You weren't supposed to play favorites.

That realization had been one of her first hurdles when she began teaching at Hogwarts at the tender age of twenty—and it was a hard-won victory, for it was not her natural inclination to be patient. Minerva McGonagall did not suffer fools gladly. Naturally clever and hard-working, with a rigorous sense of right and wrong, it had taken some time for Professor McGonagall to understand just what a rarity that combination was. She could not reasonably expect such qualities in all—or even most—of her students.

Minerva had been reliably told that beneath her stern exterior she had an 'idealistic' streak. It was true, her love of fairness was a foundational principle, one of the most deeply-held values she possessed. The father she idolized had instilled it in her as a girl, and she believed it really was her duty as a teacher to encourage every student, no matter how apparently talentless or slow.

This was not a belief all of her colleagues shared.

"Ah—she's beautiful, truly beautiful." The foghorn-like sound of a nose being blown caused a few heads to turn in their direction. "I always cry at weddings."

"I would have never guessed," she replied, and rather than offending, her sarcasm elicited a loud guffaw from the man at her side. He was rotund, dressed in a resplendent set of purple velvet robes, and (much to McGonagall's embarrassment) had not stopped weeping since the ceremony had ended an hour before.

"No soft touch, are you, Minerva?" Horace Slughorn finished mopping his eyes and, perhaps for the purpose of consoling himself, plucked another shrimp canapé off a tray floating in mid-air. "Wish I had your heart of iron."

"Why? It wouldn't suit you in the slightest," Minerva McGonagall replied, turning to the man who had been her colleague for over two decades—and who, despite her noblest efforts, she had never liked as much as she felt she should.

Some personalities, rather like wormwood and antimony, did not do well together. If Professor Slughorn felt the same way about Minerva, however, he'd never shown it. When he wasn't crying over the bride, the potions master had spent half the ceremony furtively name-dropping people he recognized in her ear.

He'd been impossible to shake all day, and after several champagne toasts and a generous sherry, she found it difficult to hide her irritation.

"Just look at her!" Large mustache bristling, he tugged at her elbow and pointed across the room. "I'd wager twenty galleons you've never seen a prettier bride."

She followed his gaze to the sweetheart's table at the front of the glittering reception hall.

Horace was right, of course—Lily was beautiful.

It was hard to believe the young woman in the dazzling white gown, her dark red hair in an elegant twist at the nape of her neck, had ever been Minerva's student, never-mind that she had graduated from Hogwarts just a few months earlier. She was so grown up, sitting across from her new husband—and as for him—well, she'd never seen such a transformation. James Potter was gazing so fixedly on Lily you'd have thought she was the only other person in the room.

It was a far cry from the troublemaking rascal who'd spent so much of his time in school showing off.

No, she never cried at weddings. She didn't see the sense in carrying on over something that was, after all, as commonplace as childbearing and death, and she wasn't the kind of woman who went to pieces over any silly sentimental thing that crossed her.

If her eyes had gone a little misty when the vicar had told the groom that he could kiss his new wife, that was hardly worth bringing up, was it?

"She is lovely," Minerva agreed, briskly. Horace snorted again—that one word didn't do his favorite justice, but he took the admission he was right from McGonagall as a victory and conveniently missed when she lightly dabbed at her eyes. "They both are."

"I only hope young Potter knows what a special girl he's taken on," Slughorn murmured, eying James with suspicion. "And that Lily hasn't thrown herself away."

Considering how utterly besotted she looked, there was little chance of that.

"Really, Horace—" She rolled her eyes. "The way you talk, you'd think no one was good enough for Lily Evans."

"Well, it's the truth, isn't it?"

"I'd half been expecting you to claim you'd engineered the match yourself," she said, impatiently.

James Potter was exactly the kind of student Horace generally adored—rich, talented, from an old family—so that he had mixed feelings about the union struck her as odd. Of course, Lily was a particular favorite—and James was one of two recent students Slughorn had reason to be annoyed about.

