Black Mask

by Ieyre

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

31. Chapter 31

"The world isn't split into good people and Death Eaters," said Sirius with a wry smile.

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

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CHAPTER 31

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"Yes, yes—put the master's post there on the table. He'll be in shortly. You can go check in the kitchens to see if there's anything else to do tonight."

Mrs. Malfoy felt the tension in her head ease at the sound of the door being shut—the last of her servants, away, business for the night done.

Christmas was all but over.

She settled into the chair before her mirror. Narcissa removed each piece of jewelry with the care that she had learned at her mother's feet as a girl, along with all the other feminine arts attached to the position of 'lady.' There was little else Druella had thought worth teaching her daughters, apart from a few family spells. Of the three of them, only Narcissa had any actual interest, though Andromeda had at least pretended to care about what wives and witches of good breeding must do when they grew up and had households of their own to manage. The same could not be said for Bellatrix.

"If someone tries to give me a manor to manage, I'll just burn it down."

—Diamond earrings off first, then the matching necklace (to be polished by a servant tomorrow), the bracelet—

"I'm sure Daddy will put that you're allowed to in the marriage contract, if you ask him. Personally, I should prefer keeping the house clean to not having one at all."

"They'd let you be a charwoman, if that's what you like, Andi. It's certainly all you're fit for."

"How complimentary."

Narcissa snapped her jewelry case shut and pushed it across her dressing table.

In the end, given the life she'd chosen for herself—Andromeda needn't have bothered humoring their mother. Those early efforts to please Mummy now felt more like an insult than anything else.

She pulled the ruby-studded tiara off her head and set it on the velvet cushion next to her mirror, with all the other jewels that were to be put back in the Malfoy vault until the next occasion they were needed. It had belonged to Lucius's mother. She had died when her husband had just started school, and Narcissa had no memory of her.

Being the undisputed mistress of this house was more often than not a source of comfort to her—but she did sometimes wonder if Lucius missed her predecessor. Abraxas didn't seem to—but she'd been his second wife, of course, and everyone knew he'd only married her because his first, whom he'd adored, had not given him an heir.

Until her husband volunteered any maternal longings he might still cherish, she would keep wondering. Malfoys didn't speak about their feelings.

Neither did Blacks, for that matter.

The Christmas guests had all gone—save her sister and brother-in-law, and the friend who sat now on her bed watching her complete her bedroom toilette, occasionally giving monosyllabic replies to her comments, polite but distant. It had not been difficult to press Miss Battancourt to stay the night rather than returning to her aunt's drafty cottage—but her mind was definitely elsewhere.

"What could you have possibly had to say to that grubby little half-blood clerk?"

The fingers that had been fiddling with the greyhound pendent (how fine it looked on her wrist!) froze.

"Is he a half-blood?" Colette's voice sounded odd. "I didn't know."

"Of course he is." Narcissa wrinkled her nose in the mirror. "Have I ever mentioned to you any person in my acquaintance named Bletchley?"

Colette did not nod, or turn red, or any of the other deferential gestures that Narcissa had grown used to over the course of their short friendship. Instead the witch's face remained maddeningly blank.

"Monsieur Bletchley is kind. I do not see why I should care if one of his parents is a muggle."

Mrs. Malfoy tapped the back of her head with her wand, and her hair fell out of its elaborate braids and cascaded down the back of her neck.

"I suppose you're right. After all, he's only a clerk. From what I understand, the parents are both half-bloods. That's almost worse. In a generation or two his descendants—should he be so lucky—might try to pass themselves off as as pure as we are."

"I was under the impression that the Malfoy family considered it entirely appropriate to marry half-bloods—under certain circumstances."

Narcissa stopped brushing her hair. When she met Colette's eyes in her vanity mirror, she gave the girl an icy stare.

"I can't imagine who told you such an impertinent thing."

Those sapphire eyes bore none of the tremulous biddability that had attracted her to Colette at first, had made her seek out the girl's company and want to mold her, to mentor her. The look was nothing more or less than obstinate.

"Really, though, Colette," Narcissa continued, keeping her voice patronizing. "You must learn to guard your tongue. Imagine if Regulus heard you speaking that way."

The thought of her prospective husband-to-be's reaction to these absurd notions did not alarm Colette.

"Perhaps he has changed his opinion on the subject."

Narcissa turned in her seat. The younger girl sat on the bed, her hands clasped together, without an ounce of shame at the brazen absurdity she had just uttered.

"'Changed his opinion'? On a matter such as that?" Narcissa said. "Something so important to his family?"

"He is young. It is possible for such a—one as he to change his mind. At his age—one's opinions are not all fixed."

Narcissa gave her a penetrating stare—it was an unconscious imitation of her aunt.

"So I gather."

Huffing, she turned back to the mirror. It would have been impossible for a girl far duller than Colette to have missed Mrs. Malfoy's meaning. When she spoke again, her voice was its usual haughty and controlled drawl.

"If you aren't thinking of what my cousin might say, then you could at least consider my aunt. Such opinions would never be tolerated in the wife of the future head of the family."

"I don't think your aunt cares much about my views on anything."

Colette tried to hide it—but the telling blush crept onto her cheeks.

"You underestimate yourself." Narcissa filed the tip of one of her nails with her wand point—a delicate operation that had taken years of study to master. "I've never seen her take such a shine to a witch. I'm not quite sure what you've done to deserve it, frankly—but after such hard work, you cannot let it go to waste now. You must fix and secure her favor."

"I cannot be forever concealing what I think and feel," Colette replied, voice blunt. "If that is what she believes necessary to join her family, Mrs. Black should look elsewhere for a—wife for her son. I have no stomach for artifice or—keeping secrets."

Mrs. Malfoy narrowed her eyes.

"I think you have more talent in that quarter than you give yourself credit for."

Colette blushed hotly but said curbed her tongue.

"Since you've apparently developed a penchant for half-bloods," Narcissa said, breaking the pointed silence between them. "You'll be pleased to hear that Severus will be coming tomorrow night."

They had not spoken at all about the party at Lestrange Castle on Boxing Day. Mrs. Malfoy, having ferried Miss Battancourt around with her for the better part of ten days, took it for granted that her friend would be joining them.

"I am…surprised that he should be invited," Colette said, choosing her words with care. "I did not think your sister cared much for Monsieur Snape."

Narcissa sprayed her wrist with scent. As Bella had no restraint when it came to her open contempt for people she deemed unpleasant, Cissy saw no point in denying it, but the remark was impertinent, and she took a long time in answering.

"Oh, I daresay that Lucius will have a use for him."

"Does your husband have a 'use' for all his friends, or just Monsieur Snape and Regulus?"

"I gather that question is meant to mean something to me," Mrs. Malfoy said, coldly. "I confess, I do not understand to what it tends. Pray, explain. I believe the stress of the day has taken its toll, and I may not have my wits entirely about me."

These chilly words hung in the air between them like a particularly ugly painting on the wall. Colette steeled herself before speaking.

"Monsieur Bletchley said much to me—about the war. He told me about the—true state of things."

Mrs. Malfoy's exquisitely shaped eyebrows rose in perfect unison.

"You have obviously found a bosom friend in Bletchley." She picked up her hairbrush. "What 'things'?"

"The war is much more serious than you led me to believe. I think it was—wrong of you not to tell me the truth."

"The truth about what?"

Narcissa ran the brush through her hair with unnecessary force.

"That people are dying. And—about your husband and his friends."

In the mirror, Colette appeared perfectly calm and composed. It was Narcissa whose hand was shaking, as she set her hairbrush down.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I do not believe you. I think you pretend not to know, and act as though you do not understand. You are not a fool—though perhaps you are blind, when it suits you."

Narcissa had never heard Colette sound so dispassionate, so matter-of-fact. It muted the effect of being accused and insulted in her own bedchamber wonderfully—so much so that she wondered if Colette had intended it to. She found herself in the odd position of being entirely unaroused to her own defense.

"What precisely are you accusing me of pretending not to know?"

"It would be an insult to us both for me to say it aloud."

Mrs. Malfoy took a moment to compose herself. Discretion was one of the many codes of marriage that she had been taught, and never had it been more useful than this moment.

"Mr. Bletchley is not the only person you've confided in, I take it." Colette's knuckles were white from clutching her skirts. "What else did that dreadful Nord tell you about my family, Colette?"

The girl's face turned bright scarlet.

"Who told you—" She stopped herself, then modulated her voice. "That is—what makes you think—"

"As you yourself said—I am not a fool. It has been obvious for some time that you have fallen under the spell of some influence. Don't think I haven't noticed how often you disappear."

Colette bit her lip.

"B-but what makes you believe it is Monsieur Svensson from whom I have heard these things?" Her eyes were feverish and over-bright. "Was it—did your husband tell you that?"

Narcissa felt her jaw harden—a most unladylike expression, and she forcibly softened it.

"Don't be absurd. My husband would never be so vulgar as to accuse one of my friends of impugning his good name." Narcissa busied herself with her cosmetic jars and compacts, as if the whole conversation was nothing to her, as if the accusations meant even less. "It is simply obvious you're getting these notions from someone outside of my family—and who else could it be than that hateful foreigner? He was the only person there we didn't know."

