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']

25. Chapter 25

As she moved forward into the room, Mrs. Tonks's resemblance to her sister Bellatrix became much less pronounced: Her hair was a light, soft brown and her eyes were wider and kinder. Nevertheless, she looked a little haughty after Harry's exclamation.

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

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CHAPTER 25

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The walk back to Grimmauld Place was very quiet. Sirius felt the departure of that carefree buoyancy that had spirited Colette and him away from his parents' house only a few hours earlier, keenly, but it was no use. You couldn't recover a feeling anymore than you could bottle and sell happiness in an apothecary.

She seemed unusually pensive—though not angry at him for catching her off-guard, as he had expected. He thought he might've preferred that to whatever this was.

Something had changed between them.

"I knew I shouldn't have left you alone with her."

Colette pulled her cloak around her shoulders—the charity shop outfit was now carefully tucked away in her reticule. She was back in her gown—as she should be, looking every bit the demure pureblood witch she was.

And he was taking her back to her world—their world.

The world where she belonged.

His companion tilted her head and considered his bold assertion. How could a face be so warm and open and be such a mystery to him at the same time?

"Perhaps not," Colette conceded, finally. "But I am glad you did. It was….well, I can see why you wanted me to speak to her."

"I owe you an apology. I shouldn't have put you in that position—either of you."

She looked up at him, expression frank and forgiving—and touched his arm.

"You had no choice," Colette said, simply. "You thought if your cousin knew who I was she would not have come."

Sirius smiled down at her, sadly. She understood things better than she knew.

"Andromeda is—complicated, Colette." He let out a humorless laugh. "But I suppose that's everyone in my family."

The girl nodded and tucked a stray wisp of her hair—which had completely come out of its tidy up-do, the one sign of her rebellious morning spent in Muggle London with him. His lip twitched—how had he not noticed that nervous habit of hers, until Andi had pointed it out?

"I understand."

Sirius let out a soft 'ha'—oh, you don't know the half of it.

"Well, don't worry. I don't plan to introduce you to any more of them…" He trailed off with a sigh and kicked his boot against the pavement. "I think you've had enough Blacks to last a lifetime."

Colette shivered. The moment he saw her shoulders tremble, Sirius reached for the lapels of his jacket to shrug it off—and then he remembered.

You can't put a leather jacket over a rudding cloak.

They passed through the city streets that wound back to the square where Sirius had grown up in silence, content to listen to the sounds of trucks and lorries and bustling Muggles, going about their last burst of Christmas shopping without a seeming care in the world.

"Why were you at your grandfather's party? Truly?"

Colette had a naturally soft voice—but it carried, and even her quietest words carried straight into his ears—and occasionally, cut him to the quick.

Sirius stopped short. Colette stopped as well, and she tilted her head up and gave him a curious look.

He turned towards her and gently grasped each shoulder, lowering his head to be at eye level with hers. Colette's cheeks pinked—but she was less embarrassed than she would have been only a few days earlier.

"Why're you asking that?"

"Well, it's—you never did tell me the truth," she said, seriously. "And I—I suppose I think I ought to know."

"Do you trust me?"

Colette—hesitated—then nodded. Sirius released his grip on her shoulders and rubbed the side of his face, ruefully—grateful for the crowd of tourists passing by, that gave him a moment to think.

He had known, in his heart of hearts, that he could only put off this moment for so long.

"Look, I'd tell you here and now—if I believed it would do you any good." Or you could go right on putting it off, an irritating voice muttered in his ear. "As it is, I think it would be…dangerous."

Colette laughed—as if he was teasing her. The thought that she didn't know any better—that that was what she believed—hit Sirius like a painful blow to the stomach.

He didn't want to be the one to shatter that facade, to upend her innocence. Did that make him selfish?

You know the answer to that, you bloody scoundrel.

The voice in his mind was an unpleasant combination of Lily and his mother.

"What sort of danger could I be put in by knowing the truth?"

A pair of bright blue, utterly guileless eyes blinked up at him from the heart-shaped face. Colette's cheeks were pink from the cold.

No one had any reason to hurt her. She was a nice, respectable witch from a good family—for God's sake, she was Narcissa's friend. Sirius could well imagine the kind of sway Malfoy had over the others. No one would touch her—they wouldn't have any reason to…

They wouldn't have before she she met you, the treacherous voice whispered in his ear. Now she's tainted by association.

He swatted the voice away like an unwelcome wasp. He would listen to the one that comforted him, told him what he wanted to hear. That was the Black way, after all.

"What, you never heard the one about the snake and the apple?"

This feeble joke masquerading as an answer did not surprise Colette—or rather, she gave no sign of being surprised by his discomfort with the topic. To his relief, though, she did not press him on the point.

At least, not directly.

"I am going to a party tonight, you know."

They began to walk again, and he turned his head—surprised at this sudden shift. There was an unexpectedly pointed nature to this comment, apropos of nothing, which was impossible to ignore.

All warning lights flashed 'danger' in Sirius's mind.

"I've heard," Sirius said, shortly. "Sounds like a real corker."

He was relying on her being French preventing Colette from noticing the sarcasm that had crept unwillingly into his words. Unfortunately, like most natural writers, she had a gift for both language and inflection.

"Well—" Her eyes flashed. "Shall I expect you?"

"What?"

"To be there, in attendance. I want to know if I should be waiting to see Monsieur Svensson." He started to laugh. "Or perhaps there is some other person you disguise yourself as, when you sneak into parties uninvited."

"Not tonight. I'm afraid I've made dinner plans."

"With your parents?"

He shoved his hands deeper in his jeans.

"No comment," Sirius replied, tersely. "Anyway—I doubt I'd enjoy a to-do at Chez Rosier. Not my type of people going to be there, are they?"

"Rabastan Lestrange will be in attendance," Colette said, coolly.

The girl gave him a hard stare, and Sirius remembered what he had had called her fianceé to be in a moment of indiscreet folly— 'a brutal thug.'

She's never going to let that go, is she?

"Rabastan Lestrange—how thrilling." Sirius tapped his hand against a street lamp as they passed. "The thought of conversation with him really stirs the blood."

Colette's cheeks pinked in annoyance—but she pressed.

"Narcissa thinks—" She straightened up, and she suddenly seemed far older than eighteen—more woman than girl. "That Regulus may turn up as well."

Sirius's fist clenched—an involuntary reaction.

"Does she, now?" He asked, stiffly. "Well, Cissy's in for a disappointment."

Colette made a little huffing noise that reminded Sirius, unpleasantly enough, of said cousin.

"That is unfortunate. She was looking forward to it."

"Were you looking forward to it?"

He struggled to keep the accusation and the resentment out of his voice.

Colette tipped her head to one side, suddenly coquettish.

"Oh, I don't know…" She tapped her chin, thoughtful. "It's always interesting to see people after a long absence, to see how they've changed."

Colette gave him a searching look.

"Has Regulus changed?"

Sirius's lip curled. He really didn't like her talking about his brother, and he liked thinking about why even less.

"Immeasurably."

"For the better?"

"That depends on who you ask."

"I am asking you, Monsieur Black."

He stopped walking again, and turned to face her.

"I'm not sure. For the better, I hope. He doesn't exactly share what he's thinking, so it can be…difficult to know." Sirius ran a hand distractedly through his hair. "Slytherins like him are not known for wearing their hearts on their sleeves."

She clucked her tongue and began walking again, steps airy. Frowning, he followed.

"Perhaps if you were kinder to him," she said, in a firm voice. "He would tell you."

The color rose in his cheeks. She was—was she giving him a scold, now?

"Excusez-moi, Miss Battancourt!" Sirius wagged his finger at her—then lowered it again when he noticed her amused expression. "But you don't know how I am with my brother."

She shrugged, airily—with a newfound confidence he found both aggravating and appealing. Well, he supposed deep down she'd always had it—at least with him. But one didn't exactly enjoy it being turned on one.

"I have met him, I have met you. And I hear how you speak about him." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "I can well imagine how you are together."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Sirius groused. "What can you 'well imagine'?"

The girl smiled—the secret smile of a woman. They were always hiding what they thought, dangling one on a string.

Not that Sirius really had much experience of them beyond shallow flirtation, but Colette certainly didn't need to know that.

"You are very used to getting your own way. I suspect more-so with Regulus than others," Miss Battancourt continued, blithely. "I would not be surprised if you bullied him. I have heard elder brothers often do."

Sirius pulled a face—she laughed.

"Well, I'm glad you have your little theories—you do have that literary imagination, after all. Or perhaps you've taken to having tea with my mother and getting it all from her."

