Chapter Text

Chapter 1: The Wedding

Sirius Black balanced his chair on its back two legs as he watched his best friend twirl his bride across the dance floor once, then twice, then a third time, without showing any signs of stopping. So very many twists and turns, dips and pivots, it seemed as though Lily Ev-Potter could not possibly end this routine standing upright. The fairy lights decorating the tall spruces lining the forest glade illuminated the two dancers below. And there they spun again, and again, and again, as though the late-September air had made them weightless.

Sirius glanced down as his own wife, who was leaning forward, mouth slightly agape, staring at the couple in almost equal parts awe and nausea. He wrapped his arm around the back her chair, pulling her attention towards him.

“Oh don’t even think about it.” Her eyes scanned his face for any sign that he was about to pull her back on to the dance floor.

They had done their damnedest to keep up with the newlyweds, but even they needed a breather.

“Good,” she said, patting his chest where her wand sat in his breast pocket opposite his. A check, of sorts, not for the first time that night.

When James and Lily first discussed the rather broad guest list, and the limited magic policy that inevitability came with it, the two Blacks joked the they were going to need Obliviators to stand on the sidelines, ready to take action at any moment. The reality of the policy - sufficiently emphasized through the formal invitation and the frequent reminders – was slightly less amusing, particularly for his pocketless counterpart.

Isabella Rosier Black was certainly not used to being without her wand, and Sirius could tell it unnerved her more than most. She handled herself inconspicuously, but the frequent checks made it clear that she would not stand to be more than a few paces away from her wand at any given time.

Sirius was half-inclined to hand it over; the straw she kept twirling between her fingers was a rather sorry replacement, and he was certain it wouldn’t make a difference at this hour. The crowd had started to thin out, leaving only the younger and rowdier friends of the bride and groom, and even they were dwindling in energy as they’d been so thoroughly pumped full of liquor. The amount of booze that had been consumed by the guests ensured that if muggles did notice anything out of the ordinary, they weren’t exactly in the right mind to process it, let alone repeat it the next morning with any level of conviction.

But the Blacks promised to be on their best behavior, and, for the most part, they’d done just that.

Lily caught air on the latest twirl and Isabella's eyes brightened as she glanced back at Sirius once again with a knowing smile. Her eyes told more of a story than most people could deliver through a soliloquy and Sirius often found that he could keep himself entertained just watching her reactions.

And he was never the only one staring.

Her appearance alone commanded the attention of a crowd. She had the kind of haunting good looks that were conversation-worthy; a compliment he never quite knew how to receive. Over the years, he had come to discover that, as beautiful as she was, her appearance was really the least mesmerizing thing about her. It was her mind that enthralled him so completely. She was cunning and sharp, and could command a conversation like no other. She had both the ability and desire to absolutely eviscerate someone in a debate, and leave her opposition in stunned silence - all while wearing the most dazzling smile.

To say that it was an underappreciated skill of hers implied that it went unnoticed, but that it did not. It was far more accurate to say that it was simply an un-appreciated skill; one that many used as a justification for their dislike or distrust of her. There was nothing about Isabella that garnered sympathy; a former-Slytherin Rosier married to the Black heir who had made no pretenses to disguise her darker beliefs for anything other than what they were.

Those who knew her well, and the list was not extensive, knew how different she was from the mold she fit so perfectly on paper – she was one of Lily Evans’ bridesmaids for Merlin’s sake. Had Isabella cared deeply about how the Light families perceived her, Sirius knew she had the skills necessary to ‘fix’ her reputation. But she stood firm that sacrificing her own beliefs was far worse than not being liked.

It made Sirius love her all the more.

And she didn't exactly stand alone, particularly at a party like this. Those who had attended Hogwarts at the same time as Sirius had no doubts about his beliefs, but for those who hadn’t, the presence of the couple raised a number of questions. Though neither Sirius, nor Isabella, had ever given any indication of Death Eater sympathies, they were not in the Order of the Phoenix and their families’ affiliations weren’t exactly unknown.

The newspapers couldn’t go a day without printing another story of a Dark Mark floating above another house or store, or worse, a neighborhood or district. Outside of some of the most brutal, the events had all begun to bleed together, though it didn’t soften the grim terror the procession of them brought about. The suspected Death Eaters behind each of the attacks weren’t always included - in fact, it had become less common over the years to name names. But that didn’t mean people did not know the ones behind them. And there were a few names that cropped up far more often than others – Rosier and Black amongst them.

Now, it hardly would’ve mattered had their names been spared in the papers, the Blacks were already a contentious family amongst those of lighter beliefs.

The Black family had always represented power. Power and violence. It was said that the victors of every major war over the last millennium could be tracked through the movement of the Black’s vast wealth. Whether they simply backed the future victors or if it was the money itself that moved the tides of the war, no one outside of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black could say. But the Black’s funds and a victory were ostensibly connected.

Both the Order and the Death Eaters understood that too well.

The oldest witches and wizards still remembered some of the most recent Goblin Rebellions and the Giant Wars at the end of the 19^th century, and recalled the history and the consequences of going up against a Black. But the Blacks had made a controversial decision to not pick a side in Grindelwald’s war and now, the current Head, Arcturus Black, had chosen not to take a stand in the growing war with the new Dark Lord.

Of course, that did not mean that the heir would make the same decision when it was his time, and both the Order and the Death Eaters understood that as well.

A tall, rather severe-looking woman approached their table with a surprisingly warm smile on her otherwise sharp face.

“Dorcas. Dorcas Meadowes. It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Isabella!” The formidable witch shook her hand firmly. “I’ve been a friend of the Potters for many, many decades now. I met your husband – Merlin – that would’ve been, what, four years ago now? Five? Is that right? When he was staying with the Potters for the summer.”

“It’s great to see you again Ms. Meadowes,” Sirius said, enthusiastically shaking her hand.

“Please, Dorcas is quite alright. Is this reminding you all of your wedding? Hasn’t been too long now, has it?”

“Just over a year now,” Sirius smiled, affectionately squeezing his wife’s arm, “we had our one-year anniversary on August 8^th.”

“Lion’s Gate Portal?”

“You’re familiar?” he said with some surprise. “Do you practice divination?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t have the inner eye. My great-aunt was a seer though, and I must say the mystic arts are fascinating, really. I’ve heard the, uh, Blacks have the talent, is that right?”

“Well, we do, but it’s a very niche focus on numerology and astrology. And with the way we weave in arithmancy and astronomy, it feels rather technical, to be transparent, rather than ‘mystical’,” Sirius laughed, curious to see where Dorcas would take the conversation. The topic often brought out an unflattering side of people; those uncomfortably and unsubtly too curious, and those entirely uncurious, but eagerly to declare the Blacks war profiteers.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how does it work? I don’t know how much you can share, but I promise I can’t replicate it, I just find it really interesting."

He grinned.

“My family keeps record of astrological positionings and implications for key dates of battles, attacks, notable actions or statements, with a particular focus on the number of days in between these critical events and the power of those numbers. From there, you can forecast out the likelihood of future event dates, and based on the relative astrological position and power of those dates, you could make a fairly sound judgement on the likelihood of success. Expand the forecast to account for both sides of the war, and project out, and, hypothetically, we can predict the end outcome, as well as each significant success or loss, only weeks into a conflict.”

“And what about what cannot be predicted?” she inquired further, her expression devoid of any sort of pretense. 

“The use of astrology helps account for the unprecedented moments. Unfortunately," Sirius paused and shook his head; he had to admit part of him was impressed with her restraint and tact, but it was rather important to not let it distract him. He needed to cut it there, “it’s a good deal more complicated in practice, I hardly claim I know what I’m doing yet.”

“Oh, Merlin, it doesn’t sound uncomplicated at all. And don’t worry, I’m not here to ask you how the war ends, I mean, unless you’re hoping to share!” Dorcas gave a hearty, if not slightly forced, laugh, “But I will say, with James, and of course Lily, and your other friends, Remus and Peter, I’m surprise you yourself didn’t join the Order? Or… haven’t yet?”

This was a far more common line of questioning, and one he had a well-rehearsed explanation for.

“It’s a fair question, with what I’ve found most to feel is an unsatisfying answer; I simply had to put my family first. I’ll admit there’s a long explanation that I don’t feel that either of us want me to get into at a wedding, but I will say this – my father passed away this past spring. That makes me no longer the future heir, but the heir to the Sacred House of Black. And there are responsibilities I’ve accepted with that.”

“That must be challenging,” Dorcas replied, sounding more sympathetic than concerned, “you’ve never struck me as traditional Black.”

No matter where the conversation started, it always seemed to end the same way.

“You know,” he said, the slightest hint of annoyance in his voice. “you don’t need to tear down a building just because you hate the wall paper. I feel that I can do more from the inside than the outside.”

“I suppose that’s very fair,” Dorcas smiled, “if more people focused on fixing their own families, this mess wouldn’t have gotten half as bad.”

Sirius nodded and reciprocated her smile; he couldn’t have said it better himself.

“And you, Isabella?" she continued. "I suppose I don’t know your political affiliations but married to Sirius here, and one of dear Lily’s bridesmaids along with her sister and Marlene, I assume you’re not…” her voice trailed off.

“Well, I’m not a Death Eater!” Isabella responded defensively. “And none of the Rosiers in my immediate family are either, I always want to highlight as well.”

“Apologies, I didn’t mean to imply -” Dorcas took a deep breath. “That was rude of me. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine; I think I just get used to how these conversations often go.” Isabella shook it off before continuing, “No one expected me to join the Order out of Hogwarts, even engaged to Sirius. And of course there were a myriad of other factors, especially with family, at play. But that doesn’t mean I don't see the unique position we're in and I do hope that I’m taking full advantage of it. The world isn’t split between Death Eaters and Order members; most fall somewhere in the middle, and those are the most important people to reach as perspectives become polarized.

“I don’t want people radicalized,” Isabella concluded, though Sirius doubted Dorcas understood her full meaning. “And I don’t think that’s something that I would be as effective at stopping if I were in the Order.”