In their very first week of school Horace had seen Sirius Black and James Potter for what they were—bright and charismatic, a pair that magnified each other's talents—and had spent seven years trying to entice them into his social club of hand-picked favorites. The boys' complete lack of interest in being his protégées had frustrated the wily Head of Slytherin House to no end.

Black and Potter giving him the runaround had amused her, she could admit that now.

"Oh, well—I daresay young James could shape up, if he doesn't rest on old Monty's laurels. He has potential. Have to say, though…" His eyes darted about the room doubtfully. "It's not what one would have expected."

"What do you mean?"

"Well…I had thought…" He lowered his voice and glanced around, as if fearing they'd be overheard. "For the Potters it all does seem a bit…shabby."

When she looked around the room, Minerva saw immediately why he would think that. It wasn't squalid, but there was something subdued about the entire affair—small clumps of people speaking in hushed tones—too hushed for a celebratory occasion. Ten years ago, the wedding of the only son of celebrated potioneer Fleamont Potter would've been packed with every famous magical personage in the land, a raucous shindig—not this modest service with only fifty guests. Perhaps it wasn't what the groom or his parents had wished for, either.

Wizards and witches weren't venturing out for social gatherings much these days.

The Potters' was a war wedding—Minerva recognized the signs. She'd been to enough of them as a girl, before she'd gotten her letter, before Hogwarts. Her father had always said that you could tell a war wedding because the only people who looked just as they should—as carefree, as ebullient as they would if they were marrying on the most peaceful June day imaginable—were the bride and groom.

Lily and James had been glowing all day, as for the rest—a pall of uneasiness hung over them, as if this was borrowed, stolen happiness.

"You and I have a different definition of 'shabby', Horace," she said, at last.

"That's probably true. And it couldn't really be, not with Lily here…I have missed her," he said, wistfully. "She was part of a talented crop. Course—" He elbowed Minerva good-naturedly. "Didn't seem like you were sad to see the back of them, were you?"

She was still looking around the hall at the pockets of whispering guests, when, on cue, a pair of intelligent gray eyes met hers. There was a moment of recognition—a wink, and then a familiar insolent smile, and were she in her animagus form, she probably would have raised her back and hissed.

A good-looking young man she had not been sorry to see the back of broke off his conversation with the elderly Mr. and Mrs. Potter and, to her chagrin, made a beeline for them. His eyes darted between her and Horace with distinct amusement. Minerva wished she had some of her father's famous whiskey to fortify her strength.

Sirius Black looked far too pleased with himself.

"Horace, old boy!" Black bellowed, clapping his former potions professor on the shoulder. "Smashing to see you, simply smashing! You're looking marvelous. Do my eyes deceive, or are you slimmer round the middle?"

Slughorn laughed, his gigantic belly jiggling like the popular Muggle depictions of Father Christmas, and tweaked Black on the nose.

"You've got the very devil in you, Sirius—" He waved one large finger with feigned disapproval. "I can see you're as much a rogue as ever! What've you been up to since last spring, eh?"

"I think that's something we'd all like to know," McGonagall interjected, tartly. Sirius turned round on her, and gave a start of surprise.

"My dear fellow," he staged whispered to Slughorn. "I don't believe I've met your rather charming companion. Dare I—is it too much to hope for an introduction?"

"Like playing with fire, do you?" Slughorn snickered into his drink, and Black answered him by sticking his arm out in her direction.

"Sirius Black. Charming wedding, wasn't it?" She didn't take the proffered hand—she had an odd feeling if she did Black would kiss it. "Best man—but I'm sure that's obvious."

She had never been so irritated at a wink in her life.

"We've met before," she replied, dryly, eyeing his hand with suspicion.

"Have we? You do look a bit like someone I used to know—" He squinted at her face. "Definitely have a similar glare…"

"Your wit remains as astounding as ever, Mr. Black."

Sirius gaped, theatrically, and Horace, to her immense annoyance, clapped.

As if he needs any more encouragement.

