she couldn't rightly tell her great-aunt the reason why.

That would involve admitting to the kind of behavior that would get her packed off to France within the hour.

When she had told Colette about her change in plans—her decision, at the behest of her husband, to leave the dull country for the comforts and excitement of town—Narcissa had assured her in much the same way her great-aunt had—airily waving off her concerns about being an unwanted pest.

"It's not a problem at all. Number Twelve is a huge house, enormous, really—and with my cousin Regulus in France, it'll be completely empty. I'm already staying for the week, Uncle Orion and Aunt Walburga have no reason to say 'no' to you joining me."

As far as Narcissa's aunt was concerned, that might've been true—the formidable witch had barely said three words to her at the party—but she couldn't imagine Orion Black welcoming her into his home with open arms.

Not after what had happened.

"Ah—Narcissa. I wondered if I could have a word with you and your….companion."

Colette, who had been trying to slip the flask into her shirt sleeve—it was too tight around her wrist, drat it all!—froze and blushed. Narcissa seemed surprised at the intrusion, and she frowned and exchanged a look of confusion with her friend.

"Of course, Uncle Orion," she said, politely. "What did you—?"

"It's about that man—the Nord." He turned his eyes to her—he was so stern, and she couldn't help but think what the stranger had said—that he was not a man to be crossed. "I noticed you were…conversing quite animatedly with him, Ms. Battancourt."

Narcissa gave a little indignant huff on her friend's behalf.

"It turns out he can speak French," Cissy said, coldly. "So he cornered her. Colette just escaped."

"He seemed pleasant enough, from what I could see—" Mr. Black's cold eyes narrowed. "He didn't say anything…at all odd to you, did he?"

She blinked—was there anything the man had said that wasn't odd?

"He was—he said nothing out of the ordinary, sir," Colette managed to squeak out, and she nervously glanced down at her hands. Mr. Black's gaze followed where hers lead, and it rested on the square silver object she was turning over.

"What is that you have there?"

She had stuttered and stumbled and tried to put him off—but it was too late. Another careless remark from Mrs. Malfoy ("She found it on the floor—we think it must be the Nord's, those foreigners think themselves above our drinks!") and he had managed to extract the flask from her grip with a promise to find the gentleman it belonged to and return it, post-haste.

She felt ill after that.

The stranger had told her he feared discovery by Orion Black above everyone else—and she had handed over what could only be the very proof of his deceit. Colette wanted to warn him—but after he had stolen that kiss, he had disappeared, and for the rest of the evening she peered around every corner of the room, searching desperately—

She never saw him again.

Hours later, after nearly everyone had left, and the gentlemen emerged from the drawing room, in jovial (or downcast) spirits, depending on whether they'd won or lost at cards, Mr. Black had found her again—this time, alone.

"What did he say to you?" Mr. Black was not pretending to be civil, now. "Don't play stupid, girl—that man, Svensson—the Nord. What did he tell you?"

The words were aggressive, forceful—she was quite afraid of him.

"Nothing—he said—"

"—Did he give you his real name?" Mr. Black cut her off, urgently.

So he had been discovered! Her blue eyes widened.

"Non—he only said…" She blushed hard, under Mr. Black's scrutiny. He looked haggard, not at all the man she had been introduced to hours ago. "That he was meeting someone in the hall, and he didn't want to be recognized—by you or—or anyone else. That was all, I swear, Monsieur Black—I know nothing else."

He stared at her for a long time—then he nodded, slowly.

"I believe you," he said to Colette, his voice curt—and tired. Mr. Black sighed. "You will not speak of this or…that man to anyone."

She nodded, terrified.

"I won't tell a soul, I swear, monsieur," she assured him. The older man sighed again—any anger at her forgotten—and she had a sneaking suspicion his vehemence had more to do with his history with the stranger than her. Colette hesitated—her curiosity getting the better of her. "Monsieur Black—who…who was he?"

He laughed, coldly.

"A fool of the first order—he's gone now." He smiled, grimly, and when he spoke it was as much to himself as her. "It's just as well he didn't tell you anything. You're better off by far—that imbecile brings misfortune wherever he goes. Forget him, girl."

Sensible advice—she'd been trying without success to follow it ever since.

Meeting a man in disguise in a ballroom was too exciting to forget quickly. It was the sort of thing that happened in stories—not in real life, to real people—and certainly not to her, Colette Battancourt, a little nobody, a girl of no consequence from a provincial branch of one of the great pureblood houses of France.

Her expectations for the trip had been low. Two days in, and in terms of excitement alone, her time in England had far outstripped expectation.

When she had kissed Mamon and Papa goodbye in Rouen, with a promise to write about everything she saw and every wizard she met, Colette had assumed she'd have nothing to fill her letters with fashion and dull English gossip. It had been her grandmother's idea to send her here, at first—her mother had had to be brought around to the idea. The elderly Madame Eulalie Battancourt, née Fawley was the only woman who held more sway with her son than his wife Fabienne, and though she rarely employed it, it was always to great effect. She nursed a soft spot for her only grandchild, in spite of her bookishness. Fifty years in France had not stamped the English out of Eulalie, and she had a fancy that the girl was English at heart, too, and a lengthy sojourn on the damp island where Eulalie Fawley had spent her youth would help bring her out of her shell.

The young witch would have agreed to almost anything to get away from France in December, for she lived in dread of another Christmas season spent in Paris with the main branch of the family. She might've had an excellent imagination, but even Colette could not pretend to relish the endless stream of parties and nosy relations who looked down on her for her country manners, and that she preferred reading and flying her broom to flirting and fashion.

At least she might meet some new people in England—and she wasn't related to anyone here, apart from her aunt. No relatives—what a wondrous thought!

The aim of the trip, of course, was not for her to escape from a Battancourt Christmas—it was for her to make a good match. She didn't have high hopes for that. Colette privately thought it unlikely that Fabienne's plans for her would come off, no matter how determined her mother was—she had no fortune and only a little beauty, and none of the confidence that was apparently required to "catch" a husband.

Her mother had fixed on Rabastan Lestrange as the prime candidate only because she was convinced that if the younger Lestrange brother was still a bachelor at twenty-eight, he must not like any of the available English pureblood witches. Colette, therefore, must have a good chance at catching his eye and "securing him".

Rabastan had been as polite to her as any of the other English wizards she'd met the few times she'd visited. She had been willing to try to "get him," as her mother mercenarily referred to what she was supposed to do—Colette had no objection to the possibility of marriage to, in principle—or she hadn't, until last night.

Hearing Rabastan Lestrange described as a "brutal thug" had cooled her to the idea.

Was that true? What did it mean, and—how would the imposter have known? Could she even trust him? Finding out the identity of the man in disguise who had spoken those words had quite outstripped any dim idea she had of marrying anyone.

Who was he? She could not stop thinking about it.

And what had gotten into her, to approach him as she had? Colette hardly knew herself. Perhaps it had been that the hall was full of strangers—she'd felt like she was wearing a mask, acting the part of someone else—a far more daring, romantic figure than her real self—a bookish, quiet girl who nothing interesting ever happened to.

She had never been spoken to like that. He had not the faintest idea of pleasing her, had insulted her, in fact—called her naive and green—but every time she thought the shocking things he'd said…and of that stolen kiss on the hand…she felt a rush of color to her cheeks.

Colette had not the slightest chance of finding out who he was now. For some reason—maybe because all the rest seemed like a novel—she had the oddest feeling, like the mystery of his identity was something she could solve, if only she thought hard enough she could puzzle it out. She kept running the details over in her mind. He had been well-bred, of that she was sure of—he had known far too much about the men and women in the room for her to think otherwise, in spite of his protestations—and the way he spoke, was mannered, even if he was impudent. He must've come from good wizarding stock—

"—Is this really all of the worst patterns you have?"

The loud voice of a man complaining at the counter jolted her out of her thoughts. She turned her head 'round and frowned at the back of his dark head.

As usual, reality was far more tedious than the things in her mind.

"I'm sorry, dear." Madam Malkin held up the rung of swatches, lips pursed in a humorless expression. Colette goggled at the selection the man had asked for—all extremely gaudy colors, no Battancourt man would be caught dead wearing mauve or incandescent blue. "We try to carry dress robe materials that wizards will actually buy."

"Come on, Malkie—don't you have—I don't know, dress robes that are…red with white trim, a kind of Father Christmas-looking thing? Green-striped with bow round the middle, like a present? I'm looking to shock—" The young man took a step back from the fabrics to give them a critical look. "—And I have to tell you, these are doing nothing for me. They aren't nearly garish enough."

Colette quietly slipped her diary out of her bag. She liked to note down odd or interesting behavior, and the obnoxious young wizard in the wrinkled and outdated robes now harassing the shop mistress would make a perfect comic study in one of her stories. She leaned forward in her chair to see if she could get a glimpse of his face, but the angle was no good.

Madam Malkin sighed loudly, clearly torn between irritation and bemusement.

"Yes, well—garish is not what we go in for, dear," she remarked, dryly. "What do you say to some of these, I think they'll suit you far—"

Her suggestion of an alternative pattern for robes was interrupted by the arrival of another shop assistant, carrying a large and ostentatious ostrich-feather turban in one hand. The unfortunate bird from which the feathers had come had apparently also lost his life, for a ghoulishly taxidermic ostrich head, complete with beak and glowing eyes, wrapped around the base of the headdress.

It was probably the most ridiculous hat Colette had ever seen.

"Laura—what on earth are you doing with that old thing?" Madam Malkin asked, perturbed by the arrival of the strange headdress, which was blinking eerily at her. "I thought we got rid of it ages ago."

"The boy said he was looking for an unusual hat—preferably one that an animal had died for." The witch had evidently thought this request amusing; she turned the ostrich to face Madam Malkin. "All I could think of was this old fellow—I knew somebody would take to him, poor dear."

The seamstress opened her mouth to argue, but she was drowned out by the whoop of laughter.

"That's perfect—Merlin, it's hideous!" he crowed, with undisguised glee. "Please tell me it's expensive, too."

"One of a kind," the shop assistant replied, cheerily. She named a large figure—Colette marveled at the uncouthness of the man to ask about price so openly, and then he went further in cementing her impression of his poor manners by pulling a gigantic sack of gold out of his robe and slapping it on the counter.

