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']

13. Chapter 13

"Kreacher bowed again and said, 'Whatever Master says,' then muttered furiously, 'Master is not fit to wipe slime from his mother's boots, oh my poor Mistress, what would she say if she saw Kreacher serving him, how she hated him, what a disappointment he was—'"

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

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CHAPTER 13

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"G-good morning."

Orion Black glanced up from the day's newspaper and towards the door of the dining room.

"Good morning." He folded his newspaper and set it down at his right side at the head of the table—the place where he had sat every morning since his father had given him full possession of the house as a wedding present a quarter-century before.

The figure at the threshold—the girl in pink—made no sign of having heard him, or any indication that she planned to move from her guard-post. Mr. Black cleared his throat.

"You may come in the room, Ms. Battancourt—" He smiled, sardonically. "—In your own good time, of course."

Colette Battancourt blushed and scurried through the doorway, mumbling something about not wishing to disturb him—but before she'd even finished her excuse Mr. Black had returned to his paper. Out of the corner of his eye, Orion watched as the witch helped herself to a modest plate of fruit and eggs, served from one of the generous silver tureens of food that had been laid out along the south wall—and sat down at the place setting farthest from him at the dining room table.

Breakfasts in Grimmauld Place were a comparatively informal affair. Every morning the food was put out by the elf at 7:30 sharp (the master liked to breakfast early) and it would all be cleared away by no later than nine. A married women had the privilege of eating her breakfast in bed, but the other guests of the house had a wide window in which to dine, in their own good time.

As luck would have it, this morning Orion had woken late—which is how he had ended up in the position of eating breakfast with this girl, circumstances he would not have enjoyed even had their last conversation at Malfoy Manor not taken place.

Judging from her mouselike attempts to make herself inconspicuous, he thought, watching her over his paper—she hadn't forgotten it, either.

"I apologize for not being here to greet you when you and Narcissa arrived," Orion remarked, after the witch had begun eating. "I was called away by some—rather pressing business. It couldn't wait. You understand."

"I know." Mr. Black frowned—the girl's color rose. "That is—I am sure it was very important. I wasn't at all offended, Monsieur Black. I am—grateful to be allowed to stay in your home, as Narcissa's guest—at all."

He nodded, slowly.

"My wife told me you were already in bed when she arrived back." Colette froze. "Do you keep early hours in the country, as a general rule?"

She forced herself to keep looking into his eyes, despite the fact that she could feel her face burning.

"Yes—usually," Colette managed to stammer out. "That is how Maman and Père prefer it."

"Hm." There was mild approval in his tone. "Very sensible. Your father is a wise man."

The girl pinked and nodded, then busied herself with buttering a crumpet. She made no further attempt at conversation, and so a grateful Mr. Black returned to his reading—almost as happy as she was to not have to feign interest in the goings-on of this wisp of a girl he, if he had his druthers, would just as soon not be hosting.

This left Colette free to study him, surreptitiously—and contemplate, for the hundredth time that day, how she could have been so monumentally stupid.

And blind.

Her eyes traced over his features—the straight noise, forceful gray eyes—now languid in their perusal of the day's news—and the full mouth, resting in an expression of haughty disinterest as he slowly spooned porridge into his mouth. It should not have been possible to do so elegantly, but Mr. Black managed it.

The resemblance was unmistakeable—even uncanny—so much so that Colette could not begin to understand how she had not realized the truth the second he had turned around in the shop to see who was laughing at his joke.

Hadn't she thought, when meeting Regulus Black the summer before, that there was a strong resemblance between him and his father? But that was nothing to the extraordinary likeness between Orion and his elder son.

Sirius Black.

Sirius.

It had only taken seven mostly sleepless hours to get used to thinking of him by his real name. She had spent the better part of the night staring up at the ceiling of her four-poster, running conversation after conversation, hint after hint, through her tired mind, trying to see where she had missed the obvious—so obvious it was literally staring her in the face. At the very least, Colette thought, when the dawn had broken and light had crept through the window, stirring her from bed and a sleepless night and she tried to be philosophical about her predicament—at least she had pegged her new friend well.

He was well-bred.

The imposter Svensson, the impudent boy in the shop, the owner of the noisy black motorcycle who had shown her the best view in London—was, in fact, the publicly-supposed runaway scion of one of the wealthiest magical dynasties in all of Europe.

And she—she was a little idiot.

Her host turned to the back page of the paper and lowered it so he could more easily catch the light—Colette could see his face better this way. She had barely touched her breakfast, but if he noticed her watching him read, Mr. Black showed no sign of caring.

No—she supposed it would be beneath his dignity to do so.

After five or so minutes of pretending to be interested in the fruit in between glancing up at the Black patriarch, Colette found herself somewhat mollified. In looks he may have been the spitting image of his eldest son—or rather, Sirius was the spitting image of his father—but every gesture, every expression Orion Black allowed himself to make was done with surety, grace, poise—and above all—self-possession.

It was a far cry from the headstrong boy with the flying motorbike who spoke without thinking and who wore his emotions—like his heart—on his sleeve.

They were so different in manner—perhaps she had not been so stupid to have missed it.

"Monsieur Black—" A piece of bread stuck in her throat. Colette swallowed it with difficulty. "About the—about the night before last…"

Two piercing gray eyes darted up from The Daily Prophet.

The icy look chilled Colette to her bone. She sat, rooted to the spot—frozen under the narrowed gaze of her host, struck dumb. She had the same creeping feeling of dread—the stumble of a misstep—that had paralyzed her the night before. Colette had no one to blame for this but herself.

After all…she had been warned.

"My husband—may prove a difficulty."

Colette watched Mrs. Black march back and forth across the length of the room, wearing holes in the carpet and looking every bit the general marshaling her troops.

"I'm afraid the events of last night have—prejudiced him against you somewhat."

"Is Monsieur Black…very angry?" Colette asked, her voice infinitesimal. Her head still pounded, and she was so overwhelmed that the French witch was finding it easier to focus on each question her mind raised individually.

It helped steady her—and keep her from allowing herself to believe that Madame Black could mean what she thought Madame Black meant.

"At you?" The matron stopped her pacing and looked around, sharply. "Certainly not. It's Sirius Orion he's angry with—you've just managed to get yourself caught in the middle of the two of them while they're…while they…"

She trailed off, incapable or unwilling to describe exactly what it was her male relations were embroiled in. Walburga sighed and shook her head. Her irritation was obvious—though whether these feelings were directed at her husband, her son, or the witch sitting on the bed in front of her—Colette couldn't say.

In all likelihood it was some combination thereof.

"Really!" she continued, discarding the loose thought with a single word. "If that man were thinking clearly he'd be grateful to you—but it's a lesson you'll have to learn, if you haven't already—" Mrs. Black turned on her heel and resumed her pacing. "—when it comes to their sons, men rarely behave rationally."

Colette had heard something like that—but it had been about witches and their sons, so she merely nodded her agreement. Madame Black was, thankfully, not waiting on baited breath for her to verbally acquiesce.

"As I said, it's a mere—challenge. You can still win back his favor. Just—leave my husband to me."

Colette was only too happy to do so.

"Mr. Black doesn't like forward girls who talk back. You need only be polite and stay out of the way—" Her eyes flashed dangerously."And for goodness' sake, don't mention last night to him. That could ruin everything."

Colette felt her heart sink.

"But Madame Black—I hate to—to lie…"

Mrs. Black stopped walking. She turned her head sharply—a gesture Colette was fast beginning to think of as being akin to a bird of prey.

The chaperone who watched like a hawk—she'd have to save that, for one of her stories, Colette thought, feeling giddy and light-headed all at once, as if she'd been plopped down into the life of one of her characters.

She was not as quick-witted as they were.

"It isn't lying, girl—it's having…discretion." She walked up to the young witch and loomed above her. "When the time is right Mr. Black will learn the truth. These things are always about timing. For now it's better he doesn't know anything about your continued…association."

"But—all the same—"

Mrs. Black's expression turned grim.

"Do not mistake me, my dear," Mrs. Black said, in a flat voice. "I was not making a suggestion."

"What of it?"

Colette felt her face redden under his eagle-eyed stare. He had phrased the question politely, his voice even-keel—far more than his wife's would've been, under the circumstances.

She gulped and swallowed.

"It was a—a very lovely party." She twisted her hands in her lap. "Your father is a very lucky man, to have such a—large and…devoted family."

Mr. Black silently stared at her.

Colette met his gaze—wondering if she had said the wrong thing—but then he blinked, and the brief anxiety that had flitted across Orion's face flickered and disappeared. He picked up his newspaper. It seemed he did it more as an excuse to extricate himself from breakfast conversation—for he surely must've read every article of interest by now.

"Thank you." He turned a page, looking handsomely bored once more. "I'll be sure to tell him you said as much."

