'Does it matter if she's my cousin?' snapped Sirius. 'As far as I'm concerned, they're not my family. She's certainly not my family. I haven't seen her since I was your age, unless you count a glimpse of her coming into Azkaban. D'you think I'm proud of having relatives like her?'
-J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
CHAPTER 27
Bellatrix Lestrange was not dressed for a party.
One would hardly have known, though, for the haughty look she swept the room with was as regal as a queen. The cloak that enveloped her was so immense and heavy that at first Colette thought it was a man's—then Madame Lestrange stepped into the light of the parlor, and the girl saw it was made of thick fur, the kind one only wore in the far north, where darkness held court in the long twilight of winter.
Bellatrix discarded the cloak with a lazy flick of her wand, revealing silvery-gray robes of sleek velvet beneath. Her dark hair hung loose and wild around her shoulders, with no styling or ornamentation, and her ivory skin was pleasingly offset by cheeks, ruddy—from the cold, not rouge. The general air of dishevelment that surrounded her suggested that she had dressed in haste, and with little concern for the opinions of anyone but herself.
Not an eye in the room was fixed elsewhere.
"Take that away—" Bellatrix tossed her furs at the nearest house-elf, nearly smothering him in the process. "—Unless you want to go the way of the one in the front hall."
Madame Lestrange's arrival heralded a change in the atmosphere in Alnwick House. The low murmur that followed her entrance quickly turned to whispers of suspicion, a few stray appreciative laughs and mutterings of disapproval. She smiled—a feline, provocative smile, as if she was daring them to say it to her face. She was used to being seen and she liked it.
Evan Rosier was the first to cross the room. He raised his hand—in what was either a greeting or a gesture alluding to the destruction she had wrought.
"Dearest Bellatrix—" Rosier's voice had a way of carrying—now it had a theatrical quality as well. "You have truly redefined the phrase 'she won't come quietly.'"
He bowed, took her hand and kissed the square silver ring on her index finger, as if she were a cardinal.
"You know I like to make an entrance."
Bellatrix pulled her hand away and laughed. Her husband, stone-faced and grim, was quick to follow on Rosier's heels. Colette could see from ten feet off his jaw was set—even from a distance his face looked like thunder.
Rodolphus grabbed his wife by the wrist.
"About damn time," Lestrange said, without preamble. "Where the hell have you been?"
Her eyes darted down to the arm he held, then back up at his face, inches from her own. She did not struggle in his grip.
"What a warm welcome." Bellatrix raised an eyebrow. "Hello to you, too, dearest."
Rodolphus lip curled up in a snarl. Bellatrix gave no sign of being bothered by her husband's cold greeting—on the contrary, it seemed to amuse her, which only stoked the flames of his anger. The whispered argument between them grew heated, and when he pulled her into a rough kiss, she leaned in
"That's more like it," Bellatrix said, pulling away. She traced her husband's jaw with her finger. "Start that way, next time."
A twinge of pain crossed his face. Rodolphus let go of her hand abruptly and stalked across the room. His wife watched him go with little regret, and her theatrical sigh called to mind a child who has grown tired and bored of a once-beloved toy.
If the reaction of the room was anything to go by, this sort public scene was typical for the couple.
Colette watched all this from behind a table—she couldn't seem to take her eyes away, and not for the first time, she was grateful to be the sort of girl no one noticed.
All the mystery surrounding her, and in the end, she had known who Bellatrix was without being told.
She was beautiful, of course—but not like Narcissa, built in the mould of their mother, a delicate snow queen decoration atop Christmas cake. She looked more like her middle sister—but while marriage and motherhood had softened Andromeda, and smoothed and rounded her corners—in the former institution, at least, Mrs. Lestrange had been sharpened like a dagger. A tall and elegant figure, her heavily lidded eyes sparkled with the shrewd intelligence she had come to recognize in all the Blacks.
Bellatrix possessed their sense of self-assurance, untethered by propriety.
"Colette—there you are."
The French girl started and turned around. Narcissa stood at her shoulder and was looking down at her with puzzlement. "You didn't follow—I thought I'd lost you."
She sounded put-out.
"Oh—I am sorry. I was talking to—" Colette looked around—in the chaos of Bellatrix's entrance, her odd conversational partner had slunk off into the shadows from which he had probably come. "—Monsieur Snape."
Mrs. Malfoy's frown deepened.
"About what would you be speaking to him?"
Colette forced an apologetic smile. She could hardly have told Narcissa that Snape—with his strange dress and abrasive manner, and the overwhelming air of being unimportant—had seemed the safest person at this party to ask about 'The Order of the Phoenix.'
His answer—such as it was—had only left more questions.
"A pack of fools fighting a losing battle"…well, he certainly had a talent for cryptic drama the writer in her could appreciate. A pity he was so thoroughly unpleasant otherwise.
"Oh—I had questions about the guests," she lied. "Since I'm so ignorant…"
"You probably knows them better than he does. Severus is, of course, a friend of my husband's. I won't speak a word against him, but…" Narcissa sniffed. "He's not exactly…of the first tier. You understand."
