Black Mask

by Ieyre

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

23. Chapter 23

"You and Tonks are related?" Harry asked, surprised.

"Oh yeah, her mother, Andromeda, was my favorite cousin," said Sirius, examining the tapestry closely. "No, Andromeda's not on here either, look—"

He pointed to another small round burn mark between two names, Bellatrix and Narcissa.

"Andromeda's sisters are still here because they made lovely, respectable pure-blood marriages, but Andromeda married a Muggle-born, Ted Tonks, so—"

Sirius mimed blasting the tapestry with a wand and laughed, sourly.

-J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

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CHAPTER 23

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December 23, 1979

"You don't usually come by this early."

Mrs. Black paid this paltry greeting no mind as she bustled into her son's flat, her arms laden with the usual basket of sundries for her children and a watered green silk gown peaking out from under her fox-fur. Her younger son, sequestered in his usual spot on the sofa, murmured a polite 'good morning' before crumpling up the parchment he'd been writing on into a ball and shoving it unceremoniously in his pajama pocket.

Walburga chose not to remark on this strange, furtive behavior, instead turning in the direction of her elder son, eager to see what mischief he was up to this morning.

Sirius sat—or rather, slouched—at the dining room table, eating some kind of porridge-like substance and bacon for his breakfast. Her firstborn had obviously tried and failed to cook both properly himself, for a distinctly acrid burnt smell lingered in the air. He was dressed, she noted, with a sniff, in a high-necked black jumper and dark denim trousers—a far cry from the sensible robes she had cleaned and hung in his closet just two days earlier. This outfit was at least made of higher quality material than his usual distasteful muggle garments—he could almost have passed as a wizard in polite society, if not for the brass-buckled leather boots with which he was currently scuffing the sitting room floor.

Sirius set his spoon down and gave her one of his familiar challenging looks, as if daring his mother to remark upon his appearance. Walburga let her eyes drink in the sight of him and passed over this open defiance, instead.

She would not be drawn into a argument with him this morning.

"You are not usually up and dressed this early, Sirius Orion," she said, smoothly, as she hung up her fur on the peg by the door. "So I hardly think you're in a position to make that assessment."

"Yeah, well, I get my intelligence from Regulus."

Regulus, who was still wearing his emerald dressing gown and sporting the unkempt hair of the sleep-bound, scowled and buried his head deeper in his book.

Walburga set the basket of goodies on the table—from it wafted pleasing aromas which Sirius studiously ignored in favor of shoveling down some more of the vile gruel in front of him.

"I hope you both enjoyed your evening entirely free of our company," she continued, careful to keep her voice devoid of anything but the usual level of sarcasm. A stack of plates which her sons had not bothered to spell clean sat in a pile at the end of the table, living proof that they had, at least, eaten the meal she prepared and sent over for them the night before.

If they had not she would have had words with them both.

Sirius shrugged and leaned back in his chair.

"It was…uneventful." His boot tip—brass, to match the unfortunate buckles—tapped against the leg of her table in a staccato rhythm clearly meant to annoy. "A quiet night in, right, Reg?"

Regulus mumbled a vague ascent to this, not bothering to look up from his book. Sirius's bright eyes swiveled back around from brother to Walburga, though she pretended not to notice as she cleaned and polished the aforementioned pile of dirty plates and silver with a mere flick of her wand.

"How was your yesterday?" Sirius asked, casually. "I was, erm—surprised you never came 'round."

She smiled and tucked a loose curl behind one ear.

"We had a pleasant—but very busy day, and I simply didn't have the time to drop by." She tilted her head coquettishly. "I'm sorry if you missed me."

Sirius arched an eyebrow but resisted comment.

Walburga turned her head over her shoulder, in the direction of the sofa.

"Professor Slughorn sends his regards. He is very much looking forward to hearing from you, Regulus."

"What, didn't he mention me?"

She turned back to Sirius—trying and failing to look innocent.

How canine he could be, she thought, grimly amused. Had he always had that puppyish quality, or had that come on after he had learned to transform?

"The subject didn't come up."

"What about your—erm, dinner?" He sat up, letting the legs of the chair drop to the ground. "How was that?"

She chose her next words with extreme care.

"Quiet, as I'm sure yours was." She tapped the last of the dishes, vanishing all traces of the previous night's supper. "I'm not entirely sure your father approves of Narcissa's friend, but she'll be gone soon enough, so I suppose he will have to bear with her impertinent opinions for only a short time."

Sirius pursed his lips but remained silent. How unusual it was for her firstborn to be without a comeback! The part of her that thrilled at challenge and had a natural taste for sport found the sight of him trying desperately hard to keep his expression calm and measured almost—exciting.

He looked as though he wanted to ask what she meant, but then had thought better of it.

Clever boy. He was learning.

"I see you're here sans the toe-rag."

He gestured vaguely in the direction of her feet, where the family servant always followed when he accompanied her on an errand. Walburga shot him a withering look.

"That is a vulgarism beneath you."

Sirius snorted.

"You've called him worse."

She hardly had the time to argue this point with him—there was a fine distinction between reminding a servant of his place and childish, petulant insults—and anyway, that would be just what he wanted.

"Kreacher is at present tending to Narcissa," she informed with, with utmost dignity. "Who regrettably finds herself under the weather this morning."

His ears seemed to prick up at this news. Inwardly, Walburga smiled—but she kept her outer facade as placid as ever.

"What's wrong with Cissy?"

"Your cousin is with child, Sirius Orion," she said, dryly. "It is an unfortunate side-effect of the state of things that one often feels—unwell."

In this case helped along by a combination of harmless—if unpleasant—magical herbs slipped into her breakfast.

Of course, Walburga would have done nothing that might endanger the child. She only needed her favorite niece—less than desirous of company for a few hours.

At this mention of the ways of women, Sirius lost his cool affect—his ears burned scarlet with embarrassment, and he muttered something indistinct about being sorry he had asked.

"I—suppose she'll be alright, though?"

"After a few hours of quiet and sleep."

She busied herself with the task of stacking her clean plates in the satchel that was to be taken back to Grimmauld Place, and allowed the full implication of these words to delicately sink into her son's always suggestible mind.

"Do you have plans for the day?" Walburga asked, briskly, when she thought the appropriate amount of time had passed.

Sirius scratched his head and let the legs of his chair fall back down to the floor with a clunk.

"Nothing for the morning. I've a friend coming over midday to watch—him." He jerked his head towards the couch at the aforementioned 'him', who glared back, haughtily, over the edge of his book. "I'm going out for lunch, after which I planned on coming straight back and holing up here for the afternoon."

"Lunch with whom, dare I ask?"

A funny look passed over his face—not one that she thought she had seen in a very long time, if she had ever seen it. Not mischief, or even a sense of guilt—not precisely. More—studied reservation.

Not something she was used to from him at all.

"I don't want to tell you."

"Why not?"

"Because—I don't think you'll entirely approve."

She snapped the case shut and raised one eyebrow, sardonically.

"When has that ever stopped you in the past from doing or saying anything?"

Sirius raised his hands, palms out, in a gesture of slightly mocking conciliation.

"Perhaps I've finally learned my lesson."

She let out a little impatient sigh—he was practically begging her to press him on this issue, and Walburga had to admit, her interest was piqued.

"Let us hope that's true." She gave him a hard look. "Have you finished your Christmas shopping?"

His mouth twisted in the customary grimace at this change of subject.

"Yeah…mostly."

"And what did you get your father?"

He shifted guiltily in his chair and didn't reply. She clucked her tongue—typical. Orion had made him buy a gift for everyone but himself!

"Well—since you've obviously left it late, I think you should spend your morning productively and rectify that situation."

"What are you—what d'you mean?"

"I will watch over your brother," she said, matter-of-factly. "There's no sense in you staying cooped up in this flat all day. I've long since learned excessive time spent inside only makes you irritable. Why don't you go amuse yourself out of doors for a few hours before this, ah—mysterious lunch date of yours?"

He was, predictably, suspicious—as he must always be when she yielded to him and gave him something he wanted easily. Walburga felt a prickling on the side of her neck. Out of the corner of her eye she spied her younger son giving her a shrewd look that reminded her far too much of Orion.

"You want me gone."

Her gaze snapped back to Sirius, who was now eyeing her with a far less shrewd, but still distrustful expression.

"I don't want you underfoot," she correctly him, tartly. "I was going to start in on cleaning this place for Christmas, so it will be fit for our festivities on the twenty-fifth."

She shot the living room a look of unfeigned disgust. It was certainly a plausible project to keep her here for a few hours.

Sirius seemed unsure, and she could tell—for he had by far the most open face of anyone in their family—that he was weighing his options and the attendant risks attached to this new opportunity she had dropped in his lap.

"I really don't mind hanging around," he said, slowly. "Keeping Reg company…"

She smiled, faintly.

"Why, Sirius Orion—I would almost think you missed me, yesterday, to be so eager for a whole day of my company." His mouth thinned into a straight line. "Or are you feeling ill, yourself? Perhaps you ought to go back to bed, where I can—tend to you."

He stood up and pushed his chair out, roughly—his mind made up.

"That won't be necessary." He walked over to the closet by the door, rummaged through it, and pulled out a leather jacket—not the one she had disposed of a week earlier, Walburga noted, annoyed, but a new addition to his wardrobe he had not counted on her spotting in the open this morning.

"You know, think I could do with a walk—and—some fresh air—" He pulled the coat on. "Come to think of it, there are—you know, a few errands I've got to run."

He hurried out of the apartment, bidding his brother a hasty 'goodbye.'

Clearly, Walburga thought, watching the back of him disappear through the door—he was quick not to press his luck.

Her boy having scented the proverbial rabbit, just as she had hoped, Walburga was in a good mood as she began unloading the basket. She hummed to herself as she laid out the light breakfast for two, a satchel of scones, and a heavy metal case of medicinal potions and herbs that she had brought for Regulus.

