"Sirius?" said Mundungus, who did not appear to have paid any attention this conversation, but had been closely examining an empty goblet. "This solid silver, mate?"
"Yes," said Sirius, surveying it with distaste. "Finest fifteenth century goblin-wrought silver, embossed with the Black family crest."
"That'd come off, though," Mundungus muttered, polishing it with his cuff.
-J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
CHAPTER 14
Colette held the letter in trembling fingers over the fire.
Just drop it…drop it in—you stupid idiot, open up your fingers and—let—it—go—!
The inner voice, autocratic though it may have been, could not convince her body to obey, and at the last moment she pulled her hand back from where it had been dangling over the fireplace in her bedroom.
Ms. Battancourt clutched the letter to her chest protectively and sighed. She didn't have much time. Narcissa and she were to meet at the bottom of the stairs in ten minutes—her ill-gotten reward for begging off their immediate departure with a fib about a headache.
Well, it wasn't really a fib, was it? And didn't she have an excuse for her aching temples?
Colette sank into the cushions of bed and smoothed out the damp parchment, rereading if for what seemed like the ten-thousandth time that morning. Her fingers traced over the words—even his handwriting was devil-may-care; the 'h' and 'l' forceful and erratic streaks across the page, as daring as the act of sending the note itself. He had mentioned the water charm to her on the motorbike ride to Grimmauld Place—offhandedly, along with half a dozen concealment spells he claimed he'd used to slip letters past his parents in the years that he had lived in this house.
She had thought Sirius was just showing off—now she realized he was giving her a clue.
Looking down at the only slightly smeared letters, she could also see his mother was onto his tricks. But then again, if his postscript was anything to go by, Sirius suspected as much. Or perhaps he had only meant that as a joke to amuse Colette, for after what they'd been through last night, who would dare risk provoking Madame Black a second time? Of course, if it were a bluff, it was a bad one—for Mrs. Black had most certainly opened this before she had, and read it—and probably shared its contents with Mrs. Prewett, too—
Her head pounded trying to make sense of it all. Colette didn't know where to turn—nothing her parents or grandmother had warned her about English society had prepared for the imbroglio she found herself tangled in.
And what she wanted, truly—the confidant she longed for—he was completely out of reach.
Madame Black had assured of that fact in no uncertain terms.
"Does your son know about any of this?"
Colette had suffered in silence through much of Madame Black's 'instruction' to her—nodding or making monosyllabic replies wherever she could—but this one question niggled at her so that, even in her petrified state, the French girl could not stop herself from asking.
Naturally, the older woman had pretended not to understand.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Does your son—does he know what you intend for him to—" She blushed. "—That is…what your plans are, for him?"
If Colette had been expecting hemming or hawing, she was disappointed.
"Of course not." A blunt reply, and Colette felt it like a lead weight dropped on her foot. "Why would he?"
Colette tried to summon the last of her reserves of bravery—the plucky courage of a heroine from one of her books—and protest, but it was too late, for Madame Black—a stronger personality by far—was barreling on with that seemingly immutable force she always exuded.
"Having spent an evening in his company—where you were no doubt exposed to many of his extremely foolish ideas about the world—do you imagine my son has the slightest notion of what I intend for him, and that if he were—" She drew the word out, trilling the 'r.' "—He would compliantly obey?"
She didn't say anything. She didn't need to.
"No." Mrs. Black shook her head in pity. "I cannot understand why you would even ask."
She recovered just enough nerve to blurt it out—
"I do not think—I do not think it right to deceive him so."
The older woman blinked at her—slowly
"You don't."
"I don't wish to offend—Madame Black, please—please do not ask me—" Her stomach curdled with embarrassment at the remembrances of what had been suggested to her this evening. "—I can't."
She couldn't even explain what her own gibbering meant to herself, let alone to her hostess—for she had every reason to obey her without question. Colette waited for a blow, for anger, anything, but her chaperone remained very still and her face, emotionless.
"You seem like an honest girl—one who doesn't like deceit."
The observation was bloodless. It was not clear whether Mrs. Black viewed this trait as admirable.
"You could tell him," she continued, casually. "But I do not think you will. Would you like to know the reason?"
Colette steeled herself for it.
"My son is very bold—he can border on rash. No matter how dearly you warn him not to, if you tell him what we have spoken of, the first thing he will do is confront me." She folded her hands in front of her, solemnly. "And when he does, I will know exactly who it is that has broken my confidences."
Her voice was as chilly as a glacier. Colette felt her insides freeze.
"If that happens, not only will you never see Sirius Orion again—" Colette bit her lip. "But I will personally guarantee that you are barred from the door of every respectable witch and wizard on this continent."
Walburga Black finished this matter-of-fact explanation of her plans to ruin Ms. Battancourt with an airy shrug—as if daring the poor girl to argue, to accuse—to call her bluff.
Colette didn't think it was a bluff.
"To tell him, knowing that—would be foolish indeed. Are you a fool, Ms. Battancourt?"
"I have been called one before."
She cursed her honest tongue—to tell the truth, in such a moment—but Mrs. Black seemed surprised, even a little curious.
"Really. By whom?"
"My mother, mostly. Some aunts." She pulled absently at her thumb. "My cousin Antoinetta, often."
Madame Black offered her a cryptic smile.
"Well—" She patted Colette on the arm—her curved nails dig in like the claws of a falcon. "Now would be the moment to prove them wrong."
She was not a dishonest person.
She simply had no head for intrigue—and what Mrs. Black was proposing was a level of deception beyond anything Colette could have dreamed up for one of her stories.
Mrs. Black was right in her assessment of her French charge—Colette's first instinct had been to tell Sirius everything—which is why she had so clearly and unequivocally let Colette know the consequences of that action.
Social ruination—the dashing of all Madame Battancourt's hopes for her. Well, it wasn't as if she hadn't done enough already to merit it.
Maybe, a treacherous voice said, Maybe there was a small part of her that didn't want to tell him…
No, no—that wasn't right! She would never…and anyway, the entire idea of it was so—it was completely…and utterly…
Her stomach lurched when she remembered him smiling at her on the roof.
Colette stared down at the letter. Any sensible girl would burn it…but it was the first and only letter from a man she'd ever gotten.
And he was worried about her…
She folded the note up and laid it on her lap.
This was a game, clearly—that much was clear enough, even if she was fuzzy on the rules. Mrs. Black had given her a choice—presented two sides of a chessboard. There was another option open to her, however…
She could choose not to play.
I won't reply, and I won't try to see him again.
She stood up, a sense of resolve deepening in her. She could obey Mrs. Black without violating her scruples—she had every intention of following her mother's directives for the rest of the trip, to keep her head down, to be demure. Colette didn't have to go out of her way to avoid her new friend—Britain was large enough that there was little chance she'd run into him a fourth time—but she didn't have to seek him out, either.
There was still Rabastan, at least.
She looked at Sirius's letter with regret, ran her finger along the edge of the parchment. It would go unanswered—for his own sake as much as her own.
Things were better this way.
Colette tucked it safely in her diary and out of sight.
"Back so soon, Bletchley?"
At the sound of his apprentice's familiar step, Mr. Burke looked up from the estate contract he'd been perusing.
The young man hovered at the doorway, waiting for an invitation into the inner sanctum. A week into his employment at Burke and Selwyn (M.L.S.) he had been informed that it was a presumption for a man of his social position to enter a room without the go-ahead.
Fifteen withering looks from his employer when he'd dallied at the door later and Bletchley was beginning to think that comment had been a test—one that he'd been failing ever since.
"Erm—yes, sir."
"And you had…success?"
"I—believe so, sir."
