'What private business have they got together anyway?'
'Gold, I expect,' said Mr. Weasley, angrily. 'Malfoy's been giving generously to all sorts of things for years…Gets him in with the right people…then he can ask favors…delay laws he doesn't want passed…Oh, he's very well connected, Lucius Malfoy…' "
-J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
CHAPTER 15
"I'm telling you, Lucius—if there was anyone at your house that night—it had nothing to do with the Auror Office."
Malfoy leaned back in the chair—the only piece of furniture in this cramped office in the forgotten corner of the Central Office of Magical Law Enforcement, save the desk and the young man sitting behind it—and gave his companion a circumspect look.
"How can you be sure?"
Alan Rowle was prevented from an immediate reply by the act of shoveling the rest of his steak and kidney pie down his gullet. Malfoy tried not to show his distaste for the action. It was his own fault for coming here on his lunch hour and expecting Rowle—one of his former housemates and would-be Slytherin protégées—to show the rare restraint that would have been appropriate, given his guest.
"Because, simply—" He swallowed. "Crouch is riding Moody too hard—making him send every report of his dealings, every expenditure the department makes, every memo, every owl—all in triplicate. Nothing gets past him."
And nothing got past young Rowle—the newest assistant to the undersecretary of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Alan was three or four years younger than Lucius, but for someone as fresh to the Ministry as he, this was seen as a choice posting.
Rowle Sr. had certainly paid handsomely for it.
"If they'd sent someone—trust me, I'd know by now."
"Is it possible the Auror office would assign missions with no—eh, parchment trail?"
"Very unlikely." He stuck his fork into the plate of cold potatoes—it stood straight up. "Crouch is looking for any excuse to get rid of Moody—and that kind of book tampering is exactly what would do the trick. They're always at each other's throats over that sort of thing. Each thinks the leaks to the Prophet are coming from the others' office."
And—irony of ironies—in all likelihood they were coming from both.
"I'm sure you have your work cut out for you," Lucius said, in flattering tones. Rowle looked up from the dregs of his meal—uncertain, but pleased all the same. He had been one of several younger boys Malfoy had worked on cultivating a mentor-protégée rapport with in his Hogwarts days. "All this…internal strife cannot be pleasant."
Rowle was proving an especially useful contact. Well connected—but not all that bright. A handy combination.
He gave the younger man a sympathetic nod—predictably, it was returned at once.
"Everyone's so paranoid these days." Alan laughed bitterly to himself. "Why would you think they'd take an interest in you, Lucius? With how well connected your family is—well, surely your father doesn't put up with that sort of thing?"
Lucius frowned—the dupe had abandoned his potatoes and useful complaining in favor of penetrating questions. Rowle was at least clever enough to understand the gravity of the situation. Abraxas Malfoy was still someone—the higher-ups would fear any hypothetical inquiry opened if his father found out the family was under official investigation.
"It's absolutely galling, what they're doing to people," Rowle said, disgusted.
Self-possession was a lucky family trait—it helped Lucius keep a straight face. It was amusing to see how indignant his man on the inside got on his behalf. Alan's time at school had only overlapped with Lucius's long enough for the younger man to develop an admiration for him—and hope that the connection might better Rowle's situation—but he had no real understanding of the sort of person Lucius Malfoy was, beyond the face he presented to the world.
This was also very useful. A guileless dupe was, in many ways, a better contact to have at the Ministry than a paid informant or accomplice. Much cheaper, and—in its own way—far more revealing.
"There's no rational reason, of course—but we all know the Ministry isn't acting rationally, and hasn't been for some time. There's no one they aren't looking twice at." Lucius sneered. "And given that business with my father—"
"What, the Nobby Leach affair? That was years ago." Malfoy's lip twitched, reflexively. "And anyway, nothing was ever proven."
Lucius smiled, thinly. People never failed to remind him, by way of veiled comments and whispered remarks in earshot, that the old scandal might've been gone—but it was not forgotten.
But as Alan said—it was never proven that a member of the Malfoy family was responsible in any way for the unfortunate ousting of the nation's first muggleborn Minister for Magic.
It didn't stop the insinuations.
"I know you've only been working here for six months, Alan—but you'll find people in this building have long memories."
Rowle pushed aside his plate, as if the very idea made him lose his appetite.
"Maybe you're right. But the fact remains—if you had an intruder problem at your home, it's not from Ministry people."
Lucius settled back in his chair and nodded, slowly—as if he was being persuaded by Alan's words, and not—as was actually the case—that he had come along to think this all on his own. So—Longbottom was acting outside the purviews of his office.
It was what he suspected all along, given his source of information. Still, it wasn't enough to go on.
"In your professional opinion—" Lucius went on, returning to the tone of flattery. "What would it take to get past the security of Malfoy Manor?"
"Getting in that house would be near impossible."
"What about—" Lucius twisted his ring around his finger. "Getting out?"
Alan blinked, as if he didn't quite understand the question.
"What, you mean—leaving the house—undetected?" Rowle frowned. "Are you suggesting someone might've walked in through the front door and left by other means?"
"I'm not suggesting anything. Think of it as a…hypothetical."
Rowle's father was a friend of Abraxas—he'd even made the suggestions for some of the spells in their recent security upgrades. Rowles were known for magic of that kind. Their homes were like fortresses.
"Purely hypothetically speaking—" His tone was careful. "I think it would take a wizard of uncommon skill—or one who had outside help."
Or—a treacherous voice in Lucius's head whispered. Inside help.
No—surely not. That wasn't possible. Or at least he didn't know enough to be sure, and Lucius never acted until he was sure.
Alan looked as though he wanted to risk a follow-up question, but before he could come up with a way of delicately phrasing it, there was a knock and the door opened. Lucius didn't bother turning—the expression of faint distaste and mild coloration of the face told him all he needed to know about the intruder.
It was a woman—one that was attractive, socially unacceptable and that Rowle was embarrassed at his own interest in.
A leggy brunette sauntered into the cramped office.
"Afternoon! Sorry to interrupt—" She gave Lucius a fleeting apologetic look before turning her full attention to Rowle. "Alan, dear—did you happen to get the name of that total dish who was in the office a little while ago?"
"Danielle, what are you doing here?" Allan snapped—the flush remained, even as the shock wore off. "Can't you see I'm in the middle of something—"
"Your lunch, looks like—you've got a bit of it on your face." She smirked and pointed. "Come on! You know everyone who's in and out on this floor, and you were handing off reports to Dawlish. There's no way you didn't catch his name. You're so nosy."
He glanced over at Lucius, suddenly nervous.
"That is a completely unprofessional question—" he said, flustered. "And anyway, shouldn't you be working?"
"It's hard when there's dreamboats wandering in."
Alan scowled.
"I wouldn't have thought your taste would run in the way of children."
She smiled, knowingly.
