Black Mask

by Ieyre

Christmas 1979—danger, secrets, lies and their shared history loom large over the Blacks' first Yuletide season as a reunited family. While life as a fugitive proves bleaker—and more boring—than Regulus could have imagined, a botched espionage mission at Malfoy Manor draws Sirius deeper into the Black family web. [Sequel to 'In the Black']

18. Chapter 18

"James is getting a bit frustrated shut up here, he tries not to show it but I can tell — also, Dumbledore's still got his Invisibility Cloak, so no chance of little excursions. If you could visit, it would cheer him up so much."

-J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

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CHAPTER 18

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The first lesson Narcissa could remember her father ever teaching her was that there was nothing Muggles did that wizards couldn't do better.

Certainly when one looked around the Orpheum Theatre (est. 1895) one could see the truth in Cygnus Black's aphorism. Sometime in the previous century the great minds of magical architecture had noticed the growing theatre district in London's West End and determined they must have one of their own. None of the tawdry masses of Muggles who'd paid a small fortune of their own money to see cheap stage trickery would ever know of the palace just beneath their feet.

The Orpheum—modeled after the Paris Opera House, the construction of which had taken nearly three years. The Black and Malfoy families had been patrons, and had been in attendance at the very first ballet performed on the stage.

Swan Lake. A story about a jealous witch's curse—a tale as old as the one about the warlock and the miller.

Wizards did love their little jokes.

"Narcissa…when was the last time you heard from Regulus?"

Mrs. Malfoy looked up from her cocktail at her husband, across the the table—then sideways at Ms. Battancourt. She was toying with her olive and staring out into the middle distance with that distracted, dreamy look Narcissa thought very becoming.

In moderation, at least.

"Oh, I don't know…" She lifted up one perfectly manicured nail and examined it, idly. "I had a letter from him…last week sometime?"

Lucius looked around at his brother-in-law, who merely shrugged—and Rabastan, sitting on the far side of Rodolphus, who laughed nervously (he always laughed nervously) and stammered out a few words to the same effect.

Lucius frowned.

"Did he mention when he was returning?"

"Hopefully he'll be back in time for Evan's party."

Rodolphus's lip curled. All but baring his teeth, Cissy thought, faintly disapproving.

"With a fiancée in tow." Narcissa's brow creased. "Imagine, little Reggie! Who'd have thought he'd get shackled straight out of school?"

"It's not a sure thing," Narcissa informed her brother-in-law, primly. Her cocktail stirrer lazily circled the bottom of her martini. "They might not suit. My mother doesn't think it will go through."

"Let's hope not—for Regulus's sake." Rodolphus grinned, wolfishly. "D'you think he'd even know what to do with a girl, if he got his hands on one, or—does he need a diagram explaining how all the parts work?"

Narcissa pulled the stick out of her drink and snapped it down on the table.

"Rodolphus, please—"

"Sorry, Cissy." He nudged his brother-in-law, still leering. "I believe I've offended your wife's delicate sensibilities, Lucius." He continued, voice lower, "You'd think with Bella for a sister she'd be used to it by now."

Lucius downed the rest of his drink with a single elegant swirl of the glass.

"I believe Narcissa is more concerned you might offend her friend Ms. Battancourt," he remarked, dryly. "Who, after all, doesn't yet know you, or your particular brand of—rustic humor well."

But Colette didn't seem to be paying much attention to their conversation, rustic or otherwise—Rodolphus's pointed jabs at his cousin-by-marriage did not stir her from her reverie, though the mention of her name did elicit a shy smile.

"I'm—not easily offended, I assure you," she said, politely, smiling at Rodolphus—who only leered back. He turned in the direction of Malfoy again.

"Why do you want to know when Reg will be back?"

"Oh…" Lucius drummed his fingers idly on the table. "There's something I have to ask him, that's all."

He and Rodolphus shared a meaningful look. Narcissa noticed this and frowned. She was curious—but also too shrewd to ask her husband in mixed company what he meant. Lucius never liked it when she got too 'curious' about certain aspects of his life.

Generally this arrangement suited her—but when her baby cousin was involved, she couldn't help but be a little intrigued.

"It's a question only he can settle to my satisfaction," he continued, lightly. "I hope he comes back soon, at any rate."

So did Narcissa. Colette had given up her attempts to make polite conversation with Rabastan Lestrange about halfway through the lobster thermidor—and Mrs. Malfoy, in all frankness, could not blame her.

She knew Madame Battancourt was exerting pressure on her only daughter to make herself agreeable to the younger Lestrange brother. She could even, on its face, understand why the Frenchwoman would think him a desirable connection for Colette—but Narcissa couldn't help but frown on the match. Her elder sister's marriage aside, Lestrange men were not, strictly speaking, to her taste. There was something a little wild about the family—in spite of their centuries of good breeding, they remained unpolished and—in her opinion—uncivilized. They'd kept the savage roots—she supposed it came from all those first cousins marrying one another.

She'd always had the distinct impression wildness had been Bella's appeal for Rodolphus.

And then there was Rabastan himself. Between the brothers, there was no doubt that the older had inherited the lion's share of charisma and personality. His younger brother, with nothing much to recommend him, had been left to orbit around Roddy's considerable gravitational pull. The best that could be said about Rabastan when comparing him to his elder brother was that he had less of a nasty streak than Rodolphus.

Of course, he'd also gotten—funny about women. Skittish and odd, ever since…

Well—in any case, he was far too old for her.

Narcissa bit her lip. Yes—she'd decided. It would be much better for Regulus to come back home before Christmas—without a fiancée. If there was one, of course she could handle it—but it would be much cleaner and simpler if it didn't get to that point.

The lights flickered on and off—there was a murmur of movement all around them, and the group stood up, abandoning their drinks and the lounge off the main lobby where they'd been idling away their time waiting for the beginning of the second act.

Colette moved through the sea of well-dressed witches and wizards like a ghost. She should have been content—the plush velvet carpet, the ornamental dragon and griffin carvings whose ruby eyes glittered amidst the shadows beneath the enchanted torches that lit the magnificent front hall of the Orpheum theatre—all of these delights had the making of a exciting evening out. She dearly loved theatre and concerts, the violinist was superb, the concerto—sublime. If this had been what they did last night she would have thought it the greatest treat of the holiday, wonderful beyond all measure.

Her standards for 'excitement' had changed since last night.

How could a night at the opera compare to going to Kenwood House in the middle of the night on a flying motorbike—with him?

She ran her thumb over her clutch and scowled at the carpet. Even in his absence he was ruining her evening by being so—distracting!

Three letters had followed the first. One had been in the magazine she was handed at the hairdresser (how had he guessed they be there—did he know Narcissa's habits that well? Or had Madame Black let it slip—on purpose?), then another at the restaurant where they'd lunched with Narcissa's mère—and the final, stuck brazenly in the mirror of her bedchamber, discovered when she went back to change into her evening gown. How he had placed it there Colette didn't even want to think about. She'd half expected Sirius to come crawling out from under the bed, grinning cheekily, eyes flashing with boyish humor.

Each were along the same line as the first—a demand to know for an update on her state of being, increasingly cajoling in tone. All had been unanswered, and would remain so.

It was for the best, but Colette was—uneasy. Maybe it would have been better to explain to him, at least a little…

No. It's too dangerous. Remember what his mother said…

"Come along, Colette—it's going to start before we get back to our seats."

She looked up and around for the source of the call. Lost in her thoughts as she was, Colette and Mrs. Malfoy had become separated by a large group of country-bred witches and warlocks, up from the south (if accents could be trusted) for a day of shopping and entertainment. Spotting Narcissa's distinctive blonde head through the crowd, she attempted to circumnavigate the small crowd between them, when she found her path blocked.

"Excuse moi," she said, absently. "That is—pardon me, sir."

"You French?"

He was a squat, bandy-legged man with gingery hair, holding a stack of leaflets printed on very cheap paper.

"Ah—oui." He made no move to allow her to pass, and instead squinted at her in a manner her mother would have considered the height of insolence.

"You want a souvenir, mam'selle?" The waved one in her face. "Got a special on programs. Seven sickles, s'very reasonable."

Colette forced a polite smile. The man's dress, the smell of pipe tobacco that lingered about him and his general furtive manner, all indicated that he was not actually supposed to be selling programs in the foyer of the Orpheum.

"No, thank you." She took a wide step to the left. "I must get back—"

The barker peered at her, shrewdly—his bloodshot eyes taking in her full appearance at a glance—then grabbed her by the forearm and pulled her towards him.

"'ere, missy—" Colette's gasp of shock was muffled by his coat, filthy and an inch from her nose. "On the 'ouse."

Before she could let out a scream, the man—whose breath in her ear stank of drink—thrust a piece of parchment into her fist and released her arm.

Stunned, Colette stumbled backwards. The gingery-haired drunk turned on his heel, as if on cue, and shuffled into the crowd of noisy wizards.

"Souvenir programs, gents? Ladies?" He grinned and winked at a churlish-looking witch with a pronounced wart on her chin. "Seven sickles, special deal, jus' for you—to commemorate the h'occasion—"

It was at that moment that an usher was alerted to this dubious character's presence ("Oi! You! How many times do I have to tell you, you can't hawk that rubbish here?") and he was compelled to shove his programs into his enormous overcoat mid-transaction and disapparate on the spot.

The crowd, momentarily amused by the excitement, tittered—the wart-chinned lady loudly declaiming the scoundrel who had 'nicked her last galleon, the devil!'—and by the time the usher restored order Narcissa had disappeared.

Colette was left quite alone in the middle of the foyer with her crumpled note.

The surprise and alarm having warn off, she opened her hand and stared down at the ball of parchment clutched in her hand. Colette unfolded it gently, and the second she read the words haphazardly scrawled in the now extremely familiar handwriting—flushed red to the tips of her ears.

In the ladies'. Second stall from the right. Please come before some old biddy does.

She let out a very unladylike exclamation, and, grateful there was no one around who could understand French, took off like a shot in the direction of the ladies' powder room.