"What does Miss Battancourt plan to do while Narcissa is sick?"

She stopped humming abruptly.

One would have had to have been soft in the head to miss the pointed nature of Regulus's question, and when Mrs. Black turned in the direction of the sofa, she found the same insolent look she had thought she spied on his face earlier.

Now it was much more pronounced.

"Oh—I don't know," she answered, voice tight. "I'm sure she'll find some way of occupying herself."

The only sound in the room was the faint clinking of stoppered potions being set down, one-by-one, in a neat line at the end of the dining room table, while plates and glasses flew from the basket to their proper place.

His brown eyes glinted in the pale morning light, streaming through the window.

"Well, she will now."

The fingers that had been busy laying out cutlery for him froze.

She turned—this time, her entire body.

"You know how I feel about sly inferences, Regulus Arcturus."

Regulus sat up and closed his book. Her eyes raked his face—but the exercise proved futile, for unlike Sirius, he rarely gave anything away—not easily.

Of course—a mother did always know.

"You forget that Aunt Lucretia was here the day before yesterday."

Walburga took a sharp breath in and felt her nostrils flare dangerously. She should have seen this coming—she should have known that Lucretia would not be able to resist meddling in her affairs, and blabbing to the only relevant, rapt audience she could find.

What she could not have anticipated was the veiled threat that hovered just beneath her younger son's words.

Mother and son now found themselves in the very odd and novel position of having to size one another up.

"It would be better," she broke the silence, calmly. "If you did not follow in your aunt's footsteps, and learned to mind your own business."

She waved her wand, and another fork, knife and spoon landed with military precision next to the fruit bowl.

"I could tell him."

Mrs. Black poured herself a cup of tea. She took great care in the steeping, adding two teaspoons of sugar precisely, and pouring the final dash of cream. These gestures gave her crucial time to think.

In her family, one was used to thinking of one's relations as adversaries, to be coerced, conquered or cajoled, as needs be. One always had a strategy in place, a contingency plan for each and every potential threat to one's interest in this carefully calibrated system.

The situation she found herself in now was entirely new.

Regulus had never dared to openly defy her.

Beneath her irritation at this stumbling block, she recognized the thrill that always came with a new challenge.

Breakfast was ready, the table set. She sat down in her place, and gestured wordlessly that he should do the same—it was time for them to eat. Regulus, face expressionless apart from the slight fever in his eyes, rose from his place on the couch and sat down next to her—in the place where Sirius usually sat.

She scooped a pinch of sugar onto her grapefruit and cut it in quarters.

"Why haven't you?"

The grape that Regulus had skewered hovered in front of his face for a millisecond longer than it should have before he popped it in his mouth.

"You had all yesterday evening," Walburga continued, buttering a scone. "And the day before. Plenty of time in which to do the thing."

He swallowed a gulp of tea and busied himself with his crumpet.

He hasn't, though.

Oh, he could pretend he had, claim that he and his brother had turned the game around on her, were playing along—but they both knew he hadn't. They both knew Sirius far too well.

The second he finds out—if he finds out—he'll confront me directly.

No, Walburga's heart ceased its fluttering—no, she was safe, for now.

Of course—her eyes narrowed in on the butter dish he was fiddling with—that still left her with one more errant child to deal with than she had expected. Regulus seemed to have fallen into one of his silent fits, which was nearly as irritating to her as his brother's refusal to hold his tongue.

"Of course, it goes without saying that children should be seen and not heard," Mrs. Black commented, taking a sip of her tea. "So we really oughtn't be having this conversation at all."

His dark eyes looked up from the plate—burning with indignation.

"I'm not a child."

"Aren't you?"

He tapped his fingers against his teacup, betraying a rare spark of impatience.

"You know what I mean," Regulus murmured, quietly. "There's—a difference."

She rolled her eyes and took another cup of tea. Honestly, he was her son, she'd borne him, what possible distinction between 'a' and 'hers' mattered now?

"Well then…" She set the cup back down on her saucer. "I suppose all that's left to discuss is what you want in exchange for your silence."

His pale face flushed.

"I—I don't want anything from you."

"If that were true—" Her eyes glittered, dangerously. "You wouldn't have brought any of this up in the first place."

He had no response for this, and so he merely picked at his food and fell into a sullen silence.

Mrs. Black was not so foolish as to think that Regulus's silence was an admission of defeat. She had been married to the boy's father for a full quarter-century, and she knew this state of affairs quite well. Silence was a tactical move—sometimes a mere retreat, sometimes auguring a stealth attack, when one had let one's guard down and least expected it.

And sometimes, she thought, as she watched her son roll a strawberry around the plate, it was a boy acting out to get his mother's attention.

Walburga let out a sigh, all appetite for the food gone. She felt that rush she had gotten at her triumph drain out of her, leaving the tired and beleaguered middle-aged woman she saw in the glass every night before bed.

Wasn't that just the way?

The adversarial approach was really all they knew, in this family—but even if Regulus couldn't say the words, she didn't need a battle strategy to see what he was in need of.

This ill-humor her son found himself in—the mood that had compelled him to throw around uncharacteristically rash threats—came from nothing more or less than prolonged days in bed sick. The simple fact was that she not been paying him proper attention for the better part of a fortnight.

Regulus needed to be looked after and fussed over, and lately she had done precious little of either.

Of course, it didn't help that the only way he knew how to express this sense of injury was to threaten to derail her scheme for his elder brother.

Well—luckily she could fix all that in a thrice.

"When you're done eating I want you to go the lavatory," she informed him, briskly. "So that I can have a proper look at that arm."

His spoon clattered on the china dish.

"I can apply the salve to it myself."

"Have you been reading books on the healing arts while you laze about in your pajamas all day?"

He said nothing, only gave a sullen shrug.

"No?" She arched a brow. "Well until then, I will continue to look after you. I haven't checked how you've been progressing for a little while." She tilted her head and resisted her urge to reach across the table to feel his forehead. "This is as good a time as any for a check-up."

Regulus ate the rest of his breakfast at a snail's pace. When at last he could no longer pretend he was eating, Walburga cleared the rest of their plates and gently but firmly steered him by the shoulder to the tiny lavatory.

Since her younger son had been compelled to move into the flat, Walburga had, for the most part, avoided this room as much as possible. There had been a row on the third day of his convalescence, when Sirius caught her attempting to rip out the stained built-in shower and replace it with a magnificent ivory claw-footed bathtub.

He sat down on the edge of the old tub, brown eyes glassy, but obstinance obvious to anyone with a mind to recognize it. Mrs. Black knew there would be trouble.

When she reached over and began to carelessly unbutton his shirt, he pulled away sharply.

"Don't!"

"I need to see to those wounds," Walburga huffed, impatiently. "Honestly, Regulus—"

Regulus pulled up his sleeve and clumsily held out his arm. The bandages he had replaced himself were not as tight or well-wrapped as she would have done, and they were already oozing an unhealthy-looking yellow substance.

She narrowed her eyes dangerously. Did this boy forget that she had been there that night, that she had seen to his injuries as well as to his brother's, and that she knew full-well there were more cuts than that one that needed to be attended to?

No…she supposed he had already been asleep by the time she got around to nursing him, to looking over each and every affliction rendered—each new discovery like another knife stuck in her ankle.

The damage done to her sons had been an odd reflection of their personalities.

Where Sirius had sported bold, deep wounds, the product of rash derring-do, as plain as the nose on his face—his younger brother was covered in hundreds of tiny scars, invisible to the naked eye, which one would have never known of if one wasn't looking for them.

He clearly wanted to keep it that way, she thought, aggravated.

"I'm not ruining a perfectly good pair of pajamas soaking it in salve and potions because you're too stubborn to remove your shirt." She rolled her eyes. "I don't know where all this false modesty comes from. I am your mother—there's not a part of you I haven't seen before. When you were infants one could hardly keep you and your brother swaddled, you wriggled so much."

He flushed with embarrassment and muttered something disagreeable she couldn't make out—but Regulus Arcturus could not argue the point, and so he unbuttoned his silk pajama shirt and, in a small act of defiance, dropped it unceremoniously on the floor.

In the stark and antiseptic light of the lavatory his torso and arms looked much worse than she had expected. An irregular pattern of small cuts and bruises dotted both arms, his chest—the area around his throat, especially—some healing well, others, deeper, which would leave pockmarks and scars.

None of them held a candle to the large chunk of flesh that had been ripped from his arm. That, Walburga knew, was beyond anyone's ability to fix. Even her own prodigious skills at healing were not up to the task, and so her younger son would go the rest of his life forever reminded of his brush with—whatever it was he had encountered in that place.

She was no shrinking violet when it came to magic—even magic of the darker variety—but just the thought of what had done that to her son filled her with a sickly dread. It was the only thought that made his presence in this dingy accommodation palatable.

The utter banality of the place, while distasteful to her pride as a witch, also comforted one with the feeling that no magic, dark or otherwise, could penetrate the pedestrian fog that surrounded the housing block Sirius had chosen to live in.

Nothing would touch her sons while they were here.

Regulus avoided looking at her, and conscious of his self-consciousness, she began to do her work, painstakingly cleaning and redressing the wound on his arm, dabbing each and every one of the minor nicks and cuts that peppered his torso. The potion she used to prevent scarring caused an unpleasant sizzle sensation on the skin, but Regulus, to his credit, didn't flinch.

He never shirked, never complained—and only once did she feel him recoil—at the moment Walburga first unwrapped his old bandages to look at the wound on his arm.

When she had finished the task of cleaning and ministering to his wounds, she chanced glancing up at his face. A sheen of sweat covered his forehead, and his dark hair was plastered to his temples. Though Regulus looked peaked and feverish, his forehead was very cold when she reached up without warning to check his temperature.

"When was the last time you had a bath, Regulus Arcturus?"

He flinched.

"I'm perfectly clean."

"That was not the question I asked. I asked when it was you last had a bath."

His eyes flickered strangely under the florescent lights.

