"Master always liked his little joke," said Kreacher, bowing again, and continuing in an undertone, "Master was a nasty ungrateful swine who broke his mother's heart—"
"My mother didn't have a heart, Kreacher," Sirius snapped. "She kept herself alive out of pure spite."
- J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
CHAPTER 12
December 21st, 1979
By the time Sirius had found the third pile of rat droppings in the back of his cupboards, he had pretty well resigned himself to the fact that there was no coffee anywhere to be found in his flat. He was also determined to ask Wormtail, the next time he saw him, if he had been the one to inform the entire Westminster rodent population where the crevices in his walls were—probably as some kind of payback for how much Sirius had blown him off of late.
He could think of no other explanation for this sudden infestation—rats had never been a problem before now.
He tossed the dusty biscuit box in a corner and walked back into the sitting room, a black cloud following in his wake. The dining room table, still set up from the night before, lay bare—bar the mug of tea he'd managed to conjure up as an alternative to the desperately needed espresso. This, Sirius thought, staring gloomily down at the ancient tea leaves floating at the bottom of his murky cup, would have to do for nursing his colossal hangover—at least in the short term. He could get something better after.
If there even was an after.
He took his first sip and winced—less from the weak tea than the general pall of doom that hung over his flat this morning. A sudden burst of light flooded into the sitting room and directly in his face. Sirius covered his eyes to block the sunbreak, cursing the heavens under his breath—when he waved his wand, the blinds flew shut with a snap so aggressive that one of them fell off.
Sirius rubbed his temples and sighed. His head was pounding from a combination of booze and the sleepless night he'd endured. Somehow—perhaps miraculously—it had been even worse than the night before.
Sirius had not thought that possible.
"Shit, shit, shit, SHIT—!"
The flat in Lisson Grove was dark when he flung the door open—so hard that he was vaguely aware of having dented the wall, except that didn't matter, nothing else did in this moment—Remus lay on the sofa, illuminated by the flicker of the television set—he looked like he'd fallen asleep, the lucky sod—
"Sirius…is that you?" The tired voice from the sofa called out, and then a head rose, and sleepy eyes blinked in the dark. "Where the hell have you be—?"
Remus's question was cut-short by a set of car keys hurled in his face.
"Shut up—there's no time for that now—" He tugged his friend off the couch, forcefully, and began pushing him towards the door. "We have to get her out of here, quickly—up, up—!"
"—Padfoot—it's past one-thirty—what are you on about—"
"—You're going to have to take her and hide her, d'you understand?" Sirius picked Moony's coat off the peg and the wall and began helping him into it. His bewildered and only half-conscious friend allowed him to do this. "We need to find a safe place—how do you fancy flying up to the Outer Hebrides tonight? Or maybe down to Gibraltar?"
"Will you calm down? You look like you're going to empty to contents of your stomach on the floor—"
"No, actually—forget that. Too risky. Don't tell me where you're taking her. Much safer. Then I have plausible deniability—"
"Sirius, who in the name of Merlin's bollocks are you talking about?"
"Elvira, of course, who do you think I mean? Look, I know you said you'd never ride it again, but I've modified her quite a bit since that incident in Leeds, and you wouldn't even be riding pillion this time—"
"'That incident in Leeds'?" Remus repeated, incredulously. "You mean 'that incident' where the sidecar's door fell off and I nearly plunged two hundred feet to my death—"
"We were over a river, Moony! And anyway, you had a wand, you would've been fine—"
"—Why're you back so late?"
Remus and Sirius froze mid-argument and turned their heads towards the door. Regulus, clad in his dark silk pajamas and dressing gown, was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, watching them. His dark hair was slightly mussed, suggesting he'd been trying—probably with little success—to sleep.
"Go back to bed, Reg."
"What happened? I thought you were only going to be gone a half hour."
"Plans—changed."
"What plans?"
"Look, it's too late to go into it, alight? Suffice it to say the—operation was successful in…meeting its objectives."
Remus and Regulus exchanged identical looks of surprise.
"So…she got caught?" Moony asked, perturbed. "The girl?"
Sirius sighed and ran one hand through his hair.
"…Yes. She got caught. I'm sure she'll be—packing her bags first thing in the morning."
Another exchange of confused looks. Considering how optimistic he'd been at the outset of the evening, they'd both expected a little more crowing upon Sirius's return, if the 'mission' truly had been successful.
Regulus crossed his arms in front of his chest and stared, suspiciously. His brother sighed again.
"Just—go into the bedroom, Reggie. I'll be there in a few minutes—I promise." He looked up from the carpet he'd been staring at and threw his brother a rueful look. "I won't leave you to sleep in there alone, again."
Embarrassed that Sirius had anticipated his refusal to leave until this childish promise had been made, Regulus flushed scarlet in the dark.
"I wouldn't care if you did. You can sleep out here on that moldy old sofa, if you want. Just—" Regulus hesitated. "—If you are coming, don't be too long. You're—loud when you come in."
Sirius made a noise of irritated acquiescence. Regulus, satisfied that his brother was safely back in the flat, retreated to their bedroom. Sirius was starting to think of more as his brother's than his own.
He turned back to Remus, who was now looking down at the keys which had bounced off his face and into his hands, expression thoughtful.
"I know you've already done me more than one favor today—and that you made it crystal clear when I bought the bike you didn't want to ever drive it, but—" Remus looked up—expression suddenly piercing. Sirius was not too proud to beg at this point—but he was counting on Moony's benevolent nature to win the day. "—Can you please do this for me?"
To his surprise—and relief—Remus smiled, with humor.
"…That French girl wasn't the only one who got caught tonight by your mother, was she?"
His expression must've answered the question, for the werewolf's smile widened.
"You did! Oh, Padfoot. You couldn't resist—you couldn't be the villain." He covered his mouth to smother a grin. "Had to change your mind and play the white knight, instead."
Sirius shoved him, or tried—but Remus, long used to attacks from this quarter, was able to dodge out of the way handily.
"Think it's funny, do you? Let me tell you, I will never take pity on any bird ever again. It's not worth this—" Moony only laughed and clasped him affectionately on the shoulder. "—Nothing would be!"
"That bad, was it?"
"I thought she was going to blast it to bloody smithereens! In fact, if there hadn't been Muggles about, she probably would've."
At this description, Remus actually laughed. As Sirius didn't have the energy to keep scowling at him, his face, too, split into a rueful grin. It was too ridiculous—and he was not such a stuffed shirt he couldn't laugh at himself.
"She's coming over for breakfast tomorrow, you know—so this may very well be the last favor you ever do for me."
In the end, curiosity to hear the thrilling tale—as well as the weak will and soft heart of Remus Lupin, where ever denying his friends was concerned—won the day, and, under cover of darkness, Elvira the motorbike was removed from the safety of its spot in the overhang at the back of housing block, to be taken to parts unknown.
At least unknown to the bike's owner, who already felt her absence keenly.
The thought of the audience proved a more vivid nightmare than anything his subconscious could cook up, and Sirius had spent a sleepless night tossing and turning in the cot in the bedroom. Regulus had always been a heavy sleeper, so the light, restive breathing from the bed had been a sign to Sirius that his brother was not having a great night, either.