He was a half-blood, in other words. Colette had assumed as much. He had admitted to having a friend who was muggleborn, after all—what respectable pureblood family would have allowed one of their sons to mix in such low company?
What a snob you are, Miss Battancourt, a familiar, irritating voice murmured in her mind's ear, as soon as the stray thought had crossed it. Always lock-step with your mother, aren't you?
She wrinkled her brow, as if that could push him out of her head. How thoroughly Sirius seemed to have lodged his eccentric view of the world into her mind. She felt as if there was now a spy-glass in her pocket, and anytime she wanted she could pull it out, look through it and see things as Sirius did. Colette was sure she'd have enjoyed this party a great deal more if she was not constantly thinking about what he would say about the guests.
Colette could hear herself agreeing with him—most irritating of all.
"He was courteous enough," she said, forcing herself to focus on Narcissa instead of her imagination's version of a certain cheeky grin. "How did your husband first come across him?"
"Oh…school, I think. That's where everyone meets."
But Mrs. Malfoy was not listening. Her eyes were fixed on Bellatrix—now the center of a circle of men that included Rosier, Rabastan, and Narcissa's own husband. Colette did not think she was at all pleased to see her sister.
When Madame Lestrange noticed Narcissa watching her from across the room, they locked eyes, and her face split into a wide grin. Narcissa's shoulders stiffened and she jerked her head away. Colette thought her friend looked as though she was steeling herself, but by the time her sister had sauntered over to them Mrs. Malfoy was composed again, her haughty expression firmly back in place.
"Well, well." Bellatrix gave Narcissa a once-over. "No one is happy to see me, apparently."
Her voice—deep for a woman's—took on a mocking, babyish tone that didn't suit her.
"Weren't you even going to say hello, Cissy?"
She leaned her face unpleasantly close to her sister's. Colette might've been a piece of furniture or an insect, for all the notice Bellatrix took of her. She didn't mind. It didn't seem like being noticed by Madame Lestrange was a very pleasant experience.
"You seemed preoccupied," Narcissa replied, cooly. "With blasting your way into the hall and menacing half the guests."
Bellatrix let out an unladylike snort.
"Ohhh—did I upset Cissy's precious sense of propriety?" Her sister flushed deep scarlet. "Someone's got high and mighty in my absence."
"It's just—embarrassing!"
The complaint came out as a whine. Colette had never seen Narcissa so ruffled. Her eldest sister's enormous presence had the effect of diminishing hers, and she seemed far younger and unsure of herself. Mrs. Lestrange, satisfied that her bullying had accomplished the desired effect, pulled her face back again.
"How are you?" Bellatrix continued, savoring her sister's discomfort. "I'd have expected you to be rather fat by now. Are you sure Lucius did the thing correctly?"
Narcissa turned an unseemly red.
"I'm only two months along." She smoothed the front of her gown, reflexively. "Why do you—why must you always make such a scene?"
She was evidently far less amused by her sister's dramatic arrival than their cousin had been.
"Is it my fault Evan set his insolent elf at the door?" Bellatrix asked, voice blunt. "I can't believe that creature thought it had the right to bar me entrance."
"It's invitation only—you should have come with Rodolphus." She lowered her voice to a furious whisper. "You know everyone talks about the two of you."
The amusement dropped from Bellatrix's face.
"There are too many people not minding their own business around here. And anyway—" She arched an eyebrow. "I've never been one for following rules."
Bellatrix tweaked her sister's curl too hard for the gesture to be affectionate. Narcissa slapped her hand away, angrily.
"It's not only your business, what you get up to with your husband—"
"—And not all of us are content to follow our husbands around like loyal lapdogs."
Narcissa's breath caught in her throat. One of the wizards beckoned Bellatrix to join their table, and she glided away before Mrs. Malfoy could formulate a reply.
If the embarrassment Colette felt was bad, she thought, watching her friend try to compose herself, for Narcissa it must've been excruciating. She pretended not to notice the moisture clinging to her eyelashes.
"You, erm—" Colette timidly broke the silence. "Didn't introduce us."
Narcissa looked up from the cup she had been staring into.
"Oh. Didn't I?" She busied herself with smoothing the folds of her gown over her small bump. "We'll see more than our share of Bella in the next few days." She'll be at the party tomorrow, and Christmas with us at Malfoy Manor." She glared at her sister's back. "That is, if she doesn't come up with some new excuse to not turn up."
"I—I thought she was ill," Colette said, careful to keep her tone light and casual—not curious. "And that was why she didn't come…"
She didn't want to admit to having heard the whole of the conversation between the sisters, but it was difficult to pretend otherwise when she'd been standing right next to them.
"My sister does what best pleases her," Narcissa said, shortly—and with that, the subject was closed. Colette knew better than to push.
For the next hour, her eyes were always drawn to the same point—the same person. Colette watched Bellatrix as she made her rounds about the room, lazily circling the parlor like a shark. She seemed to know every wizard, though she did not hold them all in the same high esteem and didn't pretend otherwise. She passed over some with only a word, but others were deemed worthy of a phrase—or even a paragraph, if she was feeling particularly beneficent. This high-handedness was taken as a matter of course, for Madame Lestrange commanded obvious respect. The men stopped her and spoke to her in hushed and serious tones—as if she were one of them. The witches, by comparison, avoided lingering anywhere close.