"I don't—remember. Yesterday?"

Walburga pursed her lips. He was usually so much better at telling lies—this one was so feeble, even Sirius wouldn't have attempted it.

"It's obviously been too long, if you can't remember when last you had one."

"I don't need one."

This must've been the influence of Sirius—she'd have to talk to him at some point about being a better example to his brother. She couldn't imagine any other reason Regulus would object to her running him a bath than a bout of willful stubbornness. He had always liked to take baths, when he was young—had enjoyed the soaking, the play of magical bath soaps on the edge of the water, and had taken to getting clean and fresh in a way his trouble-prone brother never had.

This was exactly what he needed. It was just the thing to perk him up—the sort of special attention he had hitherto missed.

Without another word, she waved her wand carelessly at the tap, and the spout began to gush out water.

Regulus leaped up from his spot at the edge of the basin and scrambled as far away from the tub as it was possible to be in the cramped lavatory.

"Turn it off!" he demanded, back flat against the towel rack. "Turn it off now."

Perhaps it was the tap which drowned him out that prevented her from hearing the alarm in Regulus's voice—but she did not obey. In fact, she had already plugged the drain and had begun to sprinkle powdered soap from the end of her wand, totally oblivious to the oncoming disaster.

"Don't be ridiculous," Walburga said, over the loud sound of running water. "I'll sanitize it and fill it with a balm so you can soak your wounds. It won't hurt, and you'll feel much better—"

It happened so fast she hadn't even realized that he had begun shaking like mad, nearly having a fit, and when Regulus shoved past her with a desperation bordering on frenzy, she was still insensible enough to balk.

"Regulus Arcturus Black!" She cried, angrily. "What on earth do you think you're—"

The sound of him being violently sick all over the toilet seat and floor cut her voice like the strings of a violin.

Walburga gasped and stepped backwards. Regulus kneeled, half-sprawled on the toilet he had tried and failed to deposit most of his breakfast in. with a feeble wave of the wand he still clutched at his side, Walburga's son managed to lift the filthy seat and heave the little left in his stomach.

When he was completely spent, he rested his head in the gap, hidden from view.

She had never understood the adage about a deer freezing at wand-light before this moment. Mrs. Black stood stock-still, gaped in mute horror at her son, chest still heaving over the toilet seat, for once at a total loss at what to do.

"Turn it off…please."

For no reason that she could explain, Mrs. Black, fingers trembling, reached over the old built-in tub and turned the tap off by hand. The knob was rusted, the product of her other son's lax cleaning, and the action required physical effort. The copper was so unyielding that Walburga had to flex the muscles in her wrist in a manner she, who had a servant to do anything her wand would not, was unaccustomed to.

But the knob did turn, the stream of water ended, leaving nothing but the steady drip-drip-drip from the old faucet into the tub.

She vanished what remained and stood up.

Walburga Black was not a woman used to being gripped with uncertainty. She liked decisions—to make them quickly and to never stray from a path once she had chosen it.

She did not like this feeling that had come over her now, as she stared at her son's scarred body, looking small and broken as he lay over the edge of the toilet, still coughing up bile—this intense, dizzying sense of not knowing what was wrong or how to fix it.

She had been warned—and as was so often the case, she had ignored the warning.

"Regulus has been through a great ordeal."

She had barely been able to stomach Dumbledore's presence in the moment of crisis. Now, with her mind and emotions more in control—the wheels of her brain turning as she plotted out her next move—now his being in the flat, daring to lecture her and her husband about the welfare of their own sleeping children—was an irksome irritation, an utter impertinence.

"It will take time for him to recover."

"I am perfectly capable of caring for him," she griped, before Orion had a chance to get a word in. "And I know precisely how long it will take for him to get better."

Dumbledore's eyes had glinted in that knowing, patient way she had always hated.

"There are physical wounds, Walburga—and there are magical wounds." He peered at her over his spectacles, down his crooked nose. "Some scars are left by neither."

"Whatever did this to him—"

"—Is not here to answer for it. I could not even say what it was, entirely. Regulus may choose to divulge more of what happened to him this night—the elf could, if you wished to make him—but I believe, until he is ready to tell you, you ought to be patient with him."

She had a vague idea that Orion and he had discussed this, when she left the room to check on Sirius for what felt like the hundredth time that night. She knew it was ridiculous—he was ill, he was under the influence of a sleeping draught, and even if he did wake up, the windows were all locked—but she could not shake off this fear that she would go into that room and find him gone again.

Vanished.

Whatever had happened in the cave was beyond her limited scope of imagination.

"Regulus will be fine." She sniffed—what did he know of their family? Of them? Nothing! "He is resilient—he is a Black."

Blacks healed quickly—everyone knew that. Her son was stronger than they all gave him credit for.

He looked like a broken china doll, lying there on the linoleum.

She took a step away from the bone-dry bathtub and towards him. Her foot caught on the slippery tile, and Walburga grabbed at the brass towel rack to keep from slipping.

More weakness.

Regulus had grown still, his breaths no longer wheezy and uneven. His narrow torso rose and fell softly, while his head remained lurched over the bowl.

Walburga raised her wand—then hesitated. He heard the motion—she was always swift with her wand movements, and the swish in a lavatory that was otherwise as still as a tomb stood out—and his shoulders tensed.

She vanished the vomit that coated the floor and toilet-seat. Instantly, the sick disappeared, though the acrid smell lingered.

Walburga hovered a foot away from him, as if some invisible force held her at bay, prevented her from going any further. Though she knew that the spell was strong enough to clean everything, until she saw his face, she did not want to go away. She had, without even realizing it, clutched one of Sirius's dingy old towels, almost as if it were a talisman to ward off some evil spirit.

"I'm…I think I'm fine now."

She started. He hadn't moved, but his voice sounded normal—apart from the slight echo of the toilet bowl. Except—no—no figure draped over a toilet in a Muggle lavatory, no wizard, no Black, no son of hers in such a state could ever be thought of as 'normal.'

Walburga took another step forward—what was restraining her? There was nothing dangerous about him, he was her youngest, her compliant, easy-going child—then where did this animal instinct, which told her to hang back, come from?

"Thank you," he murmured, and to her ears the voice that spoke the words sounded ancient. "For cleaning up."

What was she afraid of?

Walburga set the towel on the edge of the sink.

"You're welcome," She said, keeping her voice calm, to match his.

He was so close she could have reached out a hand to touch him, if she wanted to.

"What do you…" She hesitated. "Want of me?"

It was not a question Walburga had ever asked her son, and it had a curious, softening effect—for it was almost pleading in its gentleness. His shoulders, tense at her immediate proximity to the source of so much natural shame, relaxed again.

"Please just—go away." Regulus lifted up his head, and turned his pale face—fever gone from the eyes, replaced with something far more disquieting. "I'll—I want to be alone."

His face shone with sweat and—she realized, in a moment that made her heart lurch painfully—with tears.

"Very well."

His mother—her face now pale as well, and drawn—nodded slowly, and without another word, turned and walked out of the lavatory, shutting the door behind her. The hard click of the lock echoed through the empty flat.

She wandered back into the living room and sat down on the old sofa, her resolution never to touch Sirius's furniture all but forgotten in the daze the middle-aged woman found herself in.

As Walburga looked around the room, bathed in the pale light of a rising morning, she wondered that she had ever come to see the flat as a sanctuary from anything.

Her children might have been safe from dark magic in this place—but dark magic was not the only thing that could hurt them.

---

The loud cry of distinctly feminine frustration was the kind Sirius recognized as being meant to draw attention and garner sympathy, so he looked up from the old copy of Melody Maker he'd been perusing and turned in the direction of the dressing room door which separated him from his companion.

"What's the problem?" he called, laughter in his voice. "Need help with a zip?"

"Oh—it's—I look utterly ridiculous."

Sirius felt his grin widen and his excitement grow.

"I'd let someone else be the judge of that, if I were you!" He called, tempering his amusement with gentle encouragement. "Come out, then. Let's have a look-see."

Another loud and inarticulate cry of frustration, followed by some French phrase he was sure was delightfully rude.

"Non. I will not. I refuse."

"Why?"

"Because—oh, this was the most absurd idea you ever had."

He let out a barking laugh and tossed the magazine on the chair beside him.

"That only goes to show how little you know me, still." He smirked and lazily stretched his arms towards the ceiling, enjoying the feeling of it—of being able to do something his family disapproved of, however small, without scrutiny. His mother had been right—it would have been stifling to spend the bulk of the day stuck inside with Reg. "This was not even in the top fifty most absurd ideas I've ever had."

"Well—it was the most absurd idea you've had today, then."

"No. That was taking you on the underground."

He grinned at the memory of her horrified reaction to the Piccadilly Line. Through the wall between them he heard a distinctly French huff.

"We are not nifflers. If we were meant to be tunnel through the earth, God would have made us with—with—"

"—With magic?"

Another loud huff, after which she told him if he didn't stop his ceaseless chattering she would not come out at all—simply apparate back to Grimmauld Place, where she should not have left in the first place to go on this ridiculous exploration of Muggle London with him.

"That's probably true—but it's a bit late to turn back now." This time he did understand the French exclamation. "Oh, don't be like that. We haven't even gotten lunch yet."

"Yes, well—I only dine with gentlemen."

"I am a gentlemen!"

"Only by birth. You certainly don't act like one."

"Oh, how she stings with her poison tongue! Guilty, all the same."

Sirius laughed and stepped back from the dressing room door, allowing himself to lazily peruse the rest of what the small, offbeat SoHo charity shop had on offer.

It had all passed in a whirlwind—a glorious several hours spent doing exactly what he wanted with the exact companion of his choice. Going to Muggle places with Colette was like discovering them for the first time all over again—her enthusiasm was only matched by her curiosity, and he never tired of answering the endless stream of questions, which seemed to have been bottled up in her like a champagne cork. She had clearly spent a lifetime saving them up, and it seemed that he was meant to be the one to answer them—that he was preordained that they should have met.