In dread of the inevitable moment in the early hours that Regulus broke the silence between them, just before dawn he grabbed a change of clothes from the closet and quietly slinked out into the hall.
That was how he found himself here, sitting at the dining room table—dressed in a particularly drab set of pale green robes, the one set of his father's cast-offs he'd managed to avoid donning in the past week—back ramrod straight, staring at the clock (hour hand on the seven) as the one marking the minutes slowly inched its way towards the twelve at the top.
Twenty seconds…eleven…eight…four…
Precisely at the stroke of the hour—and without preemptory knock—the front door of the flat opened.
"Good morning, Sirius Orion."
As she crossed the threshold, Sirius clumsily got to his feet.
"Good—morning," he said, his voice subdued. "—ma'am."
Mrs. Black did not appear to notice her son's unusual deference in standing when she entered beyond a short and careless head bob in his direction, indicating without words that he had permission to sit.
Which he did—for once in his life, obediently—and without comment.
Walburga bustled into the flat, her handsome organdy gown peaking out from under a sable-lined cloak, her head adorned with a jaunty beaver-trimmed hat. She bore none of the signs of distress and sleep deprivation which so marked Sirius—she looked quite pretty today, in fact—her natural, queenly bearing enhanced by the particular care she'd taken with both hair and dress. At her right side she carried an enormous hamper—bewitched feather-light, clearly—from which was emanating many familiar and delectable scents.
Chief among them—coffee.
Sirius's mouth watered at the aroma. He watched Walburga unclasp the ivory buttons of her cloak and hang it on the wall, steeling himself for the worst.
"I hope you slept well."
He made a indistinct sort of noncommittal noise in the back of his throat—she, thankfully, did not press him for a more intelligent answer.
Calmly and methodically, his mother began to set the table—summoning the linen table cloth from the sideboard, and then pulling out one of her day sets of china from the hamper. She waved her wand—Sirius flinched as the silver butter knife flew towards him, but it merely followed the spoon, fork and napkin in a neat row before him on the place setting. Two covered silver trays came next; each landed gently next to the two place settings and were cradled by a silver casing beneath them which held a flame, meant to keep the food hot.
She next pulled out the silver coffee service, cream and sugar bowls, as well as her favorite willow-patterned china cups. Sirius was evidently doing a poor job of hiding his longing, for she surprised him when she looked up from the cup she'd poured and spoke, without preamble:
"Cream or sugar?"
"W-what?"
"I asked if you would you like cream or sugar in your coffee, Sirius Orion," his mother repeated, with only the barest hint of impatience. "It is a simple question—I see no need for you to gape at it."
Sirius closed his mouth and swallowed. His tongue was unbearably dry.
"I—" He nibbled the edge of his lip. "—Neither, please."
He took the cup and saucer with trembling fingers. Walburga returned to the task of setting out the toast and butter dish, seemingly oblivious to the new horrible suspicion her son was directing towards the cup, until—
"That isn't poisoned, you know."
He looked up from the cup, his eyes narrowed.
"Or laced with anything?" Sirius asked—risking getting accusatory with her for the first time since she'd come in.
She gave him one of her set-down looks and lifted the coffee service to pour herself a generous cup—eyes not leaving his face.
"Lace your coffee?" Walburga stirred in a dollop of cream, watching her eldest son with an intently feline expression. "Good gracious—why would I do such a thing?"
"It wouldn't be the first time," her son muttered, darkly.
"It's seven o'clock in the morning, Sirius Orion." She set her spoon down on the edge of the saucer. "I did not put dreamless sleeping draught in your cup, though—" Mrs. Black gave the dark circles around his eyes a critical look. "Now I wonder if I shouldn't have. You don't look as though you slept well at all."
Sirius snorted, softly. 'Didn't look as though he'd slept well'—Merlin, why could that have been?
"I've had better nights," he admitted, curtly.
"Hmph—well, better have a nap this afternoon, to catch up," she recommended, her tone placid. "And turn in early this evening. You do need your rest."
He stared down into the murky depths of the cup which wafted so enticingly in his face, the mug of tea all but forgotten. Accusing her of having slipped Veritaserum into the coffee or food was a dangerous proposition. She was calm now, but there was no telling what would set her off.
Better not give Walburga an excuse to repeat last night's scene. He sincerely doubted she gave a damn about disturbing his flat neighbors in the wee hours of the morning by keeping the screaming down.
Rather theatrically, Mrs. Black raised the cup to her lips and—eyes bright and scathing—took an altogether louder sip than she might have, if she was not doing so to illustrate that the coffee was indeed safe to drink. Sirius grudgingly followed suit. It was strong and dark, and upon drinking it, he immediately felt more human.
The two trays of food remained hidden by their silver-plated domes. Sirius was wise enough to know that he should not try to lift his without express permission.
His mother took another sip from her coffee cup.
"Where is it?" Walburga asked, casually, over the rim.
A light, pleasant question—with the unmistakeable air of menace lurking just below the surface.
There it is.
"Where's what?"
Her smile became poisonously sweet.
"You know precisely what I am referring to, Sirius Orion." The silver teaspoon tapped eerily against the gold-rimmed edge of the cup as she stirred. "You will not disgrace yourself—or force me to do the same—by speaking the name of that thing aloud."
He thought he'd been doing an admirable job keeping his tongue in check, but at this typically melodramatic pronouncement, Sirius couldn't help himself—he smirked.
"What, are you going to burst into flames if you say the word 'motorbi—'"
"I told you not to speak of it!" Mrs. Black snapped, losing her temper at last—though she regained control of it quickly—her next words came out so forcedly calm they might have been squeezed through a toothpaste tube. "Now, for the last time—where is that blasted abomination?"
This return to classic form bolstered Sirius's courage.
"Away—gone."
"Did you…dispose of it?" The delicate stress on the word was exquisite.
"If you mean did I pitch it into the sea, then no, I didn't!" Sirius stubbornly set his jaw. "It's someplace safe, where you can't find it." His mother's eyes flashed, but he plunged on, recklessly. "And if you try to have another go at my bike, I might just stick Regulus in the sidecar and—fly off to South America with him—and then you won't have any sons to bully."
Walburga's eyes smoldered. Sirius instantly knew he'd gone too far. A direct threat was bad enough—one that involved taking her son away from her—well—
—That was just asking for the claws to come out.
"If you were truly stupid enough to trifle with me in such a way—know this." She leaned over the table. "You wouldn't make it twenty miles before I caught you—and you would not enjoy it very much when I did."
His defiant glare wavered slightly, in the face of the chill emanating from the other side of the table. At least the 'missus sweet' act was over.
"How long did you intend to keep that thing a secret from us?" Walburga demanded, imperiously. "Did you truly think we wouldn't find out about it?"
Familiar ground between them—Sirius felt more comfortable getting combative with her, when she was setting the pace.
"To tell you the truth, I was hoping to ride it out until my next disowning," he shot back, sarcastically. "The one that will hopefully stick, this time, and render the point moot."
As soon as the words left Sirius's lips, a sickening wave of guilt followed.