Colette had the impression that the attention she drew had nothing to do with her beauty or glamour—that these qualities that she came by naturally, but had not bothered to enhance or emphasize by the so-called feminine arts, were not what made her interesting to the people in this room.
Bellatrix was still cloaked in mystery—a mystery her family seemed determined to perpetuate.
Andromeda had warned her to stay away—had told Colette understanding the reason would involve speaking to Mrs. Lestrange, a circumstance to which Mrs. Tonks was vehemently opposed. Even Sirius, who could be counted on to abuse his relations with alacrity whenever he was given the chance, never spoke of Bellatrix—or if he did, was quick to change the subject. For him, at least, his eldest cousin was not an object of ridicule. She had tried asking Narcissa, once—before she'd met Sirius, before she knew that there was anything strange or mysterious about her question.
"She's—very like my father, I suppose." Narcissa twirled one strand of hair around her wand into a perfect curl. "She's always been such a Black."
"But aren't you a Black?"
"By blood, yes, but—" She turned in her seat, expression grave—she always looked like this right before she was to impart some important wisdom to her protégée. "Colette, when a witch marries—well, when most witches marry—she takes on more than just her husband's name. With it comes a host of things. Responsibilities, traditions that must be passed on to the children—and of course, his family, which becomes hers."
"You said 'most' witches."
Narcissa turned back to the mirror.
"Bellatrix is not any more a Lestrange than she was the day she married Rodolphus," she said, pinning a diamond clip into her hair. "She's all Black."
Colette bit her thumb. Narcissa's voice taking on that odd, clipped quality made her nervous.
"Isn't that a—good thing?"
Narcissa's expression had answered the question without words—just as her expression did now.
All the warnings she'd been given had only stoked Colette's curiosity. What was it about her? She was so strange, and yet—there was something so familiar, too. What was it?
Bellatrix threw back her head and let out a roaring laugh.
She's like him.
Her eyes widened in shock. The thought—a fleeting fancy, a whisper in the back of her mind—had popped into her head and was now bouncing off the walls of it.
She was like him.
The Blacks all shared a kind of aristocratic restraint, borne of centuries of tradition and breeding—a natural-born veil that separated their inner lives from the outside world which it made it nearly impossible to glean what they were thinking.
Except for two. They were not like the rest of their family—or rather, they had both made the deliberate choice not to be so.
Now that she'd seen it, Colette couldn't un-see it.
It wasn't looks, exactly—or rather, it wasn't looks alone, for in appearance she could just as easily have been Orion and Walburga's daughter as niece. No, it was the way she held herself, her face and eyes—vital and expressive, lusty for life, and so unlike the stone statues in her family Colette had come to know so well. Bellatrix seemed to share not only her younger cousin's wanton disregard for the opinions of the world—but his disdain for artifice itself. She was headstrong and bold and said what she wanted, damn the consequences. All that reckless, restless energy pent up, bottled into the constrained and narrow world into which she'd been born—with that Colette was intimately familiar.
The resemblance between the cousins only made the trait in Sirius stand out more, but in Bellatrix she saw something else, something new—a capacity for cruelty. She had learned to control her passions, to harness and channel them.
But to what end?
The same queer flutter in the stomach that she'd felt the night of Arcturus Black's birthday returned.
Yes, the warnings had indeed had the opposite of their intended effect. All her natural sensibility was drowned out by the pounding blood in her ears. That same deep and instinctive curiosity which had motivated her, in a fit of madness, to pilfer a bottle of polyjuice potion from the pocket of a stranger—was working its magic on her now.
This time she had been warned—she had no excuse and she didn't care.
For all her protests against his influence—a week spent in Sirius Black's company had given Colette Battancourt more reckless daring than she knew what to do with.
"If he took the girl with him, I doubt whoever they had lunch with was all that disreputable."
Walburga removed each of her diamond earrings and dropped them, one after the other, into the crystal box in which she stored her precious jewels.
As annoying as Lucretia's meddling interferences were, her sister-in-law's letter had spared Walburga having to explain to Orion the latest vexation caused by Sirius Orion. And it had spared her any guilt she might've felt at breaking her promise to Regulus.
What had happened that morning in the bath at Sirius's flat had not surprised Orion nearly so much as it ought to have.
Both matters had brought her husband to her in that awkward moment when she was preparing for bed, dismantling 'the feminine illusion,' as Lucretia was fond of describing taking down one's hair, removing jewels and unlacing corsets. Orion had often liked to talk to her at this time of day, when they were first married.
"I cannot believe what a useless servant that elf is." Her necklace followed the jewels—a rather more careless drop into the box than usual. "We should have let him go years ago."
"You know he didn't have a choice," her husband replied, in a vexingly patient voice. "And for my money, he took the prudent course of action in returning to this house when he was called."
