Late December 1977
Flat 0, Camden, London
"Are you sure you're not together?" Lily asked Blanche in a genuinely surprised voice. Her eyebrow quirked as Blanche gave a long sigh of exasperation.
"I think I'd know!" She exclaimed, but then quieted herself as she heard Sirius and Remus rumble around in his bedroom.
"I don't know if you would," Lily doubted. "I don't know if you could even tell."
"Well, excuse me, Mrs. Experience. Why don't you tell me?" Blanche snarked.
"I'll tell you what I saw. I saw hand-holding, cuddling, and intimacy. Maybe it isn't a relationship, but it's something!" Lily grinned widely before Blanche kicked her in the foot.
"Peter should be here any moment," Sirius said as he and Remus emptied into the living room. They collapsed into the two armchairs with a thud.
"Excellent," Blanche rolled her eyes. "I hate that toad."
"It's a rat," Sirius corrected, keeping his eyes on the fire.
"What?"
"A rat. That's his Animagus. Makes more sense than toad," he said, looking to her. He shrugged at her irritated look. "Just saying…"
"You boys and your bloody Animagus shit," she stomped her foot. She was particularly peevish today.
"What's got your wand in a knot?" James asked as he entered from the kitchenette, putting new bottles of wine in the fridge.
"Nothing has my wand in a knot. This flat is just too damn—" she kicked Sirius' armchair "—small for six people. Especially with that lard."
"She slept on the floor last night. That's what," Sirius explained in a background voice.
"That's right," she grinned sardonically. "If only you had a dog bed lying around for me to curl up in. Because James and Lily needed my bed."
"Hey! Don't go attacking Padfoot! Padfoot is a sweet dog!" Sirius exclaimed.
"Padfoot has fleas."
"Come on now, Blanche," Remus looked up to her smiling. The warmth of the fire seemed to have imprinted upon the expression on his face. "It's New Year's Eve. Have a glass of wine!"
"James has a horrid back, Blanche," Lily fought back. "And it made sense for us to double up, so I took it. Sirius offered half of his bed to you, and you declined. That, then, is your fault, I reckon."
"Only because I didn't want to be assaulted in the night!"
"Like you wouldn't enjoy that," Sirius snorted. Blanche slapped the top of his loosely-ringleted head.
"You didn't seem to mind at my house," Lily reminded in a sing-song voice.
"Sirius is abnormally hot—"
"You can say that again," Sirius interrupted. That earned another slap.
"He runs warm, I meant. And I was cold."
"Blanche, you'd rather have built a fire in the middle of the Evans' guest bedroom than rely on someone for something else," Remus laughed. Its truthfulness stung, and the insult would have been a surprise if Remus had not already been on his fourth glass of wine. He was a bit of a heavy drinker, but no one brought it up because they were all sympathetic toward his lycanthropy. There were few things to mend over that wound, and alcohol was one of them. That being said, he rarely indulged; he disliked the truthfulness it lent his voice.
There was some irony to his comment, however. Blanche had relied on Sirius that night, and it wasn't for his warmth. It was for the comfort he offered—the last thing Blanche would ever go to anyone for. As much as this rang true, she would never let her mind see the truth in it, even though everyone else already saw.
James walked in with a heavy glass of white wine for Blanche, and she bitterly accepted it. She did need it.
Lily enlarged the clock hanging above the mantle with a flick of her wand so everyone could watch each tick of the second hand closely come midnight. As she cast the spell, a knock sounded at the door. Sirius stood and walked to it, allowing Blanche to steal his seat.
They all heard Peter cast an unlocking charm and enter it before Sirius could reach the door. "Padfoot!" He exclaimed.
"Wormtail—glad you could join us on this fine evening," he welcomed Peter in.
Blanche walked unsteadily to the window against which a barn owl tapped. A drinking game that was some hybrid of Exploding Snap and Wizard's Chess had soaked her brain in liquor, but the fresh night air of winter streaming in knocked her to her senses. She failed to recognise it at first, but then realised it was Orpheus, the cold-faced barn owl belonging to Rabastan Lestrange. She scowled and took the letter, leaving the living room and walking to Sirius' room, which she had been sleeping in on the floor since the arrival of the guests. She surely would force Sirius to the ground for the next night.