The old lawyer lifted one clawed hand and gestured, impatiently, that his apprentice should enter the room.
Bletchley closed the door behind him and approached the desk, nervously. Mr. Burke was surveying him with that old school don look that said he was about to give another of his many interesting 'lessons' on the legal profession.
He'd just as well have been filing old briefs.
Mr. Burke leaned back in his chair—a circumspect pose.
"We're going to try something different, Bletchley." He steepled his fingers. "I want you to paint a picture for me."
"Paint…a picture for you?"
Burke rolled his eyes.
"Set the scene." He looked up at the ceiling, his hard face thoughtful. "The…events of yesterday afternoon—I do not want a dictation. I want a story."
Mr. Bletchley stared helplessly at the employer his father had insisted would 'make him'. A story? Did Burke think he had a theatre performer for an clerk? What did any of this have to do with the law?
Mr. Burke jerked his head down and stared—his mercurial desires overridden by his exasperation by the dullness of his soul human companion.
"Sirius Black, Bletchley—" Another impatient gesture. "—Tell me what he did after he left the office."
The apprentice found himself on even footing again. That was a direct order, at least.
"Oh. Right—right, sir." He fidgeted slightly. "Well—he, that is—Sirius—"
"—Mister Black," Burke corrected, quietly. "Unless you happen to be addressing him in front of his father, in which case you may refer to him as Master Black."
He filed that rule of formality among the forty-five or so Burke had already told him (most of which he'd immediately either forgotten or mixed up) and continued.
"—Sirius Black—erm, Mister Black, that is—left the office after your meeting—by all accounts in a rather agitated state. He immediately proceeded to Borgin and Burke's, across the alley, where he made several—unique purchases."
Anticipating the next question his boss would throw at him, Bletchley fumbled around in his pocket for the slip of parchment.
"—Among them was—" He read, squinting down at his own scribbling—blast, he could barely read it—"A 17th century amulet from Damascus, a vial of—moonstone elixir and, most notably an—oriental dagger. One-of-a-kind, used for ceremonial purposes."
He looked up from the paper to see how his 'story' was being received by his employer. Mr. Burke appeared only mildly interested in the purchases of the young Black—and in his apprentice's retelling of the tale, even less.
Bletchley didn't wonder—none of this was new information for him. It had, after all, been Burke's own house-elf who had tailed Sirius Black for the entirety of the afternoon, and had reported it back to his master himself.
"How much was the knife?"
Bletchley read the sum off the paper. Mr. Burke whistled.
"A pretty knut! Our young friend must have expensive taste—" The wily old wizard's lip curled up. "Wouldn't you say, Bletchley?"
His apprentice wetted his lips with his tongue. This was a test—any time Burke asked him for his opinion on any subject, it was a test.
He had an idea of what his employer was getting at, in this case.
"I—don't think so, sir." Burke tilted his head—amused and intrigued. The younger man shifted his feet. "Given that he was carrying a considerable amount of gold on his person that did not belong to him, and that the items are of a—specialized nature, my guess is that they were made on behalf of a third party."
"His father?" Burke supplied, dryly. "A fair guess. Pray, continue."
The apprentice allowed himself a small smile.
"The subject then left the shop, and made a point of exiting Knockturn Alley, where he bumped— quite literally—into a young witch."
Mr. Burke sat up straighter in his chair.
"You have her name?"
He nodded. He'd tried to get it yesterday, but at that point in the afternoon the waiter at the Jarvey Club who was Burke's informant had left for the day, so he'd had to return this morning to get the name.
"French. A Miss Colette Battancourt of the Battancourt family."
The name evidently struck a chord with Burke. He considered the information—and gave his apprentice a look that he saw so rarely he hardly recognized it.
Approval.
"Not much can be said of you, Bletchley—but at least you know the French wizards. I suppose you went to school with them."
He grimaced. He had—not that any of the Battancourts in his year had ever given him the time of day. Their social set had been worlds apart from his.
"The two struck up a lively conversation over some dropped packages—there was an exchange of an object, a return of something misplaced—" Argo had been hidden far enough away that the substance of the conversation was still a mystery to him, but like his master, the elf had an uncanny ability to read nuance in the tone and gesture of the subjects of his interest.
"There was a prior acquaintance, then?"
"I think it likely, given that they spoke for several minutes, after which he walked her most of the way to the Jarvey Club, which she entered the dining room of at precisely twelve minutes past one, in order to meet for lunch—" He pulled out a napkin with quill scrawls on it. "—A Mrs. Malfoy and her aunt."
Bletchley looked sheepishly up from his notes.
"I, erm—I couldn't get the aunt's name, unfortunately."
Burke gave him a look of mild disdain.
"Oh, you needn't start groveling quite yet, Bletchley—she only has one it could be." Bletchley scratched his head, and his boss shook his head. "The lady our French witch dined with is Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy, née Black—and the aunt in question is the Honorable Walburga Black, who in addition to being her father's sister, is—"
"—Sirius's mother?" Bletchley finished for him, all astonishment.
Burke nodded, deeply. His apprentice—who, not having been invited to sit down, was leaning against the back of the chair in front of his employer's desk—pondered this new information.
"This business grows murkier and more intriguing by the minute," Burke remarked, sitting back in his chair.
"Does it, sir?" His apprentice scratched his chin. "I'm not sure I can see my way to it. Seems a fairly run-of-the-mill case."
Mr. Burke folded his hands in front of him on the desktop. His apprentice was feeling unusually bold—he found himself getting into the swing of things, now that they were well on their way.
"Does it? Please—" Burke gave him a sweep and expansive gesture. "Elaborate for me."
Bletchley—taking care not to pick at a particularly stubborn spot on his left cheek that had been irritating him all morning—began to pace in front of the desk.
"Well—a young man of means comes to meet his family's attorney, behind his father's back—I'm guessing he was here because there is some disagreement over allowance or the like, you'd know better than me on that, of course—" Burke said nothing in reply to this. "—And then he proceeds to grudgingly complete purchases on his sire's behalf, after which he, by chance, runs into a friend of his cousin's, with whom he converses and walks to her luncheon with his female relations. Seems fairly open and shut. What's so strange about that?"
The old wizard's face had frozen in a dragon-like pose statuesque pose.
"What, indeed?" The tone of Burke's voice was acid. "Truly, Mr. Bletchley, you are a paragon of insight."
The young man wilted.
Mr. Burke stood up, languidly—while his apprentice sputtered out an apology for his misstep.
"Well, I—I thought it seemed sensible, at any rate." He watched his employer circle the desk, feeling mildly put-out. "I mean—well, I don't think I understand, Mr. Burke."
"I know you don't." Burke shook his head, a thin smile on his lips. "Don't worry—I wouldn't expect you to. This is very unusual case—in more than one way."
In spite of his irritation at the general mercurial moods of Belgravius Burke, Bletchley couldn't help being intrigued by whatever it was that had so caught his employer's decision. In the month of his apprenticeship, he'd never seen Burke this animated.
He'd actually gotten up from his chair.
"I believe the key to our understanding this whole business lies not in what we know so far—but what happened after."
"But what did happen aft—"
A loud banging noise at the base of the stairs cut off his query. It was quickly followed by the muffled but distinct cursing, and—more alarming still, what sounded like someone coming to blows.
"We will know shortly."
There was the heavy thump—a noise which could almost be described as that of a body being dragged up the stairs, and then the door to the office flew open with a bang.
Bletchley goggled. Mr. Burke's house-elf, Argo—normally such a quiet and discreet creature that he was forever hovering about the apprentice unseen and causing him to trip—had forcibly dragged a man into the firm—if his colorful cursing was anything to go by, entirely against his will.
