"Snape knew more curses when he arrived at school than half the kids in seventh year, and he was part of a gang of Slytherins who nearly all turned out to be Death Eaters."
Sirius held up his fingers and began ticking off names.
"Rosier and Wilkes — they were both killed by Aurors the year before Voldemort fell. The Lestranges — they're a married couple — they're in Azkaban. Avery — from what I've heard he wormed his way out of trouble by saying he'd been acting under the Imperius Curse — he's still at large. But as far as I know, Snape was never even accused of being a Death Eater — not that that means much. Plenty of them were never caught. And Snape's certainly clever and cunning enough to keep himself out of trouble."
- J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
CHAPTER 26
"I would wonder if you've always been this much of a pain Sirius—" Andromeda lowered her cup of tea—milk, no sugar—back onto the saucer. "—But as I've known you since the day you were born, the question hardly bears asking."
At this address, Sirius looked around at her. He was currently taking up three-quarters of the sofa, while his brother perched on the end, in the tiny bit of couch left for him. He scowled at her, then shifted about so his head was dangling, upside-down, off the furniture.
Remus stifled a laugh into his own cup of tea—no milk or sugar.
"What was Sirius like as a child?" Lupin asked Mrs. Tonks, with great curiosity.
Alarmed, his friend sat up, nearly knocking poor Regulus's scone out of his hand.
"Oh—very much as he is now." Andromeda surveyed Sirius with a critical eye. "A mischievous scamp, forever running head-first into trouble with nary a thought for the consequences."
There was a loud snort from the sofa.
"And he was indulged," Andromeda continued, ignoring her younger cousin's rudeness. "Spoiled, in fact."
Sirius lifted his head, unable to let this insult slide.
"I was not." He twisted his torso round, still dangling off the cushions of his moldering sofa. "Why do people always try to make it out I was?"
"Well, you were the heir."
Sirius blew air out his lips.
"Oh, yeah—a wonderful state of affairs, that." His finger trailed down the rug. "It's like a walk through a bed of roses and every day, Christmas."
Lupin frowned and took a bite from a slightly stale biscuit. At school, Sirius had only ever spoken of his position in his family briefly, as if, when in the confines of the castle's walls, it was some wholly separate life—one to which Moony, Wormtail and Prongs did not belong.
"In what sense—" Sirius propped his chin on one hand, looking sulky. "—Was I favored?"
"You were Granny's favorite," Andromeda pointed out, dryly. "She never made a secret of it."
"How is being her favorite a good thing?" At the thought of his maternal grandmother, Sirius pulled a hideous face. "All it meant was extra harping—it's like being a favorite whipping boy."
Mrs. Tonks sighed.
"That's not the point, Sirius."
"Then what is the point?"
Frowning, Andromeda put her cup down on the side table.
"That you were the one who mattered most—that's all." Her voice cooled. "The rest of us knew it. You were the one—"
"—With the weight of the whole damn dynasty on his shoulders—fantastic."
His cousin had not rejoinder to this. Her eyes flitted to Regulus, who had, up until this point, been studiously avoiding both their gazes.
Sirius flicked his wand at the ceiling, knocking the light fixture around with a careless precision that Remus associated with his friend's more dangerous moods.
"Well, let me tell you, from my perspective, as the one who 'mattered most'—" The lightbulb shattered against the wall with a soft tinkle. "—I'd have traded with any of you lot in a heartbeat."
Remus noticed that Regulus was watching his brother closely—though Sirius hadn't appeared to notice. He suspected—had suspected, for some time—that the younger Black brother had a gift for observation that quite outstripped Padfoot's.
"And as for trouble I allegedly caused," Sirius continued, in an affronted tone of voice. "By dint of having a personality and not wanting to stare listlessly at the wall all day—well, it's not as if I ever got away with it."
"Compared to us, you did," Regulus said, quietly. Sirius rounded on his brother, annoyed. "I wouldn't have got away with half the stunts you pulled."
Sirius sat up.
"How would you know, runt? You never even tried to pull a stunt until about two weeks ago." He tapped on Regulus's foot. "And so far, I'd say you're doing better than I ever did at skirting punishment."
Regulus pinked in the cheeks and fell silent. Mrs. Tonks looked over at Lupin, obviously lost.
"Our family places a high premium on the name 'Black'—and whoever can carry it on."
"It's all damned medieval nonsense."
Sirius said the words in a low voice—the same voice Remus knew he used whenever he was trying to mask his emotions.
"So you see, Sirius was a special child. The first Black male born in nearly thirty years—quite a coup by my aunt, producing such a son as heir to my uncle." Her mouth twisted in a smile. "She, incidentally, is the only person I've ever known who frightens him."
"Not true!" Sirius said to the ceiling, in a loud voice. "More slander—more lies."
"You're wrong, Andromeda," his brother chimed in. "Father frightens him as well."
Sirius sprang to his feet, swearing loudly—but the words were drowned out by Remus and Andromeda's laughter. Even Regulus indulged in a rare smile.
The object of this teasing shot a disgruntled look around the room at all of them, deepest resentment showing on his handsome face.
"I am going—" Padfoot smoothed his shirt, in an obvious attempt to recover his wounded dignity. "To wait for the post. Once you're done impugning my good name, Andi, you can see yourself out."
Andromeda looked over at Remus again. Lupin was trying very hard not to laugh—and barely succeeding.
"And prone to fits of sullen temper," she said, sly smile peaking out. "That was the other bit I forgot."
Sirius stalked out of the room in the direction of the hall that lead to the fire escape, where the owl was due to bring the post.
"And I was just about to speak of all his good parts, too," Andromeda observed, when he was well out of earshot. "Pity."
Mrs. Tonks leaned back in the armchair—almost lounging in it, though she still managed to keep perfect posture as she did so. Sirius's aunt had been the same. Studied artifice—the art of appearing one way while being the opposite—was obviously a family trait. They were all very good at it, all of them—except Sirius.
And they never let him forget it.
"Well, I hope it hasn't been too difficult living in such close quarters, Regulus."
Whatever Regulus had told Andromeda about the circumstances that had lead to him living under house arrest in his estranged brother's flat, she had accepted it matter-of-factly. Or maybe that droll style of speaking was just how she talked about everything—where truth ended and affectation began was difficult to say.
Regulus shrugged and murmured that his brother was no worse than usual, and that anyway, he was used to it. Andromeda raised a knowing eyebrow.
"You mean you've got used to it again," she said, blithely sipping from her tea. "After three years free of him, that was a quick turn-around." She smiled. "I'd have expected you to complain about having to share a bedroom. But perhaps you missed sharing a landing with him more than you realized."
Despite the fact that Sirius was gone, and he could have stretched out on the sofa himself, Regulus remained rooted to his spot, stony-faced and obviously unwilling to press his cousin on her inferences. Andromeda pulled a sheaf of parchment out from under the book it had been carefully tucked under—the same parchment that Regulus had been pouring over, quill in hand, all afternoon, though whenever Remus came into the room he hid it from view.
"Goodness, Reggie—" Her eyes flew from the parchment up to Regulus's face, which sported a thoroughly embarrassed expression. "Is this all your work?"
Regulus started and stammered—and, to Lupin's surprise, turned on him and gave him a furtive look.
"It's just—something Mother asked me to do," he admitted, finally. "It's…nothing."
"Not nothing, surely." She looked up, eyebrow raised. "And who is this nothing for?"
Regulus's head turned involuntarily to the door.
"It's for—nobody."
"A lot of effort for nobody." She lowered the parchment to her lap and smiled. "At any rate, it's good. You have a real gift. A flair, even."
Andromeda held it up to the light and the raised her arm, as if she was about to hand it to Lupin for examination. Regulus sprung to his feet and snatched it away from her, in a very Sirius-like gesture.
"It's—nearly done, anyway," he said, hastily. "I'll just—put it away."
He grabbed the collection of eagle-feather quills and shoved them and the stack of parchment under his armpit before following in his brother's footsteps and leaving the room in haste.
Remus watched his retreating back with bemusement, remembering the sight of him in the Hogwarts library, surrounded by such gigantic stacks of books it looked as though he'd constructed a fortress of knowledge for himself.
It was difficult to believe that until only a few weeks ago, Regulus Black had been a Death Eater.
"What about Regulus?" He turned towards Mrs. Tonks, who in the absence of both of her cousins was looking around the room with vague interest. "Has he changed much?"
"More than Sirius has. He was a timid boy—very obedient, very eager to please. He seems to have grown out of the former, at least." Her lip twitched. "Back then he only ever got in trouble when he let Sirius talk him into one of his devilish schemes."
