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']

8. Chapter 8

"You are omniscient as ever, Dumbledore."

"Oh no, merely friendly with the local barmen," said Dumbledore lightly.

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

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CHAPTER 8

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The snow was falling fast and thick outside the windows of his study when three short, sharp knocks on the door interrupted Albus Dumbledore's solitary revery. An open letter lay on the desk in front of him; the headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was perusing it, his electric blue eyes keenly scanning the page. He raised his face from where it was bent over the parchment—his keen eyes showing no surprise at the interruption.

Evidently, this visitor was expected.

He smiled enigmatically. The sound of a throat being cleared from somewhere above Dumbledore's right shoulder drew his attention from the door. The old wizard looked around and up at the source of the pointed sound. Phineas Nigellus—in his Hogwarts portrait and doing a comically poor job of pretending to be asleep—had one of his sly eyes half-open and was watching the door keenly, practically leaning out of the frame.

There was another series of knocks, more forceful than the first. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, and they flitted back to the door.

"You may enter," he said, in a calm voice.

It flung open, and a middle-aged man wearing a traveling cloak and an expression of utmost distemper strode into his office. The wizard slammed the door shut behind him and marched into the study, stopping a few feet from the desk, his shoulders squared in a combative posture. The dark-haired gentleman was red-faced—whether this was from the inclement weather or his anger, it was difficult to say—and the look he was leveling in the direction of the older wizard could only be described as 'livid'.

Safe behind his desk, Professor Dumbledore smiled.

"Ah—Orion." He folded his hands in front of him, assuming a pose of polite curiosity. "I thought I'd see you today."

"Oh, you did, did you?"

Mr. Black's voice was so cutting it could have been used to sharpen knives.

Most men would have been disquieted at such a display of open hostility from Orion Black—he was generally thought an imposing wizard, on the rare occasion he had been provoked—but Dumbledore was not most men. The old man hummed cheerfully and nodded.

"Oh yes," he assured the younger man in an affable voice, twiddling his thumbs. "Though, I must confess, I did think it would be a trifle earlier."

His visitor looked as though he'd swallowed turpentine.

"I do hope I haven't kept you waiting," Orion replied, stonily. "I had many urgent matters to attend to this morning, else I would have been here sooner, I assure you."

His sarcasm was exquisite—but Dumbledore had a natural tendency to gently tease, and he was just as determined to be courteous as the other man was to be rude.

"Not at all." The sincerity of his smile and tone only seemed to incense Mr. Black further, for the grip on his wand tightened, visibly, and his narrowed eyes flashed with displeasure.

Professor Dumbledore drew out a chair for his former student with his wand. Orion stared at the old man, then the chair, deliberating over the silent invitation for a moment—before slowly sinking down into the seat across from Dumbledore. His back was ramrod straight, and he was still glaring daggers—though in the restrained and well-bred sort of way that those who knew him only be reputation would have said lent to his natural aura of dignity.

Dumbledore watched him from behind his desk, face placid, expressionless—his eyes keenly penetrating—and all at once Orion felt his anger drain away. The long list of grievances he had taken great pleasure in rehearsing in his head on the walk to the castle from the village now seemed faintly ridiculous—in the face of that enigmatic smile, Orion felt feeble and foolish, more like the schoolboy whose Transfiguration teacher had once been so patient with him when he had been incapable of turning his canary into a pocket-watch, and had assured him that he would not be sending any owls to his father, and that with a little practice he would certainly be able to master the spell.

This man had been disarming him since he was eleven-years-old—he had hated it then and he hated it now.

It was as if those blue eyes could see straight through him.

"Would you care for a drink?"

Orion opened his mouth to give him a curt suggestion of where he could stick his drinks—but Dumbledore wasn't waiting for an answer, had already pulled out a bottle of mulled mead and two glasses from the drawer in his desk. Before he knew what was happening a tumbler of amber liquid had been poured and pushed in his direction.

"Do I look like the sort of man who drinks in the middle of the afternoon?" Orion snapped, irritably, staring down at the unwanted glass of liquor.

As the elder man poured himself one, he thoughtfully considered the question.

"No—but looks can be deceiving." His mustache quivered. "You don't seem like the sort of man who would frequent the Hog's Head, but that didn't stop you from having three glasses of brandy there this afternoon, did it?"

Something flickered behind Mr. Black's flinty eyes—and his shoulders slumped. He glared at his former teacher—but with annoyance more than anger. He didn't bother asking Dumbledore how he'd been found out.

"I have never set foot in that establishment in my life before today," Mr. Black said, voice heavy with irony. "And I do not intend to ever again."

He drank from the glass Dumbledore had given him. The liquor was very good, which only served to annoy him further.

"You didn't care much for the place?" his former teacher asked, casually. Orion let out a humorless laugh.

"Have you been there?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "It smells like an animal stall and the glasses look like they haven't been washed since my grandfather's day."

"It is a bit—rustic," Dumbledore agreed, smiling over his glass. "I would think the Three Broomsticks would be more to your taste."

"I wanted solitude," Orion muttered, darkly. "And as no one I know would be caught dead in that filth hole—"

"—There is one person you know very well who goes there."

Orion looked up from his drink, expression unaccountably bleak. The energy between the men shifted, minutely. The mead had been an invitation to let his guard down, and he had done so—for a moment, but the reminder of why he was here and the person that lay between them had the opposite effect of what had been intended—for when reminded of these facts, Mr. Black remembered himself, and the door shut once more.

They sat with their drinks in a heavy, oppressive silence. Dumbledore never took his eyes off the younger man, and he gave no sign of wishing to preempt him in breaking that silence.

This was Orion's party, clearly.

"As you were expecting me, I can only assume you spoke to that Auror."

"I did," Dumbledore answered, simply.

"And what did he tell you?"

"A very interesting—albeit incomplete—story of the night's events," the headmaster said, eyes twinkling. "Frank was unclear on a few things, naturally. I think I was able to, ah—glean what he could not, though I remain fuzzy on several points."

Dumbledore, to his old pupil's surprise, did not directly ask Orion to clear up these 'fuzzy points'—he seemed rather unconcerned as regarded these paltry details. In fact, he looked as though he was fighting a smile. Orion gripped the glass—he had to fight the temptation to hurl a third object into a fireplace in as many days with every ounce of his strength, and he had a feeling Dumbledore could tell.

He downed the rest of the drink in one and slammed it back on the table, hard.

"Would you care for another?"

"I would be delighted," Orion spat, through clenched teeth. Dumbledore refilled the glass for him, face still unaccountably bland, though there was a certain unmistakable air of expectation that lingered about him. He seemed to be waiting for something in particular from Orion, a specific line of inquiry, but Mr. Black was in no mood for playing games.

He took the glass and nursed it in one hand. The liquor had gone to his already unclear head, and he was feeling far bolder than he had any right to. Dutch courage could do much for a man, particularly one who had been pushed as hard as he.

"Would you satisfy me on a point that has baffled me for some time?"

Dumbledore lowered his glass. The reflection of the whiteness from outside glinted off his spectacles, obscuring his eyes.

"Certainly," he said, voice light. Orion tapped a finger against the edge of his tumbler.

"The night our unfortunate association—and all that entails—began," he started, his voice tight. "Did you or did you not order my son to ingratiate himself with us?"

Dumbledore did not bat an eyelash at the question, couched in such unflattering tones it could only be understood as an accusation. He pondered it for the appropriate amount of time before speaking, making it impossible for Orion to guess whether he'd anticipated the question and prepared an answer in advance.

"That is not how I would describe our conversation."

Mr. Black sneered.

"Then how would you describe it, pray tell?"

Dumbledore steepled his fingers—a circumspect pose.

"I recommended to Sirius that, given the unusual and delicate circumstances that had lead to his reunion with you and your wife—" Orion made a soft noise of impatience; he ignored it. "—He ought to make a concerted effort to be patient, kind and respectful to you both in what was sure to be a—difficult time for your family."

At this extraordinary statement, Mr. Black let out a bitter laugh.

"That's what you told him to do, eh?" He leaned over the desk and snatched up the glass again. "He told me as much. At first I didn't believe him."

He gave him a look of deep distrust.

"I would ask you what you thought you stood to gain by giving him such orders, but I have the oddest feeling you have no intention of telling me. Not that I need you to." He took another sip from his drink. "It doesn't take much imagination to see."

Dumbledore did not reply or seem discomforted by the implicit accusation. He continued to watch Mr. Black intently. Orion, unused to scrutiny that he could not guess the motive behind, found himself left unnerved by it.

And more irritated than ever.

"On the subject of his carrying out your task—" The middle-aged wizard continued, scowling into his cup. "It might interest you to know that he's making a pretty poor showing of it."

"In what respect?" Dumbledore inquired, politely.

Orion laughed again—this time a note of hysteria creeping into his voice.

"In every respect!" he said, slapping the table—Dumbledore didn't even have the decency to flinch, which only served to incense Orion further, and he railed on, completely unconcerned that the sound had jarred awake half a dozen dozing former headmasters and mistresses on the walls. "Over the past week that boy has made it abundantly clear he can hardly stand to be in the same room with us. He's in a constant state of low-level war with his mother, who is only happy to oblige him in his love of melodramatic theatrics—unsurprising, as he inherited the propensity for it from her. We can scarce make it through a meal without a scene! And as for last night—" He paused mid-tirade to inhale a shuddering breath. "—I cannot even begin to describe the ignominy he has put me through in the past fifteen hours."

Mr. Black finished his soliloquy with another open-palm slap on the table and a harrumph. Dumbledore coughed—if the thought occurred to him that Sirius might have inherited some of his tendency for high drama from his father, he wisely chose not to comment.

Professor Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, digesting his guest's words. Orion felt his face flush slightly when he realized that more than one portrait was staring at him.

"What occurred at Malfoy Manor yesterday was…unfortunate, in many respects," he said at last.

Orion laughed, coldly—that the old man's bland tone did not do justice to the gravity of the situation in his mind was obvious.

"'Unfortunate in many respects'—by Salazar, you're almost as much of a master of understatement as my son!" Mr. Black ground the bottom of his glass into the wood grain of the desk. "What the hell do you mean by it, sending him to act as your spy?"

Three glasses of brandy and the equivalent of a tankard of mead had evidently given him the courage needed to describe his 'ignominy' of the previous evening, for Orion did not bother waiting for the old man to answer before he pressed on.

"My eldest son has no business spying on anyone, let alone passing himself off as an influential foreigner in a room full of half the wizards in the country—not to mention his own grandparents." Dumbledore's mustache twitched, but Mr. Black was too caught up in his diatribe to notice. "For God's sake, he's barely more than a boy—"

"—Sirius may be young—but he is a grown man," Dumbledore corrected, quietly. "He has been of age for over three years, and in his time in the Order has proven himself to be intelligent and resourceful—"

"—He is an insolent child without a shred of self-preservation," Mr. Black seethed. "No doubt the thrill he takes in recklessly endangering his own life at every turn has been useful to you, but it hardly proves he's a man ready to be sent on espionage missions. In fact, I can think of few things that foolish cub is less suited to. He would jump to his own death if he thought the act would give him a moment's fleeting excitement. He has all the subtlety of a dying Jobberknoll."

Albus Dumbledore's smile was a little too understanding.

"I doubt being caught in the middle of a mission by his father showed Sirius at his best," the old man said, kindly.

"I'm sure it didn't," Orion replied, moodily, and he took another generous helping of his drink. "Unless he makes it a habit of giving cheek to the wizards who normally catch him sneaking about in disguise on your orders."

The recollection of things that had been said to him the night before, Mr. Black fell into a black silence.

Dumbledore sat up straighter, laying his palms flat on the desk, expression more serious.

"You have never known him as a man…and he has only known you as a boy," he said, in a tone of voice too pointed for Orion to ignore. "It's only been a week. Give yourself time to adjust—"

"I did not come here to listen to you pontificate on how I should manage my family!" Mr. Black hissed back, venomously, and he slid the glass back across the wooden surface of the desk so hard the elder man had to lift up his hand to catch it, lest it fall to the floor and shatter. "Do you think I give a tinker's damn what you think?"

"Oh, no," Dumbledore replied, serenely sliding the glass back towards his companion. "I imagine your unusual candor has more to do with that mead than any concerted effort to confide in me—though you are welcome to, of course."

The headmaster twiddled his thumbs innocently. His own glass remained untouched, and it was now impossible for Orion to pretend not to notice the smile not quite hidden by his beard.

"Do you—do you find this funny?" Mr. Black demanded, feeling a sudden lurch of courage that was two-parts alcoholic and one-part righteous indignation.

"A little," Dumbledore admitted, bluntly. Orion swelled like an angry bullfrog. "I must confess—though I have often had parents in that chair criticize me over how I run this school, I have never had one take me to task for how I run the Order of the Phoenix. There is a certain—novelty to it."

Orion's eyes flashed—he was being laughed at.

He rose from his chair—the slight sway in his step somewhat diminishing the impression he had no doubt hoped to convey over the seated old man, who looked up at him with only mild interest.