The bandy-legged wizard reeked of tobacco smoke and had the vaguely unsavory appearance of something like Dicken's Fagin crossed with a Ladbrokes punter.
Mr. Burke, ever the consummate host, hardly blinked at the foul muck that had been tracked into his spotless office—nor did he bat an eyelash the man currently attempting to violently beat his servant around the head.
"Ah—Mr. Fletcher." His smile was bland. "Good of you to join us."
"Geroff me, you mad little—oi, Gravey!" Bletchley's eyes popped out. "Call 'im off, will you? Little monster's practically stuck 'is teeth in!"
Burke waved at the elf—a wordless order, for it immediately did what the man called Fletcher wanted and released him. Another CRACK and Argo had gone—no doubt to guard the door and prevent their guest from leaving before his master was finished with his business.
The ginger-haired man wiped imaginary dust of his moldering overcoat and looked up. He threw a look of pure, unadulterated dislike in Burke's direction.
"Whatever it is, I didn't do it."
Mr. Burke's smile remained pleasant—though there was a rather steely glint in his eyes Bletchley didn't think he'd ever seen before.
"Now, now—don't you know me better than that?" He offered Fletcher the seat that he had studiously avoided inviting his apprentice to sit in. "No one is accusing you of anything."
"Then why're sending that shifty 'ol elf of yours to accost me, eh?"
"Because—do you know what they say about you, Mundungus?" His smile turned into a grimace. "You're like a cat. When you aren't wanted, you can't be gotten rid of—but as soon as the rats move in you're nowhere to be found."
Mundungus Fletcher looked as though he didn't know whether to be flattered or insulted by "what people said" of him. He settled himself in the chair, looking none-too-comfortable with his surroundings. A quick perusal of the room, and his eyes fell on Bletchley.
"Who's this?" asked, not bothering to hide how unimpressed he was.
"My apprentice," Burke replied, indifferently.
He turned to Bletchley, gaping at the man that had gone from affronted, wronged party to eyeing the silver instruments on the bookshelf with greed in under a minute.
"This, Bletchley—is one Mundungus Fletcher. You'd do well to remember his face," he remarked, dryly. "He is one of the most infamous petty criminals this country has ever produced. There is scarcely an act of extortion or chicanery in the whole Empire Fletcher isn't at the bottom of."
Fletcher chortled appreciatively.
"Take care, Gravey—" He knocked one of the shrunken heads on Burke's desk against the edge experimentally. "—I'll brung you up in court for defamation."
"You'd never willingly enter a courtroom of your own volition, Mundungus," Burke sniffed. "Rest easy. All I'm after today is information. Very simple. When you give me what I want, I'll send you on your way."
Bletchley expected the man to protest, but to his surprise—Mundungus Fletcher's expression took on a shrewd quality. He set the skull back down.
"What're you on about, Burke?"
This was asked with the unaffected interest of one professional to another. Bletchley's employer lost his friendly expression.
"Yesterday you met a young man in the Leaky Cauldron at about—two in the afternoon. You sat at his table and handed him a note." Mundungus dropped the penknife he'd been about to pocket back on the desk. "I want to know what it said."
Mundungus turned his head and blinked, blearily.
"Why'd you want t'know about that?"
"I have a personal interest in the affairs and livelihood of the young wizard in question," he said, entirely straight-faced.
Mundungus let out an involuntary snort.
"What, in Sirius?" Burke didn't return the chuckle, and Fletcher instantly sobered. "Tell me another one!"
Bletchley made a small movement in the corner. His employer nodded, knowingly, in his direction. At least he understood now why this third rate member of the criminal underworld was in Burke's office.
His employer leaned back in his chair.
"I assure you, it's the truth. Personally, I find the idea of you having anything to do with young Sirius Black far more curious."
Privately, Bletchley agreed. The young man who'd come into the office yesterday and this criminal was an odd pairing, to say the least. Fletcher ran a hand over his unshaven face.
"'e's a—a friend of mine. A good kid. I 'elp 'im out—and sometimes we do business together." Mundungus smiled, as fondly as his hangdog face would allow. "Get 'im parts for that bike of 'is—at a discounted rate."
"Bike?" Burke inquired, in a polite voice.
"You know—the motorbike. It's enchanted—it flies."
Bletchley made another jerky movement, hoping to attract Burke's attention—but his employer was now too intently focused on the man across the desk from him to notice.
"I dunno nothin' about what were in the letter, Burke." Mundungus raised both grubby hands in the air. "I was passing it on as a favor—that's all."
Belgravius Burke stared at him for a long moment. Then—without speaking or even blinking, he reached under his desk and pulled out a large bag of coins and dropped them on the table.
Fletcher's bloodshot eyes went wide.
"Shall we try this again, Fletcher?"
He was no longer feigning politeness. Mundungus stared at the gold with undisguised greed. Bletchley thought for sure the temptation would be too great, and he would sing like a canary, but to his surprise, the old crook forcibly dragged his eyes from the gold to Burke's face.
"Nothing doing, Burkey. I said I know nothing, and I don't."
Mr. Burke, expression mask-like, did not seem disappointed in the answer.
"So, then—it was from Albus Dumbledore. I thought it might be."
Mundungus Fletcher's smile dropped like a sack of potatoes. He opened his mouth to protest—
"Don't bother denying it, Fletcher. We both know Dumbledore's the only man you wouldn't sell out for a piece of Leprechaun gold."
Mundungus mumbled out an indignant rejoinder, but he was drowned out by the audience to this scene.
"Sir—" Bletchley waved in the tobacco-stained man's direction. "You aren't saying—he knows Albus Dumbledore?"
Mundungus rounded on the young man he'd quite forgotten was there, in his agitated state.
"'Course I know Dumbledore." He addressed the young man as if he was thick in the head. "Everyone knows Dumbledore, mate."
"Well, I don't," Bletchley said, in an affronted voice.
"That is because you have a sentimental mother who insisted you be close to her during your father's diplomatic posting." Bletchley's face colored. "Now, Fletcher—you needn't pretend to me you didn't read it. I certainly won't inform Dumbledore you've been snooping on secret messages he gives you."
"It weren't from Dumbledore."
"Then you were delivering it on his behalf. It amounts to the same thing."
Mundungus Fletcher eyed Burke with newfound suspicion—and, Bletchley thought, a little fear.
"All it were was a time and place—on me mother's casket, I swear."
Burke smiled.
"Then I suppose there's nothing more to be discussed than your price."
For a man that Bletchley suspected was used to seedy transactions, Fletcher did not seem all that interested in the bribe.
"What's this to you, Gravey?" he asked, suspiciously. "Why d'you care what Sirius is up to?"
Burke sighed.
"I told you—a concern for his welfare." He gave the room a doleful, pious look—Bletchley could almost believe it was sincere. "I speak for the interests of his honorable parents. I am the personal solicitor and legal advisor for the Black family."
Fletcher snorted.
"That don't signify—he don't have nuffink to do with 'em, does 'e?"
The old lawyer leaned forward—the chair creaked at the motion. He wore the look of a man about to lay down the winning hand in a game of particular high-stakes.
"He is the eldest son and heir apparent to the entire Black family fortune."
Mundungus slapped his hand on the table and let out another guffaw of disbelief.
"Nah—'e isn't. 'e run away when he were in school—or they chucked 'im out, I forget which. Either way, they aren't footing 'is bills. I seen the flat where Sirius lives, and it weren't in Kensington. He don't have a knut to rub with a farthing."
Burke's smile of amusement turned to pity. He lifted the bag—no, Bletchley thought, it was more like a sack—and dropped it back down on the table. Fletcher started at the heavy sound of gold hitting wood.