"Oh—it is you! It has been a while." He looked between his two professors—one of whom surveyed him as one would a rambunctious nephew, the other more like a shoplifting truant. "I didn't recognize you in your—dress togs."

He looked her up and down appreciatively. Minerva's mouth thinned in disapproval, but before she could reply Slughorn loudly cleared his throat.

"Now, now—I can see what you're doing! You're trying to change the subject, to get away from me, but I won't let you." Slughorn put an arm around Sirius and tugged him closer. "I asked around the Ministry about you, Sirius, and I have it on good authority they've not seen a whiff. Why would that be, hm?"

Black's smile fell. He seemed significantly less amused at the turn the conversation had taken.

"You know how it is…there weren't any openings in departments I'd be interested in," he said, evasively.

Horace blew a raspberry of disbelief, spraying champagne bubbles all over Minerva's hat.

"Nonsense, boy! Your name? You have your pick of the lot." Slughorn's grip around his shoulder tightened. "I think your grandfather Arcturus stills sits on the Wizengamot, doesn't he? Remarkable, at his age."

"I think if granddad saw me walk into the courtroom, he'd make a motion for a vote of no confidence," Black said, dryly.

Slughorn laughed, gainfully ignoring the heavy sarcasm.

"Well, if you don't fancy government, what about something at Gringotts—lots of treasure hunting, seems in your line. Winston Fawley—Ravenclaw, class of '60—is the head of their foreign bureau, I could easily set you up with—"

"—Oh, look, professor," Black interrupted, deftly slipping out from under Slughorn's arm. Minerva noticed how seamlessly he had slipped into the deferential—and in this case, more expedient—attitude of the student. "I think Lily wants to speak with you—see?"

James and Lily had broken off their conversation and were now waving furiously in their direction—clearly beckoning Black to join them. He waved back, pointed theatrically at Horace behind his back—Lily suppressed a giggle in her hand while James, at her side, looked less enthused.

"Ah—does she?" Horace turned his head and met his pet student's eyes—she had lowered her hand and looked dignified, now. Potter was still giving Black a half-hearted glower. "She does! I'll just—excuse me, I'll see you both in a moment."

And he trundled over to the bride and groom, clapping his hands in delight at the prospect of dictating the future careers of the couple's children.

McGonagall and her former student watched him descend upon the couple. When Horace had managed to steal away the attention of the bride from her annoyed new husband, Sirius turned back to her.

"Horace Slughorn?" He pulled a face. "Come on, you can do much better than that."

"We both came from Hogwarts, Black," she said, severely. "That doesn't mean we came together."

"O-ho." His eyes twinkled wickedly. "So what you're saying is you're—unattached."

There was something about him that had always demanded severity, and yet—she did not want to meet his expectation for it now.

"You can start by fetching me a drink," she said, glibly. "And we'll see where the evening takes us."

It had been worth it for the expression of shock on his face before he burst out laughing. He plucked the cup from her hand and walked it over to the punch bowl, a bounce in his step.

Black handed her back the brimming glass with a smile.

She had the idle thought that that cheeky grin of his probably worked.

More's the pity.

"Cheers—Minerva." Black savored her given name—she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of calling him an impudent scamp for using it. "How'd you like my speech?"

"I liked—parts."

There had been far too many sly asides—she did not need Pettigrew's shrill, muffled giggles to notice them, though it had helped—to things she did not even want to consider that they had gotten away with in school, and Minerva did not appreciate being used as a minor prop in his string of juvenile anecdotes ("I ask that all former educators of the couple take a walk around the town square, lest they be tempted to ex post-facto expel the groom…")

"Only parts?" he repeated, insulted. "Which parts?"

Despite her misgivings, the sincere affection her felt for the couple was unmistakable. When he had finally raised his glass to the newly minted Mr. and Mrs. James Potter, there was scarcely a dry eye in the room.

"It was what I've come to expect, Mr. Black," she said, evenly.

Brilliant in spite of you.

"That's not encouraging, coming from you," he laughed, raising his tumbler to her again. "And there's no need to stand on ceremony—you can call me Sirius, if you'd like."