"I am not going to stand here and be insulted by you," Mr. Black said, coldly. "I did not come here for that—"

"—No, you did not," Dumbledore sighed and shifted in his seat, slightly. "As engaging as I've found our conversation up until now, I would not want to keep you any longer than is absolutely necessary." He pushed his spectacles up his crooked nose, suddenly looking very grave. "We ought to come to the main point."

Mr. Black stared down at him, lip curled with a disdain no more impressively regal for all the color in his face.

"And what is the point, in your mind?" he asked, sarcastically. "Why is it you think I've come?"

Dumbledore smiled up at him—but there was a steeliness in his eyes now that had been hitherto absent.

"To give me that memory you have bottled in your pocket, of course."

Mr. Black's whole body went rigid, as if he'd been petrified. The fury drained from him like water in a sink. For over ten seconds he said nothing, face frozen, mouth agape—but Dumbledore was nothing if not patient, and the elderly wizard watched the shock on his face turn to dismay—and then harden into the haughty dislike he had come to expect from members of the Black family.

With a single, jerky motion, Orion reached into his robes and pulled out a neatly corked glass vial. A silvery gaseous liquid swirled inside.

He dropped it on the desk. The glass had evidently been charmed not to break, for it clattered on the walnut surface and rolled towards the old man, still in-tact, innocently glinting in the reflected light from the snow-covered windows.

"Take it, then," he said, coldly. "With my compliments."

Mr. Black turned his face away from the desk and reached around for his cloak. He pulled it off the rack and fastened it with fumbling fingers—muttering oaths and curses under his breath. When at last he looked up, the Black patriarch found that Dumbledore had picked the vial up and was studying it, thoughtfully.

Then—to his extreme chagrin, the old man set it back down on the desktop and slid it towards Orion.

"You certainly came a long way to deliver this." Dumbledore tilted his head, considering him. "Did you extract it last night?"

Mr. Black nodded, curtly, drying the edges of his still sopping wet cloak with his wand. He had—after which he had watched it in his own pensieve half a dozen times before falling asleep on the sofa in his study right before dawn. This respite had been fitful and brief.

"I am curious," Dumbledore said, blandly—holding it up to the light. "Why you didn't spare yourself the trouble of the journey. Did Sirius not ask you for it this morning, when he came to see you at Grimmauld Place?"

Again, Orion's face froze—this time the anger that followed the look of shocked displeasure was immediate.

"Have you spoken to my son?" he asked, smoothing the front of his robes.

"No—" Dumbledore looked down his crooked nose through the glasses perched there, eyes twinkling. "But I gather you have."

The glacial silence between them was punctuated by a sly cough—Mr. Black jerked his head up towards the noise. The portrait of Orion's great-grandfather was no longer pretending to be asleep at all. He glowered up at his ancestor, pulsing with resentment—apparently he was not entitled to privacy, even in his own home! Phineas Nigellus merely raised an eyebrow at the look, as if challenging his descendent to protest this gross breach in family etiquette in mixed company.

Orion's nostrils flared—but the thought of quarreling with the snide painting in front of Dumbledore was apparently too much of an added insult to his dignity to contemplate. The patriarch had argued enough with living family in the past day to last a lifetime—he didn't need to add deceased relations on top of that.

"'Speaking' is a generous word for what occurred," Mr. Black said, dryly, turning back towards Dumbledore.

He didn't feel any need to elaborate—and Dumbledore didn't ask him too, thankfully.

"You've had that vial in your pocket since very early this morning, I'd guess," Dumbledore conjectured, idly. "Given that you inconvenienced yourself immensely by coming all this way, I'm curious why you didn't just give it to Sirius when he asked you for it."

"He called me a spineless hypocrite with no principles." Orion answered, coldly. "After that I was less than inclined to humor his childish demands."

To Dumbledore's credit, he didn't try to soften the blow of the admission, or offer feeble assurances that could not have been less welcome coming from his quarter.

"Well," Mr. Black said, brusquely, and he straightened up as best he could. "Now that you have what you wanted, I'll—take my leave of you."

He started awkwardly toward the door, still half-turned in the direction of the desk, keeping an eye on Dumbledore. The lack of reaction unsettled him, and no matter how desperate he was to leave the place and company, he could not help but feel that it was extreme weakness to leave without satisfaction—or at least acknowledgement.

The wily old wizard was clearly determined not to give it. He remained seated and clam, and showed no signs of gratitude at being given what had supposedly been worth risking Orion's son's neck to attain.

In fact, Dumbledore showed every sign of being more interested in Mr. Black himself than anything he had to offer.

Orion was quite fed up with the scrutiny, and was about to tell Dumbledore to stop looking at him that way when his former teacher smiled and rose from his desk.

Dumbledore picked up the open letter, still lying on next to his glass, and held it out for Orion to take.

He eyed the parchment with deep suspicion.

"What is that?"

"It's a letter from my informant—" The professor paused. "The one who gave me the intelligence that lead to last night's operation. I think you might be interested in reading it."

Orion's distrust turned into stormy anger.

"Short of an apology for what I endured last evening," Mr. Black replied, bluntly. "I really don't give a damn what your informant has to say."

The corner of Dumbledore's mouth twitched up, and his electric blue eyes darted towards Phineas Nigellus, who was leaning forward in his frame, trying to read the words on the page.

"Alas—no such luck." Dumbledore's hand remained outstretched, and he continued, off-handedly. "But I wouldn't rule it out. As I believe you're having dinner with him this evening, you may yet get the verbal contrition you think you're owed."

The color drained from Mr. Black's face.

In three bounds Orion had crossed the room and snatched the letter out of his hand. He pulled it open, started down at the parchment—only to find the familiar script he would have recognized anywhere.

It was, after all, very much like his own. They had had the same tutor. Fingers shaking, he turned it over to look at the front.

It had been sealed with red wax—the Black family crest neatly stamped in the center.

"As you can see, you are not the only Black who is unhappy with me." Orion's eyes flew across the page—he recognized the handwriting, but the forcefulness of the prose, the nature of the demands—all that was completely foreign to him. Surely his youngest could not penned these words only hours earlier, in the bedroom of his brother's dingy flat. "Regulus informs me in no uncertain terms that until I swear to him, by return owl, to never endanger his brother's life in such a way again, he will give me no more intelligence."

Mr. Black collapsed back into the chair, all thought of his dignity forgotten.

"No more?" Orion repeated. "But I told him not to—" He trailed off, eyes still raking over the words—barely able to comprehend their meaning. "—How…how many more of these do you have?"

Dumbledore bent down and opened a drawer—he pulled out a stack of at least six letters. Orion leaned on the desk and rubbed his forehead, as though the hangover he could expect from the mead had already come.

"I believe he slips them in with his correspondence to the rest of your relations," Dumbledore said, casually. Orion was completely white-faced, now. "Your owl appears to be quite intelligent. He figured out very quickly where the letters addressed to 'Uncle Albus' ought to go."

Dumbledore held the additional correspondence out to him—proof of his younger son's disobedience—the Black patriarch wearily waved the stack away. He didn't need to read the letters to guess the sort of thing they contained. He gripped the back of his chair, as if he needed it to prevent himself from sliding onto the floor.

Professor Dumbledore sat back down. His expression was less fixed, more open—Mr. Black could see now that he had been anticipating this moment since Orion had walked in the door, and now that it was over, the cards were on the table.

The real substance of the audience could begin. He could scarce imagine a situation he was less prepared for.

The silence stretched between them again. Dumbledore thoughtfully considered his guest.

"I think your younger son takes after you a great deal."

Orion's eyes flicked back up to that maddeningly calm lined face. That had not at all been the comment he was expecting.

He sighed and rubbed his temples.

"It's an odd thing—but you're the second person in as many days to tell me so."

"Who was the first?"

"My sister said the same thing to me, last night." Bone-tired, he leveled a weak glare in the general direction of Dumbledore. "I don't know what she meant by it."

Mr. Black threw the letter from his son back on the desk between them, next to the bottled memory.

"Lucretia is generally known for speaking her mind," Dumbledore remarked, taking a sip from his own glass. "Didn't she tell you?"

Orion let out a short, hard laugh.

"Her thoughts are somewhat in line with my elder son's," he remarked, wearily. "I believe she thinks Regulus suffers from an excess of soft-hearted complacency which he has had the misfortune to inherit from his father."

Dumbledore quietly scoffed. Orion looked up over the empty glass, mouth twisted in an ironic smile.

"I take it you meant something different by it?"

"With all due respect to Mrs. Prewett—" His eyes glimmered. "—The particular quality that I am referring to is something that, by definition, she could have no knowledge of."

Orion felt an odd fluttering in the pit of his stomach.

"Balderdash and nonsense," he muttered, staring down at his fingernails, determined not to let the other man see he was curious.

"You and Regulus share a determination to protect the ones you love—in some cases whether they want it or not." Orion's face flushed, and Dumbledore's understanding smile widened. "And I need hardly add—you both have a strong desire to draw as little attention to yourselves as possible while doing so. I believe you both prefer the loved ones in question know little, if anything, about what you're up to."

Mr. Black stared at Dumbledore, at another loss.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he bleated, feebly.

Albus Dumbledore gestured to the two objects on the table—the letter and the memory, exhibit A and B. He picked up the latter and held it in front of his face.

"You are not a fool—or naive. You know what giving me this means, Orion." Dumbledore stood up and crossed to the cabinet behind him. "If Lord Voldemort ever found out we had this conversation—"

"—Don't ascribe noble intentions where there are none," Mr. Black interrupted, sharply. "This isn't an act of bravery—it's one of pure self-preservation. Your cheap flattery is not only unmerited—it's unwanted."

Dumbledore had been fiddling with the lock on one of the cabinets behind his desk, he looked back over his shoulder.

"Pointing out that by giving me this you've risked your life is cheap flattery, in your eyes?"

Orion sneered.

"Well, what would you call it?"

Professor Dumbledore blinked several times, and Mr. Black was convinced he was acting the part of stupid, which was an even more aggravating pose than his usual omniscience.

"A statement of fact," the old man said, gently.

Orion huffed and leaned back in his chair—a gesture oddly reminiscent of his elder son, and undoubtedly the product of the drink. He would never have normally showed such weakness in front of a member of his family, let alone an outsider that he already resented immensely.

"Please! I'm not risking anything. Risk would imply that I've made a choice." Orion folded his arms in front of his chest. "But I haven't—it's been made for me. If my life is forfeit, is has been from the moment my son stole that locket."

Orion watched him open the cabinet door and pull out the large stone basin with runes around the edge—the pensieve. Dumbledore's was wider than his own—the Black family pensieve was carved ebony, and had been passed down to him many years ago by his father—a man not known for his sense of self-reflection. Arcturus had had no use for it.

Dumbledore lifted his own up—with an ease that suggested far more physical strength than a man of his age had any right to possess. Next to him, Mr. Black—slumped down in his chair, tired to his core—felt very old indeed.

"We both know that isn't true, Orion."

He set the pensieve down next to the vial and looked into Mr. Black's eyes. He was no longer smiling.

"If Regulus had thought there was the slightest possibility he was leaving you and your wife without the protection your blood status affords, if he thought he was leaving you in danger—"

He uncorked the vial and with a swish of his wand, deposited its contents in the stone basin.

"—he would never have ordered the elf to take him to that cave."

The light from the pensieve cast silvery, flickering shadows on the ceiling.

"And yet—he did go, and here I am." Orion lifted up his hand and gestured vaguely to the silver instruments on the table, the portraits of former headmasters and mistresses on the wall—and at Dumbledore himself. "Sitting here in this office, having this absurd conversation with a man I detest. Can you explain it to me?"

The moment it left his lips Orion realized that question was not rhetorical.

"There was a hitch in Regulus's plan."

Professor Dumbledore picked up the letter and dropped his gaze to the neatly written script, a curious look of satisfaction on his face.

"What hitch?"

"Quite simply: he lived." Orion looked up from the letter into Dumbledore's face, his own very pale again. "And by living, he has made the path forward for your family very difficult. Nobody is more aware of this fact than Regulus himself."

Smiling, Dumbledore folded the letter back up and handed it back to Orion. The younger man took it, reluctantly. Only a few sheets of parchment—but it felt heavy in his hand.

"What are you saying?" he asked, quietly.

"I believe he has continued to act in secrecy for this reason. It's impressive—particularly when one considers who his mother and brother are. I'm sure it has not been easy for him to keep what he's doing from Sirius, who I suspect is pushing him rather hard."

Orion opened his mouth to protest—and then he thought of dinner the other night, and how Regulus had refused to answer his elder brother's probing onslaught of questions—he had seemed so terrified.

The old Muggle-loving fool was right—he wasn't telling Sirius anything, either.

"He's good at making himself invisible," Orion admitted, reluctantly. "…Too good, perhaps."

He could feel the piercing electric blue stare on him, even though he wasn't looking him in the eye.

"A talent he seems to have inherited."

Orion sighed and stared up at the portrait of Phineas Nigellus. The look on the clever old wizard's face reminded him uncannily of his father. He ran a hand through his hair distractedly and sighed.

"What a pair of sons."

"They are both rather extraordinary."

He turned 'round on the older man—Dumbledore looked amused.

