"'If Voldemort had never murdered your father, would he have imparted in you a furious desire for revenge? Of course not! If he had not forced your mother to die for you, would he have given you a magical protection he could not penetrate? Of course not, Harry! Don't you see? Voldemort himself created his worst enemy, just as tyrants everywhere do! Have you any idea how much tyrants fear the people they oppress? All of them realize that, one day, amongst their many victims, there is sure to be one who rises against them and strikes back!'"
-J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
CHAPTER 21
"…And so then, naturally, since the trophies crashing down had made such a bloody racket, we had to clear off, lest we be caught by old Filch—"
"—Filch? Feelch?"
"No, Filch. Rhymes with 'bilge'—almost."
"Who is this—Monsieur Filch?"
"Caretaker. Miserable sod. If you're unlucky we'll bump into him before we leave, today. Anyway, we wouldn't have had to do a runner, except he got a tip-off from Snivellus, so we had to scarper."
"He got a—what from whom?"
Sirius, who was on the step above her, turned around and grinned.
"A—tip-off from Snivellus. A clue."
"'Snivellus'? What sort of name is that?"
"The sort of name you give a prat, of course."
Then, after another fleeting smile, he turned back around and continued climbing up the steps to the west tower. Not having a chance to argue that that was no sort of explanation at all, Colette raced after him.
He often did that. For all his encouragement of her, Colette thought him a fine tale-teller in his own right—except he had an irritating habit of forgetting not everyone was familiar with the colorful cast of characters that marked his life story. She had an idea that Sirius was teasing her, playing on her natural curiosity to get her to ask more questions about him and his exploits.
The worst part, she thought, cheeks hot against the fur collar of her winter cloak—was that it worked.
Well, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction. She didn't need to know anything about someone with as unpleasant a name as 'Snivellus.'
"Here it is."
He pushed open the door and lead her out on the parapet of the west tower. It was not the highest spot on the castle, but—according to Sirius—it was the most remote, and would therefore afford them much desired privacy.
Or, if not privacy—the hairs on the back of Colette's neck prickled—at least the appearance of it.
"This may not be the best spot for seeing where we just were, but we've got a great view of all the other towers, see?"
He climbed out on the parapet—Colette followed, mindful of the slipperiness, afraid in her clumsiness she might fall right over the side.
She was almost more afraid of Sirius having to catch her than the drop.
"See—" He held her shoulder firmly, an action which made Colette's stomach somersault. "That's Gryffindor Tower, where I lived." He shaded his eyes with his hands to prevent glare—for the tower was completely covered with snow still—their footprints the only sign of disturbance by man or beast. "I can't tell you the number of times I went up on the roof and did something stupid."
"You could try."
He mimed tapping on his nonexistent wrist watch.
"I have my appointment, soon. Anyway, I've already bored you enough, with all my stories." He stuck his hands in his pockets and grinned. "When I'm at Hogwarts, I can't resist recalling my glory days, apparently."
Colette hadn't been bored by his stories—far from it. He had an infectious personality—like the sun, when he was happy or at peace, Sirius seemed to transmit the feeling onto everything around him.
Or at least, her did to her.
It made it difficult for her to do the right thing.
There was a stone bench; Miss Battancourt sat down on it, resting her back against the side of the castle, grateful for the shelter it provided from the wind rising off the distant mountains. Without bitter cold blowing into her face, it was easier to study her companion.
He cleared off the snow and sat down on the edge of the parapet next to Colette, resting his hand gently on his knee in an effortlessly elegant pose. They sat in comfortable stillness and silence for a long while, before she broke it.
"You…love this place, don't you?"
Sirius had been staring out over the lawn and the forest below them—when he looked around at her, his voice was tinged with surprise.
"Of course." His tone and manner were refreshingly matter-of-fact. "It's my favorite in all the world."
Colette arched one of her brows—but rather than giving her the arch look of Narcissa or his mother, it only made her look more quizzical.
"I am surprised."
"Why?"
Sirius leaned forward, boyish eyes dancing with mischief.
Colette stood up, brushing a dusting of snow off her cloak.
"Only that—you seem such an adventurous sort of person." Her blue eyes sparkled with amusement. "To love your school above all other places—that is surprising, non?"
A shadow crossed his face, tingeing that smile of remembrance she had seen so often since they'd arrived at the castle with unexpected melancholy.
"Hogwarts was the first place I was ever happy."
Her intake of breath was sharp and unexpected—the altitude made her shudder and nearly choke. Sirius had turned his face once more to look out at the landscape, so Colette could only guess at his expression—but there was a tension in his neck suggestive of some weight, a terrific burden on his shoulders.
She sat down across from him, in the groove of the parapet—their knees nearly touching.
"Were you very unhappy at home?" Colette asked, gently. "With your family? Was it—so dreadful?"
He pulled his knees up hugged them, his body shivering from the cold—though Colette wondered if there wasn't something else he was protecting himself from.
"Not—" Sirius's voice grew soft. "—Not all the time, anyway."
She didn't know what compelled her to rest her hand on his arm, except she felt that he needed the reassurance to continue speaking.
And she wanted him to continue speaking to her in this way—perhaps a little selfishly. One got the sense that he found it difficult to confide in anyone about this part of his life, and it gave Colette a curious, heady feeling to think she was special, even in this small way.
"But it was difficult."
"No more for me than it was for you, I'm sure." She recoiled, and Sirius was instantly chastened by her reaction to his snapping. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—put my foot in it. It's just, well…" He gave her a rueful look. "I figured you…know what I mean."
Colette nodded, sadly. There was no argument she could make against his accusation—after all, it was what they shared that rendered explanation superfluous.
Even as a child you knew when you weren't like everyone else.
"Of course, no one's unhappy all the time. But it was different, when I got here." He sighed, and the sun might as well have had a giant blanket thrown over it, smothering the light. "It was all less…complicated. And not so stifling—I felt…free, for the first time in my life."
His eyes fell on her glove, and Colette realized that she had left her hand on his arm for far too long. Blushing, the girl shoved it back in her muff.
"I wish I had liked school as much as you did," she said, pulling her cloak around her shoulders. "Perhaps if I had made good friends myself I would have."
He pulled a face—then quickly winked, recovering some of his characteristic teasing good humor.
"It's only because you weren't allowed to dorm with everyone else—" Sirius stretched his arms up, languidly. "I'm sure you would have found some mates, too, if you'd been allowed to roam about, as you should have been."
"Perhaps…"
All Colette could think of was Antoinette, and all her other cousins and friends, a pack of girls that she had never felt at ease with, no matter how hard she tried.
Evidently, her face could not conceal where her thoughts had wandered, for his expression turned rueful at the sight.
"There's nothing wrong with not wanting anything to do with the people your parents tell you you have to like. It's not a crime. In fact—" Sirius removed the now infamous flask from his interior jacket and offered it to her. "—In your case it's probably a sign of great wisdom and taste."
She pushed the bottle of liquor away. Colette had no taste for the stuff—not today.
"That is not what happened."
"It is." He leaned forward—eyes intensely fixed on hers. "I refuse to believe otherwise. There's no other reason why you shouldn't have friends galore."
She turned the side of her mouth down and furrowed her brow. She certainly couldn't imagine having friends—not the way Sirius talked about them. His three companions of boyhood were all but extensions of himself.
Like family.
"I don't know how to show myself to advantage with strangers," Colette said, voice clipped. "I cannot converse with them."
"You talked to me," Sirius parried, deftly. "We wouldn't be talking now if you hadn't."
"Yes, but that was because I had a purpose in speaking to you—" Colette tossed her head—the ringlet she had carefully spent a quarter hour trying to curl with her wand so that it dangled becomingly had gone limp since she'd fallen in the snow. "I was—exposing you as the imposter you were."
He laughed.
"But you didn't expose me." Sirius sat up, grinning like a monkey, and took another careless swig from his flask. "You made a big show of saying you would, and then you just stayed for a chat, instead."