"Colloportus," she wandlessly locked the door, which had no lock and could only be secured with the charm. She held the letter under the tall candle that still burned beside Sirius' bed, dripping soft wax onto the oak bedside table. Rabastan's black wax seal held together the folded corners and Blanched peeled it off, holding it over the flame so it dripped down the chartreuse wax of the candle. There was no introduction nor acknowledgement of the recipient; no 'dear' nor 'greetings,' not even a stiff 'to whom it may concern.'
I've taken your Disapparition and failure to return to Lestrange Grange as an indication that you no longer wish to be a part of the Lestrange House. I've written to you so you know your ties to the family have thus been relinquished, and to inform you that the Lestrange vault of Gringotts will no longer allow you to withdraw from the account. If you hope to reverse your actions, please abandon these ambitions as you are no longer welcome here. Your possessions have been removed and destroyed. Your tuition has also been halted. I ask that you only use your mother's maiden name or the blood traitor Black's name, as association with you is unattractive in the eyes of the Dark Lord.
Rabastan Radulf Lestrange
Blanche kicked the table, sending Sirius' brass alarm clock off the edge and springs flying about. "Reparo," she said after a halt of silence and looking at the clock. Was she happy to be free? Yes. But the changes that were to be made… No more Hogwarts or home or last name or endless bank to dig handfuls into.
"Am I superficial?" She asked herself aloud suddenly, bringing her hands to her face and feeling the skin and forms beneath it, as though to examine the similarities between physical and mental superficiality. She felt the straight nose, high cheekbones, long lashes. She was accustomed to luxury; weaned on oysters and champagne, getting everything she ever wished for. Her Christmases were colder than those experienced three-hundred kilometres north, but at least a frothing hill of silver presents always awaited her beneath an ever-towering pine tree on Christmas morn.
"Blanche? What are you doing in there?" She heard Remus Lupin on the opposite side of the door, rattling the doorknob.
"Nothing," she answered. She prepared to rip the parchment in two, then in four, then in eight, and so on, but she couldn't tear it. Her hands didn't let her. Her body wanted her to keep this—she knew. The object of disentanglement. The emblem of her orphanhood.
"If you don't unlock it, I will," Remus threatened. She stood up from her crouching position and unlocked the door with a flick of her wrist. She watched as Remus nearly scraped his head entering the room—too tall for the vertically-outdated flat. "What are you doing over there?" He peered over the bed, watching as Blanche vacillated between attempting to rip the paper and putting it down before her in security. His drunkenness had worn away somewhat as the night had progressed. He now only spoke with mellow joy, sinking slowly into perpetual darkness as would a capsized ship.
"I just got a letter from my father," she told him.
"Your father, huh?" He sighed, sitting on the bed. "Sirius told me a bit of what happened. I'm sorry that happened to you, Blanche. I really am."
Blanche smiled at him sadly from the ground. "It's okay. It's not what he did that bothers me the most," she exposed in a rare moment of sentimentality. Remus had a way of making her comfortable enough to dribble some of her problems on the table—but never spill.
"What does?"
"The fact that that man is my father, and there's nothing I can do about it," she mumbled. "I've essentially been unyoked from the family, for which I'm glad—truly. But the fact that he's in my blood. You know? No—you do know, don't you?"
Remus nodded. She watched his eyes cast out the window at the moonlight that sunk from the sky and into the streets of London. The fear in his eyes was unmistakable, and Blanche similarly feared these bits and pieces of her life... but it suddenly slapped her in the face what that must be like—fearing something he sleeps under every night, and it devouring the evening sky. Every time the sun set he was lost to the fear; at least Blanche didn't have to see her monsters anymore.
"New Year's Eve is overrated," Remus sighed again, standing. "Take your time in here. Do you want me to send Sirius in?" He asked, barely able to see the top of her head over the bed-frame.
"Why do you assume—" she began, but stopped herself. "Yes, please."
It was only seconds before Sirius came racing in, slamming the door behind him. "Hi," he greeted, collapsing on his stomach on his bed.
"Spend the last minute of 1977 with me?" She asked, crumpling and flattening the letter repeatedly in her hand. "Then spend 1978 out with them?"