---

"What was all that about?"

Orion's wife did not immediately answer. The witch glided backwards as he stepped out of the fireplace of Number Twelve's kitchen and began the process of helping him out of his cloak. It was a gesture so routine that they could do the steps without even thinking.

A dance.

"Pardon?" she asked, lightly, as she removed his coat. "I don't know what you mean."

He tapped his toe impatiently on the stone floor of the kitchen. Walburga pretended not to notice, instead focusing intently on removing a spare piece of lint from his sleeve.

"You know exactly what I—you and the boy."

She ironed out the wrinkles in his cloak and folded it in front of her.

"What about Sirius and I?"

"At dinner you were—you were baiting him."

Mrs. Black abruptly ceased fiddling with the buttons of her husband's cloak and looked up. Her eyes were overly bright—they reminded Orion of a magpie's.

"Baiting Sirius? I?" Walburga repeated, innocently. "Don't be ridiculous. What would I bait him about?"

He leaned against the mantle and scowled in the direction of the fire.

"Any number of things."

She frowned and furrowed her brow.

"What part of the conversation do you mean in particular?"

"When you were talking about that—that witch," He turned back to her—her face was hidden in the shadows. "That French girl."

The pause that followed was ominous.

"How could I bait him about some girl he's never even met?"

Orion breathed in, slowly—felt his neck tightening, a tension not unlike the pressure one felt after touching a portkey.

"You couldn't," he muttered, quietly. "Of course you couldn't."

"Then why would you suggest I had?"

The tension built with each word, like a violin whose strings are slowly being tightened. One more turn of the knob and she would snap.

"It makes no sense. Unless, of course…" Walburga said, silkily. "He has met her before."

A sinking feeling of dread churned about in the pit of his stomach.

"Or is that another of my….'womanish fancies', as you like to say?"

She stalked towards him—in the dark of the kitchen, still dressed in her black silk gown, she reminded Orion of a panther.

"That was what you called it, didn't you?" Her voice was deceptively sweet. "That idea I had last week—that Sirius Orion had somehow become an unregistered Animagus?"

He let out a long sigh—but she continued, mercilessly.

"And when I saw that dog you caught prowling about Malfoy Manor, and happened to mention that I thought he resembled one of the Black hounds—you also called that a womanish fancy, didn't you?"

"Walburga—"

"Goodness me—!" The laugh was false, high-pitched—bordering on hysterical. "I have so many of them, it's a wonder I can keep my head on straight."

She was trembling now, from head to foot shaking with anger—a trap just waiting for him to move, even a little, so the bars would snap around his foot and ensnare him.

Orion closed his eyes, wearily.

Damn.

"Is there something you wished to say to me?"

Her eyes glittered strangely in the dim light of the kitchen. She merely watched him—the panther, stalking its prey, biding its time.

He would not play this game with her—not tonight.

"Well then—if you're not going to speak, I'll leave you to your own devices. It's late." He nodded towards the door, straightening up—and cleared his throat. "I am going to bed."

He made it three steps to the door.

"If you skulk off to your dressing room now, Orion Black—" Walburga hissed, coolly. "I shall have the elf move your belongings there tomorrow."

He froze at the door, then turned around, slowly. Walburga was waiting, predictably, for the reaction—to see how the hit had landed—more a cannon ball than rapier thrust. She wanted to anger her husband, as she was angry, clearly—and this had done just the trick. Sirius hadn't sprung from nowhere, after all—he knew just where to strike for a reason.

He'd learned at his mother's feet.

"…Are you threatening me, madam?"

She pursed her lips and clenched her wand in her hand. Not for the first time in his marriage did Orion wonder if he'd have to disarm her.

"You must think me a fool."

Three steps, four—she was only a foot away, now. He could see the veins in his hands—still so perfect and smooth, the skin stretched tightly over a clenched fist.

"Oh, I think many things of you, Walburga—" He laughed, humorlessly—perhaps she'd take a swing at him. "But never that."

"Well, you lied baldly to me in front of my own children—" She snapped back, voice waspish. "So either you're the fool or I am."

Damn. He leaned against the mantle.

"'A womanish fancy'—" Walburga repeated the phrase, color high in her cheeks. "That was what you said. Right to my face. Tell me, Orion—was it a figment of my imagination when you dragged Sirius out of your father's birthday on a lead?"

Orion turned on his heel.

"Oh, for God's sake—how did you find out?" He swore under his breath. "Did he tell you?"

"Of course he didn't!" She snorted. "You think just because I'm a woman I'm some—some addle-brained, feather-in-the-head idiot who can't figure things out for herself."

"For the love of—I never said that."

She rounded on him, face furiously red.

"How long did you intend on keeping this a secret from me?"

Orion gripped the edge of the hearth—his fingers were pleasantly numb from the pressure, the skin a deathly white. In a perfect world she'd have never found out about it—alas! No such world existed. Even Orion had not counted on being able to keep such a secret indefinitely. All that putting it off—he'd been avoiding thinking about this moment as much as possible.

And it was far worse than he'd anticipated, even in his unconscious mind.

"It wasn't your concern."

She glowered at him.

"Not my concern! What is my concern, if not you catching our son sneaking about a party in disguise, and then smuggling him out of the house as a dog?"

"How do you think I felt, Walburga?" Orion demanded, his own temper flaring up—as only she could make it. "My father puts me on the trail of some damned gatecrasher he's gotten a tip-off about, I spend the whole damn evening on a wild Hippogriff chase, and when I finally corner the rascal—it turns out to be one of your whelps!" He waved his arm furiously. "What would you have had me do, go and fetch you? The house was crawling with people. You'd have been apoplectic and made a scene—in fact—" She flushed scarlet. "You did make a scene. Only it was not, as you believed, in front of a dog!"

To his immense pleasure, at this Walburga had the sense to look embarrassed. She fidgeted with her hands and glared at the wall.

"If I had known it was—Sirius Orion," she muttered, quietly. "I would…not have said those things."

"Are you certain of that, madam? I wonder if I don't think you're glad for having said it. That you wouldn't have laid that line of accusation on me if he'd been standing straight and tall, as a man—rather than cowering under Abraxas Malfoy's desk with his ears flat."

Her lip trembled—and against all odds, Orion had a sharp stab of guilt.

"Don't trouble yourself over what he heard." He sighed, heavily. "It doesn't matter, anyway."

She made a noble attempt to hide it—but, damn it all, Walburga was close to tears.

"How can you say that?"

"I doubt he had any illusions about our marriage left to dispel."

It was such a unaccountably melancholy thing for he of all men to say, that for a moment—just a moment—it seemed Walburga's attack had diminished, had lost its power. But then he let out that tremendous sigh of exhaustion, and he could feel the burning of a wound, when adrenaline and shock had worn off.

The pain had set in.

"If Sirius wasn't the one who told you he was there, how did you figure it out?"

She tilted her head and gave him one of her shocking put-down looks.

"Isn't it obvious?"

He shut his eyes, in the mode of all long-suffering husbands. Lord, it was going to be one of her infernal guessing games, was it? Well, if he was going to do the thing, a methodical approach would probably go best.

Return to the scene of the crime, wasn't that what they said?

"I assume my father's birthday was what you spoke to him about when you came to see him this morning."

His wife sniffed and walked over to the sink, turning her back to him.

"Among…other things."

Orion turned around. Even from behind, the way she held her shoulders—guilt hovered about her personage.

No.

"What other things?" he demanded, sharply. "What else could he have possibly done?"

She ran her fingertip over the edge of a lattice-patterned china cup, polished and drying on the rack.

"You'd be surprised what your son can get up to in only a few hours, when one's back is turned."

Something akin to a needle was surely stabbing Orion in the eye at this moment.

"What has he done?" Walburga picked the cup up and fiddled with the handle—made soft dickering noises—and he lost his temper. "Walburga—tell me what that wretch has done."

The tea cup dropped unceremoniously into the sink. The tinkle of breaking china punctuated an otherwise suffocating atmosphere.

"I don't think I will!" She snapped, rounding on him. "Anyway—I promised him I wouldn't speak of it to you."

Her husband laughed—a strangled, involuntary chuckle that made Walburga see red.

"That is rich!" Her shoulders trembled with anger—rather more familiar and less discomforting than her tears. "Since when have you ever kept a promise that didn't suit you?"

"Well—perhaps keeping this one does." She sniffed. "If you can have secrets with Sirius, why can't I?"

"It isn't at all the same—" His mind turns back to dinner, to the subject around which his wife and son's oh-so-entertaining dance had turned. "—It was the girl who told you he was there, wasn't it? That damned French witch!"

Walburga pursed her lips, scrunched her nose—her eyes darted to the fire—all the typical signs that she was avoiding being caught out.

"I want her out of this house. Tonight."

Her eyes flew back to his face. They were suddenly steely.

"That is out of the question."

Orion's face went purple. He drew himself up to his full height and approached her, by all accounts livid. Most any person who knew him at all—knew how rarely he lost his temper— might've been discomforted by the sight of him in what was commonly referred to as 'a rare rager'—but Mrs. Black, like Albus Dumbledore, knew she had nothing to fear—and merely watched the display impassively.

"'Out of the question'?" Orion repeated, scathingly. "I will remind you that this is my house, that I can have whoever I damn well please thrown out of it—and some foolish girl who prattles our secrets to any which woman who crosses her—"

"—It wasn't any woman. It was me." She smoothed her skirt and looked up into his eyes, expression maddeningly calm. "Believe me, she didn't want to spill your secrets any more than she did Sirius Orion's. In the end she didn't have much of a choice."

"Why not?"

"She felt herself…in my power." She arched one perfect brow. "If you were caught breaking into your chaperone's house in the middle of the night after spending an evening galavanting about Hampstead Heath with her son, I imagine you would also feel an obligation to be honest."

The words came out so causally, so emotionlessly—that for a moment Orion thought he'd hallucinated them.

"He did what?"

