"'This wizard, about twenty years ago now, started lookin' fer followers. Got 'em, too — some were afraid, some just wanted a bit o' his power, 'cause he was gettin' himself power, all right. Dark days, Harry. Didn't know who ter trust, didn't dare get friendly with strange wizards or witches . . . terrible things happened. He was takin' over. 'Course, some stood up to him — an' he killed 'em'..."
-J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone
CHAPTER 28
December 24, 1979 — Christmas Eve
"Where were you this afternoon?"
Regulus's brother looked up from his book, expression absent—a state of affairs almost as unusual as him quietly reading for a half-hour straight.
Christmas Eve had thus far been a subdued affair. The temperature had been dropping all day, and the north wind creeped through the cracks in the door and windows. All the spells and protective enchantments Dumbledore had set over the flat couldn't keep the chill at bay, it seemed.
Regulus had been inside for so long he hadn't noticed winter had begun.
"Sorry?"
Sirius reached for a glass of water on the sideboard, knocking over a greasy container of Chinese takeaway—the remnants of their long-cold dinner. Regulus repeated the question.
"Oh…that." He snapped the book shut and tossed it aside. "I went to see Martin Bletchley."
It took Regulus a moment to recognize the name.
"Burke's clerk?"
His brother nodded.
"He's my personal legal advisor. I was hoping he could fix something for me, but it was a bit of a let-down." He shrugged and leaned back on the sofa. "No Christmas miracle."
He reached into a bag of wontons and began fishing around for what was left, with that careless elegance he had always carried so effortlessly.
That was Sirius. He could make eating Chinese food seem aristocratic.
Looking around the room, Regulus was reminded, irresistibly, of the quiet winter nights so many years past, spent in the nursery of Number Twelve. Except in those days his elder brother had never been so quiet, so absorbed in the work their tutor had put them to. Sirius did not like to sit still—he paced around the nursery, tossed balls of parchment into the air—floating them over the fire and distracting Regulus when they burst into blue and yellow flames.
He had a need to move, a vitality that had been the cause of so much envy and frustration that Regulus hardly knew where one ended and the other began.
He watched his brother chew the last of the wontons, then prop the discarded book back on his knees and take a quill out. Sirius began again the arduous process of notating the finer details of French magical herbological exports. It was such an incongruous picture Regulus couldn't help staring.
Sensing the look, Sirius glanced back up.
"He was meant—" He turned the page. "—To be helping me with your Christmas present."
Regulus set the pile of letters onto his lap, careful not to mix up the order they had been so painstakingly placed in.
"Who was?"
"Bletchley. I asked him to knick the papers for that damned opal necklace from Burke's office for me." Sirius furrowed his brow, but he didn't look up. "Of course the old serpent had taken them out of the safe. He knows I want those papers to get it back from the Burkes, so he won't even even take a bribe. That plan's out the window, too."
Regulus waited for further explanation, but Sirius was apparently so absorbed in his work that none was forthcoming.
"What's that got to do with my Christmas present?"
Sirius jerked his head up again.
"Oh." He fiddled with a button on his cuff. "I was—going to let you give it to Dad and be the big hero of the hour."
Sirius didn't quite meet his eye—but this news was so stunning to Regulus that he hardly noticed.
"I don't—" He swallowed. "I don't think nicking the paperwork is how he wants us to get the necklace back."
"Oh ye of little faith." Sirius smiled. "You know this family better than that. Results first, ask questions later."
Regulus snorted and shook his head. Sirius's quill hovered over the parchment—he started doodling great circles on the margins, but he was still looking in his brother's direction. For one of the first times in his life, Regulus was conscious of the fact that Sirius was waiting for him to speak.
"That—would have been a nice gift," he said, quietly.
"Yeah—it would've been. And I figure it's the very least I can do." He slouched back down on the sofa. "It was—also meant to be an apology."
"For what?"
He turned over onto his side and propped his chin on his hand.
"It might be quicker if you just start listing things you think I ought to be sorry for. I can nod."
"Sirius—"
"For being a shite brother," Sirius said, heavily. "For leaving you to get picked up by a bunch of crazed, blood purist fanatics bent on remaking the world in their own twisted image."
Regulus recoiled and looked down at the hideous carpet. Sirius didn't say anything else, but he could hear him breathing—a little too hard.
"That…wasn't your fault."
"Yes, it was."
"It—probably would have happened even it you'd been around."
"No, it wouldn't've," his brother said, more firmly. "Because the second I got wind of it I'd have given you a black eye, locked you in your room and told Mum."
"You know she wasn't all that opposed to the idea, at the time."
Uncertainty flashed across his face. Funny, for all the cynical affect Sirius gave off—in so many ways he was still an idealist, even naive.
After everything that had happened, his brother had still held onto his innocence. Regulus didn't feel like he'd ever had any to begin with, at this point.
"Suppose that's true," Sirius admitted, reluctantly. "Did you ever think of telling them?"
"Dozens of times."
"But you didn't." Sirius frowned. "Why not?"
Regulus clenched his teeth. His brother's straightforwardness could take time adjusting to—a clear question following from the last, with no ulterior motive—just wanting the facts. Exhausting—and yet he had missed it.
Had missed him.
"If they had ever asked me directly," he confessed. "I would have told them everything."
Sirius's eyes narrowed, and he knew, without it being said, that his brother didn't quite believe him. Perhaps, in the end, it wasn't the whole truth—or maybe Regulus just knew that his mother and father never would have asked, and so he didn't have to wrestle with the dilemma that moment would have presented.
Maybe Sirius couldn't imagine a Death Eater being motivated by the same thing as a member of the Order of the Phoenix.
"What do you think they're doing right now?"
Regulus looked at the clock. Just gone nine.
"Trifle's done. I imagine they're midway through presents."
Sirius laughed to himself and and fell back on the sofa.
"I never thought I'd say this—" He grinned up at the ceiling. "But I wish I was there, if only to see their faces when they open them."
Regulus rolled his eyes—he had almost forgotten the presents. Sirius never could resist pushing. Even now Regulus had a kind of grudging respect for his daring.