"I'll bear that in mind." She took another sip of punch and watched him closely over the rim of her glass. "What have you been up to these past months?"

"'Up to' is a bit of loaded phrase, isn't it?" he asked, suddenly wary.

"How have you been occupying your time, then, if you prefer," she amended, smoothly.

"Ah—with nothing much." He shrugged his shoulders, a studied lack of concern on his face. "A little bit of this, a little bit of that—you know."

"I don't."

Black's smile didn't quite meet his eyes.

In the months since he'd left school, Sirius Black had not undergone the same miraculous transformation as his best friend. Oh, he'd grown out his hair, had put on a bit of muscle— he was no longer playing at the dangerous pose he'd struck in his school days—but she remained uneasy. He might've looked the part of a fully grown young wizard, like James…

But he hadn't lost the boyish air of self-satisfaction.

"I had expected an owl from you with a request for a recommendation, as we discussed."

Black downed his glass of punch and scowled good-naturedly.

"We could just talk like two normal people, you know," he said, a touch of impatience in his voice. "And skip the bit about me not 'living up to my potential'. I got enough of that from you in school."

"It doesn't appear to have touched you very deeply."

He doubled over, miming an arrow shooting him square in the chest.

"That hurts, you know," he said, clutching at his chest in pain. "You wound me."

Considering how sober and subdued the rest of the wedding guests were—even James and Lily's bliss was a quiet, private one—there was something faintly indecent about Black's high-spirits. He was practically bouncing up and down with coiled energy, like the jack-in-the-box her younger brothers had played with as children—ready to spring at moment's notice.

War, apparently, suited him.

He staggered to his feet, savoring her look of extreme disapproval.

"Come on, Minerva—it's a wedding. Let down your hair for a night…" he trailed off, suggestively. "You're unattached, I'm unattached…"

"And why is that, precisely?"

The grin dropped off his face.

"Sorry—what?"

"Why is it that you're…" She paused, significantly. "Unattached?"

Black raised both eyebrows so far they disappeared into his hairline.

"A bit forward, aren't you?"

She was starting to feel the punch.

"I see you can 'dish it out,'" she said, taking another sip, enjoying the way his lip twitched, as if he couldn't quite tell if she was joking. "But aren't capable of—what is the phrase…'taking it'?"

"Is this your idea of making smalltalk?" he asked, incredulous. "Asking me about my—love life?"

"I believe it's common practice at social functions to inquire about such things—" Black, she was pleased to see, now looked unsettled, even alarmed. "—Or was I misunderstanding you when you said you wished to be spoken to like a 'normal' person?"

"Well—that is—" he sputtered. "I don't ask if you have a boyfriend."

"You intimated you thought Horace Slughorn was me selling myself short," she retorted, setting her punch glass down on the table.

They stared each other down for a long moment—

"Alright, fair enough," he leaned against the table, still looking sideways at her, unsure. "You just—caught me off guard, that's all. Didn't figure you as being interested—"

"I take an interest in all aspects of my students' lives, Black—I am here, after all." She glanced over at the young couple, then back to him. "And while they're wasted on me, I'm sure your—er, charms are not without effect."

He fought back the urge to laugh.

"You might—" she continued, against her better judgement. "Even be described as not altogether bad-looking."

"Are you saying you think I'm handsome, Professor McGonagall?"

He was so delighted he forgot to call her by her Christian name.

"It does make one wonder why you're standing around chatting with your old Transfiguration teacher," she said, wryly.

Black shrugged.

"You're the most interesting woman here, and anyway—girls," He dismissed half the human race airily. "Who has time for that?"

She stared pointedly over Black's shoulder at James, now trying unsuccessfully to shake off his old potions professor, whose gigantic presence was slowly edging him out of his own wedding dinner. He now had to crane his neck around Horace's arm to see Lily—who was fighting smile at his expense.

"Your friend Potter seems to have found some."

"Yeah—poor devil."

"Lily has been a good influence on him," she observed, pointedly.

