Prologue

December 20th, 1979

It was past one when the two of them arrived at the entrance to the square. The windows of Grimmauld Place were dark, only a few dim street lamps lighting up the quiet row of old-fashioned Georgian town homes that lined the street. Though the inhabitants of the dark houses were all apparently safely asleep in bed, the driver of the black Suzuki motorcycle was taking no chances. He cut the engine and lights immediately.

"Probably better I drop you here," the rider whispered to his companion. "Safer."

His voice was muffled by an ungainly motorcycle helmet, which matched the black leather jacket and fingerless gloves that gripped the handles of the bike. By contrast, the girl riding pillion wore pale green robes that peaked out from underneath the silver clasp of her winter cloak.

The driver alighted from the bike swiftly and circled around to the sidecar. With great care, the man put his hands around her slim waist and gently lifted her up and onto the pavement. When he set her down on the cobbled street, his hands did not linger longer than necessary.

"How will I get back in?" she whispered.

"It's easy—" her companion told her. "'Round the back there's a drainpipe."

"A drainpipe?" she repeated, her French accent becoming more pronounced with her distaste.

"Well, you can't walk through the front door at this hour."

"What am I supposed to do, climb it? Quelle folie."

The motorcyclist only laughed.

"I'll show you, here—follow me."

He spoke with such easy confidence that it was impossible for the girl not to trust that he knew what he was doing—reckless though this entire venture had been. As he began his creeping approach to Number Eleven, she followed close at his heels—throwing occasional furtive looks around the square, lest they were discovered. It was when they were within ten feet of the house that its neighbor appeared visible to them.

"Unplottable," the man muttered, a knowing grin in his voice. "So the Muggles can't come by peddling leaflets. Up here on the side of the house, quick."

He lead her down a narrow gap between Number Eleven and Twelve, stopping when they reached the first large window of the latter. A long dining room table was just visible through the glass.

"There are security spells on the doors—but the windows should be alright." He jerked a thumb to the rusty drainpipe that hung over the side of the window—a Victorian relic. "You can shimmy up this to get back in your room."

"Have you—have you actually done this before?"

"Plenty of times." She stared up the side of the house with trepidation. "Don't worry. I'll make sure you don't fall."

"Aren't you forgetting something?" She put her hands on her hips, annoyed. "You are not going back on your word, n'est-ce pas?"

He laughed.

"No—I'm not going back on my word." Even beneath his helmet the man sounded amused, as if he was just about to let loose the punchline of a favorite joke. "I'll tell you. Just—try not to be too angry with me."

"Why would I be angry?"

"Well, when I say my name, it'll be fairly ob—"

"So—" A cold, hard voice rang out of the darkness behind them. "—This is where you've been."

Hand underneath her foot, midway through boosting her up to the windowsill, the motorcyclist and the girl both froze.

A pinprick of light flickered in the darkness, revealing the figure of a tall and imposing woman—Mrs. Walburga Black, the mistress of the house the young couple were currently attempting to break into.

She blocked the only path of escape.

"Madame Black—" the girl started, but then the witch raised her lit wand, and the expression of incensed rage the younger woman saw choked the words straight out of her.

"We have enchantments set around the house," Mrs. Black informed her, icily. "To prevent people coming and going whenever they please."

"I swear, it's not what you think—I wasn't—"

"Gallivanting out in the middle of the night with filth?" the older woman finished for her, voice positively glacial. "Taking advantage of our hospitality? Shaming yourself and your parents by having a liaison with—this?"

Mrs. Black did not even stoop to point at the man who was 'this'. The girl shivered in fear, and at once the taller figure unfroze and stepped in front of her, protectively.

If the look the witch was fixing the girl was one of anger, the one she leveled at motorcyclist was of utter and total contempt.

"Move out of the way," she ordered, derision dripping from every syllable.

The figure lifted up his hands in a placatory gesture—like that of a caught criminal or a person about to be attacked by a bear—but he did not move, or speak. Mrs. Black's eyes flashed with displeasure and she raised her wand.

"I told you to move, you mudblood scum—"

"—For your information," he interrupted, voice still muffled by the helmet. "I have it on good authority I have the finest pedigree of any wizard in this country."

The young witch goggled at her companion, fully expecting him to be cursed on the spot for that insanely insolent remark—but to her surprise, Mrs. Black did not unleash the spell that had been on her lips only moments before.

She stared for five full seconds at the stranger man before she spoke.

"What—what is covering your face?" Mrs. Black asked, still angry but also—baffled.

"A helmet," he answered, equally stupid.

Shock turned to understanding turned to rage in a moment.

"Remove it."

Still holding his hands up like he'd been cornered by the police, the man made no move to do so.

"Now, I don't think I—"

"—Take that thing off, this instant!"

Her imperious voice brooked no argument.

The man slowly lowered his arms and undid the chin strap, fingers fumbling with the clasp. Hands trembling, he pulled the helmet off his head and tossed it on the pavement—at last revealing his face.

It was young and rather handsome—he shook out his dark hair and leveled the witch across the alley with a daringly formidable look, still hovering in front of the girl like a human shield.

She stared back—utterly unsurprised by what she found, her face frozen in an icy grimace, more terrifying than the blind rage of a moment earlier.

"Get in the house, girl," Walburga Black said, quietly. "At once."

"But—"

"Just—do as she says," the young man agreed. His voice had lost its swagger. "It's easier, trust me."

The girl looked helplessly from her chaperone to her partner-in-crime, despair evident. He offered her the tiniest smile of comfort—an 'it'll be alright' look—and she returned it timidly. Still distraught, the witch obeyed her chaperone, hurrying past him, around the corner and up the steps and into Number Twelve.

The door banged shut behind her, leaving them in darkness once more.

He turned back to face Walburga. Mrs. Black remained frozen—she had not taken her eyes off of him once since he'd uttered that pert remark, so brazenly impudent that it could only have come from one person.

Her eldest son, who had now fixed his face in what he hoped came off as a 'winning' smile.

"So, erm—I guess…" Sirius Black waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the ancestral home of his fathers. "I guess—security's gotten a bit better around here."

His mother did not return the smile.

ACT I : MASQUERADE

"'But…why did you…?'

'Leave?' Sirius smiled bitterly and ran a hand through his long, unkempt hair. 'Because I hated the whole lot of them: my parents, with their pure-blood mania, convinced that to be a Black made you practically royal…my idiot brother, soft enough to believe them…'"

-JK Rowling, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

CHAPTER 1

December 18th, 1979

"Well, what do you think?"

At the sound of his brother's voice at the bedroom door, Regulus Black looked up from his book and wrinkled his nose.

"What is that supposed to be?"

"This, brother dear," Sirius pulled the black motorbike helmet off his head and grinned down at the younger boy, who was lying down on the bed, fully dressed, surrounded by a stack of books, parchment and quills. "Is what I like to call an insurance policy."

If his younger and thoroughly wizardly brother was confused about the Muggle turn of phrase, he refused to give Sirius the satisfaction of asking what it meant.

"It's very stupid looking," Regulus remarked, blandly, as his brother tucked the offending object under the bed with care. "What is its purpose?"

The helmet safely hidden from view—next to the recently acquired leather jacket and matching gloves, a replacement for the casualties of what he liked to call 'the Great Purge'—Sirius looked up.

"It's for the motorbike. Muggles wear them to protect themselves, see?" He looked around, conspiratorial—perhaps checking to make sure there were no eavesdropping house-elves about. "It's my protection, too. If she comes by when I happen to be rolling in on Elvira—I'll be wearing it, so she can't recognize me."

He plopped down on the bed next to his younger brother, scattering the materials that Regulus had spent a quarter-hour painstakingly surrounding himself with.

"You really believe that's going to work?" Regulus asked, not hiding his skepticism at the efficacy of his brother's plan. He had watched Sirius try and fail to hide things from their mother for fifteen years, after all.

"It's a temporary fix for a permanent problem," Sirius admitted, tucking his hands behind his head. "Which can be said about most things in my life right now."

Regulus chose not to reply to this comment. In the week since they had started living together again, Sirius said some variation on it about once every other hour—it was hardly worth responding to at this point.

"Merlin, this place looks like a Slytherin-themed junk shop," his older brother remarked, staring around the room with distaste.

Seven days into what Sirius referred to out of the earshot of his parents as "the new regime", and some of the finer details of the arrangement were still being worked out. In order to keep up the pretense of normalcy, Sirius had set his brother's primary hiding spot in the flat in his bedroom—the only place he could easily hide, on the off-chance a person came by looking for Sirius.

