"…You'll be Gryffindor like her, I suppose? Yes, it usually goes in families. Not always, though. Ever heard of Sirius Black? You must have done — been in the papers for the last couple of years — died a few weeks ago —"
It was as though an invisible hand had twisted Harry's intestines and held them tight.
"Well, anyway, he was a big pal of your father's at school. The whole Black family had been in my House, but Sirius ended up in Gryffindor! Shame — he was a talented boy. I got his brother, Regulus, when he came along, but I'd have liked the set."
He sounded like an enthusiastic collector who had been outbid at auction."
-J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
CHAPTER 22
The suits of armor were not as fine as those that graced the halls of Beauxbatons, perhaps—but Colette thought they had far more "personality."
The whole castle did, in fact—one got the sense that it had been fondly, if haphazardly, built up, piece-by-piece, in the centuries since the ancient fortress had been first discovered by Hogwarts founders—and that central planning had never been a great priority.
Colette liked it.
It was a far cry from her own school, with its formal gardens and palatial, austere 17th century architecture. Colette had never much liked Beauxbatons as a building. It was neoclassical—a chateau might be grand and beautiful, but it simply didn't offer the same scope for imagination as the ancient castle.
Both schools were in the mountains, but that was where similarity ended. While the constructors of Beauxbatons had attempted to flatten and bend the natural world to their will, Hogwarts' had instead used it to their advantage—fortifying the ancient stone, carved from cliffs and craggy peaks, raising the castle up and out of the rugged landscape. It lent the whole place an atmosphere pleasantly unaffected, refreshingly bold.
Rather like her newfound companion.
They do things differently in Britain, she thought, and the feeling of him pressed against her as she lay in the snow rose up in her mind like water spilling from the edges of an overflowing bathtub. Colette's face flushed, and though there was no one around to see her undoubtedly silly, insipid expression, she was grateful for the invisibility cloak that shielded her from view all the same.
The more time she spent with him, the harder her resolution became—and it was also becoming increasingly obvious that her fear of Mrs. Black's revenge was not the primary reason for putting off telling him the truth.
If he knew the truth—if he knew what you were keeping from him…
Of course…"secrets keep things interesting"…wasn't she just following one of his maxims by concealing it?
No, in the time she'd had to explore the castle alone, she'd had time to think—and Colette knew the truth.
She was enjoying herself far too much to tell him.
The girl glanced up at the snoozing portrait of Ulric the Oddball and sighed—quietly, so as not to alert him to her presence, for she could be clumsy in a long dress, and more than once she had almost tripped on the hem of the invisibility cloak as she wandered through halls and corridors, growing almost as lost in Hogwarts as she was she in her current predicament.
Her heart pounded just at the thought of him.
If Sirius Black had been only a handsome face, Colette wouldn't have felt this way—in fact, she rather wished he wasn't so striking, for he would be easier to look in the eye, then—and probably far less arrogant.
No, far worse than his looks—and more dangerous to her by a mile—was that Sirius Black was interesting.
His experiences were broad and varied, compared to hers—he had rubbed shoulders with wizards higher and lower than her by far, and his opinions and canny remarks exhibited a keen and penetrating mind—one that took nothing from her own narrow social experience for granted.
Colette had spent eighteen years training herself, to no avail, to never ask "why?"—and Sirius's motto in life was, "why not?" He was a wizard of possibility, of opening doors, and when he offered her, who had been stifled and cloistered and penned in for so long, the key to escape—how could she not turn it?
He was interested in her, most intoxicating of all.
It was a sensation Colette had never known—certainly not from men. Her mother had always encouraged her to assume that the thoughts and feelings of witches were of little concern to their fathers—certainly her own was a simple man, neither capable nor interested in understanding his daughter's interior life—and of only marginal concern for their husbands.
She had glimpses of other possibilities—every once in a while she thought her English grandmother on the verge of saying something of a corrective nature towards Fabienne, but Eulalie operated on the strictest principle of non-interference where the upbringing of her grandchild was concerned. By the age of sixteen Colette had come to assume that her mother, being a sensible woman and far better versed in the ways of men than her ignorant daughter, was basically right, and it would be better not to get her hopes up on that front.
That was before she met Sirius.
It was impossible for the embers of natural sympathy between them not to be stoked by the fact, apparent to her from several days acquaintance, that he was desirous of the one thing she knew what it was to be desperate for, deep in your secret soul, above everything else.
Understanding.
And she wanted to understand him. Which, naturally, required her to be around him—listen to his stories and laugh at his jokes and if—it also required she withhold certain…details from him, well—that was the cost, and she was more than willing to pay it.
Her conscience niggled at her forehead like a bad cold.
Still deep in her thoughts and hardly aware of her surroundings, Colette unthinkingly tiptoed up to peer into the visor of the tallest suit of armor in the drafty hallway—so when it began to bellow 'The Holy and the Ivy' and waggle its arms about, she was so shocked she stumbled backwards into its neighbor.
She caught it by the arm—but by then it was already too late.
The invisibility cloak snagged onto the armored glove, and in her desperation to keep it on her, Colette inadvertently rammed into the side of the next closest, causing a chain reaction—each empty, enchanted suit of armor knocking over the next, like a chain of domino tiles.
The sound of destruction echoed down the otherwise serene hallway, and within a minute every portrait on the floor was awake and whispering, spreading the news of her folly to whatever people were present.
Exposed and bright red, Colette waved her wand feebly at the armor (nervousness always made her spell-casting worse, and this was no exception) trying desperately to get it up, for the invisibility cloak was her only protection against being caught alone in a place she had no business being. The armor under which the cloak was stuck rolled over, wedging the silvery cloth underneath its metal torso, while the whispering grew louder—the remaining, erect armored guards twisted their heads in unison in the direction of the northern passage (an ominous sign, if ever there was one)—
"Damn!" she cursed—the only one she knew in English.
In her desperation, Colette abandoned her wand, grabbing the edge with both hands and pulling as hard as she could—there was a fumble, but no tear, and she managed to dislodge it and throw it over herself just as a miserable looking-man in a moldering tailcoat rounded the corner, an equally shabby tabby cat at his heels.
"Caught in the act—we have him, my sweet—"
Forgetting she was invisible, Colette shrunk towards the wall in fear. The man peered about, eying the mess of armor lying in a pile on the floor with knowing dislike.
"Gone—still, he can't have given us the slip for long." The cat gave a trill of agreement, and he stroked her ears fondly. "We'll get him. It's only a matter of time before—"
"—What is all this, Mr. Filch?"
The crisp voice startled her, and Colette jumped and turned her head to see from whom it came. A no-nonsense witch in dark green robes and a pointed hat glided over to the carnage Colette had inadvertently wrought from the opposite direction of this Mr. Filch.
"Professor McGonagall—you must've heard—"
"—An utter commotion," she finished for him. "What happened here?"
Her face and manner bore the distinct stamp of authority—whoever she was, clearly she was in a position above that of the man. The wizard—was he a wizard? He had no wand, but surely no muggles would be allowed here—bowed, a little, disappointment and grudging respect mingling freely in his expression.
"It's the work of an intruder, Professor. I got here right after they came crashing down—he must've just gotten away, but I'm confident I can—"
"'He'?" she repeated, raising one eyebrow. Colette guiltily shifted from one foot to another. "You seem to be quite in the know about this business, Argus. Please—make your meaning clear."
Mr. Filch's face darkened.
"I have reason to believe Sirius Black is about the castle." Colette stepped forward—Filch had lowered his voice, and she could not miss this. "And if he is lurking about, it'll be his work, make no mistake."
Professor McGonagall's lip twitched, oddly.
"It may well have been Black—but he is not an intruder in the castle today."
Colette inched closer to the one remaining upright suit of armor. The old caretaker seems just as shocked by the news, and his ruddy face went red with anger.
"He's here?"
"With the headmaster," she said, shortly. "By prearrangement."
He scoffed—then quickly fixed his tone to be more respectful.
"I… apologize, Professor McGonagall. I, er—I didn't know."
Colette's blue eyes widened in shock—Sirius had come to the castle for a meeting with Albus Dumbledore, of all people! Even in France, everybody knew who Dumbledore was—Colette's maternal grandfather had met the wizened old warlock, and even had confessed to grudging respect, in spite of Dumbledore's "shockingly progressive" political views.