The suggestion that James had needed a 'good influence' irritated Black, but he masked it with another shrug.

"I suppose she's alright—if you like that sort of thing."

He didn't elaborate on what 'that sort of thing' was—she supposed he meant beautiful and talented witches who drew mens' attention away from their imbecilic friends. Black wasn't fooling her with his supposed antipathy, though—when Sirius had said that Lily was the best thing that had ever happened to James, the bride had actually gotten out of her chair and ran to embrace him, and when she kissed the best man on the cheek he had turned rather pink.

"You two seem to have gotten quite close since leaving school," she observed, gently. "You and Ms. Evans."

"Mrs. Potter," he corrected, with utmost dignity. "Lily and I have come to—an understanding. She's not so hard to manage, when you get the trick of it. I think the three of us will do very well together."

"I didn't realize you had an official role in the new household." Her voice was laden with irony.

"Of course," he said, smirking. "And to think you said I couldn't turn following James Potter around into a career."

He regretted the words the second they were out of his mouth.

Realizing his error, he leaned farther back on the table and looked around the other way.

Now that Black had brought them back around to the subject of his post-Hogwarts prospects quite by accident, she wasn't about to let it go.

"I was—surprised to hear you didn't enter the Auror training program in the fall."

"Look, I—" He ran a hand through his hair, agitatedly. "I looked into it, and decided it didn't suit."

"In what respect?"

"Just—the things they wanted—"

"Was it the order, the discipline, established protocol—" Minerva felt the heat rise in her face. "—Or necessary punctuality you objected to?"

"It takes two years to get through!" he replied, voice tight and defensive. "And even if I wanted to, as if I'd pass the exams for it—"

"You never once failed an exam set to you in seven years," she snapped. "I've never heard such an outrageously flimsy excuse in all my—"

"I never had to take a bloody character assessment in Transfiguration, did I?"

Black's shoulders shook with barely suppressed anger, and he gripped the wand barely visibly under his robes so tightly it looked as though he might snap it in half.

For a moment—very brief—she didn't quite recognize him.

"No—you didn't," she said, faintly.

The clump of people closest to them stared. He remembered himself.

"…It's for the best, trust me." Black was breathing hard, as if he'd just run a race."Nobody but you wants me anywhere near the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

It took him a few more shallow breaths for him to regain his composure—and for her to fully register what he'd said.

"What does that mean?" She gave him a piercing stare. "Six months out of school, have you already managed to attract the attention of Barty Crouch?"

His head snapped up—alarmed, there was a flicker of disquiet in his eyes. Minerva frowned.

"Of course not." The skin around Black's jaw tightened. "Why would you bring Crouch up?"

The frown lines between her eyes grew more pronounced.

"The Auror Office is under his purview, after all." He stuck his hands in his pockets, smile unusually grim. "You know him?"

"No—not really," he answered, shortly. "He's about the same age as my father—he knows him. There's not much love lost there, I can tell you that much."

Minerva's frown deepened. Black was taking the suggestion he might have some personal stain that would make him unfit to be an Auror seriously—and she had been joking.

"'Course, I can't really blame Crouch for that, can I?" Sirius continued, staring off at where the elderly Potters were now laughing together, a mirror image of their son and daughter-in-law. "Not much love lost between my father and I, come to think of it."

He had the same hard look on his face he'd gotten when Horace had brought up his grandfather. Black tapped his finger on the table, restively.

"How's my brother doing?"

She raised both eyebrows at the abrupt subject change.

"Well enough."

"How're his Transfiguration marks? He always was rubbish—"

"If you're truly interested, you ought to ask Professor Slughorn," she said, studying him closely. He was not looking at her. "He sees more of him than I do—"

"I'd rather hear it from you."

"Many people write when they want family news," she said, calmly.

His face flushed.

"Like he'd even bother to read it," he said, without humor. He pulled a flask from his pocket and refilled his glass with an amber liquid far stronger than the champagne cocktail. "Forget it. I don't care, anyway."

The words had a false quality, as if not even he believed them; he downed the drink in one.