"Marvelous. I can practically picture it on her head. Can I have that gift wrapped, by chance?" He rather crassly began counting out the gold in loud clacks on the counter. "I'll need an itemized receipt for it as well—you wouldn't mind describing it as 'tasteful winter cap' on the descriptor line, would you?" He snorted. "I mean—it's a stretch on the winter bit, but 'tasteful' is in the eye of the beholder, I say."

"Of course, love—do you want a inscription on the tag?"

"Just put 'Granny Crabapple' on the 'to' line, I'll fill in the personal message when I get home." The women exchanged disapproving looks. "It's a nickname—very affectionate, I assure you. I'd call the old girl the Crabapple to her face, if she were in here."

Colette stifled a giggle behind her diary, the noise drew the attention of young man, and he turned toward the source of the sound.

"At least someone in here appreciates my sense of humor—"

The second he caught sight of her face the words died in his throat.

Colette couldn't help herself—she gasped.

If she had been the one to place that dialogue in the mouth of a character, he would have been a comic figure with exaggerated features…it must have been a mark of her own limitations as a writer that she found his face far more shocking than his words. There was nothing funny about what she stared at now. Dark hair framed what was, quite frankly, the handsomest face of a young man Colette had ever laid eyes on. She looked into a pair of expressive gray eyes, traced the perfectly even features, high cheek-bones, ruddy from the cold. Though she had never seen this young man in her life—she would have remembered that face—Colette thought his expression of haughty surprise as he gaped at her seemed oddly…familiar.

Most confusing of all, his handsome features were contorted with obvious and marked dislike—directed towards her.

Bewildered, the witch's face colored, and after a protracted moment of this strange piercing look, she found herself glaring back. She felt self-conscious and was annoyed at herself for it. She hadn't done anything wrong—what an abominably rude wizard, to gape at her, so!

"Miss—your robes are all finished."

The voice startled her, and Colette abruptly broke eye contact and looked back around at the counter. The plump shop assistant who had been helping her with the fitting had reappeared, arms full of neatly packed boxes filled with her freshly hemmed and tailored gowns.

She shoved her diary back in her purse, stood up, and marched over to the counter. Unfortunately, paying required she stand directly next to the man. His eyes still burned the side of her cheek.

She stuck her nose up in the air and tried to ignore him. It was hard—she was not used to scrutiny, particularly from men of undoubtedly low origin.

The gold Aunt Eugenie had given her was just enough to pay for her extravagant new wardrobe. After collecting her change, she pulled the heavy package into her arms.

"Excuse me, madame, I was wondering—" She spoke directly to the shop assistant, trying to politely edge the rude man out of view. "Could you please tell me where the bookshop is?"

"Oh, books?—you want Flourish and Blotts, dear. It's just—"

"—La librairie est du côté sud de la ruelle, mademoiselle."

Colette turned her head to her fellow customer. He had gotten over his shock, and now the full lips were turned up in a derisive sneer.

"I—thank you, sir," she said, stiffly giving him the barest trace of a civil nod. His eyes glinted coldly—and there was something that lurked behind them—what she felt sure was a private joke at her expense. "Your French is—very good."

"I bet you say that to every man you meet."

Colette sputtered in shock—but before she could begin to formulate the strong rebuke he deserved for speaking to her so, the young man bowed to her, shoved his comically large sack of gold back in his pockets.

"I'll come back for that later, Malkie—and the robe fitting." He grinned at Colette and doffed an invisible hat. "I hope you have a good stay in England, mademoiselle—and don't get into too much trouble. You don't seem like the type—but you know what they say." He winked—somehow he could make even that an insult. "It's always the quiet ones."

He left before she could utter a single word.

Were all men in this country impertinent, she fumed, as she watched him stride out the door of Madam Malkin's, or was it just her luck to meet them all in the course of one day? She sat there for minutes, fuming, before she collected her heavy boxes and left the shop, head full of smart rejoinders she could have said, if she'd only been cleverer in the moment.

This irritating encounter was helpful in one way.

It had momentarily driven all thoughts of the masked man straight out of Colette's head.

---

"Trouble in paradise, Prongs?"

The rim of Remus's teacup hid the lower half of his face, so James could not see the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He was poking restively at the soggy teabag sticking out of his own, untouched cup. At this question, coming out of a long silence between them, he looked up.

Remus was watching him, face thoughtful.

"What?" He furrowed his brow.

"You seem…distracted." Remus took a another sip, then lowered the cup, straightening his face into an expression of sobriety.

His friend had, after all, called him ahead of meeting Lily for a 'catch-up' at a Muggle coffee shop in Camden, of all places—and James Potter was a creature of habit. For them to be doing something this out of the ordinary meant his problem was serious. "I thought you were maybe—having trouble with your other half."

At the suggestion that he was fighting with his wife, James's frown became even more pronounced.

"Of course not, Moony. Things with Lily—" The dark-haired man rubbed the back of his head, distractedly. "Things with Lily have never been better, you know that—"

"—I meant your other other half, Prongs."

James glared and shoved the cup across the grimy surface of the cafe table between them. Remus couldn't help himself—he smiled.

"That obvious, am I?" The taller man grumbled, stretching his leg out and slouching in his chair.

His friend's grin of amusement broadened.

"You have many wonderful qualities, James," Remus assured him, voice brimming with mock gravity. "But I have to tell you—subtlety has never been one of them."

James scowled. Remus smiled, sadly—in that moment his friend was doing a remarkably good impression of the other half that so preoccupied him.

He waited, knowing what was coming. Remus knew that expression of old—James was thinking hard, formulating exactly what he wanted to say—and whatever was going on between him and Sirius, it was weighing heavily enough that he had called Remus here for the express reason of puzzling it out with him.

"Here's what I don't get, Moony. Answer me this," he said, at last looking up from the brown stain on the floor. "How is it that Padfoot—our Padfoot—he of the greatest laughs, dare-devil extraordinaire, courageous, the truest Gryffindor ever born, friend to one and many, the best of all possible men…"

Remus smothered another laugh—wondering how long James could go on this way. Hours, probably.

"…the finest spirit and greatest amateur cartographer we know…" James trailed off, clearly going for a dramatic effect. "…How is it that he came from them?"

Ah. This was going to be a sober conversation.

"So…you had a fun evening in, then?"

James's expression became, if possible, blacker.

"I mean it, Remus—can you see it?" he pressed, ignoring the question. "Do you see any resemblance between Sirius and that pair of puffed up, high-born snakes that brought him up?"

Remus let out a low sigh.

"Honestly?" He drained his cup of the last of the tea. "Yes, I can."

Remus had known James wouldn't like that answer, but he hadn't expected the explosive indignation on Sirius's behalf.

"But how? How can you say that? They're so…so—" He struggled to come up with words florid enough to describe Orion and Walburga Black. "—They're so proud and haughty and…such stuck-up snobs—they're pureblood Slytherin toffs, Moony, that's the truth! It's an insult to Sirius to even compare him to them—"

"—Sirius isn't exactly what I would call a 'humble wizard of the people', James," Remus interrupt, picking up one of the stale biscuits they'd purchase to share and nibbling the end. "We are talking about a man who thinks caviar and Dom Perignon naturally pair with Chinese food."

"They do pair well with Chinese food!"

James pounded his hand on the table so hard his spoon and cup rattled. The young couple at the next table goggled at them, but Remus Lupin remained unfazed.

"He grew up in a Georgian townhouse," he continued, in reasonable tones. "He learned French from his governess. Didn't he dance a gavotte with Lily at your wedding?"

Prongs stared at him, more annoyed than ever.

"So? What's your point?"

"My point is that—there's a certain class of wizard in this country, a certain type of family—pureblood, rich, old fashioned and high-born—and as much as he tries to hide it, Sirius is from one of them, and…it shows."

James was visibly affronted by this succinct summary.

"I also happen to come from one of those 'old pureblood families', Moony," he said, a little airily. "And I'm not like that—and nor were my mum and dad."

Remus caught himself holding back another smile. He had been trying to carefully avoid pointing out that James's inability to see Sirius's aristocratic tendencies probably came from a failure to see his own. Though Fleamont and Euphemia had been warm and loving and not snobbish, they had also been very genteel, and from them, their only son had inherited a view of the world that could best be described as 'chivalric.'

Probably wouldn't be too helpful to draw James's attention to that fact, now.

"That's true…of course, you Potters are more the 'new money' pureblood types," Remus remarked, with some irony. "—Your enormous family fortune came from your father the famous potioneer. You're practically nouveau riche by comparison."

It was meant as a joke, but James didn't even offer a courtesy laugh. He gave his friend a unusually challenging stare.

"You don't really think Padfoot is like them, though, do you?"

The tepid smile dropped off his face. It was with a heavy heart that he considered how best to frame the truthful answer he felt compelled to give.

Sirius had, from almost the beginning of their friendship, striven to show the difference between himself and the rest of his notorious family.

His rebellion against all things Black became increasingly vehement and outrageous as they had grown older, and Remus had, in his heart of hearts, always wondered if there was a performative side to it—if Sirius had been trying to prove he wasn't like them as much to himself as he was trying to prove it to the rest of the world.

It was no wonder—three years after running away from home, and people were still asking the question.

"In the ways that really matter…no, I don't think he is. But—" Remus paused, considering the qualifier carefully. "—he's not unlike them in every way, James."

These words—reasonable and honest though they might be—did little to comfort his friend. He seemed more troubled than ever by them.

James picked up the spoon and tapped it on the edge of the table, anxiously. He stared down into the still-undrunk cup of tea, expression pensive.

"I think it was a mistake, making him do this," he admitted, at last. "They may not be Death Eaters, but they're dangerous people, the Blacks—and I don't like Sirius getting mixed up with them again."

"They're his parents, James," Remus said, quietly. "He'll always be mixed up with them."

They lapsed into what was, for them, a rare tense and uncomfortable silence. Remus could see James wanted to argue the point, but knew it was no use.

James Potter could not erase the Blacks from existence—and that's what it would have taken to break that mercurial power they held over their eldest son.

He let out another long sigh, then picked up his mug of tepid tea and slurped some down. The werewolf across the table felt an unusual amount of unease. This conversation was not going as he had hoped—he had assuaged James of none of his concerns, clearly—and now he was just as worried.

James pulled out his watch.

"It's getting on." He pushed out his chair and stood up. "Let's go. We should go meet Lily—she's been cooped up in that flat all morning."

