Sirius leaned back in his chair, long legs stretched out before him, arms crossed over his chest, a brooding expression etched on his face. The meeting room buzzed with a nervous energy. The heavy mahogany table at the centre of the library at Grimmauld Place was covered with maps, charts, and hastily scribbled notes. Around it sat a motley crew of witches and wizards.
"Rookwood's is heavily guarded," Kingsley stated, his wand tracing a path on the map. "We believe they're using a combination of magical wards and Inferi patrols."
"Inferi?" Hestia Jones, a stout witch with a no-nonsense air, shuddered. "Those foul creatures... I'd rather face a dozen Death Eaters."
"We'll need to be swift and precise," Remus added. "A direct confrontation with the Inferi would be disastrous."
"Dumbledore's orders are clear," Moody growled, his magical eye swivelling restlessly. "We hit them hard, we hit them fast, and we seize any unusual artefacts."
"Any intel on what these artefacts might be, Alastor?" Kingsley asked.
Moody shook his head. "Dumbledore's keeping that close to his chest. Just be on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary."
Sirius flinched. The Horcruxes. He tried hard not to appear upset. He desperately wanted to find one of those strange things, and he would bet his life on it that he would. Or at least, he would die trying.
"We'll need to disable the wards first," Dedalus Diggle piped up, his voice high-pitched with anxiety. "Can't very well apparate straight into the lion's den, can we?"
"Bill and I can handle the wards," Charlie Weasley offered, his voice calm and steady. "We've dealt with similar enchantments before."
"Good," Kingsley nodded, his gaze sweeping over the assembled members. "But we need to be mindful of Rookwood himself. He's a powerful duelist, and he won't hesitate to use lethal force."
"Rookwood's a coward," Sirius growled, his voice laced with bitter contempt. "He hides behind his Inferi and his fancy wards. Give me a clear shot at the bastard, and I'll end his reign of terror myself."
Remus placed a restraining hand on Sirius's arm, his expression a mixture of caution and concern. "Easy, Padfoot. We need to be strategic, not reckless." Sirius scoffed.
"Shacklebolt," Moody barked, his magical eye swivelling towards the plump witch, "make sure that mini-Mungo's upstairs is prepped and ready."
Eulalia scowled, her round face twisting into a mask of displeasure. "As I said, Alastor, we're short-handed. Emma's—"
"Sick, yes, yes, we've heard," Moody interrupted, his tone brooking no argument. "But war waits for no healer, especially one who's gone AWOL."
"She has not gone AWOL," interjected Eulalia. "I would not drag an imbecile into Order business," she said affronted.
A murmur of discontent rippled through the room. Sirius shifted in his seat. He could feel Remus's gaze on him, curious and probing, but he refused to meet his friend's eyes. Instead, he reached for the pack of cigarettes he'd tucked into his pocket, a familiar ritual to quell the unease gnawing at him.
He'd barely flicked the lighter when Eulalia's sharp voice cut through the air. "Put that out, Sirius! We're not a blasted pub!"
Sirius scowled, but reluctantly pocketed the lighter and the unlit cigarette.
"Tonks!" Moody's voice boomed, silencing the room. "Check on the girl. And if she's decided to take a holiday in the middle of a war, drag her back by her ear if you have to. We need every healer we can get."
Tonks jumped up. "On it, Mad-Eye.
Sirius had noticed Emma's absence, of course. But amidst the urgency of the upcoming mission, he had pushed the thought aside. Now, remembering her defensiveness when asked why she was constantly jumpy, a prickle of doubt wormed its way into his mind. Was she truly ill? Or was something else at play?
Sirius ground his teeth. Bloody hell, why couldn't he shake this nagging feeling about the healer girl? It was just the flinching skittishness that seemed to follow her everywhere she went. He wanted to convince himself that she was probably some sheltered, naive thing, fresh out of school and terrified of her own shadow. He'd seen that type before, all wide eyes and trembling hands, clinging to the nearest bloke for reassurance.