But for what purpose were they speaking? Oh, damn her curiosity, it would be impossible not to ask.
"Not at all." McGonagall's nostrils flared slightly. "I was supposed to meet him at the gates myself—but when I walked down, I happened to see Hagrid at the edge of the Dark forest, and he mentioned having run into Black wandering about the grounds himself at his leisure nearly two hours ago."
They exchanged a dark, knowing look.
"How did he get in?" Filch demanded. At his feet his cat mewed—was Colette crazy, or was she sniffing in her direction? "The gate's locked."
Professor McGonagall pursed her lips.
"I am quite as baffled by the matter as you."
Colette didn't think she sounded baffled at all—far from it. She was quite sure this sharp-eyed witch who had been Sirius's head of house—for Colette knew that was who this was, so plainly did she match his description of his schoolboy adversary—knew his number perfectly.
"But you may rest assured, Argus—I have every intention of finding out."
There followed a discussion between the professor and caretaker about the matter of setting right the suits of armor, and Colette found herself breathing a quiet sigh of relief when the former sent the latter on his way, muttering to himself about the things he put up with from her students, and something that sounded suspiciously like "Black and Potter."
Professor McGonagall shook her head and tutted, obviously as glad to see the back of Filch and his cat as Colette was.
The French girl was just about to inch her way away from the armor and back towards the wall, where it would be safe to wait out McGonagall's continued presence in the vicinity, when the older witch—far cleverer and less prone to nervous fits of mediocre magic than she was—waved her wand at the pile of rusted metal and helmets sprawled out over the floor, after which they flew into the air and began setting themselves right.
Unfortunately for Colette, a severed silver arm snagged on the edge of her invisibility cloak, and in an elegant move that many a Muggle magician would have envied, pulled the artifact off her with a flourish, leaving her completely exposed in the middle of the hall.
She didn't even have the wherewithal to run—instead just stood there like a fool, while Professor McGonagall blinked in mild surprise at this young girl appearing out of nowhere before her.
"Well…it would seem Mr. Filch was half-right."
Colette stuttered gibberish and then forced a smile that could only be described as 'desperate'. McGonagall's sharp eyes took her in in one sweep.
"You're not one of mine."
"Ah—I…"
Any hope that she bore that she could pass herself off as a particularly forgettable Hogwarts student to this forbidding looking witch died quickly.
This professor had been caught off-guard by the girl's sudden appearance, clearly—but she was no fool.
Colette gulped.
"Who are you?" Her eyes darted to the invisibility cloak, still hanging of the edge of one of the suits of armor, then back to Colette. "And how long have you been—how did you get into this castle?"
"Er…Je ne parle pas anglais."
McGonagall repeated her question, more insistently—Colette, feeling a little more confident, affected a vacant and confused look and repeated herself.
She had not thought Sirius's advice would be so helpful when he had given it an hour before.
"What if someone should ask me a question I don't know how to answer, or I should get stuck, or trapped—"
"Easy—answer in French." His smile had been easy. "Better still—pretend you can't speak English altogether."
"How is that supposed to help?"
"It'll at least throw them off for a bit. English people don't know how to handle foreigners, as a general rule. Something about living on an island…"
"That strategy didn't help you, I recall, when you tried it."
He smiled and tweaked her ear, affectionately.
"Well, you'll just have to prove how much cleverer than I am you are."
It appeared in this case, she had lucked out—Professor McGonagall had so far not even attempted to stumble through the four or so French phrases she had known her grandmother's English visitors to occasionally use.
"How—did—you—get—here?" McGonagall repeated, with growing irritation.
"Je ne comprends pas ce que tu dis."
"Oh, for pity's sake—I don't care who you are, you shall have to come with me—" McGonagall grabbed her, politely but firmly, by the shoulder. "—Perhaps Filius is still in his office, he could make something of you—"
She allowed herself to be steered in the direction of the southern passage—and even threw a few more gibberish French phrases in for good measure, for now that she was fully committed to the thing, there was something oddly freeing about the act.
"That is quite enough, young woman," Professor McGonagall replied, flustered. "If we are not to understand each other, better we remain silent until a translator can be found."
Colette was just starting to think her luck was turning for the better, for she had bought herself some time to come up with an explanation for her presence in the castle, when she received another nasty shock.
"Oh, Minerva—good! Just the woman I was looking for—!"
The color drained from Colette's face as none other than Professor Slughorn rounded the corner. The portly Slytherin had exchanged his cloak for a smoking jacket and a jolly fez, and the jovial expression on his face slipped into one of surprised puzzlement when he noticed the slight, pale and very familiar witch standing next to his colleague.
"Why it's—Miss Battancourt." He froze. "Merlin's Beard, when did you get here?"
Professor McGonagall's hand dropped from Colette's shoulder.
"You know this girl, Horace?"
"Know her—of course I know her. Eulalie Fawley's granddaughter—I just had a most delightful lunch with her—we left her in the inn, because she had a bout of illness." He looked her over, concerned. "She seems to have recovered splendidly, though! Did you bring her up to the castle, Minerva?"
"Of course I didn't," McGonagall said. "I just found her here by these suits of armor, hiding under this—"
The held out the invisibility cloak for him to inspect. Slughorn gave it a very thorough once-over and remarked with great interest that he'd never seen one of its kind. Colette stood stock-still, grateful that the object was of more interest to them than she was.
Slughorn's gushing over it didn't last long, though. He turned his eyes back on the girl.
"Of course, you couldn't have used this to get through the gates, my dear," Slughorn said, cheerily. "So it doesn't explain how you got up here on your own."
"I have been trying to ascertain that myself," McGonagall snapped, impatiently. "Perhaps you could spare us this continued farce and simply ask her how she did it. I never had your head for French."
Slughorn peered at McGonagall in a manner that suggested he thought her suggestion uncharacteristically dim.
"Goodness, Minerva, why would you need French?"
McGonagall's head snapped around.
"Because—well—it's all the girl's been speaking in."
Slughorn guffawed loudly.
"Curious! Curious indeed."
"Why?"
"Well, she was quite fluent in English at lunch. Chattering away about their shopping and sight-seeing."
Colette was about to stutter out whatever half-baked excuse came to her head, when the only thing that could have made the situation worse happened.
Sirius rounded the opposite corner, and, upon spotting only the back of Colette's head, waved cheerily and shouted—
"Alright, done—sorry to have kept you waiting. If we hurry we still have time to make it up to Gryffindor—"
Sirius Black slid to a halt in front of the trio.
"—Tower…"
All four of them stared at one another.
"Oh. Hello—all. Well, I, erm—"
He met each of their gazes in succession—letting his eyes drift from Colette's mortified terror, to Slughorn's bemused curiosity, though that was marked by the hard shrewdness the potions master always masked well, and at last landed on McGonagall, who had her arms crossed and was giving him a look he knew far too well.
"—This is…quite a party, isn't it?"
There was another pregnant pause—in which Colette tried very hard not to look as though Sirius's presence had any effect on her and failed miserably.
McGonagall's eyes darted between them with a keen penetration which suggested that this was, perhaps, not the first time she had caught Sirius meeting a girl in this castle.
To no one's surprise, it was Slughorn who spoke first.
"I say, Sirius—" Slughorn's eyes followed the same path his colleague's had. "What in the name of Merlin are—what the devil is going on here?"
"I think Black will have to explain that for us all." McGonagall crossed her arms. "Unless his friend would care to, when she's recovered from the illness that rendered her temporarily incapable of speaking English."
Colette's face blushed bright crimson, proving McGonagall's point. Professor Slughorn was, while not quite as quick on the jump as his colleague, fast catching up to her way of thinking.
"His friend?" Horace repeated. "Do they know each—oh. Oh…"
The young witch and wizard shared a look of profound dismay—the criminals caught in the act. The girl turned to Sirius and actually stamped her foot.
"Oh, I told you it wouldn't work!" Colette moaned, giving into the reality of their situation. "What a foolish idea."
"It would've worked, except you chose the wrong witch to try it on." He shot his old head of house a rueful look. "And to think—" Sirius shook his head and laughed. "She wanted to meet you."
"A great compliment, I'm sure," McGonagall replied, dryly, before turning to her colleague. "I believe you were looking for me, Horace, before we stumbled upon this…assignation."