"So you do know him. Were you in the same year at school?" Danielle arched a brow. "That's funny—he seemed so much more mature than you."
Rowle looked back at Lucius—more uncomfortable than ever. He steepled his fingers, as if that action made him seem older and more in control of his teasing, buxom colleagues.
"Trust me, Danielle—" He lowered his voice and looked directly at her—Lucius got the impression he was avoiding meeting his eyes. "You don't want anything to do with the individual in question."
"You just don't want me to have a nice boyfriend who gives me an excuse not to keep you company on your double-shifts." Her eyes fell on a stack of parchment on his desk. "I bet it's written in there in your secretarial notes—"
She reached for them, and Rowle lunged for the stack and snatched them away from her at the last moment. Danielle put her hands on her hips and jutted out her lower lip, annoyed.
"Touchy, touchy! Fine. I'll go see if Alice knows—he's with her husband now, in the canteen."
"May Frank have better luck than you did."
She gave him a filthy look and stalked out of the room. Rowle began shuffling papers unnecessarily on his desk, while Malfoy waited for him to break the silence.
"Sorry about that—" Rowle got up from his desk and hurried around to the door that she'd left hanging open. "Danielle can be a little—she's—"
"She seemed amusing." Lucius's tone had just the right amount of contempt. "A…friend of yours?"
"Just an acquaintance," Alan corrected hastily, snapping it shut.
Malfoy's mouth thinned.
"Who was it?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"The man she came to ask about." Alan's shoulders slumped. "Come now, Rowle. That witch was right. You do always know."
His ears went red—but not from the flattery, this time.
"It was no one—just an Auror candidate. We've got so many trainees—"
"—Who all have names, I trust."
Rowle walked back around to his desk. Malfoy's eyes followed him as he did—he stumbled, and in his haste, hit the sharp corner of the edge.
"If I didn't know better, I'd say you didn't want to tell her in front of me."
"I didn't," Alan admitted, after a moment of dickering. "I didn't want to say anything, because, well—" He fiddled with the neat stack of quills on the corner of his desk. "I thought it would be—awkward."
"In what way?"
Rowle heaved a sigh.
"If you must know, it was your wife's cousin."
The smile froze on Lucius's face.
"Evan Rosier?" he asked, politely, after a moment—knowing full well it was an absurd question.
"No, no—on the other side." Rowle winced. "You know—it was the one…the one who ran off."
It took a moment for Rowle's word to sink in before he understood.
"The blood traitor?"
"Yes—Sirius Black." He gave Lucius a wry look. "He always was a preener. Doesn't appear that's changed."
Something stirred in the corner of his mind—an elusive thought, suggestive.
Regulus's brother…the blood traitor. In the Auror Office, of all places.
Curious…
"I'm sorry I didn't say anything—" Rowle continued, blathering a little—it annoyed Lucius. He needed silence to think. "It's just that I didn't want to offend."
"Why would you think I'd be offended?" Lucius asked, a tad impatiently—the thread of something was here, though he didn't yet know what.
The younger man raised his hands, in a slightly defensive position.
"Well, you know how it is—no one likes to be reminded of unsavory relations."
"The connection is…unfortunate," Lucius agreed, slowly. "It can hardly be helped, though."
Rowle nodded, still looking nervous.
"We had a great-uncle who was a squib," he confessed, wrinkling his nose. "It's so much easier when they can be counted on to get well out of the way. As it is…" He plopped back down in his chair. "Troublesome relations more often than not remain in one's orbit and continue to cause—unpleasantness."
Lucius found his mind wandering—the word snapped him back to the present.
"If only there was some way to set an alert for them so one knew they were coming."
"If only." Malfoy sniffed. "Your fears were unfounded, at any rate. I've hardly anything to do with it. He ran off the summer after we were married." His gray eyes gleamed. "He was a member of Narcissa's family, not mine."
The conversation seemed as though it was going to peter out—and that Rowle was glad for it, when something in Malfoy prompted him to say—
"I haven't seen him since my wedding."
He had a dim memory of it—a sullen teenager in the corner, surly and restless, and markedly different from everyone else there. At that point he'd been a Gryffindor so long one couldn't scrub it off in polite society.
"He was here for an interview…" Lucius murmured, quietly. He tried to square the image in his mind but found it difficult. Too many unknown variables. "Will he get the job, Rowle?"
Alan shrugged.
"I shouldn't think he'll have much luck with Moody—too flashy. He doesn't go for that type, I don't care how good your NEWTs are." Rowle's expression darkened. "Women might like it, but the people who count don't."
"You know him—well?"
Rowle, Lucius realized—was closer in age to Narcissa's black sheep cousin—he was a year or two above Regulus. They might've even been in the same year.
"Who, Sirius?" Alan snorted. "Oh, yes. We used to see quite a bit of each other—before school. Families travel in the same social circle, you know. He was never popular with the other boys—even then."
"Oh? Why not?"
"Probably something to do with none of our fathers liking his." He smirked. "I think because our mothers carried a torch for him. I know mine did. Apparently Orion Black was quite the 'catch' in his day."
Lucius tilted his head, thoughtfully—Rowle continued, without prompting,
"I get the impression there was some resentment there, among witches of a certain age—they all wanted to marry him, but—" He shrugged. "None of them were good enough for Black—had to go for his cousin, instead." He laughed. "Women never forget a slight."
Alan shrugged his shoulders, circumspect.
"I suppose that's just like them, though. Very clannish, the Blacks—stick to their own. And arrogant, everyone knows—"
He remembered who he was talking to and fell silent. Lucius left the remark where it was. Whether he agreed with Rowle's assessment of Narcissa's family or not, he was not going to stoop to acknowledging it.
"So—he had no friends, did he?"
"Not really—well—actually—" Rowle paused. "He had his brother. He and Regulus used to be quite close—before Sirius went full blood traitor and they fell out. You must have heard something about it."
"Why would you think that, Rowle?"
Alan seemed surprised by the vehemence of the question.
"I just thought—you see quite a bit of Regulus, don't you?" he asked, in a careful voice. "I thought your wife was very fond of him."
Lucius tempered his voice, smoothed his cloak—recovered his calm after that rare flair-up. As it happened, Narcissa was fond of her little cousin—but the last thing he needed was Alan Rowle drawing lines of connection where it was better he not.
"Regulus has never mentioned his brother once in my presence."
Alan played with the inkstand on his desk.
"Understandable, I suppose." He sighed. "Who would want to be reminded of that?"
They let the subject drop, but something of it lingered over the rest of the audience, and when Lucius left, twenty minutes later, a faint impression remained in his mind.
Disbelief. A Black as an Auror—one could hardly dream of a more fantastical prospect.
"Is my son here?"
Remus looked up from the classified advertisements he'd been pouring over—one from the Daily Prophet, the other the London Times—to find himself staring into a pair of familiar gray eyes.
"I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific."