And yet… there was something about her, something beyond the fear. A spark of defiance beneath the fragile exterior. It was that spark that drew him in a way he couldn't quite explain. And then there was that unsettling urge to shield her that night-and not from Buckbeak. It was a foreign feeling, one that made him feel off-balance, out of control.
Sirius Black was not like that.
He stifled a sigh, pushing the thought away. He wasn't good at this. Women, for him, had always been fleeting distractions, a way to escape. Nothing more. He wasn't built for tenderness, for the delicate intricacies of a real connection like James had with Lily. Best to keep things simple, uncomplicated. He never had the chance to find out otherwise, never let himself because he did not want to be tied down when he was younger, a rebel , a prodigal son of a pure blood traditionalist family. He never occupied himself with those...protective feelings. Whatever this was.
Maybe a quick trip to the Muggle world was in order. A meaningless fling, a night of oblivion, might be just what he needed to take the edge off, to remind himself of who he was, what he needed. He used to be so good at this, at compartmentalizing.
"We need a diversion," he said, trying to escape his thoughts. "Something to draw the Death Eaters' attention while we move in for the artefacts." He met Kingsley's gaze, his own hardened. "We'll hit them hard and fast, make them think we're the main force. Or perhaps we can alternate between two homes–one group strikes Rookwood's and another one at another Death Eating abode" he said in an intended voice.
"It's not a bad idea," said Mad Eye.
"It's mad," bristled Tonks.
Sirius scoffed. "Mad or not, it would startle them," he said, now lighting his cigarette, despite Eulalia's protests.
"I will run it by Dumbledore," said Kingsley and got up shortly after, indicating the meeting was dissolved.
The familiar thrill of danger, the anticipation of a fight, was a welcome distraction for Sirius. This was his element. He could handle a horde of Death Eaters. It was the unsettling stirrings of his own emotions that he couldn't control.
...
Emma had called in sick from both Mungo's and the Order, although the latter organisation did not take kindly to her excuses of an illness.
The fact was that she felt horrible. She stayed in her small flat all day and remained in her pyjamas, only to get up to smoke a cigarette by the narrow window.
She could feel the cold wind on her chest, her v-neck line exposing her skin to the crispy wind. She hadn't smoked for quite a while, as she vowed that those days when she smoked and drank were left to her partying past, when she lived and worked in Glasgow and worked at a pub, when she was younger. Now, as a healer, she was against puffing smoke into her lungs and she was actually curious about numerous muggle remedies.
She was not good at cutting off bad habits, though, and she would occasionally bum a cigarette or a few from some of her colleagues.
As she looked out the window she could see the bustling London street below, a stark contrast to the suffocating stillness of her flat. Thrown at her sofa was the letter she had gotten from Eulalia, demanding an explanation for her absence during the week of an operation.
She knew the Order was furious with her, their frustration palpable even through the clipped formality of the written word. Guilt gnawed at her, but it was a distant ache compared to the crushing weight of disillusionment that had settled over her.
Everything she'd believed about Peter, about Black, had been shattered.
Sirius hadn't killed Peter. Dumbledore's words echoed in her mind, a confirmation of what she'd tried to deny. There was also Black. The memory of the hippogriff incident, his words replayed in her mind. His confession that she was the most intriguing thing that had happened to him since Azkaban was so unexpected, so loaded that it made her feel strange. Why had he said that to her? Was he suspecting her? She thought that her erratic behaviour probably sent his alarms off, but there was also something else in his expression, a fleeting tenderness that made her uncomfortable.
His jacket was still draped over the back of her chair, she noticed in her dazed state.
She drew another drag from the cigarette, the smoke stinging her lungs. The world felt off-kilter, the ground unsteady beneath her feet. She needed to make sense of it all, to reconcile the man she thought she knew with the truth that had been hidden for so long. But how?