Colette was spared the agony of conscience another moment alone in his presence would bring her by the arrival of a third, to break up their party.

"Good morning, uncle—Colette!" Narcissa flashed her friend a fond smile and crossed to the sideboard. "Lovely day, isn't it?"

Mrs. Malfoy looked sleek and well-rested, with her hair done-up in one of her exquisite braided hairstyles that in ordinary circumstances Colette would have been staring at with envy.

Now just the thought of doing one's hair up to impress made her ill.

"Ah—Narcissa." Orion glanced up from the paper. "I'm surprised to see you up and about. I thought you'd be breakfasting in bed, given your—condition."

She crossed to the table and sat on Colette's side. Her plate was noticeably laden compared to her friend's, and the smile she gave her uncle when she sank down into her chair was particularly radiant.

"I would have—only I didn't get a chance to see you last night, and I wanted to catch you before you became too engrossed in your business shut up in your study." She looked between her friend and uncle with interest. "How are you and Colette getting on?"

"Very well," he answered, smoothly. "You both went to bed early last night."

"More like you came in late, Uncle Orion," Narcissa wrinkled her nose. "Where did you and my aunt dine? She never mentioned."

"Oh—we were with the Gibbons," Mr. Black answered, with no hesitation, and as if he had anticipated the next question on her lips, continued, "You haven't met them, as far as I know. They're third or—fourth cousins on my mother's side. Your parents don't socialize much with the McMillans. Never have. Cygnus thinks they're all soft in the head."

Colette marveled at it—the lie was so smooth and effortless, his hesitation perfectly natural, as if by design—it was by design. Evidently Orion Black was a trifle more adept at deception than his son.

She would have never known it for the complete fabrication it was if the man's wife hadn't said as much to her the night before.

The thought didn't even seem to cross Narcissa's mind. Mrs. Malfoy laughed, a charming, tinkling bell ringing through the dining room.

"I'm sure Papa would never dare speak so of your late mother's people, uncle."

She turned to look at her friend, nudging her gently—a patient reminder that she ought to try to have her share in the conversation. Her uncle smiled, thinly.

"You'd be surprised what your father would dare, Cissy." Mr. Black replied, in a dry voice—though there was something of subdued humor in it. "Particularly when he's in his cups."

He and Narcissa shared a knowing look. Colette, who had been staring hard at the table cloth, suddenly remembered a detail from a conversation she'd had weeks before.

"My grandmother says that—that Madame Melania was very beautiful—but also very shy." She smiled, timidly. "So shy she didn't know it."

Orion looked around at Colette again. For the second time that morning the girl had the distinct impression she had surprised him.

"Well put." He turned his head down towards his plate. "She was—very."

He looked sad, and when she noticed the far off look on his face—Colette saw the resemblance again.

In that moment he reminded her so much of his son, puzzling over the question of whether his parents were happy.

Fingers trembling, Ms. Battancourt turned back to her breakfast and busied herself with her eggs and Narcissa's light-hearted chatter.

When the house-elf came in a quarter of an hour later to announce the arrival of one Mrs. Lucretia Prewett—who was not, as far as anyone at the table knew, expected—Mr. Black abandoned his paper altogether. He was unfailingly polite, as always—but Colette thought he seemed a trifle put-out by the news. His brow furrowed, anticipatory annoyance crossed his face—he appeared to be steeling himself for his sister and her rather forward manners.

This ended up being justified, for no sooner had the servant said her name than he was practically bowled over by the woman herself.

"Watch yourself, Kreacher," Mrs. Prewett said, carelessly stripping off her gloves and handing them to the elf. "You nearly trampled my cloak."

Kreacher bowed and muttered a silky apology—but as soon as the tall woman had turned he shot her back a nasty look. Evidently, Colette thought, even among the servants in her family, Lucretia Prewett, née Black was an acquired taste.

"Ah. Lucretia—" Mr. Black, like Kreacher, was cool in his address. "This is a surprise. What brings you here?"

Lucretia smiled fondly at her younger brother—too fondly, as if she was trying to irritate him with her good cheer, which stood in painfully obvious contrast to his brusque welcome. His sister helped herself to a generous pour of coffee, while the elf attempted to remove her cloak—she half-swatting him away, half assisting with the task.

"A summons from your wife, 'Rion—what else?" Narcissa coughed loudly—it was at this moment that Lucretia noticed the presence of the two girls. She gave a theatrical start. "Well—hello, Cissy. I wasn't expecting to see you here—"

She blinked owlishly at the younger women, then back at her brother, confused.

"Narcissa and her friend—" He nodded in Colette's direction. "—You remember Ms. Battancourt?—are staying with us for the week. They'll be here until Christmas Eve."

His sister barely gave Narcissa and the French chit a second look, for she would not be deterred from her mission—namely discovering where the mistress of the house was.

Mr. Black lowered his coffee cup, eying his sister warily.

"Upstairs, I imagine—still in bed, sleeping late."

"You seem unsure about that, Orion." His sister smiled deviously and peered at him through her quizzing glass. "Don't you know where your wife sleeps?"

Her brother, already frosty, chilled to a subzero temperature.

"I'll go upstairs and rouse her for you, if you'd like," he said, through gritted teeth. "Unless you'd prefer to check yourself, and spare me the trouble."

"Of course I wouldn't." She settled herself into a chair next to him—not being one to bother waiting for an invitation. "I would never dream of butting into your—domestic arrangements."

Mrs. Prewett seemed amazingly immune to the daggers shooting from her brother's eyes, and when she noticed Colette watching her, gave the girl a saucy wink. Mr. Black tossed his napkin on the table with rather more force than he might've and stood up.

Hastily, Colette followed suit.

"Madame Black is—not upstairs." Orion turned, mid-step towards the door. "She—left the house early this morning. She did not say where she was going, only that she would be back—sometime around nine, I believe."

All eyes turned to Colette. It was the fullest and most coherent thought she'd managed to get out in Orion's presence all morning.

"And you know this because—"

"—I ran into her on the stairs. I had gotten up very early to use the washroom. She was…just walking out."

She even managed to say it without going pink. Mr. Black sat back down, slowly—he and his sister exchanged identical looks of shrewd curiosity.

"So—Burgie's out early and hasn't told anyone where she's going." Lucretia took another long sip from her cup. "Very odd. Where could she be?"

"You could always ask her when she gets back," her brother suggested, coldly, folding out his newspaper again. "I find, on the whole, that speaking to the person of interest directly is a better course than idle speculation." He shook out his paper. "It leads to far less mischief and silly prattle."

Lucretia let out a hoydenish snort. She turned her head towards Narcissa and her friend, obviously amused.

"Your uncle has decided to spend breakfast moralizing to us on the evils of gossip."

"Better that they learn now," Orion said, over the muffled giggles of at least one of the young ladies. "Or they might wake up one day and find themselves to be women of fifty who don't know when to mind their own business."

"They might," Lucretia agreed, cheerfully. "If they do, I'm sure they'll be excessively diverted, at any rate. I certainly have been."

Orion bristled but said nothing. Colette looked at Narcissa, alarmed—but found her friend unperturbed by the open hostility between her uncle and his sister.

"Don't mind them," Narcissa murmured, into her ear. "It's just how they are. My father says they've been like that since they were children."

That's right—it had been mentioned to her before that the Blacks were all cousins, and so Narcissa's papa had known his brother-in-law since childhood. Which meant, of course, that Mr. and Mrs. Black had also known each other their entire lives.

"Well, they're second cousins, he's four years younger than she is, and it was an arranged marriage…"

Colette groaned internally. She could have slapped herself in the face.

Tired of the conversation—Colette had a sneaking suspicion that Lucretia could have gone on happily provoking him for hours—Mr. Black pulled out his pocket watch to check the time.

"Walburga will be back soon—she probably thought you'd be late, which is why she told you to hurry." Orion slipped the watch back into the front pocket of his robes. "Would you like to wait in the parlor—or in the drawing room?"

His meaning was clear: he wanted her out of the dining room and his hair. Mrs. Prewett ignored this pointed question altogether in favor of leaning back in the chair, quite comfortable right where she was.

"Out early. I wonder…" Lucretia tapped her index finger on her chin. "Perhaps she's paying a visit to the—recently discovered property."

Mr. Black, who had buried his face in in his paper again, abruptly flung it down on the table and threw his sister a sharp look of warning.

"What is she talking about, Uncle Orion?" Narcissa asked, perplexed. "What recently discovered property?"

Narcissa's uncle did not have a chance to answer his niece's query, for Lucretia was only too happy to speak up herself.

"You aunt and uncle have been lately made aware of a—" Her cheek dimpled. "—A hitherto unknown, ah—Black holding. Here in London, can you imagine? Hiding right under their noses."