Remus followed suit, abandoning the soggy biscuit and standing up as well. James pulled a wrinkled five pound note from his pocket and threw it down on the table. His friend smiled—though James had never really gotten the hang of converting Muggle money in his head, Moony felt sure he still would've left their waitress a tip quadruple the bill.

Prongs had the most generous spirit of anyone he knew.

The bell jingled when they pushed open the door that lead to the gray Camden street. It was lightly raining, and Remus was surprised when James asked if he wouldn't mind walking the mile or so to Lisson Grove. He had expected his friend to be eager to get his pregnant wife away from the flat that was the source of much of his anxieties, but Prongs expressed a need to clear his head that a trip on the underground could not provide—so he nodded and pulled out a tatty umbrella for them to keep their heads dry.

They were halfway through the Regent's park shortcut they always took when James spoke again.

"Do you think Sirius would lie to me?"

The only sound that punctuated the quiet of this stretch of the green were the shouts from a rowdy group of Muggle boys on Christmas holiday who had braved the cold weather to play football. They couldn't have been older than twelve, and when Remus had first spotted them as he and James crossed the soggy lawn, the werewolf was reminded, painfully, of another young foursome.

He tore his eyes away from football game to look at his friend.

"I mean, if he was in trouble—real trouble…" James swallowed, hard. "…Padfoot would tell me, right? He wouldn't keep it a secret…he'd ask for my help. Wouldn't he?"

"It would depend."

"On what?"

"On how bad the trouble was," Remus said, flatly. "If he thought he could keep you out of it by lying, then—yes. I do think he would."

James nodded, thoughtfully. He seemed unsurprised by this answer—perhaps all he'd been looking for was a confirmation of what he already knew.

It's not like he needed Remus to tell him the lengths Sirius would go to to protect the people he loved.

"Look, James, whatever you think is going on…you ought to talk to Sirius about it before you—act." The rain chose that moment to pick up, and so did their pace. "It's a delicate situation that he's in right now, and it requires…restraint."

"Oh, I'm well aware of how 'delicate' it is, Moony," James answered him, sticking his hands in his pockets. "And you have no idea how much restraint I'm already showing towards those people. I've half a mind to go there myself and—"

He cut himself off and scowled. Remus sighed. He knew that look. It was the heroic, world-on-his-shoulders look he always got when he was about to do something that was both very brave and very stupid. Whatever James had gotten it in his head, there would be no talking him out of it. The best he could do would be to temper his impulses, and warn Lily to do the same.

"Promise me that you'll at least ask Sirius if something is wrong before you go… charging into battle with his mum and dad."

James snorted. Remus could already tell that particular word choice was being taken more as encouragement than a deterrent.

"You just told me you thought he'd lie if there was."

"Yes—but when it comes to you, he's not a good liar." Moony paused. "If there's really something amiss, you'll be able to tell, and then you can go to Dumbledore. He'll know what to do."

Another slow, thoughtful nod.

"You're a good man, Moony." He clapped his friend on the shoulder and took the umbrella from him.

At some point over the course of the conversation the umbrella had migrated, and Remus hadn't noticed that he was holding it over only his friend's head until the rain drop had trickled under his collar and down his neck.

"What exactly do you think is going on, James?" he asked, seriously. He had to at least try to find out what this was really all about. "Did Regulus say something to you last night?"

The slight pause was telling.

"Don't worry about it. You've enough on your plate with your…little furry problem, and doing stuff for the Order, and everything else." James grinned at him. At once he was his usual cheerful self, and Remus couldn't help but feel glad for it. Prongs' unflagging optimism was one of the bright spots in his life right now. "We don't see each other enough, you know—you need to start coming by the cottage more often. I've missed you."

Remus felt a warmth spreading through his chest, despite the chill. He meant it—that was the thing about James. He always said what he meant.

The conversation moved to lighter things—to Christmas, and Lily and the baby, and so by the time they had trekked into Sirius's building, sodden from the leak the old umbrella had sprung when they were walking past Marylebone Station, Remus had managed to put his anxieties over his two best friends aside.

The obvious fact that James would, like Sirius, also lie to any one of his friends to protect them from perceived danger—didn't even occur to him.

---

The legal offices of Burke and Selwyn (M.L.S.) were located at the top floor of Number 67, Knockturn Alley, an unobtrusive and decaying three-story building at the far end of the narrow street, and had been since the firm's foundation at the end of the previous century. The founding partners—the now late Hargrove Burke and his friend and distant cousin Aloysius Selwyn—were men of vision, and they had built their new business on the principle of exclusivity. Both clever men with a particular penchant for reading the times, Burke and Selwyn had seen the growing need for legal expertise among wizards of a certain quality. Their clientele, which drew without exception from the most ancient and venerable pureblood wizard clans in Britain, had peculiar needs, and this was reflected in the narrow field of magical law they specialized in—wills, trusts, inheritance, bequests and estate management.

These matters only pertained to the lives of a select breed of wizard, and they were in the business of catering to the best.

Belgravius Burke, son of the now deceased Hargrove and the current soul partner of the practice, ran a finger down the list of death notices in that morning's Daily Prophet. The paper, much to his chagrin, had taken to making such reports on a weekly rather than daily basis—the latter method being seen as too ghoulish.

There were only three, this week—an unusually low number of reported dead, he thought, given the current climate. There had only been two last week—the numbers were down from the autumn. Perhaps He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was, like most everyone else, too busy with his Christmas plans for anything else.

At that macabre thought, Burke chuckled to himself. One had to keep one's spirits up in times of turmoil, he reflected, wryly.

Two of the dead were nobodies of little consequence—and he had already spoken to the Marmont woman about handling the legal affairs of her sadly late husband, the only Ministry casualty of a nasty incident in Brighton that had, he was told, also lead to one arrest and three dead Muggles. He lowered the paper—disappointed but not surprised to find nothing there he did not already know. Mr. Burke liked to keep apprised of such things, and so he had an ear to the ground.

In his line of work, death was good for business.

A soft knock on the door of his office followed by the creak of it opening interrupted his solitude. The solicitor turned the page of the paper, unconcerned.

"Yes?" he asked, not looking up.

"There's a—a man here to see you, Mr. Burke."

The older man's shrewd eyes flicked up off the page to give his new clerk a single, withering glance. Bletchley, a pasty and spotty youth just shy of thirty, hovered nervously at the door. He was the idiot nephew of a family friend, and Burke was fast coming to regret apprenticing him—no matter how good of friends his father had been with Otto Bagman. The callow youth had no breeding or instinct.

"I believe we went over this, Bletchley," Burke remarked, turning now to the financial section of the the paper. "Did I not tell you I am not to be disturbed in the lunch hour by anyone for any reason? And furthermore—" He flicked his wand at his date book, and it flipped open to the day. "—As I have no official appointments scheduled for the rest of the afternoon, it must follow that this man is not welcome."

Burke and Selwyn did not do walk-in legal consultations—that had been the first rule he had impressed upon his new clerk.

"Yes, sir—but…" Bletchley glanced back over his shoulder. "He's very insistent. He says you know him, and he won't leave until he speaks to you."

"Did he give a name?"

"No, sir—he refuses to."

Burke's mouth thinned. That told him all he needed to know.

"Tell him I won't see him without a name or prior proof of our acquaintance," he said, shortly. "If he won't give you either, throw him out."

Marching orders given, Burke listened to the timid steps of his green—and if this audience was proving anything, frankly useless—clerk, walking back towards the front parlor where visitors with appointments were never made to wait more than a minute.

Thirty seconds later, Bletchley had returned.

"I take it you were unsuccessful in ridding us of this wretch?" Burke asked, now a touch aggravated. "Don't tell me I'm going to have to do your job for you."

The clerk approached his employer with a tad more confidence.

"You won't have to, Mr. Burke. I've spoken to the gentleman, and he told me to tell you that—he would give his name, only he requires the utmost discretion, and he has known you to employ…tale-telling gossips in the past." Burke raised one eyebrow, and his employee continued, unembarrassed. "As to your prior acquaintance, he claims you have a long-standing history, and that he is sure you must remember the person who once set—set fire to your desk, sir."

Burke dropped the paper on his desk and sat up straight. All at once the solicitor seemed very interested.

"What does he look like?" he asked, voice sharp.

"Young, tall— dark-haired—"

"—Good-looking?" Burke supplied, helpfully. Bletchley grimaced and nodded. "How are his manners?"

"Oh, abysmal, sir."

Mr. Burke's clever eyes gleamed.

"Arrogant?"

"Extremely."

Burke steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair, expression shrewd and thoughtful—and most importantly, interested, which was rare to see. His clerk didn't know what to think—but his curiosity was piqued.

"Money?" the older wizard asked, after a short pause. "Does this young buck have any, would you say?"

"At first I didn't think so—he's dressed mighty shabby," Bletchley hesitated. "But—he's got a large sack of it on him, at least three hundred galleons. I wondered if he'd stolen it, only…well, a thief wouldn't wave it about, would he?"

Burke's eyes narrowed.

"Indeed not." He shifted in his chair. "Is that how you know about the gold? He was showing it off?"

The younger man stiffened.

"He threatened to throw it at my head if I didn't let him pass."

This prompt reply was said without a trace of irony, but Burke could tell this had wounded his employee. Bletchley was willing to put up with a great deal from Mr. Burke's clients, but this indignity was apparently too much for even him to bear without comment, and he looked quite put-out and harassed. A fleeting smile of understanding crossed Burke's face.

"Well—you had better do so, then," he said, cryptically. "Send him in directly."

"But, sir—"

"—As it happens, Bletchley, I do know our guest, and I have little doubt he would act upon that threat." Burke folded his hands in front of himself and gave his apprentice a canny look. "You'll forgive him his…impoliteness, I'm sure. He is not accustomed to being kept waiting."

Bletchley glanced back over his shoulder, then turned back around and asked, in a hushed tone.

"What is he accustomed to?"

"Being waited upon." To his apprentice's surprise, Mr. Burke picked up his newspaper and languidly resumed his perusal of the affairs of the day. "A word of advice. If you are going to make a success of yourself in this trade, you must resign yourself to being treated like an insect by a certain sort of wizard."

"What sort is that, sir?"

Burke hard stare had a satirical edge.

"The sort far above you," the solicitor smartly answered. "You'd best fetch him. He'll barge in here in a second if you don't."