The color rose in his mother's cheeks, but she remained silent—a discernible reaction in and of itself, for it was very rare that Walburga Black should be rendered speechless by anyone. Mother and son stared at one another while both cups of coffee sat on the table, abandoned. Sirius tried not to blink but—he found that odd, closed-off look on her face so unnerving that he could hardly bear to look at her—like staring directly into the sun.
As was true in the case of his father, yelling would have been preferable to this silence that felt as if it might stretch on for days.
At long last, Walburga looked down. He got the sense that she was thinking very carefully about her next words—but when she did speak, it was in her usual clipped and haughty manner.
"I find this subject—tedious. I don't wish to discuss it anymore. At least not at present." She looked around at the door that led to the kitchen. "Where is your brother?"
"Still—in bed, I think," Sirius answered her—and then he busied himself with playing with his sleeve cuff, eager to hide how unnerved he was by her strange docility.
Walburga let out a little huff that made her son's lip twitch. Regulus's tendency to sleep late had always annoyed her, and Sirius was surprised to find that the familiar look of irritation, her perfect nose scrunched up, in that funny way that made her look as though she was about to sneeze, stirred some-long buried and forgotten emotion in him.
His mother tapped her wand briskly against the breakfast trays—the flames she'd conjured to keep them warm went out.
"Well, he can have some breakfast when he finally decides to tumble out of bed." She sighed the long-suffering sigh of the mother of a teenage wizard. "I see no reason why we should wait."
Another wave of her wand, and both silver lids flew up into the air and neatly stacked themselves to the right of the hamper.
Sirius, eager to busy himself with something that was not staring down his mother—and very hungry—lifted his fork and knife and looked down at his plate—then froze.
"…What—is this?"
Mrs. Black, who was delicately sawing a sausage in half, looked up to see where her son was pointing his knife.
"It's your breakfast." Sirius looked over at her plate—two poached eggs, a pair of sausages to match, a modest heap of fried potatoes, fruit—the same breakfast she ate every morning. "I hope you like it. I had it prepared for you specially."
Sirius swiveled his head back around to the plate in front of him, confusion growing. There were piles of food, here, too—but nothing she had ever served him in the nearly seventeen years he'd lived under her roof. The bulk of the spread was taken up by a heap of something white and slimy which emanated a pungent smell, and an unappetizing brown gelatin-looking square he supposed to be cheese. There were also eggs—hiding under a pile of smoked salmon, of all things.
"I know that, I just mean—what is that?" He pointed at the fish, and then the chocolate-colored block. "And that?"
She looked up from her grapefruit to the two piles he was poking with his fork.
"Pickled herring and brown cheese," Mrs. Black supplied, helpfully, as she buttered a slice of toast. There was a slight edge to her voice, now, and Sirius looked up from his plate again, this time with a growing sense of dread.
The strange food was fast taking on some significance in Sirius's mind he couldn't—in his exhausted and semi-delirious state—place.
"And why exactly would you think I want to eat pickled herring and brown cheese?"
She went back to sawing her sausages into tiny pieces.
"It's—so I'm told, at least—what they enjoy for breakfast—"
She looked up from her plate and gave him one of the icy looks that had felled many a stronger man than he in his day. He felt his body seize up.
"—in Norway."
It only took a second before Sirius dropped the fork and knife back on the table. For the first time since she'd come in the room, Walburga was giving her son her full attention, her sharp eyes flashing with that familiar sign.
Fuck.
"How—" Sirius dropped his head onto the table. "How much did the girl tell you?"
His voice was depressed and muffled by the linen. Mrs. Black dispassionately watched as her eldest son, forehead still resting on the table, managed to bury his face in his hands.
"Oh—most everything, I expect." She took another sip of her coffee, ignoring the loud groan from the boy across from her. She gave him a brittle look over the rim. "Everything she knew, at any rate."
Tentatively, Sirius raised his head—and risked a peak through his fingers.
"And…how much did you tell her?"
Walburga's son watched as she sipped from her coffee cup, seemingly oblivious to his hanging off the literal edge of his chair.
"If you are referring to the question of the identity of the fool she was caught with last night," Mrs. Black said, conversationally, lowering her cup. "I'm afraid I was compelled to end that unfortunate's charade."
Sirius let out another loud groan and sat up in his chair.
"Oh, no—Mum, you didn't."
Walburga blinked at him, nonplussed, immune to the effect of her eldest son muttering obscenities and running his hands manically through his hair.
"Well, did you at least—" A strangled noise emanated from the back of his throat. "—I mean—how did you break it to her, exactly?"
"As gently as I believe anyone could—under the circumstances," his mother replied, bluntly. She tapped her chin. "Of course, I did wait until I'd extracted all useful information from her before doing so. A far greater mercy to the girl, I'd say—"
Her son went white as a sheet, and his eyes widened such that he looked positively gormless.
"—I think she was far more receptive to telling me the truth about how she'd met her charming new friend—not knowing she was telling his mother everything."
Another violent curse—but Walburga's patience with her son's colorful language came to an abrupt end, for her glare had the same effect as a whip-crack to the face. Sirius squeezed his eyes shut and massaged his temples—but the darkness only exacerbated his imagination, painting the horrifying picture all the more vibrantly.
He let out a sigh that felt like it lasted days.
"…So, erm…how did she—take it?"
His mother's look was withering.
"Do you even have to ask?" Sirius winced. "You lie to that girl about who you are, drawing her out—with some ridiculous story about being a 'family friend'—" Her eyes flashed with anger. "And then convince her to sneak out of our house at night, only to be caught by your own mother sneaking back in. She was completely humiliated, of course—absolutely mortified." Mrs. Black paused in her recollections of Sirius's great crimes, for effect. "There were tears."
His heart sank, and he glared at her—now she was just being cruel.
"I do hope you enjoyed yourself, at least," Walburga continued, conversationally—she was taking a kind of perverse pleasure in watching her son squirm. "That this little trick of yours was worth it."
"It wasn't like that!" Sirius muttered, defensively. "And I was about to tell her the truth—"
"Leaving it rather late, I'd say," Walburga interrupted, acidly. "Did you imagine she'd be amused to learn of your deception right before you boosted her into your old window? Or were you hoping to shove her inside before she had a chance to jinx you?"
As defending the choices he'd made in an assignation with a young female to his mother was the last thing Sirius had expected he'd have to do—he found himself floundering at this particular line of attack.
"I would've smoothed it over," he shot back, moodily. "'Course, I didn't get a chance to, did I? We were interrupted—by you."
His mother rolled her eyes to the ceiling.
"Oh, let me apologize. The next time I catch a prowler scaling the walls of my house," she said, tartly. "I'll be sure to allow him to finish his conversation before I accost him—now eat your breakfast!"
Sirius opened his mouth to continue arguing, but she raised her wand and flicked it—he flinched. It was only the napkin flying into his lap, but it had the desired effect of silencing him.
He eyed the Nordic spread in front of him with newfound disgust, then looked up, expression mutinous.
"But it's—pickled herring."
"And you'll have every last bite of that herring, Sirius Orion Black!" Walburga snapped. "You enjoy pretending to be Norwegian and deceiving your family? Then you get to eat like one."