He knew full-well that Walburga would not have spoken about he and Regulus to an outsider—and so did Colette, for she did not even grace this sarcastic comment with serious consideration.

"Madame Black doesn't need to tell me—" The witch quirked an eyebrow. "I can see perfectly well that you envy your brother—though I suspect he has more cause to envy you."

This was such a straight-forward, kind and devastatingly cutting blow, that for upwards of thirty seconds Sirius had nothing to say in response to it.

"I may not have an elder brother," she continued, gently. "But I know what it is to be a timid person, next to a forceful one. One can quite disappear."

Sirius clenched his jaw and sighed. Miss Battancourt was, happily, not one to savor a victory or crow over a fallen adversary. It made talking to her very unlike anyone in his family. Disagreements were not about winning or losing to her—only about understanding.

"You always have an answer, don't you?" Sirius said, finally. "I heard you niggled my father last night at dinner. Was making a presumptuous comment about family relations what got his back up?"

Her expression cooled.

"As a matter of fact, it was." Sirius stumbled, and she continued, voice halting. "I was defending you, if you must know."

A strange mixture of emotions came over him at this unexpected news. Sirius found himself embarrassed at the idea of this slip of a girl acting as his champion, but also strangely moved that Colette would want to do so.

"What on earth do you think you think you needed to defend me over—"

"—It doesn't matter," she cut him off, sounding embarrassed herself. "I am—not even sure he understood. And I shan't do it in future, if it bothers you so much."

They were only two streets away from Grimmauld Place—she picked up her pace, indicating in no uncertain terms she would like to get far away from him.

"Hey, hey—" He jogged after her, already regretting picking such a stupid fight. "Come on, Colette—don't be like that."

Sirius grasped her arm, and a bolt of what felt like electricity flared up between them.

"Please let go of me," Colette halfheartedly tried to pull out of his grip. "I must get back to Narcissa."

"She can wait a little longer."

"But we have to—prepare. For this evening."

Right. That party. Her big social engagement.

With "Lucius's friends."

They aren't his friends, they're his flunkies.

Sirius released her arm and she brushed past him, as illusive as a feather on the wind of a cold winter morning. He followed after his companion, eyes fixed ahead, to the entrance of the square, where they stopped. Sirius eyed the familiar tops of the trees that lined it with trepidation. Turning that corner felt like crossing the threshold, or the Rubicon.

"You'll be safe the rest of the way." He scuffed his feet on the ground and ran his gloved hand through his fringe. "So I suppose this is goodbye, for now."

"I suppose it is."

She looked up at him, fidgeting, awkwardly. Somehow it felt even more awkward than it had the day before, when Minerva McGonagall had been watching the two of them like hawks.

"I wish you were coming to the party tonight," Colette muttered, in a low voice. She sounded annoyed at herself for thinking it, and the thought made Sirius smile.

"No, you don't—trust me."

"As if doing that has ever got me anywhere."

"I'd only stir up trouble for you if I came."

"Then I wish you would be at the Christmas party tomorrow night, at Grimmauld Place," she returned, her blue eyes flashing boldly. "Is there any chance you will come?"

Christmas Eve—the social event of the Black family calendar.

The thought of that event no longer conjured the dread he had once felt—funny how a change in perspective could come on so gradually one didn't know its origin. When had that changed for him?

"Sneaking into two Black family parties in a week would be pushing my luck." Sirius forced a smile. "Besides, I don't belong there."

Her face softened.

"Of course you do."

Something in his heart lurched at those words.

"I want you—" He shot the square a furtive look. "—To be very careful tonight. And to do me a favor."

"What favor?"

Her voice carried with it a tremble of anxiety.

"Please—keep your ears open, and tell me—" Sirius hesitated. "If you hear anything about my brother."

She frowned, her brow crinkled in that way that always said she was thinking hard—and nodded.

"What sort of things are you expecting to be said?"

"Nothing, I just—I expect he'll be missed."

---

Colette wished that Narcissa would stop apologizing.

There were only so many "Oh, you must've had such a dull morning" and "I swear I've never been sick over Christmas before in my life!" the French witch thought she could take before she cracked and confessed everything to her friend.

Except—she knew her guilt would not take her that far. It was as Andromeda had said—she was too far in, now.

Luckily by the time Colette made it back to the house and the mercifully open front door—she had somehow known it would be unlocked when she arrived—Narcissa had not yet stirred from her chambers. This made it easier to account for her whereabouts for the previous four hours—or at least, she was spared the need to make immediate excuses when she knocked on Narcissa's bedroom.

Mrs. Malfoy, up and dressed, was attended on by Kreacher the house-elf. Colette noticed that one of his hands bore the marks of an injury—one she hadn't noticed before—and innocently commented on the face, though it was more from a nervous tendency to fill up silences than actual curiosity.

"Oh, that?" Narcissa said, airily. "He did it to himself, I don't know why. I expect it's because he wasn't here when I woke up. I had to call for ages before he came to bring me my luncheon. I can't think where he was, it's not like him to be disobedient."

She glanced down at her French-manicured nails and missed the telling flush on the younger girl's face.

"My aunt has very high standards—I suspect she's got him trained to do it himself, in her absence."

Colette sat down on the bed and watched Narcissa as she arranged her hair, her jewelry—with the elegance and practiced grace of a woman secure in her position as wife and mother to-be. She had once admired these qualities, had sought to emulate them—and she still did, though her priorities had changed.

"Narcissa…" She looked into the mirror, into the blonde's pale grey eyes, currently surveying the string of rubies around her neck with approval. "May I ask you a question?"

"I think my initial question still stands, my dear."

Andromeda smiled.

"In fact, now that I know you're staying with Aunt Walburga, I think how you met my little cousin is even more interesting."

"It was at a party," she admitted. "His…grandfather's birthday party."

One of Andromeda's beautifully curved eyebrows arched up.

"The plot thickens." She tapped her fingers on the tabletop. "I'm afraid I'll need more than that. He wouldn't have been invited."

"He wasn't—" She lowered her voice. "He was there…in disguise."

She had expected to shock Mrs. Tonks with this information—but the older woman had been far more surprised by the knowledge that he had attended the party than she was by the clandestine nature of that attendance.

"Oh," Andromeda said, in a bored voice. "Well, that explains it."

"Explains what?"

Andromeda's eyes gleamed beneath the soft fringe of brown hair that fell into her eyes.

"His presence—the reason for it."

As had so often been the case in her life, Colette was struck by the sense of her own ignorance—as if the answer to this riddle was something wholly obvious to the rest of the world. In latter years she might've brushed off her own naïveté. But now…it filled her with a sickly dread.

Andromeda read her face.

"Haven't you asked him?"

"I did!" It sounded like the feeble cry of an idiot. "He said he was there—to meet a friend."

Andromeda laughed.

"I hope you didn't believe that. Not a single one of the people in that hall would count him as one of their 'friends.'"

Suddenly his words the night they had met came back with startling clarity.

"There are some very nasty characters here tonight—and I would hate to see a girl as innocent as you mixed up with them."

"You seem a clever sort of girl, Miss Battancourt. I'm a bit surprised. I wouldn't think you'd spend the better part of a week running around with a man you met in disguise and not discover the reason for it."

She had started out with such noble intentions—or at least intentions to find the truth, which her grandmother said was its own form of nobility. Somewhere between Mrs. Black and her sons's smile that principle had quite escaped her.

"Do—do you know why he was there?"

The faint look of disapproval crossed Andromeda's face.

"Have you heard of the Order of the Phoenix, Miss Battancourt?"

"N-no."

"You should try asking my cousin about it. See what he says. Or, if you don't have the stomach—try my sister, though she might not even know. Politics has never exactly been her metier."

Narcissa glanced up from the mirror and straight into Colette's eyes. Her own bore a frigid.

"More questions, Colette?" She picked up her ivory backed brush. "Well—I suppose you may ask. If it's not too tedious."

Colette nodded and watched her friend as she began to brush out her beautiful blond hair. She had never discussed anything political with Mrs. Malfoy—the subject had never once come up.

The Order of the Phoenix...that phrase. As soon as Andromeda had said it the words had sparked in her imagination a burning curiosity. She had not the faintest idea what such a thing was, expect that the name promised secrecy, danger, and other things which were wholly unknown to her before this trip.

It sounded like some kind of—organization. What could that have had to do with why Sirius had been at the party?

"Well?" Narcissa prompted, impatient. "What is it?"

She snapped out of her daze.