"Aren't you worried about him making you pay if anyone in the family's suspicious?"
His brother shrugged.
"Not really. At the end of the day it's all his money. He very kindly pointed that out when we had our grand tête-à-tête." Sirius stared up at the ceiling—his voice far away. "Hard to stand on principle when you're being bankrolled by ill-got family fortune."
Regulus said nothing—but Sirius didn't seem to be expecting him to.
"I suppose I could…get a job, or something."
They both thought about this for a long moment.
"But—who would hire you?" Regulus asked, at last. "And to do what?"
Laughing, Sirius threw an empty takeaway box at Regulus's head.
"Shut up, Reg! As if you're any less useless."
Reg ducked, his laughter mingling with his elder brother's.
"Are you sorry to be missing it?" Sirius asked, when his laughter had subsided. "Do you—wish you were there now?"
Regulus wrinkled his nose.
"Not really. I never liked the party any more than you did." His lip twitched at the corner. "Just better at hiding it."
"You're better at hiding more than just that." Sirius reached into his pocket and pulled out a flask of amber liquid. Before Regulus could protest, Sirius had poured them both generous servings and was shoving one of the glasses towards his brother in a way that brooked no arguments.
"Cheers."
They both drank. The liquor burned Regulus's throat—but once the shock wore off, warmth spread over him like a blanket being pulled up to the ears—the mellow drowsiness that comes before falling asleep.
He was floating out of himself, that thought had no power over him. They each sat with their drinks for a long while, taking occasional sips. It was comfortable, almost cosy. A brief respite, a moment of life where he was a normal person once more.
Like life before the cave.
"I cannot believe Colette's stuck there tonight." Sirius stared moodily into his drink. "I wonder if she's pulling a Christmas cracker with Granny right now."
He tapped the bottom of his glass—a nervous fidget.
"It's depressing. I don't know what Cissy's thinking. Who would subject somebody they consider a friend to our family's annual Christmas party?"
Regulus watched him for a long moment, debating whether to voice his thoughts aloud. He stared down at whatever it was Sirius had given him. The glass was half-empty, now. It was now or never.
"You…actually like her, don't you?"
Sirius was so taken aback by the question it didn't even occur to him to deny it. He lolled his foot over the side of the sofa and muttered that he didn't know what Reggie was talking about.
"It's just—I thought it was all about getting one over on Mother."
His brother knocked back the rest of his drink and propped himself back up on his elbows. His face was defiant.
"I wouldn't jerk a girl around for days just to piss off Mum." Regulus believed him. His brother was capable of many things, but that level of malice—directed towards someone so innocent—wasn't in his nature. "And I don't bother with people who aren't interesting."
"I'm surprised."
Regulus made a point to imbue the statement with just enough mild incredulity to provoke Sirius.
"About what?"
"Colette Battancourt just doesn't strike me as—"
"—As what?" Sirius snapped, defensively.
"As the sort of girl you'd find interesting," Regulus said, flatly. "She's Cissy's friend, after all—she seems very proper, to me. Quite demure. You were the one who always said girls like that were boring."
An emotion Regulus didn't think he'd ever seen on his brother's face crossed it now. It reminded him of certain expressions their father was want to make in their mother's direction, when he was sure she wasn't looking.
A sort of vulnerability that was distinctly un-Black-like.
"Trust me, Reg," Sirius smiled secretly at the ceiling. "There's more to her than meets the eye."
He was too busy humming to himself to notice the penetrating—if slightly tipsy—look that Regulus gave him over the edge of his glass.
"Like what?"
It didn't take much pressing to get Sirius to elaborate on Miss Battancourt's hidden qualities—just as Regulus had expected. Once he got him going Sirius couldn't stop himself. His brother explained, in halting, slightly incoherent and rambling sentences, all about Colette Battancourt—how she was cleverer than people realized because she was quiet in company, but her quietness made her unassuming and very canny. That she actually did talk, when given the opportunity—and she was funny—"But not in an obvious way, you know?" He called her a French Evelyn Waugh, whoever that was.
He waxed rhapsodic on her open mind, and how much he was enjoying bringing her around to his point of view—that this might've been construed as patronizing did not occur to Sirius, so caught up was he in the prospect.
Regulus nodded and murmured the right words to keep his brother talking, never taking his eyes off Sirius's face. How laughably easy he was to understand—at least for someone who knew what to look for. As often as Sirius drove him mad, compared to the rest of their family there was something so bracing about his lack of natural artifice..
Sirius was as direct as a slap of sea water to the face.
It made him easy to love.
Easier than me.
"So—" Regulus cut into Sirius relaying a painfully inane conversation he and Miss Battancourt had had about Renaissance painters at the V&A. "—Have you kissed her, yet?"
Sirius choked on his drink.
Regulus unsteadily pointed his glass in the direction of the sofa.
"You haven't!" He hiccuped, gleefully. "Why?"
His brother turned his face away, evasively.
"You don't just go—" He waved his hand around. "—Snogging everyone in sight, Reg!"
Regulus raised an eyebrow—a passing impression of both their parents.
"You do."
In their school days his brother had been connected, in some gossipy fashion, with the prettiest girls from every house, bar Slytherin. He knew for a fact that Sirius was not opposed to 'snogging', as he had once witnessed a revolting display after a Quidditch match involving his brother and Sarah Bryant he wished someone would obliviate from his memory.
"It's not like that. We're just—friends."
"So you're saying she doesn't want to kiss you."
Sirius looked so offended that it was all Regulus could do to keep himself from laughing. He had not expected this prudery…but then again, how often had Sirius exaggerated things when they were children?
"That's not what I'm—" Sirius exclaimed, hotly. "It's just—well, she'll be going back to France by the end of the year anyway, so—what would be the point of getting anything like that started?"
"I thought one-nighters were all you did." The blush creeped onto Sirius's face. "Love them and leave them, isn't that your motto?"
His brother looked properly ashamed of having ever said such a thing in earshot of Regulus. The flushed complexion was now accompanied by a telling, awkward scratch on the back of his head. Sirius had always been fidgety when nervous.
"I don't think of her that way." He sounded unusually serious. "I mean, I don't want to muddy things between us."
