"There was a musical box that emitted a faintly sinister, tinkling tune when wound, and they all found themselves becoming curiously weak and sleepy until Ginny had the sense to slam the lid shut; also a heavy locket none of them could open, a number of ancient seals and, in a dusty box, an Order of Merlin, First Class, that had been awarded to Sirius's grandfather for "Services to the Ministry."
'It means he gave them a load of gold,' said Sirius, contemptuously, throwing the medal into the rubbish sack.
-J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
CHAPTER 16
Orion stared into the depths of the Fountain of Magical Brethren while the whole Ministry—the whole world—seemed to pass by.
He sat at the water's edge, his eyes focused on the coins scattered at the bottom, beneath the murky water and the feet of the house-elf, with its sycophantic, simpering smile. Every breath—slow and labored—took effort. It was worse today than it had been all week. This rare moment of anonymity was a welcome respite—no one noticed him committing the cardinal Black sin of weakness.
Or perhaps they noticed but simply didn't care.
Either way, he could lean against the marble here, out of sight and notice. And it gave him time to think while he waited—think on his latest failure.
Regulus was nothing more than a stripling—slight and unassuming, timid and polite—and yet when faced with the prospect of speaking to this eighteen-year-old boy—Orion had lost his nerve. He had stood above the bed for five minutes, had watched the shallow rise and fall of his younger son's chest as he slept—and done nothing. If Regulus had seemed to be resting peacefully, he might've had an excuse for not stirring him—but the muttering, the beads of sweat on his forehead—were all signs he was caught in the throws of a nightmare.
To wake him up might've been a blessing.
From one nightmare to another, Mr. Black thought. Dreaming to waking.
And so, he had done what he always did—he'd walked away.
Except I can't forget it, now.
"Orion…?" He started at the voice—polite and unassuming in his ear. "I thought it was you."
He turned his head from the water—from the grimy knut at the bottom of the well he'd been gazing upon—and found himself looking into a face vaguely familiar to him. Neatly trimmed mustache, graying hair, sharp eyes—it took him only a moment to place the man.
As soon as recognition sunk in he stood up and held out a hand. He felt a jab of pain, but resisted the natural urge to grasp his chest.
"Crouch." Mr. Black always made a point of not returning a familiarity he didn't feel—he would not give the other man the satisfaction calling him 'Barty' would bring. "This is a surprise. I'd have thought you be in court at this hour."
"It was just adjourned." A firm shake—and quick release. "Meeting your father for lunch, I take it?"
Orion frowned. Crouch had asked the question in that annoying tone that spoke to his seniority at the Ministry—he almost certainly knew the answer. One couldn't do anything here without it being remarked upon.
These Ministry meddlers set his teeth on edge.
"Yes."
"Well…" Crouch glanced over at the clock on the wall. "He should be out shortly. He was right behind me."
"Caught up in conversation, I'm sure," Orion replied, vaguely. "Socializing and the like."
He waited for Crouch to make a few more pleasant remarks, perhaps an inquiry about his wife, and then the requisite polite excuse to leave him—but it didn't come. Instead Barty stared at him with an interest that Orion found, quite frankly, distasteful.
"It's a funny thing, running into you," he said, in a bland voice. "I don't think I have in—many years."
Crouch's eyes gleamed, curiously.
"It's not a coincidence. I was looking for you. Or—" He qualified himself. "—I was hoping I'd catch you, rather."
Orion blinked.
"You were?"
Orion noticed Crouch seemed to be holding back a smile—and an ominous feeling of dread crept over him.
"Yes. You see, I was very curious—" His mustache was clipped short, and so it did not hide his infernal smirk. Orion felt a stab of irritation. "—To hear that your family has relented at last. I didn't quite believe it, so I thought I'd—confirm."
"Relented in what respect?"
"Didn't you once tell me that the Black family didn't consider working for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to be a suitable career?"
Orion schooled his expression to hide his surprise. Had he said that? There was no such formal rule in their family, though anything above a senior post in any Ministry department was frowned upon as being frightfully déclassé. It sounded like the kind of made-up detail he'd have said at a social engagement when he was annoyed at Barty Crouch blathering to his mother about his ambitions to reform the department.
"And—? Why would you think that's changed?" Orion asked, in his blandest, most anodyne voice.
Crouch's smile widened.
"Well, considering I just saw your son being interviewed by Alastor Moody for a position in the Auror Department…"
Orion's face froze in a expression of such obvious shocked displeasure that it made the automatic denial—"you must be mistaken, my son is in France"—seem utterly pointless.
Crouch read the look before he could hide it again.
"You didn't know?" Orion narrowed his eyes while the other man shook his head. "I did wonder. He seemed very eager not to have it known he was here, when I mentioned you."
Which was the easiest way to draw attention to himself, Orion thought, furiously. That boy—
"I hope my son didn't say anything insolent to you, sir," he said, dryly. "But given who it is we're speaking of—" His eyes rolled heavenward as he folded his arms behind his back in resignation. "—I find it difficult to imagine otherwise."
"Think nothing of it. I found him quite—amusing, in his way." Crouch laughed to himself. "He has more personality than mine, I'll say that for him. Not that the bar is very high there."
At this mention of his son, Crouch twisted his head reflexively, as if he was trying to shake off a troublesome gnat. Orion had almost forgotten he had one—a year or two younger than Regulus.
"I took the liberty of having his file pulled from the archives," Crouch continued, voice even—to Orion's displeasure, he actually pulled out the folder. "Very impressive—and interesting."
Orion eyed the bundle of parchment in Crouch's hand with trepidation. He'd opened it and was perusing it right in front of him, almost like a taunt.
"I can only imagine."
Mouth fixed in a grim line, Mr. Crouch snapped the folder shut again.
"I should tell you—if he's serious about this business of becoming an Auror, he will have to explain why he pulled himself out of consideration for it a year ago, when he first applied." Orion gave him a shrewd look. "It's frowned upon—they think of it as wasting the government's time when someone gets that far in the process and doesn't give any explanation for why they've pulled out."
Orion nodded, absently—tucking this new snippet from the three year gap away, to be considered before he next saw the boy.
"Thank you for bringing this to my—attention, Crouch," he said, coolly.
"Don't mention it."
It was at that moment that the sound of a throat being cleared cut through the air between them.
Both men turned.
"There you are, Orion." Arcturus Black slowly ambled over ivory can in hand, the green ribbon of his Order of Merlin (First Class) swung off of the watch chain dangling from his breast pocket. "Hiding yourself away in the corner, as usual."
Orion's hear sank. He could see exactly the sort of mood his father was in. The hearings had obviously not been to his liking, and he was going to be vexed for the rest of the day.