His assistant, picking at one of the unfortunate pustules on his cheek—a nervous habit that made him seem even duller than he really was—bowed and hurried out of the room again. Burke went back to the paper, content to amuse himself with the employment advertisements for the brief amount of time it took his interesting visitor to climb up the stairs.

He did not have to wait long for the telltale, restless sound of footsteps.

"Where the hell did you pick up that idiot you've got guarding the door, Burke?" a loud and impertinent voice exclaimed from the direction of the doorway. "What happened to old Dawkins? Don't tell me he snuffed it at last!"

The solicitor showed no reaction to this childish and thoroughly impudent greeting.

"Mr. Dawkins, regrettably, was in declining health and of a delicate disposition, and he decided it was best to quit the legal profession—" He folded his paper and laid it neatly on the desk in front of him. "He retired and moved to Cypress last the autumn, where he is probably at this very moment enjoying the sun and—relative peace that island affords."

His young guest let out a derisive laugh.

"Sounds like quite a life," he observed, fumbling with the fastenings of his old-fashioned cloak. Mr. Burke watched him remove it, revealing the robes his apprentice had mistaken for shabby—but what a more practiced eye could tell, even across the dimly lit room, were finely cut, tailored and made of the best material gold could buy. "I have it in mind to join him."

If he had taken care to have his robes cleaned and ironed, the notorious runaway heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black could've been said to be dressed in a manner that quite befit his station.

But then again…'taking care' was not something Sirius Black was generally known for.

"Well…I must confess, Master Black, this is quite a surprise," Burke said, pulling a chair up for him with a wave of his wand. Sirius made no move to sit down, instead lingering by the door and staring at the older man with deep distrust and suspicion.

"The last time we spoke you said in no uncertain terms that you believed all connection between us was at an end. I had despaired of ever seeing you again."

The dark-haired wizard at the door bristled.

"No such luck, I'm afraid," Sirius said, shutting it behind him with a snap. "Sorry about the cloak-and-dagger routine, Burke. I was surprised not to see Dawkins, and I didn't know if I could trust the new door-keeper. Who is he?"

"A stripling of no account." The wizened old man waved a hand, airily. "I beg you forget him."

"I'm more concerned with him forgetting me."

Burke's eyes shone with interest, but his face remained languid.

"That can be arranged," he said casually. "Please, sit down."

His nostrils flared—Burke wondered, idly, if the young man realized how like his maternal grandmother he looked when he did that—and Sirius crossed to the chair and sat down across from him.

He watched the young man at his leisure. Mr. Burke observed, with faint amusement, how interesting it was to see the transformative power a difference in personality and temperament could have on the same features, similarly arranged. If you had put his father at twenty next to Sirius, you would scarce be able to tell them apart—but Burke found it difficult to imagine Orion Black ever looking at him with so much unfettered and undisguised dislike.

Even if he'd felt it, it would have disgraced him to let it show.

Sirius was examining a row of shrunken skulls on the desk—recent acquisitions from a disputed estate. He picked one up and waved it in Burke's direction.

"Former client of yours?" he asked, innocently.

Burke was so long used to the idiosyncrasies of the Black family that he scarcely blinked. Fifty years of service to the noble house had not been wasted on him—he had learned to keep his professional demeanor when faced with the most trying cases.

This boy was nothing to his mother.

"As much as I would enjoy verbally sparring with you, Master Sirius," Burke said, sanguinely. "I am a very busy man. I would be better if you cut to the chase, I think. This verbal wrangling is more in your father's line than yours."

At this comparison to his sire, Sirius's shoulders tensed, and he set his teeth and shot daggers in Burke's direction. The old lawyer was not effected in the slightest—having known his conversational partner since the midwife had presented him in the Drawing Room of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place on a cold November day twenty years ago, it was difficult for him to take the glower and bared teeth all that seriously.

"This is all strictly off the record, Burke," Sirius said, finally. "Nobody can know I was here. No one."

"That goes without saying," Burke said, and there was a bare suggestion of offense in his tone. "All consultations at the legal offices of Burke and Selwyn are done with an assumption of the utmost discretion—"

"Right, so—"

"—Provided there is also prompt payment."

Sirius stared down at the outstretched, open palm lying flat on the desk in front of him—then back up at the emaciated face of the serpentine lawyer. Burke said nothing, his hand didn't move—but Sirius knew, without having to ask, that he would continue to say nothing until that hand was filled—with gold.

The fork-tongued old bastard was expecting a bribe.

For about the eighth time in as many days Sirius cursed his stupidity. He should have anticipated this—of course Belgravius Burke would want to be paid for his silence, he was positively reptilian, no scruples or conscience at all.

He felt in his pockets—Orion's heavy bag of galleons dangled against his leg. Could he risk it—? Maybe his father had been bluffing and wouldn't actually check the amount he'd spent.

Or maybe he could get Burke to write him out a receipt for 'legal consultation.'

Sirius grimaced and let the gold clank back down. Coming here at all had probably been a mistake. He hadn't been thinking—seeing that girl again in Madam Malkin's, on top of the unpleasantness with his father—it had put him in a reckless and restless mood, and after visiting the fourth shop in a row that didn't carry a fox-fur muff he was fully convinced that there was nothing for it—he had to do something to put a stop to this. He was not going to let himself be dragged back into the family.

It was then he'd gotten the ill-advised idea of seeing the summit of wisdom when it came to Black family law—the family's solicitor of many years. If there was anyone who could help him get well and truly disinherited, it was this wizard…this wizard who he'd forgotten was a notorious skinflint and who supplemented his income with bribery and coercion.

Of course, now that he was here, he would have to pay him off.

Sirius dug in his pockets and pulled out a hand of change—everything on him that was his own, a handful of galleons, sickles, knuts and a ten pound note, and tipped them inelegantly in Burke's hand.

"How much of your time does that buy me?" he asked, lounging back in the chair.

Burke glanced down at the pile of pocked change in his hand. He pulled a hair-covered toffee off the ten pound note and looked up again.

"About three minutes," he answered, promptly.

Sirius slapped his hand on the table.

"Oh, come on—you're not going to squeeze me, are you?" he exclaimed, indignantly. "I thought you were in the business of providing legal advice to the Blacks. Doesn't Arcturus keep you on retainer?"

Belgravius rubbed his chin thoughtfully and blinked twice very slowly. He really was like a lizard.

"As a courtesy to all family members in good standing, he does—" Burke rejoined, dryly. "But I was under the impression you had washed your hands of the Blacks."

He gave Mr. Burke—still watching him across the table—a hard look. Was the old man playing ignorant? Maybe he thought Sirius really didn't know. Though, honestly—why the hell else would he be here? There had never been an inordinate amount of fondness between them. Orion had brought him here often as a child, in a half-hearted attempt to get him to take an interest in the slog that was 'family affairs', and Sirius had always done everything in his power to get them out of here as quickly as possible.

The pinnacle of his attempts at escape had been when, at age eight, he had set fire to the desk.

"Well—apparently they haven't washed their hands of me," Sirius pointed out, sitting up straighter. "You can stop acting coy, Burke. If there had been a change in Orion's will, I know he would have brought it to you first. As there hasn't been, you're well aware I'm still my father's heir and in the line of Black succession, running away be damned."

Burke did not pretend to be surprised by this. Sirius hadn't expected him to—still, it would've been nice to have been speaking to a man whose face wasn't masked. At least he was capable of pissing off his parents—this man was a human glacier.

"That is all perfectly true."

"What I want to know is—" He scowled and leaned forward. "—Why the hell didn't you think to tell me?"

"Had you inquired into this matter directly, I naturally would have answered," Mr. Burke said, unapologetically. "Any assumptions you made about your father's actions were your own affair."

"You could have mentioned it when Alphard died, and you were handling that. You knew I would be interested—and you took a generous enough cut of my inheritance with all your 'legal fees'—"

The elderly gentleman shook his head, gravely. A grossly simplistic read on the situation, of course—another misapprehension he felt duty-bound to correct.

"I took no less than anyone else would have done, given—the challenges that bequest presented."

"By 'challenges'," he shot back, tartly. "I assume you're referring to the fact that it was a contested will, yet another thing that slipped your mind."

Burke pursed his lips. He busied himself with meticulously repositioning the skull on his desk, but Sirius would not be deterred from the point.

"I suppose all the extra hours of billed work is how you justified ripping off a seventeen-year-old runaway," Sirius said, scathingly. "Let me guess—my mother was the one who tried to fight me inheriting Alphard's money."

At last Sirius had succeeded in disquieting the older man.

"She asked me to look into grounds on which the will might be contested, yes," Burke answered, evenly. "Her brother's illness had been sudden, and she felt sure that given the nature of your…departure from the family, cutting you out had surely been Alphard's intention, and she could contest it on grounds of negligence." He looked grave. "I had the unfortunate duty to inform her that he had updated since that incident, and had in fact increased your portion of the bequest—making it a larger share than either of his nieces or your brother."

"How did she take that news?"

"Your mother's feelings are not my business to report," he said, coldly. "You would have to ask her yourself."

Sirius's smile turned grim. There was an angle here—perhaps he could take a leaf out of his father's book and work it. He cleared his throat.

"You know Burke—perhaps I will ask her. I think she'd be interested to know you were taking my money as well as hers, during this scuffle between us….playing both sides against the middle. Do you normally collect double fees in intra-family disputes?"

At last, he had him. A suggestion of financial impropriety—that wouldn't do at all. Burke tapped his wand against his desk, thoughtfully. If Sirius had not known better, he'd have thought the veiled threat he'd laid at Burke's feet had impressed him.

"You said you came here for legal advice," he finally said, in a brisk voice. "I think I can provide you that, pro-bono—as a one-time courtesy." He narrowed his eyes. "And then you can be on your way. We are both busy men, after all—no need for you to…linger."

Sirius marveled at himself—had that actually worked?

Burke steepled his fingers and smiled, coldly.

"What is it that brings you to my office today, Sirius?"

The man was all attention, now. Burke smiled in that polite, business-like, slightly unctuous style that he always used when waiting upon Orion or Arcturus. It made Sirius a little uneasy, to be treated like his father and grandfather—he'd have preferred the condescending 'Master Black' routine, or to be dismissed out of hand—but if he could get out of here with the answer he needed…

"Simple. I want to formally renounce all claims to the Black fortune and name." Both of the older man's eyebrows rose up into his receding hairline. "You're an expert. How do I go about doing that?"