"What's muddy?" Regulus tossed his book aside. "She's probably confused as to why you haven't kissed her yet. And a bit put-out."
"She's not looking for a snog."
Regulus leveled him with a look of deepest skepticism.
"Why else would she be hanging around?" He tucked his hands behind his head. "It's not like you've got a winning personality."
Sirius sat up and tossed a cushion at Regulus, who ducked.
"First of all, runt, plenty of people like my personality—second of all, our relationship is nothing like that, so you can get your mind out of the gutter." He lay back down on the sofa—expression softened. "She's not the kind of witch you…have a fling with."
It probably the right time to stop teasing him, Regulus thought. Rare were the moments when his elder brother's strong front gave way, and he had learned to trust his instincts—they were important moments.
Moments of trust between them.
The morning after the night this all started had been such a moment.
"What kind is she?"
Sirius shifted over onto his side and frowned—thinking carefully about his answer.
"I haven't figured it out yet. She's the kind you—I don't know, talk to." He smiled. "The kind you save from loveless arranged marriages. She's a good listener, anyway."
He picked up a paperweight from the table and began to throw it up and down in the air. For once, Sirius didn't seem to have registered the serpent that was carved on the object.
"What do you talk about?"
"You know—life. I can't tell you what it means to have somebody who actually listens to me—doesn't just hear it, actually sees things from my perspective."
"What, you don't get that from your Gryffindor pals?"
Sirius thought about it for a long time.
"They try, but—" The ivory paperweight hit his palm with a loud thwap. "I mean, they—couldn't understand, really, even if they wanted to."
Sirius exhaled, slowly. It seemed to be a relief to have said it out loud—to have admitted it.
"It's—you know, she gets it."
His voice grew more animated and excited—and more emotional, as well, as if this were all some well of feeling that he'd been bottling up for a lifetime, and it was Miss Battancourt—small, unassuming, gentle and bookish—who had punctured the cork.
"She's the first person I've ever met who knows what it's like to—"
He stopped short, not quite meeting Regulus's eyes.
"To what?"
His brother hesitated.
"Feel as if you don't fit into your own family."
These words from his brother—so quiet, as if saying them aloud was admitting something shameful—sounded as though they had been forcibly wrenched from Sirius.
"And the thing is, Regulus—I think—she really needs me. It's a nice change, being needed."
"People have always needed you."
Sirius shifted uncomfortably under his brother's gaze. He really was a clueless prat, sometimes. Did he not realize?
Maybe, in the end, he didn't.
"Hopefully by the time she leaves I will have convinced her to go her own way." His face took on a dreamy quality. "She deserves that chance."
"A chance at what?"
"A life of her own choosing." He sighed. "That could end up being the one thing I do right this whole Christmas."
These confessions had taken their toll on Sirius, and the room fell into silence again. Regulus watched his brother closely. He practically exuded glumness. What a tedious state of affairs Sirius depressed could be.
"You know…" Regulus stood up. "Pollux always brings his dogs to the Christmas party."
"What does granddad's pack of prize bloodhounds have to do with—"
"—I'm sure no one would look twice at you."
Realization sank in quickly, and Sirius sat up straight.
"What the hell are you on about?"
"—And I'm sure," Regulus continued, flatly ignoring his brother's look of bewildered indignation. "They're all still over there at Potter's house. Potter's probably moping about like a twat, hoping you'll show up."
His brother swore again. Sirius could occasionally be thick—but he was not that stupid.
"Are you out of your mind?"
"You were all about 'saving her' a minute ago. Didn't you just say you couldn't imagine anyone willingly subjecting a person to such a fate?" Regulus grinned broadly down at his brother. "I think that's your marching orders—spiriting Colette Battancourt away from the family Christmas party and taking her to meet your thick friends."
"I'm not doing—any of that." Sirius stood up and began to pace about the room. "I'm staying right here with you, which is my job."
"Are you sure you're my brother?"
Sirius spun on his heel.
"Are you sure you're mine?" he exclaimed, indignantly. "God, I can't go in there as a dog. What if Dad sees me? He'll put a lead on me again."
"I'm sure you have some other idea of how to get her out," Regulus said. "You wouldn't be you if you hadn't at least thought about it."
A telling look flashed across his brother's face. So he had thought about it.
"It's not right to leave you here alone. It's not fair," Sirius said, helplessly. "Not to mention dangerous."
"He's not even in the country, and it's Christmas Eve. They aren't going to come tonight." Besides—" He raised one wry eyebrow. "Not exactly sure what you're supposed to do if they show up."
Sirius pursed his lips.
"Your faith in me is stirring."
"Go make up with Potter. I want you to."
He flopped back down on the sofa.
"Yeah, right. You hate James."
Regulus blinked up at him—impassively. He managed not to sneer, at least.
"You don't." He shrugged. "And that's what matters, isn't it?"
"Reg…"
He was running out of excuses. Regulus savored the helplessness of his brother. It was a mode he could get used to.
"I'll be fine. Besides, why would I want to spend Christmas Eve with some idiot who is too scared to kiss a girl he's taken out four times?"
Sirius reached over the coffee table and tweaked his brother's ear.
"Three times. I don't know if you can count me sneaking into the ladies' at the Orpheum to apologize as a 'date.'" He stood up, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Reg…it's my job to look after for you."
"I'm old enough to look after myself."
Sirius's smile turned sad.
"I suppose you are, aren't you?" He patted him on the shoulder and ruffled his hair. "Look…if anything happens—"
"—I'll call Kreacher and order him to fetch you."
Sirius pulled a face—the same face he'd been pulling for as long as Regulus could remember.
"Let's not go that far."
Reluctantly, he let go of Regulus's arm.
Sirius slowly walked over the peg—hands trembling, he grabbed his jacket and slipped it on. With each movement Regulus could see his brother's excitement grow. It was something as familiar to him as their school days in the nursery—and as welcome.
It was only when he'd made it to the door that Sirius stopped and turned around—and looked at him.
He was waiting for something—waiting for him to speak—but Regulus didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to accept an apology he'd never thought he had the right to ask for in the first place. When he was the one who should be apologizing.