"Good afternoon, Father."
Arcturus ignored his son's greeting in favor of snapping his head in the direction of the Head of Department and addressing him, quite haughtily—not bothering to hide his sneer—
"Crouch. Didn't expect to see you with my son. What are you discussing?" His sharp eyes narrowed. "You seem positively engrossed. Couldn't be about state affairs, of course. Orion has no interest in 'em."
He let out a cold laugh. It was the sort of comment that would have made him blush—if he were thirty years younger.
"It's not no interest, Father," he cut in, wearily. "It's—just not professional."
"How could it be?" His father rapped his cane against the floor. "It's not as though you've ever taken the trouble to involve yourself, have you?"
Orion pursed his lips but fell silent. He knew it was only Crouch's presence that prevented his father from falling back on the old criticism—that he was the least ambitious Slytherin Arcturus had ever met.
Barty spared him the trouble of a reply to this pointed question by clearing his throat.
"I was just telling Orion how surprised I was to see—you in court," Crouch lied, smoothly. "I hope your health is improving and to see more of you."
Orion had little time to wonder at his old classmate's white lie. Arcturus's smile, already cold, dropped completely.
"My health is always excellent, thank you."
Barty Crouch, more amused than offended by this curtness, took one last look at the pair of them, then bowed ironically and took his leave. Arcturus watched him disappear into the sea of Ministry employees with displeasure.
"He's gotten too much influence," he murmured, when Crouch was out of sight. "Running circles around everyone in the hearings. It's dangerous."
"Shall we discuss this over lunch?" Orion asked, with a slight sigh. "It seems ill-advised to do so here."
His father had an excellent ear for sarcasm, but as Orion was so good at masking it—and so rarely employed it around his father—here it escaped him.
"What were you really talking about with Crouch?"
Orion took the measured pause his family expected from him before answering.
"He was….alerting me to a matter of national security," his son replied, finally.
"National security?" Arcturus repeated, doubtfully. "What in the devil has that to do with you?"
"Some minor personnel kerfuffle in his office," Orion answered, smoothly. "Trivial, but—of interest."
Arcturus narrowed his eyes, searching his son's face for the lie. Orion kept his expression light, and his father, unable to catch him out and unwilling to accuse him of deceit directly, merely let out a dismissive noise.
"To you…but not me?" He leveled him with a suspicious, penetrating look.
"I wouldn't think so, sir," Orion said, unaffected. "Unless you take notice of the finer details of Auror recruitment."
The suggestion did the trick—Arcturus seemed insulted by the very idea that he would stoop to take interest in such a trivial matter. The old man huffed and told Orion to stop harping on the subject of Crouch, which he found tedious.
"Shall we, then?" Arcturus's son asked, politely nodding towards the fireplaces.
His father made a indistinct 'hn' in the back of his throat and turned his head around—left, then right. It reminded Orion of an oversized bird of prey.
"Don't you want to wait and see if your sister makes an appearance?"
Orion attempted to hide his involuntary smile behind a fit of coughing. Lucretia had had an open invitation to this weekly luncheon for as long as his father had insisted upon it, and it was a long-standing joke in the family that she had made every possible excuse to her elderly father to get out of going for the past fifteen years.
Arcturus, not a fool where 'his headstrong girl' was concerned, and perfectly aware of her insubordination—couldn't bring himself to acknowledge it outright. Perhaps his pride couldn't abide a daughter so ill-disposed to her own father that she would lie through her teeth rather than spend one extra hour a week with him.
"I wouldn't count on it. Anyway, I've seen enough of her today, actually." He fell in step next to his father as they walked towards the fireplace at the far end of the hall where they would Floo to luncheon at Arcturus's club. "She came to the house this morning to call on Walburga."
"Plotting together, I presume?" Arcturus sniffed. "Women. You shouldn't let those two alone. They're a pair of veritable schemers, when they get a mind for it."
"What would you suggest I do, bar my wife from socializing?" Orion asked, dryly. "I don't have the energy to entertain her at all hours of day myself."
"Don't be surprised when it comes out she's been plotting."
"Well, as long as it's not against me—"
"Don't be a fool, Orion. Any plot a man's wife cooks up he's not party to is against him."
They had almost read the Floo point when he held up his withered hand—Orion stopped.
"What is it?"
"There's something I have to—ah." Arcturus turned his head around, more buzzard-like than ever. "Here he is."
Orion turned to see the object of his irascible father's ire, and found a harried young wizard hurrying towards them. He was pale beneath his spots, and the way he twisted his hands around his satchel was suggestive of an excess of nerves.
He was not his own master, of that Orion was certain.
"About time, boy! You were supposed to be here—" Arcturus pulled out his watch. "—At least five minutes ago."
"Yes—yes, Mr. Black, of course—!" He reached them, holding out a sealed letter in one trembling fist. "I'm sorry, I was—"
Arcturus snatched the parchment out of his hand—startled, the lad jumped and fell silent.
"Spare me your excuses. Here—" The Black patriarch produced a sack of gold from the interior of his cloak and dropped it into the young man's outstretched hands. The boy was so surprised by the action it nearly slipped to the floor. "—The gold. Tell Burke to wait to deposit it until I've given him further instruction myself, in person. I would hate for something to be—" His lip curled. "—Lost in translation."
The colored. Arcturus savored the embarrassment like a small glass of port, then turned to his son.
"This is Burke's new apprentice, Orion." The younger Black frowned. "Fresh from legal studies abroad in—Wittenberg, wasn't it?"
The apprentice—young man, really, though his unfortunate face pustules made him look younger than he was—nodded.
"Only been with Burke for a month." Arcturus tapped his cane on the floor. "What's your name?"
"Bletchley, Mr. Black. Martin—Bletchley."
Arcturus curled his lip at the surname but made no remark, though he shared a knowing look with his son. Seeing no reason to linger with the apprentice, Arcturus moved towards the fire—but his son hesitated.
"I'll—be along in a moment, Father," Orion called out—just before Arcturus disappeared in the flames. "I want to speak to him."
Bletchley, who had clearly been looking to make a hasty exit from the Ministry when his errand was complete, shuffled his feet and eyed Orion with uneasiness.
"You wouldn't have happened to be in the office yesterday, would you, Bletchley?"
"Yes, sir—I was."
"All day?"
"Yes, sir. A-all day long."
Orion narrowed his eyes. He didn't have to give this stripling the look that it would have taken to make Sirius or Regulus squirm—he capitulated under far less.
"Then I'm sure you know why it is that I wanted to speak to you."
Bletchley picked at one of his spots—seeing disdain this gesture elicited on Mr. Black's face, he hastily lowered his hand and shoved it into his pocked.