Eyes flashing with anger and hurt, Colette opened her mouth to speak—but whatever it was she wanted to say, the girl held back.

"I find your talk of hating deceit rather disingenuous," Mrs. Malfoy continued, icily. "You have plenty of your own secrets."

Miss Battancourt rose to her feet, suddenly agitated—she paced in front of the bed like a caged bird.

"Any secrets I keep are not mine," Colette said, her voice trembling with anger. "They have been put upon me by members of your family."

It was Narcissa's turn to flush.

"Well—it's obvious you find my family abhorrent. It's a wonder you can even stand to stay in the same house with members of it."

The girl flinched, her lip wobbled—and Narcissa felt a stab of perverse pleasure in having wounded her, as she herself had been wounded.

"If you wish for me to leave and go back to my great-aunt's tonight…" Colette looked down at the carpet. "I will, of course, obey."

"Don't be absurd—it's the middle of the night." Narcissa stared down at her perfect nails, and was filled with a sudden, violent desire to break them on her walnut dresser. "I am not a monster."

It took all her self-control not to add, "but perhaps you think I am."

"I gather, given these… admissions of your true feelings on the matter," she continued, in a softer voice. "You will not be coming to the party tomorrow."

Colette shook her head. Once again, she looked like the doll that Narcissa had always seen her as.

"I have—resolved to return to France as soon as I am able."

"When did you decide that?"

"Today. I would have left with Aunt Eugenie tonight—except I wanted to say goodbye to you. And to—"

"—Accuse me and my family of being the worst sort of people in the country."

Narcissa let out a short, sharp sound—which she realized too late was a suppressed sob.

"To…tell you I am sorry." Colette hesitated, weighing her words before speaking. "I am—not so sure Regulus will be coming tomorrow, anyway—and I know that is the main reason you wanted me to come."

"I suppose you get that intelligence from your charming foreign friend?"

"He has told me something of Monsieur Regulus. I am not sure we would suit." She gave her friend a pained smile. "I know he is not in France—nor ever was. Have you not suspected as much yourself?"

Mrs. Malfoy stared at her companion through the looking glass—frozen in place, unable to move. In dueling, when they were children, Bellatrix always said she was like a rabbit—when confronted with a spell she couldn't block, she simply stopped. She became prey.

Colette had never looked older or more a woman—confident, sure of herself—resolved. She was exactly what Narcissa had hoped to make her.

"I have only ever wanted to be your friend."

"I know. I think…this is the best way for us to be friends."

The two women stared at each other for a long while. For Narcissa Malfoy, it was a moment of profound disillusionment. She felt as though she was seeing her friend for the first time. Her pride was stung, but more than that—

She had not been prepared for this. Colette was so gentle, so sincere. Colette was the last person she would have thought capable of wounding her.

"If it's true that it was not your husband who told you about Monsieur Svensson—you will not—mention this to him, will you?"

"I hope I can be trusted to keep a confidence."

In three steps Colette Battancourt crossed the room and grasped her hand. It was much warmer than Cissy's—clammy from nerves, though she'd hidden them well in every other respect. The unexpected touch made Narcissa start with surprise.

"It may be a matter of life and death," Colette implored. "People—we both care about could get hurt. Please—promise me you will not tell your husband or—or your sister about him."

A chill ran down Narcissa's spine.

"Why would I speak of this to Bella?"

"Please swear it."

Narcissa opened her mouth to say she would not say such a ridiculous oath for all the worlds—but then she noticed Colette was on the verge of crying.

"I—swear I won't."

She let go of Colette's hand.

"I am sorry. I wish I could explain everything to you." She stood up and walked towards the door. "I never meant for this to happen."

A sharp stabbing sensation hit Mrs. Malfoy in the stomach, and she felt herself lurching backwards in time a decade, or so—she was in her old bedroom, sitting at her armoire.

"Cissy, don't cry." A pair of familiar, gentle hands brushed her shoulders. Her eyes were squeezed shut, trying to block out the words, the sound, what was happening—if she didn't see it, it wasn't real. "Please look at me. I never wanted it to be this way. It can't be helped, darling. Please—say goodbye, at least."

After what felt like ages, she heard the door at last shut.

When Narcissa had got control of her emotions again, she opened her eyes—her completely dry eyes, in no need of soppy wiping from a sodden handkerchief—and found herself alone in her bedroom again. She sat at her makeup table for several minutes, mute and unmoving, until she heard the faint sound of a knob turning and looked up.

It was Lucius.

Her husband crossed to her, wrapped his arms around her waist and planted a kiss on her neck. When he met his wife's eyes in the mirror he frowned.

"What's wrong, darling?"

"Nothing. I'm just tired." She was herself again—her mask neatly slipped back on. "It was such a—such a long day."

He narrowed his eyes with suspicion. Not slipped back on fast enough, apparently.

"I hope nobody has said anything to distress you."

"Don't be absurd." She untangled herself from his arms and walked over to the wardrobe at the far end of the room. "Who do you imagine in this house could distress me?"

Lucius knew her well enough to understand that it would be dangerous to answer that question with complete honesty, so he remained silent. Narcissa made a show of searching through her collection of silk dressing gowns. She heard him walk over to his own dressing table, next to the door.

"You, ah—didn't happen to notice if the elf brought me any post, did you, darling?"

Narcissa turned. Her eyes fell on the table.

The completely bare table.

"There were no letters for you tonight," she lied. "Were you expecting one?"

"Oh—not as such, no."

Narcissa slipped the silk robe over her shoulders and went to bed—one lie for another, her conscience clear.

---

The wind that had blown away the clouds and that unlikely Christmas snow left behind a clear and frigid midwinter night.

Sirius shivered and leaned against the bannister of the fire escape, staring straight ahead and into the blank brick wall opposite. A cigarette dangled from his right hand—the other gripped his arm to keep it from shaking. The jacket and jeans he'd changed back into didn't protect against the cold as well as his cloak. He didn't care. He was numb beyond his fingers, and these clothes were another sort of armor.

It was late. He wondered, vaguely, if Christmas was over yet. Had the clock struck midnight?

If it has, she'll have turned into a pumpkin by now.

The sound of glass sliding up from behind him banished the thought of a certain impressionable French miss who liked to read 'Cinderella' in secret.

"I was wondering where you'd got to."

He kept his eyes fixed on the wall. Sirius felt his father's gaze from the window—a shaft of light that burned the back of his neck.

"Your mother and I are leaving." Orion hesitated. "Will you say goodbye?"

Sirius forced himself to turn his head and look up at the window. His father was standing there, dressed in the old traveling cloak he'd had for as long as anyone could remember. His hope that by sneaking out while they were busy with Kreacher and Regulus he could avoid this audience had been in vain, as he should have known it would be.

Orion was far too polite to not take formal leave of his host.

"Can you just give her an excuse—please?"

Mr. Black watched him for a moment, and then, to his son's surprise, climbed out the window and hopped onto the fire escape below. Sirius tried to hide the lit cigarette behind his back.

"You needn't bother. I know it's the only reason you'd come out here at this time of night. I am not here to scold."

Sirius slowly took the cigarette out from behind his back. He raised it to his lips, and stared up at his father. There was a kind of urgency in Orion's expression, an intentness that had nothing to do with trying to ferret some truth out of Sirius.

He found the silence suffocating.

"Regulus was the one who found that letter, not me."

Sirius leaned over the railing as far as he could, trying to put distance between them. Orion didn't take the hint. He stepped forward, stood at his son's side, and kept his eyes fixed on Sirius's face.

"I—suspected as much."

"You did?"

"Given the letter's contents—I thought it very odd you didn't allude to its substance. I assume you haven't read it."

"I didn't even know he'd found it until tonight." He tapped his lit fag against the metal railing. "What does it say?"

He sneaked a glance at his father and caught sight of a mysterious smile.

"A private joke between Regulus and I."

Orion shrugged—the question of who the gift was from a matter of little consequence, apparently. Sirius felt a surge of unaccountable irritation at this reaction.

"I'm—sorry I didn't get you anything," he said, voice stiff. "I guess I just—forgot. And I never knew what to get you growing up, anyway." He scowled. "You don't want anything and you sure as hell don't need anything."

Orion had no immediate answer to this, and Sirius's irritation grew. He realized the root of his anger with blinding clarity—between the two of them, it was he who cared about the missing Christmas present.

Orion didn't have to criticize him—he was doing it to himself.

"Given the ordeal you have endured the past fortnight, I think you can be forgiven for that particular lapse. I have hardly endeared myself to you."

"That's not really the point, is it?" Sirius turned his head towards his father. "You don't get your father a Christmas gift because you like him, you do it because he's—"

He took refuge from the end of that thought in his cigarette.

"All your other gifts were well-received." Orion looked thoughtful. "I don't think any of us will soon recover from the sight of your grandmother wearing that hat."

This attempt to coax a smile from his notoriously moody heir fell flat. Sirius remained stoically silent.

"You made your mother very happy today."

"Don't."

The response was sudden and violent, as automatic as jerking a hand from the fire.

"Don't tell me that. I don't want to hear that."