Some things couldn't be put into words.
He could only hope that Sirius understood without them.
Well—one couldn't fault the Blacks for their hospitality or the splendor of their home.
Though—Martin thought, gazing around the dining room, where a few haughty, septuagenarian witches (they must have been family) lingered over dessert—he could have done with fewer serpent decorations.
But he had been reliably informed this was de rigueur for the family and he ought not question it.
The clark peered around the door, wondering idly where his superior had got to. Mr. Burke had brought him to Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place on the pretense of another 'field test'—though Martin privately thought his employer simply didn't understand how to say, 'thank you for all your hard work, enjoy a night off' and this was some facsimile of that general sentiment.
What Burke didn't know was that he did have work to do tonight. A job—however small—was not something he took lightly, and it was the real reason he'd accepted the oh-so gracious invitation to join his boss at this Christmas Eve soirée.
Hopefully it would be worth his while.
He wandered out of the dining room and into the front parlor. A group of middle-aged wizards huddled beneath the silver-and-green trimmed Christmas tree—he tried and failed to catch the eye of the one nearest him. Everyone had been looking at him like a piece of particularly unattractive furniture all evening.
Sirius had warned him that this was how it would be.
How out-of-sorts his would-be client had been that afternoon, when they'd met—Sirius had barely registered a word of what Martin had told him. Considering the enthusiasm and spirit with which young Black had commissioned the task, the perfunctory remarks he'd got today when presenting his progress had seemed a bizarre about-face.
Truthfully, Sirius's heart did not seem to be in it, anymore.
Not that Martin blamed him for giving it up. Without his father's cooperation, breaking the entail was an almost insurmountable obstacle. The enchantments the Blacks trafficked in were old blood magic—ancient and immutable, but what Sirius failed to grasp was how much power he had in the situation.
It was a contract—and like any contract, required the consent of both parties.
For someone so young, the Black heir had a remarkably fatalistic outlook on his station in life. Martin wondered where that tendency came from—
A hard shove to the stomach knocked him into the wall.
Bletchley bowled over and grasped at the nearest object—a hatstand—and used it to steady himself, knocking a silver vase to the floor in the process. It rolled over to the the drab wizards across the hallway. Martin looked around—but there was no one there.
"You—wouldn't have happened to see who tripped me…?"
They stared—a boring piece of furniture that had come to life and was asking inane questions. Bletchley winced and stammered out an apology, shoved the vase back on its stand and ducked into the nearest open door.
A phantom shove. Martin rubbed his stomach, gingerly—then a memory came back to him, and he thrust his hands into his pockets and began rifling around.
His grandfather had once vividly described the experience of getting pick-pocketed in Rome—Martin rooted around, fully expecting his meager coin purse to have vanished.
But instead of the pilfered pittance—he found a strip of parchment wrapped around a single gold galleon. Bletchley pulled it out, surprised.
He unfurled the note and read it twice, then carefully tossed it into the nearest fireplace. Martin made sure to watch it burn before walking away.
Whatever Mr. Burke thought of him—he was learning.
The room was filled with virtually all the same people that had been there the night of Arcturus Black's birthday party—but there wasn't a single one of their number Colette thought of in the same way. Then they'd all been characters in a story to her, not flesh and blood beings.
She wasn't sure she wanted to be in this story anymore.
In the space of less than a week, there was not one of her deepest held beliefs of what life ought to be—of what the world was—that hadn't been turned upside-down. It reminded her of the story of Pandora's Box.
The whole day had been spent in a sort of daze. Assisting Mrs. Black with the Christmas Eve preparations had managed to take her mind off things, at least for a little while, though she couldn't help noticing how standoffish her patroness had become. Perhaps, Colette thought, bleakly, the matron had changed her mind about her suitability for the position she had been so eager for Colette to fill only days earlier.
If only she could speak to him, and be sure he was telling the truth—
"Lost in your thoughts, Miss Battancourt?"
The French girl started, comically—Bletchley reached out to steady her. He'd found her in a forgotten corner of the second-floor hall in a sort of daze. That dreamy look on her face was rather becoming, though.
She was apparently a girl of an artistic bent.
"I hope I didn't startle you."
The witch stammered out an apology that he waved off. Of all the people Martin had been introduced to this evening, she was by far the one who seemed least offended at having been forced to talk to him.
"It's nothing. There's something I needed to tell—"
Colette clapped her hands together.
"But—Monsieur Bletchley! You are precisely the person I wish to see." She looked up at him with the sort of electric enthusiasm of which Martin was not used to being on the receiving end. "You're—a man of the world. Your father is a diplomat."
The lawyer, not used to being an object of interest or respect to anyone, let alone an attractive and highborn female, goggled at her.
"He's the attaché to a diplomat," Martin corrected her. "That's not the same—"
"But you know things!" Colette interrupted, impatiently. "Things that no one has bothered to tell me. Things I want to know about."
Bletchley blinked—caught off-guard at this unexpected vehemence.
"I—can't imagine what you mean."
"Do you know—" Colette lowered her voice to a whisper. "—About the Death Eaters?"
Bletchley went pale under his spots.
"Good God, why are you asking about them?" He looked around, furtively—but as usual no one was paying attention. "That's no subject for a Christmas party, mademoiselle."
The girl's eyes widened—a pair of bright blue saucers.
"So you do know."
He sighed and lowered his voice.
"I know about as much as anyone—which is to say, not very much." Bletchley hesitated. "It's what the followers of—You-Know-Who call themselves."
"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? The Dark Lord?" He nodded—this much she had clearly figured out for herself already. "But who are they, exactly?"
Bletchley let out a rueful, cynical laugh.
"That's the thing—nobody knows for sure, do they? They all wear masks to shield their identities, and no one has been caught—at least no one they can prove wasn't bewitched. It's why everyone is so frightened in this country right now. They don't know who they can trust. Surely you must've noticed, since you've been here?"
She swallowed, suddenly uncomfortable. In the distance the crowing laugh of Irma Crabbe Black cut through the silence. It was quickly smothered by the bark of her husband.
"So then…" She seemed to be doing some hard thinking. "Anyone could be one of these—these Death Eaters?"