"A house—in London, that belongs to us?" Colette couldn't believe Narcissa was unaware of the heat radiating from her uncle's glare, but she was too busy gaping at Lucretia to notice it. "Where?"

"In Lisson—"

"—'House' would be a generous word for what we are speaking of," Orion cut his sister off, coldly. The same anger of the night of the party was now coming off him in waves. "I would describe it as more of a hovel, frankly."

"But—how could such a thing have been overlooked?"

"It was less overlooked than—misplaced," Lucretia said, amused. "Almost as if it wandered off all its own."

Colette's eyes widened. A sneaking suspicion crept over her—she thought that she knew exactly what Mrs. Prewett was speaking of—and that the long lost 'Black holding' was not, as was to be supposed, a recently discovered deed of ownership for a house in London.

So—Mrs. Prewett knew the secret, too.

"It's a small matter," he explained to Narcissa, sounding normal again. "Just a trifle. In any case—" Mr. Black cleared his throat significantly. "I cannot think your aunt would have gone there. As I'm sure you know, Lucretia, she doesn't care at all for the place."

Lucretia smiled, mysteriously.

"No, she's hoping—you'll consolidate it back into the main estate in short order."

Her brother returned her smile, thinly.

Narcissa, bored by the cryptic conversation between her uncle and a distant kinswoman she had never much cared for, turned to start chatting with her friend about their plans for the day—and found Colette frowning and looking puzzled, her ear tilted toward the head of the table so that she could catch the rest of what the older two were discussing.

"While we're on the subject, Lucretia," Orion said, in a lower voice—Colette noticed an odd forced conviviality on his tone that didn't suit him at all. "I understand you expressed an interest in seeing—that place."

"I did."

"Well, as it happens, I'm heading over there today." His eyes gleamed. "I'd be happy to take you."

"Well, that's very obliging of you, 'Rion." She smiled, knowingly. "But I shall have to decline."

"No longer game?"

"Not at all." Lucretia's voice was brimming with amusement. "I just think going with you would take all the fun out of it."

Mr. Black's eyes narrowed.

"You haven't mentioned anything about…the holding to our father, by any chance, have you, Lucy?"

Narcissa was chattering in one ear—Colette nodded, sure that whatever plan for luncheon she'd agreed to would probably be alright, as long as she could hear the rest of this conversation—

"Of—of course not." A small hesitation—the first false step Mrs. Prewett had made. "What on earth makes you think that?"

"It's been suggested to me by…certain interested parties," he said, voice tight. "In any case, I will remind you that I will inform him of it in my own good time, and I want you well out of the business for a reason."

"What interested parties?" She tapped the edge of her quizzing glass on the table. "Who is telling tales about me to—"

This fascinating conversation—and Colette's first foray into the art of eavesdropping on Blacks who think they are speaking in an unbreakable code when they are decidedly not—was interrupted by the arrival of the woman of the hour.

Though her husband stood up for her, and the two young ladies murmured polite hellos, Mrs. Black only had eyes for her cousin. She marched into the room, still wearing her fur-trimmed cloak, a large stack of letters clutched in one fist—and made an immediate beeline for Lucretia.

"Burgie! Wonderful." Lucretia stood up—her coffee cup forgotten. "I came as soon as I got your note."

"On time, for once." Walburga's eyes passed over her husband without comment in favor of the two younger witches. "Good morning, girls. How did you both sleep?"

Was she imagining it, Colette thought, or was that question directed at her more than Narcissa?

"Like a dream, auntie!" Narcissa smiled and turned to her friend. "Isn't this just the change of scene we were looking for, Colette? London has so much more scope for entertainment than the country."

Mrs. Black raised an eyebrow.

"Do you agree, Ms. Battancourt?" Colette looked up from her plate—what choice did she have, at such a direct address? "Do you find London more…entertaining than you did Wiltshire?"

"I try to find enjoyment wherever I am, Mrs. Black," the French girl mumbled. Narcissa frowned and nudged her—she was being far too pert, didn't she realize? "That is—I don't know England well enough to speak from my…my personal experience. But I'm sure Narcissa is right."

"Hm. Well—" She tilted her head and considered the girl. "We'll have to make an effort to see that you continue to enjoy yourself while you're staying with us."

"I'm grateful for all the attentions you've paid me, Madame," Colette replied, forcing her voice to be steady and calm—both the last adjectives she would have used to describe her current mood.

Walburga nodded, though her eyes lingered on the French witch, who managed to get a surprisingly bold look in before her hostess turned to the other end of the table. Her husband, who had stopped pretending to read his paper and was watching this exchange with interest, did not blush or look away from Mrs. Black—though she was still pretending not to notice him.

She circled to the head of the table and stopped at Orion's right side. The act of handing him the day's post forced Mrs. Black to make eye contact with her husband. The 'good mornings' they exchanged were extremely polite, if a bit formal.

"You were out the door early," Orion remarked, flipping through his letters. "Do you want the elf to make you something fresh?"

"I've already eaten."

"Here or—elsewhere?"

He looked up at her, an unsaid question in his face—but she merely clucked her tongue and ignored it in favor of scrutinizing his appearance. Her sharp eyes narrowed in on the front of his robes.

"You have eggs on your shirtfront, Orion," Walburga observed, dryly. "Quite slovenly. You should take more care when you eat."

He looked down and began a torrent of muttered expletives, but before Orion could protest the action, Walburga was dabbing at the spot with her wand and a napkin she'd conjured from thin air, lest the stain set. When he looked up from the spot on his robes, embarrassed, to thank her, she had already brushed past him and walked to the other side of the table.

Narcissa glanced up from the note her aunt had handed her a moment before to remark on how thoughtful and sweet Lucius was—when she noticed the direction in which her friend stared. Colette was eyeing the dwindling pile of letters in Aunt Walburga's hand with anxiety and expectation in equal measures.

"Auntie?" Walburga looked around, absently. "Is that all the mail? I think Colette is expecting post."

Mrs. Black looked up from a party invitation she'd been carelessly perusing.

"…Oh?"

She rounded on the younger girl, who blushed bright scarlet under her gaze and stammered something incoherent. Narcissa pinched her under the table.

"Is that true, dear?" Walburga's voice was pointedly sweet. "Are you expecting something?"

Colette forced herself to meet Mrs. Black's gaze directly.

"I—I thought I might be."

The older woman nodded, knowingly.

"Well—don't worry. It may yet turn up." She turned her head towards the only man in the room. "We sometimes get second post, don't we, Orion?"

Mrs. Black's husband didn't hear the question—he was staring down at the top letter he'd opened, reading and re-reading the words over again so intently that he was barely aware of the gaggle of women staring at him.

Lucretia coughed loudly, and he looked up, startled. Mr. Black folded the parchment and tucked it safely in his breast pocket. Colette noticed the odd expression on his face—smooth and absent emotion. She was beginning to see a pattern with Mr. Black and his relations—an innate, chameleon-like ability to close themselves off to outside scrutiny, become a blank slate.

The act of putting on the mask was its own form of revelation, however.

She would now be thinking and wondering about whatever was in that letter, on top of a myriad of other questions.

He stood up, abruptly.

"If anyone needs me, I will be in my study." He walked to the door, no small amount of determination in his gait. At the threshold, Orion turned back to address his sister. "You will let me know if you change your mind, Lucy. About the visit."

Mrs. Prewett waved at him, cheerful and mischievous sparkle still in her eye.

"I shan't, 'Rion," she replied, in a sing-song voice. "But I thank you all the same for being so agreeable as to offer."

He gave his sister one last suspicious look before saying his goodbyes and departing from the party of women.

Lucretia, just as happy to see the back of her brother as he was to leave them, turned to look at Walburga with a cheerful expression.

"Shall we, Burgie?"

She jerked her head to the door, indicating that she was eager to discuss whatever pressing business it was that had roused her so much earlier than she normally got out of bed—but Walburga was staring between the two witches in her charge with newfound suspicion.

"Remind me, Narcissa—what do you and Ms. Battancourt plan on doing before you meet your husband and his friends for the theatre tonight?"

Narcissa fluttered her eyelashes coquettishly and smiled.

"We aren't sure. Colette and I haven't had a minute alone together to talk it all out—we were about to go back to my room to chat."

"You mean you haven't spoken yet today?"

Colette stared up into Mrs. Black's eyes—she had the amazing ability to seem as though she could petrify one solely by the force of her glance.

It had certainly felt that way last night.

"You and Narcissa seem to have grown very close in a short time."

Mrs. Black, Colette was beginning to realize, had a talent for imbuing ordinary, everyday things with a sinister air.

"There's nothing wrong with that. It's good to have female companionship. No doubt it makes you feel you can…confide in her."

If her tone was anything to go by, this was almost as dangerous as Colette's mother thought girls traveling alone was.