"This wouldn't be about…" Bletchley lowered his voice. "…Master Black, would it?"
Mr. Black raised one eyebrow and leveled the young man with a look that could have put a basilisk to shame.
"You're not as soft in the head as you look."
Bletchley's shoulders slumped—his eyes darted towards the fountain and both rows of fire places.
"Mr. Burke hasn't said anything to your—honorable father, sir, if that's what you wanted to—"
"—That is not my concern." He smiled, thinly. "You needn't look so frightened. I only want to speak. It's…to your advantage, believe me."
It was well past one when Martin arrived back at the office.
"Well…how did it go?"
He started at the sound of his employer's soft but clear voice. Mr. Burke had not looked up from the expense books—it was only Bletchley's light step that had alerted him to his apprentice's return.
"I'm not sure."
Burke's pince-nez glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose.
"Not as planned?"
Martin said nothing in reply—a carefully worded question deserved the same in turn, and he couldn't think of anything clever at the moment. He pulled the large sack of money Arcturus Black had given him and weighed it with his hand. It was not quite as large as the one the old man's grandson had threatened to lob at Martin's head the day before, but it had been given to him with about as much goodwill.
"Mr. Black said he didn't wish for you to deposit this until you'd spoken." He sighed. "I don't think he trusted me to pass on a message more complicated than that."
He dropped the bag of gold onto his boss's desk.
"I'm not feeling very well, sir. I should like to take the rest of the day off."
Burke raised his eyes from the page.
"Do you have a lot to think about, Mr. Bletchley?"
"I don't know what—"
Burke closed the account book and looked up.
"Competing offers, perhaps?"
Martin stared him down—he was struck by his employer's amazing ability to communicate the question 'do you take me for a fool?' without any words.
"Offers, sir?"
"Bribes." Bletchley's face went deathly pale. "Come now, Martin. You've been gone three hours. As you've never so much as gone to the lavatory without asking for leave, I know you did as I instructed you, and judging from your expression you were more successful than you bargained for." His smiled turned serpentine. "How does young Sirius hope to entice you to spy on me for him?"
"He didn't—it wasn't exactly—he doesn't want me to spy on you, persay."
The specifics of the deal were apparently of little interest—Burke waved them off. A technicality, he was sure.
"What was the offer?" he repeated, calmly. Bletchley could hardly believe it—he almost thought the old man seemed amused.
"He said he'd help me—find a new position," he admitted, stiffly. "He said he has connections."
"Ah." Burke steepled his fingers. "What about his father? I suppose he offered you money. Orion is not a particularly imaginative man."
"How did you—"
"I sent you to pick up the gold for a reason, Bletchley."
Of course. He had known Orion Black would be there, at the Ministry—meeting his father for lunch, and he had wanted to see if Mr. Black knew about his son's visit.
"I find myself in a difficult position, Mr. Burke."
"How so?"
"Well—I've never had two men each offer to pay me to report the other one's dealings with my employer to them before."
"They want you to spy on one other, do they?" Burke considered this, thoughtfully. "Interesting. Which offer do you find more enticing?"
"I'm sorry, sir?"
Mr. Burke waved his hand.
"Well—in any case. You'll have plenty of time to think it over."
"What?"
"I thought you wanted to the rest of the afternoon off? I grant it to you. Consider your options. Which you'll take up on his generous offer—you could even do both, if you were feeling ambitious." He turned back to his books. "Though—I would recommend finding out from the boy what sort of employment he has mind, before putting in your notice. I would hate to lose you to the likes of Mundungus Fletcher."
Burke opened his book again, licked the tip of his quill to wet it, and began the monotonous task of refiguring his numbers.
"Of course, sir," Bletchley said, faintly, turning to the door.
He resolved, as soon as he got out of the shop, to find the nearest pub.
He deserved a Christmas treat, after today.
Or at least a strong drink.
When Sirius was halfway across Regent's Park it began to rain again. Having settled his business with Martin Bletchley to the satisfaction of both parties—or at least with the assurance Bletch would consider his generous deal—he decided, instead of apparating back to his flat, to walk. He thought it would be useful for clearing his head.
It was when he reached the lake and the dreary London rain started up again that he realized what a mistake that was. The time spent stewing over his conversation with Moody only left him more and more agitated—by the time he made it back to his walk-up, soaking wet, Sirius was desperate for a fag and a drink, in whichever order they could be procured.
He was not eager for conversation, and was ready to warn all parties involved of this fact.
"I'm home!" He flung the door open—it hit the back wall with a satisfying thwap. "And before you ask, Remus, no, I don't want to talk about it."
Lupin stood in front of the kitchen door—the door which faced the entrance of the flat. At the sight of his friend he sprang forward, effectively blocking Sirius's path.
"You're here—thank God—I didn't think you'd ever get back."
Sirius pulled off his sodden coat and waved his wand at it—the leather instantly dried out. He hung it on the hook by the front door, back facing the center of the room.
"Yes—well, I did. Barely," Sirius called over his shoulder. "If you must know, I'll tell you—it was even worse than I expected."
"Sirius, there's something—"
"Frank ambushed me." He fiddled with the cuffs of his jacket. "He stuck me in a room with Moody. And to top that off, I was followed there by a legal clerk turned snoop."
"You were? Why were—oh, never mind. It's not important—"
"—It felt pretty important in the moment, Moony!" Sirius snapped, moodily. "This is all Mundungus Fletcher's fault—"
"—Sirius—"
"—He can't keep his mouth shut for all the gold in—"
"Will you shut up and listen to me, please?"
Sirius's tongue caught mid-sentence. He stared at Remus—looking forbidding, as he so rarely did.
"You…have a visitor."
"A what?"
Remus tilted his head towards the other side of the room—just so.
The master of the house turned his head, very slowly, in the direction of the sofa—and the woman, perched primly at the far end of it, fox-fur wrap clutched snugly about her shoulders, handsome velvet-trimmed black flat cap covering her dark hair—who was watching this performance with undisguised amusement.
Sirius dropped his coat onto the floor in a heap.
"Oh, fucking hell."
Lucretia's cheek dimpled.
"Hello, Sob." Mrs. Prewett briskly rose to her feet, her purse clutched in one manicured hand. "I was wondering when you were going to turn up."
The sight of his aunt unleashed in Sirius a string of equally colorful—and to her, obviously humorous—epithets.
"Tsk. Is that any way to greet your favorite aunt?"
Another string of even more violent curses followed the first.
"Remus. Why—" Sirius rounded on Lupin. "—why in hell would you let her in?"
"I didn't," said Remus, helplessly. Lucretia began crossing the room towards them, slowly—her smile not dimming in the wake of her nephew's black scowl. "She let herself in."