All she needed was someone to give her permission—was it arrogant for him to assume he was the best fit for the job? Probably, but Sirius didn't much care.

They had ended up here on his suggestion, after Colette had complained about every Muggle ticket-taker and shop assistant taking one look at her day gown and asking if they were going to a fancy dress party.

The shop had something of everything. He had often passed it in his teenaged years, in those summers at Grimmauld Place when he preferred to spend his time roaming every bit of London—any excuse not to be cooped up in the house he found so stifling. There was a magnificent collection of consigned clothing, a great deal of it from the 50s, by the look of it—and hats of every style and color, stacked to the ceiling in a way that put Ollivander's to shame. A glass display case housed the more expensive watches and jewelry, which the bespectacled girl behind the counter and informed them, after giving Sirius a suspicious once-over, she could 'open up' if they 'wanted a closer look.'

Sirius's eyes fell on a turntable in the corner—he hadn't noticed it when they first came back here. A stack of albums lay next to it. Curious, he walked over to it, and began to idly flip through the singles.

His face lit up.

"Colette—come out here and have a look at this—"

At the sound of the dressing room door opening, Sirius's arm dropped to his side.

"Well…" She stepped out of the room, shyly. "What—do you think?"

Sirius set the record down and walked over to her, careful to keep his expression as neutral as possible.

He'd given her a pile of flared jeans, skirts, dresses and boots, every cut and color and daring fashion imaginable from which to choose—and from that she had constructed an outfit consisting of a knee-length orange tweed skirt, high-necked cream jumper and a pair of beat-up penny loafers.

In spite of all his better instincts, Sirius laughed.

"What is—why are you doing that?" Colette put her hands on her hips. "I knew you would—what is so funny to you, may I ask?"

"Nothing—I'm not—" He forced himself into something like a straight face. "It's just…well, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised you went for the option that's the most old-fashioned, most like a witch possible, but it's just so…"

"So what?"

He smiled.

"You just look like such a square."

Her blue eyes widened in confusion.

"What is this 'square' mean?" He laughed again. "That is a shape."

"It's also a state of being."

Sirius explained, in the kindest and most complimentary fashion, that this term was by no means an insult, and only referred to people who were decent, upright, and altogether proper.

Colette seemed less than convinced.

"Are you a square?" she asked, pointedly.

He snorted. As if!

"No, I'm the last person on earth anyone would call a square." He ran a hand through his hair, which fell careless into his eyes. "I'm, ah—strictly speaking, cool."

Only with her could he have gotten away with saying something so ridiculous—and even still, only just. A smiled peeped out from under her disapproving gaze as she crossed her arms. Sirius felt a lurch in his stomach—the 'little miss librarian' look was growing on him.

"What does it mean to be 'cool'?" Colette asked, innocently—though there was a little bite in her voice. "Can you explain this?"

"I'll do you one better." He strolled into the dressing room she'd just vacated. "I'll show you."

Sirius pulled out a leather jacket and pair of aviator sunglasses he had handed Colette on a whim. They were among his slightly sillier suggestions for accoutrement she should try on—along with a cowboy hat, which he had hoped she would try on but known she wouldn't.

He draped the jacket over the French girl's petite shoulders and placed a pair of aviator sunglasses over her ears, then steered her in the direction of a large mirror in the corner.

"Wait—just one thing—"

The black beret from a nearby mannequin was whipped off in a thrice and plopped on her head.

He stood back to admire his work with a connoisseur's eye.

"That's cool."

Colette stared at herself in the glass in bewilderment—for a moment he wondered if she didn't recognize herself. Certainly he doubted if Narcissa would have been able to pick her friend out of the average crowd of Muggle passers-by, were she among them. The French witch looked somewhere between 'recently-rebelled-from-parents-and-still-figuring-out-her-style teenaged punk' and 'ironic beatnik at a costume party.'

Not that he thought explaining that to Miss Battancourt would make it any clearer to her. They still had quite a ways to go in her Muggle-related education, and the nuances of fashion was low on his list of priorities.

As she examined herself in the mirror, chewing her lip thoughtfully, he wondered what she was thinking. She often surprised him—old-fashioned and conservative in her views one moment, more open-minded than he the next. A heart full of contradiction—rather like his own.

"Is it better to be 'cool' or 'a square'?"

Sirius looked over her shoulder and into the mirror—the jacket was too big for her, and though the glasses slid down her face in a manner he found rather endearing, it was obvious she did not enjoy continually having to push them up her nose.

His face softened.

"It's better to be yourself."

He helped Colette out of the coat and took the glasses from her when she sheepishly handed them back.

"I suppose I shall never be—how you say it—cool?"

"Cool is in the eye of the beholder, anyway." He brushed a piece of lint off her shoulder. This sweater was of a thinner material than her robes, and he could feel the heat of her body more easily through it. He pulled his hand away as if he'd been scorched. "It's about—not caring what other people think."

"Not even you?"

Sirius felt an involuntary flush creep over his face. She never flirted intentionally—at least, he didn't think she was conscious of it—but occasionally she said things like that, so innocently, and it made him feel—

Well, like he wasn't entirely in control of the situation.

He scratched the side of his head and retreated to the glass case near the window.

"Especially not me." Sirius forced a laugh. "My opinions aren't worth anything."

She creeped up behind him—though her steps were light, he could feel the slight tickle of her breath against his back.

To distract himself, Sirius looked down at the case, full of jewelry and tarnished watch-chains and the other items the shopkeeper had deemed worthy of protection—and his eyes idly traced over a string of pearls at the center, which surrounded the largest piece in the collection—a Victorian emerald-studded broach.

"That looks like something your mother would wear."

Sirius looked up at her, surprised. Sure enough, her eyes were trained on the exact same spot in the case.

"Does it, really?" He looked back down with new interest. Certainly he could see it was the nicest thing in there—the price tag spoke to that, if nothing else. It was probably the finest item in the whole place. The image in the center was a cameo of a woman embracing a child, and the outside was dotted with emeralds and pearls. "How can you tell?"

"It's very similar to the style of jewelry she wears—and she's fond of that shade of green. She likes emeralds and amethysts."

"Do you really notice that kind of thing?" He hadn't a clue. "I wouldn't have thought you the type with a head for jewels."

"My grandmother taught me," the French girl said, a tad haughtily. "Any proper lady must know about these things."

"And why exactly does a lady have to know about 'these things?" Sirius asked, his voice teasing. "Pray tell me, Mademoiselle, what use is that information to you?"

He had expected her to laugh, throw back a quip in turn—but Colette suddenly became very interested in the watch chains at the far back of the glass case.

"I don't…I suppose it is something women must know about when…when they are married."

The lightness in Sirius deflated like an old balloon. When she turned to look at him, was he mad, or did her face look more flushed than it had had before? The old awkwardness regarding the plans he was attempting to dissuade her from had reared its ugly head, and it left them both pensive and at a loss for words.

"Practical information for anyone in your—for anyone."

He tried to pass it off for a joke, but it was a feeble one, at best. Colette stared down at the case, and her eyebrows furrowed together—the thoughtful expression that seemed as if it was made for her.

"I think you should buy it for her."

Sirius laughed—this time, without humor.

"Tell me another one."

"Didn't you say you needed to find her a Christmas present?" Colette needled, pushing at his shoulder. "Isn't that what she thinks you're doing right now, in fact?"

He rolled his eyes towards the ceiling—why had he mentioned that he hadn't gotten something for either of his parents yet? Sirius knew the reason—it was because it was easy to slip into the kind of comfortable intimacy with Colette, where he off-handedly mentioned all sorts of things he wouldn't have told other girls. His prior dates had been only too pleased to accept a brush-off when the question of his family was brought up.

That was far harder when the girl in question happened to be staying with them.

Though, he thought, watching Colette's blue eyes sparkle with nosy mischief as she tapped the lock on the case with her wand and opened it to take a closer look at the broach, he had the sense she would have been interested regardless.

She held it up to his jacket, as if he was an appropriate model for the thing.

"I can't get her that—she'd know it was from a Muggle shop."

"You could charm it to make it magical. Like that flying contraption of yours."

"Great example—my bike, the existence of which we both know positively thrills her."

"It's your first Christmas together in—some time." She put the broach in his hand and gently pressed his fingers around it. "You should get her something tasteful and—unique." Sirius stared down at the hand, closed around the jeweled object, uncertain—and Colette pressed her palm to his. "I promise you, she will like it very much."

It had never occurred to him to get his mother jewelry—he had heard too many of her scathing remarks on the taste and quality of too many other witches' necklaces and rings over the years to even entertain the notion of such a personal and feminine gift. Not even his father got Walburga jewels.

But the look of certainty on Colette's face bolstered his confidence.

Sirius looked back down at the carved image of mother and child—then set it back down on the case, as if afraid he would break the thing. It was beautiful, truly—an exquisite piece. He imagined her reaction to receiving such a gift from him and—a strange, tightening feeling started in his chest.

Sirius blinked and looked away from the case—and his eyes fell on the chair, where the discarded record still lay.

"That's right!" He picked it up and held it out to Colette. "I have to play you a song."

As he slipped the single out of its cardboard case—an earlier hit from one of his favorite punk bands, which he'd discovered sometime around fourth or fifth year—he explained to her how the turn-table worked.

Unfortunately, Colette didn't like this Muggle innovation nearly as much as she had the Victoria and Albert or Houses of Parliament.

"You actually enjoy this?"

She wrinkled her nose at the discordant guitar riffs.

"Of course!"

Sirius head-banged a bit to indicate the degree to which he enjoyed it—but that did not raise the song's value in his female companion's estimation.

"It's so vulgar. And noisy—and there's no melody."

"But it's cool."

"I am liking this 'cool' less and less the more you tell me about it."

He clutched his wounded heart, then lifted up the needle ("There's no accounting for taste!") and rifled through the rest of the collection, determined to find her something she would like.

