George had pictured his summer holidays unfolding in a hundred different ways, but not one of those daydreams had involved scrubbing grime from the curtains of a derelict London townhouse owned by a formerly mass murderer.

Still, 12 Grimmauld Place, the ancestral home of the Black family, did offer a silver lining—or rather, several suspiciously bubbling jars' worth. The place was practically a goldmine of potion ingredients and miscellaneous magical oddities, just waiting to be "repurposed" by two enterprising young wizards.

On the first of July, their parents had sat them down—faces grim—and explained that, with Voldemort's return confirmed, the Order of the Phoenix was being reformed. They'd be expected at its headquarters the very next day. Not much else was shared; their parents had gone as tight-lipped as Gringotts goblins when it came to the details of the Order's operations.

Since then, while the grown-ups held whispered meetings behind closed doors, George and Fred had occupied themselves with far more exciting pursuits: brewing up new ideas for their joke shop. Harry, ever generous and delightfully impulsive, had handed over his Triwizard winnings at the end of term, saying he wanted to invest in something that would bring people a laugh in these increasingly grim times. The twins had taken him at his word—and then some.

By now, they'd developed the first prototypes of Extendable Ears, which were perfect for eavesdropping on those "adults-only" meetings, and George had sketched out plans for their next big idea:Skiving Snackboxes. Little sweets with serious side effects—nosebleeds, fevers, and the like—just bad enough to get a student out of class. Nothing permanent, of course. They had standards.

Harry had arrived at headquarters only yesterday, and chaos had promptly followed. Mrs Weasley had barely let him step over the threshold before putting him to work. That morning, he'd found himself elbow-deep in cleaning solution alongside George, spraying something suspiciously purple across the mouldy old curtains in the front parlour.

"We're running the business as a mail-order for now," George explained cheerfully to Harry as he scrubbed. "Haven't had time to hunt for a proper premises yet. But we've just put a whopper of an advert in theDaily Prophet."

"Mum doesn't read it anymore, thanks to their rubbish about you," Fred added, poking his head in from the hallway. "So we've got you to thank for that, too."

George grinned, but any reply he might've made was cut short by the unmistakableclangof the front doorbell. The effect was instantaneous.

"NOT AGAIN!" Mrs Weasley bellowed from somewhere downstairs.

The bell, enchanted or not, had once again triggered the dreadful portrait of Walburga Black. Her shrieks tore through the house like a banshee with a sore throat.

"I SHALL NOT HAVE MUDBLOODS DESECRATE THE HOUSE OF MY FATHERS—!"

"Shut it, Walburga!" Sirius roared from the kitchen, his footsteps thunderous as he rushed up the stairs.

A moment later, a small, shrivelled figure shuffled into the parlour, muttering furiously under its breath.

"Hello, Kreacher," Fred said lightly, shutting the door behind him.

"Ohhh, Kreacher didn'tseethe young master," the house-elf said with an oily bow. "Filthy little blood-traitor…"

"Sorry, didn't quite catch that last bit," George said with a smile that was all teeth.

Toying with Kreacher was a terrible habit—Hermione scolded them for it nearly every day—but it was just so easy, and frankly, the house-elf didn't make it hard to dislike him.

"What are you doing here, Kreacher?" George asked, as the elf began tugging ineffectually at a cobweb.

"Cleaning, young master," he replied, eyes glinting with malice. "Kreacher always cleans. Kreacher's mistress would weep to see the state of her home. Kreacher willsaveit. Kreacher willnotlet the blood-traitors destroy the noble tapestry—"

"What tapestry?" George frowned, glancing across the room.

"Thattapestry," came a new voice—low, cold, and unmistakably bitter.

Sirius had entered the room without a sound, his expression unreadable. Though he couldn't have been more than forty, Azkaban had left its mark. His once-handsome face was gaunt, his dark hair falling in tangled strands around hollow cheeks. But his eyes—those steely grey eyes—burned bright with something dangerous.

George turned his gaze to the far wall. A heavy velvet curtain had been drawn back, revealing a vast family tree embroidered in gold thread. Names sprawled across it in fine, spidery lettering, centuries' worth of pureblood pomp and pedigree. TheAncient and Most Noble House of Black.

Sirius snorted. "Haven't looked at this monstrosity in years."

Harry had joined them by now and was scanning the names near the bottom. "You're not on it."