He put his elbow on the table and leaned on his chin—poor table manners meant to provoke her. It worked, for as soon as she saw the gesture Walburga yanked his arm up by force.
Sirius threw her a resentful look and rubbed his arm.
"Is that the rule now? Get caught impersonating one foreigner, and you have to adopt the worst customs of their country?" He gazed longingly across the table at his mother's sausages. "I wish that bloke had been German."
Walburga rapped her wand against the tabletop once more, and he turned back to his own dismal offerings. Grumbling, Sirius began to pick the salmon off the top of his eggs—he didn't object to fish, exactly, but he preferred not to have it before eight in the morning.
When Mrs. Black was satisfied her son was tucking into the Nordic breakfast she had prepared for him, she returned to her own English faire. The two Blacks ate their breakfast in heavy silence for a few minutes.
Sirius had always been scolded for bolting down his food—now his mother had to clear her throat every thirty seconds to remind him to keep it up.
"You know, this cheese isn't half-bad, really…" He said, after a few forced bites. Truly, it wasn't—but the sweet and nutty flavor was playing havoc with his stomach. Hangovers were not the ideal time to be playing around with new and unusual cuisine.
He chanced a look up at his mother. She was eating her food with an enthusiasm Sirius felt sure must've been for his benefit. Peppering her eggs that smugly ought to have been a fineable offense.
"Trade you a bit of it for one of those potatoes."
Mrs. Black popped the fried morsel into her mouth with relish. Her gray eyes swept critically over his still mostly uneaten food.
"Any part of that breakfast you don't finish will be served to your father, Sirius Orion," she informed him, smoothly. "So I suggest you get a move on before it's stone cold—and I have to explain to my husband why there's a lump of herring on his plate where the bacon ought to be."
Sirius huffed and shoved a mouthful of eggs into his mouth.
"Is that supposed to be a threat to me, or a punishment for him?"
He had been hoping to push her into confessing her fury at Orion, but apart from a slight flicker behind the eyes, Mrs. Black remained frustratingly nonplussed. His disgruntled teeth grinding was drowned out by the sound of fresh coffee being poured into his cup. She hummed, tonelessly, as she refilled her own.
"On the subject of my father," Sirius continued, in a more subdued voice, pushing his salmon around the plate. "When can I expect a visit from old Orion?"
At his somewhat insolent use of his father's given name, Walburga narrowed her eyes—but she refrained from remarking on it, instead setting down the coffee service.
"Do you have an appointment with him?"
"No, but I expect I will—" He gulped down more coffee. "Once he wheels the rack and the manacles out of the attic—or whatever device he's decided is a fitting punishment for my latest series of transgressions."
Walburga hid a smile poorly behind her cup.
"You are so dramatic." The Black matriarch nibbled a piece of toast. "I doubt very much your father would be so severe on you, even if he did know about last night."
A forkful of herring was slowly lowered back down to the plate.
"What—you mean he—he doesn't know yet?"
"No, he doesn't." She patted her mouth delicately. "And he won't ever, if you don't have a mind to tell him yourself."
There were about five things that made no sense about this statement, but only one immediately struck Sirius.
"But—what about the girl?" He pushed his plate to the side and leaned forward in his chair. "Won't he—wonder where she is?"
Mrs. Black waved his concern away with her hand, airily.
"Oh, your father doesn't pay much mind to the whereabouts of his niece's silly friends." A wave of her wand in the direction of the grapefruit, which began to peel itself, and she continued, sensibly—
"—And as she'll no doubt be sitting down to breakfast with him in a half-hour or so, I doubt he'll think much of it at all."
Sirius stared at the grapefruit—then at her. He barely registered the quarter of the fruit that floated onto his plate, evenly sliced for his consumption.
This did not make sense.
"So—not only are you not telling your husband about the events of last night—but you're letting Colette Battancourt stay?"
His mother gave him a knowing look.
"I thought you'd be disappointed about that." She arched one perfect brow—Sirius felt a trickle of sweat down his neck. "That was why you lured you her out of the house, wasn't it? You were hoping I'd catch her and have her sent back to France, so she wouldn't be tempted to tell anyone else about your exploits at Malfoy Manor."
It was such a surprisingly astute summary of his actions, that for a moment he didn't know what to say. Sirius felt his face burn under his mother's shrewd gaze.
He decided the only safe answer was to sidestep the question.
"Did she tell you that?"
Walburga smiled, faintly.
"Certainly not. She wouldn't say a word against you—at least not before she found out who you were." He fiddled with his fork—Walburga gave him a condescending look. "No, call it a hunch on my part. I do know you. Changing your mind halfway through and getting caught yourself is so silly it's something only you'd be capable of."
Sirius sighed.
"I didn't—feel right about it."
"I don't wonder! It was a rather nasty trick to play on that gullible slip of a witch."
Sirius looked so hangdog, staring at the table cloth, that he missed how Walburga's face softened.
"And if she hadn't been caught with you and told me everything, your plan might've worked. She's lucky I'm so—generous."
Her son's expression of guilt turned instantly to suspicion.
"It appears we both are." He sat up straighter in his chair. "You seem to be in a rather magnanimous mood about all this, Mother."
"Your herring is getting cold."
He shoveled some into his mouth, not taking his eyes off her. Like everything else on his plate, it wasn't terrible—at least as far as pickled fish was concerned. Walburga, the consummate housekeeper, apparently couldn't even make food that was supposed to be a form of punishment poorly.
He forced himself to swallow it.
"All I'm saying, is—" Impatient with his picky eating, Walburga reached over and began to spread the rest of his brown cheese onto a piece of toast for him. "—That you've cooled off exponentially since last night."
"Last night I was in shock," Walburga pointed out, dryly. "I needed to…recover."
"Well, you've rallied admirably!" She shoved the toast into his hand. "So much so that it seems like you—like you aren't even angry at all."
"I'm not." He let out a laugh of disbelief, and she amended, quickly. "That is—I was angry, last night—but upon reflection, I have decided not to be." She paused. "With you—or with your father."
It was such a ludicrous statement, coming from her that Sirius couldn't stop himself from laughing.
"Even though he lied to you." Walburga blinked at him—Sirius let out a hollow laugh. "I don't believe this—"
"—Your father is a very old-fashioned wizard, Sirius Orion," she explained, patiently. "I'm sure in his mind he was concealing the situation from me to—spare my feelings, and protect me—in his way."
He laughed without humor.
"Oh, I agree with you." Sirius leaned back in his chair. "That is exactly why he did it—the part I'm not buying is that you, of all people, aren't furious with him for it."
His mother, far from showing the desired indignance and rage, actually had the nerve to look amused at her oldest son.
"Do you relish the thought of me quarreling with your father, so?"
Sirius lowered the hand that had been gesticulating with feeling. She had called him out—he had been, embarrassing though it was to admit. He'd been banking on it.
This he was not at all prepared for—and though thinking on his feet was something he usually enjoyed the challenge of, Sirius was not at his best—certainly not in an ideal condition to be duking it out with the most fearsome opponent he'd ever known.
He decided to try a change in strategy.