"Never mind." Miss Battancourt twisted a curl around her finger. "It was—nothing."

Her friend narrowed her eyes in suspicion, then shrugged. Inwardly, Colette breathed a sigh of relief. Something told her that this was not a phrase that would be wise to mention to Narcissa Malfoy.

She would ask Sirius—she would not accept 'no' for an answer, would make him tell her everything the next time she saw him. The girl sighed, wondering wistfully when she'd even get the chance...and already missing his presence terribly.

I wish he would sneak into the party tonight.

Colette could not imagine meeting anyone whose company she would prefer.

---

Sirius turned the broach over and over in his hand—examining it at every angle. He didn't know why he kept taking it out of the package. It's not like he cared about jewelry—or understood what separated the fine from paste and costume. Would she really like this thing? What would she say when he gave it to her?

"That's a lovely piece."

He snapped his head up at the intrusion of that familiar, wry voice. His cousin Andromeda had emerged from the underground station where she'd told him to wait for her, when they'd tersely parted ways not forty minutes earlier. She always said riding the tube helped her to think.

She'd obviously had a lot to think about today.

"Oh? You think—" He shoved it back in his pocket, hastily. "It's alright, I guess."

She'd caught sight of the address of the shop on the paper bag before he managed to hide it, and was thus able to remark on the relative posh-ness of the place from which he had made this opulent purchase.

"It's—a Christmas present."

"Oh?" Her lips turned up in a strange smile. "Well, I'm sure your mother will like it a great deal."

She began walking in the direction of the park across the road, at a brisk and resolute pace—Sirius followed after. He was reminded uncomfortably of many a childhood afternoon in summers long past where he, with the squat legs of a child much younger, had had to run to keep up with her and her sisters.

Merlin, he was already exhausted by this conversation, and they hadn't even started.

"Andromeda—"

She spun around on her heel so fast that he threw his hands up to defend himself, boots skidding to a halt. Andromeda's face was red—and she looked furious.

"You are—" She waved her finger in the air, a gesture that was taken right out of Granny Irma's book. "—Unbelievable."

"Andi—"

"—Truly, the eighth wonder of the world. They will one day build monuments to your idiocy."

Was now the time to interject that at least he'd be remembered, and lighten the mood? She let out what could only be described as a furious growl of frustration, before continuing her aimless march across London, onto the green of the park nearby. She ignored the signs that warned pedestrians they were not allowed to walk on the grass.

No, I don't think it is the time.

Halfway through a flowerbed she abruptly stopped and turned towards him.

"What were you thinking?"

Mingled in her anger was an exasperation he knew well. He tried to formulate a response—Merlin knew he'd been practicing one in his head for the entire time he'd been waiting for her—but now, at the moment of truth, words quite deserted him.

"….About which part?"

Her eyebrows flew up in utter disbelief.

"Where does one even begin?"

Sirius let out an involuntary, humorless laugh.

"Well, it's funny you should mention the beginning—" She crossed her arms in front of her and scowled. "Because it's the most interesting part, really—"

"—How about—" Andromeda cut him off, abruptly, and Sirius saw that any sympathetic exasperation she'd allowed herself to feel on his behalf had left her again. "We start with what the hell you were thinking sneaking into Malfoy Manor in disguise, hm?"

Sirius cursed under his breath—really? That episode was the last thing he wanted to lead off with in the discussion of the recent disaster that was his life.

"That was a total piss-up, I admit—but I was following orders." The snort of disbelief raised his temper. "For God's sake, Andi—you think I wanted to be there? I didn't even know they'd all be there until I walked in the door, and by then it was too late to get out of it."

She cocked an eyebrow.

"You seem to have had a good enough time once you arrived." Sirius's face flushed. "So he's got you playing at spy, now?"

He let out a long breath. He shouldn't have been surprised she understood why he was there—she was savvy enough to read the writing on the wall when it came to where his loyalties lay. Sirius lowered his voice and looked around, furtive—as if there might've been a Death Eater hiding behind the pack of teenage girls giggling and staring at him next to a stone fountain twelve yards off.

"It was—a very important infiltration mission." That he still didn't actually know the purpose of, thanks to Reg's furtiveness, but she didn't need to know that. "And yes, if you must know, it was Albus Dumbledore's plan—"

"—Then he's as much of a fool as I've always thought him."

Sirius recoiled from her vehement exclamation. The very thought of Dumbledore seemed to send her in a rage, for she began to stalk across the park—thankfully away from the teenagers, who were eyeing the pair of them with an interest he did not like one bit.

Once a Slytherin, always a Slytherin, he thought, glaring at her back as he jogged to keep up with his elder cousin. Of course she'd somehow make this a moratorium on Dumbledore's judgement and not the men married to her two damned sisters.

Andromeda found her way to a long, cobble path, dotted with a few couples, an elderly woman and her aged Pekingese, a smattering of what sounded like Dutch tourists. It was a spartan group—the weather had begun to turn bad again, and it looked as though it might rain.

It was not until they were well beyond the earshot of the Muggles that Andromeda dared speak again.

"Do you have any idea what they'd have done to you, if you'd been caught?" She asked, her hands shaking with suppressed anger. "You'd be dead."

"By 'they' I assume you mean your illustrious brothers-in-law, 'Lucifer' Malfoy and 'the Rod of Iron' Lestrange," Sirius said, suitably roused by this dressing-down to come to his own defense. "I can handle myself where those two jackals are concerned."

"You have no damn idea what you can handle!" Andromeda snapped, fiercely. "And if you're not careful, you won't live long enough to find out."

He kicked the dirt with the toe of his boot and laughed, bitterly.

"You sound like my father."

Her brown eyes flashed dangerously.

"I'd trust his judgement over yours in a heartbeat."

His insides twisted...he wished there was a signpost or lamp he could punch, to work out his frustration, but there was none to be found. They had made it to the end of a long boulevard, lined with poplar trees. Devoid of leaves, they swayed in the wind, looking rather careworn and lonesome.

It was at this lonely spot that she chose, for whatever mercurial reason, to stop.

Andromeda reached into his pocket and pulled out the broach. She held it in front of his eye, like a prospector with a gold piece.

"How long has this been going on?"

She made it—'this'—sound shameful. Sirius leaned against the barren park bench and tried to ignore the daggers she was shooting in his direction, which seemed as though they might cut straight through him.

"A fortnight," Sirius admitted, finally. "More or less."

Andromeda gave him a searching look.

"Is that why you haven't been answering my letters? Or my calls?"

He fumbled with his excuses like an alcoholic might with the keys to his house.

"I wanted to tell you, believe me—I was going to ring you up, only the flat's not secure, and I didn't want to be overheard." Sirius let out a hopeless laugh. He'd disconnected the phone two days in, when it had rung once and Walburga had nearly blown it up. "The situation is—delicate. I've had a hell of a time."

That he had had 'a time' did not seem to soften her up. In fact, this reality only stiffened her resolve to give no mercy, as if she already knew that he'd brought that 'time of it' upon himself. Sirius let out a long breath—struggled to control it.

"It's not what you think, Andromeda."

Words that were meant to comfort, provide an explanation—and all they did was make her laugh.

"Oh, Sirius—" Mrs. Tonks stared up at the sky. "You don't have the first idea what I think."

Sirius gesticulated in the air, and the flailing of his arms matched his general sense of his own equilibrium—or lack thereof.

"What I mean is that it didn't happen like—" Sirius tripped over his words. "I didn't want it to—I didn't have a choice."

Andromeda raised the arm that held the broach up in the air, and for one split second Sirius thought she might toss it. His alarm must've shown on his face, for when she lowered the hand and dropped the object into his grasp, the look on her face was one of pity.

"Look—as far as the details go," she said, words crisp and businesslike. "I don't care to know. Frankly, I already know more than I'd like."

Her bluntness caught him off guard, and she continued, more forceful.

"Let me make things clear for you." Andromeda's mouth thinned to a dour line—her lips had lost their color. "Whatever this is, I'm not going to be dragged into it."

He stared at her, incredulous. What the hell was she talking about?

"Who said anything about 'dragging you' into it?" Sirius repeated, indignantly. "If anything, I want you to drag me out of it!"

"Well, I want nothing to do with it at all, frankly," she snapped back. "And I don't appreciate you getting my daughter involved, either."

"How exactly did I get Dora—" Sirius stopped, realization overtaking him. "What, you don't mean—Colette?"

At the French girl's name, his cousin's jaw tightened. Sirius let out an almost hysterical laugh.