"I was," Sirius said darkly. He crouched and pointed to a scorched patch near the lower branches. "That burn mark? That's me."

George's eyes strayed lower, to a thin gold thread that branched off from another burn mark, weaving delicately to a small, painted face—and a name beneath it that made the breath catch in his throat.

Pleione Lyra Black.

A sudden chill swept the room.

"Sirius," Harry asked slowly, "who is Astraea Fawley?"

But Sirius didn't answer. He staggered, swayed slightly—and then collapsed onto the floor in a dead faint.

It took nearly twenty minutes and a generous glass of Firewhisky to rouse Sirius. Mrs Weasley fussed over him like a mother hippogriff while he sat, pale and shaken, in an armchair by the fire.

"Astraea Fawley…" he muttered finally, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "Merlin, I haven't heard that name in years."

Harry leaned forward. "You knew her?"

Sirius gave a tired, crooked smile. "I dated her. Seventh year. She was… well, she was beautiful. Proper knock-you-flat-on-your-broomstick stunning. Ash-blonde hair, those cedar-coloured eyes—she had a look that could make you forget your own name." He paused, eyes distant. "Morgana's own masterpiece."

Mrs Weasley cleared her throat disapprovingly.

"Oh, don't start, Molly. You knew her. Everyone knew Astraea. She was the sort who walked into a room and had half of Hogwarts turning their heads."

"She still turns heads," Molly muttered, not meeting anyone's eyes.

Sirius chuckled humourlessly. "I'm not surprised."

Harry was watching him closely. "Who is shenow, Sirius?"

"Astraea Fawley," Sirius repeated. "Daughter of Cepheus Fawley. He was the last of the line—one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Until he went and married a Muggle, which got him disowned quicker than you can say 'Mudblood.' Astraea never forgave him. She was obsessed with getting back into pureblood society. Thought if she married me—Black blood, Sacred Twenty-Eight and all—that she'd claw her way back in."

"And you broke it off?" George asked.

Sirius gave a bark of laughter. "Of course I did. She was lovely to look at, but completely round the twist when it came to bloodlines. Couldn't see past a family tree."

"And you," Mrs Weasley said tartly, "were too busy chasing anything in a skirt."

"I only know that she didn't take the rejection well," Sirius said, voice quieter now, as though the memory had softened with time. "Not long after we left Hogwarts, she married some high-ranking Muggle—filthy rich, if I recall. At the time, I thought it was her way of throwing a tantrum in pearls and satin. But now..." His fingers brushed the edge of the portrait as if it might answer back. "Now it all clicks into place."

George was staring again at the portrait on the tapestry—the girl with high cheekbones and keen brown eyes. The same face that had haunted his thoughts for over a year.

Sirius traced the name beneath the embroidered face, his grey eyes darkening. "Pleione Black," he murmured, almost to himself. Then he looked up, fixing Harry with a sudden sharpness. "Do you know her? Pleione?"

Harry blinked. "No," he said, shaking his head. But beside him, George shifted.

"I do," George said, and he felt heat creep up the back of his neck. "Well—sort of. Her name's Eleanor Seymour now. She's in my year." He hesitated. "Her father—or, um, her stepfather—is some kind of Muggle aristocrat. A duke, I think. Pretty big deal in the non-magical world. Everyone at school calls her 'Slytherin's own duchess.'"

Sirius sat bolt upright. "Eleanor Seymour?"

George nodded. "She's… clever. As clever as Hermione, I reckon. She's figured out how to make Muggle electronics work at Hogwarts."

Hermione's head snapped up. "Shewhat? George, why didn't you tell me?!"

"She's taking ten N.E.W.T.s," George continued, ears turning pink. "She reads Muggle novels. She's got this sharp sort of humour, always one step ahead of you. She… she's brilliant. And—well—she went to the Yule Ball with Emil Rosier."

Sirius froze. "Rosier?"

George grimaced. "Yeah. She told me her mum's still obsessed with blood status. I don't know… I think she actually likes him."

Sirius's expression turned thunderous. "So Astraea is grooming my daughter—mychild—to marry intothatfamily?"

He made to stand, but Molly caught his sleeve and yanked him back down.

"Sirius, no. Youcan't. You're still a fugitive. You can't go barging in—"

"Iknow," he snapped. "But I also know Astraea's been trying to contact me for years."

He rose again, shaking off her hand. "I need to speak to Dumbledore."

With that, he stormed out, footsteps echoing down the staircase.