"I was just—expecting more of an interrogation." He laid both hands flat on the table—the unfortunate breakfast all but forgotten. "Are you even interested in knowing the reason why I was at your father-in-law's birthday party disguised as a Norwegian? Does that matter to you at all?"
Walburga chewed her grapefruit thoughtfully as she considered this question.
"That depends." She lowered the rind to her plate and delicately wiped the juice off her fingers. "Have you discussed it with your father?"
"In excruciating detail."
"Then I see no reason to make you repeat yourself to me." He stared at her, bewildered—such a lack of curiosity in this moment was flooring. She gave her son a haughty look across the table. "I gather he's punishing you for it—as he should. But if your father doesn't think I need to know any more about the business at present, I'm sure that I don't."
He furrowed his brow.
"So, what—you think when your husband lies to you, he's doing you a favor?"
She clucked her tongue disapprovingly.
"Marriage is a complicated business, Sirius Orion," she explained, in a tone of voice that said she was humoring him. "And husbands and wives do many things for their own reasons—that may appear strange to…outsiders."
Her son snorted and shook his head, gray eyes hard in his face as he stared her down. 'Outsiders'—he was their son, for Merlin's sake.
"I don't understand the two of you at all." Sirius tapped his fingers on the table. "I never have."
Walburga gave him an odd, knowing look—one he didn't like the slightest bit.
"One day, perhaps—you will."
This statement hung in the air between them. Walburga, all but finished with her own meal, had now retired to sipping delicately from her cup of coffee—clearly waiting for him to speak. Sirius's mind was racing.
This seemed far too easy.
"You really don't want to ask me anything else about the night of the party?"
Walburga sighed again—as if his repetition of the salient point of the evening was a trial to be endured.
"I already spent a great deal of time talking about it with the Battancourt girl—I'm fatigued of the subject. It's irksome to drag it all out again." She shrugged. "I think one interrogation is about all I have in me, and anyway—it's not as though you want to discuss it with me, is it?"
Of course, it was the truth—but Sirius was also uneasy over not knowing exactly what the girl had said to his mother about the 'events' of the night before last. It made it much harder to figure out what she might've guessed all on her own.
There was one area in particular he was concerned about.
"So—you don't even care to know—" He paused, feigning casualness. "How I got out of the house?"
Mrs. Black tilted her head, looking puzzled—and as was the usual default for her, annoyed at the puzzlement. Was it an act, or—
"Why would I? There wasn't anything remarkable in that. The girl told me your father caught you in the library and sneaked you out through the terrace."
Conveniently for her son, she was adding another sugar lump to her coffee, and missed the tell-tale look of surprise on Sirius's face.
"You're lucky the Malfoys' spell-work is so shoddy—Orion must've known there was a weakness in that section of the estate—you leaving by that way should have set off something off." She sipped her sugary concoction and continued. "Old Abraxas must be slipping. Was there anything remarkable in your manner of escape, apart from that?"
He quickly shoved the piece of toast in his mouth to conceal his surprise. Mrs. Black watched him chew half a piece in one bite with faint distaste.
"Nothing—not at all," he said, swallowing the bread and cheese. His mouth felt very dry, and so he gulped down the now lukewarm coffee in his cup.
She made a faint 'hm' sound in the back of her throat and nodded.
"Well, then—" She tapped his cup, and instantly the coffee was hot again. "As I'm sure you're as sick to death of the subject as I am—we need speak no more of it."
Her son stared at her, face incredulous. Mrs. Black, who had rarely, if ever, strayed from a fight—returned his rather impudent look with her own.
What the hell was happening here? Walburga was taking the news of her husband and son's conspiracy and lies with an equanimity Sirius had not thought her humanly capable of.
"So—in summary—you're just letting me get away with the last forty-eight hours with nothing more than an unfortunate breakfast as punishment."
It was Orion all over again—except with him, the anger had been bubbling just under the surface, was barely leashed, so that it had taken almost nothing for Sirius to provoke him into their unfortunate screaming match yesterday morning.
This was—he didn't know what this was. She was utterly impassive, a complete blank—calm, personable.
He couldn't get a read on her at all.
"Do you get why that seems odd to me, Mother?"
Walburga tapped her finely manicured fingernails on the tabletop.
"I suppose—I suppose I do."
Sirius, who had been expecting her to deny it, lowered the finger he'd raised in protest, feeling foolish.
"Well—" Sirius deflated. "Are you—are you going to give a reason why you've had this change in attitude?"
"If you really must know—then I'll—tell you."
All at once his mother's demeanor changed. Gone was the clipped, brisk lady of business who had marched into the flat—back into his life.
In her place was a worried, middle-aged woman, looking at the eldest son from whom she'd been estranged for three years with a sincere—fear.
"It is Christmas, Sirius."
When he heard her say those words with that voice, his insides seemed to freeze up.
"And I—" Walburga's voice hitched in her throat. "—And I am tired of you fighting with your father."
A piece of herring fell off his fork and into the dregs of the eggs with a sickly plop.
"What do you suppose would have happened if I had woken him up last night?" She continued, pointedly. "He would have been furious, and he'd have come charging over here in a rage—you would have gotten defensive and had a nasty fight with him, for which he'd feel obliged to punish you, and you'd both be even more angry with one another than you already are."
Sirius said nothing—all of this was right. It was perfectly true, and when she put it this way, it made all the sense in the world to say nothing.
"Tell me, Sirius Orion—what good would any of that do me, in the end? Do you imagine that I enjoy my son and husband being at loggerheads all the time?" Walburga's breath caught in her throat again.
"Can you blame me for not wanting to cause more discord in my family?"
Sirius tried to speak—but no words would come. He shifted in his seat and glanced down at the table—at the wall clock. It was suddenly very difficult to look her in the face.
He began to trace his initials with his index finger on the tablecloth, an ancient habit from his pre-Hogwarts schooling days, a way to pass the time—or to avoid paying attention to a boring lecture from a disagreeable tutor. Her breathing was shallow—
S…O…B…S…O…
—If he looked in her eyes now, would there be moisture there?
The sound of another loud sigh made Sirius look up from the table again. Whatever brief, apparent loss of control over her emotions Mrs. Black had experienced, she had them well in hand now.
"All that aside—there's also the matter of the girl herself." Sirius stopped the absent doodling on the table. "I'm not convinced sending her away would make her any less of a problem."
"What do you—"
"—Narcissa will ask a lot of questions—as would the girl's aunt, and parents. She might crack under the pressure, even back in Normandy." Sirius frowned. "I've got a promise from her that she'll keep her silence, and I believe her to be sincere. I think—all-in-all—it's more sensible if we let her stay for the duration of the planned visit."
Sirius tried to come up with an argument—but when she presented it like this, even with the slightly condescending smile that spoke to her estimation of his ability to think rationally—well, she was right.
"So then…" He chanced a look back up at her. "…You're letting me off the hook?"
"Call it an early Christmas present." Her hard expression faltered for a moment. "I—your father says that I push you too hard. I am trying…not to do that."
Now she was the one fiddling with her teaspoon, not able to meet his gaze.
"This isn't you," Sirius said, his voice faint.
"Perhaps I've changed."