Lupin had not seen Orion Black in the flesh since the first morning the arrangement to hide Regulus in the flat had been agreed upon, so he was surprised to see Sirius's father turn up, unannounced, in the middle of the day.
The Black patriarch, who had not bothered to knock on the flat's front door, did not bother to remove his cloak. He carried a large package and seemed to Remus to be harried and in an ill-temper.
"What did you just say to me?"
Lupin folded the newspapers up and pushed them to the side of the table before standing.
"Well, Mr. Black—" He smiled, faintly. "You do have two of them."
Remus, unlike Orion's elder son, was very good at keeping his voice mild and his tone measured—so good, in fact, that the older man stared at Lupin for a long moment with deep suspicion, not quite sure if Sirius's friend was being cheeky with him or not.
"I was referring to the master of this unfortunate domicile." Mr. Black gave the sitting room a single, scornful look. "Will he deign to grace me with his presence?"
Remus flinched. This man's gift for cutting sarcasm was exquisite.
"Sirius is out for the morning, sir—he did say that he would be back sometime after lunch, if you wanted to…"
Mr. Black had already crossed the room, and was too busy unloading a enormous book onto the coffee table to take note of Remus's feeble invitation.
"I've no time to dawdle." He placed a letter—closed with a heavy red wax seal, and addressed with an 'S'— "This is for him. I'll be back at five to explain it in more detail. He's to do nothing until I arrive but look it over."
Lupin stared at him. He assumed he was expected to convey this information—Orion had the careless style of delivery that signified, in his experience, a man who is used to giving unspoken orders. But as he also seemed like a thorough wizard, Remus was just as happy to assume that the letter he'd written Sirius said as much, and not to have to break that news to his friend.
"Where's the other one?" Mr. Black remarked, glancing at the empty sofa with irritation. Presumably that was where 'the other one' was usually located when he did come by his son's apartment.
"In the bedroom."
"At this hour? It's past eleven."
"I don't think he's been sleeping too well at night," Lupin said, in an even, light tone. "I sometimes hear what sounds like—pacing."
Orion Black looked around—for the first time really took note of Remus. He felt the weight of that gaze tangibly.
"Do you live here?"
It was the sort of question that, when said like that, implied there was only one correct answer a sane human being could give.
"No, not really—but sometimes Sirius lets me—" Remus hesitated. "—Erm, sometimes I'll stay for a night or two. Just—on the sofa."
Mr. Black's eyes darted to the newspapers—with all the jobs circled in heavy black ink, clearly visible in his eye-line—then back to Remus. His gaze lingered on the patched elbows of the jumper. A near-lifetime of guarded self-control had taught Remus a lesson or two about how he was perceived—he would never be mistaken as a member of the smart set. Mr. Black had taken the measure of him easily.
"Do you want me to go wake him up?"
An opaque emotion flickered across Orion Black's face.
"That—won't be necessary."
"Well, than…"
There was an awkward pause.
"…Was there anything else you needed, Mr. Black?"
It seemed like the polite thing to say when he'd asked it—Remus had not expected Orion to narrow his eyes and tilt his head and think about it.
"As it happens—there was." He crossed over to the armchair and sank down into it. All his harriedness, his concerns about the time, everything that had seemed so paramount to him only moments earlier—vanished. "I wanted a word. Indulge me, would you?"
He gestured at the spot on the couch directly across from himself. Intellectually, Remus was very aware that Mr. Black had no power over him, but there was something about the artlessly commanding way in which he'd phrased the question that made the werewolf feel it was impossible to refuse.
He crossed the room to the sofa and sat down.
Mr. Black stared at him for a long while.
Lupin was overcome with a somewhat irrational desire to offer refreshment. Perhaps a drink? Brandy? Except this wasn't his house and he knew very well that Sirius had nothing in the cupboards that would suitable to serve such a man.
And it's probably too early for brandy, anyway.
Mr. Black drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair and studied him. Remus was struck by the impression of keen intelligence behind his eyes—a penetration born of a lifetime of discipline, but that he guessed was also a natural gift. He had seen that look on Sirius's face only a handful of times, usually after a night of hard drinking—when, by some miracle, his friend would say aloud an insight so profound it appeared to have come through transcendent means.
"You must take after your mother," Orion observed, suddenly.
"I'm—sorry?"
"You really don't look at all like your father."
This was the last thing Lupin had been expecting to break the silence.
"I—wasn't aware you knew my father, sir."
"Oh, yes," Orion said, mildly. "Well—not all that well. But seven years at school together is not nothing. I remember him being rather clever—and droll. He's never mentioned it to you?"
Remus shook his head slowly.
"Ah, well—I'd say I'm surprised—but I'm not. There's no love lost there." Mr. Black shrugged, carelessly. "I don't think he ever cared for me—or my family."
"Why would you—"
"—He told me as much. 'Proud and unscrupulous wizards perpetuating a system of dynastic rule' were, I believe, the exact words used." He laughed at the memory—a quiet chuckle, quite unlike his son's brazen 'ha!' "We almost came to blows, if I remember rightly."
Remus stared at him. Orion Black smiled—with unexpected humor.
"You needn't look shocked. Being fourteen at the time, the duel was short-lived and hardly exciting." His smile turned sly. "Does he object to your friendship with my son?"
"No, not—at all," Remus answered, automatically—and immediately heard the hesitation, a mark of his own uncertainty.
Knowing how much having friends meant to his only child, Lyhall had never said anything disparaging about any of them—not out loud. Even at twelve years of age Remus could see that he was uncertain about the wildest of his new friends. Mr. Lupin was polite, but not warm to Sirius, as he was with James and Peter—always a little on his guard, as if he didn't quite trust him as he did the others.
He had never told Lyhall about that night at the Willow for a reason.
"He was a prefect, too, if I remember correctly," Orion continued, voice bland. "Did you follow in his footsteps?"
"Yes, I did."
There was a small spasm in Orion's cheek.
"What is he up to these days—still roaming about the world hunting ghouls?"
"I—yes."
"I read an essay of his in the Grimsby Periodical on a colony of poltergeists in—was it Borneo or Bora Bora?"
"Borneo," Remus said, his voice faint.
"Fascinating study. I found his observations very—adroit." His hard eyes glinted. "But it does seem strange to me that a man in his line of work would have to go so far afield, when there are so many…dark creatures—closer to home."
A long silence followed this. The longer it stretched on the more significant it seemed.
"He's—back in Wales, actually—with my mother."
Not by his own choice. Lyhall had been called back by the Ministry—they said they couldn't do without his consultation on dark creatures, and as Hope was not well, anyway…
"Who is your mother?" Mr. Black asked, mildly. "Do I know her?"
"I very much doubt it."
His voice was decidedly colder than it had been up until this point. Mr. Black heard the change—and immediately, Remus was happy to see, took its meaning.