“You know, you’re not wrong - we can get lost in the need to react to what they’ve done, but prevention is equally critical and often missed. But I’d be remiss if I didn’t say that if you ever do want to work with us, it’s not a ridged system. And we’re willing to accommodate if there’s a need for flexibility or subtlety, I promise. I think you both have a lot we could benefit from hearing. And we’d love your input. Both of you. Anyway,” Dorcas gave them a big grin. “I’ve said my piece – it was so good to see you Sirius, and so nice to meet you, Isabella. Don’t hesitate to reach out!”

And with that, Dorcas Meadowes was off into the crowd.

Sirius waited until he was certain she was well out of earshot, before nudging his wife.

“Still haven’t gotten back to including your old spiel?”

“Shush -” Isabella gave him a flick of the wrist, “- ‘cause that’s really won us a lot of friends in the past.”

Isabella had long-argued against the lighter families’ - and in turn the Order’s - condemnation of the Dark Arts. Had she been more refined in her Hogwarts days, she would’ve watched her words in front of the less-than-receptive Gryffindors, but that was not in her nature. Her remarks were met with mild interest at best, and deep-seated concern at worst.

There was no appetite for an open dialogue on the Dark Arts, and it had only gotten more taboo since their Hogwarts days as the war dragged on.

While the ‘Dark Arts’ had originally referred only to the darkest elements of magic - brutally harmful spells or practices - it had evolved to encompass all practices that required negative, or Dark, emotions to execute. There was some logic to defining it by negative emotions. One of the most referenced justifications was difference between the Cruciatus Curse and the Patronus Charm; both required strong emotions, but on opposite ends of the spectrum, and the outcomes and consequences were vastly different.

The problem was, Isabella argued, as with any kind of blanket label, it encompassed far more than it should. Not only did it strip away millenniums-old rituals and traditions that had been unharmful, if not actively beneficial, for many wizarding families; the truth was that some reasonable magic simply required fear, anger, hopelessness, hatred, or jealousy to be performed at its strongest.

The recent wars caused many lighter families to take an even harder line against anything that was perceived as Dark. Just in the last few decades, practices like blood magic and animal sacrifices, and even books referencing these practices, were made illegal. The justifications behind the legal changes were vague at best. Isabella emphasized that these new restrictions didn’t fit within any prior definition of the Dark Arts; they weren’t brutally harmful to other witches or wizards and nor did they require strong negative emotions to practice.

It was the legal suppression of ancient traditions, and it was the Dark families who were bearing the brunt.

Isabella let her objections be known until there came a time where it was genuinely foolish to do so. There were already other reasons for their neutrality - reasons that they were even more restricted from discussing - so in turn, their public explanation moved further and further from the truth.

“But family?” Sirius whispered, his discontent unsubtle in his tone. “That’s what we’re giving them? It's a rather controversial, if not flat-out insane, explanation for you and I. Someone’s going to call us out eventually. I just feel like we ought to be able to give them - well, obviously not full truth - but a reality check. They ought to be able to at least hear it.”

“Of course they ought to hear it, it doesn’t mean they’ll listen to a word…”

He would’ve laughed it had it been anything other than a depressing reality he’d come to discover in the past few years.

Sirius had spent most of the summer months between his 6^th and 7^th year working with his grandfather on controlling what he less that affectionately referred to as ‘The Black Curse.’ His 6^th year had done a phenomenal job putting his impetuous tendencies on full display, and after crossing more than a few lines, he knew something had to change. His grandfather told him that this was not some lost cause; that this flaw was trainable, controllable, even useful.

He just needed an outlet.

His family, for centuries, channeled this… excess energy into the so-called ‘Dark Arts’. And there were reasons it worked. The Dark Arts required an immense amount power and control, and by focusing that negative energy into it, a witch or wizard could get a far better grasp of not just their magic, but their emotions as well. For Darker families, his grandfather explained, it was both a source of power and tool for managing it.

Though it had taken him a while to get over his initial biases, Sirius ultimately felt that Isabella’s arguments were on the mark.

The label itself was the problem, not the magic.

Not that they could say it.

“I’m surprised to see you both here,” a gruff voice spoke behind them, forcing them to whip around.

“Oh, Alastor Moody, correct?” Sirius reached out to shake the grim-looking man’s hand – a gesture that went unreciprocated.

“And surprised to see us here?” Isabella asked, clearly irritated. “At our best friends’ wedding? We’re both in the wedding party.”

“Yeah, I noticed that. Might have to do a refresh with the young Potters on identification of Dark wizards.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Isabella shot back. “Who the HELL are you?”

“He’s an Auror, love,” Sirius answered through gritted teeth, “a rather famous one at that.”

“Right you are, sonny. Your family has certainly gotten to know me well, haven’t they?” Moody smiled in a way that sent chills down his spin before taking a seat to Sirius’ left. “And you, Miss Rosier, Malfoy, Black - whatever you’re going by nowadays, I’ve had the dubious pleasure of getting know your family as well. Funny that I’m only now getting to meet you both…”

“It’s Black,” Isabella attempted to say as calmly as possible; clearly aware that her temper would not fly. “Isabella Rosier to Isabella Black. It’s never been Malfoy.”

“But you were engaged to one for a while, weren’t you?”

“Not… exactly. It was a mistake, really,” Isabella said, awfully casually for a topic Sirius knew she hated as much as this one. “A few months...”

Isabella's sharp tongue wasn't the only thing that contributed to her less-than-stellar reputation at Hogwarts. There was also the matter of the engagements - plural. She had, with Sirius’ help, leveraged their relationship to get as far away from marrying a Death Eater as possible; though no one outside of their closest friends even knew that much. It wouldn't do to draw attention to such politically-charged motives. The whole ordeal, along with the mystery surrounding it, was hardly well-received, but within a day had made her all the more enigmatic.

As the years passed, there was this sense that, eventually, people would forget about the turbulent beginning of Sirius and her relationship and her unusual history with Lucius Malfoy. All parties involved had moved on; it couldn’t stay the preferred cocktail party gossip forever. But approaching three years on and the questions like these hadn’t stopped. Nor the comments, nor the concerns.

“Right,” Moody said, disconcertingly cheerfully, “and then swept under the rug rather swiftly when you two came to light! It was nice to see the Blacks, Rosiers, and Malfoys all working together for once, you know, without masks on.”

“Oh good Merlin, let’s not go there,” Sirius said sharply, struggling not to reach for his wand. He could feel Isabella's eyes, too, burning a hole in his breast pocket.

“What was that?” Moody taunted. “You’re not trying to deny the family pastime, are you?”

“There’s no need to test us,” Sirius said slowly, making sure no one else around them could hear. “We’re not insane; we’re not going to attack an Auror… particularly not here.”

“Good, good,” Moody laughed. “I’ve heard rumors that you’re both rather brutal fighters. I understand you weren’t exactly friendly with that crowd in school, is that right?”

“Yeah, I’d say my detention records substantiate that.”

“Potter’s too, Potter’s too,” Moody laughed again. He had this horse laugh that almost sounded like he was clearing his throat. “It’s a shame then, that neither of you deviated that much from your family…”

“Oh I’m not sure that’s true!” Lily Potter swung up behind the couple, wrapping her arms around their shoulders. “They’re here, aren’t they?”

“Hmm. Sure.”

“Oh come now, Moody, why don’t you leave our friends alone. I’m certain you’re not being very nice and they’re under veeeery strict instructions to behave. And they’ve been doing a marvelous job, I’d hate to ruin it!”

“Fine.” He rose with a huff, glaring between the two Blacks. “Good to finally meet you both, I’ll be keeping an eye out.”

“I’m sorry!” Lily exclaimed as the infamous Auror stomped off. “Was he just awful to you both? He’s so bloody paranoid; phenomenal Auror, but an absolute arse. Disregard everything. Unless he said anything nice, then you can remember that – but ONLY that! Okay? Okay!”

Lily grinned from ear and latched on to Isabella’s arm, pulling her up from the table.

“I’m gonna pump you so full of liquor you’re going to forget about that entire interaction!”

“Trying to get me to catch up to you?!” Isabella cackled.

“ABSOLUTELY! Come come and help me find my HUSBAND!” Lily dropped her voice as she glanced between the two Blacks, “And alsoooo I saw you two coming back from the woods earlier?! At my wedding no less!? Scandalous!”

“Oh no, Lily! I was… well it doesn’t matter. I swear to Merlin, I would never!”

“You would always! You both!” She laughed and then paused as a look of guilt flash across her face. “Were you avoiding my sister and Vernon?”

Isabella neglected to respond, exchanging another quick glance with Sirius.

“Oh whatever,” Lily shrugged it off, unfazed, “I suppose we can both have our own story.”

“You know I promised to be on my best behavior…” Isabella gave Lily a guilty grin which sent Lily off entirely.

“Merlin Isabella, whatever will we do with you?” she cackled.

“Get me another drink?” Isabella managed to say through her own stifled laughs.

“BRILLIANT!”

They proceeded to dance the night away, their glasses full and heads half-empty. The four boys in particular were getting absolutely sloshed and were forces to be reckoned with. By the time Isabella and Sirius both found their way back to the dance floor, Peter had fallen asleep underneath a table that lined the perimeter and Remus was trying him damnedest impress a group of Lily’s muggle cousins, but how exactly he thought he was impressing them was completely lost on the observer. In fact, Remus had exclusively spoken in incoherent babbles since he approached the group. Sirius had gotten to the stage of drunk where competitions felt like quite a good idea. Had Isabella not been in heels and a floor-length dress, she almost certainly would’ve been forced into the foot race that Sirius insisted was ‘a reaaaaally important test.’ James out of the whole group was the most coherent, except on the rare occasions he tried to talk to anyone other than Lily, where he would simply zone out and stare in his new bride’s direction.

As 3 AM crept around the corner, even the stragglers agreed it was time to depart the grounds. Apparating in their current state felt like a recipe for disaster, so the Potter’s directed the guests to the floo.

Isabella and Sirius took their leave to their estate in the countryside just outside of Godric’s Hollow. Their house was far bigger than the two of them needed right now. But if it were to be there home up until they took on the Black Manor or, Merlin-forbid, 12 Grimmauld Place, they wanted the space.

As they stepped out of the floo on the wrong side of devil’s hour, they saw a shadow shift in one of the armchairs in the dimly lit living room.

They froze.

There was no one, outside of the people who had been at the party, that they’d welcome in their home, and uninvited visitor meant nothing good. Within a second of their arrival, their wands were out.