Sirius stared at her. Her face—still beautiful, after all this time—her arched black brows over twin gray tempest eyes, the full mouth relaxed, not pressed in its usual thin line—and though she was watching him intently, it was with none of the hawkishness he usually associated with her.
For a moment—one telling, weak moment, in which his stomach flip-flopped unpleasantly—he believed her.
He wanted it to be true.
Then he remembered who he was dealing with.
It's what she wants you to think.
Sirius's face and resolve hardened.
"Alright—you don't tell him about the bike, or about last night—or that you know about the night before—fine. What do you want in return?"
"I just told you it was a gift."
"Well, I'd rather it was a transaction."
His mother raised an eyebrow.
"Don't you trust me?"
She sounded amused. Sirius forced himself to meet the slightly mocking gaze.
"To tell you the truth—no, I don't. I'd rather know upfront what you think you're getting out of this—otherwise I've got it half in mind to just tell my father about it myself."
She stood up, pushing out her chair smoothly.
"Very well. If that's how you feel—" Walburga gave him a feline smile. "Would you like me to go fetch him?"
They locked eyes across the table. Sirius scowled and took another bite of cold herring. Walburga inched her way towards the door—
"That—won't be necessary," he said, too hastily for it to be mistaken for anything but fear. "You—don't have to get him."
"So you—don't want him to know about this little incident?"
She was really enjoying this, wasn't she? he thought, upon seeing her smile broaden.
"No—I do not," Sirius admitted, voice dull. "Does that make you happy? I suppose you want me to kiss your feet, as well."
"Certainly not." She wrinkled her nose at the distasteful suggestion. "However—a 'thank you' would not be remiss on this occasion."
Mrs. Black's eyes gleamed with expectation. Sirius, slouching on the table, forced himself to sit back up.
She crossed her arms and smiled with the amazing patience of a woman who was obviously willing to wait as long as it took to get what she desired. Sirius let out another long sigh.
"Thank you," he muttered, stiffly. "Thank you very much—Mother."
Triumphant, his mother sat back down—looking like a Kneazle that had just consumed a supper of field mice and washed it down with a pint of heavy cream.
Of course she'd called his bluff—whatever she was after, he stood to lose more from Orion finding out. Sirius toyed with his food, turning the idea over in his head. She was the last person he would ever willingly make a deal with—but in the short term, it did seem the most sensible option available to him.
There was plenty of time to figure out her game, he thought, eying her uneasily over his plate.
Besides—he was still capable of playing along.
"Tell me, Mother—what would be an early Christmas present you'd enjoy?" Her eyes flickered, disquieted. "One good turn deserves another."
Mrs. Black sniffed haughtily, and began putting her gloves back on.
"If you must make it an exchange," she sighed, heavily. "I would like it very much if you would stop provoking your father all the time."
The color rose in Sirius's face.
"If you want his attention, that's fine—but you don't need to act out like a child to get it."
"I do not 'act out' to get his attention!" her son proclaimed, hotly—but her nonplussed reaction only sparked his temper. "Is that what you both think the last three years were? One long bid to get you to notice me?"
At the mention of the dreaded three-year-gap, Walburga froze. Her son laughed, bitterly.
"If it was, it didn't really work, did it?"
He snapped his mouth shut again. Walburga's look was knowing—it was even a little bit fond, in that slightly possessive way that made his chest tighten.
The old desire to bolt overwhelmed him.
"Fine. I will—be polite to your husband." He pointedly made no promise to apologize to Orion. He wouldn't do that over his own dead corpse, as a ghost. "What else?"
"It goes without saying that I will never see that Muggle contraption again."
As he had no intention of letting her or her wand anywhere near it, that suited Sirius well enough.
"Out of sight, out of mind," he agreed, quickly. "Is that all?"
Walburga waved her wand, and her now empty plate and silver flew into the air and neatly back in the hamper.
"That will do perfectly well for the present." She readjusted her cap and stood up. "You'll be happy to hear that I will leave you, now—"
He looked up, hopefully—
"—Once I see that plate is clean."
She looked down at him, expectantly—her son stared back. After a long moment of mutual staring, Sirius groaned and picked up the fork and knife again.
Mother watched son as he shoveled the remains of his breakfast into his mouth as quickly as possible. When he was done with his herring ("There—happy?") she cleared the table of his plate and silver, which joined hers.
Another tap of the wand, and a third covered silver platter floated out of her basket.
"This is Regulus's." Sirius sniffed in the air, hopefully—Mrs. Black narrowed her eyes. "Don't even think about trying to pilfer his sausages—you'll be in for a nasty surprise if you do."
He eyed the metal tray with distrust—a stinging jinx had been placed on it, in all likelihood. Then a thought occurred to Sirius, and his sense of injustice stirred.
"You mean he doesn't have to eat like a Norwegian?"
Walburga looked up from the clutch purse she was rooting through, absently.
"No—why would he?"
"He's only been my accomplice!" Sirius exclaimed, indignantly. "He knew about what I was up to the last two nights—and he lied to you, too."
Walburga found the diamond broach she'd been looking for and pinned it on, utterly unconcerned by her son pointing out this apparent double standard. She had always been dismissive when accused of treating her two sons differently. The few times Sirius had ever tried to get his brother in trouble, she had scolded him for 'telling tales'—though she never seemed to have the same reservations about Regulus's confessions. She liked to be confirmed in her suspicions, and Walburga Black's suspicion about her children had been, since they were toddlers, that Sirius Orion led and Regulus Arcturus followed.
That, Sirius thought, at least, had not changed.
"Yes, well—of course, he should have alerted us—and he probably deserves a scolding…" She busied herself with the fastenings on her cloak. "But one can't help but feel—he's still under the weather and shouldn't be—overexcited."
Sirius snorted. 'Under the weather'—only she could make an Inferi attack and whatever the hell had been in that potion sound like a bout of influenza. His mother continued, practically—
"And anyway, you bully him so—what could he have done about it?"
"He could've stunned me—dueled me into submission, if he really wanted to stop me." Walburga laughed at the very thought. "He's not a child anymore, Mum."
Mrs. Black snapped the clasp of her purse shut.
"Why are you so eager to tell tales about Regulus? He's not the one who has been sneaking about at night. He's been safely tucked away here, where he can't get into any more trouble."
She sounded as though she were trying to convince herself as much as she was him.
"You'd be surprised."
"Nothing my children does surprises me," Mrs. Black shot back, coolly.
To this, Sirius said nothing—his expression went completely blank, and he showed no signs of wishing to dispute her bold claim of knowledge about him and his brother. Walburga looked perturbed, but as she was happy to not be drawn into a tedious debate, she allowed the matter to drop without further comment.
"Well, I should get back to the house, as your father and the—" She stopped herself, an expression of remembrance flitted across her face, and then, off-handedly, almost carelessly.
"Oh! There was one other thing…"
Both of Sirius's eyebrows flew up. His mother had crossed around the table, dressed in her ermine lined cloak again—looking particularly glamorous and beautiful, which was her at her most dangerous, as far as he was concerned.
She leaned forward, staring him square in the eyes.
"I want you to stay away from the girl."