"I feel obliged to tell you that…to do so about tonight or—my son would be a mistake."

Walburga's eyes glowed in the dark.

"Sirius Orion's situation is somewhat—irregular." She tucked hands behind her back. "You—may have heard rumors about it. As I cannot feign ignorance of these falsehoods, I imagine they may have even—reached France by now."

They had, of course—but no person had been quicker to confirm them than Sirius Orion himself—though Colette thought that was the last thing the woman wanted to hear now. Her pacing quickened—she seemed very agitated, waving her arms about with more passionate feeling than Colette had ever seen from a woman of her age and standing.

"It is all distortion and slander, of course. Our family has certain traditions that we hold to—such as how inheritances work. My eldest son has been…away from the family for some time, but as far as that goes, his position has never changed."

"But Narcissa said—"

"—Whatever she told you, it was wrong," Walburga interrupted her, bluntly. Colette's fingers twisted around in the bedcovers. "It isn't her place to speak on such things, anyway. She's a woman—witches shouldn't trifle in the affairs of wizards. What did she tell you?"

"Nothing—I'm sure Narcissa didn't mean any disrespect to you, ma'am—"

"She told you my younger son is going to inherit, didn't she?"

Colette's silence was deafening. Walburga sighed.

"Yes—well, that is what most of the family believes," she was forced to concede, though Colette could tell it was immensely annoying for her to do so. "I'm sure Narcissa wishes it true. She's always been fond of Regulus, and she and Sirius never quite…" She waved her hands about vaguely, as Colette was noticing she often did when struggling to describe her son. "…Got on."

She frowned and shook her head.

"Make no mistake. My husband is working on reinstating him. It is a—delicate business, and must be handled with finesse. With discretion—you might even say with…secrecy."

The young girl was transfixed—when Walburga got going she truly was mesmerizing. Terror and fascination were racing each other at a break-neck pace in Colette's breast; her heart was beating like the wings of a bird trapped in an old church steeple.

The older woman turned sharply on her heel.

"If the thing is done properly, he will be the undisputed heir to one of the oldest and wealthiest pureblood families in Europe—and, I hardly need add—a very eligible match."

Colette felt her face burning.

"Of course, it could just as easily be ruined—say, by a foolish witch who doesn't know her own mind pouring silly stories into the ears of her friends."

A vice seemed to be tightening around her chest. Her shoulders began to tremble again—a slight tremor, not the petrification of earlier, but certainly not a comfortable feeling.

Mrs. Black must've thought her fear made her simple.

"Let me be plain: if you mention anything about the events of last night and tonight to Narcissa, hers will not be the only friendship you lose."

Walburga looked between them, expression thoughtful.

"Why don't you girls go into the drawing room to talk? I only called Lucretia to ask her what she thought of two of my new gowns—it won't take long, and then we'll join you." She gave Colette a pleasant, matronly smile. "Do you play the piano-forte, Ms. Battancourt?"

The girl did not start as being addressed by Mrs. Black this time. In fact, her look up at the forbidding matron was clear-sighted and unblinking.

"A little—and not as well as my mother would like."

Colette's answer came out far more sarcastic than she had meant it. Her immediate instinct was to apologize for her pertness, and when she opened her mouth to do so—she froze.

A little voice—one she recognized muttered in her ear.

"She has the worst temper of any matron in this country by a mile. It's a sight to behold."

Just the thought of him—and the memory of his good-tempered grin as he had said those words, with a careless brashness she could not have dreamed of for herself—warmed Colette's insides with the kind of courage that put the muscatel she'd imbibed the night before to shame.

If he could joke—if he could look in his mother's face and dare to laugh—than so could she.

Walburga Black stared at her, blank-faced. Lucretia, standing behind her, was clearly fighting off a laugh, while Narcissa, at her right, seemed alarmed—but then Mrs. Black surprised all three. She nodded and smiled faintly.

"Well—when we come back in, you can show us first-hand." She patted the girl on the shoulder. "And we'll see just how high your mother's standards are."

"They are—très élevé."

Her mama was always telling her not to mix English and French.

"Young ladies who go to foreign lands to find a husband on their mothers' orders are generally thought to be good girls."

Colette's brow furrowed. Right now, quite frankly, she didn't care a fig what her mother thought.

"That's good." Mrs. Black lifted her viselike grip from the girl's shoulder. "It means she wants the best for her daughter. If I had been so lucky as to been blessed with a daughter, I would as well. Don't I always say that?"

She turned to Lucretia, who was watching this tête-à-tête with vague interest. Though she was impatient for news from her sister-in-law, and eager to quit the room with haste—Mrs. Prewett also knew that Walburga did not have the slightest desire for a daughter, disliked most other women as a general rule, and had never expressed anything even remotely resembling that sentiment to her or anyone they knew.

What are you up to, Burgie?

She considered the Battancourt wallflower, intrigued, now—so much so that Walburga had to nudge her.

"I said, aren't I always saying that, Lucretia?"

She looked between the two two girls, and then back at her cousin. Walburga had a positively shark-like expression on her face.

It was ghastly.

Interesting.

"Oh—yes." Lucretia's eyebrows flew up into her hairline. "All—the time."

Lucretia managed one last head swivel in the girl's direction before Walburga herded her out of the room.

The two witches, left to their own devices at last, stared at one another.

"What was that all about?"

Ms. Battancourt fixed her face in an expression of polite puzzlement.

"What—do you mean?"

Playing naive was one of her old standbys for a reason, Colette thought—people believed it easily enough of her—for she was unworldly most of the time.

She felt safe in thinking that this was the rare case where she most definitely understood better what was going on than Mrs. Malfoy did.

Narcissa scoffed.

"Oh, honestly—you know." Colette's blue eyes widened—normally Cissy found her friend's guileless expressions fetching—this morning she was irked by them. "All the hullabaloo between the three of them, Lucretia and the rest. And don't you wonder where my aunt went off to this morning by herself?"

Colette smiled, sheepishly. She didn't have to wonder.

"Not particularly." The French witch twisted her fingers around her wand in her lap. "That is—we shouldn't speculate idly or—gossip. That is what your uncle said to us. It isn't our…business to know."

Narcissa gave her a look that reminded Colette painfully of her cousin Antoinette—the one who never gave up the chance to look down her nose at the Battancourts' dull country mouse.

Not wanting her worth to go down in her friend's eyes, she decided to take another tact.

"Anyway—weren't you the one who said that wizards find curiosity an unattractive quality in a witch?"

Narcissa's shoulders dropped.

"Oh—that's right." The blond tilted her head, amused at her own wisdom. "I did say that, didn't I?"

Ms. Battancourt nodded. She crossed her fingers under the table in the hopes that Mrs. Malfoy would not continue steering the conversation into these tricky and dangerous waters.

Cissy leaned back in her chair, in a rare unladylike posture. She took a bite from a pear on the table and chewed it thoughtfully.

Finally, deciding it was not worth the mental exertion at this hour of the day, she gave a careless shrug.

"Oh—well, whatever it is, we'll find out about it sooner or later. I'm guessing by Christmas." She laughed and scooted around in her chair to address her friend more intimately. Mrs. Malfoy put both hands on Colette's shoulders and squeezed—a little too hard to be completely affectionate.

"One thing you'll have to get used to about our family—there's always some scheme afoot."

Colette stiffened under her touch—Mrs. Malfoy noticed and let go. A look of concern crossed Narcissa's haughty face, but Colette had already turned back to her porridge, and so she couldn't ascertain if the anxiety she'd seen in the girl's heart-shaped face had passed or not.

"Do these things—usually come out?"

"Oh yes—we're a very tight-knit family, you know—" Narcissa rose from the table, deep blue day dress billowing out under her, and beckoned for her friend to follow her to the drawing room."—And not very good at keeping secrets from each other at all."

---

The master bedroom of Number Twelve was the largest of the private rooms in the house, with the oldest and handsomest furniture by far, and more than enough space for entertaining—should one have the need for private conversation. This feature had been useful for more than one mistress of the house, for Blacks were not known for keeping to their own business.

Lucretia bolted the bedroom door behind her—one, two, three locks—before turning around.

Mrs. Black stood at the foot of her enormous bed—practically vibrating with coiled energy. She did not invite her sister-in-law to sit down on the duvet sofa in the corner, or call for tea to be made—the anticipation of this moment had robbed her of speech.

"Now—what is all this about, Burgie?"

Walburga smiled, widely. It was the smile of the triumphant, the conquering king returned from campaign abroad, ready to lord his treasures over the peasantry.

"I have done it," she said, simply.

"Done what?"

Walburga hummed happily to herself and—great gracious gods, was she leaning against the bedpost and rocking back and forth on her heels? She hadn't done that since she was a girl of eleven.