"Being formally disinherited has some perks," he continued, conversationally, haughtily studying the bottom of his empty glass. "It's a full-time job, rubbing other people's noses in it. My parents work at it, I never had the patience for that—or the time."

"Not with your busy career and social calendar, naturally."

He let out short, hard laugh.

"I'm sorry, professor—I thought it'd be easier for us to get on, now that I'm not your charge—old habits, though." Carelessly, he tossed his empty glass on the table. It rolled, lazily, across the crinoline tablecloth. "Having a falling out at a wedding is probably bad luck."

"I had no intention of quarreling with you." she said, suddenly feeling tired. "I merely thought your wish was to fight dark wizards. That's all."

"It is," he said, quietly. "But you don't have to be an Auror to do that."

He tilted his head, gave her a suggestive, sly look—and a dangerous suspicion she'd been harboring all day plucked at her elbow again.

During her audience with the couple, when she had asked, James had joked that Lily was a full-time job, but she had fixed her bright green eyes on her Transfiguration professor and assured her she was keeping James out of trouble, and please to not worry about them too much. She had thought it an odd thing for Lily to say at her wedding, and then…

When she'd bumped into Remus Lupin—the fourth of Potter's schoolyard quartet—it hadn't taken them long to land on his dismal job prospects. Given Lupin's condition, she was not surprised—but he had been evasive when she asked how he was keeping himself busy—only assuring her, with an opaque smile, that he was. Then she'd cornered Peter Pettigrew, never a favorite (no doubt that was why he'd been avoiding her all day) and he stammered out a cock-and-bull story about waiting tables at the Hog's Head—what a bald-faced lie, as if he even had the nerve to enter the Hog's Head—

It didn't make sense. They couldn't all be unemployed.

James Potter's gang of schoolboy acolytes weren't just sitting around, twiddling their thumbs.

Unless—

"I don't know what you mean."

"Yes you do," Black countered, immediately. "You're the last person alive who can pull off playing stupid—don't pretend you didn't suspect—"

"Lower your voice, Black," she hissed.

He straightened up and looked at her, expression now deadly serious. At some point in his sixth year he'd had a second growth spurt, and so he was rather taller than McGonagall, looking at her, by definition, meant he was looking down. It made her feel older than anything else that had happened today did.

And she wasn't old.

"You really didn't know."

She said nothing. He didn't bother asking if she was pleased, shock had given way to the old standby—disapproval, and Minerva was sure her expression made that fairly obvious.

Nobody knew exactly who was in the Order of the Phoenix—that was part of Albus's plan, to draw Death Eaters out by using their own tactic of absolute secrecy against them—but she had suspicions about the roster, had heard whispers. Elphias Doge. Alastor Moody. Edgar Bones. Old friends of his, the men and women who had been on the front lines of the fight for the proceeding decade.

Was it naive of her not to have seen this coming?

"I thought—" He turned on his heel towards her, and continued, in a low voice, "I thought you and Dumbledore…"

Of course he didn't need a letter of introduction from her.

Albus must've known she wouldn't approve.

"I didn't," she admitted, finally. "But it explains a great deal."

"Now you understand about the—Auror training, and everything."

"I understand." She closed her eyes and sighed. "I only hope you know what you're doing."

She opened them again, and his flashed with that old impatience—the look he always gave her when she suggested there was a spell he needed to work on, an area of Transfiguration he had not have mastered yet. The oh, yeah? You think? look.

"I'm a grown man—" he said, voice heavy with the determination of youth. "—Of course I know what I'm doing."

That he was a grown man she could not deny, even if nineteen hardly seemed grown to her anymore—but she'd been only a little older than that when she'd started teaching at Hogwarts, heartache at her broken engagement still very fresh. If she'd married Dougal she'd have been a bride of Lily's age.

No, it was the part about him knowing what he was doing she had difficulty with.

"Oi! Padfoot!"

Both of them turned their heads just as James—scowling—marched over to them.

"Yes, darling?"