And then there was Pia. Pia, who had set her up, manipulating her into joining the Order, into gathering information. What was she supposed to do with that now? The thought of confronting Pia filled her with a weary dread. She didn't have the energy for another confrontation.
But who else could she turn to? Who else could possibly know something that confirmed the darkness that Dumbledore's words shed over Peter and his life.
With a jolt of recognition, she realised that she knew. The cigarette dropped from her clammy hand and fell on her bare foot, which made her flinch momentarily.
That was it–she needed her, she needed to find her.
Portia.
She needed to talk to Portia. Portia, who had known Peter, who might have some insight into what he had become. She stubbed out the fallen cigarette, a sudden surge of resolve cutting through the haze of her despair. She needed answers, and Portia was the one person she still trusted to provide them.
But how would she find her? Pia had never let her consort with Portia when Emma used to live with her in Scotland. Pia had shunned their other sister completely, considering her unhinged. She knew she lived somewhere in the country, but finding her without involving Pia was unlikely. How could she get a hold of her estranged sister?
A sharp rapping on the door startled Emma from her thoughts. Emma was sudden;ly nervous. Who could it be? Was Eula here to drag her back to the Order?
She opened the door a crack, a wave of relief washing over her as she saw Tonks standing on the other side.
"Moody sent me," Tonks explained, her gaze sweeping over Emma's dishevelled appearance. "He's worried and everyone's wondering what's going on."
Tonks' confusion was evident, and for a moment, Emma considered confiding in her. But the words wouldn't come, the tangled mess of her emotions too raw, too overwhelming to articulate. Then, a glimmer of clarity pierced through the fog of her despair. Tonks. Tonks was her connection to Portia.
"I'm sorry," Emma mumbled, forcing a weak smile. "I'm dealing with something… personal."
"Bloke trouble?" Tonks asked, her brow furrowed with sympathy.
Emma latched onto the excuse, grateful for the convenient out. "Something like that," she agreed. "I'll be alright. I'll come back to Grimmauld Place tomorrow. I just need a day to sort things out."
Tonks hesitated, clearly unconvinced, but nodded nonetheless. "Alright," she said. "But Moody's not going to be happy. He's already talking about sending out a search party."
"Tell him I'm fine," Emma insisted. "I just need some time to myself." Then, gathering her courage, she added, "Actually, Tonks, there is something you could help me with. I need to get in touch with my sister. She lives out in the country, we haven't spoken in a while, and I don't have her address. And… I need to learn how to conjure a Patronus."
Tonks stared at her, her surprise evident. "A Patronus?" she echoed. "Remus is the expert on those. He could teach you," she said brightly.
Emma shook her head, her resolve firm. She needed to stay away from Peter's former friends, at least for now. "No, I need you to do it, Tonks. Please."
Tonks studied her for a long moment, her gaze searching. Finally, she nodded. "Alright," she agreed. "We'll figure it out, Em. But you need to come back to the Headquarters, otherwise Moody will have both our arses."
A surge of gratitude washed over Emma. She had a plan, a path forward. She would get to Portia, she would learn to protect herself, and she would unravel the truth, no matter how painful it might be.
And then, she would find Peter.
Sirius lay sprawled on the worn sofa in the drawing-room at Grimmauld Place, his long legs stretched out before him. Remus Lupin was sitting on a comfortable armchair, sipping his tea.
"Dumbledore seems certain Rookwood's the target," Sirius was saying, his voice low. "But we need to be prepared for anything. You-Know-Who's been unpredictable lately."
A faint chime from his pocket interrupted him. Sirius sat up abruptly, his hand darting to the small, ornate mirror nestled within. "Harry," he breathed, his face etched with worry. He flipped open the mirror, his reflection replaced by the pale, anxious face of his godson.
"Harry, what's wrong?" Sirius asked, his voice laced with concern.
Harry hesitated, his expression a mixture of anger and distress. "I need to talk about Malfoy."