"Ah—I see."
There was another long silence.
"Did you have something else you wanted to—speak to me about, Mr. Black?"
He drummed his fingers on the arm again. Remus got the sense that he was debating whether he wanted to speak.
"I—thought you might be able to clear up a point that has been puzzling me this past week."
The older wizard reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a letter.
He made no point of handing it over to Remus, or even reading it himself —he merely turned the envelope over and over again in his palm.
"Tell me—why isn't James Potter ever here?"
"Excuse me?"
"For some time I have been led to believe that he and my son are nigh inseparable—but this entire week neither my wife nor I have seen hide nor hair of him. It's always you or his wife." Orion narrowed his eyes. "Why is that?"
"James was in the flat the night before last. He was here with Regulus."
Mr. Black's lip curled.
"Is that so?" He considered this new information thoughtfully—it did not appear to be of much concern. "That was, of course, an evening my son was certain we would not be."
Lupin wondered, for a moment, if there was any point in lying—but one look into Sirius's father's eyes dispelled the notion. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.
"I don't think for a moment I need to explain to you, of all people, Mr. Black—why it is that Professor Dumbledore recommended James stay away."
At the suggestion of Dumbledore's meddling, Orion let out a snort—but it was not one of surprise.
"Oh? Please do explain it to me."
"He felt there might be—some…bad blood between you."
He immediately knew that he had overstepped the invisible boundary line of propriety that governed Orion Black's life. The coldness Sirius's father exuded was immediate and palpable.
"You said you're around here often," he observed, abruptly changing the subject. "I assume you consider yourself an intimate of my son."
"He's one of my three best friends in the whole world."
The older man went back to turning the letter over in his hands. It was at that moment Remus became conscious of a subtle change in manner. This was not an interrogation, as such—if it had ever been one at all.
"You seem like a sensible young man, from the little I've seen of you. Rational, measured." Remus blinked. "I cannot imagine what on earth you see in him."
Remus burst out laughing.
"Is that amusing?"
"Very." He would never have presumed Mr. Black was joking with him—he doubted he was capable of it. "To tell you the truth, it's one of the funniest things anyone's ever said to me."
Mr. Black looked up from his letter, scoffing quietly.
"I can't see why."
"Most people, Mr. Black—" He pressed his hands against the sofa cushions and straightened up. "—Would be asking Sirius what he sees in me."
Orion stared at him—perturbed. He was not a stupid man—from the little he'd seen of Mr. Black, Remus thought the mind of the wizard sitting across from him was rather keen, in fact—but he had a rather dim view of his eldest son.
And now he was asking, albeit clumsily—about his son's social life.
"Do you not know that Sirius was the most popular boy at school when he was there?"
Another blank stare.
"I've never given it much thought," Orion admitted, nonchalantly. "Was he really?"
Now it was Remus's turn to stare.
"Yes!"
"How odd. Can't say I see the appeal, myself."
Couldn't see the—was he blind?
"He was only the cleverest—top of the year in nearly every subject—best looking by far, life of every party, funniest wizard in his year—and best friends with the top Quidditch star of the school." Remus smiled, ruefully. "I was considered lucky that he deigned to hang around with me."
"School must have changed a great deal since I was there, if that is what the student body is impressed by." Mr. Black examined his fingernails carelessly. "My impression of his educational years is marked by endless letters detailing disciplinary infractions."
"Oh, yes—there was quite a lot of that," Remus laughed. "But he was so brilliant most of the teachers didn't care."
"An attitude that I'm sure was gratifying to their egos as educators," Mr. Black observed, cuttingly. "But it did very little to curb my son's arrogance."
A smile reflexively tugged at Lupin's lips, and he could not resist the urge to tease.
"He was like that before he set foot in any classroom." He added, quietly, "I suspect it's a quality a little closer to home."
Remus felt no small amount of satisfaction at Orion's look of displeasure. Mr. Black stood up and crossed over to the table where the Remus's newspapers still lay, sprawled out. He traced his finger over the Prophet.
"You hold Sirius in very high esteem," he remarked, after a moment.
"He's—been a good friend to me."
It was the sort of thing that Remus could say with absolute sincerity, even if he knew that it was not, strictly speaking, entirely true.
"But you also aren't blind to his…shortcomings."
Remus stared hard at Orion's back. The way he was holding his shoulders reminded him of his friend—emotional restraint, almost painful in its formality. He suspected it had been taught rather than inherited.
"No. He's very easy to like, even when he sometimes—" Orion turned his head sharply. "—Goes too far."
He felt it would be an insult to Sirius's father's intelligence to explain his meaning.
"He's very impudent."
"He was more popular with the student body than his teachers, I'll grant that. He's the sort of person people naturally gravitate towards. He doesn't even have to try, really. People just follow him."
"Off a cliff, even."
"You really didn't know that Sirius was that well liked."
Orion tossed the newspapers back onto the table and turned around fully.
"He's my son and a Black. That he should have been the top of his class in school goes without saying." Mr. Black paused. "As for the rest—what other people think of him is of little concern to me."
Then why are you still here, Mr. Black?
"Sirius always did say that his parents were the only people he'd never be able to impress."
Midway through the act of tucking the letter back in his pocket—Orion Black froze.
It seemed so obvious to him—so it never occurred to him to withhold such a fact from the older man. But seeing the shock—followed by a penetrating look of insight veering into cunning—Remus was overcome with the feeling that admitting this to Sirius's father had been a huge blunder.
"My son said that to you?"
He swallowed. His mouth was dry.
"More than once."
"What else did he say to you about us?"
A demand—forceful, immediate—he felt blessed that he could answer, with all honesty—
"…Very little."
Orion's hard eyes glinted like polished diamonds, hard and obstinate. It was nothing—nothing he shouldn't have been able to guess, an admission of very little.
Why then, did he feel that he'd betrayed Sirius's confidences, somehow?
But before he could recover ground, make excuses, however feeble—Orion had pulled out his pocket watch to check the time. Every line of his face and movement of his body suggested that he was quite done with Remus.
"Ah—that time already?" He clicked the cover shut. "I must be off—lunch appointment. I'll thank you to pass on that message to my son." He smiled, politely—if he'd been wearing a hat he certainly would have doffed it. "I appreciate your candor. This conversation has been quite…edifying."
Had it? From where Lupin was sitting it hadn't been. Remus stood up, feeling, oddly enough, like a person whose just gotten done with a job interview and not sure where they stand.
He resisted the urge to hold out his hand for Orion to shake it.
"I'll go out through the fire." His brow furrowed. "Perhaps I can even stir my younger son from his respite."
"Mr. Black, I—"
Orion stopped at the door and turned around at the door.
"—Yes?"
Lupin looked up at the older, taller man—stared stupidly. He wasn't sure what he wanted to say—except he felt like Orion needed reassurance of some kind.
"I…hope you have a good Christmas, sir."