"You said I couldn't—" She leaned forward, her eyes glittering strangely. "—And I did."

"Don't make me play a guessing game, Walburga. You know I hate guessing games."

"—And in less than a day!—"

"For that matter, you hate guessing games."

"No one should doubt me," she babbled, unaware of her cousin's growing anger. "Everyone does, and look where it gets them. If I had a sickle for every time someone doubted me—"

"—I mean it, Walburga!" Lucretia interrupted, coldly. Her friend froze, mid-crow. "If you do not make yourself plain, I tell you—I shall march out that door and back to Buckinghamshire until you are ready to speak sensibly to me."

Lucretia put her hand on the doorknob, and raised her wand to open the locks again. Now it was Mrs. Black's turn to scowl. She was torn between her annoyance that Mrs. Prewett refused to play along, and her own general lack of patience at not being understood.

The latter won out, in the end.

"That won't be necessary. You do not need to leave—in a pet." Walburga plucked at her sleeve, haughtily. "If you are in such a hurry, I'll be brief. I would hate to—detain you."

Lucretia's expression softened, and she took her hand off the doorknob.

"So, tell me—" Her voice was cheerful again. "What is it you've done, exactly?"

"Found a solution to my problem."

"Which one?"

"The—the very delicate one that we discussed yesterday." Her cheeks flushed. "You remember."

Lucretia's eyebrows flew up into her hairline.

"Oh!" She clasped her hands together and stepped into the room, face alight with interest. "You mean you found someone already?"

The smugly pleased smile returned, and Mrs. Black nodded towards the door. It took her sister-in-law a moment to understand the meaning—and another to let out a loud scoff and throw her hands into the air in disbelief.

"Oh, Walburga—really! You cannot be serious." Lucretia crossed the room and collapsed on the gigantic four-poster. "You don't mean that mealy-mouthed wallflower that Narcissa has taken in hand?"

"I do."

Lucretia shook her head dramatically.

"She is exactly the sort of well-bred little wisp that I was trying to steer you away from." Lucretia snorted. "Granted—as a daughter-in-law, I can see the appeal for you. That Battancourt girl seems timid and in awe of everything she looks at. She'd probably be easy enough to puppet from the shadows."

"There is more to her that meets the eye," Walburga said, firmly.

Lucretia blew air out of his her lips in an unladylike snort.

"I'll need proof of that before I allow you to crow over me in triumph."

Walburga offered her a devious smile—the smile of a snake.

"Fine. I'll prove it." She straightened up, and called out, in a clear and authoritative tone. "Kreacher!"

The elf appeared with a loud CRACK. Lucretia started at the noise—a lifetime of it, and she'd never gotten used to the comings and goings of house-elves. She had not at all been sorry to see the back of elf magic when she married her husband—who, despite coming from a family as old as her own, had no patience for what he described as the 'fripperies' of magical life. If his father had ever offered Ignatius an elf as a servant, Lucretia knew nothing of it, and she could not imagine him accepting. They lived a very retiring life—what use would one of those grubby urchins be to them?

This particular elf's mother had been the primary caretaker of the house when Lucy was a girl, and she thought this creature just about as simpering as its mama had been. But the arrangement suited Walburga well enough—he was looking up at her with an adoration that bordered on the obscene.

If an elf's loyalty was anything to go by, Orion was not the total master of his own house.

"Well?"

Kreacher bowed and pulled a letter from out of the air.

"Just as Mistress said."

No sooner had she seen it than Walburga had snatched the missive out of the elf's grubby fingers.

She held the envelope up to the light, her eyes glowing with satisfaction at what she saw. Lucretia stood up and took a few steps towards her, peeking over her cousin's shoulder.

At first glance the letter appeared quite ordinary—a square of parchment like any other—but on closer inspection, Lucretia noticed something rather odd about it. There was no visible seal or crease at all—the heavy paper was completely smooth, with no apparent opening. It had been sealed by magic, obviously.

Without the right enchantment to open it, this message would likely burst into flame or dust, and be of no use to anyone.

"Clever." Lucretia's eyes darted to Walburga. The crease lines between her eyebrows were deep. "Whoever sent that made it so it can't be opened by ordinary means."

Walburga nodded, absently, turning it around in her hands.

"I'm well aware." Walburga looked to the elf. "Where did you find this, Kreacher?"

"On Miss Cissy's friend's bed, Mistress," the elf said, a tad coolly. "Kreacher does not know how it could have gotten there—"

"We always air out the upper bedrooms in the mornings," Mrs. Black snapped, impatiently. "An enterprising owl could have gotten through, if it knew what it was about."

Kreacher would have never dared contradict his mistress, and so he merely nodded at this supposition.

His volunteering of his opinions on the subject seemed to have reminded Walburga that he was capable of thinking on his own. She narrowed her eyes and ordered Kreacher to leave the room until he was called. Clearly disappointed, he gave 'Mistress Lucretia' a resentful look before disapparating, as if his dismissal was her doing.

Once they were alone, she turned her attention back to Lucretia and the letter.

"I confess—" Lucretia peered through her quizzing glass at the note. "I am interested to know who is leaving her notes on her pillow."

"The bed—the bed—what is near the bed in that room…" Walburga muttered to herself. She turned on the spot to look at her own.

The silver eyes fell on the bedside table: she froze, like a puma that has spotted its prey.

"A-ha."

A gigantic pitcher of water lay on the table. Lucretia knew it at once—there was a set of them, one in every bedroom—gigantic crystal monstrosities that had been enchanted to refill every time they were emptied. They were a wedding present of Melania's—in a bit of pique when she was four she'd emptied one over Orion's head and nearly drowned him.

"I wonder…" Mrs. Prewett watched with interest as her sister-in-law walked around the end of the bed and towards the bedside table.

Walburga's shrewd eyes darted between the letter and the water's surface.

Without hesitation she dunked it into the pitcher.

"What in the world—"

Mrs. Prewett's mouth dropped open in astonishment—when her cousin pulled the letter back out of the water, drops rolled off it in rivulets—and with these droplets, the glittering concealment charm melted away, revealing the real letter—a piece of folded, plain parchment sealed with cheap tape.

The effect of the magic was somewhat spoiled by the final presentation, Lucretia thought, wryly. Still—it was cleverer than most attempts she'd seen to get a clandestine letter to a female. There was no telling whether the Battancourt girl would've figured it out, of course.

"That's an elegant spell," she complimented, brightly. "Very clean—and it doesn't require magic to break. I suppose one could knock a glass of water onto it at a table in mixed company and make it appear an accident."

Walburga was too busy funneling off the last of the moisture and tearing the letter open to pay mind to her friend's compliments of the magic that had been employed to conceal the message within.

The second her eyes hit the page a smile of grim satisfaction spread over her lips.

"I knew it! You wanted proof—" To Lucretia's surprise, Walburga shoved the letter in her hand. "Read this."

Lucretia smoothed out the letter, sparing her sister-in-law a glance meant to convey her skepticism. It was true—the fact that the Battancourt girl was receiving secret letters did make her marginally more interesting—but that didn't make her any less of a long-shot candidate in Burgie's marriage schemes, if the rumors she'd heard about the boy's wildness were true.

Her eyes darted down to the header, which had the date and a salutation, before—

"Out loud, Lucretia. Read it out loud!"

Mrs. Prewett looked up from the message, amused to find her friend glowering at her and tapping her well-shod foot on the carpet.

She smirked. The light was dim in here—it looked as though Orion and Walburga hadn't drawn the curtains open in years—and it amused her that after all this time, Burgie was still in denial about her growing far-sightedness. She'd probably taken one look at the parchment and realized she couldn't read a word of it.

Of course, her sister-in-law's vanity was such that she would sleep in the dirt before admitting she needed reading spectacles.

"Have you grown fond of my dramatic recitations, Burgie?" She tilted her head in faux-innocence. "I didn't think you cared for them."

Walburga's look was withering, and so—her cheek still dimpled with amusement—Lucretia pulled out her own pince-nez glasses and held the parchment a comfortable distance from her face.

"Dear Mademoiselle Battancourt—" She paused and read on, silently—her eyes, widened. "Oh, my—well, this is interesting—" She looked up. "Walburga, did you really—?"

"—You can read the whole thing out, and then give me your unwanted opinions, Lucy!"

"Oh, very well, very well—all the fun you are—" Vexed, Mrs. Prewett shook her head, and upon clearing her throat, read out the body of the letter:

Dear Mademoiselle Battancourt,

What a night! Can you believe it, I think it was bad luck that thwarted us in the end—it was a fluke that we were spotted out the window, and I remain convinced that if not for that you would have gotten back in the house without incident. I hope this minor setback won't discourage you from future excursions, and that you are recovering from the shock(s)? Was the dragon very hard on you? Report has reached me here—and by all accounts you seem to have handled her well. I'm impressed—and more grateful than I can say.