"Never mind that, Minerva, what about—"
"—It seemed rather urgent a moment ago."
The rotund figure was still staring between Colette and Sirius with confusion—though his puzzlement was quickly turning to shrewd understanding.
"Oh—well," he said, distractedly. "It was—about that wine Albus gave you, at the staff party. I was hoping I could—have it. It's a particular favorite of my guests, but I think that—"
She barely controlled the involuntary eye-roll.
"—Of course. I don't begrudge you wine." Her sharp eyes fell back on the two guilty parties. "While I'm fetching it, you can return this girl to her companions—and perhaps bring Black along, so he can explain to them how she came to be in his company."
All humor drained from Sirius's expression in an instant.
"I will do no such thing."
It was such a commanding, forceful—and utterly, deadly serious statement that both McGonagall and Slughorn were momentarily struck dumb.
"I can't go see them, and they can't know I was with her. That's a non-negotiable." He looked between his old professors, all schoolboy bravado absent. "In fact, before this conversation goes any further, I'll need a promise from you both that you won't tell anyone else that we were together, either."
Slughorn had never seen this side of his former pupil, and so he was rather too bemused to be angry at such an absurd demand being placed on him with no provocation. Professor McGonagall, on the other hand, who was not one who took well to being given orders at the best of times, clearly found the imperious tone from one of her most notorious recent charges galling.
"This sounds like a heavy matter, Black," she remarked, tartly.
"Life or death, in fact."
It took all her powers of resistance not to roll her eyes.
"Perhaps you should have considered the gravity of your situation before you sneaked off with this young woman—"
"—I admit my actions were…ill-advised." Sirius tilted his head towards McGonagall, trying to convey in his expression and tone that this was not a mere matter of saving face. "But I'm telling you, Professor McGonagall, I wouldn't insist on secrecy if it wasn't very important."
He considered his next words with care.
"I think even Professor Dumbledore would agree with me."
She considered him for a long moment—her sharps fixed on him with quite a different expression than she had before. Colette wondered if it had something to do with this mention of the mysterious Dumbledore.
The silence was broken by an indulgent chuckle from Slughorn.
"Now, now—Minerva, don't be too hard on him." The potions master smiled. "Many a wizard would just as rather not face his mother in the best of circumstances."
Colette's face flushed crimson, while McGonagall's eyebrows flew straight up into her hairline.
"Horace, am I to take that to mean your guest is—Mrs. Black?"
"And her niece—Narcissa," Horace supplied, cheerfully. "They're all up from London for the day. As I understand it, the girls are there for a holiday visit."
McGonagall rounded on Sirius, who had scowled at the mention of his cousin's presence in the party.
"This young woman is staying with your parents, Black?" Colette rocked back on her heels, nervously. "Is that correct?"
Sirius merely snorted in response, but Colette nodded, meekly.
"I am…Mrs. Malfoy's particular guest."
McGonagall's expression and demeanor changed, at this news—she seemed to be doing some very shrewd thinking.
"I wonder that you chose to keep your appointment with the headmaster today, Black."
In spite of everything, she could not keep that small trace of humor out of her voice. Evidently, Colette thought, watching her companion as he fidgeted in front of his knowing professors, his boyish fear of his mother's wrath was known to more than just his family.
"Knowing—who you might run into, apart from Hagrid."
Sirius sighed and stuck his hands in his pockets—a juvenile gesture more familiar to his teachers than his strange, newly found urgency.
"It's not her I'm worried about—" Sirius stopped himself. "Well, not…mostly."
McGonagall's expression grew grave—she seemed to be viewing Sirius and his request under a very different light, now that she had this new information.
"You do like playing with fire, Black."
"Always have." He jerked his head towards Colette. "But I won't let others get burned for my mistakes."
McGonagall looked between the three others. They were all staring at her, deferring to her judgement—Black in particular, whose eyes burned in his face, so intently was he watching her as he waited for her decision.
Minerva McGonagall let out a long sigh.
"Well—I cannot say I approve of this…but—" She gave Sirius a final, piercing look. "—I think I may have an idea."
Sirius gave Colette a reassuring look and squeezed her hand, gently.
"Just tell us what to do."
A discreet cough from the corner of Mrs. Prewett's dressing room broke the silence.
Lucretia was accustomed to long stretches of quiet where her only sibling was concerned. Orion was not a great talker by nature, and they had passed many a comfortable—if dull—evening in the schoolroom together when they were children where scarcely a word was said between them.
Orion tended to (consciously or unconsciously, Lucretia could not say) ease his way back into the world of the living with some small sign to his companion—the tapping of a finger on a glass, a sigh or sneeze, the shuffling of papers or prodding of a log on the fire with a poker. These sounds always prefigured a mild remark or query as to some point in his reading.
Mrs. Prewett had the idea that this tendency came from some long-held notion of Orion's that to speak without giving advance warning was a great bother and imposition to those around one.
It would have to be an idea that came from Melania—for no one could say either she or their father had ever waited for a 'by-your-leave' for whatever passing remark came into their head, rash or no.
So it was, that, upon hearing the tell-tale cough, she expected within five seconds or so to finally have some verbal clue as to what had brought him to her home on this miserable Saturday afternoon.
"Do you think I—shut my eyes to the truth?"
Lucretia lowered her ivory hairbrush to the armoire slowly.
For all his predictability, that was the last thing she would have expected to spring from his lips.
Mrs. Prewett looked up in the mirror and towards her brother, sitting inconspicuously in the corner of her dressing room on a chair she usually flung her dressing gown and discarded gowns. He had been brooding there silently for almost twenty minutes, but had obviously given up on waiting for her to ask him what it was that had brought him so far out of his way.
Clearly he was in a strange mood. She could count on one hand the number of times he had ever visited her at home—and never without prearrangement.
"What an extraordinary question!" She rolled the pot of cream from which she had been applying color to her cheeks between her fingers. "No more than most people. I daresay less than many."
Orion let out a sigh of impatience.
"I'm serious, Lucretia."
"So am I!"
She turned around in her chair to face him.
"Everyone tells lies to themselves, 'Rion. It's only a matter of how good one is at making them stick."
She expected Orion to argue with her, but instead he only slouched lower in his chair, brooding over her words.
"Was that accusation leveled at you today, perchance?"
He glanced up at her, and the flash of his eyes was more telling than words.
"In a—manner of speaking."
Lucretia returned to the business of fixing her hair. Orion was not one to let an idle comment bother him, and if she was not certain that Arcturus would never say such a thing, she was tempted to ask if it was their father who had accused him of it.
Honesty was not a virtue that Arcturus—or indeed, the Black clan writ large—had ever held in very high esteem.
"Well, if it came from that son of yours, I must say—he's a fine one to talk about lies. He tells himself a great deal more than most." She glanced over her shoulder—Orion was hanging on her words, though trying in vain not to let her see it. "The poor boy's begun to believe his own tall tales."
"To which in particular do you refer?"
At this deliberately offhanded remark, his sister gave a wicked smile.
"Those of his supposed conquests, for one." She watched the flicker of surprise in 'Rion's face and allowed her grin to widen. "I used to think he was all Burgie—now I see there's a great deal more of you in him than I realized. He's got the 'noble martyr' streak in him a mile long," she added, before he could ask what flattering comparison she was about to draw between himself and his errant son.
"And of course, Sirius is forever trying to ape you in hiding how he feels, and being cool and detached, though he's dreadful at it—he'll take any bait thrown at him." She turned in her seat. "I'm afraid he did not inherit that particular talent of yours."
She had expected this light-hearted rib at Sirius to cheer him up, but it had the opposite effect. If she had been a little less flighty in disposition, Mrs. Prewett would have realized that it was her last words which had struck the nerve that caused him to shudder and recoil.
"Am I—so good at hiding how I feel?"
This intensely sincere question caused Lucretia to feel an alarming pang in her chest. There was nothing rhetorical about it, and though he never raised his voice or changed his steady intonation, the underscore of deep urgency with which Orion asked was something she was unused to hearing from her younger brother.
As she often did when confronted with the uncomfortable side of life, Lucretia chose to ignore it.
"Not from me. Of course, I have known you the longest. I daresay most people wouldn't be able to tell."