The look he got in return was haughty, the nod stiff—but he felt better when Mr. Black closed the door behind him, leaving Remus in the living room alone.
Lupin sank back down into the couch. running both hands through his prematurely graying hair. He let out the breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding and slouched down.
Sirius's father had always been a rather opaque figure in his mind—less distinct, less vibrant than the mother that his friend could never resist colorfully abusing when under the influence of more than four drinks.
That verbal tussle had done very little to pull back the veil—
And ungodly BANGING on the door jolted him up.
"—Oi! Hey, Sirius!"
Remus sprung out of the seat like a scalded cat. He sprinted across the room and pressed his ear against the door.
"—Sirius, come on! I know you're there, I can see you moving around through the blinds!" The slight whine in the voice pitched up the end of this plea. Remus took a leaf out of Sirius's book and began swearing loudly under his breath. "I need to talk to you."
Remus remained still, hoping against all hope that he'd go away—but knowing full well, after the third series of bangs, that he would not.
Peter, was, if nothing else, patient.
He sighed and, after a moment of rehearsing every possible answer to any questions he'd get, opened the door.
"About time—" Remus flashed Peter Pettigrew one of his benign, tired smiles. "Oh—Moony…it's you."
"Yes—just me." He patted the shorter boy on his shoulder. "Hello, Peter."
His friend peered past his shoulder into the flat—then met Remus's gaze, sheepishly.
"Hullo, Remus."
"That was quite the shout. You must have something important to say to Sirius."
"N-no—not…not really." Peter bit his lip and looked down, embarrassed. "I just—you know, I think he's been avoiding me, so I thought I'd…just…bang on the door."
Remus shook his head and smiled at his friend's embarrassment. He was obviously lying about the urgency—Peter didn't yell that way every day—but didn't want to admit the real reason why he'd come. Remus wondered if Peter had a girl he wanted to ask Sirius's advice about. The two of them had always held Sirius in awe in that respect—even James, married to the prettiest woman they knew, could not compare in terms of sheer capacity for charm.
"That makes two of us, then. I came here looking for him—" He lied, smoothly. "He's out. I bet he won't be back until tonight."
"What makes you say that?"
"There's a new woman in his sights," Remus said, dryly. Peter chewed his bottom lip. "It's keeping him occupied."
"Did he have a date last night?"
"Yeah."
"Maybe he didn't come back at all."
Remus sighed, heavily.
"Maybe."
"I think I'll just wait for him, in case—"
"It could be hours. Tell you what, Wormtail—" He put an arm around Peter's shoulder. "Let's go out for lunch—my treat. I'll take you to that Italian restaurant you like in Covent Garden. I'm flush."
Peter's watery eyes narrowed.
"You're never flush."
He grimaced. He was the only person in their social circle even more hard-up than Peter.
"Early Christmas present from my dad."
Peter stared at him—gave him one of those dim looks that was half-endearing, half-exasperating—before nodding slow agreement.
"Alright…" He mumbled and pointed his finger in Remus's chest. "As long as it's your treat. I'm dead broke."
He let out an inner sigh of relief—at least Pete's stomach could be counted on for reliability. Peter turned to walk out down the hall and out the noticed Lupin remained firmly planted in the door.
"Aren't you coming, Remus?"
"Of—course."
He didn't let himself glance back at the door after he shut it behind him—tried to ignore each pang of anxiety he felt as they walked further and further down the hallway.
Regulus would be alright for a little while—just at least until they were safely far enough away that he could shake off Wormtail and double back.
"He didn't even raise his voice."
Frank dropped the two plates onto the canteen table with a rattling clatter.
"Considering he called me all this way, I thought he'd at least—" Sirius waved his arms around while Longbottom pushed out the chair. "—I don't know, shout a little."
The Ministry canteen bustled with activity—nearly every table full of low-and-mid-level employees, each trying to catch a quick break before getting back to the grind.
"Moody is a master of not meeting expectations." Frank pushed the tray at him. "Did you want him to yell, Black?"
Sirius poked at his fried fish, dismally. Just the smell of it—one of his favorite dishes—reminded him painfully of breakfast with his mother.
"I wanted to get it out of the way. Whenever people put that off, it feels as though they're holding out for something more unpleasant."
Frank stuck his fork into his plate of shepherds' pie with the gusto of a man who has earned his daily bread.
"Cheer up." He thrust forward the butterbeer he'd procured for Sirius at the counter. "We've all been through it. It's over now. Consider it a rite of passage."
"There's a part of me that thinks he brought me in there to size me up."
Frank gave him a critical look over the rim of his glass.
"I'm sure that was part of it."
Sirius knew better than to express his fear to Frank that Moody didn't trust him. Longbottom would point out, quite rightly, that Moody trusted no one.
It was different with him, though. He couldn't put a finger on why—but he knew it was. Perhaps it was different for Frank, too, now that he knew that it had not been a girl he was hiding in the other room of his flat—but his brother, the Death Eater Longbottom's office had probably been tracking the movements of for months.
"By the way, Black…" Longbottom lowered his glass of cider and smiled. "Did you thank your father?"
Sirius scowled with such dramatic intensity that Frank actually laughed.
"Somehow, it was a bit hard to squeeze that in—" He tapped a finger against the lid of his drink. "—Between all the ranting and raving in his study."
Frank Longbottom was not fooled for a moment.
"You should. You know he probably saved your life."
"Not out of affection, believe me." Sirius ran a hand through his hair. "He couldn't let me out of Christmas hols with them, that's all."
Longbottom's expression sobered.
"You should patch things up," he said, gently. "It's not worth it to fight—not these days."
Sirius sighed.
"He doesn't want a 'thank you', Frank—he wants an apology."
"Maybe you should give him both. Be the bigger man."
Sirius shoved a sodden chip in his mouth and chewed. It tasted like wet paper.
"You know I'm going to hear this from Dumbledore tomorrow, don't you?" he asked, sourly. "You don't have to give it to me, too."
"Good advice is good advice." Frank's eyes suddenly narrowed. "Easy—don't look—but there's someone watching us."
Instantly tense and alert, like a gun-dog, Sirius leaned over the table.
"What are you talking—?"
"—I didn't want to say anything, but he's been staring at you since we sat down."
Sweat trickled down Sirius's neck.
"What does he look like?" he asked, in a low voice. Longbottom casually glanced over Sirius's shoulder to apprise their voyeur.
"Young—couldn't be any older than thirty—I don't recognize him." Further inspection made Frank relax a bit. "Looks a bit gormless, to tell you the truth—he's got eyeholes cut out of his newspaper, so not exactly great shakes at espionage—"
"—Him and me both—"
"Only other distinguishing characteristic is the spots."
Sirius spun around.
"Oh, for the love of—it's Bletchley!"
Indeed, it was—though as soon as Sirius turned in his seat, the young legal apprentice hastily covered his face with the paper.