Sirius's mission to teach her the wonders of the non-magic world had been going so well, thus far. He wasn't about to fail over music!

As his gray eyes fell on one brightly colored single in the back of the pile, Sirius's mouth split into an involuntary grin. Perfect.

"Oh—here's something right up your alley." He wagged the record in front of her face. "You'll like them. This lot are all Swedes—and aren't you an expert on that country?"

She huffed good-naturedly.

"You are très amusant." Two blue eyes twinkled up at him. "I only know enough to spot an imposter."

He took the record out and handed her the slip cover. Colette peered doubtfully at the four jumpsuit-clad pop singers posed on it, then back up at Sirius—but he was too busy laying the needle on the record to notice.

As soon as the Spanish guitar started to play, her eyes widened.

"Oh…."

Sirius turned and smiled.

Bingo.

"You like it?"

"This is—very pretty." She tilted her head and her dimple peaked out. "So different from the other one."

The girl leaned against the glass cabinet, a misty, silly, romantic look coming over her face.

Sirius watched Colette, as she immersed herself in the song, caught up in her own world, totally un-self-conscious. He might as well have not been there, for all her dreamy expression betrayed. Sirius shifted his weight and cleared his throat—not quite ready for her to forget his presence.

"You know…it occurs to me that you and I met at a ball, and yet we never got to dance."

"That's because there weren't enough young ladies in the hall. No one much wanted to." She swayed to the beat of the song. "I had just had expensive lessons, too. My great-aunt was very disappointed."

"Well—I guess I'll have to make it up to her, then."

He walked to the center of the empty room and held out his arms—the right at her shoulder's height, the left at her waist.

Colette flushed and stood up straight—staring at his open arms as if they were a trap Sirius had set for her to walk into.

"Come on." He grinned, boyishly. "No one's watching."

"I don't—"

"—It'll be fun."

Face pink, she hesitated—until something in his coaxing smile spurred her on, and she stepped over, hand in his, arm on his shoulder. Sirius felt his hand brush against her narrow waist, and they began a slow, awkward waltz to the music.

"It's been a long time since I've done this," Sirius laughed—and he was alarmed to hear his own nervousness. What did he have to be—there was nothing to be nervous about. He was never nervous about girls! What was wrong with him? "I might—need you to lead."

"You don't," she said, softly. "You dance beautifully."

As the song picked up tempo at the chorus, Sirius's confidence surged, and he took a risk and twirled her around once—the tweed skirt flared out and he caught a glimpse of her knees. Those years of forced dance lessons, the drilling of his dance-master that had made a thirteen-year-old wizard trip and scowl—all that melted away, leaving only the pure muscle memory of the steps, the rhythm, one-two-three, one-two-three…

He didn't have to think, after awhile.

That gave him the freedom to look down at her face.

Colette was too busy counting to herself to keep time to notice him staring.

The morning had been wonderful. For the first time in he didn't know how long, Sirius had felt like a normal person—what he had always imagined other people, in different lives, felt like all the time. Young and carefree, the war and the tumultuous storm of his family only a distant cloud, far off on the horizon.

When he had first met her, Colette Battancourt seemed an illusory figure. Now in his arms, in front of him, she felt like the only real thing the world. A port in the storm.

Some small, as of yet untouched goodness left in the world.

As if she could feel the heat from his gaze, at that moment the twin cerulean eyes turned up towards him.

Merlin, that dash of freckles across her nose was maddening.

He wanted to count them, see how many there were…but that would require he lean forward—

—Just as a great crash from somewhere over their heads sounded.

Sirius whirled around—he and Colette broke apart, just in time for him to dodge the mannequin falling directly on his head.

"Bloody hell! What in the—"

The shelf slats that had been holding up the teetering collection of hats, shoes and knick-knackery that covered the back wall broke clean in half, and utter pandemonium broke out as all the rickety configuration of objects toppled over and crashed to the floor around them.

A feather boa got caught in the record-player, and the needle scratched violently across the single.

Colette pressed herself against the wall in time to avoid get covered by an avalanche of moldering tweed jackets.

"What is going on back there?"

It was the saleswoman, calling from the front of the shop.

"Erm—nothing!"

Sirius, who had been swearing like a sailor as he hoped over dresses and records, waved his wand with a hasty flourish, and the boxes and hats began to fly back to their spots.

By the time the woman had marched back to them, her face red with anger, the room was—more or less—just as it had been. Sirius explained, in a manner that would have stretched credulity for the best-tempered of shopkeepers, that a mere hat stand had fallen over and been the cause of the disturbance.

"But I fixed it, see?" He waved jerked the hatstand up and waved it in front of her face, as if she couldn't see it for herself.

The shopkeeper was not predisposed to trust his word—having thought him up to no good from the start—and when she found no disaster, she looked around for some other cause for her displeasure and found it in the emerald cameo broach, still sitting, untouched, on the glass case.

She rounded on Sirius, furiously.

"I knew you had a shifty look about you the second you come in here—did you pick that lock?"

She began counting objects, as if she believed he'd stuffed his pockets with them.

"Don't look at me—" Sirius laughed and jerked his head at his companion. "It was her that opened it up."

The shopkeeper tapped her heel impatiently and glared at Colette, who responded with a bold look, made particularly funny by her demure outfit.

"I don't believe your girlfriend here did anything of the kind." She sniffed in Colette's direction. "She looks too nice for the likes of you."

Sirius went pink around the ears.

"You'd be surprised what she's capable of."

Colette stepped forward, ready to cool any hot heads—but the woman was placated when Sirius loudly told her they were going, and would she wrap up the broach and tell them the cost of his girlfriend's new togs, so that they could leave directly.

"You shouldn't be paying for me," Colette said, as they were rung up—obviously both embarrassed and pleased. "It isn't proper."

"Nothing fun in life is proper! Anyway, you can get me back later," Sirius told her, as they stepped onto the street, knowing full well he wouldn't let her pay him back.

He'd been the one to convince her to even try them on—who was he to make her pay for it? It was hardly like she had expensive taste. The broach he'd gotten his mother, now safely stashed in his pocket, was far more expensive.

"Oh—I still need a new watch—what's the time, quick?"

She told him.

"Fantastic—we're late! Here—"

As he pulled her by the arm down the nearest alleyway—the safest place from which to apparate—Sirius found himself unaccountably glad that he had not yet explained to Colette what the term 'girlfriend' meant.

---

The flat was so dirty—at least, by Mrs. Black's standards, a great deal higher than the average young bachelor—that the job of deep-cleaning every surface in preparation for the Christmas festivities kept Mrs. Black busy and distracted from her troubles into the late morning. It was almost eleven when Regulus emerged from the kitchen, fully dressed in a set of handsome black day robes, and bearing no trace of the earlier scene that had occurred between them.

"From the amount of leavings I've found in the corners, you'd think your brother was inviting the vermin in every afternoon for tea."

Coming from any other woman, this remark would have obviously been a joke—but as Walburga Black had not yet shown signs of having a single humorous or ironic bone in her body, Regulus did not laugh.

"…Are you going to tell Father?"

She looked up from the corner she had been scouring. Regulus had his face turned down over yet another of his books, but she could still see his expression—uncertain, and very young.

He looked like her son again.

"About what?"

Regulus sighed.

"You know."

Walburga rose from the corner and glided over to him. She supposed the time for playing stupid had passed. Her youngest was far too clever to entertain it long.

"That will depend."

She pulled his chin up with her index finger. Unlike Sirius, he did not fight the gesture—only looked straight back at her, dark brown eyes a blank.

"Depend on what?"

Walburga released his chin abruptly and stepped away.

"Well, if one of his sons intends to never go near a bathtub again, I think your father would like to know."

He tossed his book aside in a very Sirius-like way.

"Please don't tell him."

Her shoulders sank.

For the second time in a week, Walburga wondered at the influence her husband had over their two sons. Did he realize how much more his opinions and views mattered to them than hers? No—surely not. It wouldn't be like Orion to assume anything of the kind.

It was maddening, of course—but it also strangely touched her.

"Perhaps in this case—" She delicately twirled her wand between her fingers. "We could both benefit from embracing the virtue of holding our tongues."

Regulus nodded, slowly—he was no fool, he understood her perfectly well. Not that she had harbored any serious fears of him interfering with her plans for Sirius Orion, not really…still, it was better to have a little safety mechanism in place.

Her son slouched back in his chair and let out a long-suffering sigh. Though the sound of his teenaged ennui made her long to roll her eyes, there was also something reassuring about it.

She wasn't ready to take Orion's claims that 'they were grown men' seriously, just yet.

Walburga absently brushed the hair back from his forehead.

"There's something else." She sat down on the sofa next to him. "I wonder if you might help me with another thing."

"Of course—anything."

He was eager to please her, now. Typical.

Still—she couldn't say it wasn't welcome.

"A little project. For Christmas. For—your brother."

At this, an involuntary sneer crossed his face.

"What else does he need?"

She stood up and brushed imaginary dust off of her skirts.

"Envy is unbecoming, Regulus Arcturus," she said, coldly. "I hope this isn't about that girl."

He pulled a face and informed her in the most sullen tone he was capable of that it was nothing of the kind.

"I should hope not. You've nothing to covet there, believe me." She sniffed, haughtily. "That Battancourt girl is a flighty thing, really. She's got her head in the clouds half the time."

"If she finds something of interest up there, what's the problem?"

She narrowed her eyes in rank disapproval.

"Excessive imagination is no substitute for sense."

"If Sirius likes her, she's something special." He gave a sarcastic smile very much in the mould of his father. "Nothing but the best for my brother. You wouldn't allow it."

Really! She rolled her eyes. Boys—they could be so competitive. Regulus wasn't fooling anyone—certainly not her.

"When your time comes, I'll find you a witch far better," she reassured him, in a smooth voice, as she began to set the table for lunch. "Prettier and from a better family—and without silly ideas. You have far more to recommend yourself than your brother in this regard. Women prefer steady, reliable characters over dash-it-alls like Sirius."