He fell silent again, mien gloomy and more troubled than it had been before—if that was possible. For Lucretia, for whom conversation must always be directed in the cause of lightening rather than burdening the conversant parties with troubles, this was an exceedingly vexing state of affairs.
She tilted her head, and considered another tact to take.
"Of course, sometimes Sob hits on it, and I think I see a glimpse of the thing, but I'm sure it's quite by accident—not at all studied or deliberate, and if one can't exhibit it on command, what good is it for, really?"
"What in the name of Salazar Slytherin are you blathering on about, Lucy?" Orion demanded, churlishly. "What is this 'it' you keep talking about?"
Lucretia preferred an irritable brother to one drawn so completely into himself, so she only smiled serenely at his scowl.
"Oh, you know, Orion—the Black mask."
Her brother stared at her for a long while—having no apparent familiarity with this turn of phrase, or to what it referred, he was struck momentarily dumb. Eventually, however, when Lucretia was less than forthcoming, he was compelled to demand she explain herself more clearly.
"It's that special trick of the family—well, I should say, some of the family. You must know what I'm speaking of, for you're by far and away the best at it of the lot of us."
She described to him, in frank language, her theory that it was this singular Black trait—to wipe all emotion and affect the deepest depths of inscrutability to the world and, occasionally, to each other—that had always given the house its unique edge.
"I've never heard of anything of the kind."
"Well, you know me. I like to name things—you know what I'm talking about, in any case." She shrugged. "My only point was that you have perfected the art of self-concealment—you're even better than Papa at that trick."
Lucretia tapped her chin, circumspectly.
"You know, I think that's the real reason other wizards rarely warm up to you, 'Rion. They never know what you really think—and probably assume the worst."
"They aren't the only ones that do, apparently," he said, voice heavy. "Apparently my own sons cannot make me out."
Lucretia pricked her ears at this—his bitterness was unmistakeable, though she was still at a loss for the exact source of it. Orion had been like this, to greater or lesser extent, since the night of Papa's party—no, even earlier than that. When had this gloomy pall settled over him?
If she didn't know the exact origin, she at least knew which two young wizards were helping it along.
"Oh, I think Regulus can—at least better than Sirius." She looked up at him. "He's got a talent for it himself—soon enough he'll outstrip you."
Orion raised his eyes to her, and she knew at once what he was going to ask.
"And my wife?"
Mrs. Prewett laughed.
"As she didn't realize you were in love with her for six years, I very much doubt it."
The expression that flitted across his face—the glint in his eye before those even, handsome features slid back into a blank, and he fell back into that brooding silence again—was not one that even Lucretia, who believed she knew him best, recognized.
"Ah—here—the bottle of claret that Horace wanted to—requisition."
Professor McGonagall pulled the liquor off a shelf above her desk. The fire in the grate crackled merrily, while a stack of term papers, half-graded, lay strewn about the table, next to the remains of the Transfiguration professor's afternoon tea.
It was far more relaxed than Sirius had ever seen this room. Of course, he'd never spent the Christmas holiday at school, so he had never seen how she spent it.
Under different circumstances it would almost have been cheery.
"Do you mind, Miss Battancourt?" McGonagall asked the girl, over her shoulder, as she handed the bottle back.
Colette accepted it into her trembling hands and stuttered out a reply.
"Of—of course not, professeure."
"Thank you." She turned her dark eyes on the young man. "I trust, Black, that your mother's marked preference does merit this being taken from my private stores. I was rather looking forward to drinking it myself."
"Provided I'm not the one who has to take it to her, I will refrain from comment."
Her dark eyes glanced up from the parchment she had picked up from the desk to read.
"I find it difficult to imagine you doing anything of the kind."
Sirius gave Colette a sideways look, wondering if, in this moment, she felt as much like a child who had been called to the headmistress's office as he did. He was glad he wasn't in a position to ask.
Surely it couldn't be worse than the profound embarrassment they had both felt at Slughorn's comments once he had realized what was going on—or what he thought was going on.
("I quite understand preferring this handsome young devil's company to a broken-down duffer like myself," Slughorn had chortled, immune to the mortification on the girl's face. "But you didn't have to pretend to be ill, did you, Colette? That seems a bit extreme." "That's not, you're totally misreading the—" "And you, Sirius—you rascal—" The wink and aggressive nudge in the stomach made it all so much worse. "Quite a way of getting around your mother's chaperonage rules.")
Utterly mortifying.
"Now, young woman—" McGonagall drew him back to the present with a brisk clap of her hands. Sirius noticed, with some resentment, that she still had James's invisibility cloak tucked firmly beneath one arm. "If you follow me, I will take you to Professor Slughorn's study and your…friends. Black—" She turned back in Sirius's direction. "I wanted a word. Please wait here."
Well, it's not as thought you've given me a choice—you know I won't leave without that cloak you're holding hostage.
When they'd set out from Hogsmeade, this had not been how he'd imagined saying goodbye to Colette—with her, standing in front of the old battle-ax in the doorway, looking so uncertain and lost, while he stared at her stupidly next to a tartan biscuit tin from across the room.
"Now's—not a great time."
"Have a biscuit while you wait. Make yourself comfortable."
"But—" One look from her and he fell silent. Better not to press his luck—she had said she would help them, and Sirius knew better than to test her resolve on this point. "Fine."
He walked over to Colette, determined at least to shake her hand goodbye. McGonagall looming over her shoulder certainly took the romance out of things.
"I had a good time today."
There were many other things he could have said—that he wanted to say—but in mixed company, he would have to hope his eyes communicated the rest.
"So did—" She stopped short, then lowered her voice. "When will I get to see you again?"
McGonagall cleared her throat. Sirius lifted up Colette's hand and gave it a firm squeeze and solemn shake.
"I'll, erm—be in touch."
Colette returned the smile, reluctantly, and turned towards the door. Sirius avoided looking in his old professor's direction as she led Colette Battancourt out into the hall.
Twenty excruciating minutes passed before McGonagall returned—this time, alone.
"Well?" Sirius stood up. "How did it come off?"
Minerva shut the door behind her and walked over to him.
"Horace Slughorn missed his calling on the stage," she remarked, wearily. "I'm starting to think he's acting far more credulous than he is all the time, in fact."
Sirius snorted and shoved his hands in his pockets.
"He is head of Slytherin." A look of understanding passed between them. "They bought it, then."
"As far as I could tell. I'm sure you'd be able to judge far better than I."
Sirius collapsed back into his chair. He ran his fingers through his hair and let out a sigh—of relief and frustration both.
"Then…I guess I'm in both your debts, now."
McGonagall circled her desk and sat behind it, a rare smile of amusement gracing her normally stern features.
"Horace is far more likely to prevail upon you to repay him, of course."
There followed a short, awkward silence.
"—Look, I know what you're going to say, and—"
"Are you in some sort of trouble, Black?"
Sirius flushed and fell silent. It was not at all what he had 'known' she would say—not what he expected from her, and the low tone of concern, laced with a surprising gentleness, disarmed him.
"Why would you ask me that?"
"Call it a hunch." McGonagall removed her spectacles and polished them with a small cloth from her desk. "Three years ago you impressed upon me in the most strident terms your determination to have nothing to do with your family ever again."
Sirius stuck his elbow on the edge of her desk and rested his chin impudently upon it. Hunch his arse. She put her glasses back on, and through them, studied her old pupil carefully.
"Have you spoken to Dumbledore?"
"About you? No." The eyes behind her spectacles flashed with irritation. "I can only imagine what the nature of your meeting today was—he was opaque on the subject when I inquired. But it is not my place to pry into the private affairs of the headmaster, in any case."
"Just to be a bit nosy about mine."
She coughed and pressed him, through gritted teeth, to have a biscuit. As it didn't seem like she would give him the cloak back until he played her game, Sirius took one. They were ginger-snaps, and, though not his favorite, he did enjoy the peppery sweetness of the treat—he even allowed her to push a cup of tea towards him as well, from the silver service she had set out for herself, before the sound of Colette's destruction had dislodged her from her sanctuary.
"To answer your first question—" He nibbled the corner of the biscuit. "No more than the usual amount."
"In other words, a great deal."
"Look, what's this about?" He pushed his cup away. "Why're you taking such an interest? You never have before."