"You don't."

He blinked.

"What do you mean, 'I don't'?" Sirius repeated, lip curled. "There—has to be a way!"

Burke seemed to be rather enjoying himself.

"There isn't. There is no formal means of renouncing the title of 'heir' in your family. Tradition gives every eldest male in the direct line of succession the prerogative of naming his successor—from among his sons. By default, of course, the heir is always the eldest—" He nodded deferentially to his young companion, who only glared back. "—But a Black with more than one son could theoretically name the younger his successor over the elder. It's entirely his decision, though." Burke's grin became quite toothy. "Blacks never have taken much stock in the wishes and desires of the young."

"Don't I know it!" Sirius grumbled, tapping his finger against the desk. "Why is this all so damn complicated?"

"A protective measure. It's the entail. Everything is tied up with the entail," Burke said, briskly pulling a large book of family law—identical to the one that Orion had given him a week earlier. "It guarantees the estate can never be broken up—and that someone will be designated as its caretaker. Under the current terms you are set to inherit the bulk of the holdings—Grimmauld Place, Noire House, all heirlooms in both those houses, the gold—"

"—And the title of head of the family?"

"Upon the death of your grandfather and father…yes, you would be head, with all the duties and privileges that noble position of rank would suggest."

"Which are?" he asked, impatiently. He knew the answer, but like any masochist, needed to hear it.

Burke raised a hand and began ticking them off, one-by-one.

"Final say on every financial decision. Each Black has a monthly allowance they draw from—you would control the allotments. Who gets to live in which house, any purchases over a certain amount—" Belgravius had opened the book to the correct page, though he didn't seem to need to read it. "—Marriage agreements with other families would require your final approval, as well as dowry settlements for the girls. And of course, less formally—there is a tendency among your clan to defer to the head's judgment. A general assumption of deference and respect."

Sirius snorted. He had a hard time imagining his granny deferring to him on anything, or his uncle pounding on the flat door asking for advice about what Quidditch team he should throw money in with.

"Say I do inherit—what's to stop me from just…giving it all to my brother?" Sirius asked, curious, in spite of himself. "All the rights and responsibilities. Why couldn't I just make him head in my place?"

"Regulus could act as your proxy—perform the duties and responsibilities in your stead—but it wouldn't actually make him head of the family. The enchantments are binding—every decision would be made on your behalf, and require your approval."

"Which would be, in effect—"

"—Your signature and seal on every single document."

He let out a string of profanities. Burke remained unmoved, eyes fixed on the young man with undisguised interest.

"What if I don't sign anything? If I refuse to have anything to do with it, cut off all contact—?"

"No bills or rent could be paid, no allowances given—all workings of the family would creak to a grinding halt." Sirius goggled at him. "It is a remarkable amount of power to be held by one wizard. Neglect of duty in this case would be…catastrophic. The collapse of a noble magical dynasty." He took pleasure in having flabbergasted the young man. "You could turn your own mother out on the street, if you wished."

Sirius leaned back in his chair again. He was torn between anger and great confusion. He couldn't believe—how the hell had his father let this go on for so long?

"Is that how it works now—the proxy thing?" Sirius asked, after a long moment of hard thinking. "My father does all the leg work, but my grandfather still has to sign on the dotted line?"

"Practically speaking—yes, Orion manages the day-to-day, and brings the documents to his father for approval. He is acting head—your grandfather relies on him, and has for many years."

"So Arcturus must know," he muttered, half to himself. "About me still being the heir. He would have had to approve the change in succession, if it had been made."

"Not necessarily. Your father's will is, as I said, his own business. Your grandfather tends to give him a lot of leeway in this sort of thing—he could request to see the will at any time, but as to whether he has taking advantage of that privilege…" Burke smiled. "…I could not say. The family does guard some secrets, even from me."

The young Black heir sat there, stunned and reeling, for upwards of a minute.

"Was that all?"

Sirius's eyes turned flinty, and he stood up. It was obvious to Burke that he wanted nothing more than to leave as suddenly as he had arrived.

"Yeah, it was. I appreciate your erm, candor." He stuck his hands in his pockets. "You are the final word on this, aren't you, Burke?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that…" The old lawyer trailed off with a delicate shrug. "Your grandfather Arcturus is an expert on family law, his knowledge might even surpass mine. If you're looking for a second opinion, I would recommend you go to him."

Sirius's smile became even thinner. There was not the slightest chance that he would ever willingly go to that man for help.

"Let's be straight with one another. I don't tell my mother you helped me wriggle out of her grasp, and you forget this conversation ever took place. That's a fair exchange, isn't it?"

Burke did not reply. Sirius waved a wand at the pile of his pocket change on the desk.

"I'll even let you keep that, as a token of my esteem." Sirius gave him a mocking bow. "I wish I could do you better, but…well, you of all people should know I'm hard-up for gold at the moment."

There was a loud clanking of gold when Sirius had bowed. Burke privately noted it, but didn't remark.

"Anything else?" he asked, calmly. Sirius stared at him—and then something like remembrance flitted across his face.

"There is one other thing," he said, curtly. "It concerns both our families. Your cousin Harriet has an opal necklace she inherited from her mother Belvina, who inherited it from her great-aunt Elladora Black. You know the one?"

Burke blinked and gave the younger man a look of effacing curiosity.

"I do." He tilted his chin back. "It is a one-of-a-kind piece, impossible to mistake."

"Does she have any documentation on its origin or provenance?"

"I couldn't tell you off the top of my head. It's possible." Burke's eyes narrowed. "Even likely. Why do you ask?"

"There's a concerned party interested in it. How much would it cost me to have you look into the matter?"

"More than you could afford."

Sirius sneered—icing on the cake.

"I had a feeling you'd say that." He glared at Burke, sizing him up. The man was staring at him with complete impassivity, waiting for an offer to be made—a haggling look if ever there was one. Sirius snorted. "Look, I don't have it now, precisely—but would you take an IOU?"

The elderly solicitor's stare was implacable.

"I'm good for it, Burke—" His face colored in irritation. "I'll pay you what you want—Merlin, I'll even let you charge me interest!"

Mr. Burke tilted his head, considering his young charge for a moment—and he nodded. The Blacks were known for many unsavory qualities—but filching on their debts was not one of them, and Sirius was, in spite of his brash exterior, a Black through and through.

The lad wanted discretion above all else—and discretion was a costly business, as he well knew.

"I'll have my clerk dig up the papers for you and send them over." The elderly man returned to the papers on his desk, and added, almost as an afterthought. "With a bill, of course."

Burke couldn't resist looking up to smile. Unamused, Sirius stomped across the room and wrenched open the door. He turned and looked at the elderly wizard with so much scorn that he would have done even his grandfather proud.

"Have a good Christmas, Burke. Enjoy counting your piles of ill-gotten gold, and take comfort in my solemn promise to never visit you here again."

"The finest gift Master Black could give me," he replied, sincerely.

Sirius scowled and left without another word, slamming the door behind him.

Burke stared at the door for the better part of a minute, all thought of the paper and his half-eaten lunch forgotten.

"Argo!" he called, suddenly. "Come here."

There was a loud CRACK, and a house-elf with a pointed nose appeared at Burke's feet. He considered the creature staring up at him in expectation. He did not bother to ask if Argo had been listening at the door—he was always listening at the door.

It was his business to know his master's business—and be ready to act on that knowledge discreetly.

"Master called?" the elf asked, turning its pointed face up to the elderly man. He was still looking at the door. Burke blinked and turned, slowly.

"The boy who was just in here—did you mark him?" The elf nodded. "You know what to do, then."

The elf bowed so low his pointed snout touched the floor, and with another loud CRACK, vanished.

Burke leaned back in his chair and considered the crack in the ceiling, circumspectly. He drummed his fingers against the desk, expression thoughtful.

The old solicitor looked down at the paltry pile of pocket change that had been offered him for his silence, still lying on the desk. Lip curling, Burke picked up the colorful note bearing the face of the queen and examined it with idle curiosity.

There was the sound of light steps on the stairs and a knock.

"Come in, Bletchley."

The young man, looking relieved that the other had left, came in and shut the door.

Burke held up the bill.

"Have you ever seen one of these?" he asked, mildly. "Do you know what it is?"

The question confused the younger man.

"Of course sir—it's a ten-pound note."

The elderly man gave his apprentice a scorching look.

"Never admit you know that in mixed company." Burke dropped the note back on the table. "Can you imagine how it ended up here?"

"No, sir." Burke gestured to the pile of coins, atopped with the Muggle currency. "What is that?"

"This, my young friend—was I believe an attempt to buy my silence." Burke smirked. "Rather cheaply, I must say. But the young man is, as he admits himself, 'hard-up.'"

"He tried to bribe you?"

"Oh, yes."

"But—but sir—he had three hundred galleons on him, at least. Why would he waste time giving you sickles and Muggle cash—"

Burke sighed and rubbed his temples. He truly was slow.

"Because the gold in question was not his to give, Bletchley. It was his father's money." Bletchley looked thunderstruck. "I took that gold out of the family's vault myself, just yesterday. No doubt if young Master Black had been thinking more clearly, it would have occurred to him that his father wanted him to be discreet when carrying out whatever errand he has him on."

His clerk looked utterly bewildered.

"His father, sir?" he asked, confused. "Who is his father?"

"A wizard of some distinction," Burke answered, voice smooth as silk. "No doubt he would be displeased to hear that his son dropped by. I think that was the main reason for this—" Burke picked up a knut and dropped it into the pile, laughing coldly. "—Much good it will do him."

"I don't understand, Mr. Burke."

"I didn't expect you to." Burke stood up, briskly. "I scarce understand it myself. This is a situation of some…delicacy. It requires finesse. We will monitor it very closely—if I think you can learn something from it, I will keep you apprised. For now—" He cleared his throat. "It would be better for you to contrive to forget it.

The finality of his tone indicated that this lesson in the fine art of the legal profession was at an end. Burke's clerk bowed and left his employer alone again.

It appeared the quiet Christmas he had been anticipating was not to be. No matter. He liked to keep busy, even over the holidays. This would liven things up.