"Took her out last night, after we left the flat—after dinner," Walburga said, matter-of-factly, as if her husband's apoplectic fit was no matter. "By prearrangement, I gathered. I caught Sirius Orion attempting to boost our guest back up into her room via a drainpipe."

Orion sputtered something utterly incoherent, even to him.

"By a—he—wha—"

"—I believe that foolish boy thought he was doing your work—luring her out after hours, hoping I'd catch her in the act and send her packing."

That—Orion thought, his brain methodically turning the idea over. Was the most foolhardy, risky, and idiotic plan he'd ever—

"Then why the devil was Sirius there?"

"I'd guess he took pity on her." She shrugged. "Unfortunately, the original plan was the one that worked, and he got caught as well. Lucky girl—if she had been on her own I would have had her sent back in disgrace, for sure."

Orion didn't have time to wonder at the unaccountably nonchalant way his wife relayed these events to him. He was ready to spring into action.

"Give me back my cloak."

It was still folded neatly and pressed against her side—she clutched protectively to her bosom.

"Why do you need it?" Walburga asked, suspiciously.

"Because—I'm going over to that flat, of course!" She clutched it tighter, stepping backwards and skillfully avoiding him wrenching it by force from her arms. "Of all the—Walburga, if you think I'm going to let him get away with this—"

"You are going to spoil everything." She rolled her eyes and made an exasperated noise. "Besides, you'd be wasting your time if you went over now! I'm sure he's not even there."

He ceased his half-hearted attempts to wrest his cloak from her arms and gaped.

"What do you mean?"

"He'll have left for the Orpheum by now, of course!" She hissed, impatiently. "He'll want to see if he can catch her during the intermission. Why do you think I let him sleep through dinner?"

He stared at his wife as if she were insane.

"I…cannot imagine."

"Well, I knew he needed his wits about him! And I'm sure he didn't sleep well at all last night—but now that he knows she received his letter asking to meet in Hogsmeade tomorrow, and that she has a very good chance at doing so, he'll be more eager than ever for an answer."

"Walburga, have you lost complete control of your senses? I do not have the faintest idea what you're talking about."

She threw her hands up in disgust.

"Well, why would I explain these things to you?" His eyes widened in understanding. "You made your feelings quite clear yesterday evening—if you're not going to take an interest in the matter of your family's future, you can't blame me when you aren't included in—"

"—In your harebrained scheme to marry him off?" He finished for her, sarcastically. "Of all the womanish, ridiculous fantasies you'd could have gotten into your head—trying to arrange a marriage for him with the provincial French witch who caught him spying at his own grandfather's birthday party takes the cake." Both of her cheeks flushed bright scarlet. "You have outdone yourself, madam."

"At least I'm doing something—" She trembled. "At least I care. The way you act and talk, it's as though you don't want Sirius back at all."

Orion recoiled, as if he'd been stung.

"That is absurd."

"Is it? You're pushing him away with both hands."

At this final insult hot anger overtook him. After all the effort exerted—every possible stratagem to box Sirius in with the entail, the threats, blackmail and subterfuge—how like her to take it all for granted, to only see what could go wrong.

How like her to only see his failure.

"He is a grown man, not a child," Orion sneered. "And I am too busy keeping him alive to bother with coddling his fragile ego!"

"You put a muzzle on our son!"

"He deserved it!"

The words—bellowed, as he had never bellowed in all the fifty years he'd lived in this house—echoed against the walls of the cavernous kitchen. Husband and wife, both breathing heavily, each retreated to their own corners of the boxing ring to nurse their wounds—Walburga to the old wooden stool in the corner, Orion to the fireplace. The Blacks spent a minute recovering in silence, considering one another across the brief distance and endless space between them.

Mrs. Black recovered first.

"If Sirius runs away again." Walburga rose from her stool. "I will never forgive you."

Her husband received this threat with a calm that belied the emotions he had always taken care to bury so deeply.

"How is that a change?" Orion asked, coldly. "You never forgave me for the first time."

She gasped—an oddly muted sound, after the crescendo of shouts.

"That is what you're angry about," Orion continued, in a flat voice. "It's nothing to do with any lies I've told you, then or now. You blame me for our son running off."

Three gasps—sharper, staccato, and it was with a painful lurch in his stomach that Orion realized they were sobs.

"You have been resentful, and angry, and stewing for over three years because you think that when Sirius ran away I didn't go after him because my father told me not to."

She blinked and turned her face away.

"I never said—"

"—You didn't need to," he interrupted her, softly. "You're my wife. I knew what you thought—that Arcturus was glad to see the back of our son, only too eager to cut him loose—and I, like the spineless fool you have sometimes taken me for, allowed him to trample me underfoot—that I obeyed him, as I always do, without question."

"Isn't that—" Her voice caught. "Isn't that how it was?"

"My father wanted me to go after him." Her mouth dropped open in shock—her wand—the wand he had never, in the half century he'd known her, ever seen her lose her grip on—slipped uselessly out of those delicate fingers and clattered to the floor. "I do not think his pride could take such a public insult as the youngest heir to the Black family abandoning us—whatever else he thought of our son. He told me in no uncertain terms that I was to find Sirius, drag him back to this house—by force, if necessary—and not allow him to leave it again until he was 'well in hand'."

There had been a time that Orion had hoped the day that he admitted this to her—the day the last of the scales fell from her eyes—would never come.

"Then why didn't you?" She cried, sounding small and broken. "How could you have—how could you have let him go?"

He didn't know—or…perhaps he did, and he was too afraid to admit the truth to her.

"A man has his pride," Orion replied, grimly. "And I know a lost cause when I see one."

Her nostrils flared—and then the dam broke, and the tears that had been threatening to fall spilled over.

At the sight of Walburga crying—right when he would have liked to gather her in his arms—he turned back to the fireplace, and allowed her the dignity of hiding it. In a moment of weakness a week before she had allowed him to comfort her while she cried.

Orion knew he wasn't likely to get that chance again.

"I wish you would…at least admit it."

The tremble in her voice was too much. Orion risked it—he turned back around, only to find her right in front of him. Her cheeks were wet with tears, and for the first time he could remember she wasn't trying to hide it from him.

"Admit what?"

"That you missed him, too."

He sighed and trailed one hand against her cheek.

"He's my firstborn son, Walburga."

"Did you or did you not miss him?"

He rolled his eyes.

"He is the most exasperating boy who has ever lived, and rather like his mother—extremely fond of giving me grief." He smiled—trying to coax one out of her. "Believe me, Walburga—I have no intention of letting him go again."

No longer furious—but still irritated—she crossed her arms and scowled at him. The obstinate look reminded Orion painfully of Sirius.

"He won't stay unless you show him you want him to."

"As regards your eldest, I have other concerns at present." One last brush of her cheek, and he lowered his hand again. "I suppose it has occurred to you that he didn't come to Papa's part for his own benefit."

"Just as you weren't up in Scotland to see Horace Slughorn."

He resisted the urge to point out that she wasn't going up to Scotland to see Slughorn any more than he had.

"Don't worry about that," he ordered, brusquely. "It isn't something you need to bother with."

His wife snorted.

"You always treat me like an idiot," she mumbled, blinking aside the troublesome moisture that had gotten in her eyes—he held up a handkerchief, which she discreetly took from his hand to wipe her face. "A foolish woman who isn't capable of understanding matters more complicated than fashion."

"On the contrary—I think it would insult your intelligence to explain it." She blew her nose and peaked up at him. "You know damn well why he was there."

Her eyes glinted dangerously—but, Orion noted, with some satisfaction—she didn't argue with him. With nearly a day to think on it—and no doubt a very revealing private audience with their son, not to mention the speculations his sister would have brought to bear—even she could not have feigned ignorance as to why their son would have sneaked into his grandfather's birthday party in the guise of someone else.

But—small mercy!—she could at least be counted on not to stick her wand in where that subject was concerned. He knew Walburga would not ask for particulars—she was like a racehorse with the blinders up.

This suited him well enough. He wasn't ready to tell her the whole truth—and she could only lose by knowing more than she needed to, at this point.

"I hope you at least told that meddler off, when you were up at Hogwarts."

She snatched her wand up from the ground and didn't see how Orion rolled his eyes.

"Oh, yes—I gave Albus Dumbledore the what-for. You can imagine what an effect my strictures have on him."

She nodded, missing the sarcasm in her husband's voice entirely—which made him smile.

"Quite so!" She agreed, haughtily. "The nerve of that man, to send our child amongst his own family like—like an outlaw."

Orion stifled a guffaw at this particular description of Sirius's antics—thinking to himself how much their eldest son would appreciate it.

"Oh, you can thank your wretched younger son for that."

He took unaccountable pleasure in the look of shock on his wife's face.

"What?"

"He has been sending letters to Albus Dumbledore behind out back. He sends the information, the older one acts on it." She crumpled his pocket handkerchief in her fist. "We have, against all odds, managed to produce a pair of revolutionaries, my dear."

His wife did not seem to appreciate the humor of this.

"That—but that is impossible." Walburga goggled at him as if he were deranged. "Regulus would never disobey me!"

"He did. I told you've we've underestimated him—though even I did not realize how much."

Orion frowned. Between them, against all odds—Regulus was proving to be the problem he was less equipped to handle. Like this conversation, it was impossible to keep putting it off.

His wife took the news of their youngest's treachery with even less equanimity

"You are remarkably calm about all this!" Walburga exclaimed, indignantly. "I wonder that you aren't thinking more about how you're going to stop the two of them."

"Stop them?" He laughed. "How, pray tell, do you I suggest I do that?"

"Perhaps you could put some fear into your sons, for once."

"What would you have me do—beat them?" Orion asked, blandly. "It wouldn't work. Regulus would take the punishment meekly, then go right back to doing what he has been, and as for Sirius…" He sighed. "He would welcome it. Gives him yet another excuse to hate me."

His wife rolled her eyes.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic. He doesn't hate you." Absently she smoothed the wrinkles in his shirtfront. "He just…doesn't understand why you do the things you do, and finds it all very frustrating."