“Wait hold your spells – I’m just here to talk!” an unmistakable voice shouted in a panic.

Regulus Black had made his presence known.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Allegory of the Cave

Though Sirius and Isabella remained, by all public measures of the term, neutral in the ongoing war, there was a substantial difference between accepting Death Eaters and not actively fighting them. They were civilized enough to make small talk at social gatherings if the Death Eaters of the family were present, but no one was under any pretense that the two brothers were remotely close.

Certainly, Regulus Black was not someone welcome in their living room at three in the morning.

“What’re you doing here?” Sirius asked coldly.

“It’s - well, something really awful happened to Kreacher…”

“I’m sorry,” Sirius blinked at him, unsure if it was the booze or his brother making the whole interaction impossible to follow. “And this is my concern… why?”

“I-it’s bigger than Kreacher, it’s the Dark Lord…” Regulus said in almost a whisper.

“Absolutely not. Are they sending you to recruit us now? Frankly, Reg, if that is why you’re here, you should show yourself out.”

Sirius slumped on the couch opposite his brother and gestured towards the front hall. Then to the floo. Then back to the front hall. He didn’t particularly care how he left, so long as he was no longer in his presence.

“No wait, it’s not – it’s not that. Not at all! You need to believe me,” Regulus begged. “I-I didn’t know who else to turn to. Please. Please, Sirius.”

The tall ceilings in the great room seemed to dwarf the scrawny 18-year-old. He sat, perched on the edge of one of the two upholstered regency club chairs that flanked the fireplace, his face lit by the moonlight shining through the large mullion windows on the opposing wall, highlighting his pale, trembling features.

“Continue,” Isabella conceded as she took a seat next Sirius on the couch.

She’d always had a much higher tolerance than he did for Regulus. Both in Slytherin, they’d gotten to know each other in school and she clearly saw something in him that Sirius did not. To Sirius, his brother was the epitome of everything that was wrong with his family, and with pureblood society more broadly. He had been raised by such forces of nature that he had no backbone himself. He had been stripped of any semblance of independence or self-determination. He did what he was told, when he was told, never bothering to ask why. He wasn’t sure Regulus was even familiar with the concept.

“Okay, well… so…” Regulus seemed extremely apprehensive as he spoke. But he pushed on, taking deep breaths in between every few words, “About a week ago now – the Dark Lord announced that he needed someone, something, like a house elf, for an extremely important task. So, I volunteered. Well, I volunteered Kreacher.”

“I don’t particularly the thing, but jeez Reg, that’s fucking cruel.” Sirius shook his head.

“I didn’t – I didn’t know what the plan was or what he needed him for…”

“And you couldn’t have guessed?!”

“I didn’t want to think about it. I’m, well, I’m new – it’s my job to do favors…”

“Disgusting,” Isabella remarked with a cruel smirk. She may have been willing to give him the time of day, but there were certain things that were not tolerated in their house, and a servitude-like mentality towards the Dark Lord - towards anyone frankly - was one of them. “But please, continue.”

“I want, more than anything right now, to gloss over what it was and what happened. If I had my way, I would never, ever think of this again. It disgusts me. But I - but I’m afraid the details are important here. Because if I’m… right,” Regulus was stuttering slightly, “If I’m right – well – then, umm – I-I need to destroy… I need to destroy it.”

He emphasized the last word as though he hoped it would clue Sirius and Isabella into whatever it was he was talking about. But if anything, they were more confused than when he’d started.

Regulus took another deep breath.

“The Dark Lord had a task – and extremely important task, he emphasized – and he needed a house elf to assist or test whatever it was he was doing. I volunteered Kreacher. He took Kreacher away yesterday afternoon and I waited. I waited for hours and hours for Kreacher to come home and he didn’t.”

“So, you killed our parents’ house elf?” Sirius asked dryly.

He could list half a dozen things he would rather be doing than discussing the grouchy elf – sleeping being chiefly amongst them. But this performance at such an hour was strange enough, Sirius found himself begrudgingly intrigued. Though, if Reg didn’t get to the point soon, his impatience would swiftly overtake his curiosity.

“I… I think, in retrospect, that would be the better alternative. But I called him home. And he came home. But he was dying… I think poisoned, in the end.” Regulus sounded truly distraught as he continued, “All he could do was writhe around of the floor, moaning and occasionally screaming. He was clearly hallucinating, most of what he said didn’t make sense, but it was clear he was seeing things. This went on until probably midnight. But - but he survived, and slowly started coming back to his senses. I sat with him the whole time – it was horrible. I can hardly describe the sounds he was making or panic I was feeling – I had done this him. Who could do this to such a small and loyal creature?”

“Your Lord is cruel and evil, this isn’t news to me, Regulus,” Sirius said in a dismissive tone. “I’m sorry he hurt your pet, but this is the man you follow. Has this made you see that? Is that why you’re here?”

“Yes! Of course! I can’t – I couldn’t follow someone who could do that to something so innocent! But there’s som-”

“You naïve and hypocritical fool,” Isabella talked over him; she didn’t bother masking her disgust.

“Reg, that’s pathetic,” Sirius scoffed. It was deranged enough to call Kreacher innocent, but he was hardly able to process that it was that the torture of a house elf that had seemingly opened his brother’s eyes, not the countless humans who had suffered in the Dark Lord’s wake. “You realize how absolutely, despicably, pathetic you sound right now, right?”

Regulus looked broken, but not deterred.

“It is the pathetic and honest truth. And I’m not naïve enough to think that it’s enough to win either of your favors. I know how you two operate. But your forgiveness or love or whatever you think I’m asking for – it isn’t why I’m here. Someone else needs to know what the Dark Lord has done,” he said forcefully. “This knowledge will kill me – but this can’t die with me. Okay?”

Sirius felt an uncomfortable mix of pity and concern. He was just starting to sober up from the night’s events and wasn’t sure whether to take Regulus’ grave statements at face-value or as theatrics.

“The Dark Lord took Kreacher to a cave. Somewhere in the UK, and based on a passing comment, it was somewhere the Dark Lord had been many years ago, but Kreacher didn’t know anything else. The cave’s entrance requires blood, which Kreacher supplied. And then inside the cave is a large body of water, like a lake. They took a boat to cross it; the boat is hidden, but there’s a way to summon it or pull it up, Kreacher wasn’t sure, but he was insistent that you cannot touch the water.” Regulus took a steading breath. “Below the surface, there are hundreds of bodies. Not decomposing. And not quite lifeless. They’re pale shades of what were once humans. I believe… there is an army of Inferi below the surface of the lake.”

Regulus looked appropriately disgusted as he continued, his words rolling off his tongue like it physically hurt him to confess, “I know – I know he’s used Inferi before, but the sheer number of deaths and bodies that it would’ve taken to create what Kreacher saw, it’s almost unfathomable. I mean, who? Who’s down there?”

Sirius found the entire concept nauseating, and it didn’t look like his wife was taking it much better.

Regulus continued, spitting the words out in rapid succession as though taking a pause to breath would make it impossible to say all that needed to be said.

“The Dark Lord took Kreacher to the island in the center of the lake and there was small shallow pool of emerald liquid on a platform, Kreacher described it almost like a small pensive. The Dark Lord dropped the locket into the pool and instructed Kreacher to try and get it. See, I had told Kreacher he needed to obey and he tried his best to follow those instructions. But he couldn’t. It was as if the liquid was impenetrable. He could see the locket exactly as it is in the paintings… the large, octagonal, amber gem with the snake-like S inside… at the bottom of the shallow pool, but he couldn’t touch it.

“But he could hear it, like – like this locket was alive and taunting him. His story becomes blurred at this point, but I suppose he determined the only way to get to the locket was to drink it. Drink the liquid, I mean. And it was utter agony – this poison hurt his mind, his body, but I had ordered him to follow directions so he continued until he literally could not. Satisfied that even an elf, under a direct order, could not make it to the locket, the Dark Lord refilled the basin and left. Leaving Kreacher dying on the island, surrounded by a lake of Infiri.

“He was left on the island for what must’ve been hours with only the locket in the pool. He couldn’t drink the water; he had been told not to touch the water. So, he lay there dying until I called him back.”

Regulus paused for a moment, almost lost in thought before he forced himself to break through whatever invisible barrier held him back.

“It’s – it’s all horrible and awful and vile, but that’s not why I’m here tonight. Sirius – the locket. I think it’s a horcrux.”

Sirius’ eye widened and his body tensed.

“Don’t even say something like that.” His voice was low and sober; there was no hint of confusion, only fear.

“A sentient, inanimate object, with a dark energy and pull, worth guarding…”

“Stop it – don’t bring that term up again.”

“Can someone clue me in,” Isabella glanced between the two, “what’s a ‘horcrux’?”

“No,” Sirius said harshly. “He’s mistaken. It’s not possible and it shouldn’t be discussed.”

“It is possible and it needs to be discussed. Sirius – what else would require this level of caution? Security? It’s the only possible answer.”

“It cannot be the only possible answer. It can’t be.”

“Regulus – please,” Isabella tried again, “what are you both talking about?!”

“A horcrux,” said Regulus, “is an object in which someone has concealed part of their soul. It tethers them to this realm so even if their body dies, they do not die. It essentially renders the creator immortal, so long as the horcrux exists.”

“It is the darkest of Dark Arts,” Sirius reluctantly followed after his brother. There was no part of him that wanted to have this conversation; not now, not ever. But the idea of relying on Regulus’ recollection appealed to him all the less. “To create something like that - to physically rip your soul apart - requires a level of violence so extreme… you must murder, in cold blood, and derive immense satisfaction from the murder.”

“And do you doubt the Dark Lord capable of such an act?” Regulus pointedly fired back.

Sirius couldn’t bring himself to reply.

“But how…” Isabella struggled for the words she was looking for, “How are you both so familiar with this – with this practice?”

Regulus looked down while Sirius ran his hands through his hair. There was a lot that he’d filled his wife in on when it came to his rather turbulent relationship with his family, but there were certain events that he’d omitted. In order to move forward, there were things, he felt, that were best left in the past.