"Now, now, Sob—don't be cross with your chum." She fumbled in her clutch for a cigarette. "You know me. I managed to slip in when he was getting rid of the other one—the fat, dim boy."
Sirius's head darted back towards his friend.
"Peter was here?"
"He came by the flat looking for you." Remus lifted his shoulders and sighed. "I had to get rid of him somehow, so I said I'd take him out for lunch—and we left together. We walked half a mile before I pretended I'd forgotten something and doubled back, which is how I found…"
He gestured at the tall woman, currently studying Sirius's television.
"I like your friend very much, Sob." She pulled at the antenna of the television idly. "He's been good company while I wait for you. Even if I couldn't get him to leave his—guard-post at the door over there, and join me on the sofa."
Lucretia's eyes narrowed slightly on the door to the kitchen, but her smile didn't drop.
"I—I tried to play it off like you weren't coming back for hours, but somehow she didn't believe me." His mouth quirked up. "Why does she keep calling you 'Sob'?"
"It's his nickname," Lucretia supplied, over the protests of her irate nephew. "A play on his initials, you know. We're very fond of nicknames in our family. And when he was a little boy he used to always give the most fantastical explanations for his naughtiness—I called them 'Sob stories'!"
Sirius glowered at her as he picked up his coat from the floor.
"You're the only one who's ever used that name," he muttered, darkly, before turning back to Remus. "Where is Peter now?"
"Probably waiting for me at Tercelli's—I have to leave in a minute. Slight problem, though." He turned out his pockets. "No money."
Sirius swore, then pulled a crumpled ten-pound note out of his own pocket and held it out to Lupin.
"It's Tercelli's, Sirius."
"Well—why did you offer to take him to a posh restaurant?"
"I was trying to get him to leave."
Lucretia surprised them both by cracking open her clutch and extracting, in a neat silver money clip—a single crisp 50 pound note, which she delicately tucked in the breast pocket of Lupin's tweed jacket.
"Will that do?" She fluttered her eyelashes. "Or are you in need of more?"
Remus stammered out a disbelieving thank you. Her nephew seemed more suspicious than grateful at this gesture—he snatched the note out of Remus's pocket to examine it, as if looking for forgery.
"What are you doing, carrying around Muggle money?"
"It's for when I meet a young man in need of a rescue."
She winked at Lupin—a young man usually good at keeping his composure. Remus was so caught off-guard he actually blushed.
"Has she been coming onto you?" Sirius demanded, hotly. "She does that, you know. Indiscriminately."
His aunt tutted.
"Is this about Papa's party?" She laughed. "You have only yourself to blame for that, Sirius. If I had known Herr Svensson was my nephew, I would certainly have focused my attention elsewhere." She turned her attention back to Lupin. "Were you Mr. Klöcker?"
"Who's 'Mr. Klöcker'?"
Sirius stepped between them and flung his arms out.
"No, he wasn't—and I'll thank you not to fling yourself at my mates." His look turned disapproving. "He's thirty years younger than you—not to mention the fact that you're married."
She stuck out her lip in imitation of the pout of a much younger woman.
"You're no fun at all, Sirius." Lucretia's eyes flashed, knowingly. "I see you've not only grown to look like your father—you're almost as uptight."
It was a well-planned hit—calculated to sting. Remus had not thought Sirius could look more angry than he had at the realization his Aunt Lucretia had come for a visit—but the comparison to Orion had done the trick.
His face turned bright red, and he shoved the fifty-pound note back in Lupin's hand, stalked over to his favorite armchair and flung himself down. Lucretia, wearing the satisfied look of a woman who knows she's landed a blow, trailed after him and sat back down at the sofa across from Sirius. Her back was straight, and with her Victorian manners and well-bred air, she might've been sitting for tea with the queen.
"Alright—out with it." Sirius tapped his fingers against the armrest. "What do you want?"
"Two things. I wanted to get a look at you—see where you've been hiding these past three years."
He snorted and pulled his legs up onto the chair, then raised his arms—an expansive, sarcastic gesture.
"Well, let me know when you're satisfied, so I can chuck you out."
She studied him carefully. Lupin, who had been so eager to leave moments before, didn't know if it was safe to leave his friend alone with his aunt, so he hovered at the front door.
"You're very striking, Sirius." Lucretia grinned. "You really have grown to look like Orion."
He snorted.
"Don't compare me to that man, please."
"Hm. Your mother is, I think, on the whole, right about you." His ears visibly perked up. "Still—I'd just as well have a basis for comparison."
"Comparison with what?"
"Tell Regulus to come out, so I can see you together."
There was a long silence. Sirius slowly sat up in his chair.
"What—did you just say?"
"You heard me perfectly well."
"I —think I need you to repeat yourself."
She crossed her arms, expression suddenly cold.
"Didn't I mention? That was the second reason I came to see you. I wanted to see my nephews together for the first time in three years." Mrs. Prewett rose from the sofa again, this time with more purpose. "So why don't you go fetch Regulus from the kitchen, or the bedroom or—wherever it is he's been hiding?"
Sirius stared at her.
"You needn't play stupid, Sobbie. No need for charades." She pointed mercilessly at Remus, still standing at the doorway, gaping like a fish. "I've been reliably informed by your chum that he's in the immediate vicinity."
Sirius bolted up from the chair.
"Shit, Remus—why would you tell her that?"
The moment he saw Lupin wince Sirius realized his mistake.
"I didn't." Sirius buried his face in his hands. "You did."
Lucretia twittered behind one delicately glove-shod hand. Her nephew glared at her.
"You really couldn't stop yourself, could you, Lucretia?" he muttered. "Couldn't leave well enough alone."
She tilted her head again.
"Your mama and papa are not very good at keeping secrets from me." She smiled cheekily at him. "I suppose in that respect the apple didn't fall far from the tree."
He let out a sigh, vaulted from the chair to the floor and crossed the room. Sirius kicked the kitchen door open roughly.
"Oi! Reg!"
There was a small pause, before—a faint, sleepy voice called out.
"What is it?"
"Come out here!"
Another pause.
"…Why?"
"Because we have an exalted visitor in our midst!"
"Is it Kreacher?" Lucretia stifled a snort. "Did he bring lunch?"
"No, it is not the damn house-elf—just—get out here, will you?" Sirius called back, over Lucretia's laugher. "She's not going to leave until you do."
There was the sound of light steps padding on wood, and the slight figure of Regulus appeared at the doorway.
At the sight of his aunt, Regulus stopped dead. Hair mussed, still wearing his striped pajamas, it was obvious he'd just woken up from a nap and his haste had been the product of the conviction that his mother had unexpectedly arrived early for dinner.