Her cheeks colored, and she made a tart remark to the effect of not wishing to spoil his grandfather's birthday party by making a scene—not, of course, that she had known it was his grandfather's party, for he was a deceiving wastrel of the first order.
He tilted his head, conspiratorial look in his eyes.
"Am I actually to believe that you only came up to me that night because you thought I was in disguise? If I had just been another guest at the party, not posing as anyone, wearing my own face—you really think you wouldn't have had the courage to speak to me?"
"Of course I wouldn't have!"
"I don't believe you." She turned her nose up and sniffed, haughtily. "You're far braver than you give yourself credit for, Colette."
Her heart warmed, her annoyance at him softened. When he said things like that, Colette could almost believe them.
"I never gave you permission to use my Christian name, sir."
Sirius nodded, conciliatory—though he still had the impertinent gleam in his eye. Let him try, she thought, warily—she was not going to let him start taking liberties, whatever charms his mother clearly thought her susceptible to.
"Miss Battancourt, then." He beat his breast in a gesture of remorse. "Miss Battancourt, the bravest, boldest wallflower I ever met, forever telling me off—" He pulled a loose strand from her cloak. "—Right before she hides behind a book cover."
The joke managed to coax a smile out of her.
"I…I simply do not know how to talk to men," she admitted, softly. "Not the ones my mother introduces me to, anyway."
"So why am I different?"
Because he was informal, shocking—wonderfully youthful, strange and mysterious. He was not like anyone she'd ever met in her life.
He also had a swelled head, and didn't need any more encouragement from her.
"Because you're…" Colette paused, thinking back on all her English lessons for the perfect word. "Disreputable."
He let out a loud, barking laugh. It echoed against the castle's towers—Colette shushed her amused companion with a wave of her hand, but he paid her no mind. Sirius was not at all worried about alerting this Mr. Filch, or anyone else, to their presence.
"All the best people in life are."
He pulled a box of cigarettes out of the inner pockets of his robe and lit one, taking a long drag. It was such a common gesture, and yet he still managed to infuse it with an undeniable elegance. Sirius turned to her, his keen grey eyes suddenly intent again.
"Why don't you have more confidence in yourself, eh?"
She fiddled with her cloak's fastener—a fiddly, ivory thing that gave her something to do. How could Colette explain it to him without humiliating herself? The asides her mother made about how she would never attract a husband if she didn't learn to make herself agreeable—how her cousins with whom she had nothing in common—but, starved for companionship as she was, desperate for even their meagre acceptance—rebuffed her—how could she tell Sirius?
Colette was not the sort of person who could stand up to the scorn of other people. She cared too much.
She wanted the acceptance of the people she loved too much.
"It will sound stupid to you."
He lowered his cigarette.
"Try me," Sirius said, with an intentness she had not seen from him before.
She breathed in, slowly. It steadied her—anchored her.
"My mother says that young men don't want to talk about books, or made-up stories, or travel—they only want to talk about themselves, and that I—" The air was dry and thin so high up—it was difficult to draw even the shallowest breath. "—Must learn to be more like other young ladies, rather than—"
"—Being yourself?"
Colette felt the tears well in her eyes, and a sudden wave of nausea and shame came over her.
"I—" Her voice caught. "I told you it is all so silly—"
"—It isn't."
The wind picked up again, and the sound it made whistling through the turrets—a plaintive howling—echoed through the turrets of the deserted castle.
"Believe me, I understand. All too well."
She lowered her face to her lap to hide the welling tears in her eyes. She felt something rough pressed into her hand, and when she managed to blink away the wet, realized he had given her an old strip of linen he'd pulled from somewhere in lieu of a handkerchief.
Colette sniffed and wiped her nose.
"And…what would you do, if you were me?"
"I have been you," Sirius observed, caustically. "And you know what I did."
Colette's shoulders tightened.
"But I could never bring myself to—" She gripped the ersatz handkerchief in her gloved fist. "I could never do that."
That. The aura of the forbidden, the unspoken, lingered about the word. That thing of which we do not speak.
Her companion stood up, abruptly, and leaned against the parapet—still managing to look impossibly handsome, even with a brooding scowl.
"It appears your opinion of me hasn't much changed since that night," Sirius remarked, ruefully. "Goes to show what they say about first impressions being right, and all that."
She wrinkled her nose at him, disapprovingly.
"Running away was—perhaps an option for you." Colette smoothed her skirts, trying to hide her disapproval of his actions and failing, miserably. She would never be any great hand at hiding the things of the heart—and her feelings about the importance of family certainly fell in that category. "But it is not for me. And the cases are different. You are a man—and I am an only child."
He shook his head, looking utterly bewildered.
"So? What does that have to do with anything?"
"So—I do not have a younger sister to carry on with my duties and responsibilities, should I choose to abandon them."
It took him a moment to understand what she was driving at—but when he grasped the general mode of her thought processes his scowl grew.
"Having a brother did not have any bearing on my decision to run away from home!"
He shook a finger in her face, but Colette only waved her hand, dismissively.
"Oh, of course it did. Perhaps you simply did not realize."
She explained, patiently, and with the sage wisdom of a woman dozens of years older, which clearly annoyed Sirius all the more, if his blotchy cheeks were anything to go by.
"Realize what?"
"That you would not have left home unless there was someone to take your place. Regulus was there to do what you refused to yourself—how do you say it? To take up the mantle."
He snorted and stuck one hand in his pocket, staring back out over the grounds again in a moody huff—though she could already tell he was smarting more from the truth of it than any real anger.
He really was quite easy to read, once one got the trick of it.
"I hate to shatter your precious illusions again, but—to tell you the truth…" Sirius trailed off, voice hardly more than a low mutter. "…At the time, I wasn't thinking much of Regulus at all."
"Of course not," Colette said, her voice softer. "You took him for granted. Anyone would."
He flushed slightly and folded his arms in front of his chest, still holding his lit cigarette between two fingers. Colette thought the gesture might've had more of the desired effect if he was still wearing his Muggle jacket and trousers and standing in front of his motorbike—the rebellious heir to a 't'. In robes he seemed far more the overgrown and petulant schoolboy.
She didn't mind.
"The whole—preserving the family honor, inherited responsibility bit—that's—that's all my father's line. I don't really buy into it, you know."
Sirius's voice had a telling hesitation that pointed to some undercurrent of uncertainty—the young man who hasn't quite made up his mind. He took one last drag of the cigarette before tossing it aside and stamping it with his foot.
"Regulus does, though. He believes it madly…always has." His shoulders fell with the long sigh. "So I suppose, in a way…my dad has my brother for that."
"But not as an heir—despite what all the world believes."
His eyes flashed, and his head shot around, sharply.
"You know about that?" Colette nodded. "How?"
"Your—your mother told me."
His gray eyes widened in surprise, then he fumbled in his pocket and unearthed a crisp packet from his cloak.
"She told you a lot more than I would have expected," he remarked, not without sarcasm, tearing the packet open. "Usually she keeps these things—'in the family', so to speak."
The faint flush of her cheeks did not escape his notice—not when he had pushed his provisions towards her, in an offer of peace.
"I think—" Colette watched him sulkily munch the crisps with amusement. "She felt she owed me some explanation for the situation, given her son's…conduct."
Sirius scowled and tossed the empty crisp packet off the castle.
"Whatever she said to you, I guarantee it's—not how I would have represented things," he said, petulantly. "Merlin—I hate it when she does that."
"Does what?"
"Pushes in—uninvited, and starts going about pretending she speaks for me, represents me—is responsible for my actions."
"If you don't like it, perhaps you ought to stop doing things she feels she needs to apologize for," Colette replied, innocently—though there was a distinct dryness in her voice as well. He shot back a rueful—albeit cowed—look. "She helped your case. You should be grateful."
"Did she?" Sirius perked up. "Did she—talk me up, say nice things?"
"She is your mother—of course she did."
He stared at her for a long while, expression .
"That would be a first, for us."