“When I was maybe nine, and Reg was seven or eight, we were in our family’s library reading any book we could get our hands on. I don’t know what our parents or nanny were thinking, letting us roam the library like that. Maybe they thought we hadn’t learned to use a ladder or maybe they just weren’t thinking about us at all. We were young and innocent and had no idea about the kind of witches and wizards our family members were and the dangers of their collection. And we were playing a ridiculously stupid game where we were trying to locate the creepiest, oldest book we could find.”

Sirius glanced over at his brother who look of regret mirrored his own. It had been years since he’d even thought of the incident, he hated how vividly the memory still played in his mind.

“I won that game,” Sirius continued, “pulling a book called ‘Secrets of the Darkest Art’ off of one of the highest shelves. It was this medieval looking black leather book that just radiated dark energy. I think we only made it through a few random pages of the most grotesque potions and spells that we’d ever heard of before we stumbled across horcruxes. It was the most depraved and disgusting thing we’d ever seen and it had both Regulus and I busting into our father’s study in tears.

“And do you know what he did?” He wished he could stop the emotions from spilling into his words, but over a decade later and the anger and anguish still seeped through. “He didn’t comfort us or try to reassure us, no. He simply told us that a healthy appreciation for the Dark Arts was needed and we would grow into understanding why things like that existed. I had night terrors for weeks after and I wasn’t able to set foot again in the library without feeling sick for years. Just knowing that my parents willingly kept information like that, and appreciated it – how do you process that as a kid?”

A mix of horror, disgust, and confusion flashed across Isabella’s face.

“Regulus and I agreed to never speak of the term. It caused such a visceral reaction for both of us, suppressing the memory felt like the only way to move on. And now, the less people that know about the existence of such a thing the better. I can’t imagine there are many other copies of that book, if any, and I hope that the existence of the foul things is simply wiped from Wizarding knowledge.”

“I’m – I’m so sorry. You were so young…” Isabella said, barely above a whisper. “And, Regulus, you think – you think the Dark Lord has created one of these? A horcrux?”

“I’m almost confident that the locket is a horcrux or I wouldn’t be here right now. It checks every box. But… I don’t think he’s created one horcrux, I think he’s created multiple.”

Sirius just stared at Regulus dumbfounded. It was nearing 4 in the morning and they were still in their wedding attire sitting in near darkness. This couldn’t possibly be the conversation he was having.

“Regulus, I know I only read that page that one day, but the memory of it has been burned in my mind for years. Nowhere did it mention the possibility of creating more than one horcrux. Nowhere.”

“The Dark Lord has often boasted that he has gone further than anyone along the path to immortality. He does not exaggerate when it comes to his accomplishments; he has no need to. He’s arguably the most powerful wizard alive. I would even wager that Dumbledore’s knowledge and control of the Dark Arts couldn’t compete. So, when he says he has gone further than anyone, I am inclined to believe he has pushed the boundaries of what is possible, or what was known to be possible.”

“This is speculation though, is it not?” Isabella asked cautiously. Though newer to the subject, the gravity of the situation wasn’t lost on her.

“Speculation yes, but not unsubstantiated. Nor unreasonable.”

“ALL of this is unreasonable!” Sirius interjected. “Reg, if what you say is true, the Dark Lord is effectively immortal!”

“Yes! Which is why you were the only person I could think to come to – something needs to be done and we can use this!”

“…we?” Sirius responded hesitantly.

He knew exactly what his brother meant but there was a problem; a precedent that he was extremely apprehensive to break with.

“Yes, we!”

“No… no Reg, we -” he gestured between Isabella and himself “- we have no part in this. Neutrality isn’t open fo-”

“But doesn’t this change things?” Regulus interrupted. “You can’t tell me you don’t care?!”

Sirius paused and looked over at Isabella, who appeared to be equally at a crossroad.

It went unsaid between them that their lack of formal involvement had never been for lack of caring about the war, nor its implications.

The truth was far more complicated.

The Black prophecies suggested that the war was to be won by the side of the Order, Sirius’ grandfather had explained to him in an even-tone as though this was the least interesting news he could present. The House would never fund a side of the war that would politically hurt them, nor would they risk losing money due to the foolish nature of opinions. So, for the second time in the century, the Black wealth would not move. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black was officially neutral.  

And Sirius and Isabella were given safe passage through the storm.

Knowing, with a fair degree of certainty, that the blood purity doctrine the Death Eaters spewed would not prevail, the best thing they could do was bide their time. They could remain on good terms with their family, even though they had never considered becoming Death Eaters. After all, officially, Sirius had to be neutral. And they would remain on good terms with their friends even though they’d hardly considered the Order. Their friends knew how complicated it was, and frankly, they were too nice.

Neutrality came as naturally to them as a dragon takes to sharing its hoard. But it didn’t make it the wrong choice. There was this necessary balance between war and peace that made someone successful in a conflict. Some people seemed to be born with the ability to know when to act and when to hold back. When to push and went to stand their ground. When to advance and when to retreat. Some people were able to dip their toes into a conflict without letting it consume them.

And whatever genetic trait that was had eluded both Sirius and Isabella entirely.

A war would bring out their worst qualities, and though they felt they had sufficient tools to manage it, in some ways they would be a liability to the Cause; an unstoppable, unmovable force that plowed on regardless of the consequences. Such relentlessness could move mountains, but such recklessness also risked lives.

In a warped way, neutrality suited them; if they couldn’t be in responsibly, at least they could be out responsibly.

But divination was finicky, particularly if one was too close to the subject as they were. A Proximity-Precision Paradox. If the only thing holding them back from taking action, was the certainty of the outcome of the war – they were lowering the probability of certainty. Knowledge of the future could be the very thing that changed the course of the future.

And Sirius couldn’t answer the one question that mattered - were they safe to stay the course or had they just been given their role?

Regulus continued, obviously annoyed by their silence, “Seriously, after everything I’ve just said are you truly telling me that you plan to remain NEUTRAL? That is NOT the person you have EVER been, Sirius!”

“I am not the impulsive boy I once was,” Sirius replied coolly, trying to find the right words that would give himself time to think without just firing off platitudes. “I have other priorities, other people I care about. I’m not sure our reasons for our choices have changed; just because you’re defecting doesn’t mean we need to choose a side.”

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing! I’m gonna to have to go to the cave alone!?”

“You plan to go to the CAVE?!” Isabella shouted.

“Of course! And I though you both would help!”

“Regulus – it’s a suicide mission!”

“It will be alone! And you both leave me no choice!”

“Reg – absolutely not,” Sirius said firmly. “Please, think about what you’re saying!”

“Think about what YOU’RE SAYING! Knowing what you know now and doing nothing sure sounds like you’re picking a side to me!”

“You know that’s not fair - ”

“I can’t believe you – who have you become, Sirius? Both of you!”

No matter how hard Sirius tried to ignore it, there would always be that part of him that yearned to leap into action the second an opportunity presented itself. But he had worked hard over the years to take the rational approach, to slow down and think about his actions. He was not the person he was at 16.

But it was a smart play on Regulus’ part; the lingering impulsivity was clawing at him just below the surface. Reg had successfully wormed his way into him mind and the idea of doing nothing was actively painful, no matter how rational it might be. It made him angrier than it had any right to.

“Regulus, believe me when I say we are sympathetic to what you’re feeling,” Isabella said calmly, refusing to take the bait. “But you also know what’s at stake for you and for us if we go down that road.”

She put her hand on Sirius’ knee, pulling his attention towards her.

“We’ll discuss, okay?” Isabella continued. “Reg, promise me you won’t take any action until you hear from us?”

“I - ”

Sirius spoke through gritted teeth, “Regulus, promise; Isabella’s right.”

“Fine. And in the mean time?”

“In the mean-time - ” he replied coldly, “in the mean-time you play a fucking loyal Death Eater. You know – you should feel so lucky that you have us, even after everything you’ve done. That we still associate with the likes of you. What would you do – seriously – what would you do if you didn’t have us to turn to?”

“I’d probably die in the damn cave by myself.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Horcruxes

Isabella rolled over in bed and found herself battling a lovely little headache. The morning light spilled through the drawn curtains and she couldn’t help but curse her house elf for the rigidity of her morning routine. She cuddled up next to Sirius, wrapping her leg over his body and burying her face against his chest.

“I don’t think I dreamed last night…” Isabella said, her morning voice raspier than usual.

Sirius, barely opening his eyes, rubbed her back. “I was about to ask – was my brother here?”

She nodded.

“So then that wasn’t a horrible nightmare resurfacing from childhood…?”

“No. Unfortunately not.”

“Merlin – a horcrux?” Sirius asked, stretching out. “Can he be right?”

She shrugged. For a concept as unfamiliar to her as horcruxes, both her husband and brother-in-law had done a rather effective job emphasizing the severity of such things. She felt she knew better than to be cavalier about declaring their current existence.

“I don’t think anything less than that would cause him to defect,” he continued, not dignifying Regulus’ Kreacher issues with a comment. “And I hate to say it, but it makes sense.”

She curled in closer. “Horcruxes – you really think it’s realistic?”

“Unfortunately. And it’s not the creation - we both know the Dark Lord’s capable of that level of violence, just like Reg said - but it’s the implications that concern me.”

Isabella gave herself a moment to organize her thoughts, relaxing into the rise and fall of Sirius’ chest, listening to his beating heart, before slowly raising her head to look at him, resting her chin on her forearms. She had seen his face last night when Regulus suggested they leap in action. His thoughts had gone to the same place as hers – the future was no guarantee.

And they would never sit back and lose the war.

“What are we going to do?” she asked.

“Is ‘nothing’ not the right answer?”

It was clear he was trying to read her just as much as she was reading him.

“Obviously not.”

“But this isn’t our fight…” he challenged with a devilish grin.

Merlin, she loved the way he had a smile in his arsenal for every emotion he wanted to express. She loved the way he crinkled his nose when he teased her, and the way his eyes lit up when they were given the opportunity to do something they really ought not do. If there was any critique that they got more often than for their politics, it was for their inability to keep their hands off each other.

And this was him at his finest. Sirius had rightly determined early in their relationship that there were few things she liked less that passivity. She wanted someone who would surprise her, excite her, challenged her, even. And she couldn’t have found a more perfect match.