Remus blinked in surprise.
"Really? They were close?"
Her smile grew wider. It made her seem friendlier—more like Sirius.
"Oh, yes. They were one another's constant playmates." She stirred her tea. "With no cousins their age and very few children from the 'right families' on offer, it's not as though they had anyone else, you see."
Lupin absorbed this information and tried to stretch back in time, to their first year—had Sirius even mentioned Regulus to them, before he received that clumsy, hand-made birthday card in the post? Even then, it seemed, Remus's friend had wanted to separate the two spheres of his life from one another.
"So they were—best friends?"
She gave him a long, hard stare.
"You don't have any brothers or sisters, do you?"
He shook his head.
"I can tell." She narrowed her eyes. "No—they were not anything like 'best friends.' Brothers—are very different."
The door opened, and Regulus came back in the room, arms empty.
"What's so amusing?" Regulus asked, sitting back down on the sofa across from them.
"I was just telling Sirius's friend here what a devoted younger brother you were as a little boy. How much you admired him—how you always used to follow him around, no matter what trouble he lead you into."
Regulus huffed and leaned back into the squashed cushion, avoiding making eye contact with either of them.
"I suspect that hasn't changed, much."
Sirius decided this was the opportune moment to stride back into his living room, the day's mail tucked under his arm. He scowled at Andromeda, still a fixture on the sofa—though Remus had his doubts that Sirius would've actually been pleased if she'd left without saying goodbye.
"Let's settle it." She turned towards Sirius, briskly. "Tell me—are you still setting a poor example for Regulus, and getting your brother into trouble?"
"Please. As if I have any control over what this idiot does." He flung himself next to Regulus on the sofa. "He hasn't listened to a word I've said in years—and he certainly doesn't follow my lead."
"Are you so sure about that, Sirius?" Andromeda asked—her voice was odd. "I wonder…"
But he was not listening—he handed off a large, square envelope to his brother, then ripped through his own letter. Remus watched Sirius's brow furrow, a scowl of confusion turn to amusement—then a guffaw. Before he got a chance to ask Padfoot what that was all about, Mrs. Tonks had crossed the room and plucked Regulus's post from his hand. She turned the envelope over in her hands, carefully.
"Are you expected tonight, Regulus?"
She dropped the envelope onto the sideboard—just as quickly Sirius picked it up and held the silver, elegant embossed invitation up in the air.
"What's this?"
"It's the card you need to get in the door," Andromeda turned to Remus and said, without an ounce of embarrassment. "There's a party tonight, hosted by a cousin of mine—on my mother's side. It will be a great-to do, quite exclusive. Evan always has been rather a social animal."
"You've got the animal part right," Sirius muttered, examining the heavy envelope with interest. "She's talking about Rosier."
Lupin's eyebrows flew up in surprise.
"Evan Rosier?" He turned to Sirius, who was trying to read the text of the invitation through the light. "You mean the one who—"
"—Tried to kill us?" Sirius snorted. "Wants to kill me?"
"He's not the only one," Regulus muttered, sullenly, as he tried to snatch back his invitation. Sirius held it out of his reach.
"Yes, well, Rosier can get in line with the rest." He shook the invitation experimentally and looked after her. "And to think, you used to holiday with that blood-thirsty brute."
Andromeda stared back, unperturbed. To Lupin she seemed remarkably placid at the implied death wish harbored towards Sirius—and not terribly surprised by it.
This family…
They certainly had interesting standards.
"He's my cousin. One cannot pick one's family, as you know." She set her teacup down. "Whatever have you done to make an enemy of Evan, Sirius?"
"I don't know. Not died at his hand, I suppose." Sirius's eyes narrowed. "He and a bunch of his mates tried to jump me in Hogsmeade the night Regulus—came to stay. Four or five of them." He grinned at the memory—Remus almost had to suppress a sigh. Padfoot enjoyed this all far too much. "Only one got a shot-off, though. I was too quick for the rest."
"And you think it was Evan?"
"I couldn't prove it, of course." Sirius laughed. "If we could, we'd have half of the country's distinguished clapped up in prison, wouldn't we?"
That was the problem—that was always the problem with the Death Eaters. Rumored, imperiused, coerced—unknown. How often had Sirius listed off all the people he was sure ranked among their numbers, based purely on his adolescent observations of all the 'blood-obsessed fanatics' that peppered his family's social circle?
Remus used to not pay Sirius's theories much mind. But with how badly the war was going, well—you started to think anything was possible.
"But someone tries to off you enough times, you begin to recognize their—style of magic." He made a slashing movement across his cheek with his finger. "Rosier likes curses that draw blood."
"Evan is dramatic—in every aspect of life," Andromeda agreed, in a bland voice, as if they were talking about something as casual as the weather. "He's…theatrical, in his way. His parties attract a certain—milieu, shall we say?"
"It'll be crawling with pureblood Slytherins—probably some Death Eaters—basically—" He jabbed a thumb at Regulus. "All his friends and her ex-friends."
Remus looked 'round at Sirius's brother. He didn't deny the accuracy of this description, but he also didn't rise to the bait.
"And you're supposed to be there tonight," Lupin said.
"I…told him I'd come weeks ago," Regulus admitted, voice terse. He seemed to be decidedly avoiding making eye contact with Sirius. "Before—"
"—You jumped ship," his brother finished, off-handedly. "So to speak."
Tired of waiting for permission, Sirius, in typical cavalier fashion, slit open the envelope and started to pull the invitation out—only to have it burst into bright blue flames in his hand.
"Ow—damnit!"
Remus jumped up and let out an exclamation, but it was drowned out by Sirius's string of curses at his singed fingers. The ashes of it smoldered on the rug. Andromeda surveyed her younger cousin, who had whipped out his wand with surprising speed.
Sirius looked round at him, furious.
"What the hell was that?"
"Me stopping you from getting any stupid ideas," Regulus said, coldly. "You're not sneaking out again, and I'm not covering for you."
"I was just looking—Merlin, Reg! You didn't have to go full pyro on me." He rubbed his hand and glared. "You know I wouldn't be caught dead at Evan Rosier's."
Regulus settled back into his seat, unapologetic.
"Consider this me eliminating temptation."
"Don't get tetchy—anyway, it's not like I have a choice," He flopped back down on the sofa. "I couldn't go if I wanted to. I'll be spending the evening with you, her majesty and the lord high chamberlain."
Andromeda nearly choked on a biscuit.
"They have dinner here?" Mrs. Tonks asked, surprised. "Your parents?"
"Every damn night, when they're not entertaining your sister. She's for Rosier's—so they're for us."
Andromeda smiled, thoughtfully.
"I think I know why Regulus was so quick to get rid of that invitation." She looked over at him "You thought our French mademoiselle would be too great a temptation for him, didn't you?"
Sirius let out another loud exclamation—but if Regulus's glower was anything to go by, Lupin was certain she'd hit the mark.
"She's going to be there?"
"If I were going for her, it would be a rescue mission, believe me. In and out, real quick." Sirius tapped the edge of the sofa arm. "I consider every minute she spends with me instead of Narcissa a public service."
Lupin frowned and turned to her—he was itching with curiosity.
"You met Colette Battancourt?"
Padfoot shot Remus an annoyed look. Considering how much time he'd spent with this girl, Sirius was being remarkably tight-lipped about her. Lupin thought it curious…usually he was so loud and brazen about his 'conquests'—brief though these affairs might be.
He suspected this girl was not like the others.
"We just had lunch with her. An utterly guileless creature—a buttercup of a girl."
Remus opened his mouth to press her for details, but she was looking at Sirius.
"However did you manage to get her away from Cissy for four hours this morning?" Andromeda asked, amused. "You never said."
Sirius fiddled with his sleeve.
"Narcissa was—" He sounded reluctant to admit it. "—Laid up."
"Really? How unlike my sister." Mrs. Tonks set her now empty teacup and saucer back on the table. "What's ailing her, that it would keep her from a morning of shopping?"
Sirius suddenly looked awkward—he tried to make eye contact with his brother, but it was too late—
"Mother said it had something to do with—with the baby."
Mrs. Tonks' face froze in surprise. Regulus, realizing too late what he had said, and he looked between Sirius and Andromeda in a panic.
"That can be enough to lay you up for a morning."
The news of her sister's life—the sister Remus had come to understand she had not seen or spoken to in almost a decade—had taken her quite by surprise, had briefly rattled that slightly ironic affect she could take up at a moment's notice.
"How long have you known Cissy's expecting?"
Sirius rubbed the back of his head. He was suddenly not quite able to meet Andromeda's sharp brown eyes.