"Theoretically. There are some you could probably rule out." He shifted his weight, uncomfortable with the turn in conversation. "That is—some wizards are more…likely than others."
"Which are more likely?"
Martin wished very dearly that he had not indulged her curiosity up until this point, for now she had pressed him into the literal and figurative corner.
And he was not a good liar, as he kept trying to remind Mr. Burke—that shouldn't have been part of the job description.
"The blood purists," he said, at last. "Though it won't be only them. You-Know-Who has…ways of making people do what he wants."
She nodded—murmured words in French he could barely make out. Martin fidgeted awkwardly—checked his watch, cleared his throat.
"But that's neither here nor there, Miss Battancourt—"
"—What about the Order of the Phoenix?"
Martin frowned, puzzled. The name meant nothing to him—well, it had a vague ring, something his father may have mentioned. With everything Burke had put on his plate, he didn't have the time or energy to pay attention to anything else.
"Well, I—can't say I do." Her face fell—and so Martin gave her a cheer-up smile. "But there is someone waiting for you on the top landing of this house who might."
She tilted her head, confused.
"Who?"
"From what I understand, that is one question you don't need me to answer."
Colette Battancourt's face reddened—but at the same time, her eyes brightened with a girlish excitement that made Martin quite envious of the young Master Black.
It must be nice to be rich and good-looking.
"I'm sorry, Monsieur Bletchley, I didn't realize we had a—"
"—Mutual acquaintance?" Martin finished for her, dryly. "He's my, erm—client, strictly speaking. That is, I'm doing some pro-bono legal work for him, and when we met this afternoon, he asked me to pass on his regrets about not being able to see you this evening."
"Then what—"
Martin jabbed a thumb towards the ceiling.
"Something changed between then and now."
Miss Battancourt took all this in without emotion—without even showing surprise. Given what Martin knew about Sirius Black, he could well imagine that this was not the first time his young employer had pulled such a stunt.
The girl leaped onto her tip-toes and planted a kiss on Martin's cheek.
"Oh—thank you, Monsieur Bletchley! You are—tres bien!"
She rushed away and up the stairs without another word, leaving him with the odd sensation of having had a conversation with a princess from a fairy story.
Bemused, Martin wandered back over to the drawing room, where he found Burke, speaking in a low voice in the corner to an unassuming wizard in spectacles.
His employer turned when Martin tapped his shoulder with one slightly sweaty hand.
"Ah. Bletchley. Enjoying yourself?" Burke drawled, in what might've passed for an affectionate tone—at least for him. Evidently the red currant wine was having its effect. "I hope this outing has proved…instructive for you."
The other man examined Martin with mild curiosity. He had clever eyes and a receding hairline, which gave him the distinguished look of an academic. Under that gaze Bletchley felt akin to a zoological specimen.
"In a—manner of speaking, sir." He gave the other man a sideways look. "I wonder if you might—"
"Let me assure you, young man—whatever secrets Burke must needs know, you may say in front of me." He had a reedy voice to match his owlish eyes. "I won't tell them to anyone, especially not our host—in fact, I probably won't remember them five seconds after you're gone."
Bletchley smiled at this joke—but got no smile in return.
"I'm—sorry, sir, I don't believe I've had the pleasure." The sly wizard did not supply the deficit by giving Martin a name. "What is—your connection to our host?"
"Ignatius Prewett."
Mrs. Prewett appeared at the doorway—her eyes fell on the bespectacled man.
"You are beastly." She marched into the room, looking cross. "The one party you bother to come to, and you throw me to that vulture without any conscience at all."
Her husband sipped his drink, placidly.
"You seemed to have 'that vulture' well in hand at dinner." He smiled. "By the way, is that a polite phrase to use in connection with your father?"
"I think you are the least gallant man I think I've ever met."
"Gallantry was not what you married me for."
She asked him to remind her what exactly she had married him for, to which Mr. Prewett replied he could not recall, at present.
It was only after Mrs. Prewett had steered her husband out of the room and they were well out of earshot that Martin spoke again.
"I was wondering, sir, if you might tell me—what exactly the 'Order of the Phoenix' is?"
Martin knew he'd made a grave error almost immediately. That was the nice thing about Burke—you always knew where you stood with him, even if it was usually not a place one would like to be.
Burke lowered his drinking goblet with a glacial slowness that filled his apprentice with dread.
"Who asked you about that?"
"Erm—Miss Battancourt, just now."
Burke closed his eyes and massaged his forehead, wearily.
"Every time I think you've become a credit to me, Bletchley—" His eyes snapped open. "—You remind me of your supreme ignorance."
"I'm sorry, sir," Martin stammered. "I didn't—"
"I expect you in the office tomorrow," Burke cut him off, briskly. "Bright and early. If you're as ignorant as that you are clearly in need of instruction."
"But, sir—it's Christmas Day."
"Christmas Day doesn't apply to idiots."
Bletchley gave him a look bordering on petulant.
"It does in my family," he muttered.
Mr. Burke pretended not to have heard him.
Two sentiments were at war in Colette—her determination to get the truth out of Sirius, once and for all—and the depth of warm feeling she felt at knowing he had come for her.
She wrapped herself in her cloak, hastily shoved a comb and her diary—for she always had to have her diary with her—into her reticule, and scampered out the door of her bedroom, shutting it behind her with a snap.
She looked up the staircase. Colette was not going to let him off the hook this time. She would get answers.
She had got answers last night—and those answers had preoccupied her all day, had, as usual, left her with more questions—and suspicions.
Colette's suspicions frightened her.
She rounded the last corner before reaching the top of the house. Almost there—
"Leaving, are you?"
Colette froze, her foot on the top step. Very slowly she turned her head back around.
Mr. Black stood on the landing below. In his hand he clutched the hastily scrawled note she had left on Narcissa's pillow.
He was not smiling.
"And without saying goodbye." Orion waved the note. "—That is hardly good manners."
Mr. Black watched her process down the stairs with the heaviness of step characteristic of a funeral procession. It was the first time she'd been alone with him since that breakfast they had shared—what felt like a lifetime ago. He wore handsome, forest-green dress robes—and lurking just beneath his forbidding expression was something else, barely concealed.