The privacy of this room meant, however, that Mrs. Black believed it was her right and duty to completely make it over in her own taste.

In addition to the fireplace (whose mantle was littered with personal effects and family photos), there was now a winged chair and footstool, a carriage clock, an ornamental night stand, and a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Everything, including the window, had been draped in heavy velvet, lending the room a sense of simultaneous grandeur and Victorian gloom.

"It's like my room back home."

"It's positively gothic," Sirius muttered, darkly. "I suppose you'll claim you like it this way."

"Mother likes it this way," Regulus said, in a low voice.

"Well, heaven forbid mummy dearest be unhappy," Sirius replied, airily. His brother threw him a disgruntled look. "Are they coming 'round for dinner again?"

"Yes, of course."

"They're over here every night, practically!" Sirius groaned, tossing a pillow on to the floor. "I thought the whole point of this plan was that they were going to go about life normally."

"Kreacher's cooking is better than yours," his brother pointed out, in a clipped tone of voice that suggested he had no further interest in discussing it. He reached over his brother and began to gather up all the papers and books that Sirius had knocked to the floor. "Anyway, you could get along just fine with them if you'd actually try."

His brother ignored this critique of his behavior, in favor of focusing his attention on the papers and books that littered the bed that he was temporarily allowing Regulus to sleep in.

"What are you even up to?" Sirius asked, ripping one of the pieces of parchment out of Regulus's hand. He managed to read the words 'Dear Aunt Lucretia' before his brother snatched it back. "Are these—are you writing correspondence?"

The younger boy gave a noncommittal shrug and smoothed out the parchment with his wand, making it crisp again. Sirius smirked at him and tried to read the letter over his shoulder, but his little brother shoved it under the pillow.

"Writing old Lucretia, eh?" At the thought of their father's sister, he pulled a face. "Merlin, what do you have to say to that old gossip? I know you're bored, Reg, but you don't have to owl every living relation a letter from France." His younger brother huffed, and Sirius shot a knowing grin in his direction. "Or are you enjoying penning pages and pages, extolling the virtues of the future Mrs. Black?"

At the telltale sign of embarrassment—his younger brother's face flushing pink—Sirius started to laugh. Ever since he had learned of the plan his mother had come up with to explain Regulus's absence from England, he had been mercilessly teasing him about his fictional "future wife", and the younger boy found it unbearable.

"Shut up—" Regulus hissed, and shoved his brother—to little effect. Even with his growth spurt, Sirius was still several inches taller, and he was powerfully built—the slighter boy was no match for him. "It's not funny!"

"Yeah, it is!" The elder of the two crowed, ducking the pillow that was lobbed at his head. "It's bloody hysterical—mostly because you know when all this is over, she'll actually do it."

"Mother is not going to—" Regulus muttered, defensively. "I mean—at least not for a few years."

The elder of the two Black brothers shook his head in pity at the younger, submitting so easily to this fate—which as far as Sirius was concerned was akin to a prison sentence.

"I cannot believe you—'not for a few years'—like that's any better." Sirius said, shaking his head at disgust. "When are you going to stop letting her run your life, Reg?"

"I don't let her run my life. I just don't fight her on everything," his brother said, glaring peevishly. Sirius rolled his eyes, and Regulus couldn't resist adding. "Anyway, you're the older one—she won't care about settling me down until, well…"

He threw his brother a pointed look. Sirius shrugged, unconcerned. This was not the first time Regulus had hinted that he should be on his guard for their mother staging some ridiculous plot to marry him off. Frankly, he thought the Inferi attack and whatever was in that potion must've addled Reg's brain permanently.

"Please—let her try. If you ever should see that woman marching me down the aisle, it will be at wand point." Idly, he picked up a discarded letter and scanned the contents, snorting at the description Regulus had provided their great-aunt of the south of France that looked like it was copied out of a travel guide. "Unlike you, I don't let my mummy dictate the terms of my life."

It was his little brother's turn to shake his head in a pity.

"We'll see," Reg muttered, grabbing the letter and crumpling it in a ball. "Those are private! Will you stop your nosing, already?"

"Since what you're doing is so boring—sure," Sirius agreed, tweaking his brother's ear. Reggie scowled and shoved him off again. "Well, when you're done with that fascinating project, you could watch the telly with me."

"I already told you, I'm not watching that—that thing!"

Sirius rolled his eyes again. He had explained the television set to Regulus several times, trying to coax him into turning it on—but no matter how dull the endless hours in the apartment were after a week of being stuck inside, the thought of having to explain what the contraption was should their mother caught them watching it was too much for a young man who had so recently escaped death.

"It's a lot more interesting than—"

A loud knock at the door interrupted what would certainly been a thrilling exhortation on the merits of the 1979-80 television season.

The mood shift in the room was instantaneous.

"Be quiet and stay here—don't move," Sirius ordered, his whole body tense. His brother shot him a furtive look and he got up, and walked slowly out of the bedroom, shutting the door behind him with a snap.

Sirius gripped his wand tightly as he passed through the kitchen to the living room—feeling more nervous than he should at the prospect of answering his own door. Who could it be?

Apart from those outside his immediate family who knew Regulus was hiding here—James, Lily, Remus and Dumbledore—there were very few who would drop by his flat unannounced in the middle of a weekday afternoon. Peter was the most likely bet—that's who he guessed was at the door. Wormtail was the only one of their tight circle who did not know anything about what had happened the night Regulus stole the locket.

Blissfully ignorant Pete.

Sirius was secretly rather relieved to have one friend who didn't know of his family…situation, but as Lily had predicted—it was proving hard to manage. Peter had been trying all week to get the five of them together for lunch, a holiday catch-up, he called it—but as someone always had to be at this flat with Sirius's younger brother, the recent ex-Death Eater now using it as his hide-out, that was impossible, and the excuses for putting off poor Wormtail were getting lamer by the day.

As he approached the door, he started getting rid of Wormy (taking him out for a drink at the pub around the corner? Promise to meet him at the Leaky Cauldron for dinner? Food was usually the best way to placate Peter) when there was another loud knock, and a voice calling from the other side.

"Oi—Black? You in there?"

Sirius's eyes widened in surprise at the familiar voice—not squeaky, with a slight whine—and sprinted over to the door to open it.

"Frank!"

Standing on the threshold of his flat—stocky, blond and sporting his usual good-natured smile, was Frank Longbottom—Auror and fellow Order member.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Sirius asked, confused—but also grateful that he wouldn't have to promise to treat this man to a meal to get him off his doorstep.

"Don't act too thrilled to see me," Frank remarked, wryly. "I'm here on business, if you must know. It's freezing—you going to let me stand out here all day?"

Sirius hesitated, then stepped aside and jerked his head, indicating he should come in.

Frank had nearly a decade on Sirius and the rest of his friends, the youngest members of the Order by far—and as a consequence, he acted much more like an older brother than friend. Sirius found it a bit condescending at times, he but certainly had a lot of respect for the wizard, who, along with Alice his wife was a rising star in the Auror office. Frank was a good bloke—even if they didn't socialize much outside of meetings.

Anyone who could put up with Mad-Eye for a boss had balls, as far as Sirius was concerned.

"Sorry you just—caught me off guard. I'm jumpy about answering the door," he said, leading Frank to the couch. "I haven't seen you in ages—everything alright? How's Alice?"

At the mention of his wife, the older man smiled.

"She's great—blooming, in fact. She asked after you, brought up the fact that we haven't seen much of Sirius Black of late." Frank sat down and looked up at Sirius, fixing him with a look of curiosity. "Dumbledore told me—well, he alluded to it, anyway—that he's got you on some kind of—special mission."

"In a manner of speaking." Sirius leaned on the arm of his chair, across from the blond wizard, and he frowned. "To tell you the truth, in terms of excitement…it's akin to a desk job."

"Who would assign you something like that?"

Sirius gave him a dark look.

"The line between genius and madness is fine, Frank."

The Auror laughed—but his laugh was uneasy. Sirius was unusual on several counts among members of Order of the Phoenix. His family background made him an object of suspicion to a lot of the older witches and wizards—as did his brashness. Very few would have been willing to openly criticize Dumbledore, even as a joke.

"And how's this…mission of yours going?"

Sirius furrowed his brow, trying to think of how to answer that question—for admitting to failure was not something the wizard was used to. From an early age he had been naturally brilliant at nearly everything he'd ever set out to do.