Isabella’s brother teased her that it wasn’t healthy to be quite so obsessed with one’s spouse, but how could she not be? He was clever and confident, sarcastic and cunning. He had no interest in doing things the way they had always been done, and was never afraid to push the boundaries in a way that always towed a fascinating line between brilliantly thought-provoking and dangerously exhilarating. He made her laugh. He made her think. And most importantly, he made her feel secure.

How could she be anything other than utterly infatuated and madly in love?

“You know that’s stretching the truth,” she challenged right back. “We might not see ourselves as the right people to fight the war, but we certainly care about the outcome.”

“And that’s been reasonable, right? Our involvement hasn’t – hadn’t – seemed necessary.”

"But this changes things."

Sirius nodded slowly.

Though they talked about it now as though this decision to remain neutral was inevitable, the reality was that it came after careful deliberation. They’d asked themselves who they wanted to be in five years. In ten years. In twenty. And what paths they would have to take and changes they would have to make to become those people. It would take balance. It would take discipline. And Merlin, it would take control.

After they’d gotten together, they’d realized – and had been told rather explicitly – that they couldn’t continue on the volatile path they were on and live any semblance of a normal life. Isabella didn’t exactly like being feared or infamous for her temper, but she loathed feeling out of control. So everything they had done since then had been with control, and discipline, and balance at the forefront of their minds.

Sirius hadn’t always seen eye to eye with her, but in her mind, there was almost no question that they would be beneficial to any side they aligned themselves with, both financially and physically.

But they could always agree that it would be to their own detriment.

“We’re not going to do nothing, that’s not us. But I have no idea what getting involved looks like,” Isabella said candidly. “It’s a massive risk for something that might prove entirely futile.”

“Haven’t you always told me we’d be effective?”

“And which side do you want to be effective for? The side that’s convinced that blood purity equates to power? Or the side that thinks you’re a criminal for exploring magic beyond a basic cleaning spell?”

“At least the Order doesn’t seem to suggest killing a certain subsect of the population,” Sirius said.

“No? Or do they just ask the dementors to do their dirty work for them?”

“Well... I know you’re not suggesting joining the Death Eaters in the wake of the Dark Lord’s immortality.”

“Of course not.”

“And I think we can both acknowledge that the ‘right’ outcome has never been an Order victory so much as a pureblood supremacy loss -”

“Of course.”

“It’s issue-specific, not side-specific. But in the wake of this, do we think the issue is at risk? And if so, do we need to reconsider lending our support to the side that backs that issue?”

Isabella wanted to be sympathetic and open-minded, but she just couldn’t. It was one of the few topics where the difference in their backgrounds shined through; endearing themselves to the lighter families at the age of 11 and nearing 17, respectively, had left them with a very different impression of the lighter families’ acceptance of the darker ones.

“There is a necessary balance in magic that I feel you and I are uniquely positioned to understand,” Isabella treaded carefully. “I’ve dealt with both sides and I will tell you, the Order is almost as dogmatic as the Death Easters. I don’t know how you could fight on that side. Especially with the risks.”

“Come on - the risk comes with any action! If we’re not doing nothing, then we’re taking on that risk. There are things they stand for, and against, that we do not. But when it comes to the outcome, we do align with the Order. Our principles - ”

“Our principles are ours alone,” Isabella cut him off, adjusting into a sitting position facing him. “I think you’re rather mistaken if you’re suggesting the Order aligns with us. Whether they know it or not, they don’t want us on their side, JUST like we don’t actually want to fight for the things they do.”

“Then why don’t we just tell them ‘The Dark Lord has created horcruxes, we don’t know how many, but we think multiple. We know where one is, our house elf will show you when you are ready to go.’ Keep it simple and let them run with it and we stay out of it entirely.”

Isabella laughed. “You can’t be serious! What are their follow-up questions? ‘How do you know?’- which we can’t mention Reg because if they know and they hesitate to hex him… well, I don’t want to know what’ll happen to him. And then - ‘Will you join us?’, which we just can’t for a myriad of reasons. So when we reply ‘we will not tell you and we will not help you. But please, follow our house elf to an Inferi-infested cave’ - their first instinct isn’t going to be to think we’re their allies. No, we’re going to wind up dead!”

“Don’t forget that these are our friends…”

“Some are. Others would see you imprisoned for the blood warding you did around this very home. Or for any of the rituals we’ve done this year. I know you grew up with many of them, but we’re not Light wizards, and we sure as hell haven’t been living like we are either.”

Sirius pushed himself up so he could lean against the back of the headboard to face her.

“So then if not nothing, and not the Order… then is it just you and me? And what - Reg? That’s our side?”

“Maybe?”

“That’s not realistic.”

“I know,” Isabella said, flopping back down and repositioned herself against her husband.

They lay like that for a good few minutes, teetering somewhere between ruminating and battling a hangover.

Their own side – the words kept running through her mind like a fever dream. It wasn’t realistic, but it wasn’t an approach she wanted to dismiss immediately either. It allowed for action, where there hadn’t been any room for it before. And it didn’t take a side, when there wasn’t a side to take. They wouldn’t make any rash decisions; they knew their limits. But with this third option out in the open, it pushed the conversation beyond just the should they to the could they.

“How many?” Sirius interrupted the lingering silence. “How many of them do you think he created?”

“I have no idea. The baseline is… zero? And the worst before him was… one?” Isabella guessed. “There’s no limit to the number of people that the Dark Lord’s killed or potentially killed.”

This was a truth they both knew too well. The numbers in the wizarding population alone were upwards of a hundred directly. And in the muggle population… hundreds. She’d heard rumors he’d taken out towns with experiments.

“So, if creating a horcrux only required a murder, it would be impossible to say.”

“But it doesn’t?” Isabella read into his tone.

“I don’t believe so," he signed. "We’ll need to find that damned book.”

The conversation progressed from there into speculative territory. If the murders needed to mean something to derive the kind of sickly satisfaction needed to create a horcrux, killing unnamed muggles couldn’t be enough. But this worked to their advantage. In theory, significant murders would not just be a limiter; they would also be far easier to trace. Only they hardly knew enough about the Dark Lord to know where to begin.

“And then there’s the fact that the soul is finite,” Sirius emphasized, sliding further back down into the bed. “You couldn’t split your soul into infinite pieces, I don’t believe at least. But this, again, is where we’ll need to consult that book. I would’ve told you before that the maximum was two parts of your soul. But now? I don’t know.”

“I wonder if it’s an even divide? If the first horcrux has 50% of the soul. The next 25%. And a subsequent only – 12.5. So then by the time you’d create say – four, you would only have 6.25% of your soul left in yourself. How little can you survive on?”

“At what number would you get below a single percent?” Sirius covered his eyes with his forearm, slinking impossibly deeper into the bed.

“Well, five is just above 3%," Isabella muttered to herself, "so six – 1.5 about, and so then at seven, you’re under. Seven!”

“To think I’m sitting here fighting for my life right now, and you’re well enough to do arithmancy this fine morning,” he laughed. “Good Merlin – I’d say less than a percent’s too unstable; not tenable. So my guess is less than seven.”

“Actually... wait! Think about numbers of power in arithmancy and numerology....what are two of the most significant numbers? Four and seven, right? Seven is the most powerful, but I agree with you; to not lose yourself, you cannot get to seven. Though, to create six means that there are seven parts of your soul… but even at six you are a just over one percent of yourself. I don’t think that’s stable…”

“But four then -” Sirius interjected, “that’s significant in numerology because it’s considered unlucky…”

“Yeah, but it’s unlucky because in many languages the number four sounds like the word for Death. But see, that’s the appeal. For someone who calls their followers the Death Eaters? Who calls themselves -” she whispered, “vol-de-mort or the flight of death? And on the quest for immortality, would he not choose to laugh in Death’s face? I think that’s it. He would choose Death’s number. He would choose four!”

Sirius just stared at her before a smile crept across his face.

“Shit - I think you’re right.”

She took a deep breath before responding, “So. There just might be four horcruxes then.”

“There just might be,” he echoed her.

“And… what are we going to do about it?”

“I don’t know.” Sirius shook his head. “Even if we agreed to do something, I don’t even know how we begin to identify them. Some amber locket isn’t exactly a lot to go on.”

Isabella looked at him with genuine confusion. She wasn’t sure if this was a joke and she was too slow on the pick, or he was too hungover to deliver it. Or if he seriously had no idea what Regulus had been referencing.

“I’m not being dumb, am I? I mean, I admit my knowledge of jewelry is probably sub-par…”

Isabella just started laughing; the poor Gryffindor.

“What?”

“Oh Merlin Sirius, that ‘jewelry’ is Salazar Slytherin’s locket! It’s in every bust and portrait of him. Reg was vague, I guess, but I think he knew - he was just in state. I had no IDEA that you didn’t pick up on that!”

“Wait – are you serious? That makes a massive difference! So then are you thinking that each horcrux is something from each of the four houses?!”

“Oh! No! I wasn’t thinking that… but that’s… possible. Shoot. See, the Dark Lord – I’ve heard rumors he’s a Parselmouth, meaning he must be a direct descendent of Slytherin himself. So, I was thinking it was family heirlooms. Figure out the Slytherin line and identify the heirlooms.”

“But four aligns so perfectly with the four houses, right?”

“Right. But what ties does he have to the other houses? His ties to Slytherin go beyond Hogwarts. Did he… even go to Hogwarts?”

“I don’t – I don’t know. Do you really want to start asking those questions?”

She sighed, shutting her eyes again for just a moment.

There would be no easy answer.

-----------------------

Isabella had seen the Dark Lord in person once, at a party far before he became a public figure, sometime around late-1968 or early-1969 when she was 8 years old. She wasn’t introduced to him and didn’t make a habit of paying much attention to her parents’ acquaintances. But there was something wrong enough with the man that she’d found herself fixated on him. There was something almost artificial about his appearance, like he was an animated wax statue more so than a human. And he had these red eyes that looked as though his brain was bleeding out through them. He moved and talked like a human, and no one else around him seemed to notice, or perhaps acknowledge, the strange blurredness and burnt eyes that sent chills through her.

Looking back at the memories now, he could have once seemed almost handsome. But he still didn’t look like anyone she knew. Did others know him? Had others gone to school with him?