"Not long. Mum told me. It's—a boy—" He ran a hand through his hair. "They're going to call him 'Draco', can you imagine?"
"'Draco Malfoy'—" She tested it out. "That'll be her idea. That's a Black family name, you know."
"It's an effing terrible name, is what it is."
She turned to her younger cousin, expression muted.
"Lucius is pleased?" Regulus nodded, slowly. "And—"
"—Your parents, too."
Pain flashed across her face—just as quickly, it was gone. Remus suddenly remembered that Sirius's cousin had a daughter.
A daughter who had never met her grandparents.
"Sorry, Andi—I only found out after—" Sirius jerked his head in the direction of his brother. "I would have told you, but I didn't know how you'd take it—"
"—It's fine."
Mrs. Tonks got to her feet, checking her watch—it was amazing, Remus thought, to see a person recover their composure, put their mask firmly back on, as quick as all that.
"I should go, anyway. Dora will be waiting." Her mouth twisted in a humorless smile. "Her gran will be filling her head with all sorts of explanations for my absence."
"Who's Dora?"
Regulus had got to his feet. Andromeda crossed to him. She was smiling again—a genuine smile, without condition. Sirius looked as though he quite envied Regulus for being on the receiving end of that look.
"My daughter."
"Your…?"
"Little girl. She's a bit younger than you were, last time I saw you." She patted the side of his cheek, affectionately. "I'll have to bring her to meet you, sometime."
She bent over and kissed him on the cheek—then murmured something in Regulus's ear Remus couldn't make out.
"You shouldn't have brought her here," Regulus said, when the door was safely shut behind Mrs. Tonks.
Sirius flung himself back onto the sofa.
"Why not? She's the only person in our family I have ever willingly invited into this flat." This was of little comfort to Regulus. "She's not going to tell anyone you're here. Those of us who manage to escape from this family, however briefly, have other things to worry about than running off the first chance we get to gossip about it with some other god-awful relation."
Sirius was tired—for he always resorted to flippancy when he was spent. Regulus's eyes flashed with anger and hurt, though he was far better at masking the latter emotion. Remus doubted he'd Sirius had seen it.
"You still don't get it." Regulus drew himself, in a passing imitation of his father. "Everything is a game to you, isn't it?"
Sirius propped himself up on his elbows. He was more aggravated than apologetic and he didn't pretend otherwise.
"Oh, Reg, come on." He waved a hand, weakly. "It was a joke—don't be like—"
But it was too late. Regulus stalked off through the door to the kitchen. Remus heard the door slam loudly behind him.
Sirius stared at the spot on the sofa Regulus had so recently vacated with regret.
"Consider yourself lucky you are an only child, Moony."
He let his head fall back on the sofa cushion with a 'thump.' Remus laughed and sat down across from his friend.
"You don't mean that."
"Says you," muttered Sirius, tossing a pillow onto the floor. "Everybody keeps telling me to 'talk to him'. I ask you, have you ever met someone less easy to 'just talk to'? It's like shouting into the bottom of a pewter cauldron. So thick you can't even hear your own voice echoing back. "
"Maybe it's not your voice you need to hear," Lupin replied, dryly.
Sirius rolled over on his side, hiding his face from view. Remus shook his head. His friend could be difficult, moody—and most of all, Sirius found it nearly impossible to admit when he was wrong.
"When you had fights as children," Remus said, quietly. "Didn't you ever have to apologize?"
Sirius folded his arms in front of his face, still squashed against the sofa. He did not turn around.
"…Usually Reg'd just get tired of me not speaking to him and forgive me."
Lupin's mouth twitched up. At least Padfoot didn't sound proud of it—in fact, unless he was very much mistaken, there was a great deal of guilt attached to how Sirius viewed that not-so-distant past.
"It's not too late to learn something new."
Sirius let out a very Scrooge-like 'huff' and buried his head beneath a pillow again.
"…Why'd you forgive me, Moony?"
His voice was muffled by the cushion, but Remus heard it well enough.
"Because you asked me to, Padfoot."
You admitted you were sorry.
"Is that…the only reason?"
The truth was that Sirius was not an easy person to stay angry with—he was far easier to love, at the end of the day, however much of a pain he was, however reckless and arrogant and high-handed he could be—and Lupin valued his friendship almost more than anything. But he didn't think it wise to remind his friend of that fact, for he could not go through life leaning on his considerable charms alone.
"No…but it's a good place to start."
Narcissa hoped she wouldn't have to wait long for Lucius to arrive at Evan's—she was longing to see him, so much so that Mrs. Malfoy actually felt a bit embarrassed.
It must've been the baby. It was making her so emotional, so needy for her husband's company. Positively unseemly.
The foyer of Alnwick House was crowded—too crowded for Narcissa's taste. She tapped her foot impatiently as they waited in line to be received by their host.
Her cousin certainly was taking his sweet time—or perhaps, more likely, he was just enjoying keeping them all waiting.
Evan Rosier had long since banished his widowed mother to the family's paltry country estate in Yorkshire, and as he was unmarried—and, by his own admission, likely to remain so for some time—parties on Walpole Street were without a hostess.
You could tell, Cissy thought, staring around at the various hideous stuffed animal carcasses her cousin had covered the walls of the entrance hall of his otherwise smart London townhouse with. The attention to details, the 'woman's touch'—were all entirely absent.
"People don't come to my parties for the decorations or the party favors, darling—they come for the company."
He had once told her that he had the bears and tigers and Nogtails and Jarveys put up to remind his guests that death was coming to them all.
She thought it a joke—but with Evan, one never knew. He wasn't quite steady. He was unpredictable. It made her cousin an entertaining companion at the best of times, but—not all times.
He could be cruel, too.
Handsome, in a severe, square-jawed sort of way—tall and blond and magnetic, Evan Rosier and his 'little salons', as he called them, attracted attention by virtue of exclusivity. No servants, no unwanted relations—no elderly drabs, those were his rules, and the select few who were allowed to bring a guest unscreened knew better than to flout them.
You might not ever get in again.
"Why, Cissy—you look ravishing—" Her cousin brushed a kiss against each cheek, then stepped back, to admire her. "One would never know Lucius had even touched you."
A healthy blush—born of both embarrassment and the the grudging ribald amusement Evan inspired—rose in both of Mrs. Malfoy's cheeks.
Rosier smiled, wickedly. Andromeda had once likened that smile to that of a wolf—to his face. Her middle sister had never been afraid of bluntly stating her opinions, at least where their family was concerned.
"Don't be absurd, 'Dromeda," Evan had said, affronted. "I am a tiger. It's Bella who is the wolf. I spring up on you when you least expect it—but she goes straight for the throat."
Mummy always did say Rosiers had strange senses of humor.
Evan's pale blue eyes ceased combing her figure for signs of imperfection—she knew if he were in a more vexed mood, he would have discovered some flaw to remark upon—and, finding none he deemed worthy of a jest, turned to survey the girl at her right, instead.
"And who is your…charming little friend?"
Colette curtsied politely. She wore a pale pink gown Narcissa had picked out for her, and in Mrs. Malfoy's opinion looked particularly fetching this evening—in spite of the subdued mood that had followed the girl around all day like a raincloud.
She introduced the younger girl as her particular companion, visiting from France for the holiday, and implored him to be especially kind to her. Miss Battancourt, to her credit, did not slouch or shrink from his appraisal. Colette no longer seemed so lost in company as she once had, Mrs. Malfoy thought, with satisfaction. She wasn't gawking at all the gilding or peaking around corners to see where the library was located.
No—Narcissa's friend seemed only to be interested in the people, tonight.
She's got her priorities in order, at last.
"Evan Rosier, my dear," He bowed. "The host of this little soirée. Narcissa will have told you all about me, I expect."
"I never said a word!" Narcissa laughed. "I always let people make their mind up when they meet you."
"How obliging." He plucked a rose from a vase on a side table and tapped it with his wand. The stem snaked its way through the buttonhole. "Then I can make their minds up for them."
He lead them into the parlor, where a bevy of guests—about fifteen or twenty wizards, though more were still to turn up—were drinking cocktails and speaking in low murmurs, while trays of canapés floated around them. A few had witches on their arms; most, however, were men. Narcissa knew all of them, at least in passing, through her husband. Lucius was always introducing her to his business contacts—and she had to admit, he had a wider circle from which he drew acquaintances than her own family.
She scanned the room, heart sinking slightly. No sign of Lucius yet.
"I have heard a little of you, Monsieur Rosier," Colette said, suddenly. "But not from Narcissa."