Keeping his family happy had been the one thing he'd never managed to pull off.

Sometimes it felt as though he and Regulus were play-acting their relationship before Hogwarts, as a coping mechanism to deal with the inherent awkwardness of living under the same roof again. The truce between the brothers was an uneasy one, at best—and not just because they had been on opposite sides of this war, though it was clear to Sirius that even after taking the great risk of bringing him the locket, Regulus still didn't trust him. Dumbledore had told Sirius he ought to be patient—patience was not his strong suit, though, and he was getting tired of waiting for Regulus to let down his guard.

Every time Sirius brought up anything to do with the locket, Voldemort or what Reg might know, his younger brother clammed up and buried his face in the book he was reading for the rest of the day.

And as for his parents…

He scowled at the thought.

Well, they were taking it all in stride, weren't they? One week post-unexpected reunion with their disgraceful runaway son, and they had fallen back into their old ways so naturally that you'd have thought Sirius had never left.

Merlin, was his mother exhausting.

She flitted in and out of the flat without warning, usually with fresh linens, restorative potion draughts (to be force-fed to her children on sight) and food prepared exclusively by the house-elf, as Mrs. Black was incredibly distrustful of everything Muggle-related and had deemed the kitchen "dirty and contaminated" at first glance. Walburga had even been needling him for days over the refrigerator—he had spent fifteen minutes trying to explain that the jug of milk was perfectly safe for her precious Regulus to drink from, and all he had gotten for his trouble was a stinging jinx to the arm and a scolding.

It was enough to drive him mad, for Walburga's complete lack of boundaries or perspective had only gotten worse since he'd left home. Sirius was grateful her controlling tendencies were now at least contained to the happenings in the flat, though that was quite enough to keep her and her older son occupied.

They had spent the week bickering over an endless list of petty grievances—Kreacher's presence in the flat, his mandatory attendance of her nightly five-course formal meals, his clothing and, just yesterday, the length of his hair.

He felt the edges of his freshly trimmed fringe and sighed—another point to her.

At least he only saw Orion in the evenings. His father never came by the apartment except to eat dinner with the whole family, an old ritual of theirs that Walburga had insisted upon reviving. Sirius was thankful his flat offended the Black patriarch's sensibilities as much as it did, because every time he looked up from his plate at supper and into Orion's eyes—often shrewdly fixed on his older son, as if he were just waiting for him to make a run for it—he itched to pull out his wand and land a good hex.

Of course, the fantasy of cursing his father was just that—a fantasy. For the present, Orion was his most formidable adversary—practically untouchable.

That was probably the real reason he let Walburga win every battle. Sirius was afraid if he didn't let her have her way in these silly domestic squabbles, she might go back to Grimmauld Place and complain to the man wielding the real power.

Anyway, the battles were one thing. He was in it to win the war.

Between rooming with his brother, readjusting to living by his parents' rule—and scheming to extricate himself from it again—he had not had much time to figure out an angle from which to approach the subject of information gathering. Personally, he thought the headmaster was barking mad to believe Orion and Walburga would ever willingly help him—even if all he wanted was their assistance in getting Regulus to open up, they had enormous pride coupled with a deep distrust of him—but the old wizard was convinced this miraculous feat was possible, and he was the only one who could pull it off. Every time he asked Dumbledore how the hell he was supposed to convince them to help the Order of the Phoenix, the old man only gave him a twinkling eye and a cryptic remark about his 'supreme confidence' in Sirius's 'unique abilities.'

Confidence—ha! More like he was the only person insane enough to try.

"That bad, huh?"

Frank had read his expression, evidently—he gave Sirius a sympathetic clap on the shoulder.

"I'm meeting with…mixed success," he answered, truthfully. "Dumbledore and I disagreed about whether I was the man for the job—I'm still not convinced. I think I'm better suited to being—out in the field, you know."

"Maybe that's why he sent me, today—" Frank grinned, slowly. "—He thinks a change of perspective will be good for you."

Longbottom reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a packet of papers and a heavy, corked metal vial. He handed them both both to a confused Sirius. The younger man tore open the packet, eyes wide, and they flew across the page, taking in information very quickly—but not understanding its meaning at all.

"What is all this?" Sirius asked, looking up from the papers. "'Nicolaus Svensson—who is he?"

"Norwegian wizard—fabulously rich and well-connected." Frank stuck his hands in his pockets. "They say his family enchanted half the fjords in Northern Europe." Sirius had already turned his attention back to the parchment, was pouring over the other pages.

"This is a—a biography. Personal information about this bloke—things he likes, women he's sleeping with—" Sirius turned his attention to the vial in his hand. "And what is—"

"You want to be careful with that," Longbottom warned. "Polyjuice Potion, that is."

Sirius looked between the bottle and the parchment packet, then back up at the Auror with an expression of dawning comprehension.

"So, Black—if you're bored with your er, 'desk job'," Frank leaned over, and his expression took on an unexpectedly steeliness. "How do you fancy a bit of espionage?"

Sirius's face split into a grin.

"You're joking." Frank shook his head, and Sirius rubbed his hands together with undisguised glee. "Well, what do you think?"

"You may want to hear all the details before you agree—" Sirius held up his hand, solemnly. "I mean it, Black. You can't just rush into these things."

"Frank—Frank, Frank, Frank." Sirius rested both his hands on his knees. "I know we haven't known each other long, but come on."

Longbottom leaned back on the sofa and gave Sirius a hard, probing look.

"You know, I reckon Moody's right about you," he said, and though there was humor in it, there was also the trace of genuine concern. Sirius got that often from people who weren't James—the long stares, the frank disbelief at his genuine excitement when a dangerous assignment was presented to him.

So he liked to live on the edge—that was useful. The Order needed people who were willing to take risks, big ones.

If he happened to enjoy it into the bargain, what was it to them?

"What does Mad-Eye say?" he asked, a touch of defensiveness creeping into his voice.

Longbottom recognized it, and it didn't soften.

"That you're a loose cannon," Frank informed him, bluntly. "When Dumbledore suggested you for this, Mad-Eye and he argued. 'Course, Dumbledore won in the end—" Longbottom shrugged. "—He thinks you're ready. Moody's just…less convinced. And it's his plan, so I suppose he thinks he should get final say."

Sirius's smile dropped.

"Wait—if this is Mad-Eye's idea…" Frank glanced out the window. He suddenly seemed ill-at-ease with the turn in the conversation. "…Shouldn't it be through the Auror Office?"

"Theoretically, yes—but Moody wants it…off the books." Frank furrowed his brow. "He's afraid of the people involved—catching wind."

"Who're the people involved?" he asked, intrigue battling with the uncomfortable sensation that always came from a criticism from one of the old guard in the Order.

Frank thought carefully before he answered the question.

"Let's say—a family that has a reputation for covering their tracks."

Sirius raised one eyebrow—there were several families he knew of who could fit that description, and there was a twist of anticipation in his gut as he waited for the answer.

"Come on, Frank—don't play coy."

But Frank was not playing at all, and the look he gave Sirius was one that only very occasionally the younger man saw. Behind that mild-mannered facade was a steel spine.

"Tell me—how well do you know Malfoy Manor?"

His gaze sharpened—oh. That was who was involved with this.

"I've…been there," Sirius admitted, warily. "More than once."

Frank nodded—an answer he'd been expecting. He gave Sirius a searching look and spoke again, in the same light, careful tone that everyone had learned to use in the Auror Office—the voice of suggestion, not accusation.

"And how well do you know—Lucius Malfoy?"

Sirius's own frown became more pronounced.

"A lot better than I'd like," he replied, heavily. "The last time I was at Malfoy Manor was for his wedding—he's married to my cousin, you know." Frank smiled, wryly. "Don't give me that look. She's probably a cousin of yours, too, after a fashion."

Sirius stood up and walked over to the window in the living room.

"What do they want us to do?" he said, not looking at the older man, so Frank could not see the dark rain cloud covering his excitement. The pattern in Dumbledore's assignments was unmistakeable, and it gave Sirius no pleasure to think that his mentor thought this was where his real value to the Order lay.

"Infiltration. It's a sting operation—of a sort." Frank was brisk and to the point. "More of the finer details are in the dossier I've given you—but the long and short of it is that tomorrow night old Abraxas Malfoy is holding some kind of gentleman's game of cards at his stately Wiltshire country manor."

"And let me guess—" Sirius wagged the bottle of Polyjuice and the packet in the air. "This tosser's invited to it?"