"What the hell is he doing here?"
"Who's Bletchley?"
"He's nobody, a prat—he's—" Sirius let out a string of curses. "—Here, I'll introduce you."
Bletchley was still pretending not to see Sirius furiously waving in his direction, but when the younger man called out "Oi! Bletch!" and half the canteen turned their heads, the apprentice had no choice but to rise from his chair and sheepishly cross to their table.
He stopped between them and offered a hapless smile.
"F-fancy seeing you here, Mr. Black."
Sirius rolled his eyes.
"What, no false whiskers?" He stuck his hand in Longbottom's direction. The Auror was trying to get a handle on the relationship between Black and this newcomer—he could read very easily that Sirius was annoyed, but not at all threatened—but he remained on his guard. "Pull up a chair and join us, Bletchley. The more the merrier, as I always say."
He obeyed—only hesitating a moment.
"I'm—erm—" He looked over at Frank, who was surveying him coolly. "—Obliged to you, Mr. Black."
Sirius pulled a face.
"Did Burke tell you to call me that?" He scowled. "He's not here—don't stand on false ceremony. Call me 'Sirius' or 'you prick', but I'd prefer if you leave the 'Mister Black' routine at the door."
"Who's Burke?" Frank asked, before the other man could protest that his use of formal language was appropriate and a requirement of his boss.
"He's the vulture my grandfather employs to handle his affairs and spy on his relatives for him."
"Belgravius Burke is my employer," Bletchley provided, in a tired voice. "A well respected solicitor."
There was an awkward pause—Sirius realized his mistake.
"Oh, right—introductions. This is Frank Longbottom—the Auror. Frank, this is—" He looked over at the apprentice, a thought occurring to him. "—I suppose you have a Christian name, don't you, Bletch?"
Bletchley sighed.
"It's Martin."
"Right. Martin." He tested it out—the name fit. "Martin Bletchley—one of the finest legal minds of our generation, I'm sure."
"Nice to meet you," Frank said, bemused, shaking his hand. "You look about my age. Didn't go to Hogwarts, did you?"
"I wish," he returned, with a slightly depressed voice. "I was at Beauxbatons."
Sirius's eyebrows both went up. He hadn't suspected that Bletchley was well-travelled—let alone that he'd grown up overseas. He was just about the least sophisticated wizard Sirius thought he'd ever set eyes on—at least in Burke's office.
"Bletchley—Bletchley…that name sounds familiar. From the diplomatic corps, right?" Frank snapped his fingers. "Isn't your father the ambassador to Lichtenstein?"
"He's the attaché to the ambassador of Lichtenstein," Bletchley corrected, dismally. "There's a big difference."
Frank and Sirius exchanged a look.
"In what way?"
"It's most of the responsibilities and none of the honors."
Martin let out the long-suffering sigh of a man who has had to explain this far too many times.
"He was attaché to the Ambassador to Lithuania, before this, and Denmark before that. It's a bit of a habit of his, being second in command. He says I need to break the tradition. That's why he set me up with this job. He says Mr. Burke will 'make me'."
Sirius laughed, humorlessly.
"Well, that makes sense—I can't see anyone working for Burke by choice." Sirius narrowed his eyes. "Does he have you tailing me as part of your duties, now, Bletch?"
"Not—precisely. That is—I didn't follow you, but I did…" He looked around, shiftily. "Know you'd be here."
Frank lowered his cup, slowly.
"Would your grandfather's solicitor really have you followed?"
"We had a bit of a disagreement yesterday." Another look exchanged between Frank and Sirius. "So—how you'd know I was here, then?"
"You may want to take more care with who you allow to pass on your messages, in future, sir."
Sirius slapped his hand on the table. Frank snorted.
"This is what comes of trusting Mundungus with anything." He folded his arms in front of his chest. "I have to get back to the office. Is this going to be…a problem, Black?"
He meant Martin. Bletchley twisted his fingers nervously, alarmed that the hotshot Auror was asking if he was 'a problem.' Sirius sized him up for a moment, weighing his options.
"He's fine, Frank," he said at last, shrugging. "This is a personal matter between us. Nothing to do with…you know."
Frank debated whether he trusted this answer for a moment before nodding.
"Then I'll leave you to it." He nodded at Martin. "Give my regards to Lichtenstein."
The fleeting look he gave Sirius as he left the table suggested that he'd be asking for a more detailed explanation later.
Martin Bletchley moved around to the seat recently vacated by Frank. Sirius eyed him, wearily.
"Why'd Burke send you to the Ministry, Martin—really?"
"I'm picking something up for him—from your grandfather." He grimaced. "I just popped into here for a quick cup of tea in the meantime."
"You're a dreadful liar, you know." Sirius smiled—not without humor, in spite of his annoyance. "You can be straight with me. I know this was no coincidence."
Bletchley shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
"Burke wanted to know who you were meeting," he admitted, reluctantly. "He told me to wait in the canteen and see if you turned up."
"Of course, the clever thing to do would've been to leave before we spotted you watching us like the Pink Panther." Bletchley pinked. "So—now that you know—you going to tell him?"
"How much is it worth to you if I don't?"
Sirius found himself, against all odds—slightly impressed at the other man's boldness.
"Not much. As far as public record is concerned, I'm here for a job interview in the Auror office." He gestured around them. "For all I know you're not the only spy of his in this room. Any one of his informants could tell him they saw me here, if they so chose. I've got nothing to hide. Between you and me, though—"
He leaned closer.
"—I'd just as soon not make it easy for him to keep tabs on me."
Martin nodded, somewhat despairingly—his aspect gloomy.
"I don't think I'm cut out for this work." He ran his fingers down his shirt collar. "It's not what I thought the legal profession would be."
"Life—a never-ending source of thwarted hopes."
For the person time since they'd become acquainted, Martin Bletchley gave the younger man—at least 8 years his junior—a look that could be read as caustic.
"Look, I'm—sorry I was a bit curt with you, yesterday." Sirius took a swig of butterbeer—sloppily, so some dribbled down his chin. "It was nothing personal."
"Don't worry—I never take things personally." Bletchley laughed, bitterly. "Mr. Burke says I'm such a non-entity in this country I'll never have to."
Sirius passed over this profoundly depressing comment without remark. He gesticulated with feeling.
"It's just—that Burke and I have a history—most of which is unpleasant—and being around him brings out my inner…prick."
He noticed Bletchley eyeing his cold chips hungrily.
"You want that?" Martin looked up, embarrassed at having been caught out. Sirius pushed the plate towards him. "I'd get you a fresh lunch, only I'm a bit short on funds at the present. In case you're wondering, that's why I haven't offered you that bribe you've been angling for since you sat down."
Martin dug into the cold, slightly congealed fried fish with a laugh.