If his expression was anything to go by, Regulus thought he might still be dreaming.
"Say something, Reg." Sirius leaned against the wall. "It's rude to stare."
To the surprise of both brothers, Lucretia came to Regulus directly. His aunt planted two airy kisses on the cheeks of her bewildered younger nephew, in the continental style.
"How d'you do, Reggie? I see you're having a very restful holiday in Marseille." Lucretia pulled back—her eyes lingered on his pajama sleeves. "So restful you haven't even dressed for the day, goodness me!"
Regulus shuffled from side-to-side, then let out a resigned sigh.
"Hello, Aunt Lucretia." He folded his arms behind his back, soberly. "I was just about to write you another letter."
"Were you? Your heart wasn't much in the last one." She pulled it out of her clutch. "Did you copy that description of the Riviera from a gazette?"
"An almanac," he said, deadpan. Sirius guffawed.
"Marvelous work, Reg." He looked over at the door, where Lupin was still staring at them all, in a daze. "What are you still doing here? I thought you had an important lunch to get to."
"Sirius…are you going to be alright?"
Sirius waved his hand and pushed off the wall.
"What's are you worried about, her? Don't be. She's just a nosy old gossip, Moony—I'll get rid of her in short order." He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. "If you ignore her she gets bored and wanders off."
His aunt hummed loudly and cheerfully in return to his insinuation. Remus's eyes flitted from her back to his friend.
"I don't mean about that. I mean about—today." He frowned. "Your meeting."
Sirius's sarcastic smile—the front he'd been putting on—faltered. He felt the eyes of all three of his companions trained on him. He could tell Remus was restraining himself from speaking more clearly because Regulus and Lucretia were there—and it had the effect of making him feel even more exposed.
"Come around later and I'll tell you about it. Or whenever you want." Sirius stuck his hands in his pockets. "I'm going to have nothing but free time for the foreseeable future."
Lupin nodded, slowly. Remus was excellent at reading between the lines—better than Sirius would have wished in this moment. From what Moony knew of the mission to Malfoy Manor, it was not difficult to guess that Sirius would be suspended from future Order missions of the same kind.
"Just—go. Peter is waiting for you."
He hesitated—Sirius thought he had made a clean escape, except Remus's shoulders had gone rigid, the way they always did when he was on the precipice of decision.
"That's another thing." Lupin turned back. "Will you—talk to him? I can't keep making excuses for you. He's only going to keep coming 'round the flat, and it's—starting to be a problem."
"Pettigrew was here?" Regulus demanded, his voice quiet. "What did he want?"
"Presumably he wants to see me." Sirius shrugged, coldly. "Believe it or not, I did have a life before you moved in here, Regulus. I have friends. Occasionally people not related by blood would pop in for visits."
Regulus said nothing—but his eyes glittered strangely, and his expression became closed-off. There was an awkward moment, interrupted only by—
"Pettigrew…that's the fat boy, correct?" Lucretia tapped her chin. "I must tell you, I didn't like the look of him at all."
Sirius let out a sound suspiciously similar to a raspberry.
"What does your opinion count for?"
"He seemed sly," she continued, off-handedly. "I'd watch out for that one, Sob."
Sirius threw up his arms in disgust.
"Oh, a member of this family giving unsolicited advice—how original."
Lucretia sashayed back over to the sofa and sat down.
"You should listen to me," his aunt sniffed. "I have a nose for these things."
"Yeah, right, like you have a nose for brandy—"
"—Father was here."
Sirius's head snapped around. Regulus had wandered over to the dining room table—where an enormous red book lay, letter perched atop it. He recognized it at once—it was the accounts ledger his father always kept in his study.
An ominous sight.
Sirius looked around at his friend, perturbed. Remus did not move, and his face took on that odd, closed expression he sometimes got. Sirius never knew what he was thinking, then.
"He was?" Lupin nodded. "Why didn't you say anything?"
"There's not much to say," Lupin replied, mildly. "Your father only stayed—a few minutes."
Remus looked to Regulus.
"Didn't you hear him? He left through the fire in your room, I though he would've woken you up."
Regulus's brow furrowed. His brother crossed back over to the table and picked up the letter—addressed with only a single initial 'S'—and tapped it, still unopened, against the wood. Sirius let out a low whistle.
"That's two near misses in one day. My luck must be changing." He looked around at Lupin again, this time his trademark smile plastered back on—a little strained. "So, what did he want?"
"To give you that. And speak to you, I think. He didn't…really say."
Sirius waited for his friend to volunteer some speculation on why Orion had come in the middle of the day to pay a call—when up until now he had never done so. The speculation didn't come.
Nothing came. Remus's face remained a frustrating blank.
What, is he taking a leaf out of Reg's book?
"Oh." Sirius blinked. "Well—sorry about that. I hope he didn't—"
"—He didn't," Remus cut him off, briskly. He pulled on his coat, suddenly very eager to get out the door. "It was nothing, really. I should go. Peter's waiting." Lupin opened the front door and turned around. "Talk later? Let's say—ten?"
Sirius scratched the side of his face.
"…Yeah, sure. Of course."
He bid the brothers goodbye—and, after telling Lucretia in somber tones how pleased he was to have met her—shut the door behind him, leaving the Blacks to their fate.
The room hung in stasis for a moment.
"What an…interesting young man," Lucretia remarked, to break the silence. "I assume he's one of the disreputable Gryffindors?"
Sirius rolled his eyes.
"He's not the one your mama hates most of all, though." Her eyes glinted. "The one you lived with after you ran off."
Sirius flung himself back down on the armchair. His legs dangled over the side.
"What's it going to take to get rid of you?"
"A cup of tea would be a good start." She leaned back on the cushions and made herself comfortable. "Perhaps a pot for the three of us. And we can have a little chat—and when I've sufficiently amused myself, I'll be on my merry way."
"Can I get that in writing?"
He glanced over at his brother, who watched Lucretia impassively. Like Remus, it was impossible to say what he was thinking.
"I'll make the tea." Regulus sighed. "I'll see if we have something to eat. And I suppose I should get dressed."
"Good gracious, Regulus—I don't mind your pajamas."
He smiled, faintly.
"Mother will be here soon. She minds."
Regulus disappeared through the kitchen door again. Sirius sank deeper into the cushions of his sofa chair.
His aunt pulled out her cigarette holder and lit the tip of her cig.
"You can't smoke that in here," Sirius said, crossly, to the ceiling. "You'll have—to go out on the balcony."
His aunt smirked and took a long drag.
"I see she's got you trained up already," she remarked, with a grin.
Sirius sat up, suddenly furious. He scowled and snatched one of from the open box that she held out to him.