They both turned their heads back in her direction, surprised.
"Oh?" Evan drawled, in a low voice that reminded Narcissa of a panther. "I hope it wasn't from one of my…detractors."
His eyes narrowed—the younger girl said nothing for a long, telling moment.
"Oh."
Narcissa's lips pursed—she frowned, trying to catch Colette's eyes, half-tempted to speak in her friend's defense, but Rosier was too quick—
"Dear, dear. What bold acquaintances you have, Miss Battancourt." His pale blue eyes glittered under the heavy light of the chandelier. "It's usually not just my ears that burn when tales are told about me."
Colette stared up into his eyes—and for a moment Mrs. Malfoy thought she might've actually understood what Evan meant.
"Pray, tell me about myself," he continued, dangerously casual. "What rumors swirl in the air?"
"I have heard that you—sometimes say things you do not mean." She blinked, then continued, "That is—what you say means something other than what it first seems."
Evan leaned against the mantle above the fire.
"Who is that not true for?" The shadow of the animal mounted above him slanted across his face—giving the appearance of a scar. "Everybody lies, my dear. Even you, I'm sure—upon occasion."
Mrs. Malfoy expected Colette to sputter, and blush—and thoroughly deny the accusation that was being leveled at her, for Evan, when he wanted to cut, was not afraid to wield the full power of his sharp tongue. Nobody within earshot could have denied it was obvious he was accusing her of duplicity.
But she did none of those things. Instead she returned his gaze, observantly studying him, not at all self-conscious.
Evan was amused.
"A woman of secrets—take care you don't drink too much wine tonight, mademoiselle." He held up a glass of something green and vile-looking. "I can't vouch for it. We have…very wild parties. I would hate for you to spill more than champagne."
He left to attend to his other guests.
"Why did you say that to him?" Narcissa pulled her by the arm to the corner of the room. "What compelled you?"
"Isn't it the truth?" Colette asked, without an apparent ounce of embarrassment. "He even said as much himself."
Narcissa tutted disapprovingly. Evan always talked out of both sides of his mouth—but Colette wasn't to know that—or to let on that she knew. He wasn't the sort of wizard one crossed.
"Something being the truth is hardly a reason to say it," Narcissa lectured her, voice prim. "Men don't like blunt and insolent women."
"Maybe some men do."
Narcissa arched one eyebrow.
"None of them are worth knowing," Mrs. Malfoy shot back, in an icy voice. "If they even exist at all, which I very much doubt."
Colette blushed scarlet and fell silent.
They passed an uncomfortable minute or so in this state. Mrs. Malfoy half-regretted quarreling—with Colette, of all people! The girl was so sweet, usually, what had come over her? What had come over them both? Sensing her friend's irritation and eager to make amends, the chastened Miss Battancourt offered to go get her a drink while they waited for Lucius to arrive.
Since an argument was hardly how Narcissa had wanted to start the evening anyway, she agreed—and peace was between them once more.
Colette still hadn't corrected her ridiculous opinion, though.
She watched her younger friend as she crossed the room—no longer the shrinking violet she'd been last summer, when Cissy had taken a fancy to a lost wallflower and plucked her from obscurity and into the first circle of English society.
It would have been tedious to have a companion forever deferring to her, of course. She had lived in the sincere confidence that Colette would change under her guidance—that her protégée would become her own woman.
'Her own woman' was simply less like Narcissa herself than the blonde cared to admit.
"There's more to that one than meets the eye," a low, amused voice muttered in her ear. "Mark my words, Cissy."
Narcissa turned her head—giving no sign of shock at the interruption. Evan smirked and handed her a grisly-looking glob of pâté on a cracker that had been sculpted to look like a skull.
"Nonsense." She shook her head, and the curl she'd taken such pains to pin back fell out and bobbed against her cheek. "She is my friend, and I won't have you be mean about her."
"She's a snake in cat's clothing, darling," he said. "Be careful you don't let her get too close."
"You do think everyone's as awful as you," Narcissa said, tartly. "Some people really are what they seem."
"And some don't seem what they are," Rosier answered, archly. "She's of the latter stripe."
He glided off across the room. Narcissa wondered if he was right—the same thoughts had, after all, crossed her own mind more than once on this trip. There were only so many excuses one could give to explain absences and distracted sentences and stolen, pensive glances out the window when she thought no one was looking.
A secret wasn't necessarily a bad thing—
But it's probably not good.
Andromeda had been good at keeping secrets, after all—far too good, and when her sister's had come out at last, Narcissa had been left gutted.
She hadn't even said goodbye.
But Christmas was not the time to dwell on such unpleasant memories—not that Cissy ever did like to dwell on them, much. Far better to put it off, if one must consider such things at all.
At least Colette was not likely to fall in love with a disreputable man.
This comforted Mrs. Malfoy, and by the time her husband entered the hall and she had given Lucius her most dazzling smile, the matter had left her mind entirely.
"Do you intend to dully stare at your plate in silence the entire evening?"
Sirius looked up from the stalk of blanched asparagus Beurre Blanc he'd been contemplating the last five minutes—the one he was thinking about flinging at Regulus's head to see if his brother's Quidditch reflexes were still up to snuff.
When he met Walburga's direct gaze, he had the distinct impression his mother knew exactly what his plan was.
"I'm sorry—" He cleared his throat. "Were you talking to me?"
Mrs. Black's eyes flashed dangerously.
"You know perfectly well to whom my question was addressed, Sirius Orion." She raised one perfect eyebrow. "You've barely spoken ten words since dinner began."
None of them had, in fact. It was just that it was only noticeable from him.
Sirius looked around the table—at his brother, who seemed to have been chewing the same roasted potato for an hour—and then to his father. Orion was the most taciturn of the lot of them, but normally he could be counted on to at least respond to his wife's questions about society with a sentence or two, and some attempt at an opinion.
Tonight he'd been barely able to force out a word.
Sirius looked back at Walburga—her eyes were beadily fixed on him.
"I was under the impression I am not to speak unless spoken to at these meals," Sirius said, voice even. "Unless my father's feeling an overwhelming surge of the 'Christmas Spirit', and has decided, in all his beneficence, to grant me permission to remark unprompted upon the day's events."
"That depends," Orion said, eyeing him over a fork-full of pheasant. "On whether you intend to abuse the privilege."
Sirius pointed at himself, mock-affronted.
"Me? Abuse a privilege given? What an accusation!" He waved a fork at his father. "Are you saying I have been known in the past to put a toe out of line? To push an envelope? To…poke a sleeping dragon?"
Mr. Black took a sip from his goblet of wine and watched his son over the rim. Sirius wore one of his cheeky, excessively 'innocent' looks he had often put on as a child when he was trying to charm—usually in an effort to worm his way out of trouble.
The look rarely worked on his father. Except—Orion lowered his glass—
Perhaps he'd misread the signs, and caught him in a good mood.
"I suspect your eldest has something rather amusing to say, madam." He tapped the edge of his gold-rimmed plate. "Or thinks does. It's best we get it over with and allow him to speak. If we don't he'll be like this all night."
Walburga pursed her lips—a silent sign of her disapproval and suspicion.
Sirius let out a low chuckle. Of the stupid stunts he'd pulled in the past ten days, this was going to be on the lower end—quite worth the risk to him. Perhaps it would cheer Regulus up.
"I didn't want to do this, you know—but you didn't give me a choice." He winked at his brother, who was already somewhere between annoyed and apprehensive. "No conversation for a full two hours is more than even I can bear."
He pulled a crumpled letter out of his robe pockets and waved it in the air, triumphant.
"What is that, dare I ask?"
The eyes of his son—identical to Orion's own—reflected back at him, twinkling with mischief.
"It's a letter—from my aunt. In it she's provided several helpful suggestions for conversation topics, if things get too dull around here. I think we can all agree that's the state of affairs."
"Why do I have the feeling," Mr. Black said, voice heavy with irony. "I am going to regret allowing you license to speak freely?"
Sirius ignored his father, turning instead to Walburga.
"First up—" She'd gone positively rigid in her seat. "Lucretia wants to know if you've forgiven her yet."
Regulus nudged Sirius under the table, but he only grinned at his brother.
Come on, Reg, it's dinner theatre.
"For what?" Orion asked, eyes narrowing. "What has she done this time?"
"Your sister—is a meddling fool," Walburga huffed. "If we quarreled this afternoon—I can't recall what it was about."
"Really?" Sirius asked, flapping the letter in the air. "You can't recall what so incensed you that you actually disapparated in the middle of a conversation in Diagon Alley?"