"Yet another thing he has in common with his mother."

"Well, you're hardly encouraging of him."

He glanced down at her left arm—under it his cloak sill remained clutched firmly to her bosom.

"You can stop guarding that thing like it's the lost shroud of Merlin. I've lost my stomach for going out."

Her grip loosened somewhat, but she did not hand it over to him.

"Why is that?"

"I won't do anything to drive a wedge between you."

"…Including interfering with my plans?"

He narrowed his eyes and shrugged.

"I'd have to know what they were before I made that promise," he remarked, mildly—and then, to his wife's shock and anger, crossed briskly to the door that lead up to the upper hall.

"Where is it you think you're going?" Walburga demanded, indignantly, following at his heels like an overwrought terrier.

He turned and smiled.

"I am going to procure myself a drink. If I am expected to listen to you soliloquize on one of your infamous schemes, I will have a libation while I do so." He smirked. "And so will you."

She flushed.

"Orion Black, are you trying to get me tight?"

"That depends—will your recitation of your plan to ensnare our firstborn be truncated in any way by your intoxication?"

"Orion!"

"I shall get you one, regardless. Port?"

"This is a very serious business—"

"—Sherry, then."

---

"Careful, dear!" A woman with voluminous red hair called to Colette as she pushed past her and through the door. "The second act is about to begin—best not dawdle!"

Colette let the door to the ladies' powder room swing shut behind the would-be scold without replying to this unsolicited advice—though she thought she heard the distinct sound of an annoyed huff through mahogany.

She had been the last of the stragglers spotted leaving the lavatory. Colette had noticed a crowd of ladies collectively moving from that general vicinity in the direction of their seats—all freshly primped and powdered, very eager to see the world famous violinist perform part of a concerto. Or was it a symphony? She hadn't been able to read a word of the program, so distracted was she.

She dipped her head down and peaked beneath the stalls, just to be sure.

All empty.

Or at least—by all appearances empty.

The young French witch stalked past the row of sinks and the cosmetics table—where a bottle of perfume was still feebly spritzing into the air—to the back row of stalls, closest to the line of smart, diamond-paned windows.

Colette stopped in front of the second stall to the right and let out the breath she'd been holding slowly, trying to center herself. The discomforting flutter in her stomach was difficult to ignore.

You were going to tell him off, remember?

She stared at the innocent wooden door, identical to all the others. It was difficult to remember the sharp words that had first come to mind when she had read that impudent note, now that her righteous anger had burned off, leaving behind only an irritating feeling of anticipation.

Colette took another deep breath and flung the door open. Her heart seemed to drop into her stomach.

It was…empty.

Dumbfounded, relieved—secretly disappointed—the girl stared at the uninhabited toilet stall, crestfallen. No stranger to disappointment, Colette was struck by the stray thought that the sting was all the worse because she'd dared to get her hopes up.

This is why I don't do that.

She pulled her head back and looked to her left and right, as if she thought she might've been mistaken—was there someone else in here, still? Had he fled? Or had it all been a horrible joke—then, seeing no sign of other intruders, and because Colette's curiosity never failed to draw her into inadvisable scrapes, she took one step inside the stall to get a closer look—

"I'm afraid this one's taken."

Colette let out a cry of surprise and jumped in the air. A handsome, grinning face appeared in front of her.

A body followed after the head wearing the same Muggle dress—the leather jacket and denim trousers that Colette found unseemly (they showed so much—and she couldn't help but look, since it was there.) Sirius pulled the silvery cloak—was it an invisibility cloak?—off of himself, laughing at his own cleverness. Colette, now embarrassed at how she had so gullibly fallen for his boyish trick, crossed her arms and glowered at her companion.

"That was not amusing."

"It was—just a little." He hopped down off the toilet seat where he'd been perched. "Not bad, right?" He held out the cloak for her to see. "Quite a daring infiltration. It's like a fortress, this place."

The wayward Black heir's eyes fell on the letter she still had clutched in her hand, and his grin turned rueful.

"I see you got this note, at least."

Colette colored and crushed it into her pocket, quickly.

"How could I help it, when you have these—these nefarious characters accost me and thrust things in my hands?" He laughed and leaned against the barrier between the toilets. "Who was that man?"

"An interesting study for one of your stories." She let out a quiet 'ha!' of disbelief. "His name is Mundungus Fletcher, and you have him pegged quite well."

Ms. Battancourt's mouth turned into a small 'o.'

"You mean he is—a criminal?"

There was an unladylike swoop in her stomach at the thought. Her companion must've seen something of this on her face, for his smile turned knowing.

"He's a bit of a crook, yes—" Sirius conceded, reluctantly. "—But a dead useful one. I hadn't realized this was one of his spots—ran into him outside—it took a little convincing to get his help, believe me, he's not exactly thrilled with me at the moment. But if I hadn't, well—how would you have known I was in here?" He dusted off his jeans with surprising elegance. "And then where would we be? You'd be listening to some fossilized cellist right now. Far less interesting."

She fixed him with what she hoped was her haughtiest look—Monsieur Black the younger's eyes sparkled in the most irritating fashion.

"Is he the sort of person you are accustomed to consorting with?" Colette asked, doing a passing impression of Narcissa—but he only grinned wider, and she knew that he could see the act she was putting on for what it was.

What was the point in pretending to disapprove, when she was really annoyed with him for taking so long to come to see her?

"I could do worse for myself."

"I hardly think that is very likely when—"

A sharp knock at the door interrupted them mid-tête-à-tête—Colette, panicking, instinctually stepped forward and straight into her much taller companion—who, equally surprised to suddenly find an armful of young woman in front of him, pulled Colette inside the cramped space before slamming the stall door shut and flinging the invisibility cloak over the two them.

"Quiet," Sirius mouthed. Colette froze, petrified—her face just two inches from his. He must've been able to feel the heat radiating off of her face, at this proximity. He winked at her.

"…Colette?" A voice familiar to them both—but with such different associations that it elicited smile from one and a theatrical shudder from the other—called out. "Darling, are you in here?"

"If you don't say anything," he muttered, pulling a face, "Maybe she'll shove off."

She trod on his foot.

"Yes—I am here, Narcissa! In the back—" She called out, over Sirius's muttered protests, and pulled the cloak off of them both. "Second stall from the right!"

The click-clack of heels on the ceramic tiles indicated the slow approach of Mrs. Malfoy. Sirius leapt up onto the toilet seat and crouched there with the agility and lightness of step of a panther. Colette thought he might've had some consideration for her nerves and put the cloak back on so she could at least pretend like she hadn't just been shut up in a toilet with a young man, but he seemed to find grinning cheekily at her more amusing than discretion.

"The show has started, dear—we have to get back at our seats, or the ushers will kick up a fuss."

"I'll be—I'll be along in a minute."

She was just outside the stall now. Out of the corner of her eye Colette glimpsed Sirius disappear from sight.

"Are you quite well?"

She opened up the stall—thought about closing it behind her, except that might make it look like she was hiding something.

"Yes, I…."

"If you don't want to sit next to Rabastan, I can tell him to switch seats with me."

Colette's face fell.

"What do you—do you mean?"

"Oh, come now. You're bored to tears." Narcissa examined her perfectly manicured nails. "He's the dullest conversationalist I know—it's been showing on your face all night."

Ms. Battancourt was very glad indeed that her back was to the spot her erstwhile companion was hiding, so he couldn't see the expression of profound embarrassment on her face.

"No—it wasn't that—" She protested, feebly. "Really, he's very nice—and, very interesting, I think—"

"—You were trying to talk to him about books, Colette," Narcissa interrupted—sounding amused. "That was your first mistake. Lestranges are not the 'intellectual' types. More—brawn than brain. If you want the bookish type, I can help you there."

Colette timidly returned her smile.

"Shall we…?"

She moved her elegant blond head in the direction of the door. Was it Colette's imagination, or did she hear the faint sound of impatient fidgeting in the stall behind.

"I have my—you know—" She lowered her voice to a murmur. "It's that time."

Narcissa wrinkled her nose sympathetically.

"Oh—well, I'm sorry. I don't miss that." She patted her on the arm. "Do you want me to wait, or—?"

"No! No, please—I would hate for you to miss the second act—I will return to you very soon, I promise."

And after further assurances that she would return to her seat and very entertaining conversation with one Rabastan Lestrange, Colette managed to convince her friend to go back to her seat. She had the sense that Narcissa cared for the Lestranges almost as little as her friend, but the reminder of dear Lucius's presence got her to leave, again.

Colette breathed a heavy sigh of relief when the door swung shut behind Narcissa.

"So—Rabastan not doing if for you, eh?"

She turned around, expression furious, to find him removing the silvery cloak and tucking it into his bag.

"By the way—'more brawn than brain' is Narcissa Black speak for 'thicker than a post.'"

She didn't even crack a smile—his own cheerful aspect faltered.

"What are you doing here?" Colette seethed.

"Meeting you, of course."

"This is the ladies' powder room!"

"I know." He stuck his hands in his pocket and looked around. "I always wondered what it looked like in here. Do they always have the perfume bottles out, or is that just for my benefit?"

He dropped the boyish grin and adopted a more serious expression.

"I was worried about you. You didn't reply to any of my letters—" Sirius's eyes shone with some indiscernible but passionate emotion. "I had to check and see if you were alright."

Colette held up her arms and dropped a sarcastic curtsey.

"Well, now you have seen me," she sniffed, coldly. "So your—how does the expression go?—your conscience can be clear."

"Colette—"

"—Now, if you'll excuse me, monsieur—" She turned on her heel and marched defiantly towards the door. "I must return to the company of my friend, Narcissa—your cousin—" She drew out the word. "And the concert, after which we will return to your family's house, where, before retiring for bed, I will bid goodnight to your mother and your father."

Sensing that his smile was only going to go so far in smoothing the ruffled feathers of his understandably miffed new companion, the young wizard adopted a more solemn expression.