He lit his own fag, and the two smoked in silence for a minute—sharing the camaraderie that only two avowed rebels could know. Sirius felt his nerves calm with each puff—though his neck still prickled from the uncomfortable sensation of being watched by Lucretia.
"So—this is where you've been holed up." She glanced around the room—the room she most certainly had studied to her heart's content when she'd been waiting for him. Lucretia's eyes lingered on the television. "I must tell you, Sirius—I was surprised when I heard you'd moved back to London. Very daring of you."
"It's a large city."
"And you—just across the park."
"Your brother and sister-in-law don't own this section of town. The entirety of central London is not a Black estate." He tapped the cigarette against the side of the sofa. "How did you know where I live?"
"I have my sources."
He gave her a sideways look.
"Did you follow Orion here?"
"Of course not. I couldn't have done such a thing, even if I wanted to. He's very discreet." She raised an eyebrow. "He offered to bring me by today, though. To show me around your flat. That was how I knew I must come on my own. Orion would only make such an offer—"
"—If he was trying to hide something from you." He groaned in annoyance and sank even deeper into the sofa chair. "Perfect. Why does he always fall for that? He's only known you his entire life."
She shrugged and smiled, slyly.
"Your mama may have also had a little slip of the tongue—a mention of 'her children' where she should have been only talking about you."
"She talks about me?"
Lucretia shook her head and wrinkled her nose in his direction.
"You awful boy—you know she does." She let out a puff of smoke. It furled around her head like a snake, twisting and turning. "It's been coming on slowly, but—between those two and these letters of your brother's—well, I had an idea there was more to this reunion than mere…chance."
Sirius leaned against the arm of his chair, cigarette hanging from his lips. Outside a dismal gray sky reflected his feelings perfectly.
"What a snoop you are, Lucretia," Sirius said, looking back at his aunt. "How nosy can one woman get?"
She laughed.
"Rich words from our imposter Mr. Svensson." Her eyes twinkled merrily. "That was very naughty of you, Sob—to come into Papa's party in disguise, and creep among us all, eavesdropping, pretending you couldn't understand. Very uncouth, I say. Don't think I didn't see you listening in on your mama and I."
He sat up and turned on her, indignantly.
"You think I wanted to hear all that? It was—disgusting."
"What are you—" Her mouth froze in a delicate 'o'—then broke into a wide grin. "Oh, that's right! We were talking about you, weren't we?" Lucretia snorted. "And all the trouble it took bringing you into the world."
He made a retching sound and pulled his legs up underneath him on the chair. Sirius shot her a look over his knees.
"…That wasn't—actually true, was it?"
"Which part?"
He teetered on the edge of saying it aloud.
"Every night for—four years?"
As soon as the words came out he regretted them. She was delighted.
"I assure you, it is. At least according to your mother." Her grin turned wicked. "I know it sounds extreme, but it's quite possible, Sirius."
"I know it's possible, but—"
"—You should ask your papa, if you're looking for advice on technique—"
"—I don't need any assistance in that area, thank you!"
She tried to conceal her smile behind a hand and failed.
"Oh?" Lucretia's cheek dimpled. "I suppose you have grown handsome. Do you have lots of Muggle girlfriends, Sirius?"
He laughed and leaned back in his chair.
"That's what she's worried about." His mouth flattened to a thin line. "It's not any more your business than it is hers. Real men don't kiss and tell."
"Nor do they blush at talk of their conquests," his aunt pointed out, archly.
She conjured an ashtray out of thin air and tapped the end of her cigarette holder on the edge. Sirius felt his already flushed face redden.
Regulus reentered the room—now dressed in black robes and carrying a pot of tea and a tray with a few hard biscuits he'd scraped jam onto.
"Ah—Regulus. Lovely." When he set them down, she reached over and took a nibble from one. "…Forgive me, my dear boy, but I don't think you have the makings of a chef."
"Sorry if it's not very….good."
He sat down next to her on the couch. The three stared at each other, each waiting for someone to speak first.
It was Lucretia who broke the silence.
"Now—why don't you both tell me how all this came to be?"
The boys exchanged a look—then Sirius stretched his arms over his head and yawned.
"As you were the one who started it," he told his brother, languidly. "You can tell her."
"I'm not telling anyone else anything." Regulus fiddled with his hands in his laps. "It's bad enough Mother and Father know as much as they do."
"I couldn't agree more—though I think our reasoning differs somewhat." He looked over at Lucretia, who was stopped blowing trails of smoke above her head. Her taut, slightly horsey face was unusually tense. "Can't you guess?"
"What do you mean?" she asked, disconcerted.
"I thought you spoke to Orion, the night of the party. Didn't he tell you anything?"
"Not very much, but—wait a moment." She jabbed her cigarette in Sirius's direction. "Sirius—were you the one who tattled on me to your father?" She crossed her arms. "Were you by chance spying on Papa and I when we were out on the balcony?"
"I might've been hiding in the bushes, yeah."
She let out a sigh of annoyance—but not of real anger.
"When will you grow out of that nasty habit you have of listening at keyholes?"
"Perhaps when I stop learning interesting things about my relatives by doing so."
He gestured at Regulus, who was sitting, back ramrod straight, his cup of tea untouched.
"It's—that, is it?" She sucked in another puff. "I was…afraid that's what it was."
Eyes trained on her younger nephew, she made a move to grab one of his awful-looking biscuits.
"I thought something like this might happen." She shook her head and scraped the jam back onto the plate. "I even told your mother I didn't like you getting mixed up with Lucius Malfoy's crowd."
"Did you bother to tell her why, Lucretia?"
She frowned and fell silent. Her older nephew sat up.
"This family! The way you talk about it, you'd think Regulus had joined an—unruly gentlemens' club, or something. They're Death Eaters, for God's sake. They're murderers!" He turned to his brother, roughly. "Show her your arm, Reg."
Regulus protectively grabbed his forearm with his good arm, as if he thought Sirius would cross the room and pull up his sleeve.
"They didn't do that."
"How bad is this, truly?"
Sirius stood up and crossed to the dining room table, where his father's gigantic book still lay.
"Very—" He ran his hand over the spine. "The only thing that would make it worse is if Dumbledore wasn't involved."
"He's mixed up in this?" Lucretia squawked. "With your mother and father?"
"Of course. Why else would I be?" He sniffed. "He's monitoring the situation from afar. I'm his liaison to her royal highness and the prince consort."
"Are you? How droll." She clucked her tongue. "How good of a job are you doing?"
"Let's just say, the sooner he puts me on layaway, the better."
Sirius flipped the book to a random page, pretending to be interested in it. Behind him, he heard Lucretia tapping her cigarette holder against the ashtray.
"Dumbledore may have miscalculated there. I can't imagine they appreciate you acting as his mouthpiece, Sob."