In honor of that gratitude—and as I gather the Kneazle is out of the bag—I wanted a chance to explain myself to you in person. Please send by return owl, briefly, a rough outline of what you and Mrs. Malfoy plan to get up to today, so that I can contrive a way to "bump into you". I thought we could compare notes on how the evening turned out. I must confess to having a little anxiety over what might've been said to you, but I hope you will clear it up forthwith.

On the subject of our agreement re: your continued education—tomorrow I have an appointment at a place of prominent interest (I assure you, no grandfathers are allowed on premises or grounds, by strict decree). You must see it while you're here! Provided I am the one giving you the tour. Try to convince Narcissa to take you—or her aunt, though you mustn't make it look like it's your idea. I'll explain more when I see you.

I hope you aren't too put-out by what you must now realize has been weighing on my conscience for our brief but eventful acquaintance. Please reassure me. Being left in suspense is not my 'metier', as you French would say.

If I don't hear from you soon, I must tell you—I shall assume the worst. You wouldn't want that, would you?

Don't worry about the owl—it'll find me.

Awaiting the requested owl with above information and in great interest,

Your Friend, Sincerely,

'N.S.'

Lucretia was rarely shocked, but even she could not help herself.

"Well, if that isn't the most brazen, impudent and outrageous thing I've ever laid eyes on!"

Mrs. Black hardly batted an eyelash at the conclusion of this recitation—she seemed far less surprised by what she had heard than her cousin was. Walburga had her hands clasped before her, and wore the hard look of a woman who was still taking in and absorbing the contents of the letter.

Lucretia skimmed over it a second time. The meaning of the words became even more astonishing to her, now that she was over her initial shock.

"This explains why I got your letter summoning me here at four in the morning." One mystery solved, at least. "Do I gather that you caught that girl in an assignation last night with the author of this—fascinating missive?"

Walburga looked stone-faced: though something impenetrable flickered behind her eyes.

"I did."

"But what was he thinking, to send it here—" She waved the letter about. "He must've realized there was a chance this would be intercepted."

"I imagine he was almost counting on it."

Lucretia frowned. That made no sense at all.

"Then he's an utter fool—" Mrs. Prewett couldn't help herself—she laughed. "He can't possibly know who he's trifling with."

Walburga raised an eyebrow and smiled.

"Oh, he does, I assure you."

Lucretia dropped the letter to her side.

"But Burgie—I cannot think a young man who knew you would dare refer to you as 'the dragon' in a letter he thought you might actually read."

Mrs. Black pursed her lips.

"If he were trying to provoke me, he might." Her eyes glittered. "Trying to get me to reveal myself."

This was so unusually cryptic for her that Lucretia could only stare. There were too many questions—so she hit on the first one her mind could think of.

"What does 'N.S.' stand for?" she asked, perturbed. "And why the devil is it in quotes?"

Walburga's smile turned brittle.

"A joke—a boyish and silly one." She rolled her eyes. "It's the initials of that—that Nord."

She managed to infuse the word with more contempt than should have been possible to convey in a single syllable.

"The Nord—Mr. Svensson, you mean—from papa's party?" Walburga nodded, grimly. "You caught that girl out last night with him?" Lucretia turned toward the door, with newfound respect and distaste in equal measure. She tutted. "That beats all! You know, he's a notorious rake. I would not have pegged her as fast at all—but she must be, if she was with him."

"She isn't," Mrs. Black corrected her, calmly. "She's quite innocent."

"But, Burgie, if she's carrying on with that Nord—"

"—She isn't carrying on with any Nords, Lucretia!" Walburga cut her off, annoyed. "If you ever actually listened to what I said instead of interrupting all the time, you'd already know that. The Nord wasn't a Nord—he was an imposter."

"An imposter—? But how—"

"—Polyjuice potion." Her fingers squeezed the four-poster. "He had it in a flask that he was drinking out of the whole night."

Lucretia gaped at her for a full fifteen seconds—and then she burst into an unexpected smile.

"A man in disguise—at papa's birthday party, of all things!" Her eyes widened with delight. "What a scandal. I daresay he should have a fit if he ever found out."

It would have been clear to anyone who knew either lady—or had eyes in their head to see—that Mrs. Black found Mrs. Prewett's flippant reaction to the evening's shocking events inappropriate, to put it mildly. She was taking the news of having met an intruder—for all she knew, a would-be assassin—with a frank calmness that her sister-in-law found rather unwomanly.

"That fellow was standing right next to us, bold as brass, and not one of us were any the wiser—"

"—Except the girl," Walburga pointed out, deftly.

"—Except that girl," she repeated, softly. "Curious thing, that."

How the girl that Lucretia Prewett thought so little of had noticed what she had not was not a subject she cared to dwell on, in this moment.

"But Burgie—it's all well and good and very interesting—but I can't see how this business helps you." Lucretia tapped her quizzing glass against her chin. "Unless I'm missing something."

Mrs. Prewett was one of those rare few immune to the power of Mrs. Black's sarcasm, and so the withering look this comment received sailed right over her like a summer breeze.

"You clearly are." She shook her head. "You're missing the point entirely."

"I'll grant you're right about there being more to her," Lucretia conceded, in a grudging tone. "But I still can't see Colette Battancourt as a viable candidate."

"Why not?"

"Well, dalliances with wastrels aside, she's still a wallflower." Lucretia tutted. "She had a book tucked into her reticule the other night. I may not have laid eyes on him in three years, but I cannot picture Sirius being too keen on a bluestocking."

Walburga's lips curled up in the smuggest smile she was capable of.

"He seems rather keen to me in that letter you're holding." Lucretia's hand fell limply to her side. "And when I had breakfast with him this morning, he certainly seemed exceedingly keen to know what had become of her, after the night they spent together—the night I had, in his eyes, so 'rudely interrupted' when I caught them attempting to scale the side of my house."

The color drained from Mrs. Prewett's face, and she leaned on the bedpost for support.

"But then—this isn't from—?"

Walburga nodded, exasperatedly.

"So then—" She paused for dramatic effect. "That is to say—Sirius was the—"

"—Obviously!"

Lucretia gaped at her for a full ten seconds, before letting out a most indignant noise.

"I take what I said back," she cried out, dramatically. "You are most brazen, impudent and outrageous thing I've ever laid eyes on, Walburga Black."

Both of Walburga's cheeks flushed crimson.

"You are too sly by half!" Lucretia waggled a finger in her cousin's direction. "You let me go on and on, and held back the most interesting part of this affair all to yourself—"

"—I thought you would figure it out when you read his letter aloud!" Walburga exclaimed, hotly. "It is in your nephew's hand."

"What difference does that make?" Lucretia asked, very indignant. "How should I know his handwriting? He hasn't written me a letter in a decade, and I believe the last one I had from him was very poorly spelled and said something like, 'Please send more biscuits, aunt.' Your son has never been a great correspondent." She eyed the letter with newfound interest. "At least, he wasn't one then—apparently that's changed." She flapped the parchment in the air. "He's writing very interesting letters these days."

"But not to his aunt."

Walburga's feline smile made far more sense, Lucretia thought—but that didn't make it any less obscene. The woman was obviously bursting at the seams, she wanted to spill all, and Mrs. Prewett, being a good-natured sort, was only too happy to oblige her.

"Now we come to the heart of it. You must tell me how this—" She held out her nephew's letter. "—Came to be. And mind you don't leave anything out."

Mrs. Black's eyes glittered coldly, which said all Lucretia needed to know about her chances of getting everything from her sister-in-law—slim to none. But she was courteous enough at the request, and seemed paradoxically irked that Lucretia was asking and that she had waited so long to do so. Once Mrs. Prewett lead her over to the divan sofa and the two were comfortably settled, Lucretia soothed her irritation and coaxed her out of ill humor.

Mrs. Black explained, in as brief of terms as her sister-in-law would allow—for no story could go uninterrupted when Lucretia was listening to it—about the events of the previous two nights—the party, as Colette Battancourt had relayed it to her the night before, and the interception of the young witch and wizard's late-night tryst. Lucretia gasped (when she was supposed to) and laughed (when she was not)—and by the end was very glad indeed that she had gotten dressed before noon to come all the way to London and hear the thrilling tale for herself.

"Well, at least this explains why Mr. Svensson didn't flirt with me," Lucretia remarked, when Walburga had finished her story. "I was feeling put-out, to think of him preferring that Battancourt chit's company to mine."

"I doubt he would have enjoyed your forward manners much," Walburga said, dryly. "Even if you weren't his aunt."

Lucretia laughed.

"No—apparently his tastes lie…" She looked down at the note again. "Elsewhere."