The year before she went to Hogwarts, she could recall the first splashes of the Dark Lord’s impact around the dinner table and in excited, whispered voices at parties. The following nine years were far darker than anyone in 1970 expected. What at the time was thought to be initial sparks of political activism, ended up instead as a bloody revolution.

The followers that came on the scene before then were the key players in the war today, many of them her classmates and social acquaintances’ parents and family members. Had they known the Dark Lord before he was known as such? Before he was Lord Voldemort? In her mind, he was akin to a dark phantom or poltergeist… not human. The reality was almost scarier; he was someone who had once been a child, likely walked the halls of Hogwarts, studied for exams, maybe even had friends.

The truth was that neither of them knew the Dark Lord well enough to know if they were asking the right questions. A groggy start to the morning later, and the couple found themselves sitting at the breakfast table with a cup of tea and someone who they hoped did.

“So does this mean you’re in?” Regulus asked animatedly.

“Don’t say it with such enthusiasm,” Sirius chided, “what did you think was going to happen once you told us this? You didn’t give us any choice but to look into it.”

“And we’re not making any decisions. We just need to know more,” Isabella added.

“What do you need to know?”

Isabella looked over to Sirius for confirmation; his face remained stoic so she did the same. Neither had been sure how involved they wanted Regulus to be. It wasn’t just a matter of trusting him, which they couldn’t exactly say they did, but it was also somewhat of a safety precaution. There was no leaving the Death Eaters; and so with the company he kept, they worried he ought to know less, rather than more. They’d agreed to keep the questions direct and to the point; get as much out of him as possible without giving him much at all.

It wasn’t boxing him out. It was purely a precaution.

“You said last night that the Dark Lord ‘has gone further along the path towards immortality’ – is that a direct quote?” Isabella began.

“It is.”

“So not ‘plans to’ or ‘is going’-”

“No, he has.”

“Would you assume then that he’s made all of the horcruxes he intends to make?”

Regulus paused for a second to evaluate, “Probably. But not necessarily because of that, though I see the connection you’re making. With the amount of death around him, I think it’s incredibly unlikely that he’d put off securing his immortality.”

“When do you think he started?” Sirius asked.

“I have no idea,” Regulus said candidly. “I couldn’t even wager a guess.”

“We know he’s moved a horcrux in the last 24 hours; if we assume he’s created them over some number of months, years, or decades, for all we know – why is he moving this one now?”

“Months, definitely not. I’ll give you years or decades though. From the sheer number of Inferi Kreacher described, the Dark Lord has clearly spent many years building up the defenses for the cave. To answer your question, he probably had some secure location or locations he’s stored it in before moving it to where he views as its permanent location, now that it’s ready.”

“So this is an ongoing process then?”

“I don’t know, it looks like it.”

“Well, is there any way to know if the locket was one of the first to be moved or the last? Or if the horrors in the cave were created specifically for the locket, or simply to house one of the horcruxes?”

Regulus shook his head.

“You had mentioned that the cave was connected to his past – so it’s significant to him in some way, right?” Isabella pushed the interrogation forward. “Could there be a connection not just between the cave and the Dark Lord, but the cave and the locket? Or even the cave and the victim? Or is that prescribing too much intentionality to his actions?”

Regulus laughed. “You would be smart to operate under the assumption that he has thought about everything more than you both. He is smarter than both of you, more thorough than you both, and cares far, far more. Every detail - everything is intentional, symbolic even. If you’re suggesting that the objects are connected to the victims, or the objects are connected to the locations, or the locations to the victims. Yes,” he said bluntly. “It’s probably all true.”

“Then knowing the victim could make it easier to deduce the all of objects or artifacts he’s used?”

Regulus nodded and Isabella had to suppress a smile.

“And then the public record of the victim’s death,” she continued, “it could also help identify the order the horcruxes were created?”

Regulus shrugged.

It was clear he prescribed no importance to the order, but Isabella felt that was a mistake. If they were right, and the soul was truly split in two with the creation of a horcrux, then identifying the order, particularly identifying the first one, was extremely important. 50% of the Dark Lord, she silently reminded herself. Clearly, the Dark Lord had focused on the protections and defenses around these objects, the cave was a testament to that. But even with curses and enchantments stripped away, the objects themselves were likely extremely dangerous.

“We have a theory,” she explained, “that the number of horcruxes might be connected to numerology, but in terms of the total, do you think he considers his own soul, that remains in him, part of the count?”

“No, I don’t think the Dark Lord wouldn’t appreciate a technicality like that. And frankly, you have to think very little of your own soul to create a horcrux… I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“The rest of the artifacts themselves,” Sirius asked, “do you have any theories?”

They had spent a good part of the morning before Regulus’ arrival on the topic. Sirius was disinclined to believe in coincidences and the four horcruxes and four Hogwarts Houses aligned too perfectly. And it wasn’t that Isabella disagreed, she just didn’t want to give too much weight to a Hogwarts-based theory until they could confirm that the Dark Lord had even attended the school. The theory took a further hit, in Isabella’s mind at least, due to the fact that Sirius couldn’t identify any artifact belonging to Godric Gryffindor beyond the Sword of Gryffindor, which her husband conceded lived in Albus Dumbledore’s office.

The idea that one of, if not the, most powerful wizards alive had sat next to a powerfully dark artifact for decades, let alone had let it out of his sight for it to be turned into a horcrux, all felt inconceivable.

As for the other Houses, neither really knew. There would be plenty of resources to consult if the time came to head down that path.

“Beyond Slytherin’s locket?” Regulus responded. “No. But it sets a precedent, doesn’t it? If we assume that all artifacts are at a similar caliber, that’s an extremely high bar.”

They nodded.

“And what can you tell us of the Dark Lord’s background?” Isabella asked. “His lineage?”

“He is a parselmouth, I can confirm that much. So by conventional wisdom, he’s likely a descendent of Salazar Slytherin, right? Whether that’s connected to the locket -” Regulus shrugged “- or even how he’s related to Slytherin, I don’t know. I wouldn’t dream of ever asking and I imagine most feel that way.”

“Not really an inquisitive one, are you Reg?” Sirius mocked.

“Anything else?” Regulus let his brother’s words roll off his back.

“We need to understand more about horcruxes, first and foremost," Sirius said with some degree of finality. "I want a better understanding of how they work and how they’re destroyed. The significant deaths won’t be too much of a challenge, once we can establish a time range, that is. The information is out there, narrowing it down is harder. I think you’re right that the artifacts’ll have some connection to the victims, so that’ll help. Locations I’m less confident on, but maybe. And then finally, we need to see if we can get a better sense of the Dark Lord’s background. That’ll be the piece that ties everything together. We’ll research.”

“It’s not going to be easy,” Isabella emphasized, trying to diminish expectations after her husband had said bit more than necessary. “And there’s a very real chance that it cannot be done.”

“Then why do it that way? Why not just go to the cave, fetch the horcrux we know about, and then figure out the rest later? Hell, you can decide to do nothing after that but at least we dealt with the problem we know about!”

Isabella stared at him dumbfounded; to even suggest such a thing showed the stark difference between Regulus and his brother and how little he understood them. They would never accept such a half-measure.

“How is that dealing with the problem we know about?!” Sirius shot back. “That’s hardly acknowledging the extent of the problem! Besides, we should be putting as much distance between the Dark Lord and the cave as possible. That should practically be the last we do.”

“So then you’re back to doing nothing,” his words dripped in sarcastic condemnation.

“No, Regulus, we’re not back to doing nothing,” Isabella shot back, her patience wearing thin. “You knew from the moment you told us that we would never do nothing. Don’t you dare pretend otherwise. What you are asking of us is incredibly risky – you understand how many eyes are on us right now, don’t you? This is a massive, massive pivot. So before we decide to blow up our lives based on a hunch that originated from you and a house elf at three in the morning, excuse us while we do our due diligence. If you want our help – and Merlin-knows you need it – let us take a moment to wrap our heads around what needs to be done and hopefully find a way to make this work for us.”

Sirius next to her looked rather pleased by her outburst and followed it up far more calmly, but just as potently, “You acknowledged that this information would likely kill you, but I want to make it abundantly clear that I have no interest in dying. And what good would that do anyone? If the only people who know about the horcruxes thoughtlessly leap into action, and kill ourselves off before we finished... we’d just… complicate things. We should exhaust our time finding a way to do it successfully, rather than risking our lives to fail, and have the search fail with us. I don’t know why you’re hell-bent on throwing your life away, but we are not.”

“I guess you don't. Huh.” Regulus stared at him as though Sirius was doing something on purpose to get under his skin. “Let me help with the research or something. You’ll need the library at 12 Grimmauld anyway. I know you don’t want me and I know why you think I’m probably a liability. But I’m gonna lose my mind if I do nothing.”

To Isabella’s surprise, Sirius gave an almost imperceptible nod.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Walburga Black

It was always an interesting ordeal going back to 12 Grimmauld Place. Sirius and his mother were certainly not close, he rather hated the house itself and all the memories associated with it, but walking through the front door with Isabella was like entering another dimension.

Sirius noticed an immediate shift in his mother, and father at the time, the first time he brought Isabella home to officially meet them as his fiancé. It was right after their 6^th year and though he hadn’t planned to return to the Potter’s for the entirety of the summer, he had intended to spend his time split between the Potter Manor and his grandfather’s manor out in the countryside. No time was supposed to be allocated to Grimmauld at all. But between his parents’ letters, his grandfather’s insistence, and ultimately Isabella’s approval, he had found himself back on the doorstep of the macabre townhome.

The following days were nothing short of bizarre. There had been no screaming matches, insults – usually thrown like confetti in the Black family – were gone, there were no cold glares, no veiled criticism, even the oppressive air of disgust and disappointment seemed to be lifted from the house.

It was clear instantly that his parents just adored Isabella. She was the epitome of a well-bred pureblood with the right name, mannerisms, connections, intelligence, and beauty. She wowed and dazzled his parents effortlessly, all the while saying the most flattering things about Sirius himself. He would’ve assumed that her praise would be met with skepticism, but her charms seemed to be elevating his parents’ perception of him, as well as herself.

It made him feel awful, but he found the whole ordeal to be the least attractive he ever found her. It took him weeks with his grandfather to unravel how someone he genuinely loved could also be loved by his parents.