Sirius's shoulders slumped. "Harry, we've talked about this—"
"No, you haven't listened!" Harry interrupted, his voice rising in frustration. "Malfoy's up to something, I know it! He was at Borgin and Burkes, I saw him! He's a Death Eater, just like his father!"
"Harry, watch it!" Sirius snapped, his own temper flaring. He ran a hand through his already dishevelled hair, the stress of the situation getting to him.
"Don't rise to it, Sirius," Remus cautioned, his voice calm but firm.
Harry shouted, his voice cracking with emotion. "You're not here! You don't see what he's doing! Dumbledore doesn't believe me, Ron and Hermione think I'm being paranoid, but I know what I saw!"
"Harry, calm down," Sirius said, trying to regain control of the situation. "We'll figure this out, alright? Just tell me what happened. Have you seen anything odd? "
"It doesn't matter! No one listens to me anyway!" Harry's voice was thick with frustration and a desperate need to be heard. "You're all caught up in your own little world, fighting your own war, and you've forgotten about me! I'm the one Voldemort wants dead, but no one cares!"
Sirius's face hardened. "Don't say that, Harry, we are all trying to keep you safe, you know that!" he said in a clipped voice.
"Do I?" Harry challenged, his voice dripping with bitterness. "Then why won't anyone believe me about Malfoy?"
"Harry," Sirius began, his voice strained, "I do believe you, we're doing everything we can—"
"No, you're not!" Harry's voice was a raw, anguished cry. "You're not here! You're stuck in this house, hiding from the world, while I'm out there alone!"
The mirror slipped from Sirius's grasp, clattering to the floor. He stared at the reflection, his own face pale and drawn. Harry had disconnected.
"Harry?" asked Sirius. "Harry Potter!" he said again, shaking the mirror. "HARRY! HARRY!" he started shouting.
Remus placed a hand on his shoulder, his grip firm, grounding. "Sirius," he said quietly, "don't let him push your buttons. He's scared, but he doesn't mean it."
"He's right, Moony!" Sirius exploded. He spun towards the fireplace, grabbing the ornate poker and jabbing it at the unlit hearth. "I'm going to Hogwarts. I'll Floo there right now, grab Harry, and shake some sense into him."
Remus was instantly by his side, gripping his arm tightly. "Sirius, you can't!" His voice was urgent, his expression grave. "Not now. The skirmish is coming up, Dumbledore's orders are clear: we can't risk being seen at Hogwarts. Especially you. They know you are Harry's closest relative and they want you since the Ministry!"
Sirius slumped onto the sofa, burying his face in his hands. "Damn it, Moony," he groaned, his voice muffled. "I just want to help him, and I'm stuck here like a useless..."
"You're not useless," Remus said, his voice softening as he sat beside Sirius. "You're his godfather, Sirius. He loves you. He's just scared and lashing out. He doesn't really think you don't care."
"But I can't do anything!" Sirius protested, his voice laced with frustration. "I can't be there for him, can't protect him..."
"You are there for him, Sirius," Remus insisted, his grip on Sirius's shoulder tightening. "You're the person he turns to, even when he wants a good shouting match. That means more than you realise."
"But he's right about Malfoy! I've tried telling Dumbledore, but he just dismisses it. Thinks I'm still..." his voice cracked, "...still messed up from the veil, from those fucking dreams."
Remus watched him, his expression a mixture of sympathy and concern. He knew the nightmares still haunted Sirius. And he understood Sirius's frustration with Dumbledore.
"Dumbledore has his reasons, Sirius," Remus said cautiously. "He trusts Snape to keep an eye on Draco."
"And we are supposed to just blindly trust him too?" Sirius spat, his voice laced with bitterness. "While Harry's out there, alone? He's just a kid, Moony! He needs someone to believe in him, to fight for him."
"He is not alone," Remus reassured him. "He has Ron and Hermione. They're a resourceful bunch, those three. We just need to trust them to handle it."