"I'll just stay here. I'm tired anyway," he yawned. He was so strange, she thought. Most nights he was a party animal, but lately he was merely a sleepy homebody. "What are you doing down there?" He looked down at her, sneaking under the covers.
She made a ball of the letter and threw it at him—it hit him directly on the smooth plane between his eyebrows. He picked it up and unwrinkled it, stretching it before his eyes so he could see. She watched his eyes quickly pass each line. Then, shockingly enough, he saw a grin sneak onto his face as he finished.
"What is it that's so funny about the letter?" She inquired.
"Blanche Black," he envisioned dreamingly. She watched his eyes float up to the window as though looking into the future, as a little boy would look into the sky to see if it held what he wished. "You can't deny it has a ring to it," he looked back to her.
"Oh, stop. I don't know why he suggested that. Walburga would have an apoplectic fit if she heard about that. Anyway, it's not like a have a legal right to the name. I may just stick with Lestrange and hope my father hears about it."
"You should use Greengrass, not Lestrange," Sirius told her, his face falling straight. He looked like a man again, boyishness fading. When he wanted, he had a face that could command a hundred brigades, a thousand cavalries.
"Where's the fun in that?" She screwed her lips into a frown.
"The fun is that you don't give your father another bloody reason to come after you."
Blanche shrugged, looking at the clock she'd kicked over. There were two minutes until the first of January. She saw he was going to fight her, but she stopped him. "I can't graduate from Hogwarts."
"How's that?"
"No tuition. Maybe I can talk to Dumbledore about a scholarship, but I don't know if I'd get it with my record," she sighed. In spite of Blanche being at the head of all her classes, she did have a knack for landing herself in detention.
"Oh. I'll just pay for your remaining months," Sirius said easily, as though it were obvious.
"Absolutely not."
"Why not? It can't be very much. A year is about ten thousand galleons, but you only need coverage for six months. Five thousand galleons," he said, seeing the reluctance upon her face. "My uncle left me quite a fair bit of gold, Blanche. Trust me when I say five thousand galleons will not make a dent in the inheritance."
"Sirius, you're not paying for it."
"I am. If you're so desperate for financial independence, you can pay me back some day."
Blanche looked at him with hesitance, pursing her lips. She would quite like to graduate. She was at the head of nearly every class she took. "Are you sure?"
"I honestly didn't even think we'd talk about it. I just thought I'd be paying without question."
"How's that?" She laughed.
"Well, you're my family. Why wouldn't I?"
A very serene look passed Blanche's face, fading all of her porcelain features into elegant delicacy. Her eyes were warm with trust and love, if only for a moment. Then the room beyond the bedroom's closed door screamed with laughter and exclamation coming from the living room. They both figured it was midnight, as even the Muggles living in neighbouring flats celebrated loudly. London erupted with congratulations; the streets suddenly fluttered with gilded celebrators. "Happy New Year," she said quietly.
"To you too," he responded in a matching voice. "Be my New Year's kiss?"
"That tradition is rubbish, Sirius. And no," she answered.
"It may be, but why not? Wouldn't be the first time," he grinned. She avoided his eyes as she thought of that night—the taste of liquor and honey on his mouth and the warmth to his lips. Rising waves bubbling like a potion in a cauldron, the colour of fresh spring carnations and the scent of charred logs and thyme. With these features the memory was dressed.
"Stop it."
"Please?" He asked dangling a hand over the side of the bed. Blanche figured he wouldn't leave her alone for the rest of the night if she didn't, and a small part of her knew she wanted to. In a quick movement, Blanche planted her elbows on the side of the bed and took his face in her hands. It was all much faster than the unhurried, experimental time they'd first kissed, and was much shorter. When she moved away she hadn't even tasted his last drink on his lips, but he ensnared her with his hands before she could return to the ground, as she expected and secretly hoped he would.
He pulled her again to him so their mouths met in a real kiss, and this time he held her face between his hands. It wasn't long, but there was certainly something to it. It was almost a kiss of domestic bliss—sweet, short, and warm, as those shared by a husband and wife. He let her go this time, but she didn't slip back to the floor. She rested her chin on his shoulder and fit his hand between her two palms. He just kept looking at her—studying her like an artist studied his muse. If there was one thing Sirius always knew about Blanche and a one thing that never changed, it was that she was the most beautiful girl—at first—and woman, these days, he had ever laid eyes on.