He didn't blink.
"W-what?"
Mrs. Black smiled, thinly.
"You heard me. Don't write her an owl or—try to contact her in any other way. Don't contrive to meet or speak to her." Sirius returned her stare coolly. "I don't want you having anything to do with that witch."
He suddenly was aware of how parched he was and how cracked his lips were, and he chewed on the lower one.
"Why would you think I would—"
"—I am not a fool, Sirius Orion," his mother cut him off, coldly. "As I said—I know my children. The girl did not tell me much about last night, but I gather you filled her head with some of your ridiculous ideas about the world."
Her dismissive tone suggested the only thing Mrs. Black found worse than her son's notions was the idea of him spreading them to respectable young women.
"Given how last night ended, it would be imprudent for you to keep any plans you might have made," Walburga continued, in a light voice. "But I feel, just the same, a warning is merited."
Walburga's face was only a few inches from his, now.
"Do not trifle with me." She pronounced each word slowly and deliberately. "I have been generous, but even my patience has its limits. Leniency for one indiscretion is not permission to commit any more."
Sirius only looked back at her, stoic and silent—a rarity in an exchange between them. She watched him, gauging her son for a reaction—but the windows behind his eyes were shuttered.
Satisfied by whatever his opaque expression meant to her, Mrs. Black pulled back from her son and stepped around the table, pulling her sable around her shoulders in preparation for the cold.
"Anyway, I can't imagine why you'd have an interest in that girl beyond removing her from our sphere—" Walburga walked over to the mirror to readjust a tendril of hair by tucking it under her cap. "—She's hardly one of your 'loose blondes'—but in any case, I told her if you should try to contact you, to simply ignore you."
The angle of the mirror was such that Mrs. Black could quite comfortably watch the delicate play of emotions across her firstborn's face at her leisure.
"She was very contrite last night," she continued, lightly. "She knows what she's done was wrong, and is naturally eager to put it behind her and be a dutiful daughter—I am eager to help her in this. I don't want to ruin her holiday—not when she seems so sincere."
She turned on her heel.
"Do you understand me, Sirius Orion?"
"Perfectly."
"And you see the sense in what I have said?"
Sirius went still—he was giving her the same hawkish look he'd had leveled at him hundreds of times in the past, but it did not have the desired effect of unraveling Walburga's shrewd line of defense.
"Yes. You're—there's no reason for me to have anything more to do with Colette Battancourt," He shrugged and threw an arm over the back of his chair, casually indifferent. "Assuming, you know—she really is going to keep quiet about it all."
Mrs. Black arched her brow once more.
"Oh, I assure you, she will."
His affected indifference wavered.
"Did you…threaten her?"
Sirius's low voice was flat, but there was something tight in his tone—as if he was working very hard to hide his barely leashed anger, and almost succeeding in the task.
Walburga gave him one of her classic withering looks, clearly insulted by the question.
"I only have Mademoiselle Battancourt's best interests at heart, I assure you."
Her son said nothing in reply—only stared up at her with a newfound distrust, which he was not bothering to conceal.
Mrs. Black paid it no mind.
"Well—this was very pleasant, I'd say." She clasped her hands together, a bland and pleasant expression flitting across her face. "We should do it more often."
Sirius grimaced, and Mrs. Black crossed back over to the dining room table. She stopped, directly across from her son, and leaned forward, catching his chin between her index finger and thumb. Far from her usual iron grip, however, the Black matriarch was gentle as she tilted his head up to meet her gaze.
She inspected the circles around his eyes, critically.
"You really should go back to bed and rest, Sirius Orion—it will do you good."
He grunted, noncommittally. Walburga's fingers—clothed in satin, though he could still feel the warmth of her touch through the delicate fabric—lingered on his face. When it was obvious her stubborn boy was not going to make the desired promise to go back to sleep, she sighed.
"You will remember everything I've told you."
"I always do."
His mother smiled—sincerely, and for one wild moment, Sirius thought she was going to kiss him on the forehead. He wasn't sure whether he wanted her to or not—a realization so unsettling that his forehead reddened at the thought.
He was spared having to find out what he would do in that event, for Mrs. Black only gave him a fleeting maternal look, released his chin—and left without another word.
Sirius sat at the dining room table and stared at the empty chair across from him, convinced the woman who'd so recently occupied it had been no more than a phantom, or a mirage—a trick of the light, a hallucination.
His eyes darted to the door. He almost expected the real Walburga to burst in at any moment, furious and railing, brandishing her wand, screeching loud enough to wake Regulus and everyone on the block.
She didn't.
He furrowed his brow, rubbed his chin—the same spot her fingers had brushed against, for the scent of her perfume lingered. Sirius leaned the legs of his chair back and stared hard at the light fixture.
Possibilities, problems, a thousand questions all jockeyed for supremacy in his head.
What the hell had that been?
A minute of hard thinking, and Sirius dropped the legs back on the floor. The wizard waved his wand at the sideboard—a ream of parchment, quill and bottle of ink flew to him and tumbled, clumsily, onto the tables beside him. For a few seconds he merely stared at the blank page.
Then he lifted his hand and began to write.
That was how Regulus found Sirius when he turned up, still dressed in his pajamas, fifteen minutes later.
"'Morning." Regulus's brother nodded his head vaguely and mumbled a reply. There were several ink-stained crumpled pages surrounding Sirius on the table and floor.
The younger Black brother pulled up a seat across from Sirius—his eyes fell on the covered silver dish, which was still wafting out a delightful aroma. As most breakfasts in the flat consisted of cold muesli and toast—for Sirius was about as good a cook as Regulus, when it came down to it—the sight of this prepared meal gave him pause.
"Was Kreacher here?"
Sirius snapped out of his daze and saw where his brother was looking.
"That's yours," he said, indifferently, and Regulus lifted the lid to find a breakfast nearly identical to the one his mother had had—the only addition being a large scone and berries, a favorite treat of his childhood that Walburga occasionally let him indulge in at breakfast.
Sirius glanced at the spread with poorly disguised resentment, but Regulus, who was never one to question the origins of good food, was too busy tucking in to notice.
He tried to focus on his letter, but the smell of the sausage proved to be rather distracting.
"Give me one, will you?"
Regulus, long used to Sirius's imperious demands, moved the dish just out of reach. His brother rolled his eyes, reached out his hand to pluck it from the plate—then the remembered threat gave him pause.
Not worth the risk of getting stung.
He stared down at the missive in front of him, then glanced up at Reg. He was watching him write with interest.
"Tell me something, Reg—" He tapped the edge of the parchment against the tabletop. "D'you think if our mother found out about me being an Animagus, she'd be able to contain her glee at having something that juicy on me?"
Regulus stopped chewing.
"Probably not," he answered, bluntly. He lowered the scone back to the plate, looking thoughtful. "Do you think she knows?"
His brother shrugged, carelessly.
"I'm not sure…"
Sirius stood up and stroked his chin. He was in need of a shave—or at least, that was what he told himself the very light bristle on his cheek was. He'd been trying to grow a beard for over a year, but even Peter had more need of a straight edge than he did.
"But there's one way to find out."