Frank's smile was grim.

"You're starting to get the idea."

Sirius gray eyes glinted at the promise of excitement—and danger.

"Tell me everything."

It took a quarter-hour for Frank to systematically lay out the 'finer details' of Moody's plan—how they would get into the manor and what they were to do, step-by-step, when they got there—and by the end even Sirius understood the Auror's warning about 'not rushing in'. The plan was dangerous in the extreme, and there were about fifteen things Black saw that could go wrong right off the bat.

One false move, and it would turn into a suicide mission. You would have to be mad to be excited about it.

But then, Sirius reasoned—you'd also have to be fairly mad to have come up with the idea in the first place. Moody hadn't gotten his nickname for nothing.

"If we're caught we're dead," he observed, dryly.

Frank nodded—in his line of work, this was the typical state of affairs. Black, naturally, was adjusting himself to the idea with alacrity. Frank watched him pace up and down the length of his sitting room, muttering details to himself. The coiled energy of the younger man bordered on manic.

"And Dumbledore said I'm to be Svensson?" he asked, for the third or fourth time. "That's for certain?"

Frank nodded again.

"I've been told you're a good mimic, Black," Longbottom said, with no flattery. "Think you can pull off a Norwegian accent?"

"I can do a decent Swede—but trust me, none of the people who'll be there could tell the difference," he said, derisively. "Northern Europe's a great lump to these people. I'm amazed this Svensson managed to even get an invitation."

"He's rich as Croesus and has his fingers in a lot of pies. The elder Malfoy has designs on expanding his interests to the continent, I gather," Frank said, a tinge of well-bred distaste in his voice. "The genius of using Svensson is that he's pureblood and wealthy, but nobody in this country really knows him. It gives us an edge."

Sirius nodded—the fact that this man had willingly surrendered his identity for the night would make everything easier.

"We'll be able to keep the story straight," he said, running a hand distractedly through his hair. "That's for sure."

Longbottom nodded.

"I would say you're still allowed to back out—but I'm not supposed to debrief anyone else." Frank stood up and stuck out his hand. "So that means it's you or no-one."

Sirius looked down at the outstretched hand, then back up at Frank, a slow grin spreading over his face.

"It's me, then."

They shook hands—Frank's smile was wry.

"Why am I not surprised by that answer?"

Sirius let go of the other man's hand, and his expression turned grim.

"I'm going to show Moody he's wrong about me," he said, with a fresh wave of determination. Sirius had thought he was just getting over his need to prove himself—but the recent set-back in life had roused it again, and he was determined to come off well in this. Keep his cool and his trap shut—do what needed to be done.

And he was ready for this.

Frank stepped forward and and squeeze his shoulder again.

"He's a tough nut to crack, Moody." He let go and continued, ruefully, "It took him ages to take Alice seriously—she still complains about it." Frank smiled again. "She's told me I'm not to let you out of my sight tomorrow. My wife is fonder of you than I like, Black."

"Everyone's wife is fonder of me than they'd like, Longbottom," Sirius replied, shooting him a roguish grin. "Don't worry about it—you'll get used to it. Just ask James."

"He's your best mate!" Frank punched him on the arm, but Sirius only laughed. "You don't fool them—Alice and Lily both say you're all talk. Bluster."

Sirius rolled his eyes.

"Well—their sainted husbands have made them shockingly naive where blokes are concerned." Sirius scoffed. "Thanks to you two white knights, Lily Potter and Alice Longbottom have no idea that most men—myself included—are cads of the first order."

The Auror laughed.

"I'm hardly a Galahad—nor is your friend."

Sirius shook his head.

"Well, you do give off the saintly vibe—with Potter I'm certain of it, he's got nobility in his blood, the wanker. Little does Lily know," Sirius grinned lasciviously. "Not every man goes to the marriage bed pure as the driven snow."

"I don't think anyone will assume that of you," Frank said, then his look turned knowing and shrewd. "…Mind a use the loo before I leave?"

Frank crossed the room towards the kitchen, but Sirius was too quick for him—he practically sprinted in front of the door.

"No!" he said, blocking the entrance to the rest of the apartment. "I mean…it's a mess. I'd rather you—"

"My sensibilities aren't that delicate," Frank remarked, crossing his arms in front of his broad chest. He seemed more amused than surprised. "I'll close my eyes—and I swear I won't miss."

Sirius backed up into the door itself.

"I can't—let you do that to yourself."

The dark-haired man knew he sounded insane, but he couldn't risk it. He had been good about getting rid of people quickly, so far—but in his excitement at the mission, he had almost forgotten he still had Regulus squared away in the other room. It took a lot of self-control for him not to turn around and peek inside to check that his brother hadn't wandered out looking for him.

"Are you hiding something in there, Sirius?"

Sirius realized he had raised his arms up to prevent Frank from passing. He lowered them slowly.

"Of course not."

"No—you've been acting cagey since I arrived." Frank's face split into a knowing smile. "Merlin's beard—you've got a girl back there now, haven't you, Black?"

His surprise at this accusation worked in Sirius's favor—Frank took the sputtering and knee-jerk as confirmation.

Then—naturally—there was the unmistakeable sound of movement behind the door.

"You do!" Frank laughed incredulously as Sirius cursed his little brother under his breath—didn't Reg have the sense to at least keep quiet, if he was going to listen at the door? "Don't try to deny it now, she's in the kitchen—I can hear her moving about."

Sirius jerked his head back—Longbottom was right, it was obvious there was someone back there. What the hell was Regulus thinking? He was lucky Frank had the completely wrong idea about this.

Still cursing his brother, he looked back at the older man, fixing him with a teasing look, and decided to play the cards he was dealt and sell it.

"So…what if there is a girl?" Sirius said, happy for the excuse and ready to have fun with it. "My flat, my business."

"You really are too much." Frank shook his head. "Is it even the same one as last time?"

Sirius grinned at the memory. The only other occasion Frank had come by his apartment to deliver Order news, the Auror had caught him giving an enthusiastic goodbye snog to air-headed girl he'd impulsively picked up the night before at a bar.

Of course, he and the girl had both been rather drunk when they'd stumbled into his flat, just past four. He didn't remember much, but he'd been completely dressed with a splitting headache when he woke up the next day, so it could hardly have been the night of 'grand passion' he had tried to sell Remus and Peter on later. It had been fun to shock the upright Auror when Jessica (was that her name?) had emerged from his bedroom, given him a casual kiss on the mouth and sauntered off to her day job in Tottenham Court Road without even acknowledging Frank.

"Of course not." The younger man wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Haven't seen her in months. I mean, she was more of a one-nighter, anyway."

Longbottom's brow furrowed in faint disapproval.

"That's no way to talk about women, Black," Frank said, more gently. "It's callous. You're better than that."

"Am I?"

Not for the first time, Sirius marveled at the optimism of the Longbottom family.

"Yes, I'd say so." Frank leaned back on his foot and considered his next words thoughtfully. "You know, Alice has a cousin she's been telling me for weeks she'd like to introduce you to."

The brotherly tone of voice and manner caused Sirius to momentarily forget about Regulus. Lord, was Frank Longbottom trying to give him advice about women? To set him up with some boring witch desperate for a ring on her finger?

"You're worse than Lily! I'm in the prime of my life—why would I want to tie myself down at this stage?"

"Because when it's real, Sirius—there's nothing in the world that's like it."

Sirius scoffed at the dreamy look on Longbottom's face. James and Frank—they really were two of a kind. Prongs had spent half their school years moaning after Lily in a way that his closest friend had found at best annoying, and at worst rather pathetic.

He could not imagine making such a fool of oneself over a girl.

Oh, he liked girls well enough, enjoyed a good flirtation—but that was generally where it ended for Sirius Black. Remus had never approved of his cavalier attitude about women, how easily bored he got—he'd had a number of 'girlfriends' at school, and right at the moment the bird got attached was invariably when he dropped her. Lupin had taken to predicting it like clockwork, much to his friend's annoyance.

He was sure Moony—another idealist, this time of the self-imposed monk variety—was secretly rather jealous of how easy it was for Sirius.

The problem was there was no challenge to women—and unlike James, he was not stupid enough to go chasing after one who wasn't interested.

Not that they weren't all interested, in Sirius's experience.

"Nancy is a very nice girl," Frank insisted. Sirius almost laughed—as if that was supposed to induce him.