She hesitated.
"I—happened to run into your father the day before yesterday."
Sirius sighed and dropped the biscuit into his tea. Of course. Of course she had.
"Oh. Well. I'm so sorry for your misfortune."
"You're a bit old for sarcasm, Sirius." She shook her head. "And this is no laughing matter."
She had never called him by his Christian name in all the years she'd known him—and it did the trick of lowering the wall he'd raised to defend himself from her line of questions.
"What did he say to you?"
"Enough that I was left concerned for your welfare." He mumbled a few choice curses under his breath. "Believe it or not, Black, I want to help you—and I may even be in a position to do so."
"And what do you think you can do for me, exactly?"
She lost her patience.
"If you have dabbled in illegal transfiguration during your time living in this castle—" Her eyes narrowed. "—As your former professor and head of house, a great deal, I should think."
He sat up straight, suddenly alert again. Sirius didn't have time to marvel at her knowing as much as that—and what could have gotten into Orion's head, to play such a dangerous game with her—
But no. McGonagall couldn't know the truth of what they'd done—she would have confronted him already, if she did. And he could not imagine Orion giving away his trump card so recklessly.
Dad's not me.
So he must've hinted at just enough to get her going in the right direction. Great. Sirius rubbed his temples, already feeling the headache setting in. As if life was complicated enough as it was.
"I know you think you can help, but—trust me—if you get involved, it will only—"
"—Only what?"
"Make things more—muddled. Worse."
"How so?"
He practically growled in frustration as he stood up.
"Because if you knew the truth you'd…be angry with me, and I'd just as soon there was one person in my life whose opinion mattered to me that wasn't disappointed or pissed off."
This impassioned—if crude—speech, while not outwardly moving Professor McGonagall, at least did not cause her to lose her temper with him, as such outbursts had in years gone by.
She lowered her own cup to her saucer and placed it back down on the desk.
"You are one of the most gifted students I have ever had, Black—but you never allow anyone to help you. Why is that?"
He laughed, bitterly.
"I've realized if you don't get your hopes up, you won't be disappointed."
A noise came out of her he didn't recognize for a moment—until he realized it was a laugh. A sad laugh, one of pity.
"You also don't make things easy for yourself." She stood up again—fixing him with a shrewd look. "This reluctance to confide your troubles wouldn't have anything to do with three co-conspirators, would it?"
A slow grin came over his face.
"I don't know to whom you're referring."
She held the invisibility cloak up, as if this was all the proof she needed of wrongdoing.
"I will eventually need that back," Sirius said, in a subdued voice. "But if you're planning on holding it hostage until I 'sing like a canary', I'll leave it here and come back later, when I find you in a more equitable mood."
He made a movement towards the door, and, to Sirius's surprise, McGonagall—wearing the look of severe disapproval she was known to grace when in his company—pulled the cloak out from under her arm and stretched out the hand holding it towards him.
"This does explain a few things." Her eyes flashed behind her spectacles. "Please return it to James, with my…regards."
"I'll pass them on if I see him. We're not really—speaking, at the moment."
She raised both eyebrows and somehow seemed to say more with that than any lecture could have.
Sirius paused at the door.
"Look, I'll—I'll think about your offer, alright?"
She nodded, and he hesitated again.
"Was there something else, Black?"
He smothered the grin he was sure she would tell him was self-satisfied.
"Sorry, it's just—I thought you might ask about—you know."
Professor McGonagall gave her old pupil a withering look.
"Your personal affairs, are, happily—none of mine." Sirius snorted, and, since she realized he was fishing for it, she decided to take the bait.
"But if it matters to you…I thought she seemed a very nice, sensible and intelligent sort of girl."
"Once you got past the part where she pretended not to understand English, to cover up that she'd sneaked in with me."
Her nostrils flared, but not without humor.
"She even managed to keep the secret of how the two of you got in the grounds." McGonagall smiled and turned back to her now tepid cup of tea. "You have a profound influence, clearly."
He laughed, uneasily, at the thought. That was the last thing Colette needed, him rubbing off on her.
"Let's hope not, for her sake."
"Have a good Christmas, Black. I hope to see more of you in the new year, when you've…had a little time to think the matter over."
Sirius saluted her and walked out the door.
He quickly tucked the Potter family heirloom into his bag, a new spring in his step. By all rights he should have put it back on immediately—but the one-eyed witch was an easy enough statue to get to from McGonagall's office, and he was not one to linger and press his luck.
"Sirius, my boy—what luck catching you."
He froze. Of course, it didn't help if other people had all the luck to begin with.
Sirius's instant reaction to Professor Slughorn appearing (had he been waiting outside of McGonagall's office?) was an exaggerated head movement from side-to-side, to see if there was any pillars to hide behind.
Slughorn chuckled knowingly.
"Nothing to worry about, my boy. It's safe. They left by Floo from my office just a few minutes ago—" He nudged Sirius. "And your mother nary the wiser about young Colette's activities this afternoon with a certain young gentleman."
Inwardly Sirius grimaced, but he put on a brave and what he hoped seemed an appropriately ingratiating expression, nodded, and assured his old teacher of his gratitude in aiding in this harmless little deception.
"You have Minerva to thank as much as me, my boy. Never thought she had it in her—a soft heart, after all."
He tried to hide his eye-roll. Sirius supposed Slughorn thinking it was all some clandestine romance being stymied by a pureblood matron's draconian rules was a small price to pay for keeping Narcissa from learning what her new friend was really up to.
These close shaves of his were inching their way towards his throat by the day.
Maybe Remus is right about me and risks. When someone else might get hurt, they seemed—far less worth it.
"I owe you both, I guess," he said, in an echo of his words to her. "A great deal."
"Think nothing of it, my boy." Slughorn clapped him on the shoulder. "In my heart I am romantic."
And you'll waste no time trying to get something out of this, will you?
Slughorn wrapped one meaty hand around Sirius's shoulder and began steering him up the stairs.
"You know, Sirius—I had been thinking of you just the other day. I happened to see your father, and he put you in mind—spitting image of him at that age! But you are an elusive young man." Under the joviality, his eyes shone with shrewd cunning. "I never hear from you! And such a bright, talented boy—from a family for whom I've always had such a soft spot—" Oh yes, here he goes. "—Well, whatever you're up to, seems a criminal waste of your talents. I only want to help you."
Sirius stopped dead.
Slughorn shuffled a few steps ahead before he realized that his companion had not remained in step with him.
Sirius looked up, face as alert as a gundog's. A thought—a crazy, wonderful, very simple, neat and tidy thought—had overtaken him.
"You know, professor, actually—" He felt his heartbeat accelerate, and then that odd calm that comes over one when a decision has been made. "There is something I really could use your help with."
Slughorn's mouth opened, slightly—Sirius had always held him at arm's length, and he was quite in the habit of referring to the young Black heir as 'the one who got away', something Sirius had been told, to his immense amusement, by Lily.
No doubt he thought he'd swallowed Felix Felicis by mistake.
"Oh? What is this about?"
To be twice in debt to Horace Slughorn in the same day was to court disaster, but Sirius found he didn't care much. What did he have to lose, at this point?
If she was on the scent already, he might not have the luxury of time, anyway.
"Do you have some time now to discuss it? It's a bit—sensitive—perhaps we can talk it over a drink?"
At least, he thought, as they trundled off in the direction of the study so recently vacated by his mother, Slughorn was not likely to shout at him.
And this would take care of more than one problem hanging over him.
Narcissa had long-since trained herself not to wrinkle her nose—a most ungraceful, unladylike habit from the schoolroom!—but halfway through this dinner she was quite tempted to grimace with frustration, to stick her tongue out in dismay.
Her friend was not performing as she should be.
The charming and vivacious girl of lunchtime was gone, replaced by this pale stranger sitting across the table. Mrs. Malfoy would have chocked it up to Colette's natural shyness and modesty, except the way her friend stared pensively into her plate of beef bourguignon was moody and taciturn, more lost in thought than silently attentive.
Of course, Narcissa thought, as she frowned and cut a carrot, daintily—considering this was the only dinner they would have, just the four of them, and probably her great chance to make an impression on her prospective father-in-law, Colette was making no effort to show off her many natural charms.
Oh well—Cissy to the rescue. She would set all that to rights.