"I'm…sensing a bit of a theme, here," Sirius remarked, deftly stepping in front of her when she reached the door. "Will you be eating out of my fruit bowl tomorrow at breakfast?"

"You will be lucky if I do not throw it at your head!"

"Oh, come on, Colette—"

"I did not give you permission to call me by my Christian name, monsieur."

He held up his hands in the universal gesture of surrender.

"Alright, alright—I get the idea." Sirius smiled, ruefully. "Somehow, we seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot." She murmured some unintelligible French under her breath. "Why don't we start over—introductions?"

He held out his hand to her, very solemnly.

"My name is Sirius Black, and I am very pleased to make your acquaintance. And you, mademoiselle…are…?"

"Irene Vanksdatter," she supplied, wrathfully. "That is my name."

He struggled to keep a straight face.

"Irene…Vanksdatter?" He repeated, trying to keep a straight face. Colette nodded. "Well, Irene—it's very nice to meet you. You know, you're a dead-ringer for a friend of mine—goes by the name of Colette Battancourt. Do you know her?"

"I'm her cousin," Colette invented, and she bit her lip to hide the smile. "From—Finland."

"Cousin from—Finland, eh?" Colette's mouth twitched. "Well, you seem to be in a better mood than she is. She's been freezing me out all day, you know—when I know for a fact she read at least one of my letters, when it was delivered to the house this morning."

She forgot she was supposed to be angry.

"How do you know that?"

He cocked an eyebrow.

"A little owl told me." Sirius leaned back on the door, slumping his shoulders and looking quite chagrined. "You—you do know I was going to tell you the truth, right?"

She picked at a stray thread of her gown.

"In fact, I was right about to, when—"

"When your mother caught us outside the house. I remember." She sighed. "I don't think I will ever be able to forget that."

He shoved his hands into his pockets and pushed off the door.

"It wasn't my fault, though—that was a complete fluke. She just happened to be staring out the window and spotted us." Colette made a little 'hm' noise of skepticism, and he stepped towards her. "It could have happened to anyone!"

Her face softened. Ignoring him all day—had had a real effect on Sirius, and despite knowing full well that she had done it not to punish him, but out of her natural good sense and a phobia of intrigue, she found herself surprisingly moved.

"I was trying to get you in without getting caught—you believe me, don't you?"

He was so close that Colette thought he might grasp her by the shoulders. The thought was exciting and terrifying—it would probably be best to put him out of his misery, lest he attempt it.

"…Yes, I believe you." She folded her arms in front of her chest. "Perhaps I just expected you to know your own mother's habits better."

She flitted over to one of the sinks where a magical compact was still twisting little feminine implements around bottles of cosmetic potions. Sirius followed her, but remained at a safe distance from the makeup table.

"I told you she had a dreadful temper."

"You would know, wouldn't you?" Colette said, her voice soft.

"Better than anyone." He shook his head. "I've had rotten luck the last few days. Getting caught by her last night, and—"

"—By your father, the night before?"

He ran his fingers through his fringe and sighed. Colette considered telling him his father's advice to her the night of the party, then thought better of it. He didn't seem in a good enough temper to take it.

"That was, of course, partly your doing." Sirius caught her eye in the mirror and perked up. "I feel better now, having seen you—much better. I was worried she might've—"

"Might've what?"

"—Scared you out of your wits." Sirius brightened. "You seem alright, though. Not too shaken up. I'm impressed—not many witches could survive a tussle with my mother and come out no worse for the wear. Whatever you said to her, it did the trick."

She met his gaze—and found, amidst his concern—an honest, frank admiration.

She buried her head face in her hands.

"You must think me such a fool."

There was a long pause—he exhaled slowly and quietly.

"Why would I think that?" Sirius asked, gently.

"For—for not realizing."

The words came out muffled. Colette heard the sound of footsteps. Sirius sidled next to her and stopped. Their shoulders didn't touch, but—just as she had in the stall, she could feel his warmth. Had he run in here under that invisibility cloak, darted in between fine old biddies leaving the loo, or did he just burn hot?

"I do not." She peaked between her fingers. "I thought it was… nice."

"You did?"

"Yes. I wasn't on the level with you, exactly—and you had no reason to think I wasn't—a family friend. It's a nice change, to be taken at face value."

"What do you mean?"

"Everyone in my family is always…looking for an ulterior motive. Assuming some angle. But you're not like that."

No, she was a naive little idiot who didn't understand the world, Colette thought, watching the play of pensive and distracted emotions on his handsome face.

For whatever reason, Sirius Black didn't seem to mind.

Colette wasn't about to argue with him.

"Now that the shock's worn off, you have to admit….fun, wasn't it?" She pursed her lips and dropped her hands onto the table. "Come on, you had a good time."

"I will admit to nothing of the kind," she said, primly—but her dimple peeped out. "I don't know what I was thinking, going out—I must've been out of my head."

Sirius showed little remorse at the temporary insanity that had plagued them both.

"So—why the silent treatment?" Her smile dropped. "And what about tomorrow? I've heard you've been invited up to Scotland to meet the famous Horace Slughorn himself. Can you fit me into your busy schedule, once your finished with that puffed-up old walrus?"

A ringlet of her hair had fallen out of the sweeping updo—she had not let Narcissa do it for her tonight, so it was far less tidy—and she twisted it around her finger, a nervous habit that betrayed the anxiety she was desperate to conceal.

"I just…do not think it would be a good idea for us to see each other again."

Sirius's gray eyes widened.

"Why not?"

"Why not—because we were caught!" She exclaimed, indignantly. "We might be caught again!"

"So?" He shrugged in the most maddeningly careless way. "The risk is what makes it fun—besides—what about our agreement? I was going to show you the real Britain."

"That was a silly bet I made when I was light in the head."

"You didn't have that much to drink."

In spite of everything, Colette found his boyish enthusiasm infectious.

"I can see the castle with Narcissa and your mother just fine."

"You could," he conceded, with a grin. "You'd enjoy it more with me, though."

Colette couldn't argue with him—he was absolutely right. She would enjoy his company more. Mrs. Black must've realized that everything would be harder for her for that very reason.

He sensed the general direction of her thoughts.

"Look—if you're worried about her, catching us or finding out…" Colette blanched.That is not at all what I'm worried about. "Don't be. Even if she suspects—she'll never confront you. She doesn't want anyone to know about me—and anyway, she's currently doing the great, forgiving, magnanimous lady routine. Perfect time to sneak away for a little tour of the secret passages in and out of the castle."

He must've realized how to peak her curiosity, for when he saw Colette's face light up he smiled back and gently pressed his hand against her shoulder. A shiver went up her spine.

"You seem to enjoy taking insensé risks, monsieur," Colette pointed out, archly. "Are you a thrill-seeker by nature, or do I—bring this out in you?"

He leaned against the sink and cocked his head. She could see in his eyes he had not forgotten saying much the same thing to her the night before.

"This is not about me. This is about your education and—edification," Sirius intoned, solemnly. "I refuse to let your entire view of the faculty be skewed by that old windbag Sluggy."

She smiled.

"Will you introduce me to your head of house instead?"

He pulled a face.

"God, no! Hopefully she's decamped to the highlands for the holidays and we're well shot of her. She'd fill your head with all sorts of stories about me—every one gross slander, but she's cunningly direct—you'd believe them, and it'd turn you against me."

"So then—it is not her that you are meeting at the castle?" She asked, innocently—a little too innocently. "For your—appointment?"

Sirius turned away from the mirror. She watched his back, the way he scrunched up the shoulders—and frowned.

"My appointment is with someone…very impressive." He scuffed his boot against the tile, and looked up at the ceiling. "If you come and meet me in the village before, I may even introduce you."

"Will you also tell me why you were at the party, and how you got away, and why you lied to me about who you are?"

He let out a sigh of annoyance and scowled. Colette found she preferred Sirius Black when he was like this to when he was attempting to charm—not that she wasn't susceptible to the latter mode, but she thought the former much more his natural self, and it was that side that she found herself most intrigued by.

"You're a tough customer. Yeah, I may answer one of those exceedingly impertinent questions, if you turn up. Depends on how I feel." He eyed her a little warily. "You've heard the expression about curiosity and cats, haven't you?"

Dozens of times, but the warning had long since ceased to have an affect on her behavior. Besides, she didn't think rudeness was really something that bothered him all that much—and he certainly didn't share Narcissa or her parents' ideas about how women shouldn't ask questions.

But all the same, he did have the air of mystery about him.

"Will you start answer my questions truthfully?"

He grumbled something unintelligible and rooted around in his coat pocket for a cigarette.

"What I told you that night was—mostly—true."

Colette crossed her arms and raised both eyebrows.

"Monsieur and Madame Black did not seem like a mama and papa who have not seen their son in three years," she pointed out, dryly.

"I said 'mostly'!" Sirius gave up on his quest for the elusive fag and turned on his heel. "There's no time to get into all that now. Look, what it comes down to is this—do you think you can manage to slip away from Cissy and my mother tomorrow, or don't you?"

Her heart fluttered—and not in the romantic way of stories—a kind of frantic beating, like the wings of a bird, caught in a snare.

"Yes." Her utter inability to deceive, rearing its ugly head once more. "I—should be able to manage it."

Your mother would not have it any other way.

He lifted his arms, triumphantly.

"So then—all that's left is for you to agree to go with them."

He should not have been allowed, she decided, firmly. It wasn't fair. That smile…hadn't Mrs. Black said it herself?

Could charm the scales off a dragon…

"Monsieur Black…"

"Sirius," he corrected, cheerfully. "You're not going to make me stand outside Grimmauld Place and serenade you tonight, are you?"

Colette reluctantly smiled.

"Will you be bringing that contraption of yours?"

"Elvira? No—after last night I've hidden her away for safekeeping. Don't like to, erm—tempt fate, if you know what I mean."