James grabbed Sirius around the neck and put him in a headlock.

"What's the big idea, sending Sluggy over?" he said, ruffling Black's perfect hair; they tussled like schoolboys. His friend laughed and elbowed him in the stomach. "I thought I'd never escape."

"What, you're not enjoying him?" Sirius laughed, and as he pulled away from James he knocked into McGonagall. Potter turned to her and gave her an apologetic smile.

"Sorry, professor—this one been bothering you?" He jabbed a thumb in Sirius's direction. "I can tell him to clear off."

"That won't be necessary," she answered, dryly—looking between them at two identical smiles. "We've been…catching up."

"Oh." James was intrigued. "Did Sirius tell you about his flying motor—"

Black jabbed the groom in stomach again and hissed something in his ear.

"Alright—I thought you got it registered—"

Black muttered something else in his friend's ear and straightened.

"As a matter of fact, James, I was just about to ask our illustrious former Head of House if she would do me the honor of a dance."

The string quartet had struck up a lively tune; several people, including Mr. and Mrs. Potter, had shuffled out to the middle of the floor and were dancing. Minerva saw over James's shoulder that Lily was trying to coax Horace out, he was waving her off with the excuse of his rheumatism—though he looked quite pleased with himself that she had asked.

She turned back to Black: he was watching her expectantly.

"How about it, Minerva?"

He held out his arm. If he had made the offer when he first walked up to her, Minerva was sure she would have accepted without question. The truth now stood stood like a barrier between them.

The moment she accepted he was grown up was the moment she no longer felt she could play with him.

"I don't think I could keep up with you, Mr. Black," she said, wryly. "I never could."

"She admits it at last."

He lowered his arm somberly, as if declaring defeat.

It occurred to her that she had no idea when they would next meet under these circumstances—if, indeed, they ever would.

"Next time," Professor McGonagall promised.

It took speaking the words for her to realize she meant them.

"I'm holding you to that."

She barely registered the rest of what James said to her—light-hearted teasing, a promise to write more often, entreaties for her to admit she missed them—before he and Black scampered off, leaving her alone with only her jumbled thoughts for company.

"Gave you the slip, did he?"

Minerva started at the familiar voice in her ear.

"I don't know what you mean, Horace," she said, stiffly, as Professor Slughorn waddled back towards her. Lily must've used her considerable expertise to get rid of him when the more desirable company had returned to the table.

"You do." He took out an exquisitely embroidered handkerchief and dabbed at the sweat on his brow. "Wriggled out of giving you an answer about what he's been up to, I'd wager."

He trundled over to a wicker chair at the edge of the hall—and, reluctantly, she followed him. She let him take her silence for a yes.

"Typical. His uncle Cygnus used to give me quite the same trouble," he continued, settling himself in the chair. "They're all taught in the cradle to make up excuses to get out of unpleasant 'scenes'."

"Who are?"

"Blacks, of course." Minerva raised the cup to take another sip, suddenly aware that as far as this line was concerned she was out of her depth. "Got a real talent for it—he's no different than the rest. I should know, he's the only one in the history of the family that wasn't in my house—"

"Which I think speaks for itself," she remarked, dryly, thinking about how often he had peppered sour comments about his relatives in the conversation. It was odd, honestly—for as much as he apparently disliked them, he was always coming back around to them.

They seemed to have a hold on him.

Slughorn read her mind.

"Oh, psh. A dust-up. A boy like that—good-looking, talented, charming, and heir to the whole bleeding kit and caboodle?" Horace waved a ringed hand dismissively. "They aren't going to throw that away for a bit of youthful folly."

Joining Albus Dumbledore's underground resistance movement probably would count as more than a 'bit' of youthful folly to Orion and Walburga Black, but she was hardly going to mention that to Horace. Half the hall would know before the reception was even over.

"Don't you think you're selling your own student a bit short?" she asked, taking another prim sip. His face fell.

"Oh, well…Regulus is a fine boy, a credit to Slytherin, but—you know," he admitted, reluctantly. "He just doesn't have it the same way as the older one."