Sirius had been quite right in his assumption that Arcturus Black kept him on retainer for the family's legal needs. Of course, what had not occurred to the young scion—and this was to prove a rather large mistake—was that with this retainer came an implicit expectation that any suspicious behavior of anyone in Arcturus's family was to be reported to the patriarch immediately.

His grandfather would be very interested in what had been spoken of this morning. Very interested indeed.

Burke picked up the shrunken skull on the desk and smiled at it.

A Christmas bonus would be quite welcome.

---

It has to be around here somewhere.

Colette pulled out the gold ladies' watch Grand-mère had given her for her birthday by its filigree chain and looked at its face—she let out a low moan. She was lost, and in ten minutes she would be late as well, which according to her mother meant she already was. Why had she not written down the stupid address or name of the restaurant where they were meeting? It slipped straight out of her head the second Eugenie and she parted ways—as all boring but practical information invariably did.

The witch hurried down the wet street, heavy bag of dress robes slung over one arm, books over the other and peered into each and every window she passed. The parasol she had charmed to float over her head could barely keep up. Panic was setting in—not a single one resembled a restaurant of the caliber she would expect Narcissa and her aunt to frequent.

Most of the shops' windows were so filthy she could barely picture those ladies entering the establishments, let alone eating in them.

Standing them up would be disastrous for her. If she insulted Mrs. Black, a grande dame of English wizarding society, every door would be closed to her.

Worst of all: her mother would be livid.

Colette's slippers were hardly winter shoes, and she slipped and skidded on the wet pavement, nearly falling on the ground. The girl stopped to recover her balance—and it was then Colette saw a gap in between two shops she had not noticed in her first pass of this section of Diagon Alley.

She squinted through the mist and read the sign above the entrance with peeling letters—'Knockturn Alley'—

Maybe the restaurant was down there.

Nobody had said anything about the place being off the main high street—but perhaps Narcissa had assumed she already knew, and that it would insult her to have such a paltry detail pointed out. She pulled out her wand and flicked it at the umbrella, which closed with a snap. Colette peered down the dingy alley—one half of a sign for a shop was visible, the name "Borgin" and something she couldn't quite make out. The witch had a vague feeling of trepidation about this place, but in the absence of time and another plan—well, it was worth exploring, anyway.

Her old curiosity had also gotten the better of her. The name had a ring of danger to it.

She ducked under the low cobbled entrance to Knockturn Alley, gripped her shopping bags tightly. Afraid she would lose her nerve, she started to run. Colette hurtled down the narrow side-street, around the tight corner—

—Colliding headlong into a man.

A jumble of wrapped packages and bags—his and hers—flew out of their arms and tumbled to the ground. The paper sack full of Colette's books split open and they fanned out on the pavement, the box of her new dress robes popped open into a puddle.

The man let out a string of curses and bent down to collect his belongings, still swearing like a sailor. His arms had been completely full—a large book bag, dozens of wrapped packages now scattered to the ground.

"Oh, mon dieu—I'm so sorry, sir!" She kneeled, all thought of keeping her cloak clean forgotten. "It is all my fault, I am lost and I was not looking where I—"

She looked up, caught sight of his face, and the words died in her throat.

It was the the man from Madam Malkin's—the handsome, impudent one. His arrogant face was already twisted in displeasure, when he recognized her, his expression became outright hostile.

"Oh, it's you again!" he sneered, gray eyes flashing with malice. "—Well, that figures."

She felt her cheeks grow hot. The haughty look he was giving her somehow made him, inexplicably, more handsome.

"I said that I was sorry, sir," she answered him, cooly. "I will help you pick up your possessions."

Colette managed to infuse the honorific with just the right amount of sarcasm to make her meaning clear without being ill-bred. The stranger had no such qualms. He let out an undignified snort.

"I don't want your help," he shot back, with unexpected vehemence. "You've done enough damage as it is."

Colette felt a surge of indignation—what nerve! It was an accident—she had done nothing at all to him, who did he think he was?

Against his wishes, Colette stubbornly continued to pick up the scattered wrapped presents that had fallen out of his bag.

"I told you to stop that—" he snapped, noticing her gathering up his items as well as hers. "I can do it fine myself."

"I will assist you, as I was the one who—"

Her own words died with a gasp of shock.

They had both spotted it at the same moment. There, amidst the Christmas gifts and books and coins, lying in plain sight on the street was the one object that could succinctly explain his animosity towards her—it explained everything.

A silver hip flask, glinting innocently in a puddle on the pavement.

Colette's hand shot out and snatched it up. The top was bent, but she would have known this object anywhere. Her blue eyes widened, and she raised them slowly to his face—there she found exactly what she expected mingled horror, anger—and understanding.

"You really like that thing, don't you?"

The imposter gathered up the rest of his packages and shoved them back in the bag that must've been charmed to fit them. He hauled himself to his feet, still eying her "That's the second time you've gotten it off me in half a day, Ms. Battancourt. What light fingers you have."

Colette slowly rose to her feet.

"I…I…you…" she sputtered, feeling herself totally inadequate to the situation. She was amazed. "Mr. Svensson!"

He bowed, mockingly.

"Yah. In the flesh." His lip curled, if they weren't full of Christmas packages she was sure he would have shoved his hands in his pockets. As it was, he could only glower at her through the boxes and bags on his person. "I'll spare you the accent—as I know you think it's rubbish."

She didn't laugh, was too busy gaping up at him, studying his face—he was still glaring at her heatedly—and trying to reconcile the blonde Nordic man of thirty she'd spoken to last night with the striking, dark-haired Englishman before her now. She had thought he was younger than his years—but not this much younger. The fact that the stranger from the shop was the imposter did help explain the odd feeling of his features being familiar to her.

They had met, after all.

The imposter Svensson finished cleaning the mud off of his purchases—and to her surprise, stepped deftly around Colette without another word.

"Where—where do you think you are you going?" she asked, astounded, as he pushed past her and into the narrow passage she'd just come from.

"Away from you!" he called over his shoulder, briskly. "You can keep that. Think of it as a souvenir from England."

She glanced down at the flask still in her hand, then up again. He was already walking away.

"I do not want to keep—" He ignored her and walked down the passageway. Colette snatched her purchases up from the ground and, face fixed in a mulish look of determination, followed him. "Wait!"

She was far slighter and less encumbered by shopping, so it was easy for quick-witted Colette to dart under his outstretched arm and block his way out to the main street.

"Get out of the way!" he demanded, curtly. She shook her head. "Come off it—clear out!"

The imposter waved his Christmas packages about, but it had less of an effect of intimidating the smaller French girl than his wand probably would have.

Colette ignored this vulgarism, and smiling somewhat ruefully, she held the silver object up to his face. Surprised, the young man's eyes widened.

"Here," she gently pressed it into his hand. "This belongs to you, I think. I wish to return it—I always intended to."

The young man stared down at the object in his hand, then back up at her. He looked so disarmed, Colette had to stifle a laugh. He noticed it and furrowed his brow, surly and cross. It made him look like a little boy who had been caught red-handed in the biscuit jar, and she could no longer hide her laughter.

"Enjoying yourself, I see. Like last night—you couldn't resist, could you?" He clenched his fist around the flask. "You had to stick your nose in. Do you make it a habit to ruin peoples' evenings on the reg, or am I special case?"

"You were the one who was sneaking about in disguise!" she returned, archly, and when she looked down at her cloak she noticed the dirt on it and hastily began to rub at it with her hand. He shook his head and snorted. "You cannot blame me if you got caught. I know nothing of such things—"

"—Oh, spare me your goody-good, naive schoolgirl act!" he interrupted her, furiously. "I don't buy it for it a second. You suspected what this was from the start." He dropped his bags and packages back on the ground with a clunk and waved the flask in front of her face. "And not only did you pickpocket it from me like a seasoned pro, you then turned around and gave it to the one person I told you I was trying to avoid."

His dramatic pronouncement of her crimes was followed by a loud huff. Colette stiffened.

"I didn't want to!" she exclaimed, defensively. "It happened so fast. He—came up and started to ask me questions about you, and before I knew it, he had taken it from me."

"You shouldn't have had it in the first place—"

Her temper stirred.

"Perhaps you should have paid more attention to your pockets instead of my—my…" She trailed off, cheeks pink. Anger blunted, the man's mouth quirked up. No doubt he was remembering their fateful goodbye and the kiss he'd stolen—but the imposter didn't allude to it or tease her.

Her own expression softened.

"…I really did not mean for Monsieur Black to take it from me," she said, quietly. "I swear."

The young man glared at her for another moment—and then the anger drained from him, and he sighed.

"I know," he said, voice rueful. "He told me." His silver eyes glimmered with a smidgen of amusement. "He said he had to—practically wrest this from your hand. So I guess you defended me against the invading army. I suppose you're expecting a 'thank-you'—well, I'll have you know I only thank witches who successfully help me keep my cover." He added, in a flat voice. "And who don't steal my means of disguise out from under me."

Colette's own mouth twitched. She smoothed her skirts, a defensive gesture she had learned from her grandmother. It had the dual purpose of looking dignified and buying a witch time to think of a response to an impudent comment.

Her eyes flicked to the flask he still held up—evidence exhibit one of her crimes.

"I only took that because I…wanted you to come back and speak to me some more." And he had never told her who he was or the real reason he was there, which had been the reason she had approached him in the first place. Now that the shock had worn off, the anxiety in her chest at his fate had gone away, and Colette was curious about the rest. "I never saw you leave the ballroom. How did you get away?"

He deliberated answering her question for a bit. Colette could tell he was debating how much to give her—he had a very open and artless manner about him, quite different from most of her acquaintance.

"Oh—that was thanks to Monsieur Black." He rolled his eyes. "After he caught me he…smuggled me out, real quiet like."

She had suspected something of the sort, when Orion Black had come to her at the very end of the party, insisting she hold her tongue. But it begged the question—

"But—why would he do that?"

His expression became unaccountably bitter.

"He wanted to hush it up," the imposter admitted, staring into the middle distance. "It would have embarrassed him immensely if I'd been exposed in front of all his family."

"Why?"

"Because I'm—" He jerked his head and ran a hand distractedly through his hair. "Oh, forget it. Never mind." He looked very young, and too tired to stay angry. His shoulders slumped, and he leaned against the wall in a rather roguish fashion. "Please don't frown like that at me—it stirs my conscience. Rest easy, Mademoiselle Battancourt. I know it wasn't your fault. Someone had already tipped him off, he would've caught me one way or another." He laughed without humor. "It could have been a lot worse."