Her eyes darted back up to Walburga's. She considered her cousin, thoughtfully. There were many questions she could ask—there were many questions she had—but Lucretia also knew her friend well enough to guess how well most of them would be received.

"So…that girl, eh?"

Mrs. Prewett's tone suggested that, while she was fast coming around to the idea, she still found the possibility of such a bookish daughter-in-law for Walburga of all women amusing.

"What an…interesting prospect."

"Well, she would not have been my first choice," Mrs. Black admitted, grudgingly. "But one must make do with what one is given."

Lucretia nodded—a fair point. Burgie was nothing if not resourceful—even with limited means.

"Is there any money there?"

"Oh, I shouldn't think so. I doubt she's got two sickles to rub together." She shrugged. "Orion says the family's coffers are empty."

"So—they're desperate." Lucretia's eyes sparkled with mischief. "All the better for you! No one likes in-laws who are too fussed."

Walburga glared at her—whatever difficulties she might've had with Sirius, she did not appreciate the implication that her son was not at the top of every mother and every duenna in Europe's list of eligible husbands for their daughters or charges.

Lucretia held up the letter again.

"Well—I will grant that he's taken a shine to her." Walburga's nose twitched in irritation at this meager concession. "But that is not the same thing as a formally contracted engagement."

Her cousin tossed her head dismissively.

"It could be nothing more than a passing lark," Lucretia pressed, her eyes carefully trained on Walburga, eager for any tells of what might be going on in her friend's singularly crafty mind. "How do you intend to fix his interest?"

Mrs. Black's lips broke into another smile.

"I have already begun on that front." She gestured towards the parchment still clasped in Lucretia's hand. "You have there the first fruits of my labors."

Mrs. Prewett gawked at her.

"You're taking credit for this?"

Walburga raised both eyebrows.

"When I saw him at breakfast this morning, I forbid him from seeing or writing to her," she said, slowly—taking pleasure in the words. "And expressed my deep disapproval at the idea of any further connection between them."

It took only a moment for the blow to land.

Lucretia closed her eyes, mock-pained.

"Oh, that poor, foolish boy…"

Walburga's smile was unusually grim.

"He cannot resist the urge to defy me." Her eyes glinted, half-triumphant, half-exasperated. "Whatever I tell him, he has to do the opposite."

"What do you intend to do? Trick him into marrying her by pretending you disapprove of the match?"

Walburga scowled—Mrs. Prewett laughed to herself. If she thought that would work, Burgie probably would. Lucretia could well imagine her sister-in-law hurling insults at the Battancourt girl, while Sirius—he was still a sullen teenager in her mind's eye—defiantly walked her down the aisle.

The thought made her lip twitch.

"Don't be ridiculous." Walburga picked imaginary lint off her sleeve. "By the time it gets to that point, Sirius Orion will have more than me to contend with, and it will be too late for him."

He'd already be caught in his devious's mother's snare.

Lucretia turned the paper over in her hands, idly.

"I think he may be onto you." She grinned, toothily. "There's a post-script I didn't notice, before."

She moved the letter out of Burgie's reach before her cousin could snatch it and read aloud,

"P.S. If any nosy parkers who are not Ms. Battancourt happen to read this, I would like to remind them that claiming one understands a position is not the same thing as agreeing to do it. Also it is bad manners to read your guest's mail."

Walburga's cheeks flushed red. Lucretia's cheek dimpled.

"Cheeky daring little scamp, isn't he?"

And one who knew his mother almost as well as she knew him. Of course, Sirius wasn't the only predictable creature in their family.

Her sister-in-law glowered.

"I told you he was trying to provoke me."

"And it seems very much like it's on the verge of working." Her knuckles were white, gripping her wand in her lap. "In another second you'll be back over there, and your son will have a pair of matching boxed ears."

The Black matron breathed in and out a few times, forcing calm upon herself.

"That's what he wants," she murmured, still irritated—but with a cooler head than a moment earlier. "But it wouldn't do at all for what I'm planning. I told him that I trust he will behave himself, and that is what I intend to do. I will let him have his little—" Walburga sniffed, derisively. "—Jest, for now."

"She who laughs last, laughs best, eh?"

Mrs. Black gave her friend an annoyed look and settled herself back into the plush velvet of her divan. It was only then that Mrs. Prewett realized how close the angered mother had been to springing up from her seat and marching back to his flat to let her son know the precise punishment for referring to one's mama as a 'dragon.'

Lucretia—knowing it was for this reason she had been summoned, and hoping to distract her from the provoking comments of her impudent nephew—tucked her arm in Burgie's, and inquired on the finer details of Walburga's scheme. Happy for the change of subject, her cousin matter-of-factly laid out her intentions for how the girls would spend the days leading up to Christmas, and where her son fit into those plans. In an rare show of restraint, Lucy refrained from comment until she was sure the other woman was done.

"Well, that is—quite an ingenuous plan," she remarked, truthfully. "Though—risky. It will be a triumph, if it comes off."

Mrs. Black smiled. She knew this.

"Of course—it relies on more than one thing you cannot entirely control."

She was referring to the girl. Walburga did not seem all that concerned on that front—Lucretia wondered at the confidences that had passed between them the night before that had her friend this sure.

Oh, to be a fly on that wall…

"I am relying on her, it's true—and she may turn out to have less promise that it seems," she admitted. "The whole thing—may come to nothing. I might change my mind and decided it doesn't suit, after all."

It was a surprisingly clear-headed concession, coming from a woman who, in addition to being completely dogged in pursuit of her goals, was also a firm believer in fate and at her core, deeply superstitious. Lucretia watched this interesting new circumspect Burgie staring at her bed—at the curtains hanging over the sanctuary that had only had one occupant the night before.

"What will you do, then?"

"Find some…other solution, of course."

Lucretia's mouth drooped. An answer both too hasty and hesitant to be entirely believed. No—whatever Walburga might tell herself as consolation, she had put all her chips on this one square.

Her heart was in the game.

"At any rate, I certainly am not going to stand around and do nothing. And goodness knows I'm not going to leave it up to the two of them."

She couldn't help herself—Lucretia turned her head to hide the smile. Her friend's faith in the judgement of young people as regarded managing affairs of the heart was amusingly low, and—given Burgie's record where this subject was concerned—rather ironic.

Like mother, like son.

"Do you think she's really up to snuff?"

"We shall see." Mrs. Black took the letter back and read over the words again—it was from the squint that Mrs. Prewett knew she really was reading. "This will be the first test."

She summoned the elf again—Lucretia was sure he'd been waiting outside the door, like a diligent watchdog—and after resealing the letter with the same spell she'd just broken, handed it to her servant.

"Take this to the drawing room and give it to the girl," she ordered him, haughtily. "We will join you shortly."

Kreacher bowed and left them alone once more. In the absence of the letter, and because she could never resist the urge to press her luck, Lucretia decided to return to a subject that interested her far more than the marriage prospects of her nephew.

"Who was Mr. Klöcker, Burgie?"

Walburga became extremely interested in a painting on the wall across the room.

"What did you say?" she asked, absently.

"The other man, the one who came to the party with Sirius—Mr. Klöcker." She raised an eyebrow. "Do you know who he was?"

A cloud passed over Walburga's face.

"I haven't the faintest idea." She sniffed, coldly. "I assume Mr. Klöcker is Mr. Klöcker."

"Well, I don't!"

And she didn't believe for one second that Walburga did, either.

"If you are so interested in the subject," Walburga said, the color rising in her face, for she was unable to hide her discomfort at the turn of their conversation. "You should ask your brother. Orion knows all about it, and I'm sure he'd tell you far more than he has me."

"Oh, darling—you aren't angry at him because he didn't tell you he'd caught Sirius—" Lucretia tutted. "You can't hold that against him. If he'd said something to you then, you know you would have made a dreadful scene—"

"—That is not the only falsehood Orion Black has told me in the past week, Lucretia Prewett!"

Walburga—in a state of agitation that had sprung from God knew where—leapt to her feet and crossed the room. Lucretia watched as her sister-in-law, arms wrapped around herself, stared determinedly at the wall next to her bedside table.

Her shoulders trembled with anger.

"…Everyone's husbands lie to them from time-to-time, dear." Facing the wall as she was, Lucretia could not see her expression, but she could tell from the way that Walburga stiffly held her shoulders that she was upset. "—And I'm sure yours has better reason than most."

Mrs. Black sucked in a shuddering breath.

"I am—well aware of that," Mrs. Black said, her voice subdued. "I just don't—I don't like it when he does it in front of the children. It is not pleasant to think everyone is conspiring against me."

"Nobody is conspiring against—"

"—Well, it certainly feels like it!"

The witch fretted with her gown and still didn't turn around. Lucretia remained on the sofa, very still—expectant. If she gave Burgie a moment—

A moment passed—and then another.

"What is this really about?"