Sirius hesitated, his gaze distant as he considered the situation. "Alright," he said finally, a note of determination creeping back into his voice. " But if anything happens to Harry…"
"Nothing will happen to him," Remus interrupted, his voice firm. "We'll make sure of it.
"Nobody bloody listens." Sirius slumped back on the sofa, muttering darkly to himself. "This is James' son, Moony. We owe him that," he said defeated.
The drawing-room door swung open, interrupting the conversation. Tonks entered, a sheaf of parchment clutched in her hand. "New reports for tonight's patrol, Remus," she said coldly. She tossed the parchment onto the table, her gaze flitting over Remus with a casual nod before settling on Sirius. "Well, well, cousin" she said. "Looking a bit ruffled, aren't we?"
Sirius just snorted but did not reply.
Remus cleared his throat, shooting Tonks a warning look. "Have you heard from Emma?"
At the mention of Emma, Sirius's posture shifted subtly. He straightened slightly.
Tonks shrugged, her expression turning vague. "She's dealing with something personal. Said she'd be back tomorrow."
"Hope everything's alright," Remus said, his brow furrowing with concern.
"She's not going AWOL on us, is she?" asked Sirius and immediately felt strange because his tone was hopeful, even lighter.
"Nah, just a bit personal matters," she repeated,
"What kind of matters?" asked Sirius again, which made Remus turn and look at him for a little longer than usual. "Is she ill? Injured?"
"Just a mood, you know. Happens to the best of us. And maybe, just maybe, it has to do with some bloke trouble perhaps," Tonks said with a scowl, her gaze lingering on Remus for a beat too long.
Remus flushed, averting his eyes. Sirius, however, felt a sudden surge of irritation, a sour taste forming in his mouth. "Sounds a bit frivolous for someone entrusted with patching us up. Shouldn't she be, you know, focused on more important matters?" Sirius said, unable to control his annoyance.
"Oi, she's allowed to feel unwell, you know," she retorted, her voice sharp. "And for your information, Emma's a bloody brilliant healer. She's allowed to have a life outside of fixing us up."
"Right, right," said Sirius. Remus still was looking in all other directions.
"Just don't tell Moody about the 'bloke trouble' bit," Tonks added, her voice softening as she glanced at Remus. "She wasn't looking too great. Seems like some family stuff bubbling up. She'll be right as rain tomorrow."
Sirius, however, seemed to ignore her, sinking deeper into his bitter mood. He stared into the cold fireplace, a strange, unfamiliar feeling churning in his stomach. He couldn't pinpoint what it was, but it tasted like he had eaten ashes.
...
The drawing-room of Malfoy Manor was a study in contrasts. Opulent, yet austere. Grand, yet claustrophobic. A roaring fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows that danced across the faces of the assembled Death Eaters.
Voldemort himself occupied a high-backed chair. His crimson eyes, like those of a predatory bird, scanned the room, missing nothing.
"The Order grows bolder, my Lord," Rabastan Lestrange began, his lips twisting into a sneer. "They plan to strike at the heart of our operations - Rookwood's residence. They believe him vulnerable, isolated."
A ripple of shock, then anger, surged through the room. Rookwood, a hulking brute with a shock of red hair, slammed his fist on the table, making the silver goblets jump. "Those fools! They dare attack my home?"
Snape let the outrage simmer for a moment before interjecting, his voice smooth and persuasive. "Precisely, Rookwood. They believe we are predictable, complacent. We shall use their arrogance against them."
He turned towards Voldemort, his black eyes gleaming. "My Lord, I propose a counter-strike. Let the Order waste their time and energy assaulting an empty residence in three days time. While they are occupied, we will strike at another target – the home of Elphias Doge, perhaps."
Voldemort, his reptilian gaze fixed on Snape, considered the proposition. The other Death Eaters, however, were not so easily swayed.
"Doge?" scoffed a wiry Death Eater with a pockmarked face. "What use is some doddering old fool's ramblings? We should be focusing on crushing the Order's attack, teaching them a lesson they won't forget!"