"You really don't blame me?" Colette chewed her bottom lip. "Truly?"

She was not sure why she cared so much—perhaps it was because she had so rarely garnered the ire of anyone, the idea of being disliked by a stranger for having wronged him was unsupportable. She was determined not to let him go until she was sure of that—and a few other things.

He stared at her thoughtfully for a long time.

"No—I don't blame you."

The imposter's voice was sincere, and when he stared into her eyes—it was a direct gaze, very intent. The French witch was suddenly aware of how close they were standing. Colette felt her cheeks burn. She had little experience with men taking any genuine interest in her, and now that she knew what he really looked like…well, it made it a little more disconcerting to be scrutinized so. It flustered her—she wasn't sure if she liked it. Her mother's advice about avoiding handsome men came back to her—it seemed quite sensible, in the presence of one.

He blinked and broke eye contact, then moved his head from side to side, examining their odd surroundings.

"Well, Ms. Battancourt—I didn't expect us to meet again, so soon, given how we parted. And in another strange place—" He remarked on the grimy walls of the stone passage where they stood. "Fate is a funny thing."

It was. Right now it was giving her a second chance.

"I'm sorry about the cold shoulder in the shop. I was—surprised to see you." His mouth thinned—now he was laughing at himself more than her. "I thought you were staying with your great-aunt. How did you end up here—sans chaperone?"

"I was shopping with her. We parted ways a little while ago." She gestured to the bags. Half a sleeve of the pink dress gown was still hanging out of the box. "I…am meeting a friend for luncheon and I—got lost."

"Very lost." He jabbed a thumb behind him. "There are no restaurants that way, believe me. You were heading into Knockturn Alley. You know what's down there, right?" She shook her head. "A bunch of dodgy shops dedicated to dark magic. And sinister characters."

Her eyes widened and she peered around his shoulder again, craning her neck for a better look. A thought suddenly occurred to her.

"Like you, you mean?" Colette asked, pointedly. He grinned. "What were you doing there?"

"Christmas shopping," he answered her, promptly. "You seemed like you were in a hurry just now. You practically ran me over. How late are you?"

She went rigid—the time!

"Very!" She pulled out the watch—it was already five past. "I lost my way."

"Maybe I can help you find it again," he said, amused. "I know every shop on this street. Where's this lunch of yours?"

"I don't remember the address—it's some sort of club, I think."

His eyebrows flew up.

"A club?" he repeated, then his brow furrowed. "You're not having lunch at the Jarvey Club?"

His disgusted tone of voice told her all she needed to know about his opinion on that establishment.

"Yes—that is the name!" she smiled. "Do you know it?"

The man tossed his dark head and let out an derisive snort.

"Of course. Number Twenty-Eight, Diagon Alley. They put it there on purpose, to send a message about who is allowed in." He narrowed his eyes and gave her a distinctly superior look. "Well, well—you're lunching at 'the club'. Very posh. Only members of a certain social set and their guests are allowed to dine there."

Colette frowned. The stranger's sarcasm was unmistakeable. He tilted his head, suspicion dawning on his face.

"Which friend is this, anyway?" the man asked, voice shrewd. "Who exactly are you meeting?"

She hesitated.

"It's…Mrs. Malfoy…and also…" His eyes widened and then flashed with displeasure, and she plunged on, her voice infinitesimal. "…Her aunt, Mrs. Black."

At that addition, the imposter's face drained of all color.

"You're joking!" he said, flatly. "After all my warnings, you're having lunch with them? You know, I told you to stay away from that family for a reason."

The heat and color in Colette's face rose—both at the insult to her friend and her judgement.

"Narcissa and I had already made plans to spend the week together," she replied, a trifle cooly. "I do not break my engagements because of idle gossip from strangers."

His dismay was so dramatic that she might have told him someone died.

"You really do like to tempt fate!" he said, shaking his head in despair. "How did the aunt get roped into this luncheon date, pray tell?"

"Mrs. Black is a very respectable lady—"

"—She's a poisonous adder, and lunch with her is as good as stepping on her."

This could not help but ruffle Colette's feathers, and she hoped her tart reply showed him how beneath her notice she thought his remarks about her new friend's aunt were.

"Narcissa is coming to stay with them in London, today, and she is hoping Mrs. Black will give permission for me—join her, as her particular friend."

A flash of surprise came over his face—quickly followed by disquiet.

"Narcissa's staying at Grimmauld Place until Christmas?" he asked, agog. "That's what this lunch is about—you're trying to scrounge an invitation to stay at their house as well."

Seeing no reason to lie, she nodded. Her companion clicked his tongue and gave her a look of knowing pity she found frankly, obnoxious—he was so high-handed!

"Hm. Well, better you than me. I wish you luck with that. Don't say I didn't warn you about them," she said, scornfully. "Anyway, you're not far. The restaurant is the beige building right across from Gringotts. Dining room is on the top floor. You'll have to say who you're meeting, they check at the door." He smiled, grimly. "I would escort you to your destination, but you don't want to be caught in my company by either of those august ladies."

He held out his hand in the direction of the main street—no doubt his idea of a dismissal.

Colette remain rooted to the spot.

"Well—?" he asked, impatiently. "I thought you were late. Shouldn't you be hurrying along to see your beloved Narcissa and her barracuda of an auntie? You seemed eager enough to be on your way a minute ago."

Most people didn't think Colette took much after her mother—but when she stubbornly set her jaw, as she was doing now, the resemblance was uncanny.

"Not so fast." She said, eyes fixed firmly on his. She raised both hands to block him from passing. "I will go when you tell me your name. That is, after all, what I set out to find in the first place—and you got away last night without telling me."

To Colette's surprise, he actually laughed.

"You must be joking!" He gave her a head-to-toe once over, rascally grin back on his face. "You mean you haven't figured it out, yet?"

"Figured what out?"

"Who I—" He stopped himself. A fresh wave of understanding passed over his handsome features, and he smiled and clasped his hands—not mockingly, but with genuine delight. "…You really don't know."

Colette dropped her arms, bewildered at the stranger's behavior. How was she supposed to know? She had only been in this country for a few days, and she had never set eyes on him before today.

"Of course not—that is understandable, n'est-ce pas?" He beamed at her. "Why do you find this so amusing?"

"Nothing, it's just…comforting to me that you don't recognize my face, mademoiselle." He doffed an invisible hat at her. "Unfortunately for you, it makes me less inclined to tell you. For me, anonymity is a luxury, and I'm not willing to give it up at this juncture."

"I could still tell Narcissa about you sneaking about her house—and she might inform her husband or father-in-law."

The amused smile dropped off his face.

"Are you threatening me, Ms. Battancourt?" he asked, voice silky. Inside she was shaking like a leaf, but Colette took great care not to let it show.

"I am merely telling you the facts," she said, in a braver tone of voice than she felt. His smile became unusually grim.

"When it comes to satisfying your idle curiosity, you really are a determined lass. You ought to be careful about that—it can be a dangerous quality in…certain circumstances." He appraised her again. "I think you're bluffing, personally—and anyway, you still don't know who I am, so I fail to see what you think you have on me."

"If I described to Narcissa the man that was impersonating Mr. Svensson last evening in her husband's home, I think she would know exactly who he was," Colette said, steel in her voice. "And I think she would inform Monsieur Malfoy—and you would not like that very much."

The man went very still. Inwardly, she smiled—she had guessed right. He did not want that at all.

"How would you describe me to Mrs. Malfoy?" he asked, ghost of a smirk on his. "I'd love to hear what you think of me."

Her face colored again.

"I would say—he was a tall, dark-haired man with gray eyes, nineteen or twenty, who is very cocksure and thinks highly of himself…and who claimed he knew the family well and wanted her not to know he was there," she rattled off, smartly. "I think that is enough for Mrs. Malfoy to go on. I have a feeling that, whoever you are, you have a reputation for brazenness."

His mouth thinned. The young man stared into her eyes—Colette had the unfamiliar but unmistakable sensation of being sized up, and she blushed slightly, but didn't break the gaze. He was the first to blink—and then, to her astonishment, he let out a barking laugh.

"You drive a hard bargain, but I see you can't be deterred—you win, Ms. Battancourt. I will tell you who I am—" He lowered his voice. "—But it can't be here. The walls have ears. You'll have to meet me later."

"Where?"

"On the Charring Cross side of the Leaky Cauldron tonight, at eleven," he said, smoothly—the answer was so immediate that she blinked. "I'll take you some place where there's no chance of us being tailed."

"You want me to meet you at eleven a'clock…at night?" Colette goggled at him in wonder—was he insane—or, more likely, did he think she was? "Am I supposed to sneak out of the Blacks' home, when I am their guest?"

He had evidently been expecting her objections, for he already had an answer to them, as well.

"The basement fireplace is connected to the Floo network. If you make it down there, you should be able to floo to the Leaky Cauldron. There's an old servants' staircase that goes from the top floor directly in the kitchen—that should do the trick." She looked terror-stricken at the prospect. He tossed his head and shrugged, voice cool. "I thought you were brave and resourceful—not to mention clever. Or was last night a fluke?"

She gave him a feeble glare. This taunt was obviously calculated to provoke the young witch, and though she could see he was probably drawing her out in some fashion, he had correctly gauged that her interest was too aroused to refuse such a challenge.

"You will…really meet me?" She hesitated. "You are not—lying to me? You will not stand me up?"

He grinned, ruefully.

"If I did, what's to stop you from tattling to Cissy?" The imposter Nord pointed out, in reasonable tones. "I'll even shake on it with you—provided you agree to something in turn."

Colette scrunched up her nose, instantly suspicious for this request—for she felt it, combined with his boyishly impudent smirk, evinced some mischief on his part.

"What is it you want?" she asked, slowly. His expression turned serious at once—she was surprised to find how much older he seemed when he looked that way. It was a face he hadn't quite grown into, yet.

"A guarantee—if for whatever reason you don't make our appointment tonight, you'll give up playing detective and let the matter go, once and for all. I think that's fair, don't you?" he asked, pushing up from the wall. "You can tell the folks back home you had a bit of excitement—but leave it be when it comes to everyone here."

He was getting more and more interesting by the minute, curse him. This was a stupid idea, but something about that challenging look in his eyes—

It got her back up.