Walburga shifted, uncomfortable, and peered out in the direction of the window.

"I have discovered how Orion is getting him to behave." Another stiff pause. "And it's just one of the many lies he's told me."

The woman that uttered these words sounded small, almost vulnerable—though it would have been difficult for someone who didn't know her as well as Lucretia to discern that through her anger.

"He said it was a 'womanish fancy'—to my face, and in front of them—and he knew it was true, all along. Insufferable, tiresome man."

"What did he know was true?" Lucretia pressed her, gently.

"Never you mind," Walburga muttered, darkly.

Lucretia clucked her tongue.

"Well, whatever it is—instead of stewing on it," she said, in soothing tones. "You should say something."

Walburga sniffed.

"And give him the satisfaction of thinking I care what he thinks or does?"

You do care, Lucretia thought, her inner voice wry. You care very much.

Mrs. Prewett sighed. Twenty-five years of marriage, and sometimes it seemed as if Walburga and Orion were still the unstoppable force and immovable object of their youths.

"Have you spoken to him about your plans with the girl?"

Walburga spun around on her heel. She looked herself again—or rather, she had her mask back in place.

"Certainly not!" She straightened up, the picture of regal, cold control. "Why should I tell him, when he's being so disagreeable? He'll probably spoil the whole thing."

She marched back over to the door, face flush with determination. Lucretia got hastily to her feet as this whirlwind of a witch strode past her.

"I'm not going to let him interfere."

"Burgie, you know you can't go on this way." She put a hand on Burgie's shoulder—her cousin stiffened at the touch. "You will have to tell him eventually."

Walburga would need his help and support to pull off her plan—and more importantly, she wanted it. She had always leaned on him for support without even realizing.

Of course, Lucretia thought, there was also the small matter of her being in such a rage that it was unlikely she'd be able to keep the source of her anger from him for very long.

Sirius's stubbornness and obstinacy had not come out of thin air, after all.

"Not yet!" Walburga jerked her shoulder and flung off Lucretia's hand. "And if he can keep secrets from me with my son, then so can I."

She pushed open the door and glided out into the hall, her step as light and as quick as they'd been since she was a young girl. Mrs. Prewett sighed and followed closely at her heels—knowing full well that now was not the time to argue.

The picture of the events that had lead to this extraordinary situation was growing clearer, at any rate.

She had full confidence that by the end of the afternoon she would know all.

---

"Well, girls—have you made up for your plans for the day?"

As soon as her aunt and cousin (distant cousin—she was happy not to have to claim too close a connection to Lucretia) arrived at the door to the drawing room, Narcissa looked up from the embroidery she'd been pretending to pour over.

"Oh yes—I think we have it all planned out, now, haven't we, Colette?"

The French girl, whose head was currently bent over a book, nodded. Her forehead went slightly pink. Narcissa turned back to her auntie, and happily chattered away about their engagements—the luncheon with her mama, the beauty salon, dinner with Lucius and his friends, and the concert—so many events that it would be nearly impossible for them to return to Grimmauld Place until very late.

"I'm sorry, aunt—I hope we can have dinner together some night—"

Walburga made a polite, noncommittal promise to look at her calendar and check to see if they were free of commitments.

"—Oh! And Colette's letter finally arrived." An afterthought—Narcissa wrinkled her perfect nose. "But then she knocked your flowerpot over and completely soaked it—poor thing. She says she couldn't make out a word."

Lucretia and Walburga exchanged a brief look. The letter poked out from the book, clearly—the Battancourt girl had stuck it between the pages.

"That is a shame. Perhaps if you take it upstairs, you will be able to…decipher it," Walburga said, blandly. Ms. Battancourt pushed the edge of the damp envelope further into the pages.

"Who was it from, dear?" Lucretia asked, slyly. "A secret admirer?"

The girl was remarkably clear-sighted when she looked up from the book.

"A friend." She tucked the novel out of sight. "I don't think it was all too important. Just a…trifle."

Oh. So she was not so biddable.

"If something important was said, a very determined friend would, of course, write again."

That got a blush.

"About your plans, Cissy—" All three women turned to Mrs. Black. "If you don't have any tomorrow, I was wondering if you and—Colette." She delicately stressed the word, as if she was testing it out. "Might like another change of scene."

The two younger witches looked at one another, perplexed. Narcissa's aunt had a ready explanation on her lips.

"I am going up to Scotland to have lunch with Horace Slughorn, and I thought I'd offer to take you girls along."

Colette's looked up from the spot on the carpet, alarmed. Narcissa sighed heavily and rolled her eyes.

"Oh, Aunt Walburga, really—Colette doesn't want to meet him." Cissy turned in her seat towards her friend, to confirm that her opinion on the subject was correct. "Slughorn's our old head of house, and he's a frightful bore, always going on and on—"

"—He is a wizard worthy of respect, Narcissa," Mrs. Black scolded, without much heat. "And one who has a great interest in your welfare and would very much like to see you."

Narcissa tried to force herself to smile and failed.

"I find Sluggy trés amusing in—small doses, at least," Lucretia observed, cheerfully. "Where are you meeting him?"

"In Hogsmeade, at The Three Broomsticks—then we're walking up to the castle for luncheon."

Lucretia kept one eye trained on the girl. She fiddled with the edge of the letter still sticking out of the book, nervously.

"Slughorn aside—" Lucretia leaned back languidly on a cushion. "If she hasn't been there before, Ms. Battancourt might enjoy seeing Hogwarts, Cissy. Most people consider it a—" She suppressed a laugh. "—A place of prominent interest."

Colette's ears went bright pink. Narcissa, fixing a stitch in her half-hearted attempt at embroidery, hardly noticed.

"She went to Beauxbatons," she scoffed. "Compared to that who wants to see Hogwarts?"

Mrs. Malfoy had very little sentimental attachment to her old school. She had not enjoyed the extreme climes of Scotland, and on the whole had left her education behind with little regret. Lucius was the only bright spot in all seven years—the only memories not tainted.

"Let Ms. Battancourt decide for herself, Narcissa," Walburga moderated, smoothly. When she turned to look at Colette, the girl had abandoned the book altogether. "How about it, my dear? Do you think you might find something to…amuse yourself with, up in Scotland?"

Her smile was sweet. The girl audibly swallowed. Lucretia almost felt sorry for her—Narcissa must've been immune to it from a lifetime of exposure, but right now her aunt was staring down her little friend like a python would a rabbit.

"If Narcissa doesn't think it will be a pleasant excursion, I do not wish to—put her out."

The pause that followed this was a little too long to be comfortable.

"Well…"

Walburga clasped her hands together. The eyes that watched the girl—the girl, Lucretia was amused to see, that had abandoned her rabbit-like expression for something rather more like a mongoose—were flinty, and her smile turned brittle.

"…You don't have to decide now. You can spend the day considering the prospect and tell me after the concert what you want to do."

She nodded at Lucretia. For a minute her cousin didn't understand why—until she saw that familiar narrowing of the eyes.

Ah. It was time for her to go, was it? Lucretia got to her feet, happy to be escorted out of the house—whether she wanted to or not. Walburga, halfway to the door, called carelessly over her shoulder.

"Please let me know if you have any letters you'd like me to send for you."

"I will not have any more post today, Madame Black."

A quiet but unmistakably firm voice. Lucretia's eyebrows flew up again.

Mrs. Black, whose hand was just then resting on the doorknob, looked over her shoulder and back at the girl. A look passed between them—but whether it was of shared understanding or confusion was unclear to Mrs. Prewett.

"I think that one may have more of a mind of her own than we thought," she remarked, as the two women walked down the main staircase to the front door of Number Twelve.

She didn't add that she was beginning to like Colette Battancourt more and more because of it.

Walburga made a tch sound in the back of her throat. Her expression remained inscrutable until the two women arrived at the door.

"She knows her part."

"But if she's not willing to play it, Burgie—"

Unconcerned, Walburga tapped her wand against the heavy iron latches of the door. Each lock unbolted of its own accord.

"I'm only asking her to be herself." The massive walnut door with the snake door knocker opened and swung forward, slowly. "It is not a taxing role, believe me."

Lucretia blinked.

"Then she—"

"—Is doing precisely what I knew she would," she finished, airily.

Walburga lifted her wand to close the door, but before she could, Lucretia stopped it with her foot.

"You want her to ignore his letter."

Surely that smile must have been illegal.

"Men don't like witches who are too eager."

Lucretia removed her foot, and the door creaked shut—the last look she got of Walburga could only be described as spider-like.

Lucretia shook her head as she started down the steps and to the park—a little fresh air would do her good—and it would give her time to think.

That poor boy and girl. Neither of them were prepared for what was to come.

Still—it would make for a rather entertaining Christmas.

And she did not intend to wait for the amusement to come her way.