He pulled out his pack of cigarettes again and lit another, almost as if by impulse—this time his fingers fumbling with the wand, from cold or pent-up nervousness, one couldn't tell.
"What really happened between you?"
He stared out into the middle-distance, expression difficult for her to read. Those grey eyes—so like his father and mother's, glanced up at the distant tower, sight of so many happy memories, then back down at her face.
Colette saw a storm tossing beneath them.
"Would it shock you to learn I was telling the truth that night?"
A run-of-the-mill blood traitor, that was how he had described the missing Black heir to her. How much colder and dispassionate did it sound now, knowing he'd been describing himself the whole time.
"You were very offended that I suggested Mr. and Mrs. Black's son had abandoned his responsibilities. Very quick to correct me."
He flushed red.
"Well—that's—it's not like I care," Sirius stumbled over his words. "I just—I know you care, and didn't want you thinking the worst of me."
"What a contrary fellow—who cares more about the opinions of strangers than of his own family."
When you it laid out like that, Sirius thought, looking down into that heart-shaped and wholly innocent face—it was rather strange wasn't it? A contrary fellow—that was just him. A walking contradiction. Didn't really belong anywhere—one foot in and one foot out.
This had been the real reason why he hadn't wanted her to know his real name, Sirius knew that now. He hadn't had to answer for himself, before.
"What can I say?" He laughed, bitterly. "I had a good feeling about you."
And he did have a romantic streak. She stared up at him, those blue eyes remarkably clear-sighted and frank.
Sirius sighed. There were fronts one put on to cope—but with her, it was more exhausting to wear the mask than take it off. She had the uncanny ability to see his shallow facade for what it was.
"Look, my family and I, we didn't—see eye-to-eye, see? Irreconcilable differences." He ran his fingers through his hair, conscious he might lit his fringe on fire. "They have their way of looking at the world, and I have mine—" Sirius let out a short, bitter laugh. "—And nary the twain shall meet."
He poked at the snow with his wand, moodily.
"Surely there must be some way of…compromising."
He kicked his boot into the ice and laughed.
"They don't know the meaning of the word. You can't do things halfway with them." He closed his eyes. "Either I'm their son and I toe the line, accept their rules, conform my way of thinking to theirs absolutely—or I'm not a Black at all."
Nothing but the whistle of the wind through the snowy trees punctuated that silence.
"It's all or nothing…and I chose nothing." His eyes glimmered strangely beneath his dark fringe. "Which is how you find me here, unattached and untethered. The black sheep."
But that wasn't true, was it? That wasn't the whole story, not by a long-shot. If she knew nothing else, it was that.
"—Well—one of them, anyway," He corrected, with a faint, ironic grin. "I swear to you—until about a week ago, I hadn't seen or spoken to either of my parents in over three years."
Of course, she couldn't not ask the obvious question of what had changed a week ago—it was far too late for denials on that score.
"What happened?"
Knowing it was coming didn't make it any easier to deal with, though.
"Our…paths crossed unexpectedly."
Colette shivered—the wind was picking up, the air almost as frigid as his voice.
"How did it happen?"
"There was a scene. Someone—we were drawn together by an unexpected—by a person."
"What person?"
He gave her a dark look.
"I'm—not at liberty to get into the details. Suffice it it to say, my—they showed up at the flat I've been living in a week ago and we—that was the first time we'd seen each other since—you know." Sirius gritted his teeth at the memory. "It was an awkward situation for all parties involved, and once in it, the whole thing proved…difficult to extricate myself from."
She fluttered her eyelashes, and he knew she was going to ask one of her infernal, probing little curious questions, and so Sirius plowed on—
"Circumstances demanded—well, I got into a bit of a scrape—that is, I was banged up, and my mother, she—"
"—Took care of you?"
Sirius let out a sigh.
"That's how it all started, at least." He swung his arm over the edge of the castle, impudently. "She was looking for an opening, and she found one. Those two have lodged themselves in my life again good and proper—my mother especially. Now she's got some mad idea into her head about—'restoring my reputation in the family.' I don't know why she's bothering."
"…Don't you?"
He took another long drag from his cigarette.
"Anyway—" He blew out the smoke, which seemed to freeze in the air. "It won't work. My grandfather will never allow it. He's what's she's got to get past, and that's like crossing the North Sea in February."
Colette never argued with him when he was baiting her to do so—Sirius had begun to notice it. Instead the girl furrowed her brow, looking less puzzled than thoughtful and circumspect. Her cheeks were red from the wind, and Sirius had the sudden, irrational desire to grasp the two hands lying in the lap of her cloak and make sure they they weren't freezing through her kidskin gloves.
"I find it difficult imagining her letting you go so easily."
"Well, she did," he replied, sharply. "Never sent me a letter, never knocked on my door—she knew where I was, she could've easily, if she wanted to. Not that I—even wanted that," Sirius added, a defensive edge to his voice. "But I went back to school a few weeks later, for autumn term—and my brother was here as well. It wasn't exactly a secret where I was. I figured they… thought they were well-shot of me."
Whether he wished or dreaded this thought was more difficult to say—and Sirius could sense that if he looked her straight in the face he would be able to see Colette knew the answer to that question even better than he did.
"I'm so sorry."
He knew at once that she meant it, and her sincerity, paradoxically, made him feel as though he'd been petty and childish to bring it up at all.
"Forget it. It's not—" Sirius faltered. "—I don't know whose fault it is, but it's not yours."
She peaked up at him through the wisps of hair that had managed to escape her stylish up-do.
"What does your father think of all this?" Colette asked, after another long moment of ponderous silence.
Sirius let out a laugh—even more helpless than the last.
"Who even knows what that man is thinking at any given moment?" He fidgeted, feeling, even in the frigid open air of the parapet, that claustrophobic sensation of the walls closing in that just the subject of Orion brought. "He's going along with it, for the moment—very gung-ho about me learning the family trade of managing our obscene fortune, he even—had me do his accounts yesterday."
"Did he, really?" Colette smiled a little, at the image—she could not imagine someone as playful and energetic as he sitting down to a dusty account book. "And how did you do?"
Sirius smiled, ruefully.
"I don't think he appreciated my suggestions for sorting out his family's finances." The Black heir laughed—but very quickly sobered. "He's doing it to please my mother, at least. I don't think he really—" He turned to look at her, with sudden urgency. "—I mean, can you honestly see me doing what he does?"
Colette frowned, considering the possibility in earnest.
"Yes—one day." He made a sound of disgust at the thought. "You seem as though you could do anything you set your mind to."
"That is one feat too impossible for even me."
She arched a brow and brushed some snow off of her skirt.
"If you didn't think it was possible, you wouldn't be attempting it, would you?" She pointed out, and with a knowing smile (and above his strangled protests), continued, "I daresay there is a part of you that wishes to prove yourself up to the task."
"I don't want anything to do with it," he muttered, darkly. "Or him."
"Then why are you trying to make amends, hm?"
He considered her for a long moment, a half-smile loaded with irony plastered across his face.
"I can't tell you," Sirius said, finally—in a decidedly lofty voice. "It's a secret."
"Balderdash and poppycock."
"It is not!" Sirius suppressed a laugh, in spite of himself—she must've picked those phrases up from the grande dame granny. "The truth would shock you, and I simply can't bear to be the one to shatter your last innocent illusion about the world."
She smiled, coyly—and her dimple peeped out.
"You thought I would recognize you when I saw you in Diagon Alley." Colette wasn't asking—she didn't need to. "Because you look so like him."
So alike, and yet so different.
"Perhaps I did. You obviously saw the resemblance, even if you didn't recognize it for what it was. People have been telling me as much my whole life." He sighed. "I've come to expect it."
And her not seeing it had been such a welcome relief—an escape from the reality of who and what he was. Until the inevitable other shoe had dropped, and she'd learned the truth.
Though—to his surprise and frank delight, she hadn't changed the way she spoke to him—or even, he had to admit, how she thought of him. What Sirius had dreaded and feared—had not yet come to pass.