"What do you say, Ms. Battancourt—" The stranger, still looking at her with that keen and penetrating interest that so disarmed Colette, stuck out his arm in her direction. "Do we have a deal?"

She looked down at his preferred hand, then back up in his face. Everything about this was so foolish, so out of her usual mode—Colette felt like she'd stepped out of her own life and into a novel.

The young witch found herself quite overcome with an unladylike desire to follow that sensation where it lead.

"Oui. We have a deal."

She took the hand and shook it. He had a firm grip and in that moment, Colette had the strangest feeling—that she had—perhaps unwittingly, though she felt as though she was in full control of her senses, so she could not see how it was so—agreed to far more than just meeting him clandestinely.

It was as though she had become this wizard's accomplice.

---

Three times the waiter had come by to see if they wanted wine while they waited—three times. After this last pass, Cissy glared at the back of his retreating head, quite ready to hex him.

"I'm sure she'll be here soon, Aunt," Narcissa Malfoy soothed, in a far kinder voice than the one she'd employed to dismiss the impertinent man waiting on them (the standards here had gone downhill—Mama would be so upset when she heard). Her aunt narrowed her eyes over the top of her menu, and she added, pointlessly, "No doubt with a very good explanation for her delay."

"I would hope so," Walburga murmured, without much feeling. "We were lead to believe she had manners."

"She does, aunt. It's a very good family—one of the best in France."

Her aunt made an indistinct humming noise and returning to staring at her menu, completely uninterested. Safely hidden behind her own menu, Narcissa rolled her eyes. Colette was very lucky that Walburga was distracted and tired out from the party the night before. She had a famously waspish tongue—the suggestion that Cissy's friend might not have good manners was getting off easy.

Still, she couldn't help but be a little miffed at Colette. Narcissa had taken special interest in the girl—showing up late to their luncheon date and leaving her to make excuses to her strict aunt seemed a poor way of repaying her.

Walburga was in such a taciturn mood that until her friend arrived, Mrs. Malfoy had no one to talk to.

Bored, she let her gaze wander around the room. Narcissa had been coming to the Jarvey Club since she was a very small girl—it had not changed a jot in twenty years. The six-foot tall crystal statue of the weasel-like creature the establishment was name for still stood in the center of the dining room, leering out at the patrons. Cissy had always thought it had a slightly sinister look about it—she wanted to know why they couldn't eat at the Unicorn Club or the Kitten Club, had been informed by her father that such restaurants did not exist, and that little girls ought to be seen and not heard.

The Jarvey had been named so, according to local legend, because the creature in question was known best for repeating what it heard—and the founder of the establishment had hoped that it would become the centerpiece of all news and gossip in the respectable magical community. For a time it had been, no doubt. But its glory days had long since passed, and everything about the place—from the faded ochre sofa cushions in the lobby to the purple damask curtains in the windows—spoke to its status as a relic of a previous age. None of Cissy's friends ever ate here—but it was tradition that whenever she came to London to stay at Grimmauld Place, she would go to the Jarvey for lunch with her aunt.

The Jarvey Club was an old-fashioned restaurant. Then again, Narcissa's aunt was an old-fashioned woman.

She peeked over the menu again. Her aunt had evidently decided what she wanted, for the older woman had set the cream and black embossed menu down and was staring at one of the light fixtures, tapping her fingers on the table cloth and looking just as distracted and out of sorts as she'd been at the party the previous evening. Her niece was actually a little concerned—Walburga's odd restiveness had some maternal cause, she was sure of it. Until this business with Regulus and the marriage was sorted out, her aunt would not be fit company to entertain.

She would have to convince Aunt Walburga to let Colette stay, if for no other reason than to have someone to keep her company. Without companionship, her week in London would be deadly dull.

Inviting Colette had actually been her husband's idea.

"Take Ms. Battancourt along to London for the week—" he had remarked, his gray eyes glinting teasingly. "That will give you plenty of time to make her over in your image."

"I'll have you know I like my friend perfectly well as she is," Narcissa replied, with a sniff. "I am only helping Colette—reach her full potential."

Lucius had laughed in that knowing, fond way that said he was humoring her. Then he had kissed her on the palm, and she had quite forgotten that she was annoyed he had suggested she go to town in the first place.

Narcissa put a hand on her stomach and rubbed it, absently. Mama said it was because she was with child that she was feeling so emotional, and that a good wife must accept that her husband had duties and responsibilities that had nothing to do with her, and that once she was done with her primary duties—providing her husband with children and caring for his house and estate—she must find her own projects to occupy her time.

Well, she was taking Druella's advice, and busying herself with her latest project—helping her new friend establish herself in England.

It had become clear to Narcissa very quickly that Colette Battancourt needed her help rather desperately.

Considering she came from a celebrated and distinguished family, the French witch's manners were shockingly provincial. The girl had such an unguarded tongue—when they had first been introduced the summer before, Colette had told Cissy everything she could think about herself—some details better left unsaid. She was lucky her English friend only wanted the best for her. The cattiest Slytherin girls would've laughed themselves sick at her stories of chasing pigs around her father's farm, or the admission that she preferred jotting down bits of interesting conversations she heard on spare handkerchiefs and napkins to dancing.

She was also hopeless at showing herself off to her best advantage (had she not heard of cosmetics? Beauty potions?), and her fashion left much to be desired—that would be the domineering mother's fault. From what Narcissa had gathered through her French sources, she was completely under Madame Battancourt's thumb, and the Frenchwoman's sensibilities about how her daughter should dress were decades out of date.

Most of all, she was utterly clueless about English society, and apt to be taken advantage of—especially since her mother had sent her over to make a marriage.

But in spite of all of these foibles, Mrs. Malfoy liked the younger girl—she had a lot of potential, which was more than could be said of most young witches Narcissa socialized with. And Colette's inexperience was not all to her detriment, for she had a kind of artless candor that Cissy found refreshing. Even if she asked too many questions, at least they came from a place of genuine curiosity. She was also clever, picked things up fast—and she was genuinely interested in what Narcissa had to say, not jealous, like many of her former 'friends' had grown since Cissy's marriage to the most eligible bachelor in all of England.

Regulus, poor dear, was the second most eligible—and Narcissa was determined that he should marry someone who wanted him for more than just the gold he would inherit or his position. He was growing more confident, true—thanks to Lucius taking an interest in her baby cousin, he had lost a lot of the old timidness—but there were many artful and scheming fortune-hunters in the world, and he still had the tendency to let himself be taken advantage of.

Colette wasn't like those girls. She was sensible and well-bred—if a bit green—and once she got some polishing up, Ms. Battancourt would be well suited to join the Black family.

It could be an advantageous match on their end, as well, if it came off—even if Colette was from a minor branch of the Battancourts, it was the kind of foreign alliance that the Blacks would benefit from.

More than all that, though—Narcissa was lonely for female companionship.

Bella and she had grown distant in the years since she'd become Mrs. Lucius Malfoy. Her sister's own marriage didn't appear to be going well (not that Bellatrix would ever confide that in her, Narcissa had to rely on her husband to allude to these things) and she sometimes wondered if her elder sister wasn't a little resentful of her for being as happy as she was. Another young woman in the family—one who could appreciate the pressures of their station as —that would've been welcome to her.

If she was being truly honest with herself—and that was a rarity—the young Mrs. Malfoy would have admitted that she had fixed her heart on having Colette as a kinswoman because she reminded her so much of another young, brunette witch with soft eyes and a generous heart—the one who she'd not seen in nine years, and who had left a gap in her heart that stubbornly refused to be filled.

Don't think about Andromdeda.

She was spared this disquieting thought by the arrival of a bedraggled but familiar figure at the door. Colette rushed over to them, flustered and half-soaked through.

"Oh, Narcissa—Mrs. Black—" Cissy tried not to wince at the mud streak on the girl's cloak. "I am so, so sorry—I lost my way, I was going up and down the street looking for the place, and I got so turned around—"

"—See, Auntie?" She interrupted her gibbering friend, lest she dig herself in any deeper. Colette fell silent at once. "It's just as I said. A silly mistake—Ms. Battancourt just lost her way."

She turned back to her friend and delicately patted her own hair, indicating that Colette should head to the lavatory as soon as possible to fix hers.

Walburga Black, to her niece's surprise, barely batted an eyelash at the half-soaked through witch. At the commotion of the French girl's approach, Mrs. Black turned her head. She gave the girl a once-over, sharp eyes critically appraising her.

"It is very good you found it again, I suppose." Walburga's eyes lingered on the bags stamped with Madam Malkin's shop's brand on them. "I would guess you dawdled at the dress shop, looking at all the gowns."

"No, madam—at the bookshop," Colette answered, promptly—and if the blush that followed her baldly honest correction of Mrs. Black's assumptions was anything, without thinking, either.

Narcissa shifted in her seat, annoyed. Honest to a fault, this girl—but then her aunt's eyebrows shot up in surprise. She exchanged a look with her niece, across the table—and lifted her wand and pulled out a chair. She nodded at Colette to sit. She obeyed at once, after shooting her friend a look of nervous confusion.

"Hmph." The Black matriarch sized the girl up—for the first time since they'd met the night before actually taking an interest in her. Narcissa sucked in a breath—this next moment was critical. Under this scrutiny, Colette nervously fidgeted—but to her credit, she never took her eyes away from the elder woman's. "Well, that's just as foolish. Still…" She picked her menu back up and flipped a page, casually. "I like frankness in a witch. Mind you keep an eye on the time for the week you're staying with us. We value punctuality in our family."

Ms. Battancourt's face brightened, and she nodded vigorously and turned to beam at her friend. Narcissa smiled back, pleased that this first hurdle had been passed—Aunt Walburga approved—or at least didn't disapprove. Narcissa observed, happily, that her friend's face was flushed in a manner most becoming—already Colette was blooming under Cissy's tutelage, clearly.

Narcissa smiled secretly to herself. Phase one of the plan was complete.

She was confident that after a week spent under her roof, her aunt would see the wisdom of having Colette Battancourt for a daughter-in-law.

---

There is still a chance to vote for the prequel to this story for the 2018 Marauder Medals! From now until Monday voting is still open. If I win I may post a little holiday themed one-shot in this universe as a thank you to my readers...please see my profile for more details. :) And as always, thank you for your comments.