"Come, on! She has—she has nothing to do with any of this, Andromeda—she doesn't know a damn thing—"

"—About you spying for Albus Dumbledore?" Andromeda finished for him, dryly. "Yes, so I gathered. No thanks to you—you seem not to have mentioned that little detail. I suppose a dishy smile can do a lot to keep pesky questions at bay."

"Were you the one who told her to ask me that?" Sirius let out a low growl of frustration. "Damn it, Andi, you've put me in such a bloody awkward position—"

"Oh, I'm sorry for thinking someone ought to warn her about the company she's keeping," Andromeda muttered, darkly. "Count yourself lucky I didn't tell her outright why you were there.

He was tempted to point out that actually, all he'd ever done since the moment he'd met Colette was to warn her off their family, but given the heated nature of their conversation and his own rank hypocrisy, Sirius bit his tongue.

"Between my sister and you," Andromeda continued, mercilessly. "It's out of the frying pan and into the fire."

"You're not saying I'm worse company than Narcissa!"

"It's debatable." Mrs. Tonks gave him a searching look. "Cissy's just oblivious and vain. You're the one who is actively concealing the truth from her, after all. "

Sirius let out a sigh of frustration.

"What would be the point in telling her? All it would do would be to—put her in harm's way." He thought about repeating the snake and apple line on Andromeda, but he doubted it would be tolerated by her as it had been by Colette. "She's far better off knowing nothing at all about what that lot are up to."

"What a charmingly patronizing attitude." A thin smile crept onto her face. "You've turned into a real knight chivalric, haven't you?"

"Oh, don't be so damn cynical—there's nothing wrong with protecting people."

"With protecting women, you mean."

"They are, more often than not, the ones that need it—so yeah, I guess I'm in favor of 'shielding the womenfolk'. Is that a crime, now?"

She arched a brow with lazy amusement.

"Now who sounds like your father?"

He stiffened—not sure between himself and Orion which he felt more defensive of. Andromeda looked him over—her dark eyes tracing his face, his close-cropped hair down to his boots. What she was looking for, he could not exactly say—though Sirius was struck by the sense that his cousin sought a visible sign of something far murkier, hiding beneath the surface.

She stilled—calmed, and turned from Sirius. Her anger had dissipated…or at least she had decided to school it, temper it, hide it away from him, and what was left was a calm, searching expression that left him unsettled.

"After you ran away—what was the one thing I told you?" She tucked her hands neatly into the pockets of her tweed coat. "Do you remember it? I only gave you one piece of advice."

Sirius shook his head—his gloved fingers trembled from the cold. He could remember that day—that Christmas holiday, three years earlier, when he had shown up on her doorstep, wet and shivering from more than just the rain—when the full weight of what he'd done three months earlier had finally hit him with the crash of an ocean wave—that feeling of anticipatory dread that preceded looking up at the wall of water about to send one to the watery depths.

"You were the one person I had to go to."

"And what did I say when you did?"

He looked askance at her and mumbled something indistinct. She cleared her throat—Sirius looked up and into her eyes.

"Never give a snake an opening."

An ironic smile flitted across her face.

"That's right. Never—give a snake—an opening." She drawled the words, softly. "There is no space so small they cannot squeeze through."

There was no point pretending not to understand the metaphor—and all it entailed.

"None of this was my choice," Sirius snapped, defensively. "You don't understand the—the position I'm in."

"Your position is the reason I told you in the first place!" Mrs. Tonks replied, impatiently. "And because I know you. I knew you were in danger of getting drawn back in. You know, Sirius, for someone who has spent his whole life around Slytherins, you are still shockingly naive about them—and their motives."

His face flushed an ugly red.

"Whatever you assume is going on," Sirius growled. "You have no right to judge."

"I know enough of the facts to judge perfectly well," she said, in a cold voice. "I know you're being stupid and reckless—even for you. I know you are squiring about a girl staying at your parents' house, which would be insane, even if she was worth the trouble—"

"I thought you liked her!"

His cousin gave him a look somewhere between pity and contempt.

"That was before I learned she was Cissy's latest plaything."

He rounded on her, furiously—a wave of righteous indignation coming over him. What right did she have, to speak about Colette like that?

"That's not fair, and you know it," Sirius growled. "Don't talk about her like that. She's not like any of them."

Andromeda shrugged.

"Oh, Cissy's got her claws in already, I'm sure." Her lip quirked up in a superior smile—and she gave him a telling look. "But perhaps she's got her claws in you."

Sirius instantly saw red. She really thought he was a blinking idiot, didn't she?

Well, two can play at this game.

"I'm sorry you're pissed off that Colette and I have seen your parents and your sister more recently than you have." Her face whitened in anger, just as Sirius had known it would. "But that's your problem. Don't take it out on us."

He had touched a nerve, an old wound. She radiated anger in ever fiber of her being—the sort of anger that is always a mask for pain.

Sirius knew it well—he'd worn the same mask for a long time.

"Why in God's name did you bring her to meet me, Sirius?" Andromeda narrowed her eyes. "What on Earth did you think it would accomplish?"

"I thought you could—help her." He waved his arms around—this had all made so much more sense in his head. "She's in a tough spot. Her parents are trying to marry off, and I thought you could, I don't know, be an example to her. Show her there's more than one way—that you can make more than one choice with your life."

She spun around on him, angry again—though for the life of him, Sirius couldn't imagine why, and he did not shrink back again.

"In what possible way am I equipped to do that?"

"Oh, I don't know—you only married Ted!" Sirius snapped back, exasperated. "I somehow thought that was a rather important decision in your life."

He crossed in front of her, blocking her path.

She shook her head, the anger disappearing, turning it into the wry smile of an older cousin, explaining a simple concept to the baby in the nursery.

"That girl is not like you, Sirius. You aren't going to make her over in your image. And even if you could, I would be the last woman you would want her to model."

"Andromeda—"

"I'm not any more of a rebel than she is." She looked up at the barren trees around them. "If I hadn't fallen in love with Ted—you know, I think I might've married Rabastan. He wasn't such a bad sport, back then. I could've been a good influence on him." She laughed at herself. "We might've even been happy."

"You don't meant that."

A gust of strong wind blew Mrs. Tonks' hair, which had long since fallen out of its bun and tumbled around her shoulders, up into the air. Her resemblance in that moment to Bellatrix was striking.

"Well, I suppose we'll never know."

The thick, dark silence of winter fell like a curtain between them. They each watched the darkening sky close in around London—like a blanket or a prison wall, depending on your point of view.

Sirius wasn't sure which it reminded him of.

"You were a sweet boy, Sirius—" Andromeda said, in that dispassionate voice she sometimes used—so different than the one that prefaced warm smiles towards Dora or fond exasperation at Ted. "And I always cared for you, so when you wrote me that letter three years ago and asked to come see me, I said 'yes'. My first instinct had been quite the opposite, but—I knew you wanted that connection—that you would always be desperate for it, in fact."

"Andi…"

She turned to look at him, and was he imagining it—or was she blinking back something? No—a dapple of winter light crossed her face, and there was not a drop of moisture anywhere to be found.

To shed tears in public would not be de rigueur for a Black.

"I shut that door of my life a long time ago."

Andromeda shook her head, smiling again—the saddest smile he thought he'd ever seen there, even sadder than the last one she'd given him, before walking out of her parents' house and his life for what he had thought then was forever.

But it hadn't been.

"I have put it behind me...and I suggest you do the same."

They locked eyes—and Sirius realized there was nothing he could say to her in his own defense.

All he had done the past two weeks had been in pursuit of just that—it had been his sole, singular focus since that conversation on the balcony with his father, when he had learned that the link of connection between them had not been snapped forever, as he had hoped and dreaded in equal measures. Now, paradoxically, when Sirius could have given evidence to Andromeda, shown that he had followed every stricture she had placed upon him—like a true acolyte in the ways of alienation from the bonds which shackled them both to the long dynastic line into which they had been born—the words would not come. He has no desire to defend himself; he was too far gone for that. Without even realizing it, in a thousand ways, a thousand strings, as thin and gossamer as spider web, had appeared and wrapped around his arms and legs and mind and heart. Perhaps they had always been there, and it was just now, in the rain, that these silken threads, delicate and inexorable, were visible to the naked eye.

He had realized too late what she had meant about their family. He was not held with a chain, no lock and key secured him.

That would have been so much easier.

"I don't believe you."

In the distance, the Dutch tourists were pointing to a statue of Lord Nelson, squabbling over the camera. Her head snapped around. She frowned, puzzled. Andromeda had not been expecting this.

"Pardon me?"