"You haven't yet asked Colette about her day, Uncle."
Orion carefully patted his mouth with the serviette and lowered his fork to his plate.
"I wasn't aware Miss Battancourt's day was any different from yours."
"Well, that's because you didn't ask." Narcissa smiled across the table at her friend. "She had quite the adventure."
Colette snapped out of her daydream and looked up, her eyes darting to her host.
"Oh?" Narcissa's uncle addressed her directly. "Did you now, girl? Pray tell."
Though Mrs. Malfoy thought Colette's modesty was one of her most becoming features, the French witch's eyes were so pretty that Narcissa wished she'd turn them up from the tablecloth, for pity's sake!
What did she have to be embarrassed about?
"There was…no adventure."
"She was separated from us for a while," Narcissa pressed. "And had to find her way to the castle on her own. I'd say that counts."
Mr. Black's eyes flitted to his wife—who at that moment decided to insert herself into the exchange.
"Miss Battancourt had a turn—" Walburga informed him. "A dizzy spell in the restaurant at lunch, and so we left her behind to rest, while we went up to the castle."
"You left her in an inn—without a chaperone?"
Narcissa was surprised to hear the obvious irritation in her uncle's voice. She couldn't hazard a guess as to the cause—Orion had never been one to take an interest in matters of feminine protocol before now.
"She was perfectly well looked after—" Walburga fluttered. "By the proprietress."
"How ill were you?" Orion demanded, turning back to Colette. "Did you have to lie down?"
"For—a little while."
He scraped up the rest of his beef with unnecessary force. The three women watched him chew the last of his meal and swallow with an aggressiveness that bespoke irritation.
Narcissa's aunt must've known the cause of his mood—though she remained impassive, staring down her husband with a knowing patience.
Women had to develop these stratagems, Cissy thought, for men could be so strange, sometimes!
"How extraordinary that you should feel as ill as all that, and my wife did not immediately floo you back to Grimmauld Place," Mr. Black remarked, his voice dripping with irony—though it was clearly all directed towards Walburga, who had chosen that moment to become very interested with smoothing the uncreased tablecloth.
"I'm sure she had her reasons, of course."
Walburga cut her potato into fours and neatly popped them in her mouth, one-by-one, before answering him.
"It was just a minor dizzy spell. The innkeeper was obliging enough—and the girl recovered herself, as you can see, and rejoined us shortly."
"How shortly?"
"Oh—we were having such a fascinating conversation with Professor Slughorn, I really couldn't tell you. I can't keep track of the time in such moments." She shrugged, airily, as if it was of no consequence—utterly immune to the canny look her husband was shooting her across a tureen of peas. "Soon enough."
It had been at least two hours, by Cissy's estimation, but this seemed a poor time to point it out.
"Anyway. A member of staff saw her in the Three Broomsticks, recovered, and took the liberty of walking her up to the castle."
"Who was it?"
A distinct chilliness came over Narcissa's favorite aunt.
"The—transfiguration professor," Walburga answered, stiffly.
There was a telling pause, just then. Orion gave his niece's friend an unfathomable look.
"Oh. Well—in that case, it was all perfectly respectable, as my wife has said." He surveyed Colette with mild curiosity. "Though—hardly what I would describe as an 'adventure.' Unless Miss Battancourt has a very different definition of the word."
There was some humor lingering behind this, of the dry sort her uncle sometimes carelessly employed, almost as an afterthought to himself. Colette watched him closely, and, Narcissa was pleased to note, did not seem put-off by her host's mercurial style of conversation.
"I trust she didn't allow you to wander."
Colette merely nodded—for once unblushing.
Narcissa sniffed.
"I was telling Colette while we were dressing for dinner not to judge us too harshly on her account."
"Minerva McGonagall is—" Mr. Black hesitated. "—Well-respected enough. Some even consider her one of the great witches of her day."
"I don't think her so great."
Narcissa bore no love for her former professor or the subject of transfiguration, and did not bother hiding the fact. It was a well-known that Minerva McGonagall was not their sort of witch, and she had spent at least ten minutes when they were fixing their hair before they came down abusing her to Colette.
She would never forget being told that if she spent less time looking at herself in the glass and more time practicing her wand movements, not only would her marks improve—so would her vanity.
"Celia Fawcett told me her father was a Presbyterian Minister, of all things." Narcissa laughed. "Can you imagine?"
Aunt Walburga didn't hide her contempt, but would not grace the mere subject of Professor McGonagall with anything more than a sniff and remark to the effect that this vulgar fact was very unsurprising.
"I liked her."
The other three all turned their heads to stare at Colette in unison.
Aunt Walburga grew very still, the way she always did when she was suppressing her anger at something. Cissy tried to signal with a shake of her head that this was not the path her friend should tread—but it was too late.
"Did you?" Orion asked—both genuinely surprised and interested. "What for?"
Colette fiddled with her fork, visibly uncomfortably at the prospect of having to defend her opinion, but her voice remained steady.
"She—seemed a very serious sort of person, who is very competent in her subject, and admired for it by her pupils."
"Well put," he said, taking a sip from his wine. "What an interesting talk you must have had with—Professor McGonagall, as you were winding your way to the castle, to have picked up on all that. She did talk herself up."
At this Colette did color a little.
"I suppose you…you know her, Monsieur Black."
Narcissa pinched her under the table. Colette winced but kept her eyes on her host—her expression intent.
Orion considered his answer for a moment.
"A little."
"She is a—a head of house, like Professor Slughorn, is she not?"
Narcissa's fingers froze on the stem of her water goblet.
How could she have not thought to warn Colette what a bad idea this turn in conversation was—that she had gone from a worn path right into the lion's den, but then her uncle merely nodded and confirmed that yes, this was the case, she was a head of house, just as Slughorn was.
"No doubt he provided you with ample contrast to the seriousness in her you apparently admire so."
He smiled, thinly.
"They seem very different."
"Like chalk and cheese."
Colette grabbed the stem of her wine glass, as if to steady her nerves.
"She—she is a little harder on her students than he is, I think." She tapped the side of the crystal, then looked up again. "Stricter."
"I have no doubt that is the case." He lay his fork neatly on the edge of the china plate. "Though whether it is by temperament or necessity is less certain."
His voice grew cold cold—but Colette wouldn't be deterred.
"Perhaps…some pupils are better suited to strictness than indulgence."
"No doubt." Orion swirled his glass of wine. "And some are hopeless causes altogether."
The girl's face fell.
"I don't believe anyone a hopeless cause, sir," she said, gently. "It is never too late to reform."
"You think so?" He took a sip of the wine. "My father says the character is fixed at the age of twelve and never changes after."
He paused, as if daring her to contradict his redoubtable father. The girl didn't cower at the look, though, or tremble, as Narcissa might've expected her to—in fact, there was a trace of melancholy on her delicate features that made her seem older than she was.
"What would you say to that, Miss Battancourt?"
"It would be easier for you to change than your father—" Colette said, in a very quiet voice. "And easier still if he gave you a reason to."
Her uncle's expression at this extraordinary impertinence was unfathomable—he looked at Colette silently for a long while, so long that Cissy thought he might explode in anger—but then, abruptly, he changed the subject to the girls' plans for the next evening.
The subject of Minerva McGonagall did not come up again.
It weighed on her, though, and so Narcissa brought the matter up with her friend later, when they were preparing for bed.
"You were acting so odd at dinner—very forward—unlike yourself."
Colette fiddled with the frayed edge of her nightgown.
"Your uncle didn't mind," she said, looking up into the mirror. Narcissa shot her a reproachful look as she patted on her eye-cream.
"Didn't I tell you to keep quiet and demure?"
"You said I must come out of my shell," Colette pointed out. "Stand out more."
Narcissa turned in her seat—a Pygmalion who had lost control of her pupil, if she was already talking back like this so soon after she'd taken the poor witch under her wing.
"With Rabastan and all the rest of our friends." She waved her wand, and her blond hair twisted up into an elegant knot at the base of her head. "Not with my uncle. He doesn't like women who speak their minds or—give opinions."
"Doesn't he?" Colette mumbled, twisting her braid around her finger. "He married your aunt."
Narcissa flushed.