She still wanted to know him, to understand him.
He didn't have to pretend with her.
"People often tell me that I have my mother's eyes, you know."
She blinked them—clear, crystalline blue—in another woman's face they might've been icy, but in hers they were only frank and warm.
"Does that get on your nerves?"
She let out a long sigh.
"Not—so much. They mean well. Only…" She bit her lip and turned her cheek slightly away from Sirius. "I wish they wouldn't always tell me it is too bad I didn't get more from her than her eyes."
Sirius informed her in no uncertain terms exactly where he thought those people could go.
Colette smiled, sadly.
"I said it only so you would know—that I, too, know what it is to have to live up to someone—impressive."
"People should—let you alone. Let you be your own person. Not always be—comparing you to somebody else." His eyes hardened as he looked out over the grounds. "Do you ever write about it?"
"Who—myself?"
"Or your family."
She answered in the negative—and after a minute or so of light bickering over how appropriate it would be to write a tell-all Roman à clef about the inner workings of the Battancourt family, Sirius's eyes lit up.
"Oh—I've just thought—damn, I wish my Uncle Alphard was still alive. He was a writer, you know—he could've introduced you to his publisher—and I'm sure all the other well-connected sorts—"
She brightened at the subject—very interested indeed, and so he told her with undisguised delight—how different than the way he spoke of his parents!—of his Uncle Alphard. This hitherto unknown relation had been an explorer, a polyglot who came and went as he pleased, a mysterious object of fascination for his nephew who had never married and the child Sirius—emboldened by an adventurous spirit and wanderlust—had worshipped unabashedly.
Colette was delighted by the amusing stories of his antics—for she could see how much Alphard had meant to him—the only relative for whom he had borne uncomplicated feelings of affection, it seemed.
"It is strange that I have not heard of this uncle of yours," she mentioned, off-handedly, when he finished his story of the time Alphard had brought back the skin of a demiguise from Bolivia. "From either Narcissa or your mother."
"You wouldn't have heard about him from my mother," Sirius scowled. "She pretends he doesn't exist. In fact, you wouldn't be able to find him on our family tree—thanks to her temper and twitchy wand. He's been removed from it."
She let out a little gasp of surprise, and wondered, aloud, that such a thing was done. Sirius was all too quick to provide his editorialized view of the situation.
"Oh, it's because he left me money when he died. I found out a couple days ago she actually tried to contest the will and prevent me from coming into it, can you believe that? It's utterly mad."
Though she had been shocked at the news of this charming uncle being disowned, Colette was obviously less surprised about the second part of the story.
"Did she really?" She asked, slowly. "Have you—asked her why?"
"She doesn't even know I know."
"Well, you might try telling her—or speaking about it."
"She and I—aren't very good at that. We don't 'do' confrontation. It never ends well." He laughed, without humor. "Ditto my father—just as bad, really. It's no good trying to get the truth out of that pair of sphinxes."
This is why things were better when we just didn't speak to one another for several years.
She considered the problem for a long moment.
"What about your brother—perhaps you could ask him?"
"I already did!" Sirius exclaimed, annoyed at the mere memory of that irritating conversation two nights before. "He all but told me he thinks I'm an idiot for not figuring it out for myself. Of course, he always says things like that, the twit, but it was especially grating because we'd had a great bloody row about—"
Abruptly, he realized his words and fell silent.
She, for her part, only looked up at him, blandly innocent in expression—though her eyes sparkled with mischief and, more alarming, the triumph he was starting to associate with those moments when her enormous curiosity had been satisfied.
Like, say—her musings on the mysterious absence of Regulus Black from the English party circuit, for example.
Sirius buried his head in his hands and swore, loudly.
"This has not been a stellar week for me—" he muttered, along with a few choice curses. "—And my big, fat mouth."
Her grin widened.
"You were very alarmed the night of the party when I said I thought the family must've been lying about him being in France—and now I know why." She stood up, coquettishly swaying about her skirts. "The rumor was true. You wanted to know its origin!"
"Yes, you're quite brilliant. A real sleuth." He groaned. "My life is full of those, at present."
He pushed off the wall, his shoulders tight with tension—though she hadn't noticed how serious his expression had gone, lost in her speculations as she was.
"And—" She lit up like a Christmas tree. "That's not all. He was the one who—"
"—Colette—"
"He brought you together with your mother and father, didn't he? He is that mysterious person—"
"Look, you can't expect me to—"
"Is he in England, or—?"
"—If you're looking to find out where he is or why he's there, Miss Battancourt, let me tell you, here and now, that you're barking up the wrong tree!" Sirius snapped, coldly. "Content yourself with the knowledge he's not got a fiancée and leave it at that, alright?"
The French witch, who'd been on the edge of laughter, suddenly shrank under the weight of his fierce expression.
"Forget about what I was doing at the party, and forget about my brother," Sirius continued, coolness. "Unless you'd rather I go tell my mother what we're up to and have her send you back to France this afternoon."
Colette's face turned bright red, and she stared down at her shoes, mortified. Sirius had an immediate surge of regret at the sight—and at losing his temper with her.
"I'm…sorry," she mumbled, doleful. "I…I didn't mean to meddle in things I have no business with."
Sirius walked over to her—the crisp snow crunched beneath his feet. When he got there he laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.
Fuck. She looked like she was about to cry.
"No, I'm sorry. You didn't meddle—that is, you did—but I know you didn't mean any harm by it." She peaked up at him—a weight lifted from his shoulders, for there were no tears. "It's just a…delicate situation, that's all. My brother—"
He searched for a diplomatic way of putting it.
'My brother is a cult defector holed up in my flat, where he and I are both being held hostage every night by your hostess, the mad matron of Regent's Park, and oh, by the way, did I mention my father is threatening to have me imprisoned if I don't learn to balance those account books in up to his draconian standards?'
"—Has gotten himself into a bit of trouble, and he came to me for help. He's had to lie low for awhile—which is…partly to blame for the situation with my parents, but also—a few other things I can't tell you about."
"What sort of—?" She blushed furiously. "—Sorry, I…know you said not to ask."
Sirius's face softened.
"It's alright. You're only human, anyone would want to know—perhaps curious would-be novelists more than most." He smiled, but then the corner of Sirius's mouth went flat again. "It's—got to do with the crowd he's gotten himself mixed up in."
Her blue eyes widened, and then her lip, which was trembling from the cold and probably some residual embarrassment, stiffened with resolve.
"That's all I can say."
"Whatever it is." She nodded, sagely. "I'm sure you'll get him out of it."
Sirius felt the same queer jump in his stomach—pleasant and uncomfortable at the same time, a sensation like queasiness but…not.
"I hope that I do."
She gave him another smile of encouragement—and this time his stomach lurched.
"I need you to—promise you won't tell anyone about Regulus." Sirius took his hand off her shoulder—and, because he regretted it and missed the sensation of warmth, gently picked up her gloved hand. "Not your great-aunt, not anyone in my family—especially not Narcissa. It's very important."
"But—"
"—Please."
She made a gesture over her heart—a little criss-cross, the universal child's symbol for a promise kept. It reminded him of something Andi or Cissy would've done, when they were little girls and he and Reggie used to follow them around the creek at their grandparents' house.
"I will not tell a living soul. And I promise not to ask you about it—or even think about it."
He lifted that hand, and, in an unexpected act of gallantry, pressed it, still gloved, against his cheek.
"You can't control what you think about," he said, wryly. "Just…try not to go looking for answers."
"Why not?"
Because that curiosity of yours is going to get you into serious trouble.
He lowered her hand and released it, reluctantly.
"You may not like what you find." He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked back out over the school grounds. "…I should—probably get going."
"Oh that's, right…" The wind was picking up, and Colette felt a chill run down her spine. "You have your appointment…"
He told her where to meet him and reassured her, after tucking the invisibility cloak under her arm, that she would be perfectly fine for a little while—worst came to worst, if he lost her, he'd send one of his favorite portraits, Sir Cadogan, the Mad Knight, to roam about the castle on a scouting expedition.