"What would you prefer to hear?"

"That she was disappointed. She will be soon enough." He took another long drag, savoring that chemical burn of cheap tobacco. "Better to get used to it again as soon as possible."

He refused to let himself feel guilt at these words, harsh and angry and for once, probably undeserved. His father didn't have the grace to be offended or react to them, as he should have. Orion kept his steady, unrelenting look firmly on his elder son's face.

"I don't want to make her happy," Sirius continued. "And if I have, I've only done it by accident. I won't be able to keep it up, and she'll be expecting me to—and I—can't."

"What have I always told you about lying?"

"It's not a lie."

He thrust his hand into his jacket pocket. It didn't take long for Sirius to find what he was looking for—the box with the silver paper still wrapped around it that Orion had given him at the dinner table. Wordlessly, he held it out for his father to take.

Orion looked down at the package and back up at his son's face.

"You haven't opened it yet."

"I don't need to open it." He pushed the box at his father, whose arms remained stubbornly ramrod straight at his sides. "I know what it is, and I—don't want it."

Did Orion think he was stupid? All day, and he hadn't taken it out to check once.

"Take it back," Sirius said, insistent.

Mr. Black kept that unflappable gaze fixed on his son.

"No."

Why did he always have to be so calm? Sirius thought, even though he knew full-well from recent experience that his father was just as capable of losing control as he was. Why didn't he shout? He wanted a great bloody row—that was what Christmas was for, didn't Orion understand it?

He yanked his arm back and ripped off the paper on the box, tossing it into the wind. The box lid followed. Sirius discarded it on the metal grate, where it landed with a clatter.

Sirius stared down into the box. The sight of it—of what he'd known it would be—knocked the breath out of him.

His father's gold watch glinted up at him.

"What the hell am I supposed to do with this, hm?"

"I would think that self-evident." Orion peered at the pocket watch which had, until very recently, been his own. "Tell the time."

Sirius picked the watch up by the chain and dangled it over the side of the fire escape.

"If you don't take it back—" His hand trembled. "I will drop it, you hear? I'll smash it to pieces."

If Orion had wanted to he could disarm Sirius in an instant—but he made no attempt to pull out his wand. He didn't show the faintest sign of alarm at the most precious object in his possession, the thing that his eldest knew he cared about more than any other, being dropped to the ground and smashed to bits.

"By all means, do so. It belongs to you," Mr. Black said, with a horrible matter-of-factness. "You have every right to do with it what you wish."

"Don't you dare."

"Dare—what?"

"You know. You know exactly what you're doing."

Orion frowned, his first sign of displeasure all day.

"And what is that?"

Sirius let the chain drop through his fingers two—then three inches. Orion didn't so much as flinch.

"Putting this on me. Making this my choice—" Sirius choked on the words. "—As if I've ever had one."

"For a man who believes himself to be without choices," Orion said. "You've never been afraid to make them before now."

Sirius rounded on his father, hands trembling with the cold—and with anger. As he pulled it back from the abyss, the watch swung from the chain, hitting the side of the metal railing with a deafening clatter. He felt a treacherous stab of alarm at the possibility that he had dented it—but when he looked down, Sirius saw it was without a scratch.

As had been the case so many time, white-hot anger followed the shame.

"Do you think I don't know what you've been doing these past weeks?" Sirius demanded. "The inheritance, the lessons, the grotesque pageant you put on tonight—all of it designed, calculated to make me feel as guilty as possible, culminating—" He swung the watch in front of his father's face. "—In this."

Even under the dim lights of the building Sirius could see Orion's drawn face had grown pale.

"I would not presume such a hold on your feelings." He sounded tired—and weary, far beyond his years. "I have never consciously tried to make you feel guilt or—anything else."

"Then you must come by your talent for it naturally," Sirius shot back. "It's something you're even better at than your wife."

This venom blunted any remaining weapons of Orion, and he fell silent—chastened, accepting of the words of filial admonishment just at the moment when his son believed in them least, when the power of their righteousness was at its lowest ebb. Sirius felt a dirty lowness that he knew had nothing to do with anyone but himself.

Just another coward.

The chain of the watch was still clutched in his right hand. He lifted it up and set it gently in the palm of his left and looked down at it. It was the first watch he had ever seen—and still the most beautiful. Gold, embossed with the family crest, tiny jewels inlaid around the frame.

It was the family watch, his father's most prized possession, and Sirius had never held it before in his life.

He wanted to open it, the pull of that desire was almost irresistible—or would be, if not for the fear that held him back with a force that was almost magnetic. His clumsy fingers, his nails with three years of dirt underneath, were liable to break it. That would break him, if he wasn't already broken.

Broken beyond fixing.

"This was supposed to be a present when I came of age, wasn't it?"

His voice sounded hollow and dead.

"It was."

He clasped the side that bore the family crest in his palm, covering it. It was the last thing he wanted to see now.

"I—suppose Regulus was disappointed he didn't get it when he turned seventeen."

"I gave him the watch that belonged to his namesake instead."

Sirius raised his face. Orion, he was sure, had not taken his eyes off of him once.

"Your uncle?" Sirius asked, surprised. Mr. Black nodded. Sirius had never known his great-uncle, or that his father had been left his watch—though he supposed it made sense, since Regulus had never married or had children himself. He'd always imagined Reg's namesake being a bit like Alphard—if for no other reason than he thought it would have annoyed his grandfather to have a younger brother like that.

"Second watch for a second son," Sirius said.

"And—from one second-born to another."

Orion touched the hand that was still gripping this artifact. Gently, he pried each of Sirius's fingers off the rounded edge, until it was visible, flat in the palm of his son's hand.

"It's a little less grand than this one, a little less—flashy." Orion's lip twitched. "Perhaps slightly more dignified…but no less dear to me."

"Really?"

"There's more than enough watches in this family to go around. This one—" Mr. Black pressed Sirius's fingers around it again. "—I have always intended to give to you."

Of course. It was his birthright.

Sirius leaned against the railing, hard lump of metal gripped in his hand like a caught snitch, and he was filled with a desire that had sometimes come over him, when he was out on this fire escape—the desire to hurl himself over the side.

He wanted to escape. That was all he had ever wanted.

"This whole month has been a—farce. You know that, right? None of it's real, Dad. It's just a—a fantasy."

Sooner or later—sooner, now, much sooner—his parents were going to wake up and remember who he was, just as he would remember who they were, and all this would collapse around them like a card castle made from an Exploding Snap deck.

"I know," Orion said. "But let her have the fantasy—if only for tonight."

"Why should I?"

The question sounded childish and petulant to Sirius's own ears, but his father didn't scold. He only smiled—looking sadder than ever.

"Because…I suspect life will not be easy for her, going forward." Orion looked out over the railing, at the building across the way. "This Christmas may be the last good one your mother has for a long time."

When the words at last broke through the haze that clouded his mind, Sirius turned his head sharply towards Orion, sure he was missing something—something that should have been obvious, but wasn't him being slow on the uptake just the way?

"I know that I can rely on you and your brother to look after her—when the time comes."

He'd heard the old cliché about the moments when time slowed down so often that the idea struck him as trite.

Sirius finally knew what it meant.

"What the hell does that mean?"

Orion turned towards his son, and Sirius saw the answer in his face—his unvarnished expression, the veil pulled away, like the stone in front of the tomb on the third day. He knew what Orion would say before his father spoke the words out loud.

"I'm—not well, Sirius."

He tightened his grip on the gold pocket-watch.

"There's two types of illness." He was going to break this thing if he squeezed any tighter. "There's the kind you get over—"

"—It's the other kind."

Sirius felt the watch drop out of his hand. His fingers, acting on instinct, grasped the chain, and so the heirloom was saved from clattering onto the fire escape. It dangled from his wrist like a loose thread blowing in the wind.

He searched his father's face, looking for some trace, some proof that this was just another game—but he knew there was absolutely no reason for Orion to toy with him this way, for his father was not cruel by his nature. And then he remembered, bracingly, the first thought he had had when Orion and Walburga had come into the flat two weeks before.

I thought he looked ill.

But then Orion had been so forceful, his father had coiled around him like a snake, and surely a man with so much power and vitality could not be sick. His father was a pillar of life—of strength.

He was sucking it out of his son, after all.

"How long?" Sirius whispered, at last.

"It's been…coming on gradually this last year."

"What's wrong with you?"

Orion pointed to the left side of his chest.

"A pain—here."

Sirius stared at the spot where his father's finger rested.

"That's your heart."

Orion shook his head and smiled.

"Surely not. I have been reliably informed I do not have one."

"That's not—that's not fucking funny."

His father's smile dropped.

"I thought it was. I'm sorry you don't feel the same way." His voice took on that brisk, businesslike tone that always accompanied unpleasant conversations, but this time Mr. Black did not studiously avoid meeting his eldest son's eyes, as he had so many times in the past. "It's been getting worse, and the…episodes come on with greater frequency, these days."

Numb, Sirius looked down at the watch, dangling in the wind—and then up at Orion again.

"Who else knows about this?"

"You're the first person I've told."

If Orion had slapped him in the face it would have stung him less.

"How has no one guessed?"