Lucretia's stated intention of rousing the family to more interesting conversation was so far working well. All three of the men were now staring at the matriarch—but it was her husband who watched with a particular, shrewd interest.
Seeing no way out of it, Walburga admitted there had been some quarrel or another, but it was so trifling that she could not remember what it was about.
"Lucky for us, Aunt Lucretia thought it might slip your mind, so she's given me a bit of a clue, to, erm—job your memory." He squinted at the page, like an adventurer deciphering a treasure map. "For your sake, sir—of course." He nodded at Mr. Black. "Naturally, she thought you'd want to know about this incident."
"Naturally—" Orion said, sarcastically. "—My sister would think as much."
Sirius tapped his chin with his thumb while his mother silently fumed across the table. It was obvious that it was only some inhuman wellspring of patience that kept Mrs. Black from unleashing a tirade.
Saying loudly what they were all privately thinking had always been her son's particular talent.
"Lucretia seems to recall that this argument was related to her father—that is, your father—and some hard words that were spoken between said august personage and his daughter-in-law when he…" He paused, and then looked down at the letter, reading aloud. "…'Ran the two of them to ground like one of his prize-winning crups, and cornered them in the ladies' tea room of the Jarvey Club'."
Orion lowered his utensils onto his plate and looked over at his wife—who was now muttering instructions to Kreacher about clearing away the plates and bringing in the next course.
"Why did he want to see Lucretia?"
"She deliberately left her house in the morning when she knew he was coming to call," Mrs. Black said, tersely. She was clearly irritated at being put in the position of having to admit to this, but Sirius was shielded from the bulk of this irritation, which was centered around her cousin. "Naturally, this nettled Arcturus, and he came to—let his feelings on the matter be known."
Orion blinked slowly—gave each of his sons warning looks—and turned his head in the direction of his wife. He was, of course, as always—calm and collected.
"Was that all he wanted?"
"No," Sirius supplied, helpfully. "He was also looking for you."
Now it was Orion's turn to freeze. Sirius, savoring the moment, turned to his younger brother—who, in spite of his usual tendency to wish to keep the peace between the warring factions of his family, had turned 'round and met his brother's gaze, eyes alight with unconscious interest.
He can't hide that he's curious.
This did not unnoticed by either his father or his brother—though the two men's reactions were very different. Where Orion cleared his throat and shot his younger son a disapproving look, Sirius smiled broadly.
"This is where it gets really interesting, Reg. Apparently our dear father skived off going to the club this afternoon for some mysterious appointment to who knows where." Sirius tapped his forehead, conspiratorial. "Arcturus found it so suspicious he even grilled our mother about why he'd not made himself 'available' at the usual time."
He paused, to let this remark sink in.
"Lucretia suggests we should make a game of guessing what we think he was doing, and gauge from his reaction who's closest to the mark."
"That is quite enough, Sirius Orion!"
To her annoyance, he turned on Walburga, now positively grinning.
"Don't play coy! Lucretia tipped me off that you don't know where he was either." Walburga pressed her lips in a thin, humorless line. "She said not to let the two of you pretend to be a 'united front'. You're just as curious as to where he was as we are—actually, you're probably even more curious. He never breaks his habits."
Utterly without shame, Sirius tilted his head back in the direction of his father—who looked less irritated than bored at his eldest's antics.
"If games are what interest you, Sirius—why not 'tit-for-tat'?" He took a sip from his glass and lowered it again. "You speculate about the whereabouts of your father, whose personal dealings are none of your affair, and…"
Orion paused, glancing at Walburga.
"…He speculates about what disreputable figure you were having lunching with this afternoon."
The smirk dropped from Sirius's face.
"How do you know about—" It hit him like a bludger to the head. "—Damn. She wrote you as well, didn't she?"
Mr. Black rolled his eyes.
"There's nothing your aunt enjoys more than to gossip about her relations and cause trouble," Orion said, calmly. "Tonight none of us have escaped, I'm afraid."
The younger brother dropped his fork on the table.
"What did she say about me?" Regulus blurted out, alarmed.
His father fixed him with one of those sphinx-like stares he reserved for his younger son.
"Nothing I intend to publicly air at the dinner table," he said, voice even. "Unlike your brother, I have some sense of decorum."
Sirius slouched down in his seat—as per usual, Lucretia had managed to suck the joy out of it for him. Walburga must've complained about his little taunt this morning, and now she'd passed it on to her brother like the gossip she was.
He gave Regulus a curious look. He had to admit, he did wonder what she had on him…
He doubted, given the current low state of their rapport, that Reggie was likely to spill. He had been quick and jumpy on the defensive. Sirius let out a sigh, suddenly wearied by the weight of secrets that seemed like they would over-tip the lifeboat they were all clinging to.
"So I guess that's a nix on that parlor game."
Sirius glanced up at his father, fully expecting an interrogation about his lunch with Andromeda—a topic would've been keener to get on if his mother was not also in the room—but Orion did not press him, to his surprise.
"Let me be clear—I am the head of this family," Orion said, a sudden sharpness in his voice. "There is nothing anyone at this table need be concerned with that I don't tell him—or her."
Mrs. Black's face flushed—her grey eyes glittered dangerously in the candlelight of the table. Both of her children seized up.
What the hell is he thinking? Sirius thought, torn between horror and respect. Speaking of poking dragons.
"Rest assured—" Mr. Black continued. "If I wish to discuss my whereabouts with you in future, I will make an appointment to lay out the finer details."
Mrs. Black dropped her serviette on the table with the kind of feminine grace she only pulled out when she was absolutely furious.
"Well, I hope—" She started clearing away the plates with furious waves of her wand, as if she didn't have a servant to do it for her. "You can find room in your calendar to quill me in, should you decide it's any of my business."
The two boys stared at each other—it was like being privy to the final game at Wimbledon.
Orion did not flinch—his expression hardened, in fact. He looked positively steely as he stared down his wife. Considering she was holding a wand pointed vaguely in his direction, Sirius wondered if Orion was touched in the head—or had a death wish.
"Believe me, madam—you won't be kept waiting long."
For one of the first times in his life, Sirius saw his mother struck dumb. He thought for certain she would argue with him—but something silent and incomprehensible passed between his parents, and no argument came.
Unfortunately, this scene killed conversation, and it was not until halfway through dessert that any of them made an attempt to continue it.
"I almost forgot, Walburga—" Orion had been halfway through some murmured comments about the following day's plans which Sirius was barely paying attention to. "Tomorrow you may lay breakfast out an hour later, if that suits you. I know you'll be busy with preparations—and I'll be dining out."
"With whom?"
"Oh—just Fawcett."
Sirius looked up from his crêpes suzette, alarmed.
"Why're you meeting with Fawcett?"
The rest of his family stared at him, and Sirius shrank from the scrutiny—suddenly very aware of how totally mad he sounded, for being jumpy about one of the endless boring social calls of his father. Orion cocked an eyebrow and gave his son a look that was somehow penetrating and bland at the same time.
Regulus nudged him under the table.
"I expect it's about the hospital," Reg said, giving Sirius a curious look. "You know—the wing named after great-grandfather. It's to do with the trust, I'm sure."
Sirius snapped out of his alarmed state and nodded, slowly. Right. The trust—that great honking wing of St. Mungo's the Blacks had paid to have built, as any noble family should, and now paid to keep up, in neat little installments arranged every half-year.
Of course, that was only the ostensible reason the Blacks had done it. His family never did anything for reasons that weren't mostly self-interested.
St. Mungo's was just another valuable and august magical institution, ripe for infiltration—one always had to have a man on the inside. For many years Elroy Fawcett had been that contact for Arcturus—and now that his grandfather had left most of the practical day-to-day to his son, Orion was the one to deal with him.
Sirius would just as soon his father not see Fawcett, considering how easily the man folded to pressure where patient-healer confidentiality was concerned.
"Is that it?" he asked, suspiciously. "You're going to hand him a great ruddy bag of gold over your bacon, then?"
"Do you have some idea in your head of why I might be going to see the head of the spell-damage ward, Sirius?"
His face flushed. That tone—was a little too casual for Orion. Sirius had that old prickling on the back of the neck—like he was being watched.
He couldn't have known about that—and anyway—
Why should he care?
"Of course not—'course I don't." Sirius picked up his knife and fork and started sawing away at his lukewarm pancakes drenched in grand marnier. "I apologize for having an ounce of curiosity."
"Apology accepted," Orion said, dryly. "On the subject of your imaginative mind—I took the liberty of bringing over some books I'd like you to take a look at."
"What about?" Sirius asked, somewhere between sarcasm and dread.