Mrs. Black turned in her seat.
"Orion Black—are you siding with a servant?"
"No—I am expressing an opinion that happens to differ from yours." A jeweled comb was pulled out of her hair with unnecessary force, scattering pins on the vanity. "Honestly, woman—it was probably one of his friends he was taking her to meet."
"That's hardly reassuring," Walburga scoffed. "The last thing I want is for the girl to get the idea they are suitable company."
Orion didn't argue with her—but in the mirror she saw him watching her in that impassive, slightly detached way that had driven her to distraction on more than one occasion in their marriage. She would not have wanted a histrionic husband, of course—but it could be tiring being married to a man with all the transparency of the brick wall that separated the Leaky Cauldron from Diagon Alley.
She wrinkled her nose in a manner she could see was monstrously unattractive and considered the problem. If only the girl and Narcissa weren't to be out so late this evening—perhaps she would find a moment to get her alone. She was certain with the right opportunity she could get it out of Colette.
In her heart, of course, Walburga knew Orion was probably right—whoever they had met was not likely to have any bearing on her plans, and that was what mattered, in the end. There was no sign yet that he suspected—that was one of the great advantages of the situation, the fact that she would immediately know. The whole affair was a hiccup.
It was just that the thought of Sirius Orion getting the better of her niggled.
"Walburga—I want you to give this up."
Mrs. Black opened up one of the dozens of potions used in her nightly routine and began the process of application.
"Give what up?"
"You know perfectly well. This—scheme of yours." She lowered the bottle back onto the table, setting it down with great care. "I want you to forget it and let that girl be."
Walburga's eyes narrowed. She waved her wand carelessly, and all the open drawers of her chiffonier closed.
"You said—" The words had to be wrenched from her. "—You wouldn't interfere."
Her voice remained deadly calm even while her eyes burned. Orion showed none of the outwards signs of a man fortifying himself for a long siege, which was usually what followed Walburga's deadly calm voice.
"I was prepared to let you have your way—but not at the expense of your happiness."
He stood up and walked over to her. He was still dressed in his dinner clothes. There had been a time long ago when he prepared for bed in this room, too. Then her mother had heard about it and told her it was unseemly, and Walburga had informed him in no uncertain terms that his dressing room was for just that. She'd never forgotten that flash of pain in his eyes before he turned away.
She'd regretted it at the time—and for many years after.
"What has my happiness to do with anything?"
"Your happiness is my chief concern," Orion said, quietly. "And my sole aim."
She huffed and began brushing her hair with violent energy.
"Is it? This is the first I've heard of it."
That old feeling, long dormant but never dead, rose up in her again. How she tired of the rigid formality that had long governed every aspect of their lives. Even in an argument, her husband seemed more like a barrister at the bar of the Wizengamot, performing a recitation.
Was it any wonder Sirius Orion was always trying to provoke him?
"Well, I must tell you—I find it very odd, for you to change your mind, like this," Walburga said, managing to keep her voice calm, showing just a smidgeon of how put-out she was. "What brought it about?"
"I've—had some time to think, these past few days."
"That is not an answer."
"I believe if you continue on your present course—" He folded his arms behind his back. "It will cost you the very thing you want most."
At that she saw red.
"What I want most," she snapped, imperiously. "Is within my grasp."
"You're enjoying playing this game of yours—too much." He cocked an eyebrow. "You like winning too much."
She stared at him as if he'd sprouted dragon's wings.
"Why else would one play a game, if not to win?"
Another wave of the wand, and her bed covers tightened around the pillows.
Orion's patient veneer at last cracked.
"This is not a fox hunt," he said, pointedly. "The point is not the chase."
She could have thrown a thousand things back in his face—repeated a thousand arguments they'd had before—but the weight of what she feared coming to pass was too heavy, and she couldn't muster the strength.
"What—" Her voice caught. "—Do you suggest that I do?"
He rested one hand on her shoulder.
"Leave the boy to me," he said, quietly. "This matter requires…a cool head."
"'A cool head'?" Mrs. Black repeated, crossly. "Cooler than I am capable of providing, you mean?"
Orion's lip twitched, but he wisely kept whatever inane thoughts he had to himself.
"What makes you think you can do better, Orion Black?"
He studied her image in the mirror. She met his look—steady and calm—and returned it with one which was niether. Orion sighed, reached into his pocket and pulled a paper out. Walburga gave it a look of contempt.
"I've had enough letters to last a lifetime," Mrs. Black groused, snatching the parchment from his hand. "Whatever could—"
The words died in her throat the moment Walburga's eyes fell on the page. Her husband waited patiently for her to speak. She stared at the parchment for a long while, eyes not moving—when she looked up, they were narrowed in anger.
"Where did you get this?"
The hand that clutched the parchment trembled.
"I would think that obvious."
She clenched her fist, crumpling it into a ball.
"Is that where you were this afternoon?" Mrs. Black tossed the letter on the floor as if it were nothing more than a piece of rubbish. "With him?"
She might've been referring to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, for how much venom she managed to infuse in that one word.
"He wanted to say his piece—" Mr. Black shrugged. "I let him."