"Will you at least tell me who it is you're meeting?"
He shrugged. Colette was now nervous about asking him anything, clearly, and he wanted to put her at ease. Perhaps it was selfish, but he couldn't stand the thought of her feeling as though she couldn't talk to him about anything. She was so easy to talk to.
It would have been easy to tell her the truth—but some part of him held back—for her sake, not his own.
It would only pique that damned curiosity of hers.
"Just an old professor." He grinned and lead her back down the staircase into the castle. "Catching up, you know."
"You're being awfully mysterious about it."
"I can't have you learning all my secrets, Miss Battancourt." He gently draped the invisibility cloak over her—winking just as she blinked out of sight. "I'd run the risk of boring you."
It was hard not to compare this summons to his father's.
He had stared at the statue of the gargoyle for nearly five minutes before muttering the password ("Brandy butter!") that made it spring aside and allowed him to enter the spiral stairwell that lead up to the door. Dumbledore wasn't likely to shout—Sirius couldn't imagine him doing so, in all honesty, though it wasn't as though Orion was one for it, either, and hadn't what happened been so much worse?—but after his meeting with Moody, he was secure in the knowledge that his mentor was less than thrilled with his performance at Malfoy Manor.
He's not going to humiliate you, though. Not going to make you do his bloody Christmas shopping.
"Ah—Sirius." Albus Dumbledore, eyes bright and piercing as ever, glanced up from the copy of the day's Prophet laid before him on his magnificent oak desk. "Come in, please."
It had not been so long since his school days, when a summons to this office had meant a disciplinary infraction so grave Professor McGonagall felt her superior must be told, and so it was with great trepidation that Sirius took a few cautious steps into the inner sanctum of the Headmaster's office.
"Sorry—I'm late." Sirius avoided looking Dumbledore in the eye—instead he wandered over to Fawkes's empty perch. "Got…held up."
He turned his face a little to spy Dumbledore's reaction—but the old man's face remained calm and pleasant and difficult to read, as always.
Sirius was barely late and not sorry at all. Though this meeting had been the ostensible reason for his return to Hogwarts, source and summit of so many happy years past, it had been the part of the visit he had looked forward to the least. Now the feeling of anxious anticipation for what Dumbledore might say to him regarding his dismal mission performance three nights previous was compounded by his resentment that this audience had taken him away from a perfectly enjoyable assignation with Colette.
With the—Battancourt girl, he corrected himself, weakly. The French witch.
Though, given where the conversation had been going, perhaps it had been a good moment to extricate himself from her company.
Dumbledore was, as usual, all polite courtesy.
"I hadn't even noticed the time—" He pushed his chair out and stood up. "I was quite lost in my thoughts—I find it happening more and more of late. I'm sure you understand."
Sirius looked around from the perch, surprised to see where Dumbledore was pointing—towards the rune-covered stone of his Penseive, sitting next to his newspaper, its silvery surface glinting innocently in the light of the crackling fire. Dumbledore picked it up and gently placed it back in its cupboard, then gestured for Sirius to sit down. The younger man rebuffed the offer for a drink (rather curtly) and then regretted it, if only for the extra moment to compose his thoughts the act of watching Dumbledore pour it would have afforded him.
Professor Dumbledore spared him the trouble of an embarrassing apology by pouring two modest glasses of mead and pushing one in Sirius's direction—"in case he changed his mind." He wasn't thirsty—in fact, what he really would have liked was to light up (he needed to quit—he could barely afford the habit these days), but he didn't have the nerve to ask if he could smoke—but holding the stem of the glass gave him something to do, something to look at.
"I appreciate you taking the time to come and see me."
Sirius fidgeted in his chair.
"Do people often ignore personal invitations for a meeting from you?" He asked, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "Get a lot of skive-offs?"
Dumbledore smiled.
"Occasionally." Sirius felt his annoyance grow—the white mustache twitched. He was not in the mood to be humoured—not by Dumbledore, not by anyone. "For example—Mundungus did not turn up to an appointment just last week—and that was one set by himself."
Sirius snorted and lifted the amber glass up to his eye. If he looked at Dumbledore through it, if the old man's face was distorted, perhaps he could summon the nerve to meet his eye.
Or, conversely, he could down the glass in one.
"I'm sure Dung had a very good reason for ditching," Sirius said, dryly. "That dodgy dragon's blood won't sell itself."
The corner of Dumbledore's mouth turned up.
"A unique business opportunity, no doubt."
Dumbledore lifted his glass—pausing, almost as if were about to toast Mundungus and was hoping Sirius would join him in this amusement. But then he saw the expression on his old student's face, and realized the young man was in no mood to laugh at the foibles of one Fletcher.
He laid it back on the table, untouched.
"You must be wondering what it is I wanted to speak to you about," Dumbledore began, seriously. "That required you come all this way—in such weather."
A few flakes had begun to fall outside the window—the delicate sort, the kind that clung to the eyelashes and mittens and would only stick if the ground was frozen solid—which of course it was, because this was Scotland, and the ground was frozen four months every year.
He hoped Colette had the sense to not stay out on that snowy parapet alone. The thought of her catching cold niggled at him.
Sirius brushed it away, like snow off his shoulder.
"Not really." He lowered his glass back to the desk and pushed it a few inches with his finger. "Well, I mean—I can guess. I expect it will follow the general theme of most of my conversations the past few days."
"And what has that been?"
This question, combined with the fact that Dumbledore had the gall to look up at him, in that blandly quizzical way, as if he didn't know—it was that that made Sirius lose his temper.
"Telling me off in every conceivable way, of course!'"
Sirius pushed his chair out, an almost overwhelming sense of restlessness overtaking him. Albus Dumbledore did not move, though his eyes carefully followed the younger man as he paced about the office
"The only question I have is 'what is there left to say? As far as chewing me out goes, well—with all do respect, considering I'm risking life and limb for no salary—" He stuck his hand up at eye level and shook it. "—I'm a bit at my limit there."
Dumbledore no longer smiled—but he did not appear angry, and certainly not chastened—not that Sirius had really thought his childish tirade would have that effect, not least of all because it was he who was entirely in the wrong.
The old man gave Sirius a moment to collect himself—he could feel the heat in his face, signifying an almost involuntary embarrassment.
Professor Dumbledore surveyed him calmly, hands folded neatly on his desk.
"I did not summon you to the Scotland for the purpose of chastising you, Sirius." The blue eyes caught his gaze—sharp and piercing. "Nor did I instruct Alastor Moody to do so, as I can only assume you believe I did."
Sirius reached into his cloak for the cigarette packet, content to merely roll one around in his fingers to steady his nerves.
"You…know about that, then." Dumbledore tilted the crooked nose on which his glasses were perched down at Sirius, his expression one of polite incredulity. "He…said yesterday you didn't put him up to it, but I wasn't…"
There was an awkward pause.
"I suppose I—should have believed him when he told me it wasn't your idea."
Dumbledore cleared his throat.
"I assumed, Sirius—apparently quite rightly—that you had already had more than your fill on that score—" He paused, significantly. "And I trust you understand that I have not the luxury of so much free time that I can afford to use the little I have to call an Order member to my office for the purpose of merely scolding him."
Sirius's face flushed scarlet.
"Nor, if I were to hazard a guess—does Alastor Moody, either, or indeed—" Dumbledore's voice turned gentler. "—Even your father."
He forced himself to meet Dumbledore's gaze.
"They've certainly made time for it this week," he muttered, bitterly. "Rearranged their schedules for it."
"Neither are idle flatterers, perhaps—but they are not men who are prone to rash words, either."
Dumbledore might as well have been staring through him.
"You weren't there," Sirius muttered, staring at the floor. "You didn't hear him."
An annoyingly familiar sigh from somewhere above Dumbledore's desk drew his gaze. Phineas Nigellus, as smug and self-satisfied as the day he'd been painted—looked down at his hapless descendent in the familiar manner of one who'd heard every damn word and passed on all the embarrassing bits to whoever had his well-oiled ear.