"Insolence is unbecoming in a witch, Colette," she said, coldly. "And—and anyway, that's completely different. Aunt Walburga is an established woman of high-standing, whom I'm sure wasn't at all like that when she was our age."
"If you say so," the French girl sighed.
Narcissa wasn't sure she liked this new side of her friend that had come out, and so she decided not to confide—for now—her instinct that, in spite of all his misgivings, her uncle had, in his own way, been taken with Colette at dinner. She had provided him with an object of interest outside his head, which was a rare feat indeed.
But better the girl not get too proud and haughty, and think she could manage the task of putting her best foot forward with Narcissa's family all on her own.
She looked so troubled, though—and as Narcissa was not cruel by nature, she did not want to send her to bed looking so.
"When you're married to my cousin and mistress of this house, you can offer all the opinions you want."
Mrs. Malfoy couldn't help but be a tad gratified by the modest blush her remark elicited. Whatever gains in confidence her French friend's visit to Britain had brought, at least some traces of the uncertain, naive witch that Cissy had first taken such a liking to remained.
She wanted to style Colette in her image, after all—but her aim was in molding the perfect companion, not in setting up a rival to herself.
It wouldn't do at all for the girl to get ideas above her station—and forget who it was that had taken her under her wing in the first place.
Peter didn't like Malfoy.
He found liking had little to do with the line of work he'd found himself in, in any case—but Malfoy was by far the easiest of his contacts to deal with. One knew where one stood with Lucius, more or less. He might've been dangerous, but it was the predictable sort of danger—like the rise and fall of a heavy piece of machinery—you always knew when to take your chances with him. He remembered him at school, from the few years their time had overlapped. Even at sixteen he'd been an imposing, sly figure, forever looking down his nose and every first year and non-Slytherin he believed "beneath himself."
Back then, Peter believed himself one of them, and he'd been terrified of him.
That was before Malfoy was coming to him for information.
"You lied to me."
Peter looked up from his untouched pint and squinted across the dimly-lit table that separated them. The bar was empty, or nearly so. He had been surprised when Lucius asked to meet him here. Pettigrew wouldn't have expected Malfoy to dignify as ordinary a pub as the Market Arms—until he realized that the idea of being seen with Peter in any place where he might be recognized by someone he knew was far more abhorrent to Malfoy than their rustic surroundings.
"I—I don't know what you mean."
"That little tip-off you gave me the other night," Lucius drawled, softly. "You said you got it from a contact at the Ministry."
Peter sucked in a breath and went very still—a trick he'd learned from years of trailing after James and Sirius. Next to them, he was small and went unnoticed, so long as he didn't move.
Unfortunately, he wasn't next to them, anymore.
"I did—"
"—You got it from your friend," Malfoy interrupted, coolly. "The second man—the one who came with Longbottom."
Peter bit his lip, his eyes darted involuntarily towards the door—a reflexive motion. The first thing he looked for upon entering any room was an escape route.
"The one you claimed not to know the identity of."
In spite of his great fear of Malfoy—for he was still afraid of him, as he had been as an eleven-year-old Gryffindor—Peter felt a stirring of indignance at this.
"You wouldn't have known they were coming at all if I—if I hadn't told you—"
"—Half of what you knew." Lucius's lip curled. "I wonder…if you haven't yet decided where your loyalties lie, Pettigrew."
The effect of Malfoy's cold eyes narrowed in his direction was immediate—Peter shrank back in his chair.
His mind raced—once he knew they'd both gotten away, Peter had not dreamed Lucius would discover what he'd deliberately concealed. Malfoy thought it had been out of a lingering sense of loyalty to Sirius that he had kept his friend's involvement in the mission that night to himself—well, perhaps that lingering sentiment had played some small role, but it had certainly not been a conscious one.
He was no fool. Moody and Dumbledore would start to realize information from the Order was leaking, and if he didn't play his cards right, this new arrangement would come to an ignominious end.
The Dark Lord didn't offer second chances.
"I—I couldn't give you everything," he hissed, in an undertone. "They—they would have traced it back to me."
Malfoy leaned back in his chair and considered his companion.
"I wonder if you would speak in this manner if he was before you."
Peter trembled at the idea of it.
"He—he knows I have a position to protect. I have valuable—"
"An informant with Ministry contacts has value." Malfoy paused. "A well-informed lackey who stumbles upon interesting scraps thrown to him by unthinking dullards—less so."
Lucius's look turned sly.
"One wonders—what it is you're truly protecting."
Peter's fingers, sweaty from nerves, slipped on the tankard he tried to grasp.
"Of course…your information may still be of use to me."
"What—" Peter wheezed, breathlessly. "What do you want to know?'
"Who sent them." Malfoy turned a coin over between his fingers. "How they knew to come."
Peter bit his thumb—was Malfoy accusing him of double-dealing? No, that couldn't be…Lucius never told him anything beyond what was strictly necessary.
It was a decidedly one-way relationship, hitherto a cause of no small resentment—but now, very useful for preserving his position.
He could not be guilty of leaking what he didn't know in the first place.
"Is the Ministry watching me, Pettigrew?"
"The plan—it was Dumbledore's plan. The information, it—it came from Dumbledore."
All it had taken was that one casual remark from Sirius about how the Hog's Head would be freezing this time of year—and he had known to follow him, had seen Albus Dumbledore meet Frank and Sirius, had even managed to hear enough of the conversation to glean where they were going in time to get the information back to Malfoy.
Easy to blend in. The Hog's Head was, after all, known for its extraordinary rodent problem.
Lucius looked displeased—but unsurprised—at this news.
"Who told Dumbledore?"
"He has ways of knowing things," Peter said—something he knew to be true, but also thought it extremely prudent to point out now, when his own trustworthiness was under scrutiny. "He finds them out."
"From individuals he trusts."
Lucius pondered this problem for a long while. Peter watched him with trepidation. He may have found Malfoy easier to deal with than the alternative, but he was still fundamentally dangerous.
"Your friend is almost as good at getting out of tight corners as you are, Pettigrew," Malfoy remarked, breaking the silence. "He escaped my house undetected that night. No one saw him leave—he vanished without a trace."
It obviously pained Malfoy to admit this fact. Lucius seemed far more surprised at it than Peter was.
"He's had a lot of practice getting away," Peter remarked, honestly. "At school and—and he used to sneak in and out of his parents' house in London over the hols."
A shadow crossed over Malfoy's face at this innocuous remark.
"Or at least—" Peter slumped in his seat. "He used to brag he did."
Malfoy gave him a hard look.
"Do you know how he got out that night?"
Knowing Sirius, there were any number of possibilities. He was clever and—unlike Malfoy—always unpredictable. Sirius could improvise.
He was the friend Peter feared most—he always had.
"No," he answered, honestly.
Malfoy didn't need to know that he was being shut out from whatever was going on with James and Remus and Sirius—and he was the last one who would volunteer it.
"I believe he may have had help escaping."
Peter laughed, nervously.
"W-who would have helped him?"
"Oh…someone from his family, I expect," Lucius remarked, casually. "They were all there. It was a celebration of his grandfather's birthday."
Peter tried not to let his surprise show as Malfoy explained that his wife had had her extended family over for a visit that night—including Sirius's parents. When Lucius asked him how likely his father or mother smuggling Sirius out of the house was, he actually laughed.
"He hasn't seen them in years—and anyway, they cast him off when he ran away."
"Are you so sure?"
Pettigrew frowned and chewed his lip—what was Malfoy driving at? Did he know something Peter didn't? Sirius hated his family, never even mentioned them, if he could help it. As far as he was concerned, Lily and James and Remus—and perhaps, on good days, even Peter—they were Sirius's family.
But if he'd seen them all again, even while he was in disguise—was that the cause of Sirius's strange behavior, these past few days?
No—it had started well before the night of the party at Malfoy Manor.
"Well, the only one I can think of is—his—his brother might've helped him get out."
Malfoy's eyes flickered with surprise.
"Why would you say that?"
"Sirius always used to say his brother would cover for him, just to keep their mother from getting upset." Peter chewed his thumbnail. "If he had been caught and exposed, with all his family there, well—it would have caused quite a scene, wouldn't it've?"
"It certainly would have."
"I could s-see Regulus doing it, just to spare them—grudgingly."
Malfoy weighed this new angle carefully.