"You're lucky I didn't know," his wife replied, waspishly. "I'd have told your father the truth about where you were. He'd have had words."
Orion didn't rise to her bait.
"May I see the letter that was in reply to?"
Mrs. Black gripped her wand tightly. Her husband remained standing behind her, staring into the mirror—patient and calm. He was a man who expects his request to be met with obedience and who was willing to wait for it.
Walburga flicked her redthorn wand at a bureau in the corner of the bedroom—the bottom drawer opened with such force that it flew out and onto the floor with a thud. A sheaf of papers, crumbled and ratty, whizzed into her hand. Mrs. Black rifled through this stack of old correspondence carelessly, tossing letters onto the carpet—until she at last found what she was looking for.
She thrust the crumpled letter into her husband's hand without ceremony, then turned back to her mirror and continued her nighttime toilette.
Orion did not leave his fuming wife while he read, and when he looked up from the note—short, written in a warm, squashed hand on paper dotted with forget-me-nots, she had stopped pretending he wasn't there.
"I'm not sure the answer this received was quite—warranted."
"Meddlesome, interfering fools who dare tell respectable people how they ought to raise their own children should consider themselves lucky they don't get a curse in reply to their damned letters."
He looked up, expression sardonic.
"Mrs. Potter might've preferred that to some of your more—colorful suggestions."
Orion sighed and the hand holding the parchment dropped to his side.
"I wish you'd told me about this at the time."
She dropped her brush onto the table in front of her.
"You'd have had to come out of the study you entombed yourself in first."
He flinched—and Walburga found herself, far from elated at having scored herself a hit that had hurt him, instead overwhelmed with a surge of guilt.
"I don't think what you said got back to him." He gently lay the letter down on the bureau. "I imagine when you wrote it you hoped it would."
All she had been thinking—if she had been thinking at all, and those awful days seemed to blur together so much that no sensical recollections of time or conversation came back to her—was that she wanted to hurt the ones that had hurt her.
Walburga was certain now that she had succeeded—but the realization gave her no satisfaction or pleasure.
"I suppose it occurred to you how this might be taken by the recipient."
"I meant what I said—" Her voice broke. "I wouldn't take back a single word."
What lies one could tell oneself, if given the opportunity. Far easier than lying to him.
"They might've sent him home," Orion continued, in that maddeningly patient voice she was beginning to loathe. "You all but told her you'd bar the door if he came back."
She rose from her chair, eyes suddenly wild.
"And what if I did?" Her voice rose in hysteria. "Wouldn't that have been my right? What sort of witch takes back an ungrateful—treacherous snake of a child?"
The sob caught in her throat—she blinked the tears away, furious at herself and turned to the wall. The thought of facing him when she was like this—weak and ashamed—it was too much to bear.
She could be strong in every way except this.
Orion laid his hand on her shoulder. The action cushioned the blow—he almost seemed to absorb the shock of her shaking frame.
"Don't cry, Walburga."
She turned around to tell him she was certainly not crying, but by then the tears were liable to soak her nightgown, and it seemed there was little point in pretending. Walburga buried her face in his shirtfront.
"Grief—is a kind of madness, and if you were struck down by it, one could hardly blame you. You didn't have anyone."
He shook his head.
"A man ought to be at his wife's side, in such moments, to ease the burden."
She looked up at him, face wet with tears.
"The only burden your presence would have eased," Walburga sniffed. "Would have been the burden of your head from your shoulders."
He smiled and wiped her eye with a handkerchief he seemed to have pulled from thin air.
"I flatter myself my talent for deflecting curses is as good as ever."
"My aim is better than yours," she said, tightly. "And I was very angry at you."
"You had every reason to be."
A stray tendril of her hair had fallen out of the braid she had been attempting to tie onto her shoulder before this unfortunate scene had begun. Irritated, Walburga raised a hand to tuck it behind her ear—but Orion caught her by the wrist.
"I know I've done nothing to deserve it, but—I need you to trust me." He tucked the curl back behind her ear. "The fault was mine—so the remedy must be mine as well."
Walburga felt her lip tremble—and for once, had no immediate need to hide it from him.
"What do you intend to do?"
"That's between the boy and I."
Her eyes flashed with the familiar flare of temper he knew and—just like very part of her—loved so well. She sat back down at her table and looked back into the mirror. Merlin, she looked a fright.
"It's hardly a fair trade—" Mrs. Black huffed. "You expect me to halt my plans, and you won't even tell me what yours are."
He rolled his eyes.
"This is not a negotiation, madam."
"Everything's a negotiation."
"Walburga—"
"—Fine, fine." She raised her hands in a gesture of surrender. "You win. I won't act in any way that a chaperone of the first order wouldn't, or that my dear, even-tempered, faultless husband would not approve of. Does that satisfy?" Walburga asked, sarcastically. "Or will you be needing me to make an unbreakable vow to do as I am bid?"
He lowered his face to be level with hers in the mirror.
"Women who always do as they are bid hold no charms for me."
Her husband took her hand and kissed it—a gesture which left her pleasantly flushed and made her feel many years younger than she was.