"Do you know what this is?"
Fletcher gave it an appraising look.
"I've a—" He looked up from the bag to Burke's face, his bloodshot eyes wary. "—Rough estimate in mind, yeah."
"This is the monthly allowance deposited in Sirius Black's personal expenditure account—the money he is, as heir, entitled to use as he sees fit." Bletchley thought Mundungus's eyes might pop out of his head. "Right now how much gold he receives is at the discretion of his father, but when he turns 21 it will be fixed amount, much larger. By then he will have his own estate to manage, of course—and perhaps a wife." He pulled out a galleon from the top of the bag and rolled it between his fingers. "Blacks are expected to live in a certain style, after all—their heirs even more so."
Mundungus looked gobsmacked. He raised a hand in accusation and waved it in Burke's face. It looked like it had recently been up the floo of a wealthy widow's house, pilfering the hidden silver.
"You're 'aving me on."
Anticipating this line of protest, Burke had already pulled out one of the many deposit slips he had Bletchley get from the fastidious goblin record-keepers at Gringotts as proof.
As his eyes traced over the receipt, Fletcher's jaw dropped.
"Why that little—" He threw the paper back on the table. "I gave 'im a discount on them parts!—and to think 'e was sitting on a pile like that the 'ole time."
Burke folded up the slip and returned it to his record book, expression placid, while Mundungus Fletcher swore up and down about 'bleedin' posh snits' who had taken advantage of his good nature to extort him by pretending to be hard-up.
"Your complaints about being outsmarted by enterprising lads aside, I do hope you can now see my interest is in good faith," Burke cut in. "He is my client, after a fashion, and he needs to be looked after—sometimes for his own good."
The knowledge that Sirius had been misrepresenting his financial straits had done little to soften Fletcher to Burke's request.
"I already told you I dunno what it said—and I wouldn't tell you if I did, neither, you bleedin' snoop."
He pushed the chair up roughly and pulled out his wand, clearly ready to use it on the elf waiting outside the door tried to prevent him leaving. Mr. Burke made no move to stop him—instead languidly turning to his apprentice, who was spellbound at the performance taking place in front of his eyes.
"Bletchley—remind me. What is the statute of limitations for prosecution of an individual selling Class-B magical antiquities without a license?"
Mundungus Fletcher's hand froze on the doorknob.
Bletchley, feeling his moment had come at last, cleared his throat importantly. Both men stared at him.
"There—there is no statute of limitations on any offense higher than Class-C, sir."
"And what sentence would one be looking at in Azkaban, for such an offense?"
"Oh—at least six months. For multiple cases—perhaps a year or two. No more than three, I should think, Mr. Burke."
Mundungus turned around slowly and proceeded to curse more violently in Burke's direction than ever. Bletchley was impressed with his employer's composure at being told to go to such a colorfully imagined version of hell.
"You see my apprentice is quite learned in the laws of this country, Fletcher."
"You effing son of a—"
"—Name, location, time," Burke cut him off, coldly. "I won't ask again."
"Alright, alright, I'll tell you—keep your 'air on—" Mundungus glared at him. He had no apparent shame at having read the private note that had been entrusted to his keeping. "Ministry of Magic at 'leven this morning. It's all I know."
"Someone handed you this note, Fletcher."
"It were Diggle—Dedalus Diggle, but it weren't 'is handwriting." Fletcher shrugged his shoulders. "Sirius seemed to know what it was about, anyway."
Burke considered him for a long moment. Bletchley waited with baited breath—Mundungus Fletcher looked like murder, and even with the smell of stale drink about him, he seemed a man who would fight, if cornered.
Mr. Burke nodded—apparently satisfied.
"You've been a great help to me in this matter, Mundungus." He smiled blandly at the red-faced crook at the door, still cursing under his breath. "I'd advise you to stay away from Sirius in future. I don't think his mother and father would much approve of his association with a man of your…provenance."
Fletcher guffawed, harshly.
"Like I'd 'elp that ungrateful kid out again, anyway."
The door slammed shut behind him.
The two men who were left in the room stood in silence.
"I think I understand better why this matter is so—delicate, Mr. Burke."
"Indeed. Fletcher's view of young Master Black's situation is, on the whole, the common understanding. He has been publicly estranged from his family for over three years. I myself believed the same, until yesterday."
"Was it true about the money?"
"The expense account? Oh yes." Burke chuckled quietly. "Though, it was an arrangement made before his disgraceful exit, and merely never rescinded by his father. I doubt young Sirius even realizes he has access to that gold—and if he did, I daresay he wouldn't draw on it." Bletchley opened his mouth to ask the question. "—He has a curious fear of them."
"Of whom?"
"His family." Burke steepled his fingers, absorbed in his thoughts. "Eleven at the Ministry of Magic…hm."
His cold eyes glanced over to the grandfather clock—it was just half past nine.
"Tell me, Bletchley—how do you fancy a bit of field work?"
His apprentice gulped.
"Name?"
"Erm—Black," he replied, absently. The security witch—a squat woman of about forty-five—ran a finger down the list at her right.
He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, feeling unaccountably jumpy. Sirius didn't come to the Ministry much, but every time he had in the past year there had been more security. One couldn't just drop in anymore—at least, people without connections couldn't. You had to have a reason for coming and be approved by the head of department of whoever you were meeting. He was sure Frank would not have called him here without giving his name and a good excuse, but he still felt uneasy.
It was in the air—a stirring that he could feel, a shivering in his bones.
Sirius's earliest memory of coming to the Ministry of Magic was from his childhood—he could not have been older than five or six. It had been around Christmastime then, too—and after spending the morning listening to increasingly dull lectures from his father and mother on the seriousness of the outing and how he must be on his absolute best behavior if he ever wanted to be allowed out on 'official visits' again—he recalled being surprised at how bright and cheerful the seat of magical government had been. He'd been expecting the place his grandfather spent most of the time to be as dreary as his manor in Suffolk, dark and evil-smelling, like Noire House. Instead, little Sirius had gazed in wide-eyed delight at the enormous fir that stretched to the ceiling—and had silently filed the knowledge that he could not trust mama and papa's opinions of places.
A cheery wizard dressed as Father Christmas had even slipped him a toffee before his mother dragged him away.
The buzzing he felt in the air of the main promenade surrounding the Fountain of Magical Brethren this morning bore no resemblance to the atmosphere of that distant Christmas past. It was not relaxed—despite the fact that the holiday was less than a week away, the comings and goings of the Ministry were no less frantic than they had been for the proceeding year—and they were certainly no more festive. The never-ending stream of witches and wizards coming and going from the fire places kept their heads down, avoided eye contact. Speech was hushed, and conversation between two died out all together when a third approached.
Paranoia.
That was the feeling, he realized, with a jolt. Fear—but not of what was out there. Of course, was it any wonder they were afraid? The war was going badly, and people could no longer avoid it—the cracks were beginning to show. Everyone had begun to realize the awful truth.
There was no where safe from Lord Voldemort's reach—not even in the government itself.
It boded ill for their side—morale was sure to only get worse as people realized the extent of the rot.
As he looked around the hall, Sirius could not help comparing the atmosphere here to his grandfather's birthday celebration. The party in Wiltshire had been relaxed, even cheerful. Of course, the people in that ballroom—most of whom, he reminded himself, cynically, had been his family and their friends—were the witches and wizards who thought they were untouchable.
No wonder Colette hadn't believed his warnings, that night. It didn't look like much of a war from where his grandparents were sitting.
A dry cough from the witch drew his attention.
"I see you, on here—but you're early."