"Regulus is supposed to be the easy one," Mr. Black grumbled, staring into the fireplace. Dumbledore chuckled, quietly. "Sirius always used to be the one to get him into trouble. If you'd have told me a week ago that the opposite would be true—" He cut himself with a shake of his head. "—Well, I'd have said you'd had too much of this."

He lifted his glass to Dumbledore in an ironic salute, then lapsed into moody silence again.

"It's all my own fault," he said, after a moment. "I was too damn soft. I should have taken my father's advice and—beaten them."

Professor Dumbledore blinked slowly and pretended not to hear the half-heartedness in Mr. Black's voice.

"Would that have worked?" Dumbledore asked, mildly. "Would you say that terrorizing his children was effective for your father?"

He was so exhausted that Orion had not thought his anger could be roused again—but the old man had said the magic words.

"Don't you dare presume to understand my family," Mr. Black said, eyes flashing with malice. "As if you're in any position to lecture me on the subject of fathers, when they clapped yours up in Azkaban when you were no more than a schoolboy."

Dumbledore said nothing to this, but there was a fluttering behind his eyes that showed, to Mr. Black, at least, that at last he'd gotten in a hit. He pressed his advantage, continuing, with a sneer.

"What was it they put him away for?" Orion leaned back in the chair, pretending to think. "That's right—defending your Squib sister from some wretched Muggles. My grandfather always did used to say old Percival was the only Dumbledore who had a backbone."

Dumbledore said nothing—his mouth was pressed in a thin line. Orion relished this—it was very satisfying to think he had ruffled that maddeningly calm old meddler.

"Have I offended you?" he asked, scornfully.

"Not at all," Dumbledore forced a smile. "Despite your best efforts. I am no more offended by the truth—than you are, I'm sure."

He tilted his head, returning the look of satisfaction. The Black patriarch's face flushed—thwarted again! He let out another long sigh.

"I am not your enemy, Orion."

"Well, you're not my friend," Mr. Black snapped, peevishly. He glared into those twinkling blue eyes with firm dislike and narrowed his own. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing—well, it won't work. I'm not my son, I don't hold you in awe. I've played the game long enough to know when I'm being worked on."

"You came here of your own volition," Dumbledore pointed out, voice soft. "I did not invite, or ask you for this information. You may feel that I—or more likely, your sons—have forced you into this position, but the fact remains, Orion—the choice to give it was yours." He paused. "The fact that you remain here after doing so leads me to believe that it was, in the end, not your primary reason for coming."

"And I suppose you have a theory about that."

"Certainly." He steepled his fingers. "I think you came with the intention making me swear never to send Sirius into such danger again." The man across the desk clenched his jaw, Dumbledore gestured to the letter still clutched in Orion's wand hand. "Another similarity between you and Regulus. Unfortunately, I am no more capable of making you such a promise as I was your younger son."

The two men studied each for a long time in silence. Mr. Black felt as helpless as he would in the face of a glacier without his wand.

"That is your final word?"

"It is." His smile was bland. "I couldn't stop Sirius from putting his life in danger even if I wanted to—and you know it. He would keep fighting this war if he were the last wizard alive left to do so."

"He has no sense of self-preservation at all. It's as if—he enjoys risking his neck!" Mr. Black said, quietly. "He gets a thrill from the danger. I guess it shouldn't surprise me—he's always been like that, he's been getting himself into scrapes since he could walk—he's fearless. I don't understand and I can't—I don't know how to—" His nostrils flared at the memory. "—Do you know what he did this morning? I told him they knew he was coming, and that ingrate actually had the temerity to accuse me of preventing him from walking in that room out of spite. "

The old man nodded, sympathetically.

"A very inelegant accusation," he agreed, lightly. "Is—erm, that why you didn't give him the memory this morning?"

He was so angry at the memory that the personal nature of this question didn't occur to him.

"Of course that's the reason—! I wasn't about to indulge that wretch, and give him what he wanted. It's tantamount to letting him get away with it, and if he thinks I'm going to let him do such things in future—"

"—And I'm sure it was very hurtful, to have your own son accuse you of malice, when you were only acting as any father would—and trying to protect him," Dumbledore finished for him.

Orion's face froze mid-rant.

He felt a flash of anger—how dare this man presume to understand his feelings—and opened his mouth to protest this gross presumption, when he saw the expression on the old man's face, and knew that protesting what his old Transfiguration teacher must know—what must've been obvious to anyone with eyes in their head—would only make him feel more feeble.

He sat up in the chair, attempting to recover his dignity—if there was anything left of it.

"…This is the most singular conversation I think I've ever had," Orion remarked, dryly. "I would have never pegged you for a confidante."

"War makes strange bedfellows," Dumbledore replied, cheerfully.

The shadow of a smile crossed over Mr. Black's face. It certainly did. And without the clever wizard old wizard even saying it, he knew what he was thinking—the thought between them, the trump card.

Who else did Orion have?

"Would you permit me?" He made a sweeping gesture to the pensieve, where Orion's silvery memory swirled about.

"I gave it to you, didn't I?" Mr. Black snapped back, peevishly. "We've come this far."

Albus Dumbledore rested one lined hand on the edge of the basin—then hesitated.

"Will you still be here when I return?"

The words he had spoken to Sirius that morning echoed in his head. He looked up at Phineas Nigellus, still watching the proceedings—sly face observing him with a look he was unused to from that quarter—understanding.

Expression hardened, he looked back at Dumbledore.

"I don't start things I'm not prepared to finish," Orion said, quietly.

Dumbledore gave him a final, fleeting smile and plunged his head into the basin.

Orion stared dully around the now empty office, his head pounding. There was an odd throbbing in his neck that might've been the blood pumping hard through his veins—it was difficult for him to tell. He was not accustomed to the feeling he imagined associated with one's blood being "up."

He was not accustomed to much of anything that had happened in the last week.

He hardly knew who he was. A disquieting sensation niggled at the back of his mind—that he had not known who he was for sometime, in fact, and that he was only now realizing how little there was to know.

His head was fuzzy from the drink, and as he was already of a naturally melancholic disposition, predisposed to black moods, he was especially eager for some distraction now. Orion wanted to be free from the constricting hold these dark thoughts held on him—if only for a moment. Mr. Black looked to the window—the snow was falling even harder outside. The room seemed so much bigger without Dumbledore's presence—or perhaps it was that the old man was so much larger than life that he filled whatever room he was in.

He was not entirely without company, though.

"What a comfort it is," he addressed the portrait on the wall—the only one of the Headmasters and Headmistresses who was not asleep (or pretending to be)—with a faint sneer. "To know that the Master of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place still enjoys the privilege of private conversation in his own home."

"Would you refer to what you were engaged in as 'private' conversation?" Phineas Nigellus shot back, cooly. "You and your offspring were bellowing so loudly you awakened the portrait of my deaf great-niece three floors above."

Orion's face colored slightly.

"I don't know what I'm going to do with him," he sighed, looking up at his ancestor, chagrined.

Headmaster Black leaned forward in the frame and eyed his descendent slyly.

"I would follow my grandson's advice over Dumbledore's, myself, if I were you," he drawled, casually.

Orion laughed, shakily.

"I have a feeling beating Sirius would only stir his defiance." he said, in a tired voice. "He was practically egging me on last night—"

"—Perhaps you should have called his bluff," Phineas interrupted, staring idly at his oil fingernails. "Maybe then you'd gain the respect you obviously crave from that cub."

Mr. Black threw his distinguished ancestor a rather nasty look.

"Did beating your Muggle-loving blood-traitor son gain you his respect?"

The moments when Phineas Nigellus—even the facsimile of him—could be rendered speechless were rare indeed. Orion savored it.

"The difference is," he finally said, silkily. "That by then I didn't want it anymore."

Well, then—Orion shrugged—he was just not as strong as his fathers, was he? But he already knew that. There was something oddly comforting in having it pointed out, even if it was only by a remarkably perspicacious piece of art.

He turned towards the door. It was open—Dumbledore would not have locked it, as he had done to his son. He could still leave—Arcturus was not going to appear out of nowhere to prevent him, as he had last night.

His eyes fell on the magnificent phoenix, hitherto sleeping quietly in the corner, now awake. The scarlet animal was staring at him, eyes intelligent—reading his thoughts just as well as its master. His brow furrowed. Between this dratted bird and Phineas Nigellus, he wasn't really alone, was he?

He squeezed his eyes shut. The initial hot anger that had come at the heels with his great row with Sirius had burned out, leaving him tired, defeated and unspeakably weary. That audience had occupied him for the full three hours since it had ended so abruptly, and no amount of liquor, cheap or otherwise, could blot out the gamut of unpleasant emotions that his eldest son had stirred in his breast.

There was a pain he was carrying, and he knew full-well it was for that reason he had come here, primarily, not to give Dumbledore that damned memory—which was why he was not racing to the door now, as the wily old man surely must've realized (damn him!). He wanted satisfaction—no, Orion wanted assurance, and he knew there was no else who could give it him.

He wouldn't get it for nothing.

No, he wouldn't leave. He would wait, and see the thing through properly—above all, he would do his duty. Orion turned his eyes back to the pensieve. His memory glittered innocently in the basin. He watched it cast shadows on the wall, and felt a strange sense of calm finality creep over him—a surety he had not known for many years.

It sobered him.

There was no turning back now.

---

"Well, well—" A sarcastic voice announced through the gap in the packages, boxes and bags that concealed its source. "—The gang's all here."

Four sets of eyes swiveled in the direction of the walking stack of boxes that had unceremoniously flung the door open a moment before.

Sirius kicked the flat's door shut behind him with his heel so hard the cracked mirror on the wall rattled in its frame—and every person in the room (for they all knew him exceedingly well) had an instant handle on his mood. Lily sprang to her feet, abandoning her knitting needles and the knobby ball of wool on the carpet.

"Oh, Padfoot—let me—"

Remus, who had been sitting cross-legged next to her, dutifully attempting to "help" Mrs. Potter with the baby cap, also rose, and before their disgruntled friend could protest, the two of them began removing bags and parcels from his arms placing them on the cluttered coffee table.

Sirius mumbled a half-hearted entreaty at them not to bother, but Lily and Remus ignored him, bustling about his presence and yanking things out of his stuffed-to-the-brim arms. This left him free to stare at the other two occupants of his flat's living room—James, sitting on his armchair, and Regulus curled up in his usual spot at the end of the sofa. Neither of them had made a move to get up or greet him—and in fact were both eying him with a watchful curiosity he found rather irritating.

"Alright, Prongs?" Sirius asked, voice a touch cool.

He ignored his brother's presence altogether, focusing on his best friend instead. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Regulus's forehead flush scarlet before he buried his head in the Black family inheritance law book. James shrugged.

"Alright." Absently, he rubbed the back of his head. "You?"

Sirius frowned. He was still put-out that James had not been back in the flat when he had returned last night. To see him here, the next day, looking not only fit as a fiddle—but also, if anything, annoyed with him for Merlin knew what reason—well, it was the cherry topper to an already crap day.

It's not like I've done anything to piss him off, Sirius thought, crossly—unable to shake off the feeling that there was some accusation behind the speccy git's eyes.

"Never been better," he replied, airily. James's expression still looked frigid. Remus, recognizing the tones of voice being used and smelling trouble, turned around from the table of parcels and looked between them. He could instantly tell that his two best friends were in a rare and unfortunate situation—each was annoyed with the other, and not for the same reasons—or even, apparently, reasons both were aware of.

This could get ugly fast.

Lily, for her part, was too busy spreading out what looked like the entire content of a shop window out on the table to notice the thick tension in the air between her husband and his best friend.

"Sirius—" Her almond-shaped green eyes and gone wide with bemusement. "What…is all this?"

"Christmas shopping," Sirius replied, brusquely, and he grabbed one of the smaller bags off the table and marched over to his little brother.

Regulus had decided to return the favor of the cool—and, from his perspective, totally unmerited—reception, and was using the book to block Sirius and everyone else from sight. His elder brother, not used to being ignored by his younger sibling (or, indeed, anyone) grabbed the book out of Regulus's hands and tossed it on the floor.

"Here—" He lifted up the bag and unceremoniously dumped its contents into a protesting Reg's lap. "Don't say I've never done something for you."

Regulus stared down at the bottle of perfume and the fine eagle-feather quill that had bounced out of his lap and onto the sofa in utter bewilderment. He looked up at his brother, pale face incredulous.

"These are—"

"—You gave me your list for a reason, didn't you?" Sirius interrupted, impatiently. "'Course, I draw the line at wrapping them for you."

Before Reg could get out a stuttering reply, his brother had turned away from him and crossed back over to the table where the rest of the shopping lay. He began to carelessly root through the bags, pulling out packages and boxes and tossing them onto the floor and table, looking for something. He had evidently enlarged the interior of his satchel, for by the time he had found the roll of paper and tape he was looking for, it no longer looked as though an entire storefront was lying there—it looked like a shop-full of presents.

Everyone was full-on gaping now, for Sirius offered no explanation for it. He chucked the roll of paper and tape at his brother, then began to—even more incomprehensibly—dutifully gather up the crinkled receipts from the bottom of each bag, stack them on the table, smooth them out with his wand, stare at the bottom lines and mutter sums aloud to himself.