"What about Arcturus?" She nibbled her lip, anxious. "He's begun to suspect something's amiss."
"That was inevitable—only a matter of time." His hand brushed her shoulder. "I'll deal with him."
"You'll—so you'll 'deal' with everybody, will you?" She folded her arms, knowing full well she didn't look intimidating in the slightest in her nightdress. "What does that leave me for me?"
"Knowing you, I'm sure you'll find something with which to occupy yourself. Though—" He kissed the top of her head. "Some people take rests at Christmas. Perhaps you could try that."
"I am not feeling very restful," she replied, crossly—to which he had only smiled knowingly.
When they had exchanged a few more murmured words and he had left her to her thoughts again, Mrs. Black recovered her lost wits.
What a moment of weakness, to have made such a promise to Orion!
Taking rests at Christmas…what sort of nonsense was that?
What did he expect her to do? Simply—plan a party for their family, prepare turkey, finish preparations for the children's Christmas presents, sit back and let all her hard work come to nothing?
That was exactly what he expected. Irksome man.
Walburga was certain that he thought this a great service he was doing her—but she was afraid. Trusting him exposed her, made her vulnerable to the unknown, what might happen. Action gave her purpose and a sense of control—to leave the business of her heart to someone else—even if that someone was the one person she wanted to rely on—was to risk it breaking again.
She didn't think it could stand a second blow.
No, she could not look on this pact with favor. Though…there was, happily, one consolation in this agreement. Walburga had been very careful in what she promised, and by the time she had climbed into her bed, she was feelingly cheerfully comforted.
There were some plans, once they'd been put into motion—which could not be undone.
The door to the smoking room opened—from the sound of it, with the force of a kick.
"That's much better."
The shadow of Madame Lestrange danced against the wall opposite the hearth with even more energy than her human shape. Behind her—three male figures, the same that had been dogging her more or less all evening.
Madame Lestrange threw herself down on the velvet love seat that dominated the center of the room.
"Where's Evan?"
"Fetching you a drink. Your taste in liquor has grown almost as exclusive as your taste in company."
"If I'd known that half-blood Snape was going to be here, rest assured, I wouldn't have come at all." She let out a theatrical sigh. "Evan used to have standards—then he became friends with you, Malfoy, and they went to pot."
"Severus—has his uses."
"A dog has its uses, that doesn't mean you invite it to dinner."
Rodolphus laughed—his brother might've, too, but it was drowned out by the noise of the former.
"Not the first social event you'd think yourself too good for, is it, Bellatrix?"
It took a moment for her to understand his meaning.
"Oh, yes. That. I was indisposed, as you know. What did I miss?"
"Nothing good," Rodolphus growled. "I spent the whole night making excuses for you. Lucius invited your entire damn family."
Bellatrix sat up straight and leaned forward.
"Why would you do something like that?"
Lucius's glass of cognac being held up to the light cast a prism onto the wall opposite.
"Does a man need an excuse for being hospitable to his wife's family?"
Her eyes gleamed, maliciously.
"He does when he's you." She plucked one tassel of the cushion beside her, unraveling it between her fingers. "Remind me, Lucius—what's your family's motto, again? 'All for us and us for ourselves'? 'Take what you need, and the rest too?'"
"If you were thinking clearly, Bellatrix," Malfoy said, enunciating his sister-in-law's name with careful precision. "You would see that generosity has value—in more than one way."
A pause.
"Well—I hope it worked. Rabastan? Did everything go off without a hitch?" Another pause, longer than the first. "Don't hold back now."
"Lucius had a bit of a security problem. A couple, ah—uninvited guests."
She snorted.
"Why didn't you simply toss them out?"
"Uninvited doesn't mean—unexpected," Lucius said, smoothly. "Or unwanted."
"I see." She traced a pattern on the wood of the high-backed chair with her finger. "Given that you couldn't pay me to spend an evening with my family, it does make one wonder why a person would go to such lengths for the privilege."
"I don't think it was to have a chat with your granny."
Bellatrix nodded, slowly.
"Did you ever, ah—unmask these intruders, Lucius?"
"Not—in the act, so to speak." He chose his words with delicate care. "With the right contacts, though, one has no need for such—crude tactics."
"I thought you didn't know who the second one was," said Rodolphus, bluntly. "Or did that idiot Rowle give you something useful, for once?"
Lucius stiffened. Bellatrix's eyes narrowed with an interest that bordered on predatory.
"Any assistance he gave was inadvertent."
Malfoy's tone of voice suggested he preferred not to be pressed further on the subject.
Bellatrix tilted her head—a feline look of calculation crossing her face, as if she was considering whether to go for the kill or not.
The sound of the door opening again, the light and dandy step of Evan Rosier, the low swish of wine slopping out of the goblet.
"For you, darling—damn, it's on my shoes—" Rosier handed one to her. "—Try it. It'll put hair on your chest."
Bellatrix's long and graceful fingers gripped the stem of the glass.
She knocked it back.
"Narcissa's been lecturing me already—told me to behave myself." She gave her brother-in-law a withering look. "My father making things difficult?"