"I said—I don't believe you. I know you want me to think you're some cold-hearted bitch who doesn't give a damn about the family, but I'm not buying it." Sirius rolled his eyes. "And you don't, really, either. For one thing, you wouldn't be so damn pissed off at me right now if you were."

Andromeda and he stared each other down for a long moment, neither moving.

"I won't believe it—" He lowered his head to meet her eyes, for he was taller than her, now. "Until you prove it to me."

"I don't have to prove anything to—"

"—So you're a coward, then."

Her jaw tightened. Sirius laughed, inwardly—for all their talk about bravery being next to stupidity in the book of virtues, no one in his family really liked being called a coward.

"What exactly do you have in mind?" Andromeda finally said—through gritted teeth. "If I were to humor you."

The corner of his mouth turned up in a grim smile. This idea was probably very stupid—but most of his ideas the past week had been stupid, so what was one more, really?

Fuck it, he thought, savagely. I never liked keeping secrets, anyway.

---

"I know he'd do the same for me."

Such bravery—and Mr. Black could see that it was not, as he might've originally assumed—a fool's bravery. He studied James Potter's face, searched the expression for something beneath the surface, some hidden motive—and found he could uncover nothing.

The pleasing features, hazel eyes which blazed with a kind of youthful determination Orion was not sure his had ever known—were not fixed to conceal anything. He was exactly what he seemed.

Orion had never understood his son's fixation on this boy. He supposed he should think of him as a man, though he still seemed every bit the boy Sirius still was, wedding ring be damned. Sirius's sorting and the tumult around it had been bad enough on its own, but looking back, Orion cared less about the house his son had been assigned to in school than the company he'd kept when he attend.

James Potter was a boyish irritant—and one who had quickly turned into an obsession for Sirius.

"I suppose you will eventually be gracing us with your presence?" Orion cleared his throat at the door—a sound that demanded respect and attention. The lump at the center of the unmade bed ignored it. "Or do you intend on spending the entire holiday sulking in your chambers?"

"More like you intend it."

The lump speaks! Orion's fourteen-year-old son rolled over onto his side to glower at his father. Fresh from the train and return from his third year of school, the boy's too-long hair hung in his eyes in a thoroughly insolent manner. Walburga, would, happily, see to it soon enough—assuming Sirius ever left this room.

"Dinner is served at precisely six o'clock in this house." Almost without him knowing it, Orion's eyes traced over the walls—the tasteful paper and carefully selected decorations had been covered with his son's adolescent fancies, a bold red-and-gold Gryffindor Quidditch banner, which his younger son had informed him, in sullen tones, was the keepsake of yet another year of triumph. "I trust you haven't forgotten that since Easter."

Mr. Black's jaw tightened when his eyes fell on the corner of wall, where Sirius had stuck yet another glossy magazine picture (unmoving) of that ugly Muggle contraption he refused to learn the actual name of.

A little unintelligible moan of displeasure was all he got for his trouble. Orion straightened up, taking comfort in the fact that his son's grey eyes were moodily fixed on him, and could not mistake that he now 'meant business.'

"I assume this pet you find yourself in is in response to my dictate you spend more than a week with us before scampering off to your—" His voice grew especially withering. "—friends."

Sirius sat up straighter, protestations at the ready—but Orion was faster.

"—The friends with whom all you seem to do is run amuck at school, if the owls we got last term are to be believed." Sirius mumbled something under his breath—his father continued, in a louder voice. "Pray forgive me for thinking a holiday away from such influences may do you good."

Sirius sprung up in bed, face now blotchy with color.

"Fine! You want to keep me your prisoner, locked up here all summer, that's your affair—" Mr. Black rolled his eyes at this melodrama. Even away from her three-quarters of the year, he grew more like his mother. "But at least give me back the mirror, so I can have some contact with civilization."

Orion narrowed his eyes. The mirror in question—one that had been enchanted to act as a means of communication with its mate—was safely locked away in the bottom drawer of the desk in Orion's study. He had taken great care in examining it, after he had confiscated said object, when Regulus had informed him that he had heard his brother talking loudly into the night into the contraption.

It was very impressive magic, for a boy of his age—but he had long since learned not to compliment Sirius on his frequent extraordinary magical achievements, for they were so often done in pursuit of mischief, as this was.

"You have an owl, quills and paper," Orion remarked, flatly. "All the tools required to write a letter. That should be sufficient for James Potter." He sniffed at the very name. "I won't have you wasting away your summer holed up in here staring into that thing and jabbering with him."

Sirius let out another snort of frustration—his father rolled his eyes. It was bad enough that every term away from them Sirius seemed to come back with some new bad habit, some vulgar slang turn-of-phrase he'd decided he must use in all conversation. He would not let his son spend the precious little time when these bad habits might be corrected with his head in the clouds—somewhere else.

That the boy had come back from term and immediately proclaimed his intention to floo to Dorset at the first opportunity had cemented for his father that it was better he not go there at all for the next two months.

Walburga would be pleased, at least.

"What else am I suppose to do? You won't let me see him in the flesh."

"No," Orion corrected, calmly. "I fail to see the necessity of it, when you have obligations here to your family, with whom you have been apart from for some time." And—unspoken—was of far greater importance than some bespectacled snip of a boy could ever be.

He belonged here, with them. If there was one thing Blacks all understood, it was that family was the first and foremost.

If Sirius had forgotten that, it was his duty to remind his son.

"Yeah, well—I'd rather be around him." Sirius flopped back down on the bed and stared sullenly at the ceiling. "James actually likes me. And he understands me, far better than any of you do."

"If you're concerned about being liked and understood, perhaps you ought to make yourself more agreeable and your actions intelligible to civilized people."

He hardly needed to add that being 'liked' was hardly something he considered a factor in this case. How many times had he stressed to his children, over and over again, that family was unchanging, a part of oneself, as immovable as the stars for which they were named?

"As it is," he said, briskly. "I don't view either as being of particularly high importance at present."

Sirius stared up at him for a long moment—something lingered in his son's eyes that betrayed an emotion that he had never seen before, something beyond his fourteen years. Just as quickly it was gone again. Orion was relieved.

"Of course you don't," Sirius sighed into his pillow. "You couldn't even if you tried."

No…he'd never understood.

Orion had not understood then how little he understood.

"Do what?" Mr. Black asked, dryly—giving no sign of the years past that preoccupied him. "Recklessly endanger himself to no purpose?"

"Defend me from people like you." The boy fixed his chin in a stubborn pose. "That's the kind of person he is. He's there for you when no one else will be. His loyalty never waivers—not once it's been earned."

This pointed jab—and the suggestion that came along with it, that Orion and his wife had failed in this key way—had the immediate desired effect. Mr. Black narrowed his eyes.

"He'd die for me."

It was not the sort of thing that even reckless Gryffindor scamps said for no reason, and to respond to it with sarcasm struck Orion as being unseemly—some admission of weakness. He settled for a curt nod of the head and a neutral expression.

"How touching," Orion tapped his finger on the table, annoyed. "You obviously believe that."

"I don't believe it—I know it," James Potter replied, flatly. "He nearly did last year."

Something in the pit of Orion's stomach lurched.

"To what do you refer?"

His voice was hard as diamonds.

"He came after me on a mission—and got cursed and ended up in the hospital for a week." James laughed uncomfortably at the memory—as if this war injury was just another one of the foolish scrapes he'd got into with Orion's son when they were schoolboys. "Sirius said it had something to do with the blood—they had to keep giving him blood-replenishing potions, anyway."

When James looked up from his beer glass, the expression behind his spectacles was deadly serious.

"That curse was meant for me, you know—but he took it." His voice broke. "He—shoved me out of the way, like the bloody reckless idiot he is—"

Potter gripped his glass hard—and Orion saw that, whatever front he was putting on, the boy's emotions were real, and he was not doing a very good job of suppressing them.

"For the people he loves—" James looked up, eyes blazing. "—Sirius would do anything."

Orion stared down into the empty brandy glass, his face a merciful blank to anyone who could see it. He was lucky to have such a tidy mind—for it allowed him to take things and file them away for later review.

He was never burdened, as other people were, with the distractions of an immediate shock. At least, he was far less susceptible to the weakness of having to react to everything.

"I wonder…" Orion's eyes narrowed when he looked up again. "I realize you are a Gryffindor, and must therefore imbue all your actions with the stamp of righteous nobility, but I wonder if your motives are quite so altruistic as you present them to be."

The boy's face flushed with anger.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, the thought occurs to me that if my son is busy fulfilling his duties to his family," Mr. Black said, delicately. "He will have less time to cavort with you and your gang of Dumbledore followers."