"My heart's a-flutter already," he said, jeeringly. "Apologies to 'Nancy', but I don't happen to like 'nice girls'—I like blondes and with loose morals."

Even Sirius knew it was a cheap line and Frank didn't buy it for a second—but it had distracted him from his desire to get through the door well enough. He had put his hands back in his pockets.

The expression that flitted across Longbottom's face wasn't judgmental, exactly—but Sirius had the distinct impression that he was being pitied, and it got his back up.

"Tell Alice she's wasting her time with me," he said, cooly.

Frank let out a heavy sigh.

"Fine. To each his own, I guess." He walked back over to the front door of the flat. "I'll be in touch about everything else—expect an owl."

He gave Sirius a salute—the same one all the Aurors in the Order gave each other, a habit they'd picked up from Moody—and Sirius, still leaning on the door, returned the gesture. After he'd left, Sirius waited a full minute for the sound of footsteps to recede into the distance before he spun back around.

"He's gone!" Sirius yelled through the door. There was no response on the other side, and he seized the handle and pulled it open. "Reg, what the hell—"

"Good afternoon," his mother said, quietly.

Walburga Black stood there, already dressed for dinner, beautiful ivory pendant at her throat and an inscrutable expression on her face. At her feet was the faithful family servant, carrying a pot of some shellfish stew he'd brought over—probably a starter dish. Kreacher's eyes glittered with undisguised malevolence.

Sirius gaped at her.

"When…did you get here?" he asked, weakly.

She gave him a hard look.

"Not so long ago," Mrs. Black answered, evasively, eyes boring a hole through his head.

"Well—didn't Regulus tell you to stay hidden?"

"He did," she replied, bluntly. "I didn't want to."

This was such an absurd thing to say that, given the circumstances, that Sirius forgot about worrying over what she might have overheard in favor of pointing out said absurdity.

"That's not how this works! How did you—" A thought occurred to him. "How did you even get into the flat in the first place?"

"Your father has connections in the Floo Department, and he's had the fireplace in your bedroom connected to ours," she answered, and Sirius's mouth fell open. "It's far more convenient."

"That's insane—how could you think that was a remotely acceptable—"

"I'm tired of traipsing out amongst the filth who inhabit this complex every time I wish to see my son," Walburga remarked, acidly.

Sirius let out a loud snort.

"As offensive as my walk-up might be, Mother, hasn't it occurred to you that it's a lot safer?" She looked at him as if he had two heads. "They could be watching your fireplace!"

"Nobody would dare do such a thing," his mother said, clearly insulted by the suggestion.

Sirius rubbed his eyes and crossed over to the sofa, flinging himself down on it. This was the problem with his parents—they thought being a Black meant you were exempt from the problems that plagued regular witches and wizards—every day quandaries, like Lord Voldemort offing your loved ones.

"You cannot know that for sure," he said, glaring up at his living room ceiling. "You're putting Regulus, yourself and your husband at risk if you come in and out of the flat by Floo at all hours—"

"—And I might walk in on you in a compromising position with a 'loose blonde'."

Sirius sat up on the couch.

"I knew you were listening at the door!"

"Sirius Orion Black—" He watched her advance on him, and his natural sense of danger spiked. "Every time I think you can't shame me any further you outdo yourself. You astound me."

"The only thing that's astounding is that you're still surprised by it," She was leaning over him, glowering, and he forced himself to look her in the eye. Sirius forced himself to take a more mature tact than what had first popped into his head to tell her to do. "Alright—listen, I can be sensible about this."

She crossed her arms and waited for a sign that this was true, tapping her foot impatiently on the floor.

"I swear to you that there have been no strange girls in this flat since Regulus arrived," Sirius said, solemnly. "And I promise that there won't be…for the remainder of the time he's here."

"And after he leaves? What then?" she asked, narrowing her eyes in his direction. He hesitated—and this hesitation was answer enough for the woman. Walburga, to his immense surprise—actually let out a tired sigh. "…Your father did warn me about this."

Of the possible responses to his generous offer, her uttering those words in that despairing tone was not one he'd been expecting.

"Wait—he did?"

Mrs. Black nodded and lowered herself shakily on the far end of the couch, as if she was a fragile, wounded creature and not the lioness of a woman her son knew her to be.

"What…what did he say?"

Sirius didn't even pretend to be affronted at his parents discussing his love life—he was too intrigued by the prospect of what his staid father had assumed he'd been up to.

"He said he thought in the absence of our influence you'd be running wild," she said, mournfully. "And that there were probably women."

She elongated the last word as if it were an uncouth barbarism to even speak of. Sirius leaned back on the sofa and looked sideways at her.

"Well—I'm surprised." There was a distinct swagger in voice his mother picked up on at once. "I guess Dad isn't as out of touch as I thought—"

"This is not a laughing matter!" Mrs. Black snapped. "And nor is it something to brag about."

"Oh, relax. It would be odder if I hadn't any experience with women—Regulus is the son you should be worried about, I bet he's petrified if a bird so much as looks at him."

"Your brother is—"

"—A total ignoramus about girls. But I guess that doesn't matter to you—or him," her son continued, cooly. "Assuming we ever get ourselves out of this mess, he's just going to marry whoever you tell him to, anyway."

"And what is wrong with that?"

He stared at his mother in disbelief.

"Come again?"

"I said, what is wrong with a young man marrying the girl his parents wish him to?" his mother repeated, less angry than challenging. "Why wouldn't they choose best?"

He was getting drawn into another one of her philosophical debates about the merits of doing things in the prescribed way, and whenever he did, it had funny way of coming back around to the more immediate and personal matter at hand—namely, him.

Of course, that wouldn't stop Sirius from arguing the point.

"Well, when the parents' only concern is the lineage of his bride, not her personality or looks or anything else—"

"Lineage is never the only thing that matters," Walburga interrupted him, tartly. "That she be of a good family is, of course, essential—but politeness, beauty and character are also very important."

"Oh, yes—character," he replied, with heavy sarcasm. "Something the women in this family have in abundance."

His mother ignored the bait, instead fixing her eldest son with one of her impenetrable stares.

"A mother only wants what is best for her son," she said, her voice quiet—and rarer still, very serious.

There was no disguising the fact that Regulus had long since ceased to be the subject of this conversation.

"The problem is—" He leaned forward. "—That the son might not happen to agree with his mother."

"Well, when have sons ever known what's good for them?"

The mood in the room shifted ever so slightly—it was as if by this statement, a challenge had been issued.

Her eyes shifted from his face to the rest of his appearance. Then Mrs. Black stood up and smoothed her skirts—the mask firmly back in place.

"I can't speak to you when you're dressed that way," she sniffed, disdainfully. "You ought to change. Dinner will be served as soon as your father arrives."

She looked at him very cooly—but the abrupt drop of topic had a vaguely ominous air about it. He did not like things being left this way between them.

"More great news," her son muttered. She was hovering over the sofa, waiting for him to do as ordered.

Sirius stood up and hurried past her, eager to change into his robes for once—if only for an excuse to get out of her sight—something that had become increasingly difficult to do.

Two hours later—and halfway through the third course of dinner—the subject did come up again.

Sirius had been picking at his salmon for the better part of ten minutes, his mind completely absorbed in the mission, what he had read in the dossier, Svensson's biography—and so he did not register that his mother's question was even directed at him at first.

"Who was that man who came by this afternoon, Sirius Orion?" his mother repeated, not hiding her irritation that his mind was obviously wandering at the table.

Sirius became very aware that everyone—his mother at his left staring pointedly, his father at his right, taking a drink from his silver goblet of wine, and Regulus across from him, as reserved and reticent as he'd always been at family dinners—were all waiting for him to answer her question.

"He was…no one."

"To whom are you referring?" Orion asked his wife, lowering his cup.

"There was a young man that came by and called on him in the afternoon—one I hadn't seen before."

"He's just—a wizard I know," Sirius said, blandly. "Acquaintance of mine."

"You were speaking very familiarly for him being a mere 'acquaintance'," Walburga said, taking a prim bite of her fish.

"Oh?" Her husband lowered his fork and knife. "What about?"

Now his father was getting interested, fantastic.

"Nothing we need to get into," Sirius answered for her, hastily. He had no desire for a repeat performance of the conversation about what he may or may not be doing with women, even if he was still curious about what Orion thought. "He's really no one—"

"What is his name?"

Sirius met his mother's eyes and could see she was not going to let the topic drop unless he gave her something. With a final sad poke of the knife, he abandoned the salmon altogether.