"They're on the subjects of—" Orion tapped his finger against the table, pretending he had to think. "—Continental agriculture and Anglo-French trade."
Sirius pulled a face.
"Why would I need to know about any of that?"
"It's very useful information," Mr. Black said, evenly. "The herbologists there are a cut above ours. Your grandfather's always telling me about his desire to expand the family's business dealings to the continent. The Blacks could corner the market on—"
"—Cross-bred tentaculas?"
Orion's lip twitched in an involuntary smile.
"We all know you to be a creative and enterprising young man." He managed to get that out with minimal sarcasm. "Perhaps youthful enthusiasm will win out over sage wisdom after all."
"I think I'd need some youthful enthusiasm to start if—"
Sirius caught sight of his mother's warning expression across the table and stopped short. He closed his mouth, as if the action itself would curtail his natural insolence.
"I somehow can't imagine your father taking my advice," he finally said. "Seems more likely he'd hit me with his cane."
Orion smiled.
"Your grandfather might surprise you."
He explained the particular chapters he would like his eldest son to read, and the finer points of which he should be prepared to discuss, at Orion's convenience.
"Why the sudden desire to jumpstart my education?"
"As I'm sure you and your brother are right on the verge of a breakthrough with our little opal project, you will need something to occupy yourself with tomorrow."
They were, to the best of Sirius's knowledge, not anywhere near a breakthrough, but he nodded all the same.
"Of course, your mother and I will be indisposed for the day and evening—" Walburga made a strangled sound at the back of the throat which her husband ignored. "—So you'll both be here for the whole of both."
"I have an appointment in the afternoon." It was with the greatest reluctance that he admitted this to his parents—he only did it because he knew how much worse it would be if he didn't tell them at all. "Remus will come by and watch him."
Regulus looked as though he would like to protest the indignity of being 'watched', but he wisely kept his mouth shut.
"Oh?" Mr. Black left the question of this appointment unasked. "I'm surprised he could take the time. Most people are preoccupied the day before Christmas."
"He's just—doing me a favor."
"I trust this 'appointment' of yours won't stretch into the evening?"
Sirius shifted awkwardly in his seat, apprehensive. He didn't want to open up a line of inquiry about this meeting, not when it was so—delicate.
"Of course not. I'll be back—soon enough."
Something tugged painfully at his chest—disappointment, was that it? The sense of something lost—perhaps never again to be found. A surge of pent-up energy came over him, and with it, the need for release. Sirius wanted to stretch his legs, get away from this stifling flat. At another time—in another life—he might've gone out for a run as a dog, or wandered the streets of London, looking for trouble and drink and any excuse he had to forget.
That was not his life anymore.
"May I be excused?"
Not waiting for an answer, Sirius stood up and pushed his seat back. His father held up a hand, which froze him in place.
"Not until you explain what is bothering you."
His shoulders tensed.
"Nothing is bothering me."
"As soon as the subject of tomorrow evening came up you fell into a mood," Orion observed, dryly. "I would like to know the cause of it."
"There's no—"
"—His friend Potter's having a Christmas party tomorrow night," Regulus interrupted, quietly. "And he wants to go."
Sirius's face flushed an ugly red.
"Why can't you ever mind your own business, Reg?"
His brother shrank back in his chair. Sirius looked around at each of his parents, as if daring either of them to say what they were thinking aloud.
Walburga reached for her glass of sherry. Perhaps, Sirius thought, bitterly, she was recalling that Lily had dared ask her if she could spare an hour of her own precious time so he could go to Godric's Hollow tomorrow.
"I see…" Orion looked over at his wife. "Did you know about this?"
"I—heard something of the matter."
Her voice was frigid. The guilt Sirius felt at snapping at Regulus quickly gave way to frustration at this subject be stirred up so late, when he had already resigned himself to the loss.
"It's just a—" He waved his arm, vaguely. "It's nothing."
Ruffled, but always willing to push aside uncomfortable subjects, Walburga had the table cleared and discreetly ordered her younger son to escort her to the fireplace in the bedroom. She said she had something she needed to discuss with him particularly, but Sirius thought that likely just an excuse to get away from the son who she was so clearly vexed by.
Mr. Black remained where he was as Walburga wished Sirius a curt goodnight—not before grasping his chin and reminding him to behave himself.
"Don't I always?"
One long, hard stare later—and Walburga had released her grasp. She did so with obvious reluctance, and when she followed Regulus out the door towards the bedroom where the fireplace and blessed escape lay, she turned and gave them one last suspicious look.
"Are you sure you don't want to kip on a camp bed here with us tonight?" Sirius asked, when he was sure she was out of earshot. "Might be safer."
He gave his father a provoking look—but Orion was too busy staring after his wife's retreating back to notice.
"You cannot be angry with me," Mr. Black said, ignoring the taunt. "For not giving you permission to attend a party. Not when you never asked for it in the first place."
Orion's son let out a defeated sigh and sank back into his chair. His father sounded especially tired this evening. He was surprised Orion had it in him to spoil for a fight, and that was what he imagined this was going to turn into.
"I'm not—angry."
His father's scoff roused Sirius's frustration.
"What would've been the point? I knew what you'd say. Besides—" He laughed, bitterly. "I doubt I'd even still be welcome."
To this despairing comment on the state of his son's relationship with James Potter, Orion said nothing. Instead, he kept his expression the same inscrutable blank he always had.
Well—it was better than gloating, and that's what Sirius had expected.
"And someone has to stay with Regulus," he continued, slumping down on the table. He knew he could get away with it, now his mother had gone. "I'm not going to leave him stuck here alone on Christmas Eve. It would be too depressing. I may be a terrible brother, but even I have to draw the line."
"You are not a terrible brother," Orion said, sharply. "Why would you ever say such a thing?"
Sirius's handsome face twisted in a grimace.
"I left him to clean up my mess." He buried his chin in his arms and peaked his eyes up at his father. "You said it yourself. I 'abandoned my responsibilities.' He thinks it, too. I know he blames me just as much as you do."
Mr. Black said nothing in reply—indeed, Sirius knew nothing could be said to contradict the fact. Whether he'd been consciously meaning to or not, it was the choice he'd made.
Now he had to live with it.
"Where were you today, really?"
"If you must know….I will tell you," Orion said, stiffly. "The next time I see you."
Sirius knew he was telling the truth—how, precisely, he could not say. A weight lifted from his chest.
"Will that be my Christmas present?"
"If you want to call it that."
Sirius watched his father rise from his seat and walk to the door. Every step seemed to take effort, as if a chain was shackled to each ankle. Orion paused at the door, his back to his son.
"Regulus…doesn't think that of you."
Sirius raised his head.
"How do you know?"
"I know."
It was the voice the brooked no arguments—the voice of absolute certainty. When he was a child, deep in his heart, he'd always believed that voice the harbinger of truths—even the ones he didn't want to face.
He was not a child anymore.
"Well, he ought to."
"But he doesn't." Orion turned to look back at Sirius. His expression was intent—his grey eyes burned in his face, shone through the mask. "And if you feel you have been deficient in some way—you can make up for it."
"How?"
He'd blurted it out by accident. It was a childish question—Sirius felt he should have known the answer himself. Orion didn't make him ashamed to have asked it, though.
"You're still young—too young—"
Mr. Black's voice faltered—a rare moment of uncertainty.
"—To live in regret."
Something lurched in the pit of Sirius's stomach. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry, so he only nodded. When Orion looked at him that way, he felt that his father could see right through him.
Once this had made him more anxious than almost anything. Now it felt…different. Almost reassuring.
"You know—" Sirius cocked his head and smiled. "You could follow your own advice."
He smiled back—but it was a sad smile, and it left his son with a sense of disquiet that lingered, well after Orion had disappeared through the door.
Severus Snape looked down at the bottom of his empty goblet and sneered.
Whatever it was—and seven years sharing a dormitory with the man who'd handed the cup of what tasted like liquid petrol had taught Snape it could be anything—he'd already downed three.
It wasn't helping.
He looked up from his cup of unfortunate swill. How the hell, Severus thought, surveying the crowded, suffocating drawing room—had he ended up here?
"You've gone daffy, old girl!" A voice—too loud, definitely drunk—bellowed in his ear. "You didn't go to see Slughorn on your own steam, surely."
Oh. That was right. Mulciber was how he'd ended up here. It had been his old housemate's bright idea to come, and Severus hadn't been able to come up with any excuse to say 'no.'
"Not like you have anything better to do, Snape."