He squinted through his glasses, as if he thought Orion was mentally deficient.

"Sirius would never give up the Order."

"He may not have a choice in the matter..." Before this impudent scamp could probe further, he changed the subject. "So—am I to gather that this is all you have on offer? Brave words?" He smiled, grimly. "Rather high currency in your estimation."

The look of open hostility on the younger man's face was so pronounced and unapologetic that it nearly made Orion laugh out loud. Let it never be said that novelty did not amuse.

"It's not all I have."

He dug his hand into his coat pocket—a grubby Muggle affair, where Orion imagined he was storing his wand—and pulled out a handful of crumpled parchment, which he slapped down on the table in front of him, like a trump card at a dealer's table.

"I have this."

Mr. Black's eyes flitted down to the letter on the table, then back up at James.

"Read it, if you like."

Orion, his face still hard and inscrutable as obsidian, unfolded the heavy parchment. The second his eyes fell on the page, his expression changed. He read the letter over several times—it was not long, but its contents were so extraordinary that his mind could not quite take them in, at first.

When he finally looked up, he found James Potter unusually grim.

"Where did you find this?" Orion heard the astonishment in his own voice, and he cleared his throat and steadied himself. "Where—that is, where did it come from?"

"My mother's desk drawer." James leaned back in his chair. "I found it a few months ago, when I was clearing it out after—she and my father..."

The boy kept his face and tone bland—or tried to, though James Potter had not quite mastered the art of hiding his emotions, and he could see how much it had pained him to admit how he had come to possess the artifact.

"I had heard about your parents. I read the notice in the paper," Orion said, thinking of that newspaper notice in the early autumn—two short lines. Death a few days apart…survived by their only son.

"But nothing was said about the cause."

"Dragonpox." He shrugged, as if the specifics were of no consequence. "They were old, so…"

James trailed off, staring into the distance—he was thinking of them now, somewhere entirely else. Mr. Black cleared his throat, drawing the younger man's attention back to himself.

"I am sorry."

"Are you?" Potter asked, tightly. "That surprises me."

James Potter was eyeing the parchment on the table like one would a particularly ugly spider.

"We may have had our differences—" The boy looked up at him, ready to bite back something polite. "—But it's not a fate I would wish on anyone."

Potter gave him a questioning look—Orion felt the full weight of the heavy tweed coat he'd not taken off since arriving at this pub. She had been the one to give it to him, all those years ago—what was the reason? Some Ministry event where it was required, that must've been it. His father had felt stooping to such a level beneath him—so he'd sent Orion in his stead. His mother had insisted she pick it out, and he hadn't the heart to refuse her.

Another pause, and he held the letter up again.

"Do you know if this was ever answered?"

"What would there have been to say?" James snorted and leaned back in his chair. "I don't even know why she kept it. If I'd have got a letter like that, I'd have burned it straight away."

Orion felt the unpleasant sensation in his chest—the one that always accompanied unwelcome truths.

"It's obviously in answer to some previous correspondence between them," he said, voice cool. "There are several references to the fact."

He took the measure of the Potter boy—and for the first time since this meeting had begun—indeed, since he'd received that invitation at breakfast, days earlier—Orion found himself a little impressed. This was something he could understand. He held the letter up.

"What do you propose doing with this letter?"

Potter stared at it—as if it was talisman, an evil omen.

"Not sure," he admitted. "When I first found I wanted to burn it."

"But—you didn't," Orion pointed out. "You kept it. Perhaps you even realized it might be useful, in future."

The young wizard fidgeted in his seat—perhaps he himself did not know what had motivated him to keep the letter when he'd first found it. He obviously knew what he was doing when he brought it today.

"Do you imagine this to be your snitch in the hand?"

A look of uncertainty crossed the boy's face—he was obviously someone with little experience of weapons, and, having one in his hand, was not quite sure how to wield it to best effect.

"How do you think Sirius would react if I showed it to him?"

"I do not think it would have the effect you imagine," Orion said, bluntly. "He may interpret its contents quite differently from you."

James let out a humorless laugh.

"Oh, I think it's pretty clear-cut as far as interpretation goes."

"He knows her far better."

"Which explains why he ran away from her in the first place!" the boy snapped. "Honestly, I couldn't believe it when I first read it. I can't imagine someone saying those things about their own child!"

From somewhere beyond the door, the dull sounds of a chairs being pushed back—the old men in the corner of the bar were leaving for the afternoon, evidently.

Orion looked down at the page and read the final lines of the letter over again. They were short and unusually blunt—and he knew the woman who had composed them so well that he could imagine exactly the state she had been when she had written them.

"I would not be surprised," he said, voice heavy with irony. "If your mother understood this letter better than you do."

Taken aback, James lowered the hand that had been gesticulating.

"Women often say things they do not mean," Orion continued, his voice tired. "You are married, I trust you are aware of this fact? Or has every word spoken between you and your wife been the whole, complete and honest truth? Has she never in a fit of female hysteria said that which was better left…unspoken?"

His face flushed in a telling way—Orion had his answer. Having met the girl he was married to, he had already had a good idea.

"So you're defending it?"

"Hardly. I am merely pointing out that there is more than one way to read it." He raised an eyebrow. "Only a simple mind takes everything at face value."

He held the letter up to the light—his eyes traced the much beloved hand of its author. It was exquisite, and as familiar to him as his own.

"May I borrow this?" James blinked in surprise. "I will, of course—return it to you, in due course."

Potter eyed him across the table with deep suspicion.

"Why do you want it?"

"I wish to discuss its contents with the author," he replied, voice dry. "And I fear she may deny ever having written such a thing if I do not have the proof."

James's hazel eyes widened. Orion tapped the letter—it glowed green for a moment. To the boy's surprise—and, for a moment, distress—he held the parchment over the flame of the candle.

The flames licked against the envelope—it remained as it was.

"What—are you afraid she's going to burn it if she sees it?"

He ignored the question. His wife's tendency towards extreme reactions was, after all, none of Potter's concern.

"When would you like it returned?"

James slumped back down his seat.

"Honestly—" He ran a hand through his dark hair—already it was untidy, and the action made the ruffled mane look even worse. "You can keep the thing. Probably wouldn't make a damn difference, anyway." He gave it one last evil look. "It's like you said—he knows what she's like."

James Potter's heart, Orion thought, with amusement, had clearly never been in this scheme. He tucked the letter in his pocket for safe-keeping.

"Well—" He pushed his chair back. "I must tell you, I have found this to be a very instructive conversation. You even surprised me, which is no mean feat."

Mr. Black stood up, dusting off his robes with considerable care. The boy looked up at him, incredulous, unmoved by this compliment.

"Was there something else?" Orion drawled.

James stood up, pushing his chair out rather more roughly than his companion. He looked ready to block the door, if needs be.

Like an animal ready to charge, Mr. Black thought, amused.

"You bloody well know there is."

He blinked slowly, pretending to think about it.

"Oh—that's right." Orion folded his arms behind his back. "Your, er—accusations. Was there something else you expected me to say, on that topic?"

James let out a huff of indignation that reminded Orion far too much of Sirius. Which one had picked up the habit from the other, he wondered?

"Plenty!" Potter slapped his palm against the table. "It's not as if you've denied them, for one thing."

This one didn't give up, did he? Dogged and determined to the last. Orion found an unexpected wellspring of patience rise up in his chest. He considered the boy thoughtfully for a long moment—then cleared his throat.

"For someone who claims to understand my son as well as you—and I suppose you do understand him, in your way—you are remarkably blind to the obvious."

"What's obvious?"

Orion cleared his throat.

"You are under the impression that I am dangling a threat over Sirius's head in order to get him to—what? Behave himself? Do as I say?"

He leaned forward.

"Tell me, honestly—have you ever known a threat work on my son?"

The Potter boy's expression instantly changed from hostile to bewildered.

"Can you imagine him cowering in fear, meek and obedient at my feet?" Orion continued, wryly. "I must confess, the idea has some appeal—but I cannot see it, somehow." His lip quirked upward. "And I don't imagine that his professors had any more luck than I did, if the endless stream of letters I received are to be believed. Your head of house seemed to be quite at her wit's end about getting him to behave." He raised an eyebrow. "But you would know about that better than I."

He could practically see the boy racking his brain, trying to come up with some example to counter the point—he managed to stutter out a few unintelligible syllables.