She craned her neck and spied the open study door a floor below. So that was where he'd been hiding—
Had he been waiting for her?
"If you had really been summoned by your mysteriously ill great-aunt," he remarked, looking up from the note he'd been perusing. "You would probably be making your way to the kitchen fireplace—not the roof."
Colette felt the redness creeping onto her face.
"I—don't—" She grasped around for an excuse but came up short. "I just—left something upstairs."
He narrowed his eyes.
"Don't you mean 'someone'?"
The Black patriarch folded her note and neatly stuck it in his pocket, apparently unaware of her great alarm.
"Monsieur Black, I can explain—"
"Mrs. Black didn't put you up to this, did she?"
Colette blinked, confused.
She slowly shook her head from side-to-side. Through the dim light of the hall Orion Black's eyes gleamed, and then he stepped forward and under one of the gas lamps, and she saw his face more clearly.
"Then you—are doing this of your own volition."
Colette nodded.
Orion Black studied her for a long moment—searching for something, Colette didn't know what. She wasn't frightened by his look. He had lost his ability to intimidate her—the emotion had been replaced by other, deeper wells of feeling.
Like his son, he was easy to care for, once you understood him. Orion Black let out a long suffering sigh and shook his head. Despairing of her, clearly—but he wasn't angry.
"And you seemed like such a sensible girl when we met."
Colette could recognize a smile when she saw it—however rueful
"I am a sensible girl," she replied, dimple peaking out. "That is—most of the time."
Just not where his son was concerned. Mr. Black let out a small but distinct huff.
"I distinctly remember telling you that imbecile only brings misery wherever he goes," Orion said, voice deadpan. "And that you should forget him."
"Were you able to forget him?"
To this bold challenge, Mr. Black could not muster a comeback. He rubbed his temples wearily—in the distance was the low sound of party guests. He glanced behind him, then back up at her.
His face was one of resigned and grudging amusement.
"Mind you don't keep the boy out too late," he said, finally. "He has a long day ahead of him tomorrow."
Colette's face broke into a wide smile.
"I won't."
"I hope you do turn out to be more sensible than you appear at present, Miss Battancourt," Orion said, disapprovingly. "I'm afraid you'll need it."
No sooner had the words escaped his lips then she was already halfway up the stairwell again.
It was probably because he was not expecting any company that Orion's son hadn't noticed his father, standing in the doorway between the kitchen and sitting room. He looked so peaceful and at ease, Mr. Black almost didn't want to interrupt him. So instead he enjoyed that rarest of gifts: a moment to study his son, without his son realizing.
The boy furrowed his brow and nibbled the end of his quill with gusto. Orion smiled—Regulus had always been a studious boy, and that was a nervous habit that always denoted his supreme and singular focus on the task at hand. Slow and steady and reliable—you could depend on Regulus to do what he was told, whether he was being supervised or not.
For many years Orion had taken this as evidence of his son's obedience, of him taking the lessons to heart that Sirius seemed to reject out of spite. Now he realized that was just Regulus's way. He was quiet by nature—he liked to be on his own, was patient and observant. You could leave him alone for hours and come back and find him just where he was before.
Until one night when you didn't.
Mr. Black cleared his throat.
"I had a feeling—" He knocked on the door frame. "You might be in need of some company."
Regulus jumped and looked up from the old book of family papers—one of the many that Orion had foisted on his pair of sons a week earlier.
"Father!" His eyes darted around the room, as if he had only just now noticed that Sirius wasn't there. "I can—Sirius is—"
"—Having a splendid time, no doubt," Orion finished for him, dryly. "Thanks in no small part to you giving him your blessing."
Orion hesitated at the door—unsure of himself in a way he never had been with his youngest.
"How did you know?"
"I—happened to run into Miss Battancourt on the stairwell leading to the roof and I—gleaned the rest."
A flicker of guilt crossed Regulus's face—and it was that that propelled his father into the room. He held up the parcel he'd had the elf wrap for him.
"What's that?"
Orion's eyes flicked to the empty takeaway boxes that littered the floor.
"Something edible."
Regulus took the parcel of food and thanked his father, quietly. He had not stood up from the sofa—but his father had not sat down across from him, either.
He unwrapped the plate of food and stared down at the pile of peas, roast beef and potatoes.
"Has something happened?" Regulus asked, his brown eyes creased with worry at the corners. "At the party?"
He was asking why Orion was there—though not in those words. Mr. Black sank down into the armchair across from his son.
"Nothing besides your aunt giving your grandfather the run-around, and that's not new. She's been doing it since she married."
"Why are the two of them like that?"
Orion laughed.
"He's never quite got used to the idea of her not being at his disposal whenever he pleases." He settled into the chair. "He took her for granted—and then she was gone."
"Perhaps Grandfather could do a better job showing Lucretia he cares."
Orion raised an eyebrow. His son, who so rarely leveled a criticism at anyone in the family, did not blush or flinch.
"You're right, of course," he said, slowly. "But that's not something people in this family are very good at doing."
His son was staring down at his potatoes as if they were the most interesting thing in the world.
"You know, it's funny—" Orion continued, unperturbed. "I doubt the thought that she's Papa's favorite child has ever once crossed her mind—but there's not a day that goes by I don't think of it. I've always envied her."
Regulus looked up from his plate of food.
"Really?"
"Oh, yes. Not that she appreciates it—or believes she has anything I should want." He rolled his eyes. "She could at least be grateful to me."
"For what?"
He considered his son, for a moment—thought carefully before speaking.
"It's a lot easier to get away with being a troublesome eldest in this family when you have a dutiful younger brother." He tilted his head. "But it's hardly fair."
Regulus lowered his fork.
"Life isn't fair."
"No, it isn't. But injustice bears pointing out from time to time. Even your brother would agree with me on that score."
"If on nothing else," Regulus said, softly. "Why are you here, Father?"
Ah. Direct and to the point, at last.
"I thought you and I were overdue for a talk. Just the two of us."