The peak of strange Sirius Black behavior was reached when he reached into his cloak and pulled out an enormous sack of gold and tossed it, unceremoniously, on the coffee table, the centerpiece of this holiday bazaar.

"Merlin, Sirius—how much is that?" Remus asked him, in a voice of frank disbelief. It was more gold than he had possibly ever seen in one place outside of a bank vault.

"A little less than a two-hundred galleons," Sirius replied, off-handedly, glancing up from the receipt from Dervish and Bangs. "I'd have to do the math to give you an exact figure."

Sirius was determined to ignore the looks of curiosity—his churlish expression seemed to be begging one of them to dare ask—and when he looked up his eyes fell on the basket of cold meats and fruit.

He narrowed his eyes and looked up at Lily.

"Was, eh—She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named over earlier?" Sirius asked, airily. His brother glared daggers at him.

"Don't call her that!"

His brother fell back on the other end of the sofa and shoved Regulus's legs aside, letting out a dismissive snort. Lily frowned.

"I assume you're referring to your mother, and yes—" Lily's eyes flicked to Regulus, then back to the elder Black brother. "—She came by late this morning. She was looking for you."

He let out a dramatic grown of despair. Regulus kicked him.

"Oh, joy," Sirius said, moodily, elbowing his little brother's heel. "What was her, erm, mood like?"

"Erm—" She glanced back at Regulus, now staring determinedly out the window. "Well—she seemed…odd."

He rolled his eyes sky-high.

"That tells me nothing, Lily. She's always odd." Sirius tilted his head sideways at his friend fiddling her fingers. "I'm talking about out of the ordinary strangeness. Was she worked up? Did she seem…agitated at all?"

"No more than usual." Sirius's head sank back into the sofa and he sighed, his relief obvious. Lily's brow furrowed. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason," he said, evasively. He met James's eyes for a second—his best friend had stood up from the armchair and had wandered over to the coffee table, and he was now idly studying the packages. "I'm surprised you're still here, Lils. I'd figured you'd have gone home ages ago."

To take care of your husband who I thought was on death's door, from how early he skivved off last night, Sirius added, moodily, in his head, watching Prongs flip through his boxes. What was James's problem, anyway? He thought they'd left things well last night—and though it wasn't as if he had any intention of explaining what a piss-up the previous evening had been, it would've been nice to get the impression James cared.

Why had he bothered to come back to the flat if he was only going to ignore him?

"Listen, Sirius—about your mum." She glanced nervously back at her husband, but James seemed oddly detached from the conversation. "When she was around, I sort of…brought up Christmas Eve, and if there was any way you could come to our place."

Sirius slowly raised his head and stared at Mrs. Potter as one would a person who had lost their mind entirely.

"I kind of, maybe—" She scrunched up her face and screwed up her courage. "Suggested that she or your father could swing by here for an hour or two, so that you could visit us."

Sirius goggled at her.

"Merlin, Lily—you didn't." Slowly, she nodded. "Do you have a death wish?"

It was Lily's turn to roll her eyes. She bent down to pick up her needles and yarn, and blew a stray strand of her dark red hair out of her eyes.

"Please. You are always so dramatic about her, honestly. It was—" She gave a strained smile. "—Admittedly, not fantastic, but I think she'll come around, if you speak to her—"

The brothers Black let out identical disbelieving laughs. The elder reached his hand into the basket and picked out a pear and began to throw it up and down in the air, restively.

"How many times do I have to explain this to you?" Sirius asked her, exasperated. "Relenting is not something that woman knows how to do, Lils. You'd have been better served smuggling me out of this flat in an orange crate than asking her to change her plans."

Remus had been hovering on the edge of this circle of conversation, and in the absence of James weighing in—he was being uncharacteristically quiet—decided to interject.

"You could at least try, Sirius." Sirius turned on him—an Et tu, Moony? look if ever there was one. "There's no harm in that."

"Actually, Moony—there is." He chucked the uneaten pear across the room. "If I so much as breathe a word suggesting I want to go to your party, Lily, that woman will make it a point to swing by this flat on Christmas Eve just to make sure I don't. It's what she does—finds out what you want and tries to take it away."

"I don't think you're being very fair to your mother," Lily scolded him.

"I'm being realistic—which in this case is the same thing. Regulus knows of what I speak, at least." Sirius turned towards his brother for support—on this point, at least. "I'm right, aren't I, Reg, about her digging in her heels?"

Regulus pursed his lips—but he didn't contradict him.

James, meanwhile, had gotten it into his head to start rooting around Sirius's hoard, and at the bottom of a rather tatty gray shopping bag had stuck gold. He pulled a heavy, evil-looking silver knife with a skull shaped handle out and waved it around in the air.

"What the hell kind of Christmas gift is this, Padfoot?"

Sirius jumped to his feet, face burning red.

"Not one for you, obviously." He yanked the object out of James's hand. "If you must know, it's got very unique properties, freshly arrived from a dealer in the Far East—but I had to take it as-is." He let out a mirthful laugh. "Turns out Borgin and Burkes doesn't do gift-wrapping."

Sirius flopped back down on the sofa next to Regulus, holding the ghoulish dagger in a very cavalier manner. The sharp end dangled dangerously from his wrist, the rubies embedded in each of the skull's eyes making it look alive. He poked his brother with the handle end.

Regulus, who was painstakingly wrapping the small perfume box, either didn't notice—or pretended not to. Sirius craned his neck over his shoulder to get a better look—he lot out a low whistle.

"Hey—you're pretty good at that, Reg," Regulus looked up from the neat crease he had made with his wand, expression impassive—only to find a giant knife pointed in his face. "Want to do me a favor and wrap this, while you're at it?"

The younger boy's eyes flitted to the ostentatious knife then back up at his face. The look he gave Sirius was decidedly shrewd.

"Who is it for?"

Sirius's mouthed thinned.

"Never you mind," he answered, evasively, hand still stuck out. Regulus gave it a single snide look, then rose from the sofa, his neatly wrapped small presents under each arm.

"I'll pass, thanks," he told Sirius, primly. His elder brother tossed the knife back on the table, scowling at Regulus's back.

Regulus marched past his brother's friends with the same aloof and studied unconcern he would have used on them if he had passed them in the halls of Hogwarts. When he turned around and spoke, with utmost dignity, it was as if the other three were not even in the room.

"Kreacher has lunch in the other room for us," Regulus informed him, tersely. "Are you coming now, or should I tell him you'll eat later?"

Sirius slouched further back on the sofa. If he had still had the knife in his hand, he would have looked, quite literally, murderous.

"Tell him I've already eaten, and I don't want anything," he said, with the barest trace of petulance in his voice. He was painfully aware of Remus, Lily and James all staring at him.

"Fine," Regulus sniffed. "Suit yourself. You should know that Mother already ordered him to make sure you have a proper lunch, so he's just going to follow you around until you eat the stupid sandwich. It's just as well you get it over with."

"You—!"

"—And I don't see why you even bothered having all those wrapped," he interrupted, this time with a tinge of smug superiority. "If he's having you save the receipts, he's just going to make you unwrap them all again to check what you bought. You're only making more work for yourself."

His brother's face drained of color, and he sat up straight—looking livid.

The three other people in the room all turned to Regulus in unison.

"What are you on about?" James asked, edge in his voice. "Who is going to make you unwrap all these?"

He had put on a very haughty, superior look—but at that question, coming from that quarter, Regulus turned rather vicious.

"Our father—who else?" Regulus gave a pointed look at James, then he pointed at the large bag of galleons. "That's his gold—and those are all his gifts. I guess that's the pressing appointment you had this morning—doing his shopping."

Sirius rose from the moldy sofa slowly, looking read to spring on Regulus like a dangerous animal. His brother's challenging look faltered for just a moment. Remus and the Potters all stared.

"Well, aren't you a regular Sherlock Holmes?"

Sirius jumped off the couch and sauntered around the table. He seemed casual—a little too casual, and the way he was holding his wand suggested boded ill. Remus and Lily exchanged a look of frank concern, but James kept his eyes trained on his best friend.

"Who is that?" Regulus asked, in a voice that spoke to how beneath him he thought the question.

"He's another nosy know-it-all," Sirius shot back, snidely. "Go eat lunch, then, and leave us in peace." He gesticulated around the borders of the cluttered living room. "I officially proclaim this a Slytherin-free zone."

Regulus's face colored, and he once again looked as young as his eighteen years.

"I'd like to see you tell Mother that," he said, haughtily.

Unlike his elder brother, Regulus was rarely given to slamming doors—so he shut the one to the kitchen behind him with a well-bred snap.

Sirius glared at the wooden door, his hands clenched ineffectually at his side. The awkward silence filled the air in the living room like the monotonous hum of a refrigerator.

"He has gotten full of himself in the last three years," Sirius muttered to his friends, apologetically—as if they were the ones who had been left embarrassed by Regulus's pointed commentary. "Real cheeky. He's forgotten his place, the prat."

Lily came up to him and rested a hand on his shoulder—clearly fighting a smile.

"Go easy on him," she said, gently squeezing his arm. "Regulus was very worried about you, even if he doesn't let it show. He was fretting all morning."

This hardly softened Regulus's brother.

"Stop talking about him like he's just some boy," Sirius said, peevishly. "He was a Death Eater until about a week ago, Lily, in case you've forgotten." He sneered in the door. "If you ask me, he still has many residual traits of the enemy."

Lily raised an eyebrow. It was difficult to take him seriously, considering the substance of the argument. She very much doubted that You-Know-Who gave a fig about the great Sirius Black luncheon debate, somehow.

But then she remembered how miserable he had seemed last night and decided to soften what she wanted to say to him—namely that he was acting like a child.

"And of a younger brother," Lily pointed out, archly. He threw her a disgruntled look and crossed his arms. "That's what he is first—your brother. You don't fool me, you know. You don't really think of him that way. He's your family—not the enemy."

A cynical smile flashed across Sirius's face.

"When it comes to mine, there's hardly a distinction," he muttered, crossing back to the now vacated sofa and flopping down. Stretched out, he took up the entire length of it—his feet dangled over the end. Sirius tucked his hands behind is head. "First my mother, now Reg—your wife will take anyone as a charity case, James."

James was still lost in in thought, but the sarcastic remark snapped him out of his stupor, and he turned to look at Sirius.

"Since when do you do your dad's Christmas shopping for him?"

Sirius froze, hand reaching out to the largest of the packages. He lowered it to his side and looked round, suddenly wary—and irritated. He tossed his head, his resemblance to a dog trying to shake off a shoofly uncanny. Lily and Remus seemed to have gotten the picture that he wanted that subject to go unexplored the second Reggie had let it slip.

It was very typical of obtuse Prongs not to get it.

"Oh, you know—since…this week," he said, with an unconcerned shrug. James's face remained stony, and Sirius began to fidget under his scrutiny, though not even he could have pinpointed exactly what it was that bothered him so much about that look.

He scrunched up his face, his defensiveness roused.

"You know how it is! Dumbledore was the one who wanted me to play nice with them—" Sirius scowled at James. "And I thought you were all gung-ho about that."

James raised an eyebrow.

"So, this was your idea?" he asked, with a perfectly modulated to irritate amount of skepticism. He jabbed his head in the direction of the pile of bounty on the table, which seemed more ridiculous by the second. "You volunteered to buy all that?"

"Well—no—of course I didn't volunteer for it!" he replied, indignantly. Sirius pointed with his wand at the pile on the table, with so much annoyance that the force of it knocked the carriage clock he'd bought his great-aunt to the floor. "Merlin, Prongs, don't you think I have better things to do with my time than buy out half the posh-o stores in Diagon Alley?"

He had said the magic words.

"So your father is making you do his shopping—is that it?"

For a moment Sirius just stared at him, utterly blindsided. He sat up, painfully aware everyone in the room was watching him. He had unwittingly stumbled right into the trap James set for him. Normally he was very good at avoiding verbal blunders that would leave him on the back-foot—a lifetime in his family had taught him something, and this week aside, he was usually adept at avoiding springing them.

But he never expected one to be set by James.

"What the hell kind of question is that?" Sirius demanded, color rising in his face.

His best friend did not look abashed, and he kept his eyes fixed on Sirius—as if he were trying to gauge a reaction. Sirius was filled with a kind of creeping dread in the pit of his stomach. At James's right, Remus looked similarly alarmed, and on instinct he stepped forward—but the second he caught sight of the expression on his two best friends' faces, he knew it was no use.

"One with a yes or no answer," James answered him, evenly.

He froze—and then Sirius's face turned an unpleasant shade of burnt raspberry jam, and the Black temper he had famously inherited from Walburga boiled up.

"I'm sorry—I thought this was my house, and you lot were my guests." Sirius looked around the flat, raising his hands and gesturing sarcastically to his surroundings. "I didn't realize I was coming back to a fucking interrogation." He looked around at the other two—Lily actually flinched at his expression. "Are you two in on this as well? Did you put him up to it?"