"It was Frank Longbottom, if you must know."

There was a loud clatter; Regulus had dropped his fork in shock.

"He was the one who was here?"

Everyone in the family turned to look at him. It was the first thing Regulus had said in two courses.

"You know this man, as well?" Walburga asked, rounding on the younger and more pliable son. He had turned the same color of the cream table cloth, and now looked ill—Sirius doubted it had anything to do with the fish they were eating. He gave the younger boy a hard, canny look across the dinner table.

"I…no. Not really."

Sirius let out a little snort of scorn.

"He does," Sirius informed his mother, dryly. "By reputation. No need to be so nervous about it, Reg."

"I'm not," Regulus replied, busying himself with readjusting the napkin in his lap.

Sirius laughed and reached for his goblet of wine.

"Well, he wasn't here to arrest you, if that's what you're thinking."

He took a swig. Regulus's ears burned scarlet. Mrs. Black, watching the exchange with great interest, turned at once to her older son—ready to demand an explanation.

"Why in heaven's name would that man have arrested your brother?"

He drained the goblet and dropped it back on the table with a clunk.

"He happens to be a very well-known Auror—a hotshot who has become a bit of a thorn in the side of a certain dark wizard." Mrs. Black's face froze in an expression of displeasure that her son pretended not to notice. "A dark wizard who, I don't need to remind you, was until very recently your son's master."

The atmosphere at the dinner table shifted at once. What had up until now been muted and awkward—what Black family dinners at the best of times were—became tense.

Nobody spoke for a moment that seemed to stretch on for hours.

"What have I told you," Walburga hissed, angrily. "About bringing up the Dark Lord at dinner?"

"That it's improper," Sirius answered, sarcasm dripping from every word. He put his finger to his chin. "Or was it uncouth…Ill-bred? Indelicate, maybe?"

Mr. Black eyed his elder son warily, already steeling himself for the familiar argument.

"It is all of those things," Mrs. Black snapped.

"He is the reason we're sitting here right now!" Sirius clanked his own fork on the Black Family china. "I just don't see the point in pretending otherwise. I don't see the point—" He reached over the table to grab the bottle of wine and pour what was left of it, sloppily, into his goblet. "—Of pretending anything about this is normal."

He lifted the goblet to his lips—but it was empty. Sirius lowered it and looked at his father, whose wand was lifted. He'd silently vanished the rest of what was in his son's glass.

"I think you've had quite enough," Orion informed his son, evenly. Sirius slammed the glass back down on the table with a tad too much force, the silverware rattled.

"I think I need more, actually," Mr. Black raised his eyebrows in annoyance, which only served to spur his son on, and Sirius continued, sarcastically, "We should all have more wine—these interminably endless meals would be tolerable if we got tight before, during and after."

His parents did not reply, nor did his brother, who still had his head bent—Sirius had a sneaking suspicion Kreacher was under the table near him and was providing him comfort.

"This is your idea of tolerable conversation, is it?" his father remarked, voice laden with irony. "Carrying on about the Dark Lord?"

"At least I'm talking about something that matters."

"Upsetting your mother and brother is very important to you, clearly," Orion observed, outwardly calm—even placid, which was always his most dangerous mode—a sign Sirius usually missed.

"You know very well that if it weren't for Lord Voldemort," Sirius's brother always flinched at the name proper, so he took great pleasure in saying it. "We wouldn't be here now. He's the most pressing thing we have to discuss, and everyone at this table apart from me is hellbent on avoiding the subject like the plague. I can't take it anymore."

He turned from his father to his brother, who had at last looked up. Reg looked utterly miserable, and worse—frightened.

"Regulus—" Sirius implored him directly. "Just talk to me. I know you want to—you came to me for help, and I want to help you—but I need this—"

"This is dinner, not an opportunity for you to interrogate your brother!" his mother scolded him, furiously, but Sirius ignored her.

"You want to take him down as much as I do." Regulus's brown eyes, unblinking, looked into his brother's flinty gray—and for a moment Sirius felt he was getting through. "I know you're afraid, but—"

"It's not that simple," Regulus said, practically pleading with him to stop.

"It's not complicated! Who do you think you're protecting? Yourself, them—" Sirius gestured at his parents but didn't look at them, missed the alarm on his mother's face and the thunderous anger on his father's. "—Or is it someone else?"

"Sirius Orion—!"

"The least you can do is tell me who got you in with those bastards in the first place," he pressed, recklessly—the wine having evidently gone to his head, as his father suggested. "Who was—was it her?"

"Stop it!" his brother yelled back, face bloodless—and Regulus pulled his chair out roughly, nearly tripping over Kreacher in his haste to get away from Sirius.

"Enough."

Mr. Black had stood up himself—at his full height he towered over Regulus, his seated wife and older son—and he was clearly in command of the room.

"Regulus, sit back down," Orion ordered him. "Sirius, be silent."

His younger son immediately obeyed, but Sirius opened his mouth to argue—then caught sight of the dangerous look in his father's eyes.

After a short pause to recollect himself, Mr. Black sat down again, his back rigid, and when he addressed the son who was still looking at him mutinously, it was with the surety of man who knows he will be obeyed without question.

"Since you can't control your tongue at meals," Orion told Sirius, coldly. "From now on you'll hold it unless spoken to directly by me or your mother."

"But—"

"I trust I don't have to repeat myself," he snapped, icily. "That you—understand me?"

Sirius's father did not often allude to the power he had over his son—but when he did, he didn't mince the seriousness of the threat. His firstborn had also learned in these moments that breaking eye contact with Orion was a bad idea, and so he was careful not to look away—as much as he would like to.

He gulped and nodded.

"Yes—I understand."

Orion kept staring at him, his look positively withering—and then he turned to address his younger son, staring glumly at the remnants of his salmon on the plate.

"Regulus—is this what he does when the two of you are alone?" Regulus looked up from his plate, exchanged an alarmed but silent look with his older brother. "Does he try to ferret information out of you?"

"No, Father," Regulus answered, quietly, reluctantly looking up at Orion. Mr. Black was not so angry when he looked at his younger son—but it made Regulus no less frightened.

"And you're not lying to me to protect him," Orion said, wryly—Reg immediately shook his head.

"No—he really doesn't, Father," Regulus answered, with a tad more confidence. Orion stared into his younger son's eyes for a moment, and apparently satisfied with the truth of this answer, nodded.

"I'm glad to hear it," Mr. Black leaned back in his chair, relaxed and normal again. "If he were, and I got wind of it, I'd be forced to order Kreacher to remain here with the two of you all the time, like you were children that have to be supervised."

Orion's eyes darted to Sirius, anticipating the sharp retort—but the older boy managed to restrain himself by clenching his jaw shut. Mrs. Black looked rather astounded—she had not yet gotten over her husband exercising his mysterious power over their unruly son.

"Kreacher—serve the next course," Orion continued, and all was well and right at the table again—as if nothing untoward had taken place.

His family, with great, collective effort, followed suit, everyone settling back into their seats, controlling their expressions again. Mr. Black surveyed them all, and when he was satisfied that things were as they should be once more, he cleared his throat and looked over at his wife.

"Walburga—before we got on this tedious digression, what were you saying? Something about your brother?"

As humiliating as it was to be told not to speak unless spoken to, in a way, it made the salad course easier for Sirius. He could clear his head and calm down—and assess the extent to which he'd just set himself back.

He had been so close to getting through to Regulus, he was sure of it—but then his father had intervened and ruined it, like he always did. Of course, Sirius had no one but himself to blame for it.

Orion had used the weapon his son had handed to him on a silver platter—the knowledge that Sirius was an unregistered Animagus—to great effect. He and his father hadn't spoken directly about it since Mr. Black had forced him to transform, but the threat lingered under the surface of their every interaction.

Orion wielding it over something as anodyne as Sirius daring to "disrupt dinner" by pointing out the hard truths of their situation was classic, Sirius thought, as he watched his father calmly listen to his wife drone on about their December social calendar.

His parents' refusal to see the world as it was was near-pathological.

Well, he could thank his family's avoidance tactics for one thing—neither Walburga nor Orion brought the subject of Frank Longbottom up again. This was very good, as his mother had not gotten to the most crucial point—asking him why the famous Auror had popped in on Sirius in the first place.

So tomorrow night's mission was still safe, at least.