"It couldn't have been him. Regulus was the only Black not present." Malfoy didn't provide an explanation for this absence, and Peter didn't have the nerve to ask. "Find out how your friend did it, Pettigrew—help or no."
"Or—what?"
"Or, upon his return, I'll tell the Dark Lord of your unfortunate—lapse." Malfoy smiled, grimly. "You wouldn't want him thinking you do this sort of thing all the time, would you?"
Peter swallowed the rest of the tankard—hardly able to taste his ale. He sputtered out a reply—something about finding out before Christmas. He might've preferred Malfoy to the alternative, but that didn't mean he was the sort of man Peter was willing to risk crossing.
Anyway—he was as curious to know the answer to that question as Lucius was.
And he couldn't help thinking that Regulus Black's absence from these events was beginning to weigh on Malfoy just as heavily as Sirius's presence was.
That would be worth looking into, as well.
"How was your day?"
Walburga looked up from her dressing table and into the mirror. Her husband stood at the threshold, half in shadows—a ghostly figure, visible in the glass's reflection. He was so quiet by nature, she wondered how long he'd been standing there, watching her as she brushed her hair.
"I believe you already asked me that question at dinner."
The ghost emerged from the shadows and shut the door behind him.
"That was in mixed company."
Walburga dragged the brush through her long, dark hair—now streaked with a grey that could no longer be concealed by the dim light of the lamps—steady, firm strokes—until she felt a gentle grasp on her wrist, and the object pulled from her hand.
She looked up in the mirror again, to find his handsome, drawn face now hovering above her own.
Orion pulled the bristles through her hair with more care than she herself used—then began the act of braiding it for her. It was something he had done in the early days of their marriage—when things had been hopeful, before accumulated troubles had weighed down on them, and made husband and wife into familiar strangers.
Orion never pulled at the scalp, as Irma had done when she was a little girl and everyone still called her 'Burgie'. He left her hair loose and comfortable, but still without a strand out of place.
"Did you go check in on the boys this afternoon, like I asked you to?"
He told her that he had, but that he'd only spoken to the younger, for Sirius had been cloistered in his bedroom when he arrived.
"Sleeping or sulking?"
"The former. I checked." Orion set the brush down on her dresser. "From what I gather, he had a rather busy morning and afternoon, so it only makes sense he would need his rest."
"Of course." She carelessly applied scent to her wrists. "You know how peevish he gets when he doesn't have his afternoon lie-down."
Her husband waited to see if she would volunteer anything beyond this observation about their son's general moodiness. But Walburga was more interested in the pots of cream and depositing her jewelry in the various silver boxes she employed for the purpose.
He cleared his throat.
"Apparently he's discovered a foolproof way of getting out from under my thumb."
Mrs. Black snapped her mirrored jewelry box shut and turned around in her chair.
"How do you know that?"
"He boasted about it to his brother when he got home–in rather explicit detail."
She sighed, and the pair shared a look of amused exasperation at their elder son's inability to keep his mouth shut.
"And Regulus turned around and reported this to you directly?" Walburga asked him, torn between pleased and disapproving. She did not like her children tale-telling as a matter of principle, not even when the information benefitted her. "Typical."
Orion's grim smile had a note of irony in it.
"He has his own reasons for wanting to get back in my good books."
He sat down at the foot of her four-poster.
"I take it that whatever he thinks he's doing—" Her eyes narrowed. "It's not anything you're worried about."
Orion laughed.
And nothing she had to worry about, that was the unspoken part. He gave her a 'what-do-you-take-me-for?' look.
"I am the least of what that boy has to contend with, madam."
His eyes lingered on the two letters sitting innocently upon her bureau.
One had been opened, the other remained sealed. Walburga picked up the open letter and carelessly flipped the pages, pretending to idly peruse it.
She had read it a half hour earlier, when the owl had brought it to her window, but she didn't want him to know she'd had time to stew on its contents.
"It was awfully high-handed of you, ordering Lucretia not to come to dinner." His hand, which had been rubbing out a scratch on her bedpost, stilled. "I had already set a place for her and had the elf prepare food for five."
Orion stood up and walked back over to her. He rested his hand on her bare shoulder, caressing it with his thumb.
"You know I can't 'order' my sister to do anything she hasn't already set her mind on."
She chewed her lip, which was pushed out in what looked suspiciously like a pout. Orion, still holding her shoulder, lowered himself down next to her in the love seat.
"I merely suggested to Lucretia it might be better she stay home. And she agreed."
"Well, you might have consulted me, first," Walburga said, irritably. "I had things I wished to discuss with her."
He undid the delicate clasp of her diamond necklace—the one he had given her when Regulus was born—and hung it up next to mirror.
"Am I not a suitable co-conspirator for this scheme of yours?"
Walburga flushed pink and stammered out a few tart words about how she hadn't thought he wanted to be bothered by the business, and that she wouldn't stand him laughing at her. He lifted her hand, kissed it and promised, with a tenderness he had not shown her in many years, that he would not only voice his disapproval and laugh at her.
"What kind of promise is that?" Walburga demanded, crossly—but without heat.
He smiled, wryly.
"The best I can give you, at present."
She handed him the second envelope, unopened—Orion recognized the bold and insolent hand, and they both knew that all the answers he sought could be found within.
He read it in silence for a few minutes. When Orion looked up, he found Walburga watching him on tenterhooks—eager for his approval and his guidance.
"It would appear your plans are progressing even better than you hoped." He handed it back to her. "He had a 'cracking good time' and wants to see her tomorrow."
She nodded, slowly.
"I guessed as much."
Then why, Orion wondered, folding the letter carefully back up—she would peruse it at her own leisure, he was sure, re-se—why did she look so pensive?
"Are you having second thoughts about all this?"
She flushed and turned her head away, annoyed at the treacherous betrayal of her own face—by nature so expressive, which she had spent years learning to master, to control, to conceal, as was expected by right of her rank and station.
He'd never told her how much he had always loved that part of her.
"What happened?"
"There was one moment—that Kreacher had to…interfere."
She told him, in halting tones, of what she had witnessed from the top of the Owlry, from where she had been observing the young lovers, unbeknownst to them, or even the elf she had ordered to follow.
Orion didn't bother to ask what excuse she had made to separate herself from Narcissa and Slughorn for those few minutes she had known their son would be in plain sight.
"At least that dratted house-elf is good for something."
"I'm sure if he hadn't found a way of stopping it, you would have." He narrowed his eyes. "You're troubled. Why?"
"It's just—he looked…" She twisted her hands in her lap. "So—unlike himself."
"In what way?"
Her breath caught in her throat.
"He was carefree—just like when he was a boy." She grew misty-eyed. "Sirius was always so—so playful and high-spirited."
"When he was a boy you were forever scolding him to sit still and behave himself."
She rounded on him, furious.
"Perhaps I didn't know what I'd be missing, back then!"
This admission of weakness was so rare for her that it merited hushed silence after.
"You could try—being sweeter to him."
Walburga huffed in irritation and twisted in her seat. When she turned to look her husband directly in the face, she found, to her annoyance, that he looked positively amused.
"He never trusts me when I do!" Walburga exclaimed, irritated. "He always accuses me of plotting against him."
Orion brushed a stray curl from her shoulder.
"Well—to be fair to the boy…"
"That is not plotting!" She gripped the edge of her ivory-handled brush so tightly her fingers went white. "That's—for his own good."
"As long as it's for your good, as well." Her husband smiled, and for the second time that evening, removed the hairbrush from her hand. "A gentle touch wouldn't go amiss, in this case."
Her face fell.
"Gentleness…doesn't come naturally to me."
It took every ounce of her strength for Walburga to admit this to him, this sense of her own deficiency as a mother, but once it was out—she felt the odd weight of it lessen, somehow, and with each second that passed where he did not laugh, she felt the burden less, too.
His expression was solemn—grave.
"You won't lose him again, Walburga," Orion said, quietly. "I promise you."
Orion rose from his seat and kissed her, gently, on the forehead.
When she watched him leave that night for his dressing room, as ghostly as he had come, it was with regret.
She had always slept better with him at her side.
I was having a real mental block about editing this chapter (and a lot of things have been going on in my life that have precipitated some stepping back from the story) but I hope you all enjoyed it. As always feedback much appreciated.