Mrs. Potter—who of course knew nothing of any of the substance of James's purpose, and could barely glean what her husband was implying, let alone cop to being a part of it—opened and closed her mouth a few times. Sirius's eyes quickly darted to Remus (he had composed his face in a manner far more closed off and guarded than Lily—but then, he had a talent for that) who took another step in his direction. His hands were held in front of him in a placatory manner.

"No one is interrogating you, Sirius," Moony said, quietly. "James is just—concerned."

"I notice you didn't answer the question."

Sirius turned his head in his best friend's direction so sharply it could have cut glass. James was still maddeningly calm, not defensive at all—and Sirius could see behind the spectacles from the look in his hazel eyes that he was not going to let it go.

And Sirius had no intention of giving him what he wanted.

"Lily," he addressed Mrs. Potter, chewing her bottom lip nervously. "I think you ought to leave now—and take him with you."

He jabbed a thumb derisively in James's direction, then fell back down on the sofa in a forcedly casual manner, like he was planning on taking a nap.

"Sirius—"

"And you may," He interrupted, speaking loudly in the direction of the ceiling. "Want to advise your husband that in future he should try to avoid sticking his nose in where it isn't wanted."

Lily's gasp was the only sound that cut through the painful moment of silence following this suggestion, couched in the surliest language and tone. Sirius stared hard at the crack in the paint above him, fighting the urge to look at James's face—he wished rather than hoped for a sense of satisfaction at shutting James up.

Remus, who was watching James, was a little alarmed by what he saw in his friend's face. He was expecting a row—James and Sirius fought so rarely that when they did, they always burned red hot, but the restraint—and shrewdness with which Prongs was studying the young man on the couch was not like him it all. He didn't know quite what to make of it.

One thing was for certain: this wasn't over.

After a long time watching Sirius exercise all his self-control to ignore the rest of them, James turned his head in the direction of Remus.

"Thanks for taking the time to talk to me this afternoon, Moony," he said, shaking his hand affectionally—though his expression remained serious and thoughtful. "I think your instincts were right about—well, more than one thing."

A soft and unmistakably dog-like growling noise came from the direction of the sofa. James and Remus's mouths both twitched upwards at the sound, though Remus could not resist throwing a wry look at his bespectacled friend—you couldn't resist dragging me into this, could you?

James smiled back, though it was not his usual full-throated grin. He turned around to look at his wife, and when he reached out to grab her hand he heard James murmur to Lily, 'Later' in a low voice.

"We're heading out now, Padfoot." James was perfectly polite—even friendly, but this tone of voice was not the one that he normally used when speaking to Sirius, and everyone in the room knew it. "I'll, erm…I'll see you later."

Sirius made a stiff "hm" sound by way of ascent, but he did not look at James. Lily nudged her husband.

"If you want to talk," he said, more gently. "You know our house is yours. You can come over any time you like."

Sirius curled his feet up and turned his back to the Potters.

"I'm very busy right now, but I'll see if I can pencil you in sometime before the new year."

"Right." He didn't give the other man the petty pleasure of rising to the bait. James threw Remus a pointed look and sighed. "Well, we're off."

Lily echoed the muted goodbye—clearly more interested in getting out of the flat so she could interrogate her husband on the subject of 'what the hell all that was about'—and the two of them left the flat through the front door, leaving Remus alone with the high-strung master of the house. He was currently glaring daggers at a water stain his land-lady had told Sirius, when he first looked at it, 'gave the place character'.

The memory of Sirius telling that story—his light-hearted, barking laugh as he had relayed all the deficiencies Mrs. Jenkins had tried to play up as adding the 'bohemian mystique' of the place, and how it had been the old woman's frank desperation to rent that dump that had convinced him to take it—came back to Remus, and he smiled, sadly. They had still been in school then, and though they were only a year and a half gone from those days, right now it felt a lifetime.

The mild-mannered werewolf hovered awkwardly in between the sofa and the kitchen door. Sirius's body was rigid, he was still staring stonily at the ceiling, and Remus felt very like a camper in the woods who has encountered a wild animal and is wary of sudden movements or sounds because he was unsure if the animal would run at him or attack. He cleared his throat.

"Don't even start."

Sirius lifted his head and glared at him. Remus, long used to the tempers and moody spells of Sirius Black, didn't let it phase him—at least the silence was broken. He settled down into the arm chair recently vacated by their friend.

"I didn't say anything," he replied, lightly. Sirius snorted.

"I can practically hear you thinking from across the room, Moony." Sirius rolled over on his side toward the kitchen door. He glared at it for a long time—he seemed to be embroiled in some tumultuous inner monologue, wherein he was working himself into a state, because by the time he vaulted off the sofa and barreled across the room he barely seemed aware Remus was still there.

"Padfoot, where are you—"

But he was not listening, he was single-minded in his purpose, and Remus had to scramble out of the armchair as hastily as he had sat down to follow his friend through the kitchen door and not have it slammed in his face.

Sirius skidded to a halt in the middle of the linoleum floored room. His brother was seated at the kitchen table, which had been laid out with a table cloth and handsome lunch spread of sandwiches, fruit, cheeses and hot potatoes with some kind of gruyere sauce on the side which Remus thought smelled like heaven itself.

Padfoot, for his part, had no eyes for the food. He made a beeline for his stony-faced younger brother, half-way through doling himself out plate of salad.

"Alright you, time to fess up!" Sirius raised one hand in a gesture of dramatic accusation. "What the hell did you tell—"

At the sight of Kreacher the house-elf perched on a stool by the counter where he was dribbling icing over a large tea-cake, this tirade died in his throat. Regulus patted his mouth with a linen serviette and looked up at his brother. He and the servant wore identical pompous expressions, but Regulus's was a little challenging.

Sirius looked back and forth between them, as if he could not decide which one he should yell at first.

"Master Sirius should eat his lunch before it gets cold," Kreacher said to him. His eyes were narrowed in a look of deep and profound suspicion. "Kreacher has set out a place for him in the filthy hovel Master calls his home."

Remus blanched. Sirius had told him his mother's servant had taken to making jabs about the flat—according to him, parroted from Mrs. Black's private comments to his father—but he had not actually heard him say one. Sirius seemed unfazed by it, though he did give the creature a look of profound contempt.

"I'm not hungry, Kreacher," Sirius said coldly, over the sound of his stomach growling. "And I don't want any of that."

"And then," the elf said, in a louder voice, ignoring the backtalk. "Master Sirius should go rest." Kreacher gave him a critical once-over. "He looks as if he has not slept, and Master knows how ill-tempered he gets when he is tired."

Sirius's face colored.

"I don't need a nosy house-elf to tell me to take a nap," the more difficult of Kreacher's two charges replied, crossly. He turned to the humans in the room, head held high. "I'll be in my room. If anyone comes looking for me, do me a favor and tell them I've jumped out the window."

And then, mustering what little dignity he felt he was still capable of summoning, Sirius marched down the hall and into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him with a slam.

Sirius dramatically flung himself onto the bed. It already been neatly made (by Kreacher, undoubtedly—the cot at the end of the bed where he had been sleeping was also made, and he had certainly not bothered.) He took a petulant pleasure in kicking his shoes off onto the floor and messing up the covers by pulling out the tightly tucked in ends of the blankets. He grabbed one of the six gigantic ornamental pillows Walburga insisted on decorating it with and hugged it to his chest, burying his face in the musky damask.

Sirius looked at the ticking clock on the mantle and groaned. Merlin, it was only three in the damn afternoon. This felt like the longest day of his life.

The door opened a crack, and even without rolling over to look at the intruder, the familiar light skittering told him who it was.

"I told you I wasn't hungry," Sirius said, tonelessly.

The elf predictably ignored him, climbing onto the bed with his tray—on which lay a sandwich and an elegantly arrayed arugula and beet salad—and stubbornly holding it out to his young charge.

"Master Sirius must eat."

He gave the plate a single disdainful look.

"I don't want that. Take it away."

"Mistress said to make sure Master Sirius ate his good and wholesome food, not nasty mudblood swill," Kreacher said, firmly, practically shoving the plate into Sirius's face. It was all the young master could do to keep himself from flinging the heavy silver tray against the wall in a pet.

He sat up, propping himself against the headboard. It was a far better angle from which to ward off pushy servants who wouldn't leave you alone. He gripped his wand under the covers, quite prepared to blast the little toe-rag into the wall if he didn't let up.

Of course, the thing you had to remember about Kreacher was that he wasn't above fighting dirty himself. Sirius could not count the number of times when he was a boy the elf had used his own particular brand of magic to either keep the young heir from doing something or to keep him in some place—often it had been both.

He didn't fancy testing the limits of that magic on the adult children of a house elf's master and mistress.

"Fish and chips," he said, in a lofty voice. "Are not swill. In fact, they are a sight better than whatever that is." Kreacher's lip curled in a manner remarkably like his mistress, but refrained from arguing about the relative merits of the food that Sirius kept bringing back to the flat and trying to ply his much better behaved younger brother with.

He remained firmly planted on the bed. Sirius let out a long-suffering sigh.

"Fine. Leave the tray there—" He leaned over to the bedside table and knocked a few knick-knacks off it to make room. "—And kindly shove off."

The elf shook his head, resolute in the face of his marching orders.

"Kreacher will not leave until he's seen Master Sirius eat his food with his own two eyes."

"Oh, for God's sake—I am not a child!" He wrapped one of the blankets around himself and nestled into the bed, looking extremely sulky as he did so. "Now go away!"

The elf remained stubbornly in place. Sirius felt his temper flair.

"I said, get the hell out of—"

"It's alright, Kreacher," a voice from the door cut in, calmly. "I'll take care of this. You go wait in the kitchen."

At Regulus's calm order—which sounded more like a suggestion, the elf's reaction could not have been more different. He bowed his head deferentially ("Yes, Master Regulus!") and throwing one last backwards look of annoyance at Sirius, scampered out of the room—though the tray of lunch remained on the bed next to the slouching young wizard, cocooned in his coverings.

"At least he has the right idea about you being the heir," Sirius pointed out, as his brother crossed the room and sat gently down on the edge of the bed. "Even if no one else does."

Regulus's mouth twitched. It was then his elder brother realized he had the silver, skull-handled knife clutched in his right hand.

"Come to put me out of my misery?" he asked, innocently.

Regulus held the ridiculous object blade up in front of him.

"Who exactly is supposed to be getting this for Christmas?" he asked his brother, eyes narrowed in a knowing suspicion.

Exhausted though he was, Sirius cracked a wry smile.

"Don't you think our grandfather will appreciate such a thoughtful gift from his only son?" Regulus dropped it on the covers in shock.

"Are you completely insane?" Regulus yelped. "There's no way Grandfather will think Father bought that for him!"

"But wouldn't you pay money to see the look on his face when he opens it?" Regulus was shaking his head in horror, to which Sirius could only roll his eyes. "Oh, relax, Reg—have a sense of humor, for once." Sirius scooting over to let his brother have room on the bed. "It's grisly and expensive—Arcturus'll love it."

Regulus climbed onto the bed, but the conspicuous food tray made it awkward. Sirius started to push it off the bed, but his brother stopped him by force.

"It's a sandwich, Sirius," he pointed out, annoyed. His brother was eyeing it with utter distrust, almost as if he thought it was poisoned. "Just eat it."

"No. I refuse—on principle."

"What principle?"

"The principle that—it's—watercress," Sirius mumbled, poking at the salad with his fork, moodily.

"So?"

He looked up from the plate, mildly indignant that his brother failed to grasp the import of this detail.

"So—she knows I hate watercress. This is a power game, Regulus. She wants to prove she's the one calling the shots. It's all about control." He slouched down sullenly against the headboard. "Everything is with the two of them. Well, I for one refuse to play."

His stomach chose that moment to growl again, loudly. Sirius crossed his arms and turned his back to the plate of food, stubbornly.

His younger brother sighed again. He was tempted to point out that calling Walburga's choice of sandwich 'a game' and refusing to eat it was, in fact, playing her game—but it didn't seem worth it at this juncture to point out these inconvenient facts. He picked up the tray and set it down on the bedside table where Sirius had cleared a space for it a minute before.

"You never came in last night."

Regulus was still bent over the tray, moving the quills and parchment on the table around fussily, so Sirius couldn't see his face.

"It was late and I—didn't want to wake you," Sirius lied. He knew it must've been very obvious—he wasn't looking at Regulus, for one thing—but the elder Black brother was so tired that he didn't much care.

"I was waiting up for you," Regulus replied, back still turned, his voice low—and buried in his irritation there was a touch of pain even his thick-skulled brother couldn't miss.

Sirius sat up. He pulled the pillow towards him again, hugging it to his chest in a defensive posture.

"Well, I didn't know that! It was two in the morning!" He pulled his knees up as well. "And anyway, I wasn't exactly in the mood to chat."

At last, Regulus turned around—his face was a blank, totally expressionless. To his elder brother, whose earliest memories were of a one-year-old Reggie's face screwed up, about to start bawling—it was quite unnerving to see him so without emotion. Where, Sirius wondered, had his brother learned to do that? It was a question he intuitively knew he didn't really want the answer to.

It reminded him, unpleasantly enough, of their father.

But just as quickly the spell broke, and the anxious worry he was more accustomed to from Reg shined through.