"When is he not?" Rodolphus growled. "You know what he says about me."
Bellatrix leaned back on the sofa, stretching out, her arm dangling lazily off the edge.
"I don't know why you let it get to you." She tilted her head up to the ceiling. "He thinks everyone should be as ashamed as he is at not having a son."
Evan Rosier laughed.
"Who could prefer a son to you, Bella?"
"Son-in-laws are a poor substitute," Bellatrix remarked, idly—looking between Rodolphus and Lucius. Her husband was sullen—her brother-in-law, cold and humorless. "Not that I can blame him."
She raked one pointed nail down the front of her husband's robes.
"Don't worry, Rodolphus—whatever Malfoy's done to Cissy, you're still second least favorite."
"Don't you mean 'third'?"
There was a terrific sound of glass shattering and smashing to the ground—followed by a few well-bred curses. Bellatrix had got to her feet—her wand was drawn and pointed at her cousin.
"…Temper, temper, Bellatrix." He crossed in front of her, hand dripped with blood. He tapped it with his wand and the cuts healed themselves. "Haven't you destroyed enough of my valuables tonight?"
"Next time you bring that filth up," she hissed. "It will be something you value more than your crystal, Evan."
"I care more about the loss of the liquor, darling," Rosier laughed. "It's been years. I didn't realize you were still so touchy about the subject. Even Rabastan's not—"
"—I mean it. If you value your position, you will take great care to stay on my good side."
He stood up and crossed towards the liquor cabinet again.
"And why should I?"
"Because he listens to me."
She managed to infuse the word 'he' with the reverence of a nun at the altar of God.
"Oh…someone thinks she's the favorite." The clink of a new glass—a new drink being poured into it. "You don't even know all of what's on offer, darling."
"Well, I know some of what's on offer," his cousin shot back. "And I'm not too worried about it as competition."
"I forgive you for your outburst, Bella." His voice dripped with condescension. "I don't wish to quarrel at Christmas. Family can be the most…delicate subject."
She scowled at him over the rim of her cup—having not offered an apology, she did not appreciate being forgiven.
"While we're on that subject—" Bellatrix huffed. "Where's Regulus?"
A long moment—tellingly long. Malfoy cleared his throat.
"You mean you haven't heard?"
"I've been a bit—" She paused. "—Out of touch."
"He's in France."
"Why would he be there?"
Her husband laughed, coldly.
"Gone courting," Rodolphus said, in a mocking voice. "Been sent over there to be wedded and bedded."
Bellatrix must not have seen the humor in this image, for she did not join in his laughter.
"What are you talking about?" Madame Lestrange scoffed. "He's just out of school. They're not going to marry him off until he's twenty, at least. They always wait for the sons—it's the girls that must be disposed of with alacrity."
Her resentment was clear. Her husband pulled her back down onto the sofa, suddenly possessive.
"It was arranged by your aunt and uncle," Lucius explained, patiently. "He's in Provence with the family. The details are presumably being worked out as we speak. "
Bellatrix considered this news—her eyes narrowed, her body tense.
"You sent him an invitation, didn't you, Evan?" A pause—he must've nodded. "He should be here tonight, then."
Her tone had lost all flippancy and amusement. As quickly as a knife twist she was all business.
"When was the last time someone saw him?"
Lucius cleared his throat.
"I've had a letter—we all have—"
"—That's not what I asked."
There was the shuffling of feet, the crinkling of fabric as wizards turned to look to each other.
Then, the unexpected, soft voice of Rabastan Lestrange broke the silence.
"The—eleventh. I had lunch with Regulus—that was the last time I saw him."
The shadows of three heads turned on the wall.
"Oh?" Bellatrix's voice was a soft purr. "Nearly two weeks ago. And how was my little cousin, when last you spoke, Rab?"
"He seemed—subdued." Rabastan fidgeted in his chair. "Odd. But he—he always does, doesn't he?"
She didn't argue with him—merely cleared the back of her throat and began again her relentless tapping on the side of the sofa—little cat scratches on the fabric.
"Lucius wanted to ask Reg something, didn't you?"
"It was nothing of import," Malfoy said, calmly. "And I—wouldn't be concerned, Bellatrix."
Lucius kept his tone measured, deliberate—the words carefully chosen.
"Who's concerned? The eleventh…" Bella repeated, softly. "That—was the night we were all in Hogsmeade, wasn't it?"
Nothing more needed to be explained—they all understood her meaning perfectly.
"You remember what day it was?" Rosier said. He suddenly sounded angry—fair angrier than he had been up until this point.
Bellatrix laughed.
"I'm surprised you don't, given the events that took place that night." Her voice was filled with a malicious glee. "What a humiliation. Four against one—and not one of you got a shot off him."
"We were doing just fine," Rosier said, tersely. "I had him on the run—"
"—You were embarrassing yourself," she cut him off, bluntly. "If I hadn't turned up he'd have got away without a scratch. He even managed to stun Avery before he disapparated, didn't he?"
The sound of crystal slamming on a sideboard.