He could hardly argue there, so here he was, stuck in a room with all Mulciber's friends. The ones he knew…and there were several he knew very well…
Well, he wouldn't call what was between them 'friendship.'
His black eyes scanned the room, marking each figure. All of them were wealthy, most distinguished, from all the great pureblood houses of Britain. It was hard to believe that not so long ago he would've given anything for an invitation to one of Evan Rosier's parties.
"It was my aunt's idea. She was one of his favorites, you know."
Now all Snape wanted to do was get through the night.
"All that glitters is not galleons," as Eileen often said, a trace of bitterness in her voice. Snape's stomach twisted at the thought—he'd never heard his mother say something without bitterness.
The willowy blond Mulciber had been speaking to tilted her head, upon which rested a circlet that matched her sapphire-blue gown. Diamond drop earrings brushed her elegant shoulders.
He was practically slobbering on her.
"You must not be one of hers. What a disagreeable way to spend a Saturday!"
"That's not very respectful of our old head-of-house, Malcolm," she laughed. "He still has his charms, after all this time."
Narcissa Malfoy's brittle laugh carried over the unbearable din of the hall. Snape had ended up in this privileged circle of guests because of his connection to her husband, he was sure of it. Lucius was one of a very few people in this hall Severus would have called a friend—a real one.
Malfoy had plucked Snape up at his lowest point—had given him a purpose. Like any good Slytherin, he'd taken advantage of the opportunity when it was handed to him.
All he had now was a desire to prove himself. It was all that was keeping him going.
"If you ask me—" Mulciber proclaimed, loudly—as if anyone ever had or would in future ask him. "He's gone soft in his old age. You should've seen some of the scum that passed for his favorites in our day. That Cresswell filth, for example—he got him a job at Gringotts, can you imagine? My uncle has to rub shoulders with that cur."
"You were fourth from the bottom of the entire year, Mulciber," Snape interjected, voice soft. "Even Slughorn needs more than just a name to satisfy his requirements for patronage."
Everyone that surrounded Severus turned their heads in his direction. Some of them, Snape was sure, had not even known he was there until he'd spoken—and they probably didn't know who he was, which suited Severus just as well. Narcissa offered him a polite smile that didn't meet her eyes—while someone he was fairly certain was named MacMillan snorted, and the mousy-haired witch standing to Mrs. Malfoy's left, whom he didn't recognize but had a vague idea was foreign, cringed with embarrassment.
Mulciber screwed up his red face in displeasure and turned his eyes—unfocused—on Severus. He'd probably drunk double what Snape had already.
"You're not turning mudblood lover on me, are you, Snape?"
He smelt like Tobias on a bender.
"Hardly."
"No, no, no, don't deny it—" He shook his head and tutted. "'S'ppose you always did have a soft spot for that sort, didn't you?"
The same contempt that always washed over him at these times came over him now—cutting through the alcoholic and smokey haze of Rosier's drawing room. It was directed at himself—always himself, though he had mastered giving the impression it was meant for someone else.
"Severus here—" He slapped Snape on the shoulder with too much force. "Severus here was one of the chosen. Real favorite of the Slug's. You'd never think of it, to look at him."
Mulciber gestured to Snape's plain black robes, which anyone with eyes in their head could see was his old school uniform.
"As I said," Snape said, silkily. "He rewards talent."
"I don't think it was talent that had him slobbering over that jumped-up mudblood Evans."
Snape's insides froze. His fingers gripped his empty goblet—a soft, engraved gold that nearly bent to the touch.
He wanted to throw it at Malcolm's head.
"You'd know more about that than I, though, wouldn't you, Severus?" Mulciber laughed. "You used to be friends with that slag. Let her hang 'round you and everything." He grinned, expression lascivious and bearing that trace of cruelty it took little to bring out in him. "Not that I can blame you. What a fantastic pair of—"
"—I'm going to get another cocktail," Narcissa cut him off, coldly. "What a crush in here! I'm so parched. Colette, would you like—"
The girl held up her full-to-the-brim crystal glass and murmured something in French that sounded apologetic.
Mulciber's expression fell; he had noticed Narcissa's clear desire to extricate herself from his odious presence. Realizing his blunder, the wizard clumsily grabbed her empty goblet from her hand.
"Oh—I can get it for you, Narcissa—"
"—Oh no, I wouldn't dream of putting you to the trouble," Narcissa said, haughtily, pulling it from his grasp.
She and MacMillan cleared off. They slid into another circle across the room where her husband was holding court, and where they would no doubt endeavor to forget the embarrassing scene they had just witnessed as quickly as possible.
"Damn, Snape—" Mulciber gulped down the rest of his ale and belched. "How d'you like that?"
Severus decided to spare his friend his honest opinion—though Mulciber was hardly waiting for a reply. He skulked off after Narcissa, no doubt intent on groveling for her forgiveness and regaining her favor. Snape had an inkling why. Malfoy's wife was the social gateway to the few unattached women at this god-forsaken gala, and he had threatened to take Snape to his 'father's club' after it was over if he didn't walk out of this place with a witch on one arm.
The thought of having to stand next to Malcolm Mulciber as he attempted to procure a prostitute made his insides shrivel.
Snape realized that he was still shaking all over—practically trembling with anger—and that his hand was in his pocket. He could not remember putting it there, though he knew the reason why. At some point in the midst of his friend's drunken taunts, Severus had reached for his wand—his rage had cut through the drink, he had not been thinking at all.
If Mrs. Malfoy had not found Mulciber's conversation so tiresome, he had been fully prepared to draw it.
He released his grip on the handle—Snape's palm was so slick with sweat he had to wipe it on the inside of his second-rate robes before pulling his hand out of his pocket. His breathing was shallow and uneven, as if he'd run a race.
Mulciber had to have been pissed out of his mind, to have thought he could get away with bringing up her—
"Monsieur Snape—" A soft voice jerked Severus out of the dark place his mind lingered. "Are you…quite well?"
Snape had the unpleasant realization that one of Mrs. Malfoy's coterie had not followed her entourage.
The French girl—who had just spoken to him. Asked him a question, even.
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"Oh—I don't know," she said, quickly. "You seemed—absorbed in your thoughts."
Snape stared at her. He'd probably been told this girl's name, but he hadn't cared at the time and he couldn't for the life of him remember what it was.
No doubt she'd be repulsed by him and clear off in short order, anyway.
"They must be very interesting," she continued, smiling politely. "You have a—very intent expression, you know."
This could almost have been construed as a compliment. Snape didn't know what to say to it. Was she—trying to make conversation with him? Before he had the chance to tell her that his thoughts were no business of hers, she continued—
"I am told you are a great potioneer," the girl blabbered on, undaunted by the silence. "My friend Mrs. Malfoy's husband said—erm, that you are very adept. A clever person, I think?"
A few monosyllabic replies to various polite attempts at conversation later, and the surreal fact that she was not going to leave sank in for Snape. He could not understand it—the situation, like the witch, was wholly foreign to him.
There had only been one female who had ever willingly spent any amount of time with him.
"May I ask you a question?"
You're clearly going to, whether I want it or not, aren't you?
Snape's black eyes bored into hers. This was usually a great deterrent to social engagement. His classmate Theodora Nott had often made unflattering comparisons between his stare and that of an Augurey.
"I am French, you see—" Obviously, Severus thought, impatiently. "So I am not as familiar with the—nuance of your language."
She could string a sentence together better than at least three-quarters of the idiots Severus had gone to school with, but that was beside the point.
"Can you tell me—what is the meaning of this word—'mudblood'?"
Severus had a queer sensation in the bottom of his stomach. He wondered, vaguely, if this was what happened right before someone was sick. He'd never been sick from drink. A childhood spent at Spinners' End, where the scent of stale beer and vomit never went away, had cured him of any curiosity on such matters.
"I have heard it said often since arriving in England, and I'm not sure what—"
"—It's what they call the muggles and the—" Snape paused, then lowered his voice. "The muggleborns."
"Oh." The girl peered up into his face. "Is that what you call them?"
"It's what everyone calls them."
Severus wished she'd stop staring. He wanted a fourth drink.
"But is it a—polite word?" Snape's sneer grew more pronounced. How stupid was this girl? If she'd been here a week and under Narcissa Malfoy's tutelage the answer to that question should have been glaringly obvious. "Only—you did not seem—it seemed to offend you, when Monsieur Mulciber called your friend…that word."
Sharp words of contempt died on his lips. Irritation faded, replaced with a dull pain he'd spent the last year and some since he'd graduated trying to distract himself from.
How long had it been since someone had called her his friend?
"I wasn't offended," he lied, coldly. "It's what she is."