"Right—no funds except the pile in that expense account of yours, you mean." Sirius stared at him, blankly. "The money—you know, that your father gives you."
"What are you on about? He doesn't give me any money." He glared at him—defensiveness crept in. "I'm a disowned and disgraced man."
"Disgraced maybe—but not disowned. Mr. Burke showed that Fletcher man the receipt for the balance that's been deposited in an account in your name every month since you came of age. It's considerable."
Sirius went pale. Bletchley dropped a cold chip back on the plate.
"You really didn't know, then! Mr. Burke told me you didn't draw on it—but I didn't believe him, at first. He says you're too proud to take money from your father." Bletchley stared at him in wonder. "I guess it's true."
Realization washed over Sirius in waves. The account—the expense account that had been accumulating interest since he was born, that he was going to get some form of access to when he came of age. He'd run away from home two months shy of turning seventeen…it had never occurred to him to check and see if he could draw from it.
Like his continued status as heir to his father, just the idea of it seemed—absurd.
"When were you discussing this?"
"This morning, after he got rid of Fletcher."
"No wonder my ears were burning." Sirius glared. "What else has Burke told you about me?"
Martin shrugged.
"A bit. That you ran away from home three years ago—but that you're not formally disowned as such. I heard about your motorbike, too. Did you really enchant one to fly?" Sirius grinned and nodded. Martin let out a low whistle. "Very daring, sir—given your family's reputation. They don't seem like the types to approve of such a thing."
"Well, I don't consider it any of their business," Sirius said, frankly. "I'm attempting to cut all ties with them—I suppose your boss let it slip that was why I was there yesterday?"
"Hey may have mentioned something of the sort." Bletchley hesitated. "He seems to think you're …afraid of them."
"Why would I be afraid of a bunch of musty, arrogant and out-of-touch purebloods?"
"Because you're so like them." Bletchley pressed on. "He says that's why you dress like a Muggle—to distinguish yourself from your family." He tilted his head. "He also says it doesn't really work—that anyone who saw you'd would know at once who you are."
He thought of Crouch and felt his lip curl—and then he remembered Colette Battancourt.
"Burke doesn't know what he's talking about," Sirius snapped back, moodily. "Anyway, even if I had known about that money—it's my father's, not mine. I would never take a galleon from him."
"That's your affair, of course—but it is in your name, not his," Martin pointed out, archly. "Technically speaking, that makes it your money. You can't say you don't have any, even if its origins are…undesirable."
"Are you accusing me of pretending to be poor to prove a point, Bletchley?"
Martin said nothing, though his look spoke volumes. Sirius frowned, irked at the expression he saw there—he was missing the point entirely, didn't he see?
Principles were at stake—and anyway, Bletchley didn't understand his family at all, yet.
"The thing about money, Martin—that money in particular—is that it comes with all sorts of strings attached."
"I could use some strings right about now," his companion replied, gloomily. "Strings sound nice."
Sirius's expression softened.
"Is it that bad?"
"I've no connections to speak of."
"Family?"
"Half-blood on both sides—and they aren't the sides where it's easy to hide." He sighed. "It's made things tricky for me. Practicing law in this country requires an apprenticeship, and all the choice placements go to the swotty purebloods—no offense, sir."
"None taken." He leaned forward. "Listen, Martin—I like you. I feel a certain amount of sympathy —we're both men stuck in unpleasant situations we'd just as well forget. Maybe we can help one another…extricate ourselves from them."
His companion took his eyes off the table and fixed Sirius with a supremely sarcastic expression.
"Yes, my terrible job is very similar to the enormous fortune you're trying to get out of inheriting."
Sirius scowled, good-naturedly.
"You know, I think I preferred it when you called me "'Mister Black'. No one likes sarcasm in a lawyer." He rolled his eyes. "Tell me, since you're on your way to meet him—has Burke told my grandfather about my visit yesterday?"
"Oh, no—he hasn't said a word."
He let out a sigh of relief. Burke was playing the wait and see game. Excellent. That would buy Sirius time to clean up the mess—the mess he was starting to see was possibly of his own making.
"How can you be sure?"
"Easy. I copy out all his correspondence for him."
"He trusts you that much?" Sirius asked, surprised.
Bletchley shrugged, noncommittal.
"I suppose he thinks as I don't know anyone in this country, I can't give away his secrets—even if I wanted to."
"Well, that changes today, Bletch." Sirius clapped him on the shoulder. "You have a friend, now."
"Are we friends, sir?"
"Sirius," he corrected, irritably. "And yes, we are. I'm going to help you, Martin."
In spite of his skepticism, Bletchley's mood seemed to perk.
"In exchange for what?"
Sirius grinned—a grin Remus Lupin or James Potter would have recognized instantly.
"A little favor…"
"Ah! Young Malfoy—over here."
Lucius spotted him immediately—even amidst the large crowd mingling in the antechamber of the courtroom, he stood out. Arcturus, like everyone in his family, had a way of drawing the eye. Even an elderly and stoop-shouldered Black was still a Black.
He waved Lucius over, and the Malfoy heir made his way to the door, where the Black patriarch stood slightly apart from his fellow members of the wizengamot. He was watching the rabble with the mild look of disdain that nearly always graced his features.
By the time Lucius had reached him his expression had slipped back into shrewd inscrutability.
"Good of you to catch me in-between sessions."
Lucius gave him a slightly ingratiating smile and held up a large bag of gold.
"Your winnings from the other night—and my father's compliments for a well played game." Lucius dropped the sack in Arcturus's hand. "If this is any indication, you are the consummate gamester, sir."
"Hardly. Abraxas let me win." Arcturus chuckled, coldly. "Humoring an old man on his birthday. Still—there's more than one path to victory in life."
Malfoy nodded. Arcturus gave him a sly, sideways look.
"I hope you didn't come all this way for such—" He hefted the bag of gold carelessly in one hand. "—A trifling errand."
"Oh, no—I was coming up to London as it was, I'm meeting Narcissa and her friend for dinner before we go to the theatre tonight."
Lucius scanned the sea of witches and wizards, all dressed in the deep purple robes that marked an official tribunal day.
More testimonies by supposed witnesses…
They wouldn't learn anything the Dark Lord didn't want them to know, Lucius thought—almost feeling pity. He turned back towards Arcturus. The old was watching him intently, his cold eyes glittering in that way that made lesser wizards feel small.
He was a Malfoy, and immune to the effect.
"And anyway—I never pass up a chance to go to the Ministry these days."
And Arcturus gave him an excuse. Of course, the Malfoy name meant that he had his ways of getting around, but with the new security policies in place, it wasn't wise to appear too overeager to butt into the government's affairs at this troubling time.
Prudence was wise. He'd learned that lesson early from Abraxas.