Eventually they fell asleep on Sirius' bed, not tangled in the limbs but in the hand as they slept. Remus walked in some few hours after midnight to make a bed for himself on the floor, but saw the peacefully sleeping pair in the bed and decided to spend the night in one of the armchairs.
In the resuming days of vacation, everyone left London aside from Blanche, Sirius, and James. They'd spent most of their days buying miscellaneous goodies and drinking in pubs along Diagon Alley. But the day before going to King's Cross for the train, James, Sirius, and Blanche had a more definitive task. James and Sirius needed dress robes for the Last Ball, the formal dance held for the Seventh Years during the rains of May.
When Blanche was in Madam Malkin's with the two, she seemed startled to notice how they looked more like men than she'd ever seen them. James' relationship with Lily had naturally robbed him of his virtues—those which Sirius had thrown flagrantly to the wind when he was a Third Year. James' loss of virtue had planted a surety in his voice and a spring in his step. He made more of an effort to tame his consistently untidy hair, and even seemed to be working on a slightly patchy but albeit present beard. Sirius was playing with a similar idea, but his was—in its own way—much worse. Sirius was whole-heartedly considering growing a moustache, and often would let the hair above his lip grow for a few days without shaving, 'giving it a whirl' as he put. Blanche had done her absolute hardest to part him from this dream. The closest she had gotten was a promise that there would be no 'gentlemanly moustache' until after the Last Ball, under the conditions that she went with him.
"Blanche—imagine this," Sirius paused, looking at himself vainly from head to toe in the mirror. "I'm in these right proper dress gowns, looking clearly like a dashing cavalier. I have the chain of a golden pocket-watch visibly hanging from my vest pocket. My hair is combed back," he brought his hands to the side of his head and combed his fingers through the loosely-curled hair, giving himself a sleek look. "And then, every now and then, I'm twirling the ends of my elegant moustache."
"No," she said simply. Sirius looked at James as he parted the curtains and walked out. He stood next to Sirius in the mirror, looking at them together.
"Well, Padfoot—I must say you're looking extraordinarily handsome," he gushed.
"And Prongs! I could just eat you up," Sirius returned, then studied their reflections. "Scratch that—I'd eat myself up. I look incredible."
"Alright. I'll be wandering," Blanche sighed, having had enough of Sirius' narcissism. She left the robes shop and walked along the crowded streets of Diagon Alley by herself, reading the titles of the various shops until one piqued her interest: TerrorTours. Perhaps it could be something fun to do with Sirius, Lily, James, and Remus… And not Peter. She walked in and a fair-haired witch's attention was immediately ignited.
"Hello there! Are you interested in booking a trip with TerrorTours, the top wizarding traveling agency in the U.K.?" She asked.
"No, but I'm interested in knowing what you offer," Blanche said with a hint of irritation at her rehearsed promotion and sugary voice. "It would be a trip for five people—maybe six."
"Wonderful! Any particular continent or country you're interested in seeing?"
"No," she said blankly.
"That's alright! Would you like to hear about some of our most popular trips?" She asked.
"No," Blanche refused again. "I'd rather hear about your unpopular trips."
"Oh… Okay!" The woman hesitated at Blanche's odd combination of peculiarity and surety, but continued onward. "We have a group trip that provides a Muggle-protected shelter enclosed within the Giant's Causeway in Ireland. And another protected desert tenting trip that follows Badab-e-Surt in Iran. We have a mountaintop home on top of the cliffs in the Tianzi Mountains—but I'll be honest, those have been known to wobble and the Thestrals used for transportation are a bit frightening. We have places in the Chocolate Hills in the Philippines, Whale Bone Alley in Siberia, the Maunsell Sea Forts, Leap Castle, the Reed Flute Cave, the Rakotz Bridge…" She listed.
"Do you have a brochure?" Blanche asked. The woman nodded, handing a long piece of folded parchment over the counter. The pictures of each place were enchanted and provided moving arial views of each location. The brochure was quite thick, and Blanche took the front and back pieces apart and the brochure unfolded nearly a hundred times, stretching out like an accordion. "Perfect," she grinned.
"Just send us an owl if you decide on anything," the woman said happily as Blanche left.