"So…so I'm guessing it—" Regulus hesitated. "—Didn't go so well last night?"

Sirius let out a derisive giggle.

"Is that a lucky guess, or did Lily tell you?" he asked, rolling onto his back, voice heavy with sarcasm. Regulus shrugged.

"A—little of both," his brother replied, voice small.

Sirius's nostrils flared. They both stared at each other—neither knowing what to say. Regulus seemed to be at a loss, teetering between several ways of proceeding with this audience. After a few moments of waiting for the next inevitable and irritating question, Sirius lost his patience.

"What, did you just come in here to gloat?"

"Of course not!" Regulus exclaimed, his disbelief masking the hurt well. "I came to—I wanted to know what happened."

Sirius stuck his hands behind his head and stared determinedly up at the ceiling again.

"In short—you were right," Sirius told him, bluntly. "I got caught."

At this seemingly incomprehensible statement, the slighter boy stared at him.

"What d'you—but you're here, Sirius."

"I'm painfully aware of that fact, Regulus."

Reg furrowed his brow—now he was definitely acting like the younger brother Sirius remembered—slow on the uptake.

"But how could you have gotten caught if you—"

Sirius let out a groan and buried his face in the pillow.

"Look, I just—I got caught, but I managed to get away—without the information. That's what happened." He pulled his face away from the cushion and chanced a look at his brother. As he'd expected, his carefully curated version of the truth was not going over very well.

Reggie was looking rather shrewdly at him.

"There's something you're not telling me," Regulus said, in a low and suspicious voice. "Who exactly caught you?"

Sirius rolled over on his side again, inwardly cringing. He was torn—there was a part of him that wanted very much to tell Regulus the truth, to unload his misery on the one person who could halfway understand the full horror (at least in theory) of getting caught on an espionage mission by Orion Black—but that feeling was at war with the fresh mortification he felt at how Orion had gotten him out of there (he could still feel the impression of that damn muzzle on his face) and his anger—wholly irrational—at Regulus himself for being so damn right about how misguided the entire venture had been in the first place.

"I would…rather not say." Regulus let out a huff, and Sirius's hackles rose, defensively. "Look, I don't want to talk about it, okay?"

His little brother stood up from the bed and walked over to the closet, where some of his own freshly pressed robes were hanging next to Sirius's, and busied himself with picking out a set for dinner—the perfect excuse to not have to look at him anymore.

"You don't have to lie to me about last night—" Regulus murmured, into the wardrobe. "If you don't want to tell me what really happened, that's fine—don't make up some story about getting caught and managing to miraculously escape. It's not exactly believable."

Sirius sat up, propping himself up on his forearms, face flushed with indignation. The little runt actually thought he had invented this? After the night he'd had, Reg was lucky he wasn't getting cursed on the spot.

"I didn't make it up—it's not like that. Merlin, I've told you more than I've told my friends," he groused, bitterly. His eyes widened—Sirius's own remark had reminded him of something. Sirius leveled a hard stare at his brother's back. "Speaking of which—you were getting real matey with James last night, weren't you?"

Regulus's hand froze on the sleeve of his cloak.

"Why do you ask that?"

"How much did you tell him?" Sirius demanded, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "About me and Dad?"

"Nothing." Sirius let out a laugh of scorn, and his brother spun around on his heel. "I only said a little—I thought you told him everything, anyway."

"Not about that. Not about our family—God, Regulus—" Sirius threw his hands up in the air—he brandished the knife that was to be his grandfather's Christmas gift in his brother's direction. "You've no idea what we look like to normal people, do you?"

His brother's bottom lip trembled—they had retread this fight so many times, what more needed to be said?

"You aren't going to tell me anything else, are you?"

Sirius shrugged, coldly.

"Until you get better at keeping secrets from my mates, I don't think I should tell you anything more about secret missions for the Order of the Phoenix," he said, loftily. "You clearly can't be trusted to keep your mouth shut."

Regulus's face flushed an unsightly shade of pink.

"Fine!" He stomped to the door, looking furious. "Then I'll just go and—leave you alone, since that's clearly what you want!"

"Before you do—" Sirius pointed to the drawstring bag he'd carelessly tossed on the ground. "Those are Phineas Nigellus's letters. Take them. We're supposed to start reading them tonight." He held up a hand over Reg's stifled protest. "It was your dumb hunch, you'll remember, so you can read that pile."

Even Regulus's enthusiasm for family history was dented by the sight of that two foot tall bundle of family records.

"He said we both had to do it," Regulus pointed out, voice just as cold. "He's going to ask us to give examples of things we've found out. If you don't do any of the work, Father's going to know, and we'll both get in trouble."

"So we'll both get in trouble, then!"

"I'm only taking half of these," Regulus insisted, Black stubbornness out in full force. He wasn't going to take the rap for Sirius's bad mood and whatever it was he'd done to incur their father's wrath. It had not yet occurred to him there might be a connection between the two things. "You can start in on the rest."

He pulled half the books out of the drawstring satchel, and in an uncharacteristic display of temper threw the bag holding the rest onto the bed with a tad too much force to be considered 'helpful'. It landed a few inches short of Sirius's head, and certainly would have given him a black eye if his brother's aim had been truer.

"Watch it!" he hissed, like an angry cat. "What do you think you mean by it, flinging heirlooms at my—"

"—If you're going to go to sleep, I'll send Kreacher in to wake you before supper," Regulus said, unapologetically. "If Mother doesn't wake you up first, coming through that fireplace. I suppose it's alright if I go back in the sitting room, or is it still a 'Slytherin-free zone'?"

"You can hole up in the loo, for all I care."

Regulus rolled his eyes sky-high.

"Whatever," he said, in a dismissive voice. "Don't expect me to cover for you again."

With a single, contemptuous look, Regulus swept out of the room—the stack of books as tall as his head filling up his arms and making him look the part of the bookish Slytherin he had been at Hogwarts.

Collapsing back on the bed, Sirius let out a hard laugh. Not cover for him? Please. Reg had been saying this was 'the last time' since they were five and six years old. His younger brother hated family rows far more than he wanted to see Sirius get punished for shirking his duties. He would lie through his teeth about where his brother had been the previous night.

Not that, in this case, it would do any good.

Just thirty seconds gone from Regulus fleeing the room, and he already felt an insurmountable wave of guilt, which was neck-and-neck with his shame for the most overpowering emotion churning in his chest.

He shouldn't have lost his temper with Regulus. There hadn't been any good reason for it, except that Regulus was inexorably tied with them, and they were the ones that made him this way.

That's why he'd had to get away from them in the first place, wasn't it? They had no one but themselves to blame. They brought it out in him, this petulant, miserable person he'd thought he'd shaken off for good.

It was their fault he was acting like this.

If Sirius repeated it to himself enough times, while concentrating on the memory of Orion putting a lead on him, he could almost believe it was true.

The sound of the door being gently opened drew him reluctantly from his gloomy thoughts.

"I thought you might like a pick-me-up." The mild voice matched the mild face of Remus Lupin. Sirius rolled sluggishly over onto his side so that he was facing Moony. His eyes flitted to the two cups of tea in his friend's hands.

"Are you my mum now, Moony?" Sirius asked, pulling the blanket tightly around his head, which gave him the appearance of wearing a babushka.

Remus shut the door gently behind him with his foot and smiled.

"Well, I don't really fancy competing with her for the title." Sirius gave him a dour look—but he did grudgingly accept the cup of tea. He took a few gulps—it was fortifying, and with just the right amount of milk and sugar, so that when he set it down on the tray next to his untouched lunch, he almost felt human again.

"Thanks," Sirius said, grateful to be with the one person in his life he was pretty sure was not pissed at him right now. "I—needed that."

"Anytime." Remus glanced down at the food. His smile this time was rather wry. "You—you really weren't kidding about that elf and his—devotion to your mother."

Sirius pulled a face.

"Isn't it sickening?" He fluffed a pillow and stuck it behind his head. "He's fanatical about her—and doing what she asks. It's perverse." He picked at some stuffing coming out of one of the cushions. "He's like one of those widows in India who fall on their husband's funeral pyres."

Remus knew he shouldn't really laugh at the image—but it was funny, and it always cheered up Sirius to have his jokes laughed at.

"Are you saying he's in love with her?"

"Practically—and the thing of it is, she's not even nice to him!" Sirius muttered, silkily. "I don't get it at all—why he cares so much. It doesn't make sense to care what people who don't treat you right think. It's utterly…irrational."

Remus made a small 'mm' sound in the back his throat, but didn't comment further. There was nothing he could say, and he had a sneaking suspicion Sirius was no longer talking about the elf.

They sat in as comfortable a silence as was possible, given the circumstances. Sirius might've currently hated the world, but in truth, he didn't really want to be left alone—and as Remus was just about the only person he could stand, it made for a more pleasant afternoon tea than he could have hoped for.

"James isn't going to let this go, you know."

…Or it would have been, if Moony hadn't felt the need to bring them crashing back to reality, as he always did.

"I'm fully aware of James Potter's pathological inability to mind his own business, Remus," Sirius replied, playing absently with his tea bag. "Why do you think I'm in such a sunny mood, currently?

"He's only worried about you." Remus lowered his mug onto the table. "And he's not the only one."

"I'm touched," Sirius muttered, heavily sarcastic. "Where was all this concern a week ago?"

At this feeble provocation, Remus only smiled, knowingly.

"Are you alright, Padfoot—truly?"

"Yeah, Moony…I'm alright," he grumbled, sitting up. "Just an idiot."

His friend bit back a laugh.

"We're all very aware." He smiled over the edge of his teacup. "We like you anyway."

"Thanks." He stretched his arms—the movement caused his stomach to growl. Sirius glanced down at the plate of food. It was looking more appetizing by the minute. He forced himself to look away from it and at his friend. Remus was still studying him—no doubt he was going to report back to the Potters on his mood. "I don't know how long I can keep this up, Remus. I'm not sure I'm going to make it to the 1980s with my sanity intact."

"Is there anything I can do?"

He opened his mouth to tell Remus not to worry—a phrase he'd repeated to him on a regular basis since 1971—when a thought occurred to him.

"You know what, Remus—there actually is." Sirius bolted up in bed. "Can you come back around, tonight—about 10:30?"

His shabby friend rubbed at one of his patched slows and furrowed his brow, confused.

"Sure I can—but why?"

"I have an appointment I have to keep, and I can't leave my brother alone in the flat."

Both of Remus's eyebrows flew up.

"An appointment at—eleven at night?" Remus frowned, then gave Sirius, innocently staring at the ceiling, a knowing look. "Is this business or pleasure?"

He flashed him a roguish grin.

"Oh, you know me, Moony—I like to have a bit of both." The line of Remus's mouth remained firmly thin and flat—Sirius fixed his face into a more sober expression, if only to appease his friend. "Let's call it—damage control. There's a loose end from last night…I need to tie up."

"A loose end, eh?" Remus repeated, slowly. "Tell me, is this 'loose end' a blond or a brunette?"

In the face of the implied accusation in his friend's voice, Sirius tutted and shook his head.

"It's not like that, Moony, honestly." He lowered his cup primly into its saucer and cleared his throat. "What little faith you have in me!"

"It's not about faith—it's about experience," Remus replied, pointedly. "And my experience of you is telling me a girl's involved."

Sirius grinned. At least, it mostly wasn't like that.

"So what if there is? It's something I have to do for the Order, I swear." He glanced around the room, suspiciously. "The walls have ears, Moony, or I'd tell more now. As it is, it'll have to wait till tonight. I'll give you the whole story when you come back." He jutted out his chin, stubbornly. "Assuming you are coming back."

Remus sighed and ran a hand through the his sandy brow hair. There were already flecks of gray in it, despite the fact that he was not yet 20 years old. He fixed Sirius—who was looking up at him in the uncannily charming manner of a dog trying to wheedle its way out of trouble—and fixed him with a stern look.

"Sirius—"

"You said you wanted to help me," Sirius pointed out, widening his gray eyes in what he hoped came across as guileless. "Well, this is what I need help with. Are you in or not?"

Remus had to stop himself from pointing out that facilitating what he suspected was one of his friend's many paramours was not exactly the best approach to take here.

"Fine, I'll come—but this had better be good." He took another sip of his tea and checked his watch. He stood up, suddenly brisk and businesslike. "I have to go, now, anyway."

Sirius fidgeted on the bed. There was no pretext under which he could justify asking Remus to stay—but the second he left, Sirius would be forced to reckoning with spending the rest of the day shut up in this apartment, incapable of escaping Blacks—until he returned.

"Leaving me to face the wolves, Remus?"

As soon as the words had slipped out of his mouth he regretted them.

His friend, long used to deliberate wolf-related jokes at his expense (after the birthday when Sirius had played nothing but the LP of 'Dancing in the Moonlight' by King Harvest for four hours, nothing would phase him) only gave him a rueful smile.

"After putting up with me for so long, they should be a piece of cake," Remus said, dryly.

Sirius flopped back down the bed, helplessly. A strand of hair fell careless in his eyes—he blew it up out of his eyes and sighed.