His grandfather was blunt - of course Orion and Walburga Black would love Isabella Rosier. She was exactly the kind of girl they’d want for him if they could choose – but it went beyond that. She was the catalyst and the symbol of Sirius’ return to the family. How could they not appreciate the girl who brought their eldest son back?

Whether a fair perception or not, they viewed Isabella as the person who ‘fixed’ Sirius. He went from being a wild Gryffindor who ran away and abandoned the family, to the heir who had accepted his responsibilities and married a pureblood Slytherin of a Sacred Family. It did not accurately encapsulate the nuances of their relationship, nor of them as individuals, but it was enough for his previous indiscretions to be, maybe not forgiven, but overlooked.

Maturing was realizing that this was a positive, not a negative.

She couldn’t help her upbringing any more than he could, and leveraging these skills was simply the smart thing to do. And would Sirius really wish that Isabella was forced to marry into a family that couldn’t stand her? Would that really make him happier?

Two years later and Sirius had to acknowledge that the Walburga Black they interacted with bore little semblance to the brutal witch he had known all his life. He didn’t know which haunted him more – the idea that she was always capable of change or that she wasn’t, and this was something else entirely. After years of burying it, the insidious thought that their dynamic had been his fault wormed its way back to the forefront of his mind.

But she’d been emotionless and removed far before his Hogwarts days.

Maybe there was nothing he could’ve ever done to make her love him the way a mother was supposed to? Maybe she’d just always wanted a daughter? Maybe Isabella was simply above reproach? Or maybe it was all a fucking act and she was using Isabella; to hurt him, to get under his skin, to make him doubt himself. And she would work over the course of months and years to pull the one thing he loved away from him.

Or maybe she really had changed? He wondered if the combination of almost losing her eldest and then losing her husband had caused her to try ever-so-slightly more with her family.

All he knew was that she was a better mother-in-law than she’d ever been a mother.

And he thanked the stars that the woman he loved would never meet the woman who raised him.

The only thing that hadn’t changed whatsoever were her politics; she was just as much of a blood purist as she’d ever been. Sirius was certain that she thought the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters had the right idea. But the House stance was neutral, and he believed she had little interest in being anyone’s follower. She wasn’t disappointed that Regulus had joined up, but at the same time, she wouldn’t have wanted Sirius to. No heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black should be groveling at anyone’s feet.

Had she suspected that Sirius and Isabella’s politics deviated much from hers, she kept it to herself. Sirius figured she didn’t want to challenge her notion of a reformed son. He let Isabella navigate the political conversations when they inevitably occurred. His wife had a way of challenging people’s beliefs in tiny incremental thought experiments that laid the building blocks for larger challenges. Give her time with most people and she would work them into a corner. Of course, his mother was not one of those people she could work – Walburga was far too unpredictable for there to be a logical path for her to walk down – but politics was still a manageable subject with Isabella, rather than a screaming match it had been with just Sirius.

They didn’t go back to the house often; it was more of a holiday or otherwise mandatory visit, but for the first five days following the Potter’s wedding, it was as though they couldn’t get enough. Their days were spent pouring over the books in the Black library on the second floor of the townhome, attempting to dive into any pockets of information that would connect them back to horcruxes or any of their theories.

The library was significant. There was no other way to describe such a room. It wasn’t cozy, it wasn’t comforting; if anything, it projected a certain uneasiness on its occupants. Upon entering, there was no doubt of the magnitude of the information that the library contained. It was one of the richest archives of the Dark Arts in Wizarding Britain and the magic of the room pricked the skin, alerting its looming presence. The intricately carved coffered ceilings on the second floor were more than double the height of the rest of the home, and the black-stained bookshelves swooped up to meet them. The room was dimly lit by only the Victorian candelabra-like sconces that lined the walls, and the massive, brass Georgian chandelier that hung in the center of the room. Just out of the corner of his eye, Sirius swore that it would sway all on its own.

Only a century earlier, it had been considered an academic library; an extension of the Hogwarts library for materials that, even at the time, went beyond the scope of what was taught to pupils during their seven years. A portrait of the late headmaster Phineas Nigellus Black still hung in the room, just off of the entrance. That, along with the research-oriented furniture – an eclectic combination of seating areas and tables – were the only remnants of the days of yore. Though Sirius could only speculate, it seemed rather obvious that most of the contents had long since been made illegal, and the idea of opening up the library doors to the professors and students of Hogwarts looking to further their education was almost unfathomable.

They did not advertise their reasons for being in the library and Sirius’ mother seemed quite content for days to ignore them. Sirius personally attributed it to his mother’s thrill that Isabella had gotten both of her sons into the library after years of their strategic avoidance. She just had a curious way of crediting Isabella for everything good he did. It made Isabella slightly uncomfortable, but it made him laugh. After all these years, it was a weak demonstration of her capabilities.

But just shy of a week into the project, his mother stopped in unexpectedly. Sirius was reading and taking notes from Hogwarts: A History and comparing it against a biography of Rowena Ravenclaw Regulus was holding, standing just over his shoulder. Meanwhile, Isabella sat at the other end of the round table, sifting through the Pure-Blood Directory.

“Madame Black,” Isabella looked up and gave a half nod and smile, before she continued, “are you familiar with the Sacred House of Gaunt or anyone in the Gaunt family?”

He was rather surprised to hear his wife speak up. They’d had zero conversations about engaging his mother of all people in the research, but he also trusted Isabella enough that he knew she wouldn’t be doing such a thing without a strong case for the question.

“Vaguely," she replied, artificially neutral, he was certain. "Why?”

“See, this book claims that the Gaunts were the last decedents of Salazar Slytherin. The family tree it provides stops far prior to the 1930s, with Marvolo Gaunt’s two children Morfin and Merope Gaunt. Both of them would’ve been in your parents’ generation, but it’s unclear if either of them had children. Their children would’ve been in your generation. Did you… know any Gaunts?”

His mother raised her eyebrow. She had an interesting look on her face that Sirius wasn’t sure he’d ever seen before – a cross between intrigued and almost coy.

“Regulus,” she said without any emotion in her voice, “why don’t you go fetch us all some tea while I chat with your brother and Isabella.”

“Can’t Kreacher…” Regulus tried to argue.

“I didn’t ask the elf. I asked you,” his mother replied coldly, causing Regulus to scamper off like a kicked puppy.

Sirius put his book down and fully tuned into the conversation, curious to see what his mother was willing to say, particularly given that it couldn’t be said in front of his brother.

She sat down in the seat opposite Isabella and looked directly into her daughter-in-law’s eyes, trying to assess how much information Isabella was holding back.

“Do you know what it is you’re asking?” She paused to study her daughter-in-law’s reaction. “I’ll share what I know, and what I think, but I need to know that you understand what you’re asking. And the risk it poses to know the answer.”

“I-I do,” Isabella stammered out, surprised by the intensity of Walburga Black’s stare.

“Then yes – I do believe I knew a Gaunt in my generation.”

Isabella didn’t even bother suppressing the glimmer in her eyes, accentuated by the way her lips curved up at the corners.

“The Gaunts were isolationists. Neither Morfin nor Merope went to Hogwarts in your grandparent’s generation, but I believe Marvolo Gaunt may have before then. Something had gone seriously awry in that final generation or two. Whether it was the poverty, the isolationism, the fact that they spent most of their lives speaking parseltongue instead of English, or who knows what else – they kept too to themselves and they weren’t well in the head. Merope, the daughter, ran off with some muggle in the mid-20s, and from what’s been said, got pregnant, the muggle abandoned her, and she died. Years and years later - and this is by my 7^th year of Hogwarts - Morfin, her brother, apparently murdered the muggle and the rest of the muggle’s family.”

Walburga shrugged as if she didn’t quite buy that last line, but also didn’t particularly care about the loss. It was a muggle family, after all. But Sirius made a mental note as she continued.

“It was a big scandal when it broke – the final Gaunt, potentially the last descendent of Slytherin, sentenced to life in Azkaban over the death of a few muggles… a shame to say the least. But, the last descendent of Slytherin?” She shook her head dismissively. “If Merope Gaunt didn’t die before childbirth, but died after, then there would be a half-blood heir of Slytherin born sometime between 1925 and 1927.

“I believe that to be Tom Marvolo Riddle, who I knew as a boy the year below me in Slytherin.”

Isabella and Sirius just stared at her, mouths agape. Was she suggesting… did she know the Dark Lord?

“You have likely already made the connection with the middle name and his grandfather’s name. And though I likely shouldn’t have even bothered checking, I can confirm that the muggle who Merope Gaunt ran off with - the man killed just before my 7^th-year - was a Tom Riddle.”

She took a deep breath, corrected her near-perfect posture, and wiped any semblance of emotion from her face.

“I can also tell you that Tom Marvolo Riddle opened the Chamber of Secrets during my 6^th-year. It was an open secret amongst most upperclassmen in Slytherin. It was the most brilliant thing he could do. Establishing yourself in Slytherin,” she nodded towards Isabella in recognition of their shared heritage, “particularly in that day and age, with no recognizable family name or background… he wasn’t going anywhere. But open the Chamber of Secrets, legitimize your claim as the Heir of Slytherin, and those problems go away. It should’ve had a much greater impact than it did; some mudblood died and everyone lost their ever-loving minds about the whole thing. So he had to close the Chamber. But it did enough that he was able to leverage the recognition to form a following, the early start of a more formal organization, originally called the Knights of Walpurgis.”

“Mum,” Sirius said apprehensively, wanting to make absolutely certain that he was not misunderstanding her, “are you – are you suggesting that this Tom Riddle became… the Dark Lord?”

“Absolutely not,” she said curtly. “Would it be wise for me to tell you that I believe that the Dark Lord is a half-blood bastard of a branch of a family with dubious mental stability?”

She paused, making sure both Isabella and Sirius understood the severity of what she was saying.

“This conversation does NOT leave this room. And this is the only time we will have this discussion, so any questions you have, you ask them now. Understood?”

Both nodded.

“Madame Black…” Isabella began cautiously, clearly worried that she may not like the answer, “you said that you ought not have bothered reading up on the muggle deaths. What made you?”

“It’s a fair question. I had a vested interest in Tom Riddle’s background. And I don’t know that I believed that Morfin Gaunt, 16 years later, decided to exact his revenge on the muggle, when all that time, he’d been living next door.”