The witch flushed, the first sign of wilting enthusiasm for this conversation. Amazing she'd lasted this long, quite frankly.
"I see."
Snape actually took in the figure in front of him. Once you got past the frilly dress robes and the eyes as wide as saucers, she was—well, less comfortable than most of the witches in this room. And she seemed to find this conversation genuinely interesting.
Why, he couldn't guess.
"Will this Evans—will she be here, tonight, in attendance?"
The naive innocence with which the girl said this almost seemed an affectation to Snape. She tilted her head up, waiting politely—not at all aware just what a stupid, inane, absurd question it was she had asked.
He looked around the room and tried to imagine Lily here—in this house that was filled to the brim with everyone in the country he knew she most despised.
Snape could have laughed.
"Where've you been?" Lily looked up from her charms notes, resting on the log at the bend of the village road where they always met on Hogsmeade weekends. "I've been waiting for ages."
"I'm sorry. I—ran into someone I know and got caught up—"
Lily blinked, surprised. Apparently that he knew people besides her was still a shock, Severus thought.
"Who was it?"
He hastily picked up her notebook—but it was too late. The tall, blond figure appeared at the end of the lane, walking from the direction he'd come—the Hog's Head. The man waved an ironic salute before vanishing.
"It's—Evan Rosier," Severus said, hastily. "He's a few years older than us, you probably don't remember—"
"—I remember him," Lily said, a trifle coldly.
That tone of voice was what she always used when she got wind of him having a friend she didn't approve of.
They started down the lane towards the village square in an uneasy mood. Severus had resisted the urge to snap back at her that he was lucky to have caught Rosier's eye, that Evan was well-connected and had friends in 'high places'—the lofty towers that he could never have dreamt of reaching without help.
He got so little time with her these days, he didn't want to waste it arguing.
"Want to go to Dervish and Bangs?" he asked, eager to change the subject.
"We always go there," Lily said, with eyebrow raised. "I've got all the lunar scopes I could ever need, Sev."
Severus colored. The reason he kept suggesting it was that they never ran into any of her other friends there—of which there seemed to be dozens—and so there was less need for him to skulk in the back waiting for yet another interchangeable Gryffindor girl to stop monopolizing Lily.
"Let's go have a drink at the Three Broomsticks, instead!"
Severus blanched. This was what he'd been afraid of.
"Oh, no—it'll be so crowded and loud."
"Some people—" She smiled at him, which made his stomach lurch. "—Like a bit of atmosphere."
Snape's expression darkened.
"You know who'll probably be there."
Lily shrugged.
"So what if he is?"
"The minute he sees you he won't leave us alone."
"So I'll tell him to shove off," Lily said, irritation growing. "You're not going to let Potter dictate our plans, are you?"
Sometimes Severus wondered if she was being deliberately obtuse. That wasn't the point at all—didn't she see? Lily glared back at him, defiant—a little color rose in her cheeks that had nothing to do with the cold.
"Maybe," he muttered, resentfully. "You'd like to see him."
As soon as the words left his mouth he regretted them—if only for because it angered her.
"I don't know why you're always having a go at me about Potter."
She picked up her pace, practically marching away from him. Severus had to nearly jog to keep up.
"Lily—" Severus tried to come up with some way of rectifying it, but it was the same trap he always fell into. "Wait up—"
She spun on her heel. His best friend was positively flustered by now, splotchy cheeks—only she still looked good with splotchy cheeks—which matched her dark red hair.
"I can't stand him, you know!" she announced, in a tone of voice that sounded frankly melodramatic, for her. "He's such a—a toerag, he's always so loud in our common room. I can't wait for graduation, after which I'll never have to see his inflated head again."
The dark well in his soul where the gaul of bitterness reserved exclusively for James Potter overfilled.
What a lie that had turned out to be.
Snape had known it wasn't true, even then—but he had wanted so desperately to believe her that he'd ignored the truth shoved in front of his face.
"Her name's not 'Evans' anymore." In the distance his friend Mulciber let out a shrill snigger and called a greeting to one of his cousins. "She's married."
To someone else.
There hadn't been a picture, thank God—just a notice in the paper, a short piece earlier this year, the final, brutal insult—salt on a wound right above the obituaries.
If this French girl understood what was unspoken, she didn't let on. It was probably the haze of this piss he was drinking that made him not give a damn if she did.
"And she's not my friend."
He was pleased there was no bitterness in his voice. A statement of fact. This was true. Lily had made it quite clear to him that they would never be 'friends' again.
"But she was, once."
"Do you always ask people you don't even know personal questions?"
"Yes," she answered, honestly. "It's one of my worst qualities."
Snape's eyes scoured the room, looking for some kind of escape. Unfortunately he wasn't quite drunk enough yet to curse this girl out of the way. He'd need at least one more mead before he was ready for that.
"I am sorry."
Snape's head turned sharply.
"For what?"
"I have had very few friends in my life," she said, voice frank. "It seems to me unfortunate to lose one."
Head swimming with anger and alcohol, Snape could no longer even sneer. They passed the next several minutes in blessed silence.
The French witch fidgeted—her discomfort at the company clear.
She didn't want to be here either, Severus thought, and it gave him grim satisfaction to realize someone was a miserable as he. She was probably hanging at his side because he was the only person in the room even more out of place.
She had the sort of open disposition that was not looked on with favor these days.
This was the time to keep one's mouth shut and one's eyes open.
"Monsieur Snape—are you familiar with something called—" She looked around, furtively. "The Order of the Phoenix?"
The question had come so suddenly—as if she'd been wrestling with herself all this time about whether she dare ask it. The girl had tried to make it casual, of little consequence, like the rest of her trite platitudes and polite conversation.
Snape wasn't fooled. It was not a subject one drew attention to knowing of.
"Do you have an answer for him?"
How much older the man sitting across from him looked. Or maybe it was that Severus felt so much older than he had the last time he had sat in this chair. Not much time had passed, and yet it felt a lifetime. He was a different man than he'd been.
"Forgive me, Severus—" He steepled his fingers. "—but I do not believe Lord Voldemort sent you here to pass a message or retrieve one."
How like his old headmaster, to look across that desk at Severus with a mixture of concern and pity. As if he'd ever really cared—ever had Snape's best interests in mind.
"So it's nothing, then."
He ignored Dumbledore's theory—that he wasn't important, that this mission he'd been given was meant as no more than a slight—an insult to Dumbledore, yet another student taken, another lost soul.
"He knows how I intend to act. He knows me well—though not as well as I know him."
Or as well as you know me, is that what you think?
Dumbledore didn't know a damn thing about him.
"I am sorry, Severus."
"For what?"
Dumbledore sighed—not one of surprise, but disappointed.
"To see you sunk so beneath what you could be."
Severus's lip curled. How like Dumbledore to only see his potential when it no longer mattered.
"You obviously don't know."
"Why do you say that?"
"You wouldn't have asked if you did."
The girl shivered—but any trepidation she had was not as strong as her curiosity, for she pressed forward.
"Can you tell me what this—Order does, precisely?"
Get in the way, mostly.
Snape considered her. He couldn't imagine being in any room of people, let alone this one, and thinking you could believe the word of a stranger.
He smiled, coldly.
"They're a pack of fools," he said, taking great pleasure in imagining the crooked nose of their leader. "Fighting a losing battle."
The answer confused her—it was not meant to satisfy, after all—and she leaned closer to her companion.
"I don't understand what you—"
The end of her sentence was drowned out by a terrific CRASH—the sound a combination of gunshot and canon fire. The entire room shook as the door burst open with such tremendous force it was blown clean off its hinges.
The crowd scattered with a scream as the heavy chestnut door rammed into the side wall, toppling some Grecian statues that had been pushed into the corner.
"What in God's name—!"
A witch with voluminous blond curls screamed as a bit of flying masonry hit her about the head. Alarmed, her date rushed to her side before she swooned, and the two only narrowly dodged being hit in the face by ceiling plaster, blasted clean in two by the timely intervention of Richard Avery.
"Holy hell!"
Pieces of a priceless chandelier dropped into the punch bowl with a splash.
When the smoke had cleared and the shouts of expletives ceased, the entire party turned, en masse, towards the hole that had once been the door to the Rosier drawing room—and the figure standing in it.
Among them, only Rosier himself seemed unperturbed.
"Bella, darling," he drawled, surveying the wreckage of his once-pristine drawing room. "Must you always make an entrance?"
The woman in the doorway smiled.
"…I think you might need a new elf, Evan."
And we have a villain! It only took *checks watch* a thousand pages. Please, as always, let me know what you think in the comments.