"Do you mean, 'provoke your mother'?" Colette shook her head—another stray ringlet fell onto her forehead—she blew it out of her eyes with an unladylike snort. "I wonder if there isn't a part of you that wishes to be caught by her."

The girl had meant it at as a joke, but when she saw the stricken look that flashed across his face, Colette wondered if she hadn't accidentally stumbled upon the truth. He rubbed the side of his face and tilted his head, taking on a momentarily puzzled look.

"Do you really not want to go?"

Colette wilted. It was when he lost his bravado, the cock-of-the-walk braggartry, that she was most susceptible to Sirius Black—and right now he looked positively lost.

"It's just—I thought we had a good time last night, harrowing end of the evening aside—but if you really don't want to come…" Sirius trailed off, all uncertainty. For some reason he seemed to find the spritzing perfume bottle fascinating, for he was looking there—at the mirrors, the door—anywhere but in Colette's direction. "I don't know—I just thought—you'd…enjoy it."

It occurred to her, as she watched him restively pace between the sinks, that he had probably never experienced a girl turn down the chance to spend two seconds with him, let alone an clandestine afternoon, and his moody befuddlement might be explained by inexperience in this area. It gave Colette an unexpected feeling of power, a giddy tingle in her stomach.

And also guilt, because she wanted to come with him—just not under these particular circumstances,

He looked up at her—eyes suddenly narrowed.

"My mother didn't do anything to you, did she?"

"No—no, of course not," Colette replied, a little too quickly. She forced herself to look down at the crepe flowers on her gown—it was so ugly and old-fashioned—he must've been thinking that, too—how had she let her Auntie convince her to buy this? "Perhaps I simply have less courage than you think I do."

He shook his head firmly.

"I doubt that very much."

There was the distant sound of applause—the end of the movement? Or had she managed to dicker away the whole show arguing with him? These snatches of moments seemed like vignettes in another person's life entirely.

It was a very exciting, very romantic life, for one thing. And a life full of daring risks…

"If I came…if—" Colette hesitated. "—Where would we meet?"

His face lit up like a boy's on Christmas morning.

Another wave of guilt came—but this was tempered by excitement, and the embarrassing soaring feeling in her stomach at the stray thought that she had not disappointed him after all.

In the end, she was that stupid.

"Don't worry about that. I'll find you, trust me."

There was the sound of movement—stirring—a hundred witches and wizards applauding. It seemed too early for the show to be over. Colette already had a list of excuses to tell Narcissa running through her head—she would probably have to admit she found Rabastan grating, to explain why she'd been done this long.

At least that was true.

"Clapping between movements? The standards here have certainly dropped since the last time I attended this theatre."

"When was that?" Colette asked, in barely more than a whisper.

"I was fifteen. A truly dreadful production of Macbeth. I skived off to the pub above us sometime during act three. Walburga was livid, believe me." He looked around at the Edwardian high-ceilings, suddenly wistful. "Said she'd never take me again. Personally, I always wanted to get banned flat-out, but I never figured out how to do it." Sirius scratched his chin, dolefully. "When you come from a family like mine, it's difficult to get banned from a place like this."

"Why is that?"

"I think my great-grandfather paid for it to be built." He looked around, his contempt obvious. "Bit over-the-top, wouldn't you say?"

Colette was prevented from asking more by the sound of the applause petering out. This was the opportune moment for her to return to her seat, and they both knew it, but at the moment of truth, neither seemed to know how to say goodbye.

Colette was caught by the irrational urge to ask him if he could take her to the pub above them right now.

"Who are you here with, besides Cissy and Rabastan?"

"Narcissa's husband and her brother-in-law."

A shadow crossed over his face.

"Didn't Madame Lestrange want to join you?"

Narcissa's elder sister—Rodolphus's wife. Colette had never met her, though the references to her in conversation were frequent and—odd.

"She didn't come."

"She wasn't at the party, either." The shadow seemed to lengthen—something dark and impenetrable flickered in his eyes. "Bella must've developed a weak constitution since the last time I saw her. She never used to get ill."

Just as quickly the strange melancholy passed.

"I should really—I mean, you should…" His voice faltered. "Tomorrow, then?"

Colette nodded, suddenly very depressed at the prospect of returning to her seat.

He pulled out his invisibly cloak, then hesitated.

"You're…not afraid of dogs, are you?"

---

"Lily, darling—have you seen my cloak?"

Lily Potter looked up from the knitting patterns she'd been perusing to her husband, who'd wandered into the sitting room, rubbing the back of his dark head and wearing (rather dutifully, she thought) the bright green practice jumper she'd attempted to knit for him. The right sleeve was so long James had rolled it up to his elbow.

And he still thinks he's the luckiest sod in the world, Lily thought, watching him lift up the cushions of the sofa—the sleeve kept coming unfurled and dangling down over his wrist. Poor idiot.

"Yes." She toyed with the magazine's cover, bending it back and forth. "You left it by the bed."

"Thing is—I've already looked by the bed, and it's not there."

"I know, dear. It's not because I…took it."

James dropped the pillow he'd been rooting underneath and turned around, slowly. His wearing the hideous sweater now seemed less like a sweet gesture and more like an imposition put upon him by his new wife, the crap domestic.

"Did you need to use it?"

"Of course not." She folded up the magazine and placed it on her lap. "I sort of…lent it out."

They'd been married less than a year, and so James had not yet had the chance to begrudge his young wife anything that was his—but even Lily knew that to lend out his most treasured possession, an extremely valuable artifact and family heirloom, without at least asking him first had been crossing the line.

Of course, there was only one person who'd ever dare ask.

James's expression blackened like a storm cloud.

"If that prat wants to borrow my cloak, he should have the balls to ask me to my face."

He scowled and flung himself down next to her. Lily abandoned the magazine altogether in favor of a soothing, wifely lean into his shoulder and squeeze of his right hand. His expression softened a little.

"Did he at least say what was so urgent he had to nick the cloak behind my back?"

"We didn't really get a chance to, erm—discuss it. He was in a real rush." She toyed with the soft hair at the back of his neck. "Remus seemed to have an inkling of what it was about. Why don't you ask him?"

He frowned and slouched lower.

"I shouldn't have to ask Moony."

"No—of course not—you want Sirius to tell you." Lily's hand crept up to the back of his head and rested there, comfortably. "But I'm not sure playing 'hard to get' is the approach to take with him right now, James."

"He has an open invitation." James lifted up the hand she wasn't holding and ran it over the back of her fingers. "He knows he can come here whenever he likes."

"Because you were so inviting the last time you spoke."

"I thought you were the one sick of him always coming 'round without warning," he muttered, irritably. "Apparently he's finally gotten the hint."

Abruptly, James sat up and let go of Lily's hand—the loss of his warmth was palpable. She sighed—he was going to be like this, was he?

Her husband had been so perpetually doted upon and beloved by almost everyone he'd ever known—so much so that he could get very moody when things didn't go his way. Lily wasn't used to not being the one holding him at arm's length.

"You're going to have to be patient with Sirius," Lily said, to her husband's back. "He's going through a rough patch—this is difficult for him."

"He doesn't make it easy for anyone else, either!" James snapped, moodily. "Or himself."

"This is not really about your cloak, is it?"

Her husband stared at his knees for a long moment.

"I just…I feel like…"

She rested her hand on his shoulder.

"…Like what?"

"Like I'm losing him," James admitted, so softly she had to strain to hear him.

For a moment his wife was convinced she'd misheard.

"What are you talking about?" Lily demanded. "How could you possibly lose Sirius?"

"To them." James stood up and walked across the room—to not place in particular, all frantic energy, the Quidditch star with no pitch to escape to. "They want him back."

She could have laughed—except that her husband was pacing about and looking as though someone had died, and it didn't seem the right moment for levity.

"So?" She shook her head. "Of course they do, but what does that matter?"

"It matters because…there's only room for one of us in Sirius's life," James answered, sounding more bitter than she had ever heard him. "They know it and he knows it. I guess he figures—why delay the inevitable?"

Lily rose to her feet and pulled him by the shoulder, forcibly tugging her husband around to look her in the eye.

"Listen to me—Sirius loves you." She grasped both sides of his face—she could have shaken him. "And he's just agreed to be godfather to our child. That does not sound like someone on a slow slide to abandoning you."

He tried to turn his face away, but she held it too tightly.

"What was it you two were really fighting about yesterday?" He hesitated. Lily's hands dropped to her side. "James, I told you to lay off him about his parents."

"They—" James removed his spectacles and cleaned them with the edge of his sleeve. "Are not good people."

She sat back down on the sofa and tucked her arms around her middle, looking cross.

"What exactly is it they've done to you, recently?" Her look was reproachful. "Is his mum the one driving a wedge between you, or is that the work of James Potter himself?"

"It's not her." He punched the back of a pillow, expression pensive. "It's his father."

"What—"

"—I think he's blackmailing Sirius."

His wife stared at him, utterly aghast.

"That is—totally ludicrous, James."

"I'm not so sure it is."

If she was expecting a laugh, an admission that he was kidding her—Lily was to be disappointed, for her husband was, apparently, deadly serious.

"No wonder Sirius is so cross with you—where did you even get such an outlandish idea?"

"From his brother—" James shrugged. "He all but told me their father is holding something over Padfoot's head."

Lily let out a little laugh—the condescending tone beneath it raised James's hackles immediately.

"You believe what Regulus tells you?" She shook her head. "Really, darling—I'd think you would know better by now."

"Why shouldn't I believe him?" James rejoined, turning on his heel. "What reason would he have to make that up?"

A piece of Lily's hair fell into her eyes—she blew it up, frustrated.

"It's so obvious—he's jealous." She sat up on the sofa. "If there was anyone who was going to try to drive a wedge between you, it would be Sirius's brother."

"Why would he bother telling me something that could be so easily proven false?"

"Because he resents you!" She exploded—really, how dense could James be? "Because you—you're the replacement brother. You took Sirius from him—in his mind, anyway."