"No, I'm not." He pulled the scrap of parchment out of his pocket. "It's just past eleven—if anything I'm late."
She looked back down at her list.
"Oh, sorry—I've got two Blacks on here, and the other's not due to arrive until one." Her brown eyes flitted back up at his face. "Sirius, is it?"
He nodded, frowning.
"So, erm—" Sirius craned his neck over the desk. "Who is the other Black you've got coming?"
The security woman gave him a slightly suspicious look.
"Who's asking?"
"Just a bloke trying to avoid his father."
Her expression softened.
"I'm not allowed to give out information on other visitors to the Ministry of Magic." She bent her head down and said, in a lower voice. "Though—if I were you, I'd—steer clear of the courtrooms in the next hour or so. Just a—hunch."
Sirius's face lit up with understanding. Ah. Of course. The weekly lunch with Arcturus—that was why Orion was here.
"Right. Well, you toed the line." He winked at her. "Can't blame you, really. Got to be a stickler in these things."
She handed him a visitor's badge. Sirius Black, Auror Trainee Candidate. He stared at it, trying not to let his surprise show. Frank hadn't mentioned in his note the pretext under which they were to meet.
"Auror office is up on the second floor. You'll want to go directly—there." She pointed out the lift to him.
"Thanks."
The lift was empty when Sirius stepped into it. He stuck his hands into his jeans and scuffed the heels of his boot on the floor, feeling once again put-out. He understood why Frank had not wanted to put more details in his letter, given that Mundungus Fletcher was the one delivering it—he was certain Dung had read it before he'd handed it over, protests be damned—but it would've been nice to know 'meet me for lunch' was Auror code for a 'job interview.'
He pulled at the cuff of his leather jacket and winced, anticipating the look Longbottom would give him when he saw his getup. He hadn't exactly dressed the part of the eager would-be Auror.
Well, he'd improvise. If nothing else, he was good at that.
The Auror office was an open area off the main hall in the larger Department of Magical Law Enforcement—which took up most of the second floor of the Ministry. Sirius—who rarely had difficulty getting peoples' attention—found himself amidst so much chaos that no one so much as looked twice at him. Half the cubicles were empty—but there was so much frantic activity, wizards walking to and fro between them, discussing plans in hushed voices, looking over newspaper clippings and reports—it gave the impression of a department overworked and understaffed.
A large map on the wall marked with blinking dots caught his eye. Sirius took a step towards it, his curiosity piqued—it looked like it was of the Low Countries. That's interesting—
"Well—hello there." He felt his shoulders tense—they seized on instinct, as they often did before a fight. "Where did you come from?"
Sirius slowly turned his head from the map—and found a shapely, dark-haired witch of about twenty-five watching him—the first person to notice that he'd wandered into their office unannounced.
The eager look on her face was one he knew well. He smiled—disarmingly but not encouraging.
"The lift," Sirius answered, in a bland voice. The corner of her mouth turned up—the 'I caught you' expression becoming more pronounced.
"And what can I do for you?"
Her distinct emphasis gave the question a decidedly unprofessional edge. The witch twirled the quill in her hand and smiled slyly.
Sirius frowned, bristling in spite of himself. He was no stranger to women coming onto him—he was fond of telling his friends, that it was an occupational hazard of having his face—but as much as he played it up to niggle at Remus, he had never liked forward girls. Being eyed like a piece of meat was an unpleasant sensation, and he was young and thoughtless enough to quite easily ignore any double standard on this front.
"Um—I'm here for—"
Her eyes had already fallen on the visitor's badge.
"Ah. You're one of the potential department recruits." They slid up to his face. "…Fresh out of Hogwarts, then?"
It was only the pretext of his cover story that kept Sirius from scowling at her. Was this bird going to ask what his sign was, next?
"I graduated in '78, actually."
"However did we miss you?"
He shrugged.
"My head of house didn't think I had the right…disposition," Sirius invented, leaning against the side of the nearest wall. "Wasn't willing to refer me."
The Auror laughed and nodded, a knowing smile that said she thought she had the measure of him. It was probably true, even if McGonagall had never, strictly speaking, said it.
"Well, you're here now, anyway. Better late than never."
They had attracted the attention of a couple of the flirt's female coworkers, who Sirius noticed out of the corner of his eye were giving her identical disapproving looks behind her back.
"We generally have a kind of pre-interview—informal lunch with people who're interested in becoming Aurors, in the canteen upstairs. But things are so mad these days, whoever scheduled you might not even be here. Do you remember a na—"
"—He's for Moody, Danielle."
At the familiar voice, Sirius—still leaning against the cubicle—froze. The witch, annoyed, turned around to address the interloper to her chat-up.
"What do you mean, 'he's for Moody'?"
Frank Longbottom—wearing professional badge, robes and a serious expression, and carrying a stack of reports—shrugged his shoulders.
"Moody said he wanted to do this pre-screening interview himself."
He nodded in Sirius's direction politely—giving zero sign of recognition. It was then that the full implication of Longbottom's words hit him with the force of a bludger to the gut.
Oh, fucking hell, Frank—you didn't.
Sirius plastered on a look of polite puzzlement.
"When he says Moody, does he mean Alastor Moody, the head of the Auror Department?" he asked Danielle in a stage whisper. "The Moody?"
She rolled her eyes and nodded. The mystique of her famous Auror boss had clearly worn off long ago for Danielle, if she was annoyed at him for robbing her of the chance at a cushy work lunch with a wizard she found easy on the eyes.
"Maybe I should come back—" He pulled the parchment out of his pocket and pretended to read it. "I didn't think I'd be seeing him. It says here I was supposed to have lunch and a chat with some bloke called 'Frank Longbottom', and as you can see, I'm not really dressed for—"
"—Moody doesn't care how you dress," Frank cut him off, briskly. "Doesn't stand on ceremony, either. He doesn't usually take the time to speak one-on-one with recruits this stage of the game. You should take it as a good sign he's interested in you—" He squinted and feigned reading Sirius's badge. "—Black, right?"
Sirius doubted Ms. Forward could hear the warning in Frank's voice—and she could definitely not see the hard glint in his eyes, trained on Sirius's, which told him it would not be in Black's interest to keep trying to extricate himself from this interview.
Danielle threw Sirius another smile—this time more apologetic, and then pulled Longbottom a little apart from him.
"This is supposed to be about recruiting wizards, Frank—" Sirius caught her frantic whisper. "—Not scaring them off. Mad Eye's been in a mood all morning—he'll eat him alive."
"It's Moody's orders." Another apologetic shrug, and was it Sirius's imagination, or was it less believable than the first? "Out of my hands."
Nice acting, Sirius thought, still pretending to be nervous, hoping Frank could feel the pulsing resentment he was channeling in his direction. I bet the whole damn thing was your idea, Longbottom.
Evidently whatever it was that Orion had said to Frank after his ignominious exit from the party, it had successfully done the trick of pissing off yet another person he'd just as well have been on good terms with.
The thought of having to face Frank had been bad enough—he was not prepared for Moody. Walburga had softened him up this morning—Mad-Eye was liable to finish him off completely.
"I can take him back to Alastor's office, Frank."
The voice that interjected was mild and unassuming, and at the sound of her, Frank's entire demeanor changed. A round-faced blond with soft eyes came up behind him and rested her hand on his shoulder.
"The thing is, Alice—" Mrs. Longbottom smiled—his shoulders relaxed. "That I thought I'd prep him for—"
"—I can do all that, darling," his wife interrupted, in a slightly firmer voice. "Truly."
Frank frowned—he looked from the younger man to his wife, considering the prospect, before nodding. Sirius felt a surge of gratitude towards her, and Alice smiled at him, a little teasingly—though not so much so that anyone could have guessed they had a prior acquaintance.