When Walburga looked back over her shoulder, she noticed a gleam of humor in his eyes—tempered with the dryness she had started to see come out more and more these past few weeks.

"Do they really, Mother?"

"Of course—and so do their parents, more importantly." She nodded, the sage of all wisdom where this was concerned. "Mark my words—in time you'll see I'm right."

Her son let out a long sigh and curled up onto the couch. When he was in that pose he really did remind her of the small boy he once been.

"I doubt most women would want a wizard who can't even turn on a tap without—"

He stopped himself and let out another sigh. His mother turned back from her task of ladling out his soup. She marched over to him, but it was only when he could not ignore her presence, towering over him, that Regulus looked up.

"As far as I'm concerned, any witch would consider herself lucky you'd stooped to her level—and I don't want to hear anything more about—about this nonsense with the water. In time—" Her voice faltered. "—In time all will be well and as it was."

Regulus gave her a queer, oddly closed-off look—somewhere between wistful and sad. It reminded her of how Orion had looked the night before, in her bedroom.

The thought scared her.

They sat in silence—Regulus picking up his book, though his eyes did not move, instead staying fixed to their spot on the page. Walburga pretended to ignore him in favor of setting out serviettes and salad bowls.

"Do you know who Sirius is meeting today?"

"I don't trouble myself with it. One of his disagreeable friends, no doubt."

"If it were one of them, he'd have told you."

Given his current delicate state, it was all she could do to stop herself from rolling her eyes and scolding him over his penchant for cryptic remarks.

"I suppose he confided this in you."

Ever since Orion had told her the whole of the events surrounding Malfoy Manor as regarded their children, Walburga had gotten the idea in her head that their sons were getting a little too chummy for her taste. It was all well and good to get along, but the prospect of the two of them plotting and getting ideas into their heads to work together—and against her—was now impossible to ignore.

"No." He laughed, hollowly. "But I have an idea."

The memory of Lucretia once calling her pesky younger brother a fussbudget know-it-all rose, unbidden, in Walburga's mind.

"Well—come on. Tell me."

Regulus shook his head.

"If I'm right—then so was he." He looked back down at his book. "It would upset you to know. So—it would be better if you didn't."

"That's what you think, do you?"

"Yes," Regulus replied, solemnly, and with that, he turned back to his book, as if that settled the matter.

Walburga had to wonder at the world, that a woman's children would get it into their heads it was their responsibility to make decisions for her. Who was supposed to be caring for whom in this scenario?

She was of half a mind to tell her youngest as much—but then she caught sight of the red around his eyes and thought better of it.

He needed—she didn't know what he needed, but it wasn't that.

"Lunch is ready."

"Just—a little longer."

"Your food will get cold."

"After one more of these, letters—please."

Mrs. Black threw her hands up in the air and sighed—but she did not insist and allowed him to finish the section and mark his place before coming to the table.

These boys of hers really were making her go soft in her old age, Walburga thought—as she watched him tuck into his sandwich and soup—just, of course, when she could afford it least.

There was nothing for it. His father would have to sort Regulus out.

She resolved to speak to him on the matter at the next available opportunity—and banished the image of Regulus sinking into a black lake of unfathomable depths from her mind.

Her nightmares would surely pass, just as his would.

---

There had been many unbelievable things Colette had seen this day—the likes of which she had hitherto only caught glimpses of in a Parisian street. Then they had captured her imagination and made her wonder—how do the Muggles live? It was not a question she could have expected answer to, before meeting Sirius Black.

But she had to draw the line somewhere.

"Let me get this straight. You are a witch, capable of magic, who also happens to be a writer of fantastical stories—"

"They aren't that fantastical."

"—And you can't believe that the cinema is real?"

At the cheeky grin that followed Sirius's rhetorical question, Colette tossed her head—but somehow the gesture didn't have the same weight in her new skirt and smart jumper, now covered in a short wool coat they had picked up from a street vendor of some Eastern European extraction they had run into in Chelsea.

She had not thought about her robes and cloak once since he had charmed her reticule to fit them and tucked the garments out of sight.

"How could they have invented such a thing without magic?"

"The irony in that question is staggering." Sirius waved his arms about in that wild, haphazard fashion he was want to do, never mind whoever happened to be directly in the line of fire. "How do you think all of this was built, then?"

She scoffed and surreptitiously vanished a puddle in front of them before they got their feet soaked. He was always teasing her—these moving plays on a screen that he claimed Muggles watched had to be one of his tall tales. They sounded too wonderful to be true, in fact.

"I suppose I will believe it when I see it."

"So that means we're going to a picture, then." He reached his hand out to help her up the curb—an unconscious gesture. Colette took it gladly—his grip was firm and sure, and it gave her an excuse to—it was nice. "I'll have to pick one out that doesn't offend your delicate sensibilities."

They rounded the corner of a square just off Tottenham Court Road. A chill had settled over London, the bright clear morning giving way to steel-gray clouds that hung imposingly over the city.

An ominous sign for Christmas, Colette thought, as she shivered.

The pub on the opposite side of the street in front of them was lively and full of activity—far busier than any of the wizard-run restaurants or shops she'd visited, all so oddly deserted for Christmas time. The cheery facade and pleasant smells of the place helped diffuse the nervousness she felt at entering such a thoroughly Muggle establishment.

Sirius overtook her and gently held her arm before she reached the first step.

"You haven't forgotten what we discussed yesterday, have you?" He lowered his voice, as if someone in the noisy bar might eavesdrop on their conversation through the oak door and over the voices of carousers. "About—keeping the circumstances of how we met and—who you're staying with, and all that—under wraps?"

Colette, emboldened by a morning spent in his company and in high-spirited rebellion, rolled her eyes. How fussy Monsieur Black was being—how strangely skittish, like one of her father's colts who'd been spooked. Having lunch at this pub had been his idea in the first place!

The small, self-conscious part of Colette wondered if he was having second thoughts about introducing her whoever it was they were to meet.

"Are you always this mysterious about your friends?" She asked, boldly—attempting to mask her own nervousness. "It's not Albus Dumbledore we're having lunch with, is it?"

He gave her a rueful look.

"That would be a lot less tricky. And I already told you I was sorry. I would have introduced you to Dumbledore, but he was very busy and he had to—get on with it." Sirius shoved his hands in his pockets and scowled. "It's too bad—if he'd been there he would have smoothed everything over with McGonagall and Slughorn, and we wouldn't have had to put on that show for them."

"I thought they were very kind."

"You always think everyone is 'being kind'."

"I do not!"

He held up his hand, and she fell silent again.

"We're having lunch with someone who—is important to me. But she—" The pause was pregnant. "—Has a bit of a…reputation."

He had turned unaccountably serious, just then—and self-conscious, the way that he sometimes got when a subject too close to home came. Her bright blue eyes widened, turning the naturally quizzical expression to one of surprise.

"I just—don't want you going in unawares, and thinking I didn't prepare you."

She hadn't expected her curiosity to be any more piqued—and yet, as usual, he had managed it.

"Is this one of your…rebellious friends?"

"In a—sense."

Colette had the idea that he was choosing his words with utmost care. Indeed, Sirius's expression and whole manner had become taciturn—where he was usually all boldness and daring, now he held back and kept his secret. The night they met they had been bound together by such a secret—magical in quite a different way than what her wand could produce.

She liked his natural openness—but occasionally the French girl caught glimpses of this other side of him, the side that was far more like his inscrutable family than she was sure he would like her pointing out.

That side of Sirius perturbed her—and excited her, too.

Just like Mama always says…too curious for your own good…always poking your nose in where you shouldn't.

"And am I—likely to have heard of her?"

A strained twitch of the lip, almost a nervous laugh, flitted across his face.

"I would be shocked if you hadn't."

Colette let out a exasperated huff. He was so maddening.

"Why don't you just tell me, then?"

"Because I—I want you to have an open mind about this, about her—and if I did—" Sirius laughed. "—Believe me, you wouldn't."

Before she had a chance to argue that he wasn't giving her enough credit, he had opened the door, the bell tinkled, and Sirius ushered her inside the bar.

The pub where they were to lunch was a central London affair, though Colette would learn much later how unpretentious it was when compared to the restaurants and shops in this fashionable part of town. It was not unlike the Three Broomsticks, where she had lunched with Mrs. Black, Narcissa and Professor Slughorn the day before—though Colette could not imagine her friend or chaperone setting foot in a place where so many wore denim trousers and mini-skirts.

In the scant encounters she had had with Muggles before now, the young French witch had learned to be self-conscious—they were always staring at her for the way she dressed, and when they passed the old school yard in Rouen and her mother snapped at her not to look at 'those ones,' the children positively goggled.

Nobody was sparing her a second glance, now. Colette looked down at her outfit—was this the reason, or was it the boost in confidence she got from being around him?

Sirius waved a hand in greeting at the wizened bartender (did he come here often?) and began to look around the restaurant, but before he could call out a name, a woman sitting at a table in the back corner rose up in her chair and waved him down.

"Sirius Black—you absolute wretch. I've been waiting half an hour."

He relaxed and turned his face towards Colette's, giving her a reassuring smile before tugging her gently by the elbow towards the table.

Colette followed shyly in his wake as he crossed to the spot across the room from which he had been called. Sirius was a little taller than the lady who had summoned him, but the look of cutting disapproval seemed to shrink him, slightly.

"You haven't been waiting that long." Sirius gave her two careless kisses on each cheek. "You're always at least twenty minutes late. And anyway, I got caught up this morning."

The stranger pulled back from his embrace and looked over his shoulder, where Colette hovered awkwardly behind. She felt a strong, direct gaze sweep over her—and instantly the color rose in her cheeks.

"Evidently."

The corners of the woman's lips, tinted with coral rouge, turned upward in a sly smile.