"Oh, they're enjoying themselves, believe me." He gave her a piercing look. "He's dangled me out in front of them like fresh meat."
Lucretia extinguished her cigarette in the ashtray.
"Is it really only Dumbledore that's the reason for you getting drawn back into the—bosom of your family, so to speak?" She took a sip of tea. "I was under the impression your father had something to do with that." She fluttered her eyelashes, innocently. "That's, at least—what your mama seems to think."
Sirius froze, bent over the book. Regulus—watching the exchange carefully—narrowed his eyes in his brother's direction.
"What has she told you?"
"Nothing specific."
"Is that because she doesn't know, or she doesn't want you to know?"
Lucretia smiled, mysteriously. Sirius, for all his myriad of faults—well, he did know the right questions to ask.
"What does that letter say?" Sirius spun on his heel. "Your father didn't ask you, by chance—to balance the monthly accounts, did he?"
Sirius's hand crumbled the parchment. He had not bothered to check if it had been resealed—but it hardly mattered. Whether she'd opened it before he arrived or simply guessed it's contents, his aunt was right, and, worst of all—she knew it.
"Forgive me my ignorance of your affairs, but that sounds less like a mission from Albus Dumbledore—" She gave Regulus a sly look. "—And more like something my brother would have his wayward heir do as punishment for wandering from the nest for three years."
Sirius shoved the letter in his pocket and walked to the kitchen door.
"I'm going to check and see if there's been any post." He tossed the cigarette, still lit, into the ashtray. "Feel free to bugger off in the meantime."
Sirius stalked out the door and shut it behind him with a slam.
"He is so easy to tease." She laughed. "I've missed that."
Regulus rolled his eyes.
"You aren't the only one." Lucretia smiled at him, wanly. "Why did you really come, Aunt Lucretia?"
"I've told you."
"I don't believe you." He crossed his arms and gave her a gently reproachful look—if Sirius's expression was like his mother's, Reggie was all Orion. "I think you'd figured out most everything before you got here."
Oh—he was a clever boy. Her eyes crinkled.
"If you must know, I thought your mama and papa might have their hands full, with Sirius Orion—and that you could use a check in."
Regulus's mouth fell open—and he unexpectedly turned pink. Lucretia laughed at the sight—very gently.
"Your mama is right about him—he is good at making himself a spectacle." She glanced over her tea cup. "I'd say you should take a leaf out of his book, but there's only room for one spectacle in any set of siblings. You and your father lost your chances before they'd even begun."
He gave her a watery smile.
"You look ill." She drank another gulp of tea. "What's this about your arm?"
"Nothing."
"That 'nothing' appears to be soaking through your sleeve, my dear."
Regulus looked down and flushed. His robes may have been dark—no doubt he had selected them for that reason—but no fabric could conceal the blood seeping through silk.
"Mother will…see to redressing it when she arrives."
A heavy silence fell between them.
"I suppose you won't tell me how it happened." Lucretia sighed. "No—you're not your brother. You won't have it tricked out of you."
"It's really better you not know." Regulus leaned forward, brown eyes fixed on hers. "You shouldn't be here at all. It's dangerous."
Lucretia frowned.
"That's no way to talk—not when I've come specifically to cheer you up."
"Aunt Lucretia—"
"I've got an idea." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Let's have some fun with your brother, shall we?"
Regulus's eyes widened. He glanced at the door, then back at her. Lucretia leaned closer to him, lowering her voice to little more than a whisper.
"Your mother has a theory about him." She set her teacup down on the saucer with a clink. "She thinks he always has to do the opposite of what she tells him. She's currently trying to use this little theory of hers to her advantage."
Her nephew gaped at her.
"Shall we test this theory of hers?"
The sound of distempered stomping signaled that his elder brother was about to return to their midst.
"What—"
"Just play along."
The door flung open, and Sirius stalked back in the room.
"No post yet," he said, in a surly voice. "You're still here?"
"Expecting a letter, Sob?"
Sirius stopped mid-step.
"If I was…it wouldn't be any of your business."
"I could have spared you the trouble." She blinked owlishly up at him. "That little French girl told your mother she had no intention of sending any letters today, so I wouldn't bother waiting for anything from her."
He looked at her for a long moment—several tart retorts on the tip of his tongue. Sirius, rare though it was, managed to bite back what he would have so loved to tell her to do.
"Well, aren't you clever? You seem to know everything." Sirius pointed at her. "What did she do to Colette Battancourt? Or—what is she planning to do?"
Lucretia adjusted her velvet cap and tossed her head, airily.
"I don't know what you're speaking of."
"Yes, you do! You were at Grimmauld Place this morning—she called you there, I bet. You know. Don't hold out on me now."
"I wouldn't presume to understand any plans your mother may or may not have," she said, in a lofty voice. "And I wouldn't tell you if I did. She is my dearest friend. I would never betray her confidences."
"Ha! You know what I think?" Sirius stared suspiciously between his brother and aunt. "I think she's up to something. I think—"
He stopped himself, mid-gesticulation. Lucretia was gazing at him, her eyes slightly over-bright, like a harmless wren—but there was something unexpectedly shrewd about that look.
"Go on," she said, voice dangerously calm. "You were just telling us what you think."
He stepped back—like a man who realizes there's an adder in his path. He sank back into his arm chair.
"On second thought—I will spare you my thoughts. I don't trust you. I think she sent you here to spy on us—come and suss out what I know or suspect." He tapped his temples. "Well, I'm onto her game. I can out-fox the fox."
"Tell me, Sirius—in this metaphor—are you the farmer—" She tilted her head. "—Or the chicken?"
He bit his lip and glowered at her.
"Your brother certainly has grown very paranoid these past three years, Regulus," she remarked, dryly.
Regulus didn't reply. He was watching them both—Lucretia more carefully than his brother.
"But as he is still quite charming—I will offer him a bit of advice from the heart." Lucretia stood up and readjusted her cap.
"It's in your best interest to stay away from that girl."
He laughed.
"I don't believe this. She really did send you, didn't she?"
"Certainly not." Mrs. Prewett shoved her diamond cigarette holder into her clutch before snapping it shut. "I'm here of my own volition. I am sure your mother wouldn't appreciate me butting my nose in, frankly. She's always resented the implication she can't manage her own affairs."
"She made her views on that subject very clear," Sirius said, coldly. "No need to send a proxy in ermine to hammer the message in."
Lucretia tried and failed to feign offense at his peculiar insult.
"I am speaking to you on the level, Sirius," Lucretia said, unusually grave. "Leave the girl be. She's respectable. You shouldn't trifle with a witch like that."
"Who's trifling?"