The was just the sort of person she was.
"Nice little trap your husband sprang on me," he muttered, when they were out of earshot. "His handwriting, but no name. Clever. He can't even say he brought me here under false pretenses."
"Somehow—" He could hear the laugh in Alice's voice as he followed her through the winding cubicles to the private offices in the back. "—He thought you might try to skive off if you knew it was Mad-Eye who wanted the chat."
They reached the door. Sirius eyed the nameplate with apprehension.
"I still might."
She turned back around and gave his arm a comforting squeeze. Alice's smile was a little too understanding—Sirius guessed she probably knew quite a bit more about his piss-up of two nights before than he wished her to.
"It will be fine. You'll still get your lunch with Frank after." She winked. "His treat."
"If I'm still alive."
The Auror rolled her eyes and opened the door—and after a quick exchange, she moved to the side to let Sirius slide past her and enter the inner sanctum.
"Good luck," she whispered, before closing the door again.
Moody's office was so cluttered and full of objects—dark detectors of every kind, a Foe-Glass which took up the entire south wall, a gigantic Sneakoscope—that for a minute Sirius couldn't see where the desk was.
"Black." He jumped and turned. "Man of the hour."
Alastor Moody—well into middle age, dark grizzled hair, one leg propped haphazardly on a wooden stool—sat behind a large desk, surrounded and covered with so many boxes and strange objects that Sirius was not surprised he had not noticed Moody's presence at first—he was practically camouflaged. On his desk was an inbox stacked high with parchment, labeled 'TO SIGN—URGENT!', which had been charmed to flash garish neon orange when full. Moody had hidden it behind a large potted plant.
Sirius smiled weakly and gestured towards the tray.
"Bit behind in your paperwork, Mad-Eye?"
The Auror looked up from the paper he'd been reading, and the smile—and all pretense at bravado—fell away. Sirius fancied himself not easy to rattle—there were very few people he didn't have the nerve to joke with—but this man was one of them.
Especially because he knew Mad-Eye didn't like him.
Alastor Moody had been the de facto head of the Auror Department for just over three years, after his predecessor had suffered a nervous collapse following the infamous Brecon attack in Wales. Intelligence leaks had revealed, much to the Ministry's embarrassment, that the incident—the attack of four Muggle-born magical zoologists on their Welsh dragon sanctuary—had been forewarned by spies, one of which leaked his displeasure to the press. Moody had been the only one in the department to take the intel seriously—and it had been his following the tip that had saved the youngest child of the family's life. So it was when Esmond Tewksbury had checked himself into St. Mungo's psychiatric ward for 'rest and recuperation', he was immediately named interim Chief Auror by PR-driven government fiat.
There he had remained for three years, waiting for the elusive replacement that seemed, for the present, unlikely to materialize.
It was widely assumed that neither the Ministry, nor indeed Moody himself, wanted him in the job. Nicknamed 'Mad-Eye' for his legendary ability to track down dark wizards and the infamous paranoia that he credited for his 'mad' edge, Moody was the last person who should have been allowed anywhere near a position that required finesse in public relations—but rather like a barnacle, once attached to the job that gave him the freedom to dictate the direction of the Auror office, he was proving difficult to dislodge.
"Have a seat, Black." Moody held a half-eaten corned beef sandwich in one hand. "Don't mind, do you?"
He shook his head and sat down across from Mad-Eye. The Auror chewed his sandwich thoughtfully as he eyed his young visitor.
"You missed our debriefing the other night," Moody said, without preamble.
Oh. So they were cutting to the chase.
"Mad-Eye—"
"—And this report of yours—" He pulled a bundle of parchment off one of the piles on his desk. "—Is missing a detail or two."
Moody slapped it back down on the table. Sirius winced.
"Look—should we—" He looked around, then said, in a lower voice, "Should we really be talking about this here?"
"Where do you think would be better?" Moody growled, tossing his sandwich back on the plate. "A cafe? A restaurant out in the open?"
"Well, it would be better than the Ministry of—"
"—A place where every other Muggle could be a Death Eater in disguise?"
Without even thinking about it, Sirius had draped his arm over the back of the chair. It dropped back down to his side instantly.
Moody stared hard at him—a watchful, anticipatory look. A 'well aren't you going to explain yourself' look.
The type of look Sirius had been getting since before he could walk.
"What—" Sirius picked at a stray thread on his jeans and waved his hand at the pile of papers. He could recognize his own scrawling handwriting at a distance. "What details do you think are missing, exactly?"
He managed to imbue this question with the haughty air of someone who feels they have written a veritable masterpiece, and can't grasp why its literary merits are being questioned.
"There's nothing about how you got out of the house." Moody raised one craggy eyebrow. "I assume you didn't evaporate into thin air."
Sirius clenched his jaw.
"Why does that matter?" he demanded, through gritted teeth. "I made it out in one piece, as you can see."
Moody squared his shoulders. He was not a tall man, but there was something about the energy he exuded that commanded immediate, visceral respect.
"But you didn't make it to the rendezvous, Black."
For Sirius, it was a feeling of old—a feeling that was always followed by an immediate streak of reactionary rebellion.
"Circumstances forced me to—improvise." He ran a hand through his hair. "I—lost my wand, so I couldn't apparate."
"But you made it back to your flat," Moody pointed out. "Lily Potter said as much."
"There's a village about five miles away from the manor that's got a tavern run by a witch. I used her fireplace to get back to London."
"Walked five miles on foot, did you?"
It had been far easier as a dog with four legs.
"Made it out of a Death Eater stronghold—without a wand," Moody muttered. "Damned impossible feat. They said you were impressive, Black—I didn't realize you were that good."
Sirius's expression soured.
"I had—assistance. As Longbottom no doubt told you, it was more of an expulsion than an escape." He refused to invoke the dreaded name of the man who'd caught him. "As far as how I got out, let's just say it's a family secret and leave it at that."
They stared at each other in silence.
Moody, who looked perpetually put-out as it was, gave not the smallest sign of being moved by humor, pity—or understanding.
"Do you think this is a game, Black?"
Sirius's lip twitched. He felt his lip curl—almost on reflex.
"What—what's a game?" He leaned back in the chair. "Life…love, this conversation—"
"—Do you think war is a game?"
The legs dropped back onto the floor.
"No, I don't."
"And do you like playing with peoples' lives?"
"No."
Moody pulled a flask out from his hip pocket and took a swig from it.
"Do you think you know your priorities?" He screwed the lid back on.
"Always."
Moody considered this answer—given without hesitation—for a long moment. He felt like he was in a game of chicken with the older man—like this was one of his infamous interrogations.
Sirius couldn't take it.
"Look, I know I messed up. I'm not denying it." He stood up and approached the desk. "I'm prepared to do what has to be done, alright?"
"At any cost—and against orders."
"No one saw my father getting me out of the house, Moody—and believe me, if they did—they'd never guess what they were looking at, really." Sirius sighed. "All I'm asking for is—another chance."
"You think you deserve another chance, Black?"
"It's not about deserving."
"True enough." He gave Sirius a once-over. "Most men in your position don't have the luxury of asking."
A dozen smart comebacks crossed Sirius's mind—but as he watched Moody turn back to the papers on his desk, his demeanor marked with that clipped finality that told his young companion he was very near being done with this conversation—that he was done with Sirius himself—
He felt things slipping out of his control again—ironic, it was just the same feeling as he'd had that night, the walls closing in, that last grasping struggle for air before the door shut—which always made him reckless—
"Look, Mad-Eye, what I really want—"
Two even knocks at the door interrupted him; Moody held up one of his gnarled hands to cut off the strangled entreaty at its legs.