"Silence!" Crabbe's voice, sharp as a whip, cut through the dissent. "The Dark Lord trusts Severus. He has proven his loyalty time and again. We will follow his lead."
Jugson, his face creased with suspicion, glared at Snape. "Why Doge? Why not hit back at the Order directly? Something doesn't feel right…"
Snape met Jugson's gaze. "Trust me, Jugson. This is the most strategic move. By the time the Order realises their mistake, Doge will be ours, and their secrets will be laid bare at the Dark Lord's feet. I have plausible indications that they use Doge's home for records of the prophecy–perhaps a pensieve," he added.
Voldemort, satisfied with Snape's explanation, gave a curt nod. "See to it, Severus. We attack Doge's home when their wands will target Rookwood's. I assume you would be there to defend your home, Augustus?" he asked in a chilling voice and the huge man simply grumbled.
Voldemort then turned to Bella.
"An update. Draco's progress?" he hissed.
Bellatrix looked eager, her head bowing slightly, which made her curly black hair appear thicker. "The plan progresses as anticipated, my Lord. The moment of reckoning approaches."
Another Death Eater let out a derisive snort. "Approaches? When, Severus? We hunger for action," he added.
"Patience," Voldemort interjected, his voice laced with a chilling amusement. "All will unfold according to my design. Severus, elaborate."
"Draco will strike soon, my Lord," Snape continued, his voice smooth and measured, not making eye contact with the boy, who was in the room, but Voldemort did not grace him with a direct question on his plan of action.
"He will use a cursed artefact, directly to be sent to Dumbledore," added Narcissa in a small voice. "A locket," she clarified, touching her son's hand. The boy shoved her hand away though.
Wormtail seized the opportunity. "Perhaps I could be of service, Master? I could deliver the locket –"
His words were met with a wave of mocking laughter.
"You, Wormtail?" Snape sneered. "You wouldn't last a minute within Hogwarts' wards. You'd likely trip over your own feet and give yourself away before you even reached the castle gates."
Peter Pettigrew sunk back into his seat, looking pale. He was muttering to himself as if he was not seen.
Another Death Eater with a scarred and brutish face, added his own barb. "The boy's barely managed to conjure a decent Patronus. What use would he be? Delivering birthday cards, perhaps?"
"Draco will place the locket within the school. He only needs to Imperius a student to deliver it to Dumbledore," added Narcissa in an annoyed expression.
The hulking Death Eater,Rookwood, emboldened by the previous jabs, scoffed, "Imperius? Can a boy of sixteen even manage such a curse?"
Bellatrix rounded on him. "Do you question the Dark Lord's strategy, you imbecile? Draco is a Malfoy! He is more than capable!"
Draco, who was also in the meeting, next to Bellatrix, was not asked to speak for himself. It seemed that it was one of the Dark Lord's taunting tactics, to intimidate him more, allowing the other to humiliate him and his family further.
Voldemort, who had been enjoying the unfolding drama with a detached amusement, silenced Bellatrix with a wave of his hand. His gaze fell upon Draco, who sat slumped in a corner, a picture of youthful anxiety. His face was pale, and his hands fidgeted in his lap. Narcissa Malfoy, her face etched with worry, hovered protectively beside her son, her hand resting reassuringly on his shoulder.
"Now , Draco," Voldemort addressed him directly, his voice deceptively gentle. "Tell me, when will you strike?"
Draco, startled by the sudden attention, stammered, "Soon, my Lord. Very soon. The locket… it will be delivered within days. The Imperius Curse… I have been practising… I won't fail you."
Voldemort nodded, a flicker of approval in his crimson eyes. "See that you do not disappoint me, Draco. Your family's fate hangs in the balance."
He paused for a moment, but quickly spoke again. "Now, you all need to be warned. Our priority is to access the prophecy the Order retrieved–none of you have managed to give it to me yet, and my patience is running out," Voldemort said, licking his thin lips languidly.