He glanced up at Regulus occasionally, trying to communicate the silent 'thank you' that his little brother was owed—for what Reg said had not, strictly speaking, been entirely true. Sirius hadn't grilled him incessantly in the hours they spent in the flat together, alone, but they had skirted around the subject of the Death Eaters. This evening had not been the first time he had asked Regulus who it was that had gotten him involved with Lord Voldemort's cause—a perfunctory question on his part, as the older of the two was certain he knew the answer already.

Regulus refused to implicate anyone. His elder brother supposed it made sense—if he was going to name names, it wasn't likely to be his cousin or cousins' husbands, and he was sure it had been Lucius or the Lestranges who had gotten his impressionable brother to join Voldemort's cause in the first place.

The tremendous courage he had shown by taking the locket had not been a fluke, of that Sirius was sure—but all the same, whatever his younger brother had seen as a Death Eater must've terrified him, for he had completely clammed up. Now, with Orion threatening them with Kreacher, coaxing Reg into helping was going to be even harder.

He was still inwardly berating himself for making his own job that much harder when dessert in the form of a custard meringue arrived.

"Sirius."

His father saying his name abruptly jolted his son out of his head. Sirius raised his eyes, suppressing the urge to give a theatrical start at being formally addressed.

"How are you faring on that little project of ours?"

Mr. Black's tone was pleasant and conversational—for him, anyway. Sirius inwardly groaned at the topic of dinner conversation turning to the tedious book of Black family inheritance law currently sitting on the bedside table next to his cot.

"What are you having him do, Orion?" Mrs. Black asked, immediately suspicious. Regulus looked between his father and elder brother, eyes shining with curiosity.

"Your son is looking into something for me—a family matter, legal." Orion had not taken his eyes off his son. "Well?"

Sirius stabbed the meringue and let the dessert spoon fall limply to the plate.

"My foray into the fascinating world of inheritance law," he griped, moodily. "Is going about as well as you'd expect."

"That is not a particularly revealing answer," Orion said, cooly. "You've had plenty of time to look into this. I want specific details about your progress."

He sighed and fiddled with his spoon. Sirius had not been stupid enough to ignore his father's direct orders—but his investigation into the murky question of how to get back Elladora Black's opal necklace had been done extremely grudgingly.

"I regret to inform you that your dear sister-in-law Druella is barking up the wrong tree, as regards the opals—at least if she's looking for a way of getting them through legal means. She'd be better off cursing the Burkes."

"Explain."

"From what I gleaned, reading the incoherent scribblings of my great-great-grandfather," Sirius continued, voice flat. "Personal bequests are commonplace enough in the family. If unmarried Elladora gave the opals to her Burke niece, that was well within her rights, and sucks to any Blacks who want them back."

"I hope you have something a little better than that after this long," his father replied, his eyes flinty.

Sirius huffed—but as his father had expected, when he opened his mouth he had an answer.

"To tell you the truth, I didn't think it seemed plausible, either—I figured there'd be some custom to keep anything of worth from leaving the family coffers, so I dug a little deeper."

"And what did you find?"

"That I was right, of course," Sirius said, and there was a tiny hint of self-satisfaction in the answer. "Most of the real treasures have been tied up in the entail. They can't be given away or bequeathed—they can only be lent out. If Elladora was loaned the opals by the Head of the family—in her time it would've been her brother—then she wouldn't have the right to leave them to anyone. And in that case—" He laid his hands triumphantly on the table. "—They would be your wife's, by right of custom."

"Why would they be mine?" Walburga asked, confused and annoyed, as she usually was when the conversation concerned things about which she knew nothing.

"There's an odd tradition that all the jewels go to the youngest wife in the line of direct succession," Sirius shrugged. "I think it's supposed to make you feel like a crown princess. Only you can say if it's working, of course."

His mother raised an eyebrow at his sly look but didn't scold him. It was too late in the evening to start another fight.

"That's a very clever solution you've come up with," Orion remarked, dryly. "Very tidy."

"Isn't it? I thought so."

"Unfortunately—" Sirius's smile fell. "I'm certain they were Elladora's. Her initials were carved into them, they wouldn't have allowed that if they were on loan to her."

Sirius let out a disgruntled noise—the look on his father's face and his general demeanor said one thing: this wasn't over. It was so clearly a punishment to be stuck looking into this, and Orion was relishing in it.

"What is so special about these damned opals?" he grumbled. "Why does Cissy even want them?"

"It's her mother who has asked, as I told you—" He shrugged, airily. "They're of extraordinary beauty. And I believe they have magical properties."

"Oh, so it's really Narcissa's husband who wants them, and he's sent Druella sniffing around so we'll do his dirty work for him." Sirius crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. "Typical Malfoy behavior, to be expected."

He picked up the spoon and shoveled some meringue into his mouth. His brother, meanwhile, had been staring at his own dessert for a minute, lost in thought—when he suddenly looked up.

"Father," Regulus said, timidly. "Where…did the opals come from?"

Orion blinked in surprise—though he had not ordered Regulus not to speak unless addressed, that was his usual mode of behavior. Very rarely did he say anything out of turn.

"I'm not sure what their origin is," he said to his younger son, slowly. "I've only ever heard them referred to as Elladora's opals."

"But how did Aunt Elladora get them to begin with?" Regulus pressed. "Surely the only way to resolve the question for certain is to find out how they came into the family in the first place."

Sirius and Orion both stared at him—equally surprised.

"I mean—it's a bit of a long-shot," Sirius said, scratching his head. "But, well—theoretically, you might be able to prove they were intended to be tied to the main estate. Assuming they were purchased and not a gift. Elladora didn't have any suitors, did she?"

"She would not have gotten that necklace from them if she did," Walburga informed him, with an exasperated sigh. "Opals are not an appropriate gift for anyone but a fiancée."

"Why not?"

"Jewels should only be given to one's wife, sister or mother, Sirius Orion—obviously." She rolled her eyes skyward. "Don't you have any sense of propriety?"

"Evidently not—though as I'm not giving jewels to anyone, it hardly matters."

Regulus had been deep in thought all through this bickering—and he suddenly looked up, a light having come on in his head.

"Father—isn't there a book of letters and papers from the last century with all the family affairs—Phineas Nigellus's private collection?"

"There is," his father returned, evenly.

"So—there has to be something in there about where they came from."

Regulus had jumped on the question of the opals with surprising eagerness—it was the most animated he'd been all night, except for when he'd nearly fled the table. His father's brow furrowed.

"That's an excellent point," Orion said, over Sirius's loud groan. "And a new angle for your elder brother to investigate. This case is far more interesting than I anticipated."

Sirius wrinkled his nose in irritation and shot his father a foul look.

"Why are you making me do extra work?" he asked, indignant at the injustice of this. "It was Regulus's idea—and anyway, he clearly wants to do it. Why not let him?"

It was hard to deny that; Regulus was displaying as much eagerness for the task as his brother did repulsion for it. Orion studied both of his sons, squaring the two of them up, before his eyes rested on Sirius.

"I don't owe you an explanation for why I've given you this task. Suffice it to say that I have. That being said…" He trailed off, thoughtfully. "…Regulus can assist you. Assist, not do the work. You can both look through the papers."

Sirius let out another huff but nodded, exchanging a look of brotherly annoyance with Regulus. He gave his father a small smile. Kreacher cleared away the wine glasses and brought out the after-dinner coffee, which they drank in what was to Sirius blissful silence.

Eventually that came to an end.

"On a related note, Sirius—how is looking into the matter that had you so concerned when we last spoke about this?"

Sirius chewed slowly on his meringue—it had turned gelatinous in his mouth and he longed to spit it out, preferably on Kreacher's head—and thought about how he was going to answer his father's question.

"I figured out a solution to that problem two days after you gave me the book, actually," he admitted.

"Impressive," Orion said, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. Sirius was looking at his mother with obvious trepidation. "Care to elaborate?"

"Not particularly."

"And why is that?"

"I don't want to offend the sensibilities of anyone at the table," Sirius said, still watching his mother.

Orion saw where he was looking and raised one heavy eyebrow.

"If you can't say it in front of your mother," Walburga fixed her son with a severe look. "I have doubts about the efficacy of your plan."

"It's neat," Sirius said, polishing off his meringue and pushing the plate away from him.
"It would take me out of the line of succession automatically and irrevocably, and the best part is—" He leaned towards his father. "You wouldn't have to lift a wand."

His father steepled his fingers and leaned on both elbows at the head of the table, considering his elder son with a grim smile.

"I think I can guess what you have in mind."

"I'm sure you can't."