"Come in!" he called out, in a clear voice.
The door opened without preamble, and a tall, middle-aged man in dark blue robes stepped through the door.
"Ah, Moody." At the sight of Sirius, standing over Moody's desk, his hand still frozen in a gesticulating motion—the wizard stopped. There was an awkward pause. "If you're—ah, busy, I can come back."
Moody grunted. Sirius lowered his arm and sat back down in the chair, eyes still storming with suppressed emotion.
"No need." The man shut the door behind him and approached the desk. "What did you want, Crouch?"
Polite, but with the barest trace of sarcasm—something only a person who knew Moody well could detect, for he usually preferred the straightforward approach.
The man's lip curled. Immediately above his mouth was a neatly trimmed mustache. He had piercing eyes, graying brown hair, and the kind of commanding presence Sirius knew well from his parents' social circle. It spoke to a sense of surety and power and knowing one's place in the world that he had only ever seen among the purebloods of the oldest English families.
Sirius had recognized the wizard as soon as he walked in the door—it was Barty Crouch, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
"Your signature." He walked straight past Sirius as if he were invisible and handed a roll of parchment to Moody over his desk. "Warrants. I'm due in the courtrooms in ten minutes. I can leave and come back for them—"
Moody's sharp eyes darted over the page. He frowned, and when Mr. Crouch made a small movement towards the door, he held up a hand again.
"—Don't bother." Mr. Crouch raised one eyebrow. "I'll do it now, and you can take them up directly."
Crouch nodded, politely.
"I'm obliged to you."
Moody, it seemed, did not relish the prospect of a second visit—and nor did Crouch. The minister stood a respectful distance from Moody as he read through each and every arrest warrant.
The uncomfortable atmosphere in the room said more about the professional relationship between the men than words could've.
Mutual respect and wariness. Of course, Sirius would've known that even if he wasn't in a room with them. The disparity between Moody and Crouch's style was no secret—and the disagreements between them had lead to several very ugly public clashes, some of which had leaked into the press.
Sirius studied him in profile. Barty Crouch was a man known for cunning and ambition, a wizard who had distinguished himself at the Ministry in the previous decade. To many he was seen as one of the few shining lights in a government that had done very little to stem the tide of Lord Voldemort's ascension to power.
Sirius had seen him enough in the Daily Prophet to recognize him on sight—but they'd never met, and his gut instinct tended towards immediate dislike.
He seems like a fucking prig.
Sirius fidgeted in his chair—feeling more self-conscious than ever about his leather jacket and jeans. He tried to affect a pose of casual boredom and not look as though he was nosy and interested in what it was Moody was signing—even though he was. The leaning towards the desk drew Crouch's attention, and he met his gaze.
Mad-Eye glanced up.
"Auror training program pre-screening," he said, indifferently. "Interviews."
"Really." The slight sneer was obvious. "I didn't think you did them, anymore."
"Yeah, well—" Moody gave Sirius a pointed look. "I've realized Longbottom's too soft."
Crouch laughed, shortly. Sirius felt a little flush creep into his face and was immediately annoyed at himself for showing it. He blinked, haughtily, before turning to stare at the Foe Glass which covered the entire wall to his left. He was determined not to let Mad-Eye provoke him—certainly not in front of Crouch.
Shadowy shapes moved about—indistinct except for the number. He stared at them, trying and failing to identify the people as individuals. His grandmother had used to say that there was a feeling like someone creeping over the grave.
Sirius shivered. Nothing like not knowing who your enemies are.
"Black, is it?"
He started and turned to find Crouch watching him. The mild curiosity which had marked Crouch's first pass over him had turned to knowing understanding.
"What gave me away?"
"My mother was a Black." No wonder you seem like such a prick. "I find there are usually…signs."
"They do say Phineas Nigellus is the unofficial father of the nation."
Out of the corner of his eyes, Sirius noticed Moody had lowered the parchment he'd been pouring over and was watching the exchange with interest.
And disapproval.
"You're Orion's son," Crouch continued, and Sirius had the familiar pang of annoyance at being spotted. He was sure old Barty had not read the name badge. "We were at school together—in the same year. Both prefects."
Sirius slouched down in the seat.
"Yeah—I think I've heard that." He gave Crouch a rather insolent look. "Something about you getting Head Boy over him. I have to tell you, Mr. Crouch—if you should ever run for higher office, that's one vote you shouldn't count on." Sirius grinned. "I don't think my grandfather has ever let him forget it."
Mr. Crouch's mouth fell open—Sirius relished the look of surprise. He didn't seem like the sort of wizard who let it show that often. He recovered his equilibrium quickly, though.
"On the subject of your grandfather," Crouch said, staring down at his fingernails. "I was surprised to see him in the chamber just now. He doesn't come to court much these days."
"Yeah, well, they let him out of his crypt every once in a while—" A look of amusement flashed across the older man's face. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention to him that you saw me, sir—or he might try to put you up to having me arrested."
Crouch looked up from his hand, interested—probably in spite of himself.
"On what charge?"
"Depends. Is shaming the family name a crime in this country yet?" Sirius sat up straighter in his chair. "I wouldn't be surprised if he tried to shove a bill through the courts to make it one."
Moody cleared his throat loudly—both of the other men turned around to look at him. He was holding out Crouch's stack of warrants, the ink still shining on the parchment.
"All done, Crouch." He shook the stack in one clawed fist. "You can take them."
Mad-Eye didn't pretend to be thrilled by whatever it was that he'd read and signed off on—but he had little recourse to protest it here, in front of Sirius.
Mr. Crouch—who had remembered himself and the urgency of the task at hand in the same moment—hurried over to Moody's desk to take the papers from him.
"Excellent." He rolled them up and slipped them inside his robes, a look of satisfaction on his face. "We'll discuss the implementation of the new extradition process tomorrow, hm?"
Moody didn't even grunt an affirmation—and the sour look that he leveled in Mr. Crouch's direction had no effect on the man that he technically reported to. Crouch strode past Sirius and towards the door—then stopped and turned around.
"One other thing, Moody." His eyes lingered on Sirius. "Do let me know when you're done interviewing candidates for training. I should like to see the files for your top picks. Send them up to me, will you?"
He didn't wait for a sign of agreement before snapping the door shut.
Sirius and Moody sat in silence for a heavy moment.
"So, you going to send up my file, Mad-Eye?" Sirius joked, weakly.
Moody didn't crack a smile.
"What do you think, Black?" He shoved aside a stack of papers to clear off space in front of him. "Never without a smart remark."
"It's a blessing and a curse."
The Auror snorted. Sirius let out a sigh of frustration and ran his fingers through his fringe.
"Look—I know you didn't call me here just to chew me out." He stood back up and leaned against the edge of Moody's desk, trying not to let his desperation show. "Give it to me straight: what do I have to do regain your trust?"
"Nothing."
"Come on, Mad-Eye, I know that's not—"
"—You're grounded, Black." The color completely drained from Sirius's face. "Until further notice."
It was both his worst fear and what he'd been expecting—but the surge of indignant anger came anyway.
"That's not your decision to make," he growled, slamming both hands against the desk. Moody's plant rattled in its pot. The older man watched him impassively.
"No, it's not—it's Dumbledore's. You can take it up with him tomorrow, if you don't like it. It comes from him." Sirius's hands dropped to his sides—another blow. "It's out of my hands, Black."
He knew it was—he had known as much from the moment he'd walked into the Ministry, if he was being truly honest with himself.
He was not a kid anymore. It was for keeps, now—nobody was going to give him a slap on the wrist and send him on his merry way.