"Is there no such thing as privacy in this country?"
Perhaps sensing that his predecessor was on the verge of lecturing his great-great grandson on the value of decorum and keeping his voice down in earshot of his ancestors, Dumbledore cleared his throat a little louder than was strictly necessary.
"I think, Sirius—given the circumstances—that some allowances can be made to Orion for not being wholly in control of his emotions. He can hardly be expected total rationality where you are concerned."
Sirius let out a sigh and ran his fingers through his hair. He had been prepared to defend his position only a minute before, and now—it seemed childish and stupid to even attempt it. Frankly, hadn't he deserved worse from all of them?
"If you took my words as a suggestion of pettiness or spite," Sirius apologized, stiffly. "Please know I—I didn't mean it that way, sir."
The headmaster accepted his apology with cheer and good-humor, as always. In spite of himself and his sense of immense shame at all the blunders, Sirius felt his spirit lighten. Dumbledore had not brought him hear to remind him of his recent failures—indeed, he had known that Sirius had done a far better job torturing himself on that score.
Of course, it did leave the question open.
"I…so…what was it you wanted to tell me?"
Dumbledore took a sip from his drink and lowered it back to the table, slowly.
"Two things." He sat up, eyes brightening. "The first, I'll admit, is a little selfish—I wanted to congratulate you." He beamed in his protégée's direction, totally immune to the look of shocked bewilderment on Sirius's face. "Or, perhaps more accurately—congratulate myself, on my own excellent judgement in choosing you to carry out the task I set you."
Sirius opened his mouth to protest, make a sound of disbelief—but Dumbledore, able to preempt the question on his student's lips, continued, firmly—
"You were the right man for the job, Sirius. You are doing better than I could have hoped—perhaps the most important work of anyone in the Order."
Sirius stared at him for a long moment—and when his initial burst of incredulity had faded, he narrowed his eyes.
"I don't understand."
He waited for Dumbledore to say something, to explain—but he must've been able to see that Sirius had not spoken his piece yet, for he remained quiet and attentive—never taking his eyes off his young companion.
"And I don't agree." Sirius straightened his spine, all thought of the drink forgotten. "It seems to me that between the two of us, my brother's shouldering the burden of usefulness for the Order—and for you. But—" He studied Dumbledore's face carefully, knowing full-well he wouldn't be able to read anything that the wily old wizard didn't want him to see. "—Given the fact that we went to that party on his information and got burned, perhaps you don't agree with my assessment."
Something flickered behind those electric blue eyes.
"Did Regulus tell you he wrote me?"
"No—but even a blind idiot like me can figure things out for himself—it just takes a bit longer." He rubbed his chin. "My father was very angry with us both the next day—it wasn't long before I realized what it was Regulus had done to set him off." Sirius bit back a hard laugh. "He's not used to having to discipline my brother, you see. All this sneaking around behind his back and sending you messages has thrown him for a loop." Sirius toyed with the edge of his cloak. "To tell you the truth, it's thrown me for one as well."
"He asked I not tell a soul," Dumbledore admitted, with no small regret. "Regulus never planned on anyone knowing what he had done—until much later, perhaps never. He thought his family might never learn what happened to him, that night in the cave. I wanted to honor his wishes in this—small way."
And of course, if you didn't, he might stop giving information.
He thought of his brother, spitting up green ooze on his doorstep, shaking so violently that for a moment—just a moment—Sirius hadn't recognized him, might've thought he was the Inferi, except that back of the head, nape of the neck covered in blood, that curled up lump of a person was almost as familiar to him as his own reflection.
"Moody made it clear he doesn't trust Regulus," Sirius continued, not taking his eyes off Dumbledore. "He seems to think that there's a chance my brother got cold feet and leaked that we were coming back to his old Death Eater mates. He also implied you haven't written this theory off."
Dumbledore didn't deny it—but Sirius could never be sure with him.
"Look—if I'm going to continue with this 'important work' that you seem to think I'm doing—though what that work is supposed to be is a mystery to me, since I'm apparently grounded from all field missions for the foreseeable future—I need to know where you stand with him—because, like it or not, this is all personal for me."
There was a long silence that followed. Albus Dumbledore studied him, considering how best to voice his concerns about the suitability of Sirius's brother as an informant—but then he smiled, knowingly.
"That's all very reasonable." He drank some of his mead and stroked his long beard. "But I sense a mere verbal affirmation of my confidence in your brother won't do, in this case."
Sirius ran a hand through his frustration and stared down at his shoes, feeling his frustration grow. He needed to know that Dumbledore trusted him, too—his judgement and his character.
He needed to know he wasn't being fed a line.
"What if—if we pretended I wasn't me, but Moody?" Sirius looked up at him, suddenly. "And then you explained it all as you would him, and as if I wasn't in the room or privy to the conversation?"
His old headmaster smiled—a playful look in his eyes.
"I'm not going to act like Mad-Eye," Sirius assured him, smiling in spite of himself. "Don't worry—I've learned my lesson about playing-acting. Would that be…" He struggled to keep a straight face. "…A thick idea?"
"I think my imagination is up to the task."
Dumbledore fixed his lined face into a sober expression—though the humor of it was never absent from his twinkling eyes—and he told Sirius to begin whenever he was ready. Sirius cleared his throat, feeling now as though he ought to have given himself the out—it would make it easier to do it 'as Moody' than himself.
"Well—Albus." He settled on a growl—it made him feel far less foolish than it should have. "You've put a hell of a lot of faith in Black."
"In both of them," Dumbledore corrected, gently. Sirius felt his ears redden.
"Let's stick to the turncoat Death Eater, for the time being."
He squinted, in an approximation of the way Mad-Eye always looked at one funny. Something about the ridiculousness of it all made it easier for him to admit his insecurities about the way the audience at the Ministry had gone. All the misgivings he was sure Moody felt about him, that he was beginning to wonder if the Order, if Dumbledore, if his own friends all shared—if he said it as bluntly as he imagined Alastor Moody speaking to his oldest friend, he could endure it.
"I don't trust him."
"You are well within your rights, of course." Dumbledore folded his hands in his lap and leaned back in his chair. "What happened that night was very unfortunate. We were lucky both Frank and Sirius escaped the house unscathed. And I myself can offer no clear explanation how they would have known the plan, given the precautions we took."
Sirius raised his hand and pointed his index finger in his old headmaster's face—a move he had only ever seen Moody dare make towards him, and which he very much enjoyed doing now.
"But you didn't give me a choice, Dumbledore—did you? Didn't give me all the facts." He waved his hand around—he was amazed to see the old man remain as serene and calm as he would have if the real Moody had been there. "I stuck my neck out, sent my best man into the field on the information you gave me—and from all accounts it turned out to be a trap."
He leaned back in his chair, secretly rather eager to hear Dumbledore defend the choice. Just saying the words out loud made Sirius realize just what it must have looked like to Moody, to Frank—probably to Remus, too. Ever since that moment on the roof with Colette Battancourt when he realized what it was his father was so angry with Reg about, he'd had this niggling doubt in the back of his mind, eating away at him—an insect burrowing in, slowly infiltrating and infecting every part of the frail trust between the brothers.
It was too brittle—too fragile. Likely to snap in half if pushed too far.
Albus Dumbledore gave none of the signs of tempestuous inner turmoil that Sirius felt, however. His long fingers, steepled on the desk in front of them, tapped an even patter before his face. Would Sirius ever feel serenity like that in his life?
But no—he looked closer. In the eyes one could see it, if one looked hard enough—or if they knew what they were looking for.
"You know even better than I do that things are always what they seem, Alastor."
His temper flared—Sirius felt a stab of frustration, like a hot knife twisting in the arm—Dumbledore was always so damn opaque—he must've known what Sirius was after, but he was deliberately holding back, still treating his old pupil like a child.
"And you don't have any doubts, now?"