He lifted the parchment off the table, folded it in half and affixed it, clumsily, with a piece of tape.
"Very elegant," Regulus remarked, dryly—and he sounded so uncannily like their father that Sirius was tempted to throw the quill at him. "What's that?"
"A signal to a—trusted source on the ground," Sirius replied, voice cryptic. He picked up his coffee cup. "I'm going to post this in a sec. You, erm—have any letters you need sent?"
Regulus's eyes flickered.
"…No."
"So things have quieted down, then?" The younger brother chewed his scone slowly. "In—France?"
Regulus swallowed and stared up at his brother, stonily.
"Father says no post is to leave this flat without him inspecting it first."
"Of course, he's not here." Sirius raised an eyebrow. "Just you and me."
They stared at one another—neither feeling the need to say it, both understanding. Sirius at last blinked and looked away.
"Alright, well—if you change your mind." Sirius clapped his hands together. "You know where to find me."
His brother's pale face betrayed nothing.
Sirius stopped at the door.
"By the way, in case it comes up—" He turned around and called over his shoulder. "Mum knows everything about last night and most of the night before. So if she comes 'round and mentions it, don't bother playing stupid." Regulus's face drained of all remaining color. "Not that you can help it, most of the time."
Regulus dropped his silverware onto his plate.
"What do you mean, 'she knows everything'?"
His brother shrugged.
"Only that I changed my mind about the girl, and when Mother caught me trying to sneak her back into Grimmauld Place, she told her everything." Regulus buried his face in his hands in exasperation. "Bit of a cock-up on my part, really."
"You don't say," Regulus replied, his sarcasm withering—though its effect was lost on Sirius, inoculated from the effect by a lifetime of Orion. "Merlin, Sirius!"
"Call this a courtesy tip-off—you're welcome in advance."
"Why—why would you tell me that?" Regulus asked, his voice muffled by his palms. "You've ruined the day—I'm not going to be able to hear a door creak and not think it's Mother."
Sirius rolled his eyes—everybody questioned his plausible deniability strategy until they knew more than they wanted to. Typical.
"You were so pissed off about me not warning you when our father caught me in the act, I thought you'd appreciate the heads-up."
His brother let out another low groan.
"That was different—it was him." Regulus glowered in the direction of his eggs. "In this case, I preferred being in the dark."
He looked up at Sirius, and when he saw that his brother was in a good humor, in spite of these dire circumstances, his tense shoulders visibly relaxed. Sirius shot him a cheeky grin and drained the rest of his cold coffee.
"Don't worry—she doesn't blame you for my shocking behavior."
"I didn't—" He looked up from his plate, expression sulky. "I—didn't think she did."
The way Regulus said it was strained—as if he wished that he could believe his mother thinking such a thing was even possible. He poked at one of his sausages, moodily.
"Is she angry with you?"
"No—not at all." Sirius laughed. "That's what she says, anyway."
A look of surprise flitted across Regulus's face—and then, just as quickly, he furrowed his brow.
"That can't be right."
"Obviously."
"So…" Regulus hesitated. "Then…you think she's—up to something?"
His brother rolled his eyes to the ceiling.
"Don't be daft. Of course she's up to something." He jabbed the letter in the air, brandishing it in Regulus's direction. "And I'll tell you something else, Reg—I'm going to figure out what. Whatever this game of Mum's is, I'm going to play by my own rules—not hers."
He tapped his forehead—Regulus scoffed quietly, less impressed with his brother's powers of deduction—at least where their mother is concerned.
"I see you're picking up right where you left off."
Sirius laughed—a quiet, slightly derisive sound that made his brothers' hackles rise.
"Jealous?" Regulus's face colored. "If you'd like to cross swords with her, I'm more than happy to show you the ropes, Reg. It would require, however…" His eyes lingered on Regulus's breakfast plate. "…stepping into the ring."
The younger Black brother pushed his half-eaten breakfast away from himself and set the silver fork down, neatly.
"Thanks all the same—but I don't need any 'pointers'," he said, coolly. "I'm not in the business of pissing them off. I'm not trying to be you."
"Oh—I'd never accuse you of that." He frowned. "Real question is—who are you trying to be?"
Dark brown eyes blinked up at him, unperturbed. Willing to be pushed hard, and ready to resist the urge to push back. Prime Regulus—all the self-control that his brother had never gotten the knack of.
He couldn't be provoked into speaking—his brother would have to try a different approach—one that he was far less comfortable with.
"Look, Regulus…" Sirius took a deep breath and rubbed the side of his head, overtaken with a bout of self-consciousness. "About those—those letters…"
It was instant, like a television set being switched off. The haughty pain-in-the-arse, the shrimp forever loudly protesting plans he always went along with in the end—Sirius younger brother—was gone.
In his place, a stranger.
Regulus's pupils dilated, so that his eyes went black—and everything recognizable about the person he'd known his entire waking life, the person he should have known far better than he did—all receded into the mask.
"What about the letters?"
Cold, methodical—calculating, even. Cool. He sounded older. It unsettled him—a glimpse of something he wasn't ready to look at, full in the face.
Sirius lost his nerve.
"Let's—let's have a look at them together, after lunch." One, two, three blinks—a flutter of slightly too-long lashes, the puckering of the brow, which said he was working out a problem, or something said but not understood. "You know—for the…the necklace. The opals."
A fourth blink. Oh.
"Sure—that sounds…it's a good idea."
Regulus shoved the rest of his scone into his mouth, swallowing it in a single bite—some stray crumbs dribbled down his face.
He was himself again. His elder brother felt an enormous wave of relief wash over him—Sirius beamed—and let out a bark of an awkward laugh.
This he could handle.
"I mean, granted—the whole thing's a bloody waste of time. We're not going to actually find anything." Sirius shoved his hands in the pockets of his robes—it didn't have the same effect as his jeans. He made a mental note to change at the first opportunity. "The family probably nicked it in the first place, like Number Twelve—and the only record of the event are the bones buried beneath the kitchen. Still…"
"…It can't hurt to check," Regulus finished for him, softly.
"Right." Sirius nodded. "Together."
Another look between them, a sigh—and then the elder of the two walked back into the kitchen and towards the fire escape. An owl would come soon to drop off the day's post, and with any luck—and a few treats he stowed in his pocket for such occasions—would be only too happy to deliver this message for him.
As he walked out onto the the balcony and breathed in the crisp winter air, the conversation with his brother played back in his mind, like an omnioculars' set's dial being twisted right and left. The exchange had left him with a taste worse than pickled fish in his mouth—he scowled and watched a pair of cats fight for a section of rubbish bin territory.
I shouldn't have let it go.
But there was no point in lingering over might-have-beens. His dissatisfaction with the exchange was probably not even rational. It could all turn out well, in the end—if he played cards right and learned to be strategic.
Sirius sighed and leaned against the bannister, already eager for the first cigarette of the day. He comforted himself with the thought that, though he may not have known bollocks about how to talk to his family, at least there was one member of it he had learned not to push.
It was a lesson learned just in time, for Regulus was proving—against all odds—to be the most surprising of the bunch.
Happy new in-universe day! Hope it was worth the wait. Please let me know what you think in the comments. :)