"Did he ask you to break the bad news?" Sirius asked, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
Moody studied him, calmly. There was an uncomfortable immediacy to the feeling of it—and after a moment, Sirius realized he knew why. Moody was looking at him the same way Crouch had.
"You're taking this harder than I thought you would."
Moody rose from his chair.
"Of course I—"
"I'd have thought you had enough on your plate—" Moody cut him off. "—Living in a flat with a Death Eater who's gone rogue isn't enough excitement for you, eh?"
The Auror's expression didn't falter, so it took a moment for Moody's words to hit him.
The silence was deafening.
"Dumbledore didn't ask you to speak to me." Sirius looked up at him—realization setting in fast. "He doesn't—he doesn't even know you called me here."
Moody tossed a few more papers on top of the stack that was already threatening to topple. The flashing light turned from yellow to red.
"He'll probably hear about it." Moody shrugged, unconcerned. "Usually does. Dumbledore makes it his business to know things."
Sirius stared at him.
"Look, Moody—I'm not…I'm not supposed to talk about that." He clenched his fists over his knees and glanced over his shoulder, as if he thought Crouch would come back in. "No one else is even supposed to know."
"Your father should have thought of that before he approached Longbottom," Moody replied, bluntly. "This is all strictly off the record, anyway. Thought you and I would have a talk. Figured you could use it."
Sirius sank back down into the chair. He had been expecting the chewing out—but somehow this was more disconcerting.
"How much did Dumbledore tell you?"
"Enough. From the sound of it, there's been an arrangement, and Dumbledore's not the type to go back on his word—unless he's been pushed into a corner." Moody's expression darkened. "When Frank told us what happened, it wasn't too hard to guess something of the rest."
Sirius nodded, ruefully. He could see the scene clearly—whatever Orion had communicated to Frank, it would be impossible to not infer some of his family's current predicament. He found it difficult to imagine Moody holding back the obvious questions—he was one of the few people who'd known Albus Dumbledore long enough to be able to get around his tendency towards opaqueness.
"So." He dropped his foot off the stool. "Turns out you're not the only Black who likes playing a dangerous game, are you?"
"It's not what you think."
What it was—well, at this point, Sirius didn't even know.
"Do you trust him?"
"Depends on your definition of the word."
"No, it doesn't."
"What do you want me to say, Mad-Eye?" Sirius rose from the chair, overcome with restlessness. He was done playing games—he'd already done enough of that for a lifetime. "I trust him to look out for the interests of my parents—somehow, I don't think tipping Malfoy off to the fact that we were infiltrating his party would serve that purpose."
Moody remained unmoved by his sarcasm.
"Malfoy and the rest knew you and Longbottom were coming, Black." He laid both hands on the desk and leaned forward. "They had to find out from someone—"
"—Well, it wasn't from my brother."
Sirius had raised his voice without even meaning to.
"Did Dumbledore tell you what he did, Mad-Eye?"
"No," Moody admitted, without hesitation. "He didn't."
Dumbledore had at least kept that end of the bargain.
"Well, take my word for it—there'll be no going back."
"You don't know that." Moody waved his hand. "We're in uncharted territory, Black—no one's ever defected from You-Know-Who. At least, no one who's lived to tell the tale."
"In his case it was a close call."
Moody's black brows creased in his forehead. Two black eyes shone as bright as beetles. They gave Sirius a piercing look.
"Desperate men don't act rationally."
"They do in my family." Sirius's lip curled. "Present company excluded."
Moody snorted.
"I don't like it." He shook his head. "Death Eaters switching sides—don't trust it. People don't really change."
"He was just a kid, Mad-Eye."
"And I don't believe in fence-sitting, either."
He knew Moody didn't trust anyone—that it was just his way—but he couldn't help it, that uncomfortable stirring in the pit of his stomach. Mad-Eye seemed to read where his thoughts were tending, because it was with great restraint that he asked his next question.
"What about them?" Moody asked, quietly. "Where do their loyalties lie?"
"With themselves," Sirius said, laughing bitterly. The Auror's frown became more pronounced—giving his craggy face the appearance of a roughly-hewn wooden carving. "Same as Regulus."
"They must think they're getting something out of this arrangement." Moody shoved his copy of Crouch's warrants underneath an ancient training manual. "Besides the obvious."
"You're looking at what they think they're getting."
Moody stared at for a long moment—before his scarred mouth broke into a wide smile—the first true smile he'd given Sirius.
"One of Dumbledore's ideas?"
"Well, it wasn't mine."
Moody softened—very briefly.
"You're in a tight spot, Black," Mad-Eye said, seriously. "But if you proved nothing else, it's that you're good at getting out of tight spots. There's opportunity here. Potential."
Sirius sat up straighter.
"What would you have me do?"
"Just keep your eyes and ears open—"
Sirius snorted.
"—And don't let your emotions get the better of you."
He had the same tone of finality that Sirius's father had had the day before. Sirius pushed the chair in, roughly, and walked towards the exit.
He knew better than to deny that he was susceptible to such tendencies.
"Anything else you wanted to say?" he asked, deeply sarcastic. "Any other words of wisdom for me?"
Moody's expression was inscrutable.
"Nothing—for now." His eyes narrowed. "You seem to know your marching orders well enough."
"That's me. Always ready to be the 'good soldier'." He stopped at the door, his hand on the knob—and hesitated. Sirius didn't turn around. "Listen…I know you didn't want me on this mission."
"And why do you think that is, Black?"
He froze.
"Frank says…you told him I'm a 'loose cannon'."
"You are. But that's not the reason."
Sirius's hand tightened on the brass. He squeezed it to stop his hand from shaking. Moody said nothing, offered not explanation—just let Sirius stand there for what felt like minutes.
"I'm—just—sorry to have been a disappointment to you, Mad-Eye."
"And why is that?" Moody snapped—for the first time raising his voice. He sounded angry—really angry. "That's your problem, Black—you make everything personal. What I think of you shouldn't matter. It's not the point. I need people willing to get the job done—not wizards out to prove something."
He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the wooden door. A breath in, a breath out—anything to calm him down, quench whatever fire was burning in his breast—the one he couldn't stifle no matter how hard he tried.
"Don't I have something to prove?"
It came out as no more than a whisper. He almost hoped Moody didn't catch the words—but as soon as he heard the short sigh—an unusual sound from Mad-Eye, like a dragon cooing—he knew.
No such luck.
"If you do, Black—it'll be to yourself, not to me." Sirius turned sharply on his heel—his face flushed with anger. "In any case—this time out of the field should give you a chance to sort it out."
Moody picked up the remains of his corn beef sandwich. Sirius watched him take a bite—Moody hardly seemed to notice how revolting it was.
"A nice quiet holiday will be just the thing."
Whether he'd meant to or not—Moody did the trick of defusing Sirius's anger. He laughed.
"Right. Well—anyway—" Sirius smiled—a wide, sarcastic smile and opened the door. "Please—let me know if my application for the Auror Training Program makes it to the next round."
Moody nodded.
"Either way—I'll be in touch."
A wild Mundungus appears! And a wild Crouch Sr.!
Because I'm a hyper stickler for sticking to canon, two notes about my choices here—I've always liked the nickname 'Mad-Eye' for Moody, but in the books he definitely doesn't lose his eye until relatively late in the war (presumably after Sirius is already in jail, since he had both eyes during Karkaroff's trial). The choice to make his nickname predate that and ironically fitting is poetic license-as is the choice to make him head of the Auror Office, which was never explicitly stated in the books or, as far as I know, in any ancillary materials. There's nothing that says he wasn't.