"It's easy enough to conceal incapacity—and weakness—when you spend all your time alone in your study." Orion rubbed his cheek. "I'm sure if we had more social engagements someone would have noticed by now—or if I was less weak to begin with."

In his mind's eye, Sirius saw his father, trapped in the study, incapable of moving—helpless, and too proud to even call for the elf to help him.

Too proud or—or without the will for it.

"What causes it?"

"Nothing in particular—time passing and great shocks, mostly. I have these—bouts. In between them, it's quite easy to cope, but in the moment…" He trailed off. You know, I think if things with your brother had gone a different way, I might have been done for that night, too."

Sirius couldn't breathe. He tried, but his lungs didn't seem to be working.

"Well—what—what has the healer told you?" Orion said nothing. "You—you haven't been to a healer?"

"I don't need to see one. A healer would only tell me what I already know."

"Are you a seer, now?" Sirius asked, voice hysterical. "You know you're dying from what—intuition?"

Orion sighed.

"A man—knows when his time has come."

"That's not how it bloody works!"

He looked at Sirius, in that patronizing way his son had always hated—which made him feel like a child—the child he would always be in his father's eyes.

"It's like closing the chapter of a book. My affairs are in order. The only real loose end was you."

Orion shuffled his feet—a fidget, a slip in protocol Sirius didn't think he'd ever seen from his father.

"I know—coming back to us wasn't your choice, but I—cannot pretend to be sorry for it. You know…it would have been my only regret, not to see you again."

No, Sirius thought, horrified, he did not know. He didn't know anything. He was not going through this—he was not hearing these words—this was not happening to him. Sirius kept repeating that, over and over again, was on the verge of drumming his own forehead—anything that would wake him up from this strange and horrible nightmare.

But no—Orion was still in front of him, still looking at him that way.

A surge of violent anger overtook him, and for a moment he thought he might strike the man—so fragile and sad and not at all like the father Sirius remembered.

The father he couldn't—no matter how hard he had wanted to, how much he tried—bring himself to forget.

"Are you listening to yourself, Dad?" Sirius hissed. "For God's sake, you're only fifty years old. The way you talk it's as if—as if you're in your dotage, as if you have nothing to live for!"

"There's not much left for me to do," Orion reflected. "I have, however imperfectly—fulfilled my duty to my family."

"You haven't done a damn thing for your family! This is giving up on your family."

This cutting accusation did not even seem to graze the skin. Orion had been waiting for the blow, expecting it—perhaps he had imagined this conversation many times before, and Sirius did not have the element of surprise he so often relied on to get a shot off.

Mr. Black thought long and hard before answering the charge.

"No one needs me, Sirius," he said, at last. "And I must confess, I am not interested in living in a world where I am not needed."

"No one needs you?" Sirius waved one balled fist at the window—better that than smash it into Orion's face. "What about Regulus, for a start?"

"I know you still think of your brother as a boy—I admit, I still see him as one myself—but he's a man now, and he's more than proven himself."

"He's a little idiot who watches muggle soap operas when he knows you're not looking."

"Regulus can stand on his own two feet."

"And Mum? Can she?"

At the mention of his wife, Mr. Black's faint smile vanished.

"Your mother has never needed me."

"Well—w-what about me?"

Sirius's voice cracked.

"You are the one who needs me least of all. You spent the last three years proving it."

He grasped his son by the chin and tilted Sirius's face up.

"You and your brother have grown into fine men—courageous and strong." He tapped his son's chin gently with his thumb. "I only wish I could say that I had something to do with it."

Sirius jerked his head out of his father's loose grip.

"I wish you'd stop—blaming yourself for everything."

He retreated to the far corner of the fire escape. Orion did not follow Sirius.

"Who else is at fault but me? I have failed you in every conceivable way."

"Dad—"

"You cannot deny it—you said so yourself. I have failed. My two sons have had to make their way in the world, to determine the value of their lives—and they have come to conclusions that had nothing to do with anything I ever taught either of them. I've been thinking about that argument we had last week in my study—"

"—Forget about that, Dad! I was just—angry at you, at myself for screwing up again. What I said was a—it was all a load of rubbish."

"It was nothing of the kind." Orion shook his head. "Everything you said was true. I didn't want to hear it at the time, perhaps—no man wants to hear that he's failed, least of all from his son, but it's worse for him to deny the fact."

"Will you stop it with all this self-pity?" Sirius demanded, hotly. "You're not a failure."

"What else would you call a father whose two children end up on opposite sides of a war?" Orion snapped. "My own son left home at sixteen with no intention of either seeing or speaking to me or his mother again. How could that not be a reflection of my failures as a father?"

"God, Dad—it wasn't your fault." Sirius buried his face in his hands. "It was me."

The hard lines around Orion's mouth softened.

"What are you talking about?"

"You know. There's—something wrong with me. There always has been." He lowered his shaking hands from his face. "I was the problem. What could you have done? It's not your fault you got a—a defective son."

Mr. Black pulled Sirius around by the shoulder. His son's face was raw-red from the cold and something that looked suspiciously like tears.

"Absurd—"

"—It's not absurd, it's the truth." Sirius breathed in, slowly—in and out, but it came out in rasping, shuddering coughs. "I've never fit into this family—I've always been different. I can't help it—no matter how hard I try, and I have tried. Believe me, I have!"

He let out a low moan that sounded like a wounded animal. Orion lifted up a hand, slowly, as if he thought Sirius might shy away from him, might bolt.

"From the earliest age," he said. "You have always expressed a desire to go your own way."

"It was only because I knew I couldn't go yours. Me running away had just as much to do with me knowing that as it did with me thinking you didn't want me."

"Sirius—"

"You want to know the truth? You were so angry that I ran away without telling you—well, I was going to tell you." He paced up and down the small metal frame of the fire escape, resembling more and more the caged animal he was, at heart. "I went to your study, the night before I left. You—probably don't remember. It was the last conversation we had. I came in, you were knee-deep in whatever latest financial crisis the family had put on you—you were distracted. And I looked at you, and—I knew I couldn't tell you I was going to leave. I knew you wouldn't understand, that you'd try to talk me out of it, demand I explain—and the thing is, I couldn't—not to you. You've always been certain of what you're meant to be doing—of who you are.

"I'm not—I could never be like you."

He looked up at his father, and when he stared into those eyes, a reflection of his own, he was met with the profound sadness of a man who had never realized—any of it.

"Maybe I was a coward for running away—but I couldn't face it—that look."

"What look?"

"The look of disappointment," Sirius said, in a bitter voice. "I didn't want it to be my last memory of you. I'd seen it too often as it was."

"Sirius—"

"You have no idea what it felt like going home that first Christmas after I was sorted. You have no idea how much I dreaded seeing the two of you because I knew you were so incredibly disappointed in what had happened."

When he saw, with twisted satisfaction, the way Orion's expression changed—he'd landed a blow at last.

"I never told you that—and nor did your mother."

Sirius snorted.

"Please. Open communication may not be emblazoned on the Black family standard, but I could read between the lines. You don't spend twelve years having the cardinal sins of the family drilled into your head without being able to recognize when you've committed one."

"That was your choice."

"Like hell it was!"

The watch slid from his fingers and onto the grate by his feet. Sirius bent over and picked it up, ran his fingers over the crest.

"Do you think I enjoyed being the black sheep of the family? It's not as though it's made my life any easier, being a—a blight on the family tree. Believe it or not, I don't actually enjoy pissing you off and being a constant source of disappointment. Don't you think I would have rather—gone along with the program, and been in Slytherin, like everyone else?"

Orion did not recoil at his son's litany of questions—but stood firm, back to the wind, face unflinching.

"The thought has never crossed my mind once," Orion said. "You have always expressed to me in no uncertain terms your complete and utter disregard for everything that this family stands for."

"And you believed me!" Sirius laughed. "It's really never occurred to you that there might have been any part of that that was even the slightest bit—put-on? An act?"

"No," Orion said, voice hollow. "I cannot fathom why you would think you need do such a thing. What purpose could it serve?"

The honesty of those words hurt more than if his father had admitted that he'd known all along and simply hadn't cared. He slipped the watch back into his pocket.

"How else was I supposed to get your attention?"

He pressed his eyes shut, felt his face burn red—and forced himself to keep speaking.

"I knew I would never be what you wanted," Sirius continued, slouching over the railing. "I knew I would always fail. So I figured—if I was going to fail...I would do so in style, and fail spectacularly."

"What are you saying, Sirius?"

He stared into his father's eyes—and at the sight of that befuddlement, so maddeningly gentle and sincere and so bloody obtuse, he lost his temper.

"That me being a bad son is not my fault. It's not from lack of trying, or laziness, or because I'm obstinate, or whatever you've convinced yourself is the problem. I'm just not—up to the job, and it's about time you face facts."

He must've sounded melodramatic, because the look his father gave him was not that of a man who has been convinced of the error of his ways.

"Between the two of us, I think I am in a better position to make that judgement than you."

Sirius rolled his eyes—Merlin help him, he was going to have to spell this out, wasn't he?