It was not the first time that this had been suggested to James, in one way or another—but he had never been less sympathetic to this perspective on Sirius's family than now, when he was fairly certain

"Is that any better?" He demanded. "The way you talk, it's almost like you think it's justified."

"Not justified—but—" She shook her head. "—Understandable."

"Understandable to whom?"

"It's just—" She sighed, impatient. "I'm afraid you don't really understand what it's like."

"—What what's like?"

"To have a sibling you don't get on with," Lily said, bluntly. "To have family you don't get on with—but want to, sometimes, even if they are a pain in the arse."

That James had a charmed life had never been something he'd tried to deny—but to hear the censure in the woman he loved over it—that seemed to knock him sideways.

"And everything's always so black and white with you," Lily continued, gentler. "There's something in between."

"I know that."

"Well, you can be rather extreme."

"Lily…this is a situation where my 'extremity' is called for."

Her husband gave her a hard look and ran his hands through his hair. Words that had been meant to calm him down, give him some perspective, show him that he was overreacting—all they'd done was ratchet him up further.

She decided to take another tact.

"Look, as far as Sirius—playing nice with his parents, and doing things for them, goes…I'm sure that's just him following Dumbledore's orders. If there was something the matter—well—" She flushed. "I know he can be a little—erratic, but Padfoot knows what he's doing. You have to trust that."

He looked at her for a long time, expression unsurprised.

"You want to know why I didn't want to tell you about this?" He laughed, grimly. "I knew you wouldn't believe it."

"It's not that I don't think it's possible—"

"—But you don't want it to be true. You don't want to believe someone could be blackmailed by their own dad. Because you always have to see the best in everyone."

She was tempted to point out that she had managed to evade seeing the best in him for six years, but she was spared her chance at lightening what was fast blowing up into a fight by his next comment.

"You can be so naive, Lily."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Maybe everything is black and white for me. But you—" He smiled, ruefully. "You are so good—I sometimes think you have a hard time seeing the rest of the world isn't."

This was rich, coming from him. He practically bled honor, Sirius was always taking the piss out of him for it—hell, where did he get off?

"I'm not fighting in the Order because it's a bloody picnic, James." She glared at him—God, he was smiling, laughing—not at her, but himself, and, damn him—she was about to start laughing as well. "I'm fighting for my life. Unlike you, I don't have much of a choice."

"Maybe that was true before we got married." He shook his head, eyes brimming with resolution. "Now we're in this together."

Lily put her hand instinctively on her stomach—he was right. There was something more than both of them—someone who was part of both of them—and that's what they had to think about.

If it came down to it he would be there, pureblood or no.

"Too bad for you—to be shackled to the goody-good idiot." She smiled, wryly. "How much help am I going to be to you, when I'm this stupid?"

"'Good' is not the same thing as 'stupid.'"

"You think I'm misjudging Sirius's family out of what, then—some daft, rosy-tinted idiocy?"

"Well—" James let out a flat laugh. "It wouldn't be the first time, would it?"

It took only a second for him to realize his mistake—and for her face to turn almost as red as her hair.

James, who'd stuck his foot in it with her dozens of times, had at least learned how to recover quickly.

"Lily, I…I didn't mean that."

"Yes, you did." She bit her lip and picked the magazine—only so she could throw it onto the floor again. "And the worst thing is—you're right."

James's eyebrows went up.

"About what?"

"You know." She bit her lip. "Him. Regulus told me. He's with them."

Lily didn't know what was worse—his look of shock or how quickly he recovered from it. It was not a difficult prospect for James to believe.

"How can you be sure?"

She snorted.

"Regulus would have even less reason to lie about that than your blackmail idea. Anyway—" Her shoulders fell. "I knew…that was the direction he was going. That's why we stopped being friends."

She watched the carefully controlled play of emotions on her husband's face—the questions he would have liked to ask at war with his desire to never mention the name of the person who had once been such a barrier between them.

"Can it be proved?" James asked, finally.

"You know it can't. Severus is very careful." Lily pressed her mouth into a thin line. "He will've covered his tracks, I'm sure."

A long, tense silence followed. There were some subjects that—in spite of the strides they'd made—still sore. It would take time to heal all the wounds of the past, Lily figured. And they had the rest of their life for that.

They were going to spend it together—till death did them part.

"You're certain of this…thing about Mr. Black, aren't you?"

The return to the earlier subject—however uncomfortable it might be—was a relief for her husband. He laughed, shakily.

"It's just—the thing is—Sirius didn't deny it." James grimaced. "And you know how he is, he never lies to me."

"He usually doesn't have to." Lily drummed her fingers against her wrist. "What…exactly is it you think his father is holding over Sirius's head?"

Another silence—and was it her imagination, or did he seem worried, just then?

He threw his hands up into the air—and the white flag of surrender with it.

"I don't—forget it, Lily. Forget the whole damn thing. Maybe I am being the idiot—letting Regulus get to me." James rubbed the back of his hair—a nervous tick he'd never been able to shake. "Perhaps I have the opposite problem of you—always assuming the worst."

Lily could tell James didn't really believe that, and was trying to reassure her by pretending he agreed with her initial diagnosis. While this was, in its own way, stupidly noble (and his idiotic noble streak was one of the things she liked best about him—stupid her!) it was also extremely annoying.

But it was late, and she was tired and hormonal and did not fancy going to bed angry with him—not when there was an alternative.

"I hope you at least had the sense to keep this to yourself."

James flung himself back down on the sofa besides her. He looked quite pathetic, and just like any self-respecting woman in love, her immediate instinct was to comfort him—even if it was comfort he needed from their fight.

Spoiling him, just like he's used to.

"Did he say when he was going to bring the cloak back?"

"Ask him yourself."

He sank back into the cushions next to her and pulled Lily close.

"We aren't fighting, are we?"

She nestled into his chest, instinctively.

"Mm. I don't think so. Your fragile soul couldn't take fighting with your favorite and your second favorite person."

She rested her head near his heard—listening to the slow and steady breathing in and out. Reliable, strong—something you could depend upon.

James.

"I just…I don't want things to change," he said, in a voice barely more than a whisper.

"But they will—darling—they already have."

His lips brushed the top of her head. Tonight, they would hold each other close.

Everything else—their friends, Sirius, the war—could wait.

---

If Walburga had known that her husband's response to her staunch refusal to drink the glass of brandy he'd procured from his study for would be to drink it himself, she would have swallowed her proverbial pride along with the brandy. As it was, she found herself waiting with baited breath for a reaction to her plan from an Orion Black who was quite sauced.

"Tell me, Mrs. Black—" She pursed her lips as she watched Orion pour himself an entirely unnecessary fourth glass. "What did my sister say when you presented her with your, erm— extraordinary idea?"

This query was neither expected nor desired.

"Who cares what Lucretia thinks?" She attempted to tug the bottle out of his hand, but he firmly grasped it. "She doesn't even have any children of her own."

"I take it she does not approve?" He asked her, idly. "It does occur to you that she may have come to the flat this afternoon to tip him off."

Her nostrils flared dangerously at the suggestion.

"She wouldn't dare. She knows I'd never forgive her." Walburga sniffed. "Do you disapprove?"

He guffawed into his drink.

"Not on moral grounds, I assure you." Walburga tossed her head—as if that had been what she was worried about. "Undoubtedly he deserves far worse—no, for me it's a question of efficacy."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm skeptical that it will work," Mr. Black informed her, bluntly. "This…plan of yours—" He rolled the glass between his fingers. "It depends upon your son displaying a degree of deference for social convention I have hitherto not seen from him."

She had to resist the urge to snap back with a rejoinder that he had only himself to blame for his lack of imagination where his sons were concerned.

"Sirius won't let her be disgraced," Walburga replied, smoothly. "He's more like you than he realizes."

"I will not pretend to know whether that is meant to be a compliment or an slight."

"He had that girl out on the roof of Kenwood House in the middle of the night and didn't touch her."

Orion swirled the amber liquid in his glass and looked up.

"The apex of honor, I'm sure."

"Well, I certainly think it more gentlemanly behavior than most wizards of his age would display, in the situation."

It was only her prudence that kept her from mentioning that she was speaking from the experience of having been a young woman who knew many wizards of his age quite well—but Orion was well aware of that fact, and it would not do to remind him of her old beaus when he was already in a high dudgeon.

"I also—" He rose unsteadily to his feet. "Have my doubts about whether these Normans will accept your explanation for the unorthodox chaperonage of their daughter while staying in this house."

"It's not as though I'll be leaving them alone together—not truly!" Walburga pointed out—annoyed that he would even, however opaquely, allude to such a thing. "And anyway, the mother and father will be looking for any excuse to cement the alliance—and look the other way."

"You do not know these people—"

"—I know enough!" Walburga snapped. "Once she realizes what her daughter might come into, Madame Battancourt will do my work for me."

"Maybe so." He looked up from his glass. "But there's not just her to contend with."

"What—"

"—Sirius is going to know you're behind this, Walburga."

She pursed her lips and set her chin in a stubborn approximation of her son.

"By that point it will be too late for him."

He shook his head, the ghost of a smile flitted across his face. Walburga wished she understood better what that look meant—was he laughing at her, or did it portend to something else?

He set the glass firmly down upon the table and approached her again. She could feel his presence as she stared into the fire—no matter how softly he stepped—and he never stomped—she had always known when he was there. A steady, reliable feeling, like being wrapped in a well-worn cloak.

"What about the girl?" She looked around from the fire. "Have you considered her feelings?"

"No. Why should I?"

"She may, believe it or not, my dear—she may not wish to marry our son."

She let out a laugh of disbelief.

"Don't be ridiculous."

It had never occurred to her that a girl Sirius Orion set his cap on wouldn't be. Apparently her husband thought differently, if his sour expression was anything to go by.

"You set quite the store on that boy of yours," he murmured, poking at that coals in the fireplace moodily.

Walburga sighed. Was he accusing her of being sentimental? That Sirius was a matrimonial prize was a fact, pure and simple. And as for the girl, well—she was besotted.