"I would face you—any day of the month, full moon included—over my father in a heartbeat."

Remus, who had his hand on the doorknob, hesitated.

"Are you sure you're alright—"

"—Don't you have enough of your own problems, Moony," Sirius interrupted him, wryly. "Without taking up mine, as well?"

Remus laughed—predictably enough, at his own expense.

"I'm sure I do—but it won't stop me worrying about yours," he said, gently. "That is what friends do."

"Be nosy gits?"

"Show concern."

Sirius sniffed.

"You and James are two of a kind—both total prats with good intentions. You shouldn't spend so much time with him—he's a bad influence on you." He squeezed the pillow to his chest again. "At least Wormy has the sense not to stick his nose in."

"He doesn't, though." Sirius's hands dropped to his sides and he sat up again. Moony wasn't joking.

"I saw him this morning," Remus continued, mildly—though his tone conveyed a small amount of concern. "He asked after you. Wondered if I had noticed anything odd, lately. He thinks you've being unusually moody." Sirius groaned and buried his face in the pillow once more. "So you see, even Peter can tell something's going on. None of your friends are going to let you silently suffer."

"When have I ever silently done anything?"

A smile flitted across Remus's face.

"I'll see you tonight."

And with a cheerful—if tired—salute, Remus turned the doorknob and walked out the door—leaving Sirius with only his thoughts for company.

They, sadly, were the last thing he wanted to be alone with.

He rolled over on his stomach and stared at the clock on the fireplace mantle. It was a little after three, and the rain, which had briefly let up in the early afternoon, was back in full force. Driving sleet was visible through the slight gap in the velvet curtains that Walburga had hung up a few days ago, casting a flickering shadow on the wall. There was a slight draft in the room—Kreacher had taken to lighting the fire every evening at five, and though Sirius had stubbornly resisted the elf's needling demands that it should be kept burning all day, even he was shivering now. His cloak was soaked through from the intermittent drizzling, and he had not yet bothered to take it off.

Of course, he could have easily charmed himself dry—but there was something strangely satisfying in being as physically miserable as he felt inside. It helped Sirius prolong the sensation of being hard done by, and that hot, self-righteous burning in his chest was the only thing keeping him going at this point.

If that ember burned out, he might as well wave the white flag.

Sirius glared at the wall. It was his 'little martyr routine'—the one he'd been 'doing since he was eight years old'—wasn't that how his father had put it? He let out a soft hiss through his teeth and hit one of the pillows with his fist, taking great pleasure in imagining it to be Orion's face.

Unfortunately, a pretend fist-fight with the man who refused to do the decent thing and grant him a real one could only provide momentary, fleeting satisfaction. After a few punches he had exhausted his enjoyment of it, and the young man rolled onto his back, spreading his arms out wide and staring listlessly at the ceiling. Anger was fast giving way to malaise.

He closed his eyes, grateful for the tea, which was the only thing staving off the throbbing he knew he wouldn't otherwise be feeling between his ears. He had not been lying to Remus—he really didn't know how long he was going to be able to keep this up. Sirius felt trapped in every conceivable way—after this morning, the urgency of that sensation had increased tenfold.

If before now it had felt like he was locked in a room, now the walls were closing in.

That had been the ugliest fight he and Orion had ever had. Worse than the substance of the argument had been the thought that had been plaguing him all afternoon, as he marched in and out of shops trying to get his father's demeaning errands done. Once it had crossed his mind, he could not shake it, and it filled him with a sickly dread that had nothing to do with his hunger.

If his father didn't disown him over this morning, than Orion's threats weren't as empty as his son had first assumed.

He really was playing the long game.

The great irony was that the only person who could help him—in the immediate—was Regulus. Predictably, he had just succeeded in pissing off this key potential ally in his quest to get chucked out of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, once and for all. He rubbed his temples—he had a whole speech planned for his brother, outlining the letter he hoped Reg would write to their grandfather, entreating him to insist Orion's will was put in order. As the 'good' grandson, there could be no argument from Arcturus on that score. That was the only surefire way to get the job done.

How desperate had he gotten, that Arcturus Black was who he was banking on to get him out of this situation?

Sirius's stomach grumbled again—even louder than before. He had eaten nothing today, and the gnawing pain in his lower gut had actually succeeded in eking out his exhaustion for the dominant feeling. The young man sat up on his side, elbow propping his head—and glared at the sandwich and salad that had been left on silver platter for him. His mouth watered at the sight of the meal he had turned his nose up to when Kreacher had first offered it to him.

Sirius reached over and picked at a bit of the greens with his finger, absently. Arugula and watercress.

I'd rather starve.

He tossed his head and forced himself to look away from the Walburga-approved food on principle—a principle that was fast seeming just as stupid as his brother had told him it was. He was starving! At this point he couldn't sneak off to the chip shop down the road—Kreacher would be sure to rat him out, and it was not worth giving that elf the satisfaction of bad behavior to report back to his parents. He would only be doing it to get an excuse to see his mistress chew 'Master Sirius' out for wrongdoing—he'd always taken a smug pleasure in that.

Well, he thought, forcing himself to look on the bright side: he had his favorite vice as a solace, in the absence of edible food. Sirius reached into his cloak pocket to pull out the battered box of cigs he always kept in there, and his hand closed around a hard object he wasn't expecting. His eyes widened in recognition, and he pulled the silver hip-flask out of his pocket and held it up in the dim light of his bed room.

Sirius smiled, ruefully—this was the only thing he'd removed from his pockets last night that he'd actually gotten back.

He examined the dent with more curiosity than he'd shown in the study—Merlin, Orion really had hurled it. He laughed quietly and clasped one hand around his one souvenir from the night, staring at the ceiling and thinking about how he'd nearly lost it for good.

Well, at least one of my problems will be taken care of, after tonight.

It was a small comfort—he considered her, the unassuming brunette with the heart-shaped face and the clear eyes—that most unlikely of catalyst for the high drama and explosive end to his evening.

Colette Battancourt.

What had been the odds of running into her again? High, he supposed—England was not a large country, not for their sort of people—but being discovered by her, when it should have been impossible, for he was wearing his own face and not a gigantic ruddy Norwegian—that had been the kicker.

No mere schoolgirl witch could get that lucky twice.

Being discovered by a person once was a fluke, but twice spoke to some not inconsiderable talent for snooping—or to an insatiable curiosity. Either way, it boded ill for him. Underneath her unassuming exterior, that Colette was deceptively dangerous.

But she still doesn't know who I really am, he thought, a slow grin spreading over his face. She has no idea.

It had been the most surprising bit of all. It was a balm for his wounded spirits, to be looked at by those clear and perceptive eyes, and not at once identified as the wayward, scalawag son of Orion and Walburga Black—the son she knew all about (more than she even realized!) A heady, freeing feeling had swept over him—to think he could wear his own face and not be seen as an extension of them. Sirius had never wanted less to be in his own skin, to be who he was born—Colette Battancourt proved that there were still people who saw him as he wanted to see himself—as wholly his own, autonomous, disconnected from everyone and everything not of his own choosing.

He wanted to prolong that sensation for as long as possible. That was the reason, Sirius kept telling himself, he had not told her the truth, then and there. He wanted to pretend he wasn't Sirius Orion Black for just a little longer—and she was the only person in England who he could still fool.

Of course, it wasn't likely they would meet again. After tonight, he very much doubted she would be staying at Grimmauld Place at all—or even still in Britain.

He felt a little bad about tricking her, but…it was probably for the best, in the end.

But there were still eight hours before he knew for sure, about probably at least two before Walburga showed up. He was tired—but too distracted to sleep. Sirius shifted his head on the pillow, and the book bag still half-full of Phineas Nigellus's moldering letters that Regulus had unceremoniously chucked at him came into view.

His brother's words returned to him—and in a rare moment of acquiescence to Regulus's better common sense, he sighed and pulled the bag towards him. Reg was right—if he didn't at least half-arse trying to find some proof of the necklace's origins, Orion would be absolutely livid—and knowing his father, would surely find some new way of torturing his eldest son as punishment for this disobedience. Better not to be called lazy on top of everything else.

Besides—the past, even if it was the tedious and insular past of his family, was a distraction from the problems of here and now. He needed that.

When he reached into the bag, pulling out and opening the first volume of the letters of 1868, a thick layer of dust flew up into his face. Sirius coughed—and got a mouthful of hundred year old dirt for his trouble. He fumbled over to the bedside table and groped for the jug of water there. When he did, his hand brushed against the tray of food again.

Sirius gulped down some water and returned to staring hungrily at the sandwich; his stomach gurgled again. Well, if she wasn't hovering over him to prove to herself that she could make him eat what she wanted, Sirius supposed there wasn't any harm in trying it.

He picked it up—there were a stack of four on the tray—and took a tentative nibble.

The watercress had a peppery, hearty taste. There was a thin layer of Serrano ham on the sandwich, too, and goat's cheese—two of his favorites, and evidently added on his mother's instruction, to give the sandwich some substance.

He chewed, slowly. It tasted…fine.

It really wasn't that bad at all. The realization that he didn't hate watercress as he had the last time he'd been forced to eat it—probably sometime around 1969—hit him with the force of a speeding train, and he was suddenly more annoyed than he would have been if it was the bitterest sandwich on earth.

He shoved the rest in his mouth, chewing with gusto, and then grabbed the tray, sticking the fork into the limp salad and digging into that as well. Sirius determined that if he was going to wade into the miasma of the gossip and family squabbling of the ancestors he had only ever known as portraits, at least he'd have a full stomach when he did.

He ate quickly, and when he'd finished inhaling the salad and sandwiches he chugged the rest of the pitcher of water—almost as if he hoped to get the taste of the food out of his mouth.

The wizard leaned back against the headboard, blanket nestled around his shoulders. Sirius forced his mind to focus on the words in front of him, and not to think about the possibility that his mother had been right on that far away day, when, exasperated at Sirius's stubborn refusal to eat the things he was given, Walburga had uttered what now felt to him prophetic words.

"Sirius Orion Black—one day you'll see you could like the things we tell you are best perfectly well, if you only gave them a chance. I only hope I live to see the day you admit it and apologize for all the grief you've given me—when you admit at last that I was right about everything."

You won't, he thought, shivering from the cold and—something else. Not ever.

---

"I told you it would all be fine."

Colette, who had been focusing very intently on not tripping on her soggy skirts as she climbed up the tall steps to Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, visibly started at Mrs. Malfoy's words. When she turned her head to look up at Narcissa—her friend's aunt was ahead of them, lifting the enchantments on the door to the townhouse—the expression she found on her new friend's face was a reassuring smile, like that of an older sister.

Or at least, what Colette had always imagined an older sister's smile to be like.

She swallowed and nodded, smiling back with a tad less confidence about entering the Black family's home than her newfound friend evidently felt. That was, she supposed, unsurprising—though she had only known Narcissa as a married woman, her friend was a Black by blood, and had no doubt been to her aunt and uncle's house dozens of times. If the elegant ash-blonde at Colette's left had ever been intimidated by the house—and Narcissa seemed so confident to her that she doubted it—the feeling must have long since faded.

"Hurry up, girls—inside!" Mrs. Black ordered them, briskly, as the door to Number Twelve creaked open. "You'll catch your death out here."

The two young witches hurried up the steps—Colette falling naturally half a step behind Narcissa, in deference to age and position.

At the sight of that high-ceilinged entry hall, the girl let out a low gasp. It was grandly furnished in garnet-red and ebony paneling, just as her great-aunt had assured her it would be, considering the position that the Blacks held in magical society in this country—but Eugenie had not warned her that the dark glamour that the Blacks exuded would extend as far as the decor, or that the aura of their home would border on sinister.

She shivered from excitement as much as cold.

"Tea, then?" Mrs. Black asked, them off-handedly, as she stripped off her fine silk gloves. "In the drawing room—that will warm us up."

Narcissa and Colette murmured an ascent to this idea, their teeth chattering.

"I'll fetch your uncle—" She fixed her eyes beadily up the stairs. "No doubt he's shut up in his study, thinking we don't know he's there. If he's not going to have tea with us, the least he can do is say 'hello.'"

Colette, who after last night's incident with the imposter still lived in dread of Mr. Black's reaction to her coming to stay in his house, shook her head.

"If it's too much trouble, you really don't have to call Mr. Black—and bother him—"

"Nonsense, girl."

She marched up the stairway to the second floor without a second glance back.

In spite of her trepidation, the corner of the girl's mouth turned up. Madame Black was not a woman to be trifled with—she reminded Colette a bit of her own mother, though, she thought, wryly—from the little she'd seen of him, Mr. Black seemed a far more forceful personality than her papa.

"Well, what do you think?"

"It's a bit…grand," Colette admitted, diplomatically. In truth, the hall very much appealed to the gothic side of her imagination—as a place to visit, or, in her case, a place out of a novel. Colette was much more at home in cozy, cheerfully lit bright rooms reading about places like Grimmauld Place.

Narcissa smirked, seemingly reading her mind.

"Don't worry," she said, removing her cloak and hanging it on the rack by the umbrella rack Colette thought looked awfully like a troll's foot. "If you married Reggie you wouldn't live here—at least not at first."