"I am not a Slytherin, Dad. If it took bribes, I could've dumped half your Gringotts vault into the sodding hat and it would still not have put me in Slytherin. I'm not ambitious, I'm not cunning—I say what I think and I don't think before I act. I have more nerve in one finger than—brains in my whole body."

Orion smiled at this description, in spite of the fierce glare from his son.

"This isn't my son, the proud Gryffindor, forever thumbing his nose at his family, is it? You haven't come to regret your sorting, surely?"

Sirius shook his head and turned away, agitated.

"No—that's not it! Of course I don't regret it—" He ran his fingers through his hair and gripped the metal railing with his other hand. "I wouldn't have—if I'd been sorted in Slytherin, If I hadn't met James and the others, I know I'd—I'd be the one—"

He turned his head away from his father—but still he could feel Orion's eyes on him, watching him.

"—I would have been the one who got Regulus in with those people."

The words came out as barely more than a whisper, a shameful confession.

"Why would you say that?"

"Because I—I know it's the truth," he said—and as soon as the words had left his lips, the weight of the stone that had been pressed down rolled away, and the stream that had been blocked poured out, flooded over him. "There's something—in me."

"What are you talking about?"

"Something…dark. Inside me."

It was what he'd been thinking for weeks—months—it always lingered, the slow poison, corrupting and corroding, slowly and inexorably. Black blood. In your veins, in your face, your name, something one could never be free of, always threatening to overwhelm and consume, to swallow whole—a curse. Sirius was like the stain, the blotch on the family tree, never to be a part of it and never to escape, either.

"Sometimes…I want to do things I shouldn't. If it weren't for my friends—I would be one of them."

Orion's laughter—that warm, rich baritone, rare and unmistakeable gift that it was—pulled him back from the edge with the surreal force of a blow from a Punch-and-Judy puppet.

"I'm glad one of us finds this amusing!"

"Forgive me—I see this is a matter weighing rather heavily on you, and here I am…"

"—Having a chortle!" Sirius cried, voice indignant. "What, pray tell, is so damn funny?"

Mr. Black tried to adopt a serious expression—with some difficulty. Coming from his father, a man known for ironclad self-control, Sirius found this quite appalling, and he made sure Orion knew he disapproved of all that lip-twitching and smirking with his glare.

"Well, my impression of the Dark Lord is that he has a low tolerance for insubordination and impertinence," Orion said, at last. "If he couldn't keep your brother in line, I have a hard time picturing him being able to handle you."

Sirius started to laugh—a strange noise that sounded more like a sob—until it turned into the real thing. He turned his face away, embarrassed. Mr. Black reached into the interior pocket of his robes and pulled out a silk square, which he offered to his son.

"What's that for?"

"Wiping your face."

Sirius stared down at the silk handkerchief with a churlish dislike, as if he could sense it carried some disease.

"And why would I need to do that?"

As he smiled, the corners of Orion's eyes crinkled.

"Because you're crying, you silly boy."

Mr. Black lifted the handkerchief to the edge of Sirius's eye and dabbed at the dampness. Sirius snatched the silk away blew his nose, loudly.

"I know it pains you to hear it," Orion said, fondly watching him as he attempted to discreetly wipe his eyes. "But you are so like your mother."

Having finished wiping off his face, Sirius turned towards the brick wall opposite, above the alley. He breathed in the cold night air, slowly, while his breathing steadied again—a poor attempt to recover some of his lost dignity.

"People have always told me that. I've never known what it means." He flexed his numb fingers. "I've never been able to see it. We're so…different."

Sirius laid his fingers down on the metal bars of the railing. His father laid his own hand beside it—so close that if he moved his own finger it could touch Orion's.

He didn't.

"Do you know what your mother said, when I asked her to marry me?"

He looked back at his father, incapable of hiding his curiosity at Orion volunteering something so personal. This was one of the forbidden subjects, of intense fascination and mystery.

"She said—'why would I want to be married to a boring, stodgy fool who does whatever his father tells him, has no mind of his own and is my cousin, who'll keep me shackled to my tiresome family for all eternity?''"

Orion smiled at Sirius's look of dumbfounded astonishment.

"You—can imagine where I see the resemblance between you."

"Mum never said that!"

"Oh, I assure you—she did. I do not think I could ever forget her turn of phrase. It cut me to the quick. You are not the first one to thoroughly dress me down in my study, I'm afraid."

Orion leaned over the bars of the fire escape. His mind and heart were somewhere else—judging from the stormy expression in his eyes, with the woman who would become his wife, in Grimmauld Place, a quarter century before.

"She was—so very like you, when she was young. Restless—passionate—full of life, and always looking for an escape. You should ask your aunt about it. She remembers, too—the way Burgie was…though in her heart, I don't think she's changed all that much."

Regret—deep and self-recriminatory—punctuated Orion's words.

"I sometimes think that you and your brother are the only consolation she's had in a life she never wanted." He turned to look at Sirius. "I know as long as she has the two of you, she will be happy."

"Just because she doesn't show it, doesn't mean she doesn't need you, too, Dad."

"You can be so idealistic, Sirius." He shook his head. "If you knew the whole story—"

"Try me."

His son gave Mr. Black one of his impudent and matter-of-fact looks—an obvious challenge. Sirius's father found himself momentarily helpless in the face of a will naturally stronger than his own.

"There was someone else," he admitted, stiffly. "Another man she—wanted to marry."

"Bollocks."

Orion goggled at his son.

"What did you say?"

"I said—I don't believe it," Sirius told him, bluntly. "Who is it supposed to be, then?"

Mr. Black frowned and considered for a long moment whether or not to answer his son's impertinent question.

"Lysander Yaxley."

Sirius let out a loud raspberry.

"Like I said—complete bollocks. Dad, have you looked at Lysander Yaxley lately?"

"He was a—a well-sought after wizard in my day," Orion said, tone defensive. His son responded with another loud and rude noise.

"No one with half a brain who'd been kicked in the head by a hippogriff could prefer him to you. You haven't actually been thinking all these years that she's been holding a torch for that puffed-up, preening sod, have you?"

With that phrasing, he could hardly come out and admit that was exactly what he'd been thinking all those years. Orion pressed his mouth in a thin line—all the answer his son needed.

"That woman is toying with you," Sirius said, frankly. "You know what your problem is?"

"That I am entertaining your advice on the subject of women?"

"You let her get her own way too often. She doesn't like that. She wants you to tell her who is the boss."

"Oh, does she?" Orion asked, voice heavy with sarcasm.

"Big time. Not that it's in my interest to say, but she fancies this 'managing me' regimen you're on. You just need to keep that up and get rid of your thick idea she prefers some other bloke."

The absolute confidence in Sirius's voice made his father smile.

"It is surprising, to hear this from you." He placed one hand on the boy's shoulder. "From my harshest critic to my great champion, all in the space of a week."

This time, Sirius didn't shy away from the touch.

"Maybe I'm not the only one in this family who says things to you they don't mean—trying to get you to sit up and take notice." Sirius peaked up through his fringe. "That's why she got all worked up that night over you and Arcturus. It takes a lot to get through to you."

At this oblique mention of the argument that Sirius had overheard while cowering beneath a wooden desk as a dog, Orion frowned.

"Besides—" Sirius continued. "You're the same way."

"How so?"

"You can't stand your father, but you still worship the ground he walks on."

He toyed with the handkerchief in his hand, running his finger over the embroidered stitching of initials. O.A.B. Another Black son, named for a father he thought he could never live up to.

Orion had no comeback to this—and when his son caught sight of that sad, tight smile, he knew that he had won the exchange. Sirius reached into his pocked and pulled out a cigarette and lit it with his wand tip. His father reached over and plucked it out of his mouth.

"If you must—"

He replaced it with an elegant cigarillo from out of his inner pocket, lighting Sirius's first, then one for himself. The two men smoked in silence. The cigarillo made Sirius feel a bit foolish—like a child playing dress-up, but once he got used to the sensation and grew conscious of the fact that Orion was not watching him, he relaxed.

As he watched a light snow fall and dust the roof opposite, the childish excitement of the morning seemed to him a faint dream from another life.

"I could tell her, you know."

"You could—but I don't think you will."

"How can you be sure?"

Mr. Black took a puff of his cigarillo.

"You want your secrets kept, just as I do."

Orion lifted one eyebrow in challenge. Sirius gave him a grim look in return. If his father really wanted to play games, he would not find a willing stooge.

"Oh—no. You're not going to pull that trick on me a second time."

"'Trick'?"

"Don't try to threaten me, because it won't work. If you were going to tell her the sordid story of how I became an animagus, you already would've. You don't want to tell her—you don't want to deal with the fallout."

"That is an assumption with many attendant risks."

"Which I am willing to take. Consider this me officially calling your bluff."

Orion savored the act of smoking—took pleasure in the indulgence. For him, the common vices and pleasures of men were to be done to maintain social order, and not for the fun of it.

"And you think you don't have an ounce of Slytherin in you."

Never had a victory against his father been so unsatisfying for Sirius.

"You've figured it all out, by now, I guess."

"All what?"