"Hardly." She lightly traced a pattern on his sleeve with her hand. "I've seen it all before."

He looked around at her, his eyes piercing.

"What do you mean?"

Mrs. Black rolled her eyes. Really, he could be so blind sometimes.

"With you, of course." Mrs. Black threw up her wand hand into the air, impatiently—and a pile of tea towels flew off the drying rack and onto the floor in a heap. "Sirius looks just like his father at that age, and all those stupid, insipid girls wanted to marry you."

For a moment he looked perplexed, and she thought she was in for a tedious argument about the past—what had and hadn't happened—his demurring over those empty-headed Rosiers and Averys and Montagues who had dangled after him like so much fishing lure.

Instead, he laughed.

"I seem to recall there was one stupid girl who wanted no such thing."

Walburga pursed her lips.

"Quite the opposite, in fact—" He rounded on her, practically exuding sarcasm. "I believe the first time I asked her to marry me she consigned me to the devil and told me to tell my father he could follow me there in short order."

She flushed pink.

"You have the most tedious memory."

"Tedious?" He smiled. "Or stunningly acute?"

It was all going so much worse than she had planned—she'd gotten his back up with all this talk of the past—what a miscalculation. Hoping to salvage the situation, Walburga tilted her face up at him, hoping at least that last trick in her arsenal would work.

She heard the short, subdued gasp—his breath catching in his throat.

"You got me in the end," Walburga murmured, slowly. "You won."

His face softened, and Orion pulled up the hand—strategically left dangling, fingers inches from his own—and traced her knuckles with his thumb.

"It was a hard-fought battle," he replied, gently. "And not without its costs."

He released her fingers and let the hand drop back to her side. She may not have understood him often in their marriage—he was frequently quite an opaque mystery to her—but she knew what Orion was thinking now. He was cautioning her not to get her hopes up and wondering what she would do if this plan of hers failed.

Then we go back to your plan and chain him to the wall.

"Are you going to interfere?"

"What are you asking me, really?" Orion asked, wearily. "An outright request will do you far better than all this dickering."

"Do you promise not to confront him about the fact that you know he met the girl last night?"

"I will—" He rolled his eyes. "Pretend not to know this fascinating yarn you've spun me about our son's romantic exploits—if you do something of the same for me."

She grinned, a devilish glint in her eye.

"I didn't mention anything about the dog to him—or to the girl or Lucretia."

"Good. If you haven't guessed already, that's how I've gotten him in hand."

It was hard not to have guessed, when he'd lied to her face in front of both of their sons—but Walburga was trying not to let that annoy her in this moment of triumph.

He drummed his fingers on the mantle over the fire.

"Your not knowing about that is all I've got over him at present. It wouldn't do at all to change course now."

"Well, I don't see why he should be so afraid of me finding out he's an Animagus!"

He sniggered and picked up the fire poker again. It seemed to help him think, to have something to do with his hands.

"Your son is all courage and no sense—I fear you are the only thing he's afraid of." Her eyes flashed. "It's been very useful to me this week. He'll do anything I say, so long as I promise not to divulge his secret to his mother."

"What does he think I'm going to do, have him locked up in Azkaban?" Walburga huffed, indignantly.

"Wouldn't you?"

"Certainly not." Her eyes narrowed at the thought. "They wouldn't be able to manage Sirius Orion at all. He'd be running amuck there in a week—no, he'd be much better off safely back in his room in this house."

"Which you would no doubt make one of the terms of his release into your custody after you had him arrested."

She huffed—but didn't deny it. Her husband laughed.

"What is so amusing, Orion Black?"

"You and I—coordinating stories to hoodwink our son." He tossed the fire poker aside. "It is a farce. No boy in the history of the world could be worth stooping to this."

"Of course it's worth it!" She put her hands on her hips. "Don't you want grandchildren?"

He scoffed.

"Not particularly. I've never thought about it." Orion squinted at his wife—the man seemed to be taking inordinate pleasure in vexing her. "Are they going to be anything like their father?"

Mrs. Black sighed, ever long-suffering.

"You know, you might fool him—but you don't fool me."

Orion grumbled something intelligible, acutely aware of that probing look that said she could see through him like a water glass. He let out another long sigh.

"What is so special about this girl, anyway?"

Mrs. Black considered the question. In truth, she had spent the bulk of the day wondering that herself. It wasn't only expedience, after all—she would not have gone to these lengths for any girl who stumbled helplessly into her path.

In spite of all her efforts to tame him, the fact remained that Sirius was unusual—or rather, odd—idealistic and stubborn in equal measures, and that he had taken a shine to Colette Battancourt likely meant she was a difficult case herself, in her own way. Walburga had her suspicions the girl had some silly ideas all of her own (too much reading!) and that her son was hoping to encourage the French witch in them, in a poorly-advised streak of gallantry.

Two misfits finding each other was not ideal—especially when she knew so little about one of them. But she was, at her heart, a deeply superstitious woman, and she did not think it could be mere coincidence that this had happened right when she had been in most need.

Anyway, the girl seemed biddable enough. Any deficiencies could be smoothed out by an involved and dutiful mother-in-law.

"I just…have a feeling about her," she answered, smoothly. Orion's eyes gleamed in the firelight—but he gave no indication he would argue.

Marriage was a woman's business, anyway. Better he let her work her magic.

"I still think it will all come to nothing."

"Then we'll see who's right, won't we?"

The sound of more than one set of footsteps and the high voice of Kreacher greeting the two girls drew the Blacks' attention.

"Auntie?" A soft call down the stairs. "Uncle Orion?"

They looked up—an identical movement—to find their niece, still wearing her fur wrap, descending the narrow staircase to the kitchen.

"Ah—Narcissa—how was theatre?"

"Lovely."

Narcissa reached the bottom of the stairs and looked between them, curious. She didn't remark on them being in the kitchen so late, though it had probably been a decade since she'd last seen her uncle there at all. Narcissa had been well trained by her mother not to ask questions.

If only Sirius had one-tenth of Cissy's skill at holding his tongue.

"And Lucius?" Walburga prompted their niece. "How was he?"

"Very well. He brought Rodolphus and Rabastan along for dinner—we went to the Savoy."

"Where was Bellatrix?" Orion demanded, sharply.

Narcissa started and blinked. Her uncle had his back to her—and it was so…odd, to hear him raise his voice, even a decibel. Her father and Black grandfather had tempers, so it wasn't as though she wasn't used to it…

But he had always seemed so cold-blooded, compared to them.

"She didn't come. Still under the weather, I suppose." She shrugged and turned to her aunt. "I just wanted you to know, auntie, before you go to bed—that Colette's asked me to tell you if you're still willing to take us along with you to Scotland tomorrow, she'd like to go."

Her aunt and uncle did not immediately reply—though Walburga's eyes glittered oddly in the low light of her kitchen fire.

"She changed her mind, then?" She gave Orion a sly look, but he had already turned back to the fireplace. "When did this come about?"

"Sometime during act two, around when she spent the whole first movement of Beethoven's fourth hiding in the ladies' power room."

Walburga had to trod on her husband's foot to prevent him from letting out a violent exclamation.

"The ladies' powder room—?" Orion repeated, tightly. "What—was—what was she doing in there?"

Narcissa rolled her eyes and shared a look of feminine solidarity with her aunt.

"Rabastan was being a bore—the ladies' is the only refuge from men who are bores, uncle."

Walburga nudged him with her foot again—grateful, as always, for the long skirts she always wore. Mrs. Black managed to keep her taciturn husband from firing off like a malfunctioning wand long enough to reassure Narcissa they would get some fine shopping in before meeting her old professor, and that the higher altitudes would be good for her child.

He even managed to hold his tongue until after Cissy had gone off to bed.

"Apparently for some witches, not even the powder room is a refuge," Orion muttered, when he and his wife were safely alone again. "I cannot believe the nerve of that little—"

"You said you were too tired to go over there again tonight, remember?"

He clenched his eyes shut for a moment.

"You are asking a great deal tonight, madam. You don't know the restraint you're forcing upon me."

Walburga tutted and clasped her hands together.

"You can punish him all you like—after the betrothal is formalized," she informed him, ever practical.

"Thank you for giving me permission," he groused, moodily, staring into the fire.

Mrs. Black came up behind him and laid a hand delicately on his shoulder.

"When I hand you a newborn grandson in two years you'll be thanking me, Orion Black."

She felt the rise and fall of his chest—a laugh, short and brisk and cut off too soon.

"What a sentimental picture you paint." Though Walburga could not see his face, she could hear in his voice a strange melancholy. Of course, he got that way sometimes—he brooded. She rather thought that was where Sirius had gotten it from. "You truly are going soft in your dotage."

"Are you coming to bed?" Walburga asked, quietly.

For a moment she thought he hadn't heard her, until—

"Have you told me everything?"

The image of an ugly and noisy contraption spewing smoke rose in Walburga's mind. No, there was no need to tell him about that. He really would insist on marching over if he knew Sirius Orion had taken the Battancourt girl out on one of those.

"Everything you need to know."

"That is not very reassuring." He repressed a laugh. "I will be up shortly."

"You won't—dawdle?"

Orion turned around—smiling that strange, sad smile she'd seen glimpses of—in the last few weeks with increasing regularity. Walburga didn't understand it. At first she thought he'd been laughing at her, one of his strange, private jokes he thought flew over her head.

Now she thought he seemed tired, more than anyway.

"I won't." He cocked an eyebrow. "I would never deny you the pleasure of having an ear to pour one of your schemes into."

Mrs. Black rolled her eyes but kept the sharp-tongued rejoinder—that it was a large, cold bed and lighting the fire would be a bother (and, a voice whispered, she didn't want to be alone)—firmly in her head.

Better to not let the man think she'd missed his company too much.

He might get a swelled head.

---

And thus, another day comes to a close in my story. Thank you for staying with me. Probably will be a short hiatus here, as I've got a lot going on in my real life. Cheers, and, as always—comments very much appreciated.