"Do you already have a woman lined up, or are you still looking for one?" Orion relished the look of astonishment on Sirius's face, then turned to his perturbed wife. "Your son has decided that he'd like to get married after all."

"What?"

Mrs. Black's eyes and tone were sharp, and she was focused with deadly precision on her eldest son.

"Explain what you mean to your mother, Sirius," Orion said, eyes gleaming in the dim light of the dying tallow candles on the table.

He battled with himself over whether it was worth provoking her this close to the end of the meal, when they would be going back to Grimmauld Place and leaving him and Reg in peace.

Well—looked like his father wasn't giving him a choice.

"The only surefire way to take myself out of the line of succession…" Sirius said, slowly. "…Is to marry a Muggle or a Muggle-born witch."

The delicate clink of silverware being set down cut through the heavy silence the statement elicited.

He was not looking at his mother—after her reaction to that afternoon's tussle over girls he may or may not be having one-night stands with, Sirius did not fancy facing what was sure to be a livid expression, so instead he looked to his father. By contrast, Mr. Black took the news of his son's intentions in stride; he seemed to be seriously considering the prospect.

"That would work. Of course, it would have to be by wizard rites, and the—union—would only be valid if there was issue." Orion looked thoughtful. "Seems a lot of trouble to go to, carrying on with a mudblood and siring her half-blood brat over a mere principle."

Mrs. Black had started to tremble, her hand inching towards her wand on the table. Only Regulus dared look at her, and it was with mild terror.

"You have to have a kid for it count?" Sirius wrinkled his nose. "Also, I'd prefer if you didn't use that word in my flat."

To Sirius's surprise, his father did not assert his rights as patriarch and holder of his son's leash to push back on the request to refrain from offensive language—instead he shrugged and nodded, indicating by his dismissiveness it was of no consequence to him what word was used to refer to his hypothetical daughter-in-law.

"Muggle, then—it amounts to the same thing, as far as your plan goes," Orion said, leaning back in his chair. "Rather daring—you really intend to go through with it?"

Mr. Black was also not looking at his wife—he could guess that she was quietly seething, and the dressing down his whelp of a son was about to get for being stupid enough to say this around her was quite deserved.

"I might've—the having a child with her part I didn't realize," Sirius admitted, glibly. "I figured I'd just go down to Muggle courthouse with a good-natured bird, get hitched real quiet-like, then grab a quickie divorce down the—"

"Be quiet!" his mother cried, standing up and brandishing her wand at him, furiously. Sirius actually dropped his coffee cup in shock—but he quickly rallied. "How dare you—talk about marrying filth—in front of me—"

His involuntary eye-roll was not a particular bright move, in the circumstances.

"Mother, it was a joke!" Sirius stood up and threw his napkin down on the table. "I'm not seriously going to—"

"Marriage to common harlots is not something to joke about!" his mother said, the word sharp and poised like a weapon. She was gripping her wand very tightly. "And If I ever hear you speaking that way in my presence again I'll make it so you can't do anything with any woman."

Sirius stared at her in flabbergasted shock—then collapsed back on his chair, weakly. Nobody at the table spoke for a painful half-minute.

"Well, then—guess that plan's out," he said, in a small voice, and he hunched his shoulders in a defensive posture.

Still fuming, Walburga lowered herself back into the chair.

Overall, Sirius thought, looking over at his brother—now glaring at him almost as fiercely as Mrs. Black, angry that he'd upset her with his ridiculous provocation—not a particularly successful meal in terms of ingratiating himself with his family.

Only his father seemed thoroughly unperturbed by the effect of his older son's antics. It was only after Kreacher had cleared the last of the plates away that he addressed Sirius again—and his voice was calm and even.

"I think perhaps it would be wise for you to keep…exploring your options," Orion said, placidly. "If you're still determined to keep on this course."

"I am," his older son said, churlishly—avoiding his mother's hostile glare in favor of the table.

Orion pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time.

"Well, you'll have plenty of time tomorrow evening to continue your studies." Mr. Black paused. "In our absence."

"Your absence?" Regulus asked, frowning.

"You won't you be around tomorrow?" Sirius said, dabbing moodily at the coffee he had spilled on the table cloth.

"Of course we won't," his mother snapped. "It's the 19th."

"What's the 19th?"

"It's grandfather's birthday," Regulus said, softly.

Sirius dropped the napkin. He had completely forgotten about Arcturus's birthday party—and the large, daylong gathering of the entire extended clan to celebrate the momentous occasion when God had seen fit to grace them all with his presence. Because it was in mid-December, it was the traditional kick-off for the Black Family's glittering Christmas social calendar.

Like most of their family traditions, the event was self-important, pompous and dull. Sirius hadn't thought about the party since the last one he'd been forced to attend.

Now his mind was reeling at his extraordinary luck.

"Right—it's the annual soirée," Sirius said, recovering from his surprise. "I'd forgotten. How old is your father turning? A hundred and fifteen?"

"Seventy-eight," Orion replied, irritably. "Which you know."

It seemed—to his oldest grandson, at least—that Arcturus had always been seventy-eight. The Black patriarch's greatest claim to fame was the Order of Merlin he'd gotten for loaning the Ministry an astronomical sum of money, and in Sirius's opinion, at least, was his father sans Orion's few good qualities—chiefly his ironic wit. Cold and pitiless, with even less time for sentiment than his son—Sirius could see him in his mind's eye now, holding court in the drawing room at Noire House, expecting everyone to kiss his ring.

What a joke.

"So everyone in the family will be together…" Sirius said, trying not to make his delight at this news too obvious. "…and with him."

It really was difficult to contain himself—this could not have been more convenient timing.

When Frank had told him of the mission, he had had every intention of just skipping dinner at the flat and making an excuse later, damn the consequences—but if they would be at his grandfather's palatial mansion in Suffolk, that meant neither Black parent would be any the wiser about him sneaking off.

All he had to of was could keep Reg quiet.

"Isn't it a shame we're both going to miss out on all the fun, Regulus?" Sirius said, unable to contain his grin. His younger brother actually looked disappointed that he would not be stuck at this ghastly family gathering. "Just a quiet brotherly evening in for us. Reading and introspection."

The younger boy ignored his brother's sarcasm.

"I'll write grandfather a letter, wishing him well," Regulus said to his parents. "And you can say I've sent it from France."

Walburga nodded approvingly at this display of automatic deference and polite duty. Sirius tried to contain his urge to mime retching. What a little kiss-up Reg was!

"Is—everyone in the family going to be there?" he asked, leg twitching nervously. He half expected his father to yell at him for speaking out of turn. "Narcissa as well?"

Orion was so surprised by the question he forgot to scold Sirius for asking it.

"Why wouldn't she be?"

Sirius shrugged, trying to keep his tone light and casual.

"Oh, I don't know—I thought, with her being in the family way and all…"

"Narcissa understands the importance of family obligations—as does her husband," his father informed him, dryly—the implication being that there was something that Sirius could learn from her. "Naturally they will be there."

He snorted. Of his cousins, Narcissa was the one he had always been most dismissive of. Bellatrix one could respect, even if she was a cut-throat bitch—but her youngest sister was a great deal like their mother Druella, with a tendency to put on demure airs, and he could only imagine how much more unbearable and snobbish a Malfoy marriage had made her. Cissy's time in school had also overlapped longest with his, and Sirius had never gotten over her tale-telling to their family about him..

No wonder Snivellus had been so keen on sucking up to her future husband.

"No, Orion—remember—she would be coming alone this year," Walburga corrected him. "She sent regrets—but Lucius has some obligation to his father he can't get out of."

A-ha.

Relief flooded into him—more great news. This proved Moody's hunch right—Lucius had fed Cissy some line to give her family as an excuse, that was the only explanation for him skivving off—and it meant the information that they suspected would be passed during this game was important, and that he was taking no chances.

Best of all, there was not a chance a single Black would be at Malfoy Manor tomorrow—they would all be occupied by this idiotic birthday party.

"Has he?" Sirius's father looked annoyed. Maybe because he was still smarting from Sirius catching him out over his real feelings on his nephew-in-law, he restrained from comment. "Oh—well, at least she will be there."

"I look forward to hearing all about it," Sirius said, blandly. He barely registered his mother's reply—already he was far away from them all, running plans through his head, mind full of the mission and blood pumping with adrenaline at the excitement and danger involved.

He completely missed the look of heavy suspicion that was being leveled at him from across the table by his little brother.

As usual, no one was paying much attention to Regulus.