"When he was a boy, I told him time and time again that if he sneaked into my study he would have no sweets, if he eavesdropped on his elders he would be sent to his room, and if he dragged his brother along on any hair-brained schemes his toys would be confiscated. It never did a whit of good—not when he was determined."

And Sirius so often was determined—stubborn, really, but he supposed his friend would much prefer the former word, with all its heroic connotations.

"He always did exactly what he pleased—and damn the consequences."

"What are you saying?"

He pulled out his watch—this had gone on longer than he had expected, so when he looked back up at the boy and spoke, it was with a tad less patience than before.

"Sirius is not behaving himself because of any threats, real or imagined, from me."

"Are you saying it wasn't true?" James snapped. "You didn't—blackmail him, when you found out he was an animagus?"

"Oh, I may have alluded to the possibility of—unpleasantness, if he didn't toe the line," Orion said, matter-of-factly. "I certainly impressed upon the importance of obeying me in future. In the moment he was quite over-awed, I'm sure—as any son should be, when he has the misfortune to cross his father."

Potter's eyes widened in astonishment.

"But as far as threats go—" Mr. Black continued, tone blasé. "Any I made were completely and totally devoid of weight—utterly empty—and that is a fact he well knows."

Orion found an involuntary smile creep onto his face.

"I am not going to send my own son to Azkaban, and as much as Sirius likes to pretend she's a dragon, neither would his mother." He began to chuckle. "Do you think he did my Christmas shopping because he believes I'd have him clapped in irons otherwise?"

James Potter had no immediate response to this—in fact, he had the good sense to look embarrassed. Orion began to laugh—he could well imagine how dramatic Sirius must've been at having to lug bags of shopping about, and how this foolish scamp had taken it.

"Well—why else would he?" James asked, defensively. "And why would he—why would he deny it? Why would he lie to me about that?"

"Those are two questions." He paused, savoring the moment. "As for the first—why he's doing it…I rather think he's doing it because he wants to."

James Potter—well, there was no better word for it—he gaped.

"You're barking."

"Well… 'want' may be a strong word," Orion amended, crisply. "It might be better said that he is doing it because he knows that he should. Whatever he pretends, Sirius has not forgotten the position he was born to, and all the attendant responsibilities of that birthright—responsibilities he carelessly left to his younger brother when he ran to you three years ago."

"He didn't run to me."

"Away from us, then," Mr. Black corrected himself, voice heavy. "In any case—three years gone have clearly left him with a bruised conscience on that score."

The boy opened his mouth, perhaps to protest—or to accuse him, but Orion pressed on, unabated.

"It has become increasingly obvious to me this past week that he wants to make amends—but to do so openly would be to admit that his father was right about something, and that—well—that would be insupportable. It would wound his pride too much."

Orion rolled his eyes.

"I suspect clinging to the idea that he is being coerced into fulfilling his duties gives him comfort, and allows him a flimsy pretext to justify the theatrical protestations of which he is so fond. Sirius like to feel put upon, like a martyr. He enjoys drama, just like his mother." Mr. Black shook his head. "I must confess, I likely have let this little game between us go on for too long. It will have to come to an end—sooner, rather than later. But in the short term it was easier to bring him to heel by playing the part of the villain that he has cast me in."

James did not know what to say to this rather dispassionate laying out of what, to most people, must have seemed a frankly absurd proposition. Of course, he had the undoubted benefit of many years of stories from Orion's son. Mr. Black had no doubt that whatever had been said about him conformed most accurately to this masterly description.

"As for why he has concealed the whole of this from you—I would think that rather obvious."

Judging from the gormless expression on James's face, it wasn't. Mr. Black suppressed his sigh of impatience—by Salazar, for someone who was supposedly clever, this Potter boy was rather myopic.

"The only person Sirius is protecting—is you."

Immediately the young man's defensive posture shifted—and James Potter looked quite the boy he still was, again.

"It would seem that you and he share much—including a propensity to recklessly throw yourself in harm's way for each other." Mr. Black rolled his eyes. "To no purpose, I might add."

"I don't understand."

"Yes, you do," Orion corrected him, eyebrow raised. "My son may realize I would not allow him to bear the brunt of the legal consequences of his youthful indiscretions—but he doesn't trust me an inch where you are concerned. I suspect he worries I may try something rather drastic if pushed too far. If there's anything besides his own guilt that's getting him to behave himself—it's the fear that you and your other friends—your wife—will pay the price for it."

James's pale face drained of its remaining color. Orion had to bite back a laugh at the sight of it. The brave lion at last shows fear.

"We Blacks can be unscrupulous about achieving our ends—and I must tell you, my wife would much prefer it if you were in prison." He pulled the letter out of his pocket again. "At least—she thinks she would."

When he met Potter's eyes again he laughed.

"Rest assured—on that score, you have no more to fear from me than my son does."

"Why do I not find that reassuring, somehow?" James asked, voice sarcastic. "Is this what your lot's always like? Manipulating people, making them think you're going to try to get them locked up, just to see how they take it?"

Orion smiled, slyly. The return look was one of deep distrust.

"Why're you letting me off the hook, then?"

"I do not believe it would be in my interest to pursue such a crude course of action," Mr. Black replied, calmly. "The inconvenience alone is not worth the trouble—to say nothing of how Sirius would react."

His mouth thinned at the thought of Sirius's hypothetical hysteria in such a case.

"I wouldn't dream of giving that whelp the satisfaction of doing something that so confirms all his worst assumptions about his father. He would be insufferable—and probably try to get himself locked up in the cell next to yours, just to spite me."

James's mouth turned up—in an involuntary smile at the image.

"As you yourself said—" Exasperated fondness crept, unbidden, into his voice. "He would not allow harm to come to you—not if he could prevent it."

"You're right," James said, after a moment—dawning realization on his face. "Sirius—wouldn't. He never could."

The boy held his gaze for a long moment—clearly trying to make sense of him. Mr. Black, of course, had no intention of helping him along in this. In fact, Orion thought he had better to keep this boy firmly at arm's length—and certainly not in his confidences.

One did, still, of course, want to make their positions relative to each other clear.

"What am I supposed to tell Padfoot, then?"

The use of the impudent nickname was, at a certain level, a form of surrender—and Orion decided to take it as that, and not pretend he did not know to whom it referred.

"About this conversation? Anything you wish—everything, if you'd like. I give you full permission to, ah—exonerate me of my supposed crimes."

James narrowed his eyes.

"You're not going to say anything?"

Mr. Black smiled.

"It would be more fitting, coming from you. This little interrogation was, after all—your idea." Gloating was, of course, beneath him—but Orion could savor this moment, at least. "I would be interested to know how Sirius takes it—if it changes anything for him."

The glare he received at this was so hot Mr. Black thought the candle on the table was in danger.

"If you thought it would, you'd never have come in the first place."

There was a tinge of bitterness in James's voice—but with it, grudging respect. Orion watched him wrestling with himself—there seemed to be upwards of seven cutting remarks he wanted to make, as a farewell shot, and he could not decided which one would give him the most satisfaction.

"I was warned not to cross you, you know," Mr. Black said, finally. "I took it to heart—with good reason, I now see."

James looked up from the table, surprised.

"Who told you that?"

"Someone—" Orion's lip twitched. "—I suspect you will have an unpleasant conversation with when you return home."

It only took a second for James to understand his meaning.

"When did she tell you that?"

"Yesterday—during tea—before she had me expelled from your cottage, never to return." He raised one wry eyebrow. "I'm afraid your hand leaves something to be desired. I mistook the day we were to meet."

His face twisted in horror.

"You're joking."

"My advice about deceit—did come late. But you will heed it in future, I'm sure...and learn from the mistakes of older and wiser men." James let out a long sigh and ran his fingers through his hair—practically pulling it out. "Take heart. You're young. I am sure she'll forgive you…" A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "…Eventually."

"When I came in last night she pretended to be asleep," Potter said, ruefully. "Had her back turned to me and everything."

How comforting it was to know, Orion thought, wryly, that women, time immemorial, made their displeasures known the same way.

James Potter grimaced—then, in an unexpected gesture of good will quite beyond his years, held his hand out to Mr. Black. Orion looked down at it, then up at the boy's face. He gave him a cheeky grin, as if asking, silently, if the older man was really so pompous as to refuse.

He grasped the hand, briefly, then turned and began to walk towards the door.

"It was Regulus who told me," James said, to Orion's retreating back. "About you and Sirius."

Ah.

"Lily reckons he's jealous—she meant of me, but, eh—could be I'm not the only one."

He stopped at the door and turned back. James seemed to be almost on the verge of laughing.

"Maybe you should consider blackmailing him, too."