"All about Remus. And please, spare me your 'cards against the chest' routine. You're not stupid, and nor am I." He tossed the cigarillo off the balcony. "You might as well say your piece on that subject, while we're both in this rare confessional mood. After all, who knows how much longer we—"

The sarcastic joke died in his throat, and Sirius fell silent again. Orion took his time in thinking over his answer to Sirius's blunt demand.

"I suppose James Potter told you I went to see him."

Sirius informed him, in rueful tones, that it was actually the barmaid at the Red Lion to whom Orion owed the exposure of this particular secret.

"I understand that between James and Lily you've put up with quite a bit of abuse from my mates, these past few days."

"All of it quite deserved, I assure you."

"James isn't actually an idiot, you know. He's just—stupidly noble."

"He—surprised me. All your friends did. I can see why you prefer their company to ours." The admission pained Orion, but he would not shy away from it. "They understand and appreciate you in ways we don't."

Sirius's shoulder sagged. He leaned against the railing and sighed.

"Dad—it's not a competition."

"It's a humbling experience, to realize that strangers know your own son better than you do. You have elicited extraordinary loyalty—all I hear of is your great capacity for self-sacrifice. All of your friends seem convinced you would die for them at the drop of a wand. In fact—" Orion's face darkened. "—I understand that you nearly have."

Sirius cursed under his breath.

"That's why you went to see Fawcett at St. Mungo's yesterday, isn't it? Because James told you about my accident."

His father's stony expression made Sirius swear louder.

"I would have much rather heard about it from you at the time."

"At the time, I didn't think it would matter to you—"

"—Whether you lived or died?" Sirius swallowed. "Does it matter to you is perhaps the more pertinent question."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That it isn't clear to me you care one way or another. Tell me, honestly—if it had been him and not you, would James Potter have insisted on going into that card game, knowing the great dangers—or would he have obeyed orders and stood down?"

"What does that matter?"

"Answer the question."

He opened his mouth to protest that he and James were just the same—but Sirius knew that wasn't true anymore. James might not have liked it—but he trusted Frank, and he would've done what he was told. He wouldn't have put himself at risk because he had Lily and the baby.

What did Sirius have?

"He would have listened to Longbottom," Sirius admitted. "God, I thought you had enough of lecturing me on this subject."

"I do it because I see a troubling pattern in your behavior, Sirius! You are reckless. You appear to have no regard for your own safety whatsoever."

"I don't do reckless things for the thrill of it!" Sirius shot back, defensively. "I do them for other people—for the people I care about!"

"I do not think learning to become a dog illegally so that you could cavort about with a werewolf on the full moon is quite the sterling example of disinterested altruism you think it, boy."

Sirius squeezed his eyes shut. Shit. He really did know everything.

"How did you—find out about Remus?"

"Please—give me some credit," Orion said. "There have been rumors about his father and Greyback for years. For one with access to the right channels, the information is not hard to come by. The rest I deduced for myself. I assume it was your idea?"

"There's nothing wrong with Remus! He's just a—"

"—Vicious beast?"

"He can't help what he is!" Sirius said. "It wasn't his fault he was bitten. I'm not going to apologize for being his friend."

Mr. Black's expression softened.

"I would not have expected you to."

"And you can't stop me from continuing to be his friend."

"I wouldn't dare make the attempt. You are a grown man—who you associate with is no one's business but your own." Orion let out a long sigh. "And given the company your brother has been keeping, it would be a tad hypocritical for me to forbid you to see him—unfortunate condition aside."

Sirius's arm dropped to his side. Deflated by this lack of the expected resistance, he took a moment to recalibrate and discover the best angle from which to approach the problem.

"Are you—how angry are you?"

"Do you admit that I have the right to be furious that you endangered yourself and broke the law?" Sirius muttered under his breath. "And before you begin, know that I refuse to entertain any of your notions that it is only my immense snobbery and backwards thinking that prevents me from being overjoyed at you running about with a werewolf."

Sirius ground his foot into the metal beneath his shoe.

"Yes—fine—you…have the right to be angry," he muttered. "I only wanted to help my friend."

"And—?"

"And—yes, have a bit of fun, okay?" He shoved his hands in his pockets. "I know it was—stupid. Nothing ever happened, though." Snivellus incident aside. "You're not the first one I've heard this from. Lily always bangs on about how thick we were to do it."

"A woman with some sense."

"So—are you angry?"

At this question—and the childish and cowed voice in which it was asked—Mr. Black only shook his head.

"If I'd discovered this at the time I would've been livid." Orion tossed his cigarillo off the balcony. "But now—there doesn't seem to be much point. It's the past—something I have no control over. Your future is what concerns me, now."

"Is that why you ordered Dumbledore not to give me anymore field missions?"

Like so many other things, it should have been obvious—but this revelation had only come to Sirius now. His father, to his credit, didn't deny it.

"One cannot order Albus Dumbledore to do anything he doesn't already have the idea of doing himself." Sirius kicked at the edge of the grating. "I think even he has some glimmer of conscience about you."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that boys with 'more nerve in one finger than brains in their whole bodies' are often more of a danger to themselves than anyone else." Sirius shuffled his feet. "I wouldn't worry. I am sure it will not be for long. I believe he holds you in great esteem. And I'm sure your willingness to do anything for him makes you a very useful asset."

"Maybe Dumbledore just trusts me."

Orion tiled his head, expression thoughtful.

"I've been thinking about what Crouch told me. That you were to become an Auror, but you withdrew your name from consideration—and then took up with Dumbledore instead. Tell me—did you think I would interfere with your career? Is that why you did it?"

Sirius felt his insides squirm. This was not a question he'd ever expected to be asked—and not one that he'd ever consciously thought about.

"Not every decision I make is about you." Sirius gave him a piercing look. "Would you have interfered with my career?"

"Oh, undoubtedly."

Sirius let out a bark of laughter. No hesitation and not an ounce of shame—typical.

"Impressive. Got to keep the family tradition of manipulation alive."

"If not me, it would've been your grandfather—he'd have made your life very difficult and never let on it was him."

Perhaps, Sirius wondered—he had been thinking of the family when he had turned away from working at the Ministry. They would have been impossible to avoid, and whether consciously or not, he'd done everything he could to minimize his chances of seeing them.

In the end, of course, it hadn't mattered—they'd crashed back into his life and lodged themselves so thoroughly that by now he knew he could never escape.

He never had.

"Joining the Order was not just some—some expression of rebellion—and it's not the danger that attracts me. I joined because I—because I believe in it." His voice broke with an unexpected emotion. "I've found something worth dying for."

"I would be happier knowing you had something to live for."

Sirius let out a bitter laugh.

"That's a bit rich, coming from you."

Orion refused to even flinch at the accusation. Instead he kept his steady, calm—and to Sirius, quite hateful—gaze on his son.

"Did Miss Battancourt enjoy meeting your friends?"

Sirius's insides froze. Of course. Of course he'd know about that. He turned his face away, cheeks burning, and cursed his father's almost inhuman ability to deflect conversation, to turn it back on his opponent with an ease that he could only have been born with.

"She didn't tell you about us, did she?"

"No. I happened to run into her on the stairs last night when she was on her way to a—certain assignation."

Sirius narrowed his eyes. He was tempted to ask if his mother had been told—but something told him that this was one confidence between father and son he could trust had been kept. Besides—there was no way Walburga would have been able to contain her rage if she'd known that he'd so blatantly defied her.

No—that secret must still be safe.

"I ascertained that it has not been the only one. You really do have an interesting way of 'taking care' of that particular problem."

There was no chiding in this—only an amused, long-suffering paternal exasperation, and perhaps the hint of a smile. That smile—knowing and canny as it was—made Sirius's insides squirm.

"The only reason she spoke to me the night of the party was because she wanted to know who I really was," Sirius admitted, finally. "She's been determined to figure it out ever since. I've tried—but I can't seem to shake her."

If Orion doubted how hard his son had really tried to get rid of Colette Battancourt, he didn't voice it.

"Have you tried telling her the truth?"

"She doesn't want the real answer." Sirius stared down at the alley below. "Maybe I—don't know the real answer myself."

"I'm sure your friends could tell her, if you can't. They know you better than anyone."

Sirius wished he could believe that—somehow, though, to hear it from Orion, with that gentle certainty, made it more real.

"I don't think they understand why she's hanging around me," he laughed. "And to answer your question—she likes them a lot better than Narcissa's friends."

"That does not shock me. It surprises me more that you should find a kindred spirit in one of your cousin's friends."

"That's what Regulus said." Sirius snorted. "You know, Cissy wants Colette to marry him."

"I've heard something of it." Orion's mouth twitched. "She'd have to get past your mother, of course."

"It's a stupid idea. I've been trying to talk her out of the whole getting married bit altogether."

"How are you getting on?"

"Not very well. The pureblood witch indoctrination is powerful. Before she met me, you know, I don't think it even occurred to her not to just go along with whatever her parents told her."

"Perhaps the girl wishes to marry," Orion remarked. "Some do, I'm told."

"No one who has spent five minutes with him wants to marry Rabastan Lestrange."

"Not everyone has your rebellious spirit."

Sirius didn't hide his skepticism at this possibility.

"Colette needs someone to look after her."