The old man smiled, serenely.
"None whatsoever," he said, with a kind of casual certainty that had Sirius's back up.
"Well, I don't suppose you'll tell me why!" He cried, angrily. "Why should you trust him?"
Sirius realized, with embarrassment, that he had at some point in the course of this conversation stood up—but he couldn't for the life of him remember when.
Face red, he forced himself to stare above Dumbledore's head—and then found himself unpleasantly looking directly at the portrait of his own great-great grandfather, who from his painted expression of distaste at this outburst (and probably the entire feeble exercise) appeared to have never been more ashamed to call Sirius his own descendent.
"I never said I did." Dumbledore remained calm, though lost some of that whimsical playfulness that Sirius had always associated with him. "I trusted that his information was sound. A distinction—a fine one, true, but in this case—critical."
"What—"
"I tested the soundness of it beforehand, Alastor—tested Regulus, in fact. Why do you think I asked you to pull Gideon Prewett off the mission and put Regulus's brother on it instead?"
Any desire he had to pretend to be Moody vanished in an instant. Sirius sank back into the chair.
"What are you talking about?"
"I knew if Regulus Black had any misgivings about the information he provided us—if he had heard even a whisper that the Death Eaters involved knew someone might try to intercept that message—he would be compelled to reveal them to me as soon as he knew his brother would be the one sent out on the mission to retrieve it."
"So you…that is…"
Dumbledore was enjoying himself far too much.
"Why do you think I asked that you send Frank to Sirius's flat a full day in advance, to brief him on the mission in person?" Dumbledore's eyes danced with amusement as he watched whatever scales were left fall from Sirius's. "You were adamant that the mission briefing should be done no more than twelve hours before, after all! I find it hard to imagine you forgetting such a heated discussion."
Sirius stared at him, for a long moment—not quite able to believe what he was hearing.
"You were hoping Reg would eavesdrop on us!" Sirius accused him, hotly—feeling somewhere between wronged and duped and not sure how affronted he should act. "You—you wanted him to find out."
"Let us say—given the circumstances of his confinement, I thought it very likely he would figure out what you were up to well in advance of James coming to watch the flat in your absence."
In other words: he'd known Regulus would be bored out of his skull and have nothing better to do but poke his nose into Sirius's business. Which of course, in typical Reg fashion, he had—he'd figured it out probably before their mother had even asked about who Frank was at the dinner table.
"Don't you know where he's going? I thought it was obvious."
"What's obvious?"
"That you and that Auror Frank Longbottom think you're going to sneak into Malfoy Manor tonight in disguise."
Just as Dumbledore had known he would.
"So you really don't trust, Regulus, then."
Dumbledore smoothed his beard, looking circumspect.
"Why would you assume that?"
"Because you—well, you just said you felt you needed to test his information."
The older man's mustache quivered with something that looked suspiciously like a smile.
"Yes, but I understood myself to be speaking then to Alastor Moody." He took another drink, then, kindly pushed Sirius's towards him in an encouraging manner. "I do not doubt his sincerity, or think Regulus would ever deliberately lead us astray—I do not think." His eyes gleamed. "It is, however, prudent to have some form of secure proof for others who may be more…skeptical."
Like Moody.
It was only then that he realized that it had not been only Moody's views he had been parroting—but some small, shameful part of himself he didn't recognized. A wave of hot guilt churned in his stomach—and he suddenly felt as though he might be sick, right on Albus Dumbledore's desk.
The old headmaster seemed, against all odds, to understand.
"The 'mission' I was referring to in my congratulations was not the operation at Malfoy Manor, Sirius."
Something behind his spectacles glinted—knowingly, but not unkindly. He pushed the glass closer to Sirius, very gently.
"It couldn't have been, could it?" Sirius stared moodily into the amber liquid. "I bollocksed that up royally."
He understood, without his mentor saying it, that he meant the mission he had given him that morning, in the dingy kitchen of his flat. The 'mission' still so inscrutable to him, that he didn't understand why he'd been given—or perhaps he did, if he were being honest with himself, and that was what terrified him.
"You can trust yourself—and your own instincts," Dumbledore told him, quietly. "I would never have asked you to do otherwise."
He knew what Dumbledore was saying—that he should let his guard down, let himself trust his brother—trust his family.
The thing is, sir—I know them better than you do.
"Was that the only reason you gave me that assignment?" Sirius asked, his own voice sounding far away to his ears. "As some form of—security?"
"I thought you would do well," Dumbledore admitted—and Sirius knew at once that he meant it, and it only made him feel worse. "And that the challenge would attract you and the encouragement do you good. I regret that it seems to have had the opposite effect."
Sirius gave up and took the glass again. Any feelings of lost confidence had started to fade the moment he realized he'd screwed up—only to be replaced by a sense of shame. If only he could explain what he'd been thinking.
Were you even thinking, then? The recklessness of that night, the purse raw impulse of it—not even he could reason it to himself, looking back.
"I just—I didn't want us to have spent all that time and effort—and walk away with nothing to show for it. I thought if there was even a chance…"
It was as close to an apology as he could muster.
"The information would not have been worth losing your life over, Sirius—even if you had somehow managed to intercept that message—we couldn't trust it, knowing what we know now."
There was something that passed over Dumbledore's face—a strange, opaque look that he didn't understand.
"I'm sorry we didn't get it all the same," Sirius insisted, stubbornly. "I…I feel as though I let you down."
It was such a childish thing to say, and he was immediately embarrassed at having uttered the words out loud. Dumbledore was all too understanding.
"Apologies—are very often made for the wrong reasons," He said, after a short pause. Sirius couldn't help but feel the tone was rather more pointed than it had been up until this point. "And to the wrong people."
"What—"
"You owe me nothing, Sirius."
He looked back up at Phineas Nigellus's portrait, thinking just how much his ancestor looked like the one person he knew Dumbledore was referring to. Judging by the look of censure on Professor Black's face, he shared his successor's views on what was owed Orion, still.
Sirius let out what felt like the longest sigh of his life.
"It doesn't prove he wasn't the one who tipped them off, though." Sirius gripped his knees, tightening his knuckles around them. "Regulus didn't want me to go. He kept saying he wasn't going to cover for me, if our parents asked what I was doing. He tried to talk me out of it."
"It was still a mission with attendant risks, Sirius—and you are his brother. He cannot help but worry about you." Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "If he had known for a fact you were walking into a trap he would have stopped you by force."
He opened his mouth to argue with Dumbledore, the familiar stirring of temper chafed against the idea of an outsider to his family lecturing him—but then he closed it again, for he knew, at heart, that the old man was right about Regulus—and probably a great deal besides.
"I wish I could make him out."
"Regulus?"
He nodded, staring into Dumbledore's fireplace.
"It's like he—he thinks he can switch sides without upending anything. He won't talk to me, he won't name names—it's as if he thinks he can somehow make it out of this without anyone being caught in the crossfire." Sirius shook his head. "I just can't understand what he thinks he's doing."
Dumbledore steepled his fingers on the table, considering the question.
While he waited, Sirius cast his eyes around the room. Dumbledore's comfortable and warm office was serene, the one sound the faint whirring of the instruments—not even Fawkes broke the silence of a Hogwarts blanketed in snow, for he was out on some mysterious assignment in parts unknown. Everything was identical to how it had been when Sirius was a student, and the headmaster's office, however much he associated it with punishment for his various misdeeds, had been a source of comfort—a refuge from a world that so often had treated him unjustly—at least, in his own mind.
Everything was the same as it had been—except Dumbledore himself, and that made all the difference. No longer did those kindly blue eyes peer out at him through spectacles, with the beneficence of a headmaster trying to guide the well-meaning and unruly pupil, always in danger of losing his way.
Sirius didn't know what to call how Dumbledore looked at him now.
The old man cleared his throat, and Sirius looked up from his drink—filled with a sudden, violent apprehension of what was coming next.
"Why do you think Regulus went to the cave that night, Sirius?"