"Some people find it interesting," Arcturus remarked, inspecting the gigantic ruby ring on his left hand. He was the only man standing in that hall who didn't look worried—he almost seemed bored by the proceedings. Malfoy hoped he had that degree of self-assurance when he was as old as Black. "Can't say I see it. These things always get blown out of proportion. It's the filth they let creep into government these days. All mudblood lovers or—worse."
Malfoy let out a soft 'ha!' He could hardly disagree—though the infiltrations, the rot that Arcturus was describing had started decades earlier. The changes that were needed at this stage in the game were—rather drastic.
A culling was in order.
"By the way, Lucius—" Arcturus broke abruptly into his revery. "I hope you didn't mind me setting Orion on the trail of your—er, little problem the other night."
Lucius started.
"I—" He found himself in the rare circumstance of being caught of guard. "I didn't—of course not, but it wasn't, strictly speaking—"
"—I never like to presume on another man's private home, but—" Arcturus continued—tone casually, but voice just low enough that they would not be overheard. "Well, Orion is the soul of discretion. I thought he could be of use to you in—ferreting them out. But I understand how such a gesture could be, ah…interpreted."
Malfoy's eyes narrowed. As an insult to his family's security—that was what Black meant. To admit he was insulted would be the cede that the thought had even crossed his mind.
He had no intention of doing that.
"I beg you not think on it anymore, sir, if this has been giving you—pause," Lucius said, flatly. "It all came to nothing, anyway. The problem never—surfaced, as it were."
"Oh? Didn't it?" Arcturus lifted up his cane and studied the jeweled top of it, polished silver. "I somehow thought…differently."
The old man twisted the bright red jewel around his fingers. His gray eyes glittered with unmistakeable shrewdness.
Lucius considered the problem from several angles. He sensed a flat denial would be a mistake—perhaps Arcturus knew something. But he also had no interest in admitting that the two intruders into his family's home—and a party that was host to his wife's entire extended family—had both managed to slip through his grasp.
In truth, that 'little problem' of the other night had been the real reason he was so eager to run his father's errand.
It was all becoming clearer—and murkier at the same time. After he'd left Rowle, he'd gone up to the sixth floor, where his trusted contact at the Floo department had confirmed what he already suspected—the imposter Svensson had not left his house using one of the fires. None of his father's protections had been breached.
A man had managed to infiltrate Lucius's private home—the place where his wife slept—and get out again with no consequences. That couldn't stand.
Something was alluding him—just out of reach.
The identity of the second man.
A door that remained frustratingly closed to him.
"You must understand—I abhor gossip-mongers above all, young Malfoy—never traffic in the stuff myself," Arcturus drawled, quietly. "But I think the doorman mentioned something to your father-in-law about seeing that Klöcker man leave…alone."
Lucius made a private note to never allow Messing to watch the door again.
"Which does leave the question of the other one. He disappeared sometime before the game. Klöcker even came out on the balcony looking for him. We met, you know. I'd guess it was around when he gave you his regrets—and he hadn't yet found his—employer."
"My father is always telling me your are the cleverest man he knows, sir," Lucius said, through gritted teeth. "Nothing escapes your notice."
Arcturus smiled again—a patrician, vaguely condescending smile that made Lucius wish to reach for his wand. It reminded him unpleasantly of Cygnus—or Narcissa, in one of her rare willful moods.
Rodolphus might've been crude, but he was not entirely wrong in his assessment of the family that they had both married into.
"We Blacks are resourceful. In any case, I wouldn't worry on it—" Arcturus leaned back on his foot—affecting the appearance of not needing his cane. "—Orion will have gotten rid of him for you."
Lucius froze.
"I beg your pardon?"
The old man examined his fingers, languidly, while the hall of people around them buzzed with low murmurs of discontent. His voice was no louder than any of theirs—but unlike the indistinct rabble surrounding them, Lucius didn't have to strain to hear Arcturus's words.
"Well—it stands to reason. Orion was the last one in the card game, and after some thought, I've decided—he must've been disposing of your gatecrasher—handily, out of sight." He tilted his head, hard eyes glinting in the torchlight. "He's very discreet, as I said—and the Swede disappeared around that time, after all."
Lucius felt a sudden shock—a lurch, his equilibrium stirred. An image came back to him—Orion Black, entertaining the card room—after being sought out by his father to complete the table. Orion who had seemed so momentarily out of sorts—except he was the kind of man who always seemed, to Lucius, at least—as if he was not sure how he had gotten to the places he was. Perpetually out of place and out of sorts.
Lucius had thought little of it, then. But now—
Not outside help. Inside help.
"Did he—" He tried to keep his voice measured. "Did he mention this to you?"
Arcturus scoffed.
"Certainly not. He wouldn't—Orion never boasts. But I know. I told him to keep a sharp eye out—" Arcturus paused, with grim satisfaction. "—And he always does exactly as I tell him. As you're to have your own son this summer, I'll tell you—it's a good rule of thumb to foster obedience early."
Lucius bowed, politely. A gong sounded from far away—a warning. Court would be in session again, in a few minutes. '
Why would Orion Black have—
The witches and wizards of the tribunal began shuffling in the direction of the door—a crush of wizards pushing up against them. The two men remained in place.
"I'll be sure to take your advice, sir."
"See that you do—a willful son is the last thing you want." He checked his watch, idly, then added, with an airy shrug. "He's to meet me for lunch in an hour. Would you care to join us? We can clear the whole matter up, if you'd like."
"That won't be necessary, sir," Malfoy said, quickly. The sea of people was pressing against them, now. "I, too—understand the value of discretion."
Arcturus smiled—this time he bared his teeth. He'd known young Malfoy would never take him up on such an offer.
To admit that he didn't know what had gone on in his own house—that someone else had had to remove an unwanted visitor for him, right under his nose—would be too much to bear. His pride couldn't withstand such an insult.
"Think nothing of it. You know how it is—family party, and all that." He tipped his hat, courteously. "We Blacks look after our own."
It was like the tumbler of a lock slipping into place—a key turned, a door opened.
"I'll go see if Alice knows—he's with her husband now, in the canteen."
Arcturus's words rang in his ears long after he had disappeared into the sea of the receding crowd. They were with him as he mounted the stone steps, when he reached the lift—
"May Frank have better luck than you did."
The second man—the one who'd come with Longbottom and gotten away was a pureblood, not an Auror, not affiliated with the Ministry—probably sent by Dumbledore, a rogue operative—a man who could slip amongst them, catch them unawares, could blend in—given who it was that had tipped him off in the first place, it should have been obvious, and yet he had ruled out the possibility without even realizing he'd done so, perhaps because it seemed so absurd—
Blacks always look out for their own.
It was something his wife said often—a bit of homegrown family wisdom. She was proud of her family, like all good witches—she believed it. Her loyalty was the thing he loved about Narcissa the most, and it was a quality she claimed came entirely from her family.
As to how far that loyalty extended—
"That is the question," he murmured, softly.
He would have to find out.
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