She gave him a warning look.
"This is friendly advice, Sob. You should be grateful to me." She walked over to him and gave him a chuck on the chin. "It's only for your benefit—and I didn't have to take the trouble."
Sirius jerked his head out of her grip.
"You can spare me 'no ulterior motives' bit. You're just like all the rest of them." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "This is not just for my benefit."
"Perhaps not," she conceded. "Doesn't make my counsel any less sound."
"I know what I'm doing."
"…Do you?"
She looked over at her other nephew, whose face bore all the marks of slow dawning realization.
"All right." She lifted her hands in the air. "But Regulus will bear witness. You saw. I tried to warn him."
Regulus—impassive as ever—stood up and walked over to her. She was pulling the fox fur around her shoulders. Lucretia winked at him.
"Well, Reggie—" Two careless kisses on each cheek. "Have I succeeded?"
"In what?"
She turned her head a fraction of an inch towards Sirius, who was eying the two of the with utmost suspicion.
"Cheering you up."
He smiled—a genuine smile, the first real one she'd seen from him—and then, to the surprise of his brother and aunt, actually let out a laugh.
"Yes." He kissed her on the cheek. "You have."
Whatever it was—it was in Sirius's flat.
That was the only conclusion he could draw from it, Peter thought, as he watched Remus from across the table, with its white linen cloth and tall wine glasses. Whatever they were hiding from him—it was inside the flat itself.
He'd suspected as much for days. His friends had told him about their strange inability to wriggle into knots in the wood that had once been easy to slip through. Of course, being rats, they couldn't understand why it was that they couldn't get any further into the flat than the outer walls—but he was a wizard, and could identify the cause of their distress easily enough.
Magic. Protective magic, far stronger than anything Sirius had ever put around his flat before now. He'd never cared much about the place—was rarely there, and being in the middle of Muggle London, it was hardly a center of operations for the few wizards who even knew he lived there.
And yet, they—Sirius, James, Remus, maybe Lily, perhaps others—were hiding something in that flat—in shifts.
"This is—really good, isn't it?" Peter asked, helping himself to a gulp of wine. Remus, in what must've been a fit of madness, had ordered them a bottle. "…Is something wrong, Moony?"
"What?" Remus had been in a daze through the whole starter course. "Oh—I'm sorry, Peter. Drifting off again?"
Peter nibbled on the end of a breadstick, shrugged and repeated the question, this time pointing out how distracted Remus seemed.
"It's nothing—out of the usual way. Just, you know—" He grimaced. "Full moon."
"That's not for another week, though."
Remus looked up from his own glass of chianti—untouched—and stared at Peter. For the first time that day—for the first time in many months, in fact—Wormtail had the impression his words had actually registered.
"You know it's not a once a month occurrence for me, don't you, Peter?"
It was a rarity, so he could recognize it instantly—anger. He'd angered him, the infinitely patient Remus Lupin. Peter pretended to be chastened and stuttered out an apology. It wasn't difficult. There was a time when he would have been genuinely embarrassed by such a slip—of course, then it would have actually been an accident, not a deliberate jab meant to draw Remus out of himself, so that he might get something useful out of this lunch besides expensive bread and foul looks from their fellow diners, who clearly thought two underdressed chavs like them had no place in a restaurant as upscale as this.
How stupid did they think he was?
But that was Remus—he was touchy, not like Sirius, true, for it was far more predictable what would set Moony off—but he had a moody streak, and an annoying habit of passive-aggressively laying on a 'woe-is-me' routine whenever the subject of his condition came up. It had lost its effect on Peter years before—and if it had ever worked on Sirius, he suspected it no longer did.
For James it was as palpable as ever—but then again, James had a soft heart.
In truth, it was hard for Peter to take it seriously—what Remus was had never stopped him from being decent at school, a prefect—and better liked by Sirius and James than he was.
"You just seem like you have a lot…on your mind."
He chewed his lower lip. Vagueness was going to be key here—it was when you started asking specific questions, pointing out specific patterns—that was where the danger was.
"I'm not—I mean, more than usual. I guess I've been—" He stopped himself. "Peter—what do you think your mother would do if she found out about me?"
He stopped the chewing abruptly. He had not expected results so quickly—if that was what this was. Results.
"What do you—what about—"
"—You know, Peter. My…condition," Remus finished, wearily. "What would she say if she found out?"
"Oh." He blinked. This time the surprise was genuine. "I dunno. Doesn't seem likely, does it? She doesn't ask a lot of questions."
Which was proving useful. The widowed Mrs. Pettigrew only wanted to know if he'd managed to find some way of 'making himself useful'—and that was a question he could answer with a full-throated 'yes.'
"Do you think she'd try to—stop us from being friends, if she knew?"
Where was this coming from? Did Remus really care? His mum could barely keep his friends straight. She'd never quite gotten over the shock of him managing to get three.
"How could she? I'm of age and so are you. She couldn't very well stop us from seeing one another. That's—mad."
"I suppose that's true." He seemed uncomforted by the thought. "What about James' parents? Do you think they'd have been angry if they knew?"
"Were they ever angry at him about anything?"
"I meant—" Remus lowered his voice. "—About what the three of you did, Peter."
Peter fixed his face in an expression of puzzled bewilderment—all the while trying to keep his eyes from squinting in suspicion. This was the second time—James and Sirius had mentioned that at the Leaky Cauldron a few days earlier. An argument about getting registered, of all things. He'd thought it was strange at the time, but—two times in under a week was no coincidence.
What did that have to do with Sirius's flat?
The waiter came with their main courses. A plate of mussels and spaghetti Bolognese snapped Remus out of his strange mood, and he became—almost sociable, if distant. Without Sirius and James to fill in the gaps, it was still a comparatively stilted affair. He and Remus hardly could come up with things to say each other, these days. They never really had.
But—the nosh was good.
Remus's strange turn was something to think about, as he made his way back to Diagon Alley through the driving wind of a mid-December afternoon. He couldn't believe that Moony was actually worried about Mrs. Pettigrew forbidding them from seeing each other—as if Peter would let that happen, anyway. Remus's friendship was far too valuable to him. Who else would've taken the trouble to get him away from the flat with such an expensive meal?
It was in the flat, he repeated to himself, as he pulled his cheap overcoat around his shoulders and shivered. He crossed two streets to avoid a particularly persistent tramp he knew would try to bully him out of his last five quid note.
Even as a wizard he'd never been very good at standing up for himself.
There was no point in going back to Sirius's flat now—know, it would be too pushy. As far as that situation went—he might have to try a new strategy altogether.
They can't stay in there forever…
He'd have to choose his moment carefully.
But, if nothing else—Peter Pettigrew was good at waiting.