The brunette's fingers fumbled with the fastenings of her cloak. Her cheeks flushed bright scarlet.

"You shouldn't speak like that," she mumbled, drying herself off with her wand—her hand was shaking. "Your aunt might hear."

Narcissa shrugged, a little elegant gesture, accentuated by the mink collar of her robes. She rested her hand on the bannister of the stairs, clicking her long French-manicured nails on the wood.

"We came here often, when we were children," Narcissa said, looking up the staircase. Colette couldn't see her face—but she thought her friend's voice sounded very far away. "When we thought we could get away with it—when Uncle Orion couldn't see, I mean—we would slide down this bannister."

"We?"

Narcissa's shoulders tensed. For the first time since Colette had arrived on the shores of England, she saw Mrs. Malfoy falter.

"My—my sister and I."

Her voice was devoid of emotion, careless—too careless, the falsity in her brittle tone plain. Colette wondered if she was aware that she got very quiet and odd whenever the subject of her sisters—in the plural, came up. The French witch only knew of the mysterious middle Black sister through idle gossip, picked up from her aunt. she had, the stories said, made a bad marriage straight out of school, and no one in the family spoke of her.

She had not plucked up the courage to ask Narcissa about her other sister, yet. She might never—though the curiosity that was both blessing and curse meant that she would likely never stop wondering.

"It's a very fine bannister," Colette said, forcibly cheerful trying to coax the older girl out of her mood. "Maybe we could—slide down it now, while your aunt and uncle are still upstairs."

It had been a feeble attempt, but it did the trick by distracting Mrs. Malfoy from wherever it was in the distant past her thoughts lingered.

"Don't be silly," Narcissa chided, in the slightly superior, sister-knows-best voice she sometimes employed. The brunette had a feeling that, as the youngest, she had picked it up from her own sisters and quite enjoyed getting a chance to employ it on someone else. "We're far too old for such things."

She tossed her magnificent blond head and turned on her sharp heels, clicking them on the floor as she walked past the main staircase and into the drawing room. Colette followed her, glancing around at the murmuring portraits of Black ancestors that watched them. Before she slipped inside the room, she caught sight of the row of stuffed heads of house-elves lining the staircase and shivered again.

Mrs. Malfoy, for her part, seemed to have recovered his spirits, and was now talking animatedly about what they would do for the days leading up to the Black family Christmas party on the 24th.

"I'm sure my aunt and uncle won't be a bother—they'll keep to themselves, not get in the way. They're both of retiring dispositions, anyway—there's a concert tomorrow at the Orpheum, Lucius said he'd meet us—" She turned her head back to look at Colette as she opened the door to the drawing room. "—he'll bring a few friends, that will liven things up. I thought we'd have dinner in tonight—"

Narcissa turned towards the elegant settee and sofa and froze in place so suddenly that her friend bumped into her.

"What is it?"

Narcissa was staring at the floor—where three of the sofa cushions were haphazardly strewn about, marring an otherwise neat-as-a-pin room.

"That's…that's so odd," she murmured, staring at the pillows on the floor. "It's like…"

"Like what?" Colette asked.

But before the other could answer her question, the door flew open and Mrs. Black hurried in.

"Orion? Are you in here—?" She stopped at the door when she saw the two girls—sans her husband. "You haven't seen your uncle, have you?"

There was the barest hint of concern in Mrs. Black's voice. Both girls blinked in confusion and shook their heads.

"Isn't he in his study?" Narcissa asked, exchanging a look of mild surprise with Colette. She could not think of the last time Uncle Orion had done anything that had surprised her. In fact, Narcissa was not sure he ever had.

Her aunt jerked her head from side to side.

"No," she said, shortly—then she closed her eyes and assumed the position of the slighted, annoyed wife, which was far more typical—though she would usually not speak so in front of people who weren't in the family, like this Colette Battancourt. "I don't know where that man has gotten to. He's not in the house and he—he didn't leave a note in the study or—on the table in the foyer."

An uncomfortable silence followed this statement. Colette was trying very hard not to meet Mrs. Black's eyes, because everything she had learned about this woman suggested that comfort—the suggestion that anything was amiss—would be even less welcome than a question about Mr. Black's possible whereabouts.

Sometimes silence really was the answer, and luckily Colette Battancourt was good at it.

"That's not like Uncle Orion," Narcissa intoned, softly.

"Yes, well—" There was a noticeable strain in Walburga Black's voice that would be difficult for anyone, even a girl as unaccented with her as Ms. Battancourt, to ignore. "I'm certain…where ever he is, he'll be back—"

Abruptly, Mrs. Black cut herself off. She had spotted the sofa cushions on the floor as well, and her reaction was even more strange than Narcissa's. At first she looked merely surprised—but this bewilderment was momentary, and after a second her eyes narrowed, and her expression morphed into one of shrewdness—and recognition.

She turned her head sharply in the direction of her niece.

"Did you find it like this, Narcissa?" Mrs. Black asked, in a tight voice. Her mouth was pressed in a thin line,

"Yes, we did." Narcissa looked around at her aunt, a curious, closed-off expression on her delicate features. "I thought it very…odd. Almost as if—"

"—Almost as if what?" Walburga snapped, echoing Colette's question—though her voice was glacial.

Colette thought that if Madame Black had looked at her that way, she'd have fainted from fear—but Narcissa was evidently accustomed enough to her aunt's ways not to let it phase her. Her face was a smooth blank, utterly emotionless in the face of the aggressive look the older woman was leveling in her direction.

"…Nothing, Auntie." Mrs. Malfoy shrugged again. "I thought Kreacher might've been called away when he was cleaning and—that was why the room was upended."

'Upended' was an overstatement. The cushions on the floor marred an otherwise spotless room—the glass cabinets, piano, carpets were clean and dusted. That was what made it so odd—though Colette thought their reaction to it was odder, still. It appeared to have some meaning to the two women—be a sign of something she, Colette, could not see.

Mrs. Black nodded slowly at Narcissa's suggestion. The shrewdness that had flashed on her face disappeared, hidden behind the mask that Colette was fast coming to associate with her new friend's family.

The imposter's warning about how she ought to stay away from them came back to her, suddenly, and she felt something on the back of her neck—her hair standing on end.

"Yes—the elf. He'll be behind this—" She snapped her finger briskly and called out, in a voice used to command, "Kreacher—come here, at once!"

There was a loud CRACK, and the Black's weathered old house-elf appeared in front of his mistress, head bowed.

"Mistress Black called for Kreacher?" The elf raised his long-snout, a little confused—when he caught sight of the blond at Walburga's side, he broke into an obsequious smile. "Miss Cissy is here as well! How is the young miss?"

Narcissa gave the elf an indulgent smile, though she didn't stoop to pat him on the head. As the best behaved of her cousins, he had a special fondness for her—though Regulus would always be his favorite.

"Very well." She pulled Colette forward by the sleeve of her robe. Kreacher turned his black eyes to the new girl. "This is my friend, Colette Battancourt. She's come with me for a visit."

Colette smiled kindly at the elf—she had been taught to always be polite around other family's servants, for it would reflect better on your family and show respect to your hosts if you did—but he wasn't looking at her, had not taken his eyes off of Narcissa.

"Miss Cissy is…staying at Grimmauld Place?"

The old creature's confusion was obvious, he turned at once to confirm this with his mistress. She waved at him, airily.

"Yes—Narcissa and her companion will be staying here until Christmas Eve. But that's not your concern, and nor is it why I called you." Mrs. Black thrust her wand in the direction of the floor, where the pillows still lay, an offense to the eyes and to hostesses the world over. "We came in the room and found this. What do you have to say for yourself?"

The elf looked where she was pointing—and then a look of surprise, morphing into the same acute recognition flitted across his weathered face.

When he looked up at her, Colette saw a look she didn't think she'd ever seen a house-elf give its master.

The servant was waiting for a cue from her.

"Well?" Mrs. Black asked, staring down her nose imperiously. "Ex—explain this."

Kreacher looked from his mistress's face to the pile of pillows on the floor, little hard face still screwed up in thought. After a moment, he bowed so low to the floor his nose touched it.

"Kreacher thinks—it must've happened before—he set out to do Mistress's task for her," he said, stressing the final word. "In the morning, when Mistress was out of the house—"

"—Very well!" she cut him off, curtly. Her gray eyes had widened in understanding—and just as abruptly she seemed to want the matter dropped. "Mind you don't let it happen again."

In a second Kreacher the elf had righted the cushions, and the room was immaculate again. Mrs. Black and her loyal servant were considering each other in a vaguely conspiratorial manner.

"—On the subject of your task," the Mistress of Grimmauld Place continued, seriously. "Did you do as I instructed?"

The elf bowed and nodded, eagerly.

"Both of them?" she pressed, pointedly.

To this cryptic remark, the elf nodded, pleased with himself.

"Yes, mistress—both."

Walburga nodded and broke into a smile. She was evidently just as pleased at his obedience and success—perhaps what she had asked him to do was very difficult, for there was an aura of triumph around it—but her eyes remained narrowed, sharply fixed on her servant.

"Your master isn't in the house or anywhere to be found." The elf bowed again, as if he had any control over Orion Black's whereabouts, or his knowledge thereof. "Was he over—did he leave a message with you?"

"I believe I can be of service in this matter."

All three women turned. A sly, bearded man in green robes was standing in a landscape that was clearly not his own portrait. He was looking at Mrs. Black with fixed interest—though his clever eyes darted to his great-great-granddaughter and her friend, the nobody.

"It's Phineas Nigellus Black," Narcissa whispered to Colette, in an undertone. "He was a headmaster of Hogwarts, and head of the family."

The man in question—painted in fine oils—gave an ironic little bow to Ms. Battancourt, before turning his attention back to Walburga.

"The Master of the house begs your forgiveness," he drawled, casually. "But he has been called away on rather urgent business of some kind with an…associate."

"What kind of business?" Mrs. Black asked, so put-out by this cavalier dismissal that it seemed she had momentarily forgotten that Narcissa and her friend were even in the room.

Phineas raised an eyebrow.

"The kind that will detain him until your dinner," he replied, sleekly. "He said he would meet you directly, after which no doubt he will discuss the matter with you in more…detail."

Mrs. Black looked as though she wanted to argue, but the portrait gave her an odd, quailing look, and she demurred. He walked out of the dreary landscape, giving another bow to the girls and leaving them alone in the drawing room.

"Kreacher—fetch us tea," Mrs. Black ordered, tonelessly and she went over to one of the sofas and sank into the cushions, seeming all at once very tired. The two younger girls followed her. There was an odd, strained energy in the room, and no one knew quite what to say.

Narcissa cleared her throat.

"You and Uncle Orion are going out for dinner tonight?" she asked, the barest hint of surprise evident in her voice. She had been counting on this evening to show Colette off to her uncle, who was notoriously taciturn in disposition—getting him interested in meeting anyone new or outside his narrow family circle was always a challenge, as was getting him out of the house.

It had never occurred to her that he and his wife would be dining out two nights in a row. That much society was unthinkable for them.

"Yes—we made the plans before we knew you were staying—" Her auntie replied, in a strained voice. "You'll have to have an early supper, I'm afraid. The elf is coming with us."

"So we'll have the place to ourselves?"

"You will," Mrs. Black remarked, dryly, leaning her head back on the pillow in a rare display of repose. "I trust two sensible girls can keep themselves out of trouble for one evening."

Narcissa exchanged an amused look with her friend. Something in the pit of Colette's stomach squirmed at Mrs. Black's inadvertent allusion to what her young guest was planning on doing tonight (An assignation! Her!). A jumble of excitement and fear churned inside of Colette's stomach, and it was only a quarter of an hour later, after a cup of tea and three biscuits, that she emerged from her day-dreamy state into the land of the living again.

"When will your trunks be arriving?" Walburga asked—they told her this afternoon (Narcissa had gone ahead and asked for Colette's to be sent for before she had gotten the go-ahead to, something the younger girl would've have not had the nerve to do), and she gave the elf, who was waiting on them, instructions to make sure the beds were made up for them.

"Narcissa always stays in the Rose Room, on the ground floor," Mrs. Black informed her. "We have guest rooms on the second and third floors of the house—"

"—May I have one on the third?" Colette blurted out, the caffeine from the tea and the thought of the hidden staircase one flight above making her unusually daring. "I do—so love a room with a view."

Walburga blinked, in surprise. Narcissa's friend was usually so quiet—when she did speak, it was with a curious and frank style she was unused to from young females.

"The only view is of the Muggle street." Mrs. Black wrinkled her nose in distaste. "I hope you don't find them interesting."

Colette shook her head, contritely. She might've been in country bumpkin in the eyes of her Parisian cousins, but she knew enough about society to realize that it was never a good idea to show too much interest in Muggles or their strange ways.

Besides—there was something far more interesting that awaited her tonight.

It was just a matter of getting to it.

---

Happy birthday Sirius! And thank you to everyone who voted for In the Black in the 2018 Marauder Medals contest. The story placed second, thanks to ya'll. It means a lot. I hope you will continue to read and enjoy. I love writing the story, but it's a ton of work, and your comments and enthusiasm keeping me going.