"Having 'it' doesn't mean much if it's misapplied."

"You're very hard on that boy," he said, giving her an uncharacteristically canny look. "I think you're fonder of him than you'd care to admit, Minerva."

Occasionally—very occasionally, and it was never in matters considering himself—Horace Slughorn would exhibit a bit of insight that showed just why he had been head of Slytherin House for as long as he had.

"Nonsense," she muttered, watching Sirius sling his arm around James's, Lily beaming at them both fondly—and she felt a sharp pang of something in her chest that had nothing to do with indigestion from the rich food.

"It's hard to let go of 'em, isn't it?" He murmured, from her right. The drink had lent his voice a sentimental warble. "The really special ones, I mean."

"It's harder to stop worrying."

"Oh, you don't have to worry about the lovebirds—"

Of course she did. She knew it was only the wine talking, that he wasn't so naive—and perhaps it wasn't in the spirit of the occasion to think about it, but this group in particular—

The Potters were the apex of a circle notorious for drawing trouble. And now…

"That's not who I meant."

"Black?" Horace hiccuped. "Oh, I told you not to worry! Boy's just sowing his wild oats. He'll settle down soon enough."

Sirius Black "settling down" was difficult for even a woman of her considerable imagination to picture.

"I want to know how he's making ends meet in the meantime," she muttered to herself, watching as Lupin and Pettigrew went to join them at the head table. "He's too proud to sponge off Potter indefinitely."

She watched James squeeze Pettigrew's shoulder and Lily ruffle the hair of a bashful Remus Lupin.

"Big of pals as they are, I can't think why he would need money," Slughorn laughed. "All that family gold he's inherited."

She whipped her head around.

"What do you mean?"

"He's a proper Black heir, isn't he?" Her mouth opened in genuine surprise. "I've had it on good authority his uncle Alphard left him a not insubstantial pile."

"What 'good authority'?"

"The family's solicitor," Slughorn said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Lazarus Nithercott. Old friend of mine—and Alphard's a former pupil, left me a few, ah—token bequests, some interesting artifacts, a dragon skull…strictly used for ceremonial purposes, mind…so I went to Nither's office to look them over so, and after a few glasses of mulled wine we got to talking…"

She hardly had time to marvel at how Horace was able to get the confidential details of the will of a family legendary for their secrecy before she remembered—

"Being formally disinherited has some perks…"

"I'm—surprised," she said, stiffly, cutting over Horace's rambling speech on the famed Bolivian amulet he had once lost at auction to Alphard Black.

"Why should you be?" Horace asked, distracted by the blossoming red stain from the wine he had spilled on his cummerbund.

"I…was under the impression he didn't have much to do with his family anymore."

He stopped wiping up his front and looked at her; his expression was unaccountably shrewd.

"That was the—line he took, was it?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"And you, er—bought it?"

She didn't at all like the knowing lilt at the end of that question.

"I can tell what you're driving at."

His smile was, if possible, more annoying than Sirius Black's had been.

"Oh, Minerva…there's no need to be embarrassed," he said, giving her a sympathetic pat on the arm. "It happens to the best of us."

"What does, precisely?" he said, acidly.

"Well, we teachers do have a blind spot where are favorites are concerned—" he said, looking back over at Lily. "We always want to see the best. Think we know them, inside and out."

He was drawing a comparison between them, suggesting that she was susceptible to charm and talent as he was, couldn't see her students for what they really were—

"I'm sure you'd hate to think young Black would lie to you, but that doesn't mean he wouldn't. A young man likes to keep his secrets. I'm sure the boy has his reasons."

Horace trundled off again, in search of cake, no doubt, or another glass of wine.

Minerva slipped out of the wedding a half hour later, claiming a headache—Lily and James hailed her for a lengthy farewell, full of promises to visit and gratitude that she had come. By that point Black had disappeared in the sea of unfamiliar faces, and as she didn't want to leave the journey north so late, she left without saying goodbye.

It was to be the last conversation they had for over fifteen years.