The feeling had been growing, slowly but steadily—concern, a wholly disinterested emotion that came from his natural admiration for the impetuous spirit he saw in Colette that was being smothered under a bushel basket—which had turned into care, and then protectiveness and now something he had never felt for a woman.

A sense of responsibility.

"Someone like you?"

Embarrassed, Sirius looked down at his shoes.

"Someone much better than me. We haven't even—"

He cut himself off. Orion—damn him, his look was positively wry.

"So—it's true, what your aunt says—about all your conquests being just so much talk." Sirius's face burned as he muttered a half-hearted protest. "I suspected it myself, actually."

"I could've loads of times—if I'd…wanted to."

But he hadn't.

"There's nothing to be ashamed of," his father said, gently. "Your mother is the only woman I've ever seen in that way."

"Really?" Orion nodded. "I just never wanted—I just don't want that from someone who only thinks she knows me."

"You'll have to let yourself be known." Orion smiled, sagely. "By only one woman, if that's what suits you."

"I can't imagine wanting that with more than one," Sirius admitted, laughing at himself. "I guess we can't all be Cygnus."

"You shouldn't be so hard on your uncle." Sirius let out a snort of disbelief. "He hasn't had an easy time of it."

"He's a total prick. And he resents you massively." Orion tutted impatiently. "It's true—he's madly jealous of what you have."

"Even if that's true, it doesn't change the facts."

"What 'facts'?"

"Cygnus has always done exactly as he was told—he married to please his parents, he lives his life as they wish him to—and even after all that, even after death, he's never got out of his brother's shadow. I cannot help but feel he's right that there's some injustice there." Orion smiled, ruefully. "Alphard never expended the least bit of energy endearing himself to Irma or Pollux, and they will always prefer him to Cygnus."

"Alphard couldn't help being more likable than Cygnus."

"I think it has something more to do with being a second-born son, actually."

"Don't make me feel bad for Uncle Cyg." Sirius shook his head. "Is there no one in this family you wouldn't defend?"

"No one is all good or evil. People are complicated, Sirius. Maddening, strange—but not wholly bad. Yes—" He held up a hand. "Even Blacks."

Sirius gave his father a hard look.

"For once I wish you'd just admit it."

"Admit what?"

He waved his hands, irritated.

"That you don't like any of them either."

Orion took in Sirius's canny, defiant expression with characteristic patience.

"They may be a—difficult bunch—"

"—Understatement of the century—"

"—But they are my family." Mr. Black forced a sad smile. "If I don't defend them, no one else will."

Sirius felt the weight of those words—such a simple, childish statement from his father's lips—it had the certainty of a textbook or dictionary.

"At least admit it about Arcturus." Orion groaned. "Come on. He makes you miserable and he always has. He demands you do everything for him, then takes all the credit. I've never heard him thank you once."

His father sighed and stared down the narrow alley that lead out to the street.

"Like your uncle, your grandfather is a—complicated man."

"He's a spiteful old vampire who has done nothing to deserve your loyalty."

"He is my father."

"So?"

"One doesn't have a reason for loving one's father—one simply does."

They stared at each other. Sirius felt weak and drained, like he was recovering from a bout of flu—or from a crying jag. When he lifted his hand to wipe his face with the back of his hand, he remembered that the latter was true.

"He wanted me to bring you back, you know," Orion said.

"That shocks me," said Sirius.

"I don't know why it should. You may not believe it, but your grandfather has always preferred you to your brother. I think he sees something of himself in you."

"Great. I'd rather be compared to Bella."

Orion chuckled—his laugh turned into a rattling, sickly cough. It took him a minute to compose himself again—the longest minute of his son's life. Sirius stood, rigid and immovable, refusing to so much as look at his father.

"Why didn't you come, Dad?" Sirius whispered. "If I had known—"

"Would it have made a difference?"

"It might've, if I'd thought you gave a damn, yes!" Sirius snapped. "You never wrote, you never tried to see me—you never showed me you cared at all that I was gone. What was I supposed to think?"

Orion touched Sirius's chin and tilted towards him, forcing his son to look him in the eye. Sirius's felt his eyes filling with tears. He tried desperately to blink them away, but it was too late—the dam had burst, there was no point keeping up pretenses.

"The reason I didn't fetch you—was because I thought you would come back on your own." The grip on his chin tightened. "I was sure you would. And the longer we waited, the more time passed—the more stubbornly I refused to yield. I clung to my pride. You wounded it so terribly leaving the way you did. I didn't want to appear weak, and that's what going to fetch would have amounted to, especially after you came of age. It would have been admitting that I needed you more than you needed me."

Mr. Black let go of his son.

"I must confess—I wasn't thinking of your feelings at all—only my damned pride. It's one of many things I must ask you to forgive me for—and not to blame your mother over. She would have done anything to get you back. She still would."

Sirius wanted to tell his father that this wishing for forgiveness was pointless, that for all the years of spewing condemnation at the family and at his mother and father he had, in his heart, never blamed anyone but himself—but he couldn't bring himself to put it into words.

He was sure Orion understood without him saying it.

His father reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box. He held out his hand, and Sirius wondered, exhausted and spent, what else there was left to hand him, to burden him with?

Then he realized it was the seal that Walburga had already given him.

"It fell under the dining room table. I didn't want you to lose it."

Sirius opened the box and pulled out the silver seal, admiring its exquisite craftsmanship. He wondered how much money and how much grief his mother had leveled on the workman who'd been commissioned for this rush job.

He picked up the picture at the bottom of the box—the drawing that Regulus had copied out from his mother's head, painstakingly, in scarlet ink. Sirius smiled at the lion. How difficult it must've been for Walburga to include him in the picture, what effort that concession to a part of his life she still resented must've taken her.

"What motto will you pick?"

"Hm. Do you think 'piss off' will fit?" Orion gave him a warning look. "Relax. It was a joke."

He ran his finger over the blank space on the scroll and looked up.

"What do you think I should choose?"

Orion laid a hand on his son's shoulder.

"What you are to make your life about—your life for—that is your choice. No one can make it for you, Sirius."

Sirius started to laugh—humorless, teetering on despair.

"That's all you've ever tried to do."

"I was wrong to. I see that now."

The wind howled around them, and Sirius shivered. Mr. Black's grip on his arm tightened—and then he let go.

"It's…very late," Orion observed, looking out over the dark alley below them. "Your mother will be expecting me."

Mr. Black stood at Sirius's side, attentively, as if he were waiting for something, some sign or word of permission from his son. It never came. He raised his hand and offered it to Sirius to shake. His son stared down at the hand, then up at Orion's face—which was pale and wane, and looked older than ever.

"Please don't leave, Dad."

Realizing his son would not take his hand, he lifted it and ran his thumb against Sirius's cheek, gently.

"I must go sometime."

Sirius squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away. When he opened them, his father had gone.

---

She lay on her side, her back to the door—but Orion recognized the tenseness of those shoulders, the rigid way she held herself, and he knew his wife was still awake.

"I had a letter from Lucretia." He watched her stir from the doorway. "She survived Christmas day with my father."

His wife blinked up at him, sleepily. She never could give up her little artifices—like she slept like the dead, for one thing.

"By the skin of her teeth, no doubt."

"I'm sure he had a good time. He adores her, you know."

Walburga sat up. She had neglected to put her hair in its usual tight plait, and her dark tresses, streaked with gray, tumbled in loose waves about her shoulders.

"No, I do not know that," she said, arching an eyebrow. "He does an abominable job of showing it."

"She's all he has left of mama."

"Lucretia isn't like your mother in the least," Walburga said, bluntly. "If Arcturus is looking for a resemblance in that quarter, he'd be far better looking to you."

"I don't know what you mean."

"You are far more like Melania than Lucretia is."

"You've never told me that before."

"It's so obvious I didn't think it needed to be said." She yawned and stretched her arms above her head. "The reason why Arcturus and Lucretia always fight is that they have the same temper. As far as I'm concerned, they are too alike."

He smiled, faintly.

"An intriguing notion. Is it possible for a child to be too like a parent?"

"In this family it happens all the time."

Orion remained as rooted and solidly fixed at the threshold as an oak tree.

"I am—a bit tired." She toyed with the feathered edge of her coverlet. "Aren't you going to come inside, Orion? You're letting in a draft."

Orion shut the door behind him and crossed the room to the bed. He sat down on his side and gazed at his wife—languidly, as if he had all the time in the world to simply look at her. Walburga, unerringly sensible and acutely aware that at fifty-four there could be no reason for her husband to be mooning over her like a calf, did not permit this nonsense for very long.

"I suppose you will be joining me under the blankets at some point." Orion blinked and turned his head towards one of the four-posters. After twenty-five years of marriage, hiding the effect of her words on him had become second-nature. "How was Sirius when you left him?"

She dipped her eyes towards the coverlet and affected a casual voice—the question was of little consequence.

"In a reflective mood. He's trying to decide what the motto on his new crest should be."

"I could give him several suggestions."

"Madam, have you met our son?" Orion stood up. "I am sure however dignified they are, your suggestions will fall on deaf ears."

"I suppose," she conceded, as she watched her husband take off his dressing gown and hang it neatly on the hook by the bed. "He must do things his own way."