He peaked up through his fringe. It had grown out, a curtain to hide his face. Orion made a mental note to tell Walburga, secure in the knowledge that she would immediately see to its trimming, and there would be one fewer way for his son to hide from him.
"Is that why you let Sirius get away with going?"
"Partly. You know I would have let your brother go to that party willingly, if he'd only asked."
"He was too proud."
"You're wise—and a good brother." Orion smiled, faintly. "And so is Sirius, in his own way."
Regulus picked at a roast potato.
"He is not afraid to speak his mind—occasionally on your behalf. I'm sure you know he and I had an argument the other day." The fork in Regulus's hand drooped. "He told me something about you, which I must confess, never even occurred to me."
Mr. Black stood up from the chair and moved to the sofa, sitting down next to his son. At the feeling of the weight of his father sinking into the plush of Sirius's battered sofa, Regulus's whole body tensed—like a man stealing himself for a blow.
"He told me," Orion continued, voice growing heavier with each word. "That you think the reason I didn't change my will when he ran away is because I lack confidence in you."
Regulus's breathing grew shallow.
"It's true, isn't it?"
He had never heard accusation in his younger son's voice—he would have liked to, now, when he so thoroughly deserved it.
Orion touched the boy's shoulder, and Regulus looked up at him. His brown eyes were filled with tears.
"It has nothing to do with confidence," he said, with feeling. "If I thought being my heir was what you really wanted, I would change my will tomorrow."
"Then why—"
"—I know it would not make you truly happy."
"How can you be sure?"
He sounded so small, so innocent—younger than his years, for once not the world-weary stranger that he had pretended not to notice was living in his house these latter years.
His son—just a boy.
"Because it has not made me happy," Orion said, gently. "And you and I, I am reliably informed, are very much alike."
Regulus gave him a watery smile—his face flushed with a pleasure that his father recognized from the boy's earliest days.
"Are you flattered by this comparison?" Orion smiled, wryly. "I think you ought to be insulted."
His expression fell again.
"You are far and away the better man," Mr. Black said, heavily. "At eighteen you've done things I couldn't imagine doing at fifty."
"Like what?"
Mr. Black laughed—a gentle laugh.
"Openly defying your father, for a start."
He pulled out of his pocket a large stack of letters, neatly tied together. Regulus recognized his own fastidious hand—the words 'Uncle Albus' tidily written in black ink on each one.
Orion's son took the pile of his correspondence with Albus Dumbledore—the living proof of his insubordination, in black and white—and set it down on his lap. He sat, patiently, and Orion realized that he was waiting to be chastised.
But the boy's expectations were not met, and he realized it was he who must speak first.
"I'm sorry, Father. I never meant to put us all in this position—if I had known—"
"You—are remarkable," Mr. Black interrupted, amused. "Your brother will do nothing but accuse me, and you will do nothing but give me excuses."
Regulus shook his head, looking younger than ever.
"Sirius doesn't mean the things he says."
"Perhaps." He looked out the window. A bleak midwinter sky stared back. "But that doesn't mean he's wrong."
Regulus opened his mouth, as if to argue—so rare for him—but then he thought better of it. Orion found himself disappointed. He had wanted Regulus to defend him. The same part of him that knew his sons would never again see him as a stalwart symbol of manhood longed for it, for that time of innocence to return.
"'The waning moon draws nigh."
The boy's shoulders seized up, just as Mr. Black had expected them to. He'd looked at that memory so many times he knew it off by heart.
"'Blood moon," Orion continued, softly. "Where blood does lie. Let moon eclipse the sun—'"
"'—or die.'" Regulus finished for him, voice hushed. "Where did you hear that?"
His voice was tight and alarmed, nothing of the soft boy left. He was sharp and alert—and made his father feel like the one not in control.
"It's something Rabastan Lestrange said in that card game the night of your grandfather's birthday. Very odd, for him to tell a riddle, in that moment—very odd indeed. Given the very tense conversation I'd just had with your brother, I surmised that this was the message he was so eager to intercept he nearly ran headlong into the trap that had been set for him."
Orion paused, then—whether it was for effect or some other hesitation within him, he didn't know.
"Dumbledore seemed to think it was meant for you." Regulus swallowed. "Was he right?"
A small jerk of the head.
"Why couldn't Rabastan just tell you directly?"
"He didn't know it was for me—" Regulus hesitated. "—And he doesn't know what it means."
"But you do."
A wall of silence rose up between them. Orion wondered how it had come this, that he had to lay siege to the impenetrable fortress of his son's heart.
"I'm only asking on behalf of myself, Regulus. You have nothing to fear from me."
Regulus's lip trembled, and he realized, like a bolt to the heart—that his son believed him. He saw in his eyes, for the first time since the boy had been laid in his arms, a sense of understanding and acceptance.
They were alike in ways even Lucretia did not understand.
"It means—I don't have much time."
"For what?"
"The—mission. He gave me one months ago, and if I don't complete it…"
A kind of obscene curiosity crept over Orion, the dour sensation of crossing a threshold—into some place dark and frightening that he could no longer ignore. That he could no longer hide from.
"He will kill you."
Regulus let out a humorless laugh—like a hiccup.
"If he ever finds out what I've done, he'll kill me anyway." The boy shrugged his shoulders, as if the question was of little consequence. "So it hardly matters."
"That is not true."
Regulus's brown eyes darted back to the floor—they were alight with terror. His father couldn't pretend it was fear of him, of a scolding or being sent to his room without supper. They were far beyond that.
"What did he order you to do?" Orion pressed, more insistently. "I'm not leaving until you tell me."
The boy let out a long sigh—then sucked his breath in, eyes still fastened on the floor, preparing himself to land the killing blow.
"Sirius is—proving a problem."
Orion's eyes fluttered with surprise—at something he had known for the whole of his life as a father, but to hear it here, now, was a shock to the system.
He hadn't been expecting it in this context.
"Back in October he told me—that is, he ordered me to—I was to go and convince my brother to…join with the cause."
Mr. Black's throat tightened. They knew this—Dumbledore himself had guessed it the night that all of this had begun—but he also knew there was more, for the look of fear and revulsion on his son's face was unmistakable.