Her creative flights of fancy aside, Colette liked to think she had sense enough to be able guess at who the mystery luncheon date might be—one of his gang of friends he was always talking about, or perhaps that mysterious muggle-born witch he had threatened to introduce her to, to prove there was no difference between them.

The woman who had risen from the table to tease Sirius was nothing like what she had expected.

She was older than they were—though still young, with long light brown hair which might've been done up very nicely some hours ago, but obvious exposure to the elements outside had left elegantly windswept around her shoulders. Though her clothes were Muggle—Colette could tell that the long tweed jacket and elegant lambs' wool cap were of a high-end cut, and spoke to taste. They suited her and she knew it, for an air of unmistakeable glamour surrounded her, though she had none of the showy pretentious of Colette's fashionable cousins.

Most of all, she exuded a natural self-assurance that left the younger woman with an instant admiration—though the gaze, while kind, also gave Colette that familiar prickling of scrutiny that seemed to follow her wherever she went in this country.

Standing next to Sirius, Miss Battancourt was struck by the simultaneous impression of familiarity and the alien between them. One could have pointed to no obvious connection in manner of dress or expression between Colette's friend and this mysterious stranger—and yet she felt, as she had felt the night of the ball with Sirius, a kind of kinship between them.

The stranger laughed, throatily.

"I wondered if you'd even show up today, you know." She addressed Colette directly. "This one's been dodging my owls for weeks, and out of the blue I get a message at the crack of dawn that said 'come to the Elephant and Castle at noon today, because I've a friend I want you to meet'—with nary an explanation for this sudden about-face. Lucky I was up for the day already." She turned back in Sirius's direction, eyes narrowed. "You are a slippery one. Always have been."

Sirius laughed, uneasily.

"I take it you are this mysterious friend?"

"She's not mysterious." He nudged Colette forward. "But, eh—introductions are in order." He stood back and raised his hand with a flourish. "This is Andi—for whom words fail."

The woman shook her head and snorted.

"Andi? God, Sirius—nobody's called me that in years."

"Well, it's how I think of you." He beat his chest in a gesture of mea culpa. "Alright, alright—may I have the great pleasure of introducing you to one Mrs. Tonks?"

"That's hardly better! It makes me sound like an old crone."

Colette dipped into a shaky curtsy. Her robes normally concealed her wobbly knees, which had never quite gotten the trick of doing the gesture elegantly.

"How do you do, Mrs. Tonks?"

At this genteel greeting, Mrs. Tonks' eyebrows flew up into her hairline.

"Very well indeed." She smiled, and this time with a warmth that Colette could see was natural, not studied. "Your friend has impeccable manners, Sirius. Far better than yours."

"Who doesn't?" He laughed and flung his arm over her shoulder. The gesture felt natural, and yet Colette still felt the sensation of goose pimples down her arm. "Her name is Colette."

He waited with baited breath for some kind of recognition—they both did, in fact, for Colette was eager to please and be pleasing to anyone

"I trust this Colette has a surname."

Sirius hesitated—his smile stiffening at the question.

"Of—of course she does." His grip on Colette's shoulder tightened—and then, all at once, he released her, and his arm fell to his side again. "It's—Battancourt."

Colette saw his trepidation return, and he wondered for what reason Sirius would have to hide her last name from this pretty matron with the teasing laugh. Her face betrayed no recognition, though she felt the woman's keen brown eyes linger on her outfit.

"Battancourt?" Mrs. Tonks repeated, with polite curiosity. "Ah. Then you're—French."

"Oh—yes!"

They sat down at the table. Immediately Sirius pulled out a pack of cigarettes and began to light one for himself.

"Here for a visit?" Colette nodded. "Where from?"

"Oh—Rouen."

"Rouen. That's—Normandy." Mrs. Tonks snapped her finger against her thumb and pointed at Sirius. "Light me up a fag, would you? Must be dreadfully cold this time of year. Makes England seem all almost cheery, by comparison."

"He wouldn't light up one for me," the French girl said, thinking of the argument two hours previously—she had only wanted one puff, to see what they were like, but he had staunchly refused. "Oh, yes—it is! The ground is frozen on my father's farm."

"I told you, they're not for the likes of nice young women." He held the cig in between his fingers and shook his head in mock-despair. "These things will kill you, you know."

Mrs. Tonks snatched the one'd he'd lit for himself out of his hand and took a single, elegant drag.

"Yes, well—as this 'nice young woman' is taking a bus to Bethnal Green for tea with her mother-in-law after this, she'll risk it."

"That's okay. I'll allow it. You're not nice or young."

"Be quiet, you little wretch."

Sirius laughed and pulled another cigarette out of his pocket, which Mrs. Tonks lit for him with an old-fashioned lighter from her inner pockets. Colette caught sight of a thin, willow strip of wood concealed beneath the herringbone lining of her coat.

So she was a witch. Not that Colette had ever doubted it—she had somehow just known.

"Ted's Mum still giving you the run-around?"

"Oh, I'm sure she'll warm up to me after a few more decades of being married to her son." She rested her chin on the palm of her hand and swirled the warm beer in front of her, addressing Colette directly.

"East-enders are a proud race of beings, Colette. If you ever should perchance to meet one, you must learn to coarsen your manners. They're all terrible snobs. My mother-in-law calls me the 'disgraced daughter of an earl' behind my back." Her eyes glittered over the glass. "If only she knew the truth."

Andi took another long drag from the cigarette—a restorative measure, if her long sigh of relief was anything to judge by.

"Daddy wouldn't like it, if he knew you were doing that," a small voice said, from somewhere beneath their feet. "I could tell him."

Colette started and jumped in her seat. Mrs. Tonks only gave the gap between the table-top and floor a small, withering glance.

"Nymphadora, how many times have I told you? It's bad manners to blackmail your own mother from down on the floor." She tapped her cigarette against the ashtray. "If you must, sit on a chair in front of her with your back straight and tall."

Incredulous, Sirius pulled out his chair.

"How long has little Dora been down there?"

Sirius stuck his head underneath the table—there was a cry of surprise and a youthful oath.

"Did I not mention I was bringing her?" An ironical smile flitted across Mrs. Tonks' face. "Of course, I would introduce you, Colette, but I'm afraid my daughter's not speaking to me at the moment."

Sirius laughed and pulled his head back out.

"What've you done to warrant the silent treatment?"

"Oh, just made her wear a knit cap over her head when we're out in public. I'm not modifying the memory of every greengrocer my daughter decides to change her plait bright turquoise in front of."

Mrs. Tonks, her brown eyes dancing with maternal mischief, explained, over Sirius's laughs, about her daughter's rather unique gift for at-will magical transformation, and how it proved a difficult situation when raising a little girl who refused to behave herself.

"It's all Ted's—that's my husband—it's all his fault. I'd have never gotten away with half the things he lets her do, talking back, and the like. Cheeky monkey of a girl." She let out a maternal sigh. "She knows perfectly well she's not to do magic out in public, but she can't resist the urge to show it off."

Colette's cheek dimpled—Mrs. Tonks was gazing in the direction of her feet with an exasperated fondness that belied her irritation somewhat.

"Why do you take her out in plain sight of Muggles, then?"

"Well, they are rather hard to avoid." The older woman laughed, wryly. "There's so many of them."

"My maman says that's what wands were invented for."

Mrs. Tonks bit back a somewhat amused smile and shared a look with Sirius, who suddenly had grown very interested in examining the bottom of an empty glass.

"Your maman does have a point, but in my case, it might be be more trouble than it's worth." She sipped her beer thoughtfully. "Not to mention the awkwardness of it."

"But why should it be—"

A loud clearing of the throat cut her off, and when Colette caught sight of Sirius's expression she fell silent. It certainly hadn't been difficult for her to avoid them, growing up. Her parents treated most Muggles like everyone they knew did—as beneath their notice at best, unwanted pests at worst.

Sirius was looking at her as if she'd committed an awful social gaffe by saying as much.

Mrs. Tonks didn't seem to notice or care about the younger girl's faux pas, however. She drained the last of her glass of beer with a single jerk of the wrist, then flagged down the waiter to take their order for lunch ("I'm starving, personally.")

"Dora's gotten so big." Sirius remarked, taking the menu from the man and handing one to Colette. "She said she didn't know who I was. She doesn't remember me."

Mrs. Tonks took another puff from her cigarette.

"Well, it's been over a year, hasn't it?"

He slouched back in his chair.

"Closer to two, actually."

An odd, uncomfortable silence followed—one that Colette felt, instinctively, she had to fill.

"Such a long time!" The girl pushed his arm, teasingly. "Why don't you see one another more often?"

Sirius shifted uncomfortably in his chair—but the young wife and mother across from him, in contrast, grew very still.

"It's just such an—odd time," he said, drumming his fingers against the table top—a nervous habit, Colette had noticed. He tended to fidget when he felt boxed in, for he was all tightly coiled energy, ready to spring at a moment's notice. "And we've both been so—busy."

Sirius sounded apologetic and defensive, though Mrs. Tonks only shrugged and offered another small, sad smile.

"The current atmosphere does not lend itself to paying calls and socializing, somehow."

"Doesn't it?" The French witch laughed. "That seems to be all I've done since I arrived in England."

One of Mrs. Tonks's eyebrows quirked up, and she gave Sirius another furtive look. He avoided returning it.

"You must keep very brave company, Miss Battancourt."

Colette's cheery smile faltered.

"I—am not sure I understand."

"Obviously not."

"—Fish and chips, Colette," Sirius loudly interrupted them. "That's what you need. If only the damn waiter would come back here."

He banged his glass loudly on the table. Both women turned to look at him—as well as a crowd of middle-aged roustabouts at the table next to theirs.

"You can't—" Sirius sheepishly tossed his menu on the table. "You can't…come to Britain and not have fish and chips. This is a part of your education."

"You're teaching her about pub food, Sirius?"

He crossed his arms and forced a grin. Both women exchanged a look of confusion—though Mrs. Tonks' was cannier than Colette's by far.