For the first time in many years, this thought did not fill Walburga with a sense of frustration and grief. She let out a happy little sigh—the sigh of a school girl—and leaned back on her pillow, staring up at the canopy of the four-poster.

It was dotted with stars.

"It was a very good Christmas, wasn't it?"

"Your greatest triumph to date, my dear."

Her husband listened to Walburga rattle off all the components of her entertainment in exquisite detail, agreeing to the superior quality of each when asked. It had all been so wonderful, it seemed she barely believed the day had happened herself.

Both of their sons had been so sweet to her…such thoughtful, charming boys. They really were the two best children in all the world.

"Do you think the boys like their presents?"

He lifted the covers and slid next to her. At the feeling of the bed dipping with that familiar weight, a curious calm spread over Mrs. Black. Things were, for the moment, as they should be.

"I believe the broomstick went down a little easier than the sets of dress robes of every cut and color."

"Men! All you think of is Quidditch," she huffed. "They are grown-up wizards now, and they must dress the part. My gifts are practical."

Orion hummed to himself. The tune sounded suspiciously like 'Good King Wenceslas', though his wife did not rise to the bait.

"That was very sly of you, to go behind my back that way. Regulus did not need a new broom."

"He is my son, and I'll get him what I see fit."

"You'll spoil him."

"I don't think anyone can accuse us of that. I wish that we had gone to more of his matches, when he was in school."

"My father never went to Cygnus's matches."

"That is not the point."

"Regulus understands our traditions—and your responsibilities. "

"That doesn't change the fact that we both ought to have paid him more attention."

She reached out—groped for it—and when she found his hand, entwined her fingers in his.

"One cannot change the past," Walburga said, quietly. "One can only move forward."

He turned his head to look at her.

"Is that what that old woman said to you?"

Walburga made a great show of fluffing her pillow.

"What are you talking about?"

"That old muggle. She whispered something to you when she left. Was that what she said? I've been wondering all evening."

"Of course not," she mumbled into the heavy damask that engulfed her slender frame. "Why would such an absurd thought even occur to you?"

"It doesn't sound like something you would say—or think of."

"So you figured I picked it up from some old mudblood?"

"I never doubt you capable of surprising me, my dear."

The compliment made her cheeks flush.

"If you must know it was—just some nonsense about—Sirius Orion." She twisted one dark tendril of hair around her finger and scoffed. "Nothing I need her or anyone else to tell me."

"Indulge your husband."

She hesitated.

"That he's a—good boy who needs looking after."

Orion didn't say anything for a long moment.

"You're right, of course. No one knows that's true better than you do."

The steady sound of her husband's breathing so close to her—in and out, in and out—had an almost hypnotic effect on Walburga.

"I think we should spend Christmas day with only the four of us always."

"Does this mean that you have given up your scheme to have your sons wedded?"

"Oh, well," she conceded, with a huff. "I suppose the boys' wives must come, too. We can't exactly exclude them. Happily there will be two, eventually—and they can amuse each other."

"Won't there be a brood of your grandchildren to manage?" Mr. Black asked, voice heavy with irony. "Surely that will keep these troublesome wives out of your way."

"Don't be absurd, Orion," Mrs. Black replied, utterly missing his sarcasm. "That won't be for a good while yet. And anyway, that's what nannies are for."

"Personally—" He snaked an arm about her waist. "I believe mothers are better suited to that task."

Walburga harrumphed and curled into his grip. The heat of her husband's body so close made the bed pleasantly warm—no warming pans or spell could match it for comfort. She laid her head upon his shoulder and rested it there, as the comfortable drowsiness that comes with rich food, drink and the more intangible pleasures of life fell over her.

"Regulus seemed in better spirits today."

"He did."

"I knew if you just spoke to him, he would be much better—boys need guidance from their fathers. It's the only thing for them."

Her husband stroked her back, gently.

"He's stronger than he looks."

"Like his father," she said, as she drifted away. "And…Sirius? Did you talk to him?"

Her husband stared up at the canopy of their four poster.

"He and I understand each other better," Orion said, at last. "At least—I think we do."

"I'm glad…" She nuzzled into his shirt front. "But…will he…"

Even halfway to dreamland, husband knew what wife meant.

"I have absolute faith he will do what is right."

She wrapped her arms around him and fell asleep. Orion stayed awake as long as he could, savoring the feeling of his wife pressed gently against him.

Everything else would keep until tomorrow.

---

Colette tiptoed down the hallway and towards the carpeted stairs that lead to the main corridor.

She didn't realize where she was going until she'd got there. Opening her fist to reread the single sheet of parchment that she had pilfered off of the desk in Narcissa's bedchamber became a mere formality.

Library. Midnight.

No signature, so the cramped, untidy hand that had written those two words must've been known to Mr. Malfoy. The letter was open, so it must've been read by him, surely—unless somebody else had read it first. One of the servants? Abraxas? Narcissa likely didn't know what it said…that would have been going too much against her wifely philosophy of not knowing anything she didn't have to.

Sooner or later it would be missed, in either case, and the insane impulse that had come over Colette when she took it off the table must've been the same insane streak that had brought her here.

Her feet had followed the dictates of her insatiable curiosity—which in turn seemed to be following the dictates of her heart.

I could tell him what I hear.

She placed her hand on the door knob, leaned in, started to turn it—

The shuffling, skittering sound behind her shocked Colette like a bolt of electricity. She whirled around, her wand alight, blood pounding in her veins—desperate to find the source of the noise, her heart beating erratically.

She glimpsed a long, bald tail just before it whipped behind the grandfather clock that ticked-ticked-ticked...a quarter to the hour. Colette lowered her wand, fingers shaking like mad.

A rat. It was only a rat.

"What a fool I am…"

Sobered and full of a sense of her own folly, the girl hurried up the stairs. In the distance, a door closed. Silence again.

And still, the clock ticked on.

Ten minutes till—five—two—

One gong…two…

The rat emerged from behind it and squeezed its plump frame underneath the doorway.

Five gongs…six…

This took some effort, but the creature was nothing if not persistent, and he managed it with a few scrambling kicks of his equally fat legs.

Ten gongs…eleven…twelve.

He scuttled over the carpet, treading cautiously. All the lamps were out, but a bright fire lit up the empty room. The absence of people made it eerie—it looked as though the guests had been plucked unceremoniously from the room against their will five minutes earlier, leaving nothing behind but the crackling of the logs.

He lifted his snout into the air and sniffed—not empty–a person–a scent he knew—

The rat moved to the largest piece of furniture in the room, a sofa, and transformed behind it.

Peter Pettigrew poked his pointed nose out from behind the rose cushion.

"H-hello…?" Peter said. "Is anyone—there?"

No one spoke, but Peter knew he wasn't alone.

A wingback chair had been pushed in front of the fireplace. He peered through the dark, his gaze attracted to that spot—Peter squinted, for his eyesight has never been good. It was then he saw it, the hem of a black set of robes on the floor peaking out on the right side, in front of the hearth.

"M-Malfoy! It's you," Wormtail squeaked. "You scared me. I didn't mean—to keep you waiting. There was a—a girl outside the door. I…had to wait until she was gone."

The hem of the robes moved, just so—but the figure remained still and silent. It made Pettigrew nervous, and before he knew what was happening everything tumbled out of him at once.

"You'll be pleased. I have the—the answer you asked for. I went by the flat tonight…and I saw—outside on the, the fire escape—well, I think you'll be pleased. I b-believe I…know everything, now. So there'll be no need to…tell him anything about this, unfortunate…incident of ours."

He trailed off with a nervous giggle. The prolonged silence made Peter's stammer worse. He shuffled his feet, and took another tentative step towards the chair. Perhaps it wasn't enough—did Malfoy want more from him? What had he called him?

A well-informed lackey.

"There's—something else, too. That…French girl, the one that was outside the door just now. I saw her—I met her last night. She was at the Potters'! What is she doing here?" Still Malfoy said nothing—Peter raised his voice. "Did you hear me? Sirius brought her with him as—as his date."

Peter heard the faint intake of breath, and as had been the case so many times in his life before now, realized his mistake too late.

The figure in the wingback chair stood up and crossed in front of it.

"Did he?" Bellatrix Lestrange smiled like a wolf. "Well, well—how very naughty of him."

---

Sorry, Sirius, Regulus gets a hug and you get the news that your dad has some unspecified magical heart condition that's slowly killing him. I really am cruel.

This has been the chapter that I've been looking forward to writing since I began this story over three years ago. To be honest, I never really expected to make it even this far in writing (or for it to take this long to write, but that's another story). There's a very personal aspect of this for me and I hope that reading it, the emotional payoff is earned. It took a lot out of me.

I'm going to take a break and re-group. I've been working on a novel, contemplating a move and need to focus on career and personal responsibilities. I also, believe it or not, have never actually sat down and re-read the entire saga from start to finish, and since we're at an act break (remember when I tried to give this story an act structure?) this feels like a good time to do so.

So, hiatus begins now. Thank you all for reading and goodbye for now. I hope to be back in a few months for the thrilling conclusion. You are in my prayers, always.