"I was to—to put this mission as my top priority," Regulus continued, his voice shaking like a leaf. "To use any means I had—coercion, blackmail, threats—to bring him into the fold. I knew there was no point—I mean, anybody who really knew him would know it wouldn't work. But the Dark Lord thought that Sirius might be an avenue through which he could get James Potter on his side, as well."
For once Regulus spoke the name of Sirius's friend with no bitterness.
"I was to—use any means I could until I was certain there was no chance of success."
"And what were you to do then?"
Regulus looked up.
"Then—I was to…eliminate him."
Orion stared at his son for a very long time. Regulus's face was pale—almost as pale as his own—but the expression was not that of the cowed boy from the nursery, admitting some adolescent misdemeanor—always a cover for Sirius, always. Orion was looking at a man, a man that had seen the depths of the underworld and apparently found it not to his liking.
"It's a test of loyalty, you see."
He stood up. The urge to pace the room, like his study—the urge to do something, anything at all, to recover a sense of control. But he'd never been in control, had he?
No. Never.
He stared at the dusty corner of Sirius's sitting room, the one place where the muggle objects that his mother had not managed to dispose of in the previous fortnight remained. The ugly lamp was an eyesore that gave him something to focus on besides the blood drumming in his own ears.
"Kreacher was not the only reason you sought to destroy the Dark Lord's horcrux, is it?"
His son let out a bitter laugh.
"The Dark Lord cares for nothing and no one but himself."
Orion turned on his heel. His rage had been delayed, somewhat, by the shock that only pure revelation could bring—but this delay only strengthened the force of it.
"So I have gathered."
The anger that rose in his voice made the boy flinch. He regretted it, but before he could tell Regulus that this was not directed at him—that the anger was for himself alone, that he was the one who deserved it, and no one else—his son spoke.
"You know, it was from you that I first heard about the Dark Lord."
Mr. Black's shoulders slumped. Regulus sounded very far away, as if he were speaking to his father from inside one of those bottles that held ships.
Orion could think of nothing to say to that, and Regulus must have realized it, for he continued, his voice stronger.
"I remember it—so clearly. It was breakfast, autumn—Sirius had gone to school. Mother was out shopping, and you and I were alone in the dining room. Even Kreacher wasn't there, so we had a very poor breakfast—but I didn't care, because for once I had you completely to myself."
Mr. Black sat back down on the sofa very slowly, not taking his eyes off his son—not blinking, though Regulus hardly noticed. He was back in that time that stood out so vividly in his mind but that his father could not, for the life of him, recall.
"You were reading your paper—very intently, and there was an extra on the table, Mother's, I think—so I picked it up and tried to read it, as well. There were a lot of words I didn't understand, but as long as you saw that I was trying to read and approved—that was all I wanted."
Regulus smiled—but the gesture seemed to cause him physical pain.
"There was one story that had come out that day—about a riot at a Quidditch match in Wales, over some Muggleborn seeker—he got deliberately cobbed right in the middle of the pitch by four wizards in masks, no one knew who. Do you remember that? It was one of the first things he did. I remember you told me that it was the most important article in the paper that day, so I read it and re-read it…it's still tacked up above the headboard in my room."
He rubbed the back of his head—the admission had obviously cost him, for he could scarcely bear to look at his father now.
"You told me that this Dark Lord everyone was blaming for it—was a person to pay attention to, that I ought to remember him, and follow his career, for he was likely to be a person of political significance. You said it was about time someone had the courage to say aloud what we all knew—that finally, after years of muggle-born upstarts trying to rob us of our way of life, someone was taking up the cause. You said he had a vision—of the only way forward."
"That was the only thing I was right about."
Words—said so long ago, so carelessly, without a thought in the world of how they might be received—words that had probably been parroting his father. They stabbed him now, a dagger to the heart.
A vision—a nightmarish one, where one of his children was pitted against the other.
"Your brother told me you did this because thought it would please us," Orion said, with gentleness, and terrible sadness. "Is this what you thought we wanted for you? For our family?"
Regulus stared down at his lap—he was ashamed, and Orion was ashamed to see it.
"No…if I had known what would have happened—"
"Who got you into this?" Orion cut him off. "Was it Rodolphus Lestrange? Malfoy?"
He was casting about for something, for someone to channel his righteous anger at besides himself.
"It was Bellatrix."
Orion's fingers pressed so hard against his palm that it cut the skin.
"She was the one—she—" He swallowed, hard. "She said it was—the only way to restore the honor of the family, since Sirius had disgraced it. She said it was—it was all on my shoulders—that you would both be so proud, so glad that I had done it—"
The damn broke without warning, and Regulus was pouring out everything that he had holding back for the past year—the things that he had seen and the things that he had done, and everything of which he was ashamed. Orion found himself unequal to the task of responding, his stomach turned with nausea at the descriptions of what his boy, barely more than a child, had been asked to do.
His son was no more than a tool in the hands of these people.
Orion looked down at him—small and slight and shaking like a leaf—the brown eyes that were so like his grandmother's wet with tears. He did something then that he had not done for a very long time—if ever.
He pulled the boy into his arms.
At first Regulus stiffened, surprised at the intimacy of the gesture—then just as quickly he curled around his father's middle and buried his face in Orion's robes, shoulders wracked with sobs.
"It's alright," Orion murmured—warm tears fell on his breast. "You're safe. No one is going to find you. Nobody is going to hurt you. "
Not ever again.
The boys sobs abated, slowly—and when he had quieted, he stilled, reluctant to pull away.
"You should—get back to the party," Regulus sniffed. He had hidden his face in his father's cloak, like a little boy. It was a comfort to Orion that there was something—however small—left of the child.
"Why would I?"
Regulus looked up, startled. He gave the boy one of his patient, unflappable looks. It didn't disarm or unsettle Regulus, as it would have Sirius—it just perturbed him.
"You've been gone so long—and you're the host. Won't you be missed?"
"I doubt it."
"It's important." Regulus sounded cross. "The whole family is there. You're needed."
"The only place I'm needed—is here."
Regulus gave him a watery smile before burying his face in his father's cloak again.
As always, thoughts appreciated.