"He got lucky," Evan said, through gritted teeth.
"It's not luck—he's just better than you."
"Do I detect a note of sentimentality, Bellatrix?" Rosier asked, his voice sneering. "I suppose you are a woman…deep down."
She laughed—a sharp sound, like breaking glass.
"Hardly. It's personal pride." There was admiration in her voice. "I taught him to duel myself, when he was a boy."
"I never knew that," Lucius said, surprised.
"Why would you?" Bella scoffed. "What a natural. Next time you run into him, Evan—I can give you some tips."
"Hopefully you finished him off," Rosier snapped. "And there won't be a next time."
Malfoy took another delicate sip from his brandy glass.
"No such luck, I'm afraid." Lucius set his glass down—the smallest clink on the wood of the table. "He was at the Ministry when I was there. Rowle told me."
Rosier let out a low whistle.
"You must have gone easy on him, Bella!"
She didn't rise to Evan's bait.
"Do you know why he was there, Lucius?"
"Something about applying for the Auror training program." Malfoy paused to take another long drink from his cup. "I don't believe a word of it, myself. I think he was there to meet with—"
He stopped talking. Bellatrix cleared her throat, expectantly.
"—Well, Rowle didn't seem to think he would get very far with it, in any case."
"Oh, no." She smiled, evilly. "I can't imagine he would. Not with such a—ah, disreputable background."
They all laughed, and Bellatrix, enjoying her appreciative audience, turned her head around to study each man's face in turn. When she was halfway between Rabastan and Evan she froze—her eyes fixed on the window directly behind them.
"What is it?" Rodolphus's hard voice demanded. The sound of rough fur against the soft damask of a sofa cushion. "What're you looking at?"
She didn't answer for a long moment—agonizingly long.
"…Nothing."
Conversation continued between them, until the bottle of liquor was empty and Rosier could no longer pretend not to hear the bevy of guests loudly wondering where he was right outside the room. The four men stood up and walked out of sight—towards the door that lead out into the main hall. Bellatrix remained on the divan—for just a moment longer, before she, too, rose to join them.
Nothing moved in the room for several minutes—until the curtains covering a discrete window alcove rustled.
A single bright blue eye appeared in the gap between them.
Everyone in Grimmauld Place was safely tucked away in bed.
All but one. She could not sleep. Not until curiosity—oh, that dangerous temptress—was satisfied.
Except it wasn't mere curiosity anymore. It had ceased to be curiosity somewhere between the smoking room of Alnwick House and the top landing of the house where she now stood.
Colette walked past the placard inscribed with the name "Sirius" without so much as a side glance.
She paid no heed to the warning tacked up on the side of the door, and turned the knob. It yielded to her push, the well-oiled hinges did not creak. She opened it and walked inside without hesitation.
She knew where she was going—what she didn't know was what she would find.
The room was tidy compared to its brother, the furniture polished, the bed made—it gave every sign of having been, until recently, inhabited. Everything, from the neatly organized bookshelves to the green banners that graced the walls, spoke to the docile, obedient second son Regulus Black appeared to the world.
Appearances, of course—could be misleading.
The tip of her wand cast a faint light on the walls, the chair, the desk—the bed. She noticed something above it, and walked over to the headboard to get a closer look.
It was a collection of newspaper clippings—fading yellow, the glossy photographs still moving in the low light of the bedroom. Colette raised her lit wand and scanned the wall, reading each of the headlines. She took in each in turn, her eyes growing wider as she read—
'Mysterious Attack on Aberdeen Train Station Leaves Five Muggles Dead'
'Quidditch Match Ends in Chaos - Three Ministry Officials Hospitalized, One Missing'
'The Dark Mark Blazes High Once Again—Is No One Safe From the Scourge of You-Know-Who?'
The article was accompanied by a photograph of a green skull surrounded by a snake. Colette's mouth went dry, the blood pounded in her ears—and then her eyes fell on the most recent of this ghoulish collage.
'Who Are the Death Eaters That Walk Among Us?'
The Dark Lord. Every single one of them was about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
The room seemed to sway, and Colette thought for one wild moment she might faint. The girl stepped backwards, gripped the bannister of the four-poster—and heard the crunch of something beneath her feet.
The noise brought her back from the brink, and once she'd recovered her equilibrium she looked down. A crumpled ball of parchment stuck out from under the bed where it had been carelessly thrown. It must've been the only paper out of place in the whole room.
Colette bent down and picked it up. When she had unfolded and read it, the creeping sensation of fear gave way to a lurch of dread.
Astonishing the effect two words—written in a shaking hand, the page wet with tears—could have on a person.
I'm sorry.
If you are wondering why the long gap between chapters-I decided to quit my job to write full-time, and that involved moving 1000 miles. Obviously a lot going on! If you've enjoyed my work and would like to support me and my original artistic endeavors (or just want to drop me a line to learn more about what I've been up to), please head on over to my blog (izzythehutt dot tumblr dot com) or my Ko-Fi (Ko-Fi dot com slash isabellewrites). And as always, please leave a review if you enjoyed! God bless.