"Among...other things."

"Curiouser and curiouser." She took one final drag of her cigarette before stubbing it out on the ash tray. "This is all very unlike you—why so jumpy? I'd almost think you're ashamed of me."

"That's not it," Sirius snapped, immediately defensive. "Don't put words in my—I'm not—that's not what I'm saying."

She arched one of her eyebrows elegantly.

"Then what are you saying? You've certainly become a man of mystery, since last time I saw you. Why else would you tell me in that letter this morning not to mention anything about the deep, dark past we share?" She threw a opaque smile in Colette's direction. "And he's told you not to ask, I presume."

A flash of anger and frustration crossed Sirius's face—but he did not deny it. He stubbed his cigarette out with such force that he scorched his fingers in the ashtray.

"Don't make this into something it's not."

"As opposed to making it something it is?" Mrs. Tonks looked more amused than offended—she seemed to Colette, from their short acquaintance, to be a woman not easily offended. "I guess I'm just another skeleton in your closet."

His head jerked in Colette's direction—then mechanically he forced himself to look Mrs. Tonks straight in the eye. To do so and remain polite and calm, without raising his voice, seemed to require almost physical effort from Sirius.

"I only thought—" Sirius sat up straighter in his chair and forced another smile. "—That we'd all have a better time if we talked about the present and the future. Is that so wrong of me? After all—" He gave Colette an encouraging smile. "We've everything in the world to look forward to."

Mrs. Tonks chuckled to herself.

"And everything in the world to forget." She shrugged, carelessly—as if was of no consequence at all. "I sometimes forget just how young you are, Sirius."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You know precisely."

He stared at her, opened his mouth, as if to say something in defiance—then caught Colette's eye, and, in a manner most unlike himself—held back.

This exchange went unremarked upon by Mrs. Tonks—though Colette detected, in the flickering of her eyes, some degree of understanding.

Andi Tonks was obviously not one to nurse resentment, and this moment of odd tension between she and Sirius passed quickly enough ("I cannot stay angry with you, S. You're too irritating in this state." "Much obliged, I'm sure.") It was followed by a friendly, familiar back-and-forth, their conversation like a game of badminton, where each partner knows the other so well as to make the exchange of the birdie across the net a lazy, languid affair.

Colette hovered on the edge of the conversation, keenly aware that there was some critical aspect of the unsaid that was beyond her understanding. Sirius had admitted as much to her—and said outright he was keeping the truth hidden, which he had clearly done for the reason of rightly judging her character. That comment was the only thing keeping her from asking how it was they had met, how they knew each other, for she was dying to know—and certain it must be something obvious she had overlooked. Every once and a while Sirius would glance over at her, some question in his look or manner, and she thought she caught a glimpse of whatever hidden communication he meant for her to receive.

At the mention of luncheon, Little Dora poked her head out from under the table.

"Can I have fish and chips, Mummy?"

"That depends," her mother said, slyly. "Are you going to be a good girl—or a little beast?"

In response, Dora's button nose grew to a length of Pinnoccio-like proportions. Sirius, Colette and the her mother all laughed.

"I'll take that as a no." Mrs. Tonks looked up from her little girl at the young couple across from her, both fit to burst with laughter—and her expression softened.

"Let's have some lunch, and the two of you can tell us all about your adventures this morning."

By the time their three orders of fish and chips (and one Shepard's pie, for Sirius had partaken of the famous English dish the day before yesterday and was quite sick of it at present) Colette had almost entirely forgotten those first awkward exchanges between the two.

They spent most of the meal talking in earnest of Colette's visit to Britain. Mother and child were an appreciative audience to Colette's enthusiastic recounting of Sirius studiously avoided all mentions of his family—it would almost have been impressive if Colette hadn't the sense that Mrs. Tonks was well aware of it. She was fast getting used to deceit herself, but Colette was too caught up in the simple joy of being around him and spending time together to care.

"I'm telling you, Colette—she doesn't believe it, Andi—I'm telling you, it's one of the most marvelous innovations."

They had spent a good ten minutes arguing about telephones, and whether they were better or worse than magical communication devices.

"They certainly leave less of a mess than owls," Mrs. Tonks said, breezily. "But then anyone can ring you up whenever. Bit of a bother."

"At least the phone doesn't peck at your fingers for not picking it up," Sirius muttered, darkly. "And it's faster."

"It's less traditional."

"Sucks to tradition."

Colette enjoyed playing up her own skepticism of these devices, if only to tease Sirius—and by the end of their debate he proclaimed that he would go find the nearest pay phone and call the pub, after which the bartender would summon her over to take the call, and the telephone's superiority would be proven to her.

He headed off to the bar, determined, leaving the two women and little girl alone. In Sirius's absence, Miss Battancourt felt her natural shyness around strangers return, and she busied herself with eating her food, which had, in her excitement, been mostly untouched.

The fish and chips were greasy and delicious.

"Good, isn't it?" Mrs. Tonks asked Colette, as she was cutting into ladylike portions each and every piping-hot chip. "I always come to this place when I'm in London—I turned Sirius onto it. My mother and father-in-law actually met here, would you believe it?"

Colette choked on a bit of fried cod.

"Here?" the girl repeated, astonished. "How—what a strange place to meet."

Mrs. Tonks smiled, knowingly.

"For a witch and wizard it would be." Colette's eyes widened. "Not for them. She was a waitress here, and my father-in-law was one of the masons repairing the building."

She took a sip from her beer and watched the blush creep across Colette's face.

"I believe I've shocked you."

"Of course you haven't," Colette stammered. "I'm—not shocked easily."

"No, you couldn't be, could you?" Mrs. Tonks posited, rhetorically. "Not with Sirius as a friend."

It was the way the woman across from her smiled—that was what triggered the memory. Afterwards she would never quite be able to say why that look and those words were the reason she realized.

"Oh, what was the last thing I was to tell you? I don't know where my head is."

The girl looked up from her notebook. She had been trying to pay attention to her great-aunt's list of etiquette and protocols for over a quarter of an hour. Would they get a lecture every time they went somewhere to eat, or was it just at her new friend Narcissa's parents' house?

"You have given me so many things to remember."

"Well, this is something you have to forget."

Little Dora looked between the adults, confused as to the nature of their conversation.

"Do you really not know about the telephone?" the little girl demanded. "You've never used one?"

Colette shook her head.

"Then how do you call your family?"

Mrs. Tonks gave her daughter a wry look.

"Only Muggles use the telephone, darling. Miss Battancourt doesn't have any Muggle family to call."

"There are people who don't have Muggles in their family?"

"Yes, Nymphadora. Many of them."

"You've probably heard—but then you were so young." Eugenie clucked her tongue. "There was another daughter."

"Narcissa has two sisters?"

"Oh yes—it was a terrible scandal. She ran away. All over the papers. They tried to hush it up, of course, but you never can with these things…"

"Well, that's funny. We only have Muggle family."

"That's not, strictly speaking, true, Dora." She downed the last of her drink, letting the glass fall to the. "It's just none of the rest are likely to call us, by telephone or anything else."

"What did she do?" Colette shut her notebook—eager for this tantalizing bit of gossip. How interesting other peoples' lives were. How scandalous! "Why did she run away?"

"Never you mind what she did. It's too dreadful to even speak of. She's disowned and you're never to bring her up in mixed company."

Colette pouted. One could hardly have brought up what one didn't know in the first place! And now that she knew she was curious.

Everyone else had more interesting lives than hers.

"But why not? Why shouldn't they talk to us, Mummy?"

"We've been over this." Mrs. Tonks sighed. "I'll explain it all to you when you're older."

"What was her name, at least?"

"Oh, I don't know—I can't remember. Some planet or constellation. All those Blacks are."

"Narcissa's not."

"Why can't you explain it to me now?"

"Because you wouldn't understand."

"I suppose that's true. But there's always exceptions in any family."

It figured that the one time Eugenie had said something interesting she regretted doing so.

"Did you ever meet her?"

"I suppose so, once upon a time. Oh, let's stop talking about it! It's too ghastly."

"Is someone angry with me?" Dora asked, her heart-shaped face crinkled with confusion.

"Of course not. You haven't done anything wrong. It's Mummy they're angry with."

Since her aunt wouldn't tell her the real reason, Colette tried to imagine anything being worth getting disowned over, and ever speaking to your family again. She couldn't think of one.

Poor Narcissa! How shameful to have such a sister that one's friends had to be warned about her.

"What did you do?"

It was when they both had wrapped themselves in their cloaks and had one foot out the door that the thought struck Eugenie, as they so often did.

"Oh, I remember it, now! It's been on the tip of my tongue for a quarter of an hour. Silly thing. How did I forget something so grand?"

"What has?" Colette asked, twirling a curl around her finger. She hoped Narcissa would invite them to some more parties this trip—then she wouldn't have to keep pretending to find her aunt's company interesting. "What did you think of?"

Mrs. Tonks looked up into Colette's eyes, and in that face she saw a spark of defiant strength—followed just as quickly by an almost aching sadness.

"Something they couldn't bring themselves to forgive," she said, softly. "That's all. Put it out of your head, darling. Goodness knows I have."

"The name—of the other one. Can't imagine saddling a child with it. It's as if they knew she was born under a bad star."

It was in the way she held her head—her turns of phrase—that breezy elegance which had seemed so oddly familiar to Colette, far more than in her looks. What she saw now could not be unseen.

"What was it?"

She heard the distant sound of Sirius approach the table—of Dora squealing that she was bored, and Mrs. Tonks asking, in that calm way she had, if he would be so good as to take her daughter out for a walk, while he was looking for his elusive telephone booth.

"And then I can at last get your Colette alone, and find out how awful you've been to her, really."

"As if! She'll only tell you nice things about me, won't you?"

Colette was in such a daze that she didn't even think to try to warn him of the danger.

"Andromeda."

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Happy Easter! Please leave a review if you enjoyed. I hope everyone is staying safe and healthy.