Sirius stared at him, blankly.
"Sorry—what?"
"Why did your brother defect from Lord Voldemort's ranks?" Dumbledore repeated, simply. "You must wonder. Do you know?"
Sirius slouched in his chair. It wasn't as though he hadn't thought about it—the question had been bouncing around his head for over a week, but it was jumbled up with so much else—and demanded so much more of him to answer—that he had placed it on the back shelf of his mind when no obvious answer came to him.
"I suppose he saw reason."
Dumbledore's smile was kind—but he shook his head, a gesture his former pupil recognized.
"Would you say he's shown a great many signs of changing his views?" The old man pressed, gently. "The values instilled in him by your parents—the importance of magical lineage—of the family name and traditions? Has he cast them off, as you have?"
Sirius pictured his brother—holed up in the flat, surrounded by a pile of family history—ignoring Lily pointedly when she came in the room, hissing at him across the dinner table to be polite and not start fights—that small, desperate look Sirius would sometimes see him give Orion's back, when he thought no one was watching—and which Sirius recognized, for he would catch glimpses of it in his own face in the mirror by the door.
"Not at all."
He was the same—he was Sirius's little brother, the twerp, the consummate Slytherin—the one who didn't speak up, who followed their mother and father in everything, bar none. The good son.
"Perhaps he thought he had something to gain by defecting." Sirius was swinging about wildly in his search for answers. "Or—maybe he saw the writing on the wall. Maybe he knows something we don't—he—got out before it all comes crashing down.
Dumbledore shook his head.
"I wish I could believe that were true, Sirius."
"He probably just realized what he got himself into—that it wasn't worth it."
"By your own admission, he is not behaving in a manner that suggests a full-throated embrace of the values of the Order of the Phoenix—" Dumbledore's expression turned shrewd. "And, quite frankly, he was, in some sense, in an ideal position where he was. A lower-ranking Death Eater with his family connections would land on his feet no matter which way the war went. He was as safe as it is possible to be, in times like this. Now, however…"
It didn't take explanation for Sirius to understand what the old man was driving at. By going to the cave to retrieve Voldemort's horcrux that fateful night, Regulus had opened himself up to attacks from both sides—where he might've coasted through the war in relative anonymity, had he just gone along with things and not gotten any funny ideas.
Regulus was generally very good at doing that.
But now—he was not only a traitor to the Dark Lord—he was a professed ex-Death Eater who could end up standing trial and facing Azkaban, if Dumbledore did not exert his considerable influence in preventing it. Before he faced that possibility, he'd have to make it through the war—and they'd have to win…
All that for a gold locket and a scrawled note.
"So…you don't think it's rational, what he's done?" Sirius asked, and he found his temper stirring. "You—what? Don't think he's in his right mind? That he did all this—in what, a moment of temporary insanity?"
Dumbledore retained his blank, bland expression—and this time, the sight of it incited his protégée's anger. Regulus was not unfeeling—his brother had a conscience, and a heart, however much it had strayed from the right path, and he was suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of righteous indignation on his behalf, combined with vague guilt that he was sitting here discussing the matter with someone who wasn't even a member of his own family.
"Do you have a better explanation?"
Sirius slammed a hand down on the desk.
"For God's sake—you know what they are—the things they do to people, the things they've probably done to him, and—and made him do—!" The thought filled him with anger—at Regulus, Orion—and most of all, himself, for letting his brother get mixed up with them—for standing by and doing nothing. "I'm amazed my brother lasted as long as he did. Who could stand it? How could he—"
He fell silent again.
The snow outside the castle was falling, thick and fast, now—the sun low in the sky, creating the perpetual twilight that marked the winter equinox—the deadest. A kind of stillness cocooned the castle, made the silence that stretched between he and Dumbledore seem deeper, somehow—more vast.
But it had to break—and it was the old man who did so.
"Why do you think people change, Sirius?"
He looked out the window. Just visible was the edge of the great lake, where he and James and Remus and Peter had spent so many happy hours such a short time ago. The change that had come over them, whether it was sudden or gradual, could not be denied.
They no longer were what they had been—and they could not go back.
It frightened Sirius.
"I don't know," he said, honestly, turning back towards the desk, and the man behind it he was realizing he understood less and less. "I suppose—I suppose because they find—new things to believe in."
"I find that the best of us are rarely moved by pure principle." Dumbledore smiled. "It's for people we change, not ideology or creed."
"I don't understand, sir. "
Albus Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, knowingly.
"If you wish to understand Regulus—" He smiled. "You could start by asking him."
It was both caring—and a reproach, and Sirius could only hear the condemnation, not the kindness that was meant by it.
"I—I don't know how," Sirius admitted, feeling more vulnerable than he had the entire audience. "And he won't want—he doesn't want to talk to me."
Albus Dumbledore stood up, and Sirius knew, without being told, that the audience was almost at an end. It had been much shorter than he had imagined, and considering he had looked upon it with dread, he now found himself reluctant to leave the comfortable confines of the room.
He felt that, walking out of here, he would be leaving behind the last vestiges of boyhood.
What he was leaving it for was still unknown.
"You have considerable means and faculties, Sirius," Dumbledore pointed out, innocently. "Do you truly believe you have exerted them to their fullest extent, in this?"
Sirius wished Phineas Nigellus would go back to Grimmauld Place. He thought if the painting cleared its throat loudly one more time he'd be tempted to throw his glass of mead at his head.
"You mean have I 'tried my hardest'?" He asked, sarcastically. "Given it my all?"
Of course, Dumbledore knew the answer to that without question. He stood up from his desk and gave the younger man an encouraging pat on the arm, and a knowing smile.
"Understanding—is not always easy. But it is possible. And Christmas is as good a time as any for an honest conversation—" Dumbledore's eye glinted. "You will have plenty of time over the holiday in which to start one, at any rate."
The opportunity to voice his resentment on that score was too irresistible to pass up. Dumbledore was, thankfully—and unlike Sirius's parents—not one to play dim.
"Just be honest—my father asked you to ground me, didn't he? He put you up to it."
"You are where I need you to be, Sirius," Dumbledore said, gently—but firmly. "You don't know the difference you could make—have made already."
"And you don't know what you're asking may cost me."
Sirius clenched his jaw—and then he saw the frown, and the look of concern, and he regretted his words.
It was too late to take them back, though. Dumbledore frowned, eyeing him with distinct wariness.
"Is there something you wish to say to me?"
Sirius thought of his father—his face on the fire escape, eyes as cold and hard as flint—'Oh, I daresay you'll do exactly as I say'—of Walburga and motorbike and the moment he had thought (hoped, wished) she might kiss his forehead after breakfast—of a stag, dog, rat and werewolf running about the Forbidden Forest—and of Colette, eyes as blue and clear as the sea, seeing as clearly through him as she had his disguise, and just waiting down the hall.
It was her face that stood out most vividly.
"Do you think there's a spy in the Order?"
It was not a question that the old man had been expecting—but it did not surprise him.
"Why do you ask me this?"
"They knew we were coming. Someone told them. And if it wasn't my brother—it had to be— someone else."
Regulus had implied it—both of their minds had gone back to that morning, but whatever intelligence his brother's letters to their old headmaster contained, his idea of who the spy might be had not been among them.
Dumbledore read his thoughts.
"I do not know how Lucius Malfoy knew you and Frank were at your grandfather's party—for now, I can only…speculate." And he had no intention of sharing those speculations with Sirius, that was the unspoken subtext. He sighed. "For the time being, I want you to put the question out of your head."
Sirius finished his drink and got up.
"It's just—I can't help but think, well—" He grasped Dumbledore's hand, suddenly very aware of how brittle the grip was. "If we can't trust the Order—who can we trust?"
Dumbledore let out another long sigh—and Sirius could hear in it the sound of a man who, for once, did not have an answer.
Happy New Year! Please, as always, let me know what you think. And if you're looking for more, I posted a Christmas story that takes place in this universe (check it out on my profile.)