Orion gave him a single withering look—which only made the scamp's grin widen.

As he left the pub, he found himself silently cursing Godric Gryffindor, and whatever impulse had made the wizard want to found a school and populate one-fourth of it with his brazen acolytes.

All brave, reckless fools—every last one.

The image of a faded red-and-gold banner tacked up on the wall in the top bedroom of his house rose irresistibly in his mind.

---

Andromeda had only been to Sirius's flat once before, when he had first let it, two years earlier. He was still in his final year of school back then, freshly eighteen and so enthusiastic about this 'first place of his own' that Mrs. Tonks had felt she couldn't refuse the invitation to his housewarming.

It had been Christmastime then, too.

Her expectations had been low, so when she had walked into the flat, a sprawling one-bedroom, grand in scope for a young man just breaking out into the world, she had been surprised. Lisson Grove might not have been a smart neighborhood, per say, but it was still central London.

"How can you afford these digs, Sirius?" Andromeda had asked, a faint smile on her lips at the sight of the hideous shag carpet. "It must be costing you a small fortune."

It was then he was forced to admit—reluctantly—where the gold financing his new independence had come from.

Uncle Alphard's bequest accounted for the expensive choice, at least. She could not have seen Sirius in one of those tawdry, one-room ramshackles that the low-level drudges at the Ministry took out. Sirius needed space—room to move. The one thing he had never been able to stand was being boxed in.

And yet he had chosen to return to London, the city of his origin—not two miles from her uncle's house.

When they reached the door at the end of a hallway in a series of identical, anonymous ones just like it, Sirius knocked.

She stared at him in astonishment—he held his finger up to his lips—"wait"—which they did, for upwards of a minute.

"Honestly, Sirius what is this—"

"—Gatekeeper must've nodded off." Sirius glowered at the door. "Wait a trick."

He banged on the door, louder than before. This time, the sound of light steps padding over, and it opened a crack—just enough to see the sliver of a face.

"About bloody time."

"Why didn't you just come in?"

Sirius jerked his head in her direction, stiffly, as if her presence explained it. The pair of mild brown eyes through the door widened in frank surprise.

"Oh, er…hello."

She gave him a cool stare back. Cool stares were generally her approach to strangers—particularly ones that didn't bother to introduce themselves. Andromeda had no time for poor manners.

Sirius did not seem to think facilitating the introduction was of much consequence, either. He leaned forward.

"Is it…safe?" Sirius asked, voice low and conspiratorial.

"In what sense?"

"You know in what sense, Remus!" Sirius snapped back, impatient. "Is the bloody flat secure? Is it just you and your—charge? No one else…lurking?"

Was she mistaken, or did Andromeda catch the flicker of a smile through the door?

"Is there someone whose lurking you have in mind, particularly?"

"Take a wild bloody guess."

"No sign of her." He paused. "Nor her, erm—what would you call him?"

"Her toady."

His friend shook his head and opened the door wider. He was shabbily dressed in a jumper and corduroy trousers and looked familiar—Andromeda vaguely thought she recognized him from that party two years before—one of the Gryffindor set.

"Padfoot, I thought no one else was supposed to be here—"

"—Yeah, well—that rule's hardly been followed to the letter, has it?" He tapped Remus's shoulder. "This place has practically become a bed-and-breakfast."

Remus turned towards her, face apologetic.

"You're not the French girl, are you?"

Mrs. Tonks raised one imperious eyebrow—Remus cringed. Evidently Sirius's friend was intelligent enough to know that he'd made a faux pas.

Sirius wrinkled his nose.

"Please! You think I'd take this old bag out for a day on the town?"

Mrs. Tonks pulled out her wand and poked him none-too-gently in the side. He let out a childish cry of pain—"Merlin, keep that thing in your pocket, will you?"—and rubbed his ribs, very put out.

He turned back to his friend, grumbling under his breath about 'mad bats.'

"Would you please inform his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales that we request an audience with him?"

Sirius followed this question with a sarcastic bow.

His friend, clearly a tolerant sort—as any friend of her younger cousin must be, by definition—did not seem to mind this demand. His lip twitched.

"Don't you mean the Duke of York?"

"What?" Sirius's brow furrowed. "Who's that?"

"Prince Andrew. In this analogy, Padfoot—" Remus laughed. "You would be the Prince of Wales."

The hand that gripped the wand fell limply to her side. Sirius, who was no royalist by any stretch of the imagination, had not yet cottoned on to why his friend was laughing at his expense.

Mrs. Tonks understood perfectly.

"What's the damn difference—"

Andromeda pushed past him, practically shoved the sodding gatekeeper out of the way, tripping over the end of her coat as she pressed forward and stumbled into the sitting room.

She found who she expected.

A slight, dark-haired figure on the sofa, pouring over something propped up in his lap. The noise drew his attention, and he looked up from what he was absorbed, perhaps to ask his brother what the hullabaloo was for, as she had so often heard him ask when they were children, in that small and reedy voice Andromeda remembered so well. At the sight of her, his eyes—brown eyes—widened with terror, and he dropped the cartoonishly giant red book in his arms onto the floor. A bunch of ancient letters spilled out of the pages where they'd been wedged and all over Sirius's hideous rug.

They stared at each other for what felt like an age. Somewhere in the distance Andromeda thought she could hear Sirius arguing with his friend—but the words themselves were indistinct.

"Close your gob, Regulus—it's hanging open," Sirius said, from somewhere behind her back. "And say hello to our cousin. You've not seen her in eight years."

"Nine," Regulus corrected, quietly. "I didn't—I'm sorry. I didn't realize it was you, at first."

He flushed red, and Mrs. Tonks realized, with an alarming start—

He thought I was her.

Apologetic, Regulus stood up and smiled shyly at her—just as Andromeda remembered. He was nearly as tall as she was, now. He looked like like their Uncle Alphard.

"Fantastic. When you're done with the pleasantries, would you kindly explain to her that this—" He waved his hands around the flat, which she now noticed was covered in small decorations and signs of his mother's handiwork. "—is all your fault? Andi seems to think I fling myself in the path of snakes for no reason."

"Don't call them that."

"Oh, I'm sorry—do you prefer the term 'serpents'? More formal."

"I prefer you not be a cretin."

"A bit late for that."

She sank into the armchair across from him, barely registering their bickering. Andromeda had the oddest feeling, as if she'd had an accident with a time-turner which had taken her back to 1968.

"Regulus…" She interrupted. "How are you here?"

Sirius rolled his eyes and scoffed, loudly.

"This idiot showed up half-dead on my doorstep, vomited on the carpet and hasn't left since." Sirius walked over to his brother and tousled his hair aggressively—Reggie glared and attempted, in vain, to shove him away. "Tell me, Andi—since you've got a heart of iron where our family is concerned—what would you have done?"

She let out a noise which sounded suspiciously like a sob. Regulus looked alarmed, but his elder brother only screwed up his face in a scowl.

"Oh, for the love of—how do you like that?" Sirius looked over at his brother, indignant, who was now rooting around in his robe pockets, presumably for a handkerchief to assist in her hysterical display. "She reams me out for being a freedom fighter, working for the cause of justice...and then starts blubbering the moment she sees the damned Death Eater."

"Ex-Death Eater," a new voice interjected. Oh, it was Sirius's friend—he'd come back in the room, too. "Would you like a cup of tea, while you have your...chat?"

Andromeda sniffed, smiling through her tears. Sirius was right of course...she had quite fallen to pieces. It was so unlike her. Her youngest cousin frowned, clearly feeling some amount of guilt at being the cause of her distress.

It was so like him it nearly made her laugh. She turned to Remus, standing in the kitchen door.

"That would—nice, thank you."

Regulus found the handkerchief he was looking for and walked over to her—he held it out to her. His cousin took it from his hand and attempted to wipe the damned moisture off her face, but it only smeared the scant makeup she'd bothered to put on. She examined the strip of cloth—it was fine and silk, embroidered with his name: 'Regulus Arcturus Black.' It looked like one of the ones her uncle always had on hand. Mrs. Tonks wondered if Aunt Walburga had made this one for him, as well.

Her little cousin—not so little anymore— offered her a sheepish smile.

"It's very good to see you, Andromeda."

Without warning, without even thinking about it, still smiling through the tears—Mrs. Tonks wrapped her arms around his shoulders and squeezed as tightly as she knew how. At first Regulus stiffened, surprised at this gesture of familiarity—but just as quickly, he relaxed and returned the embrace.

Just like old times.

"It's good to see you, too."

---

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