“Vested interest?” Sirius asked. “Why? I assume you were considering joining the Knights of Walpurgis?”

“Sure. To some extent, I suppose that’s accurate.”

“And so regardless of the fact he’s the Heir of Slytherin, you chose not to because…?”

“Darling!” Isabella interrupted through a terse smile. “Is this the most relevant path to dive down?”

“Undoubtedly,” he replied, his words coated in well-earned distain. “My mother comes in here with knowledge that the Dark Lord is likely a half-blood himself, something that that no one else knows, or that so few people know it’d been kept entirely in the dark. Knowledge that would legitimately change the course of the war and strip away his followers. Is it not fair to inquire into her vested interest in the Dark Lord?”

“Sirius,” his mother said in a tone usually reserved for Isabella-free conversations, “you are making a tremendous mistake if you’re assuming none of his followers suspect this, or even know this. And that it would make a difference. That boy that I knew was the most powerful wizard I have ever seen. His knowledge of the Dark Arts surpassed even Dumbledore’s before he left Hogwarts - ”

“Then why?” Sirius interrupted. He wasn’t sure why he was stuck on this point – whether it was his disbelief that pureblood bigotry could run so deep, or just disbelief that his mother would’ve actively rejected joining an organization of her peers with the same beliefs as her, he wasn’t following. “So you knew how powerful he was. You knew he was the Heir of Slytherin. And yet – you needed more proof that he was worth paying attention to? Following? The sheer gall you must have to declare that not enough!”

Isabella was staring at her husband, visibly confused, “Sirius, what exactly are you trying to achieve here? Are you trying to convince your mother that Tom Riddle was worth following?”

“It’s the principle of the thing! That something that aligns with her beliefs so perfectly wasn’t worth subscribing to because of who created it – not because who created it was evil, and apparently actively killing people in school, but because - ”

“Darling! - ”

Walburga put her hand up to silence both Sirius and Isabella from talking over each other.

“Sirius, I’ll tell you why. Because I was a Black and he was a half-blood. That’s correct. And that was enough. It didn’t matter what I wanted because ultimately it couldn’t be. But I’ll remind you, you’re the one that made the assumption that this was about me following him.” She took a calming breath. “Next question.”

For a moment Sirius looked at his mother blankly, her words meaningless to him. She didn’t intend to follow him… sure. But it was his wife’s reaction that clued him into the fact there may be a deeper meaning behind her sharp statement. Isabella’s eyes grew large, her entire body stilled as her lips parted ever so slightly. She processed far faster than he did what the relationship between Tom Riddle and his mother may have actually been. Walburga gave her daughter-in-law a sideways glace and a very slight nod, cementing it into reality.

“Okay,” Isabella pushed the conversation forward before the atmosphere became claustrophobic. “So Tom Marvolo Riddle, officially, what happened to him? Unofficially, we know that the Dark Lord emerges around 1965. What do you know of post-Hogwarts, but pre-1965 Tom Riddle?”

“Everyone assumed Tom was going into the Ministry and would be in the running for Minister for Magic within a decade. He had the right connections, and even without a family name, he could’ve done it. But he didn’t. Instead, he worked for 10 years at Borgin & Burkes as a collector. He was handsome, charming, and smart - ” Sirius tried not to read into the words his mother was choosing, “- which made his job easy. But it was bizarre. 1955 was a bloody year, where a number rather high-profile deaths surrounded him.”

Sirius glanced over at his wife who was devouring her words just like he was.

“I felt it best not to be too invested - Orion and I were out of the country for so much of the 1950s before we settled down anyhow - but we’re talking a few prominent purebloods killed. Do either of you know the name Arman Greengrass?”

Both of them shook their heads.

“No I suppose you wouldn’t – year below me in Slytherin as well, and dead before you were born. He rose up with the Knights of Walpurgis, probably second in command for over a decade. The weeks leading up to his death, the newspapers talked about this growing divide amongst the leadership. You didn’t need to be well connected to see his death coming. You just needed to… well,” she smiled, “know the people they were talking about.”

She let out an exasperated laugh and shook her head.

“You have to remember that Tom solidified his control of the group in Hogwarts because he proved that he was the Heir of Slytherin. He was immensely powerful, but it was proving that linage that had locked in the loyalty. I’m sure this makes almost no sense nowadays, but the problem at the time was that he couldn’t advertise that he’d opened of the Chamber of Secrets because someone had died. So this proof of his lineage was limited to those who already knew. The further removed they were from Hogwarts, the less and less power he had over the new alums who knew nothing of what he had done. By the last few years, the students leaving hadn’t even been at Hogwarts when the Chambers was opened.

“This all would’ve been manageable had Tom continued his scramble for power through the ministry as everyone expected. But he hadn’t. He had spent the last decade working as an antique collector; a job that was significantly beneath his skills. At the same time, Greengrass was rising rapidly in the ranks at the ministry, ultimately getting promoted to from Junior to Senior Undersecretary to the Minister at only 28. Greengrass had the name, the connections, and the political power and influence that Tom lacked. To take the organization to the next level, I’m certain Greengrass was making a grab for power and then hoped to legitimize the Knights of Walpurgis as a political faction.

“And that was foolish,” she said harshly. “I don’t think Greengrass assumed Tom would willing lose control of the Knights of Walpurgis, but he had grossly underestimated his power. Tom’s brutality had not been softened by age. When they found Greengrass’ body, it was clear that the killing curse had ultimately done him in, but the bloody mess that was the rest of him made it clear it hadn’t been the starting curse. And that was that; if you ask me, he should’ve known better.”

His mother did not speak of the incident in a way that suggested she felt Arman Greengrass needed to die, in a way that a loyal follower would. Instead, her tone suggested a certain predictability; respect was owed and not given and Greengrass met the consequences that inevitably followed.

“They didn’t suspect Tom Riddle?” Sirius asked cautiously.

“Oh I’m sure they did! But by the time they found the body, Tom was already gone. Officially, Tom Riddle has never been seen again; I hope I’ve made that extremely clear. Unofficially, I believe he spent a decade traveling, learning the kinds of magic that don’t exist in the UK and can’t be studied in a book…. I’ll let you decide what happened next.”

“Merlin…”

Walburga gives a half nod as she stood.

“Wait, sorry,” Isabella stopped her, unwilling to let their one opportunity to tap into this resource end too early, “you said there were a few notable pureblood deaths?”

“There were… mostly infighting; some lower profile and some where others took the blame. But there was one other death that stood out to me right around when Tom disappeared. And I probably read into more than I should’ve - some things are easier to ignore in theory. And it bothered me because I just couldn’t understand it. I just… I’d never had that issue with him.” Her expression clouded for a just a moment before she seemingly shook that emotion off as well. “Do you know the Smith family? A Light family, but very large, and very old. Ties back to Hufflepuff.”

“Really?! I’m not sure I saw their name…” Isabella said unthinkingly while rapidly flipping through the Pure-Blood Directory still in front of her.

Sirius had to work to mask his expression; they couldn’t both seem so eager.

“They’re not a Sacred family,” his mother replied in a blasé tone. “In 1955, Hepzibah Smith – the eccentric matriarch of the Smith House – was killed by her house elf. Accidental cyanide in the tea or something like that. Tom would’ve known her well through his work; she was an avid collector. Killed by her house elf… days before Tom Riddle disappeared."

She let her words linger between them for a moment before she shrugged and moved towards the door.

“Tread carefully on this. I don’t much care what you’re doing, provided it does no harm to the family. But do ensure that it does no harm to the family.” She sighed, rapping her fingernails against the door frame. "You were in the Daily Prophet this morning with that Potter boy and that - half-blood? mudblood? - he married. The society section highlighted all of the noteworthy guests at their wedding, both of you amongst them."

Sirius could tell by her arduous breathing through flared nostrils that she was trying hard to contain her rage in a way he would've said wasn't possible only a year or two earlier.

"That is utterly unacceptable," she enunciated carefully. "Your cousin Bella already wrote me. I expect others will as well. I will direct any and all of them back to you, Sirius Orion. You will defend your name, not me. I do not care that you two have been in my house over the last week. I do not care why. But if you ever go from their house to mine, it is not enough to wipe your feet on your way in, I expect you to change your shoes."

She walked out silently, leaving the young couple stunned in her wake.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: Progress For the Sake of Progress

The crisp September air conceded to a muddy harvest season, which, in turn, left them with nothing but a cold, darkening winter. Days in the macabre Black Library turned to weeks, and weeks to months as the fruitless investigation continued.

Despite the un-statable amount of time spent pouring over every resource that they could get their hands on, what they knew could be summed up in under a minute. There were three Founder’s artifacts known in existence, each less accessible and less rational than the next. Salazar Slytherin’s locket in a vat of poison surrounded by a sea of Inferi. Godric Gryffindor’s Sword, hung on the walls of the Hogwarts’ headmaster’s office. And Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem; entirely lost to time.

In such a summary, they would not mention anything of Helga Hufflepuff, but that did not mean that it had not taken considerable time and mental strain to reach the conclusion that no, not a live nor taxidermized badger was at the same caliber as any of the other artifacts, and yes, if Sirius suggested it one more time Isabella was going to taxidermy Sirius himself.

Much to Isabella’s ire, the weaknesses in Sirius’ theory didn’t make her own Family-Focused theory any less speculative. They had no idea what a dying pureblood family looked like, nor how much of the pageantry had been lost between generations. The Gaunts might have all the bells and whistles: the family grimoire, the House ring, the tapestries, the collections upon collections that fill every pureblood home and vault they’d ever been in.

Or they had nothing. And they’d had nothing for generations.

Upon reflection, Sirius would’ve assumed that such an unsubstantiated theory, with such a caveat, wasn’t worth exploring unless they could find evidence to support them one way or another. But no, good Merlin, did they entertain that conservation frequently!

It sometimes felt like they had less information on the Gaunts, a prominent, well-recorded Sacred 28 family, than they did on the elusive Tom Riddle. Sirius’ mother had given them two dates – the murder of Tom Riddle’s father and family in 1943, and his disappearance in 1955 – and two notable deaths beyond just the Riddles’ – the unusual death of Hepzibah Smith and the murder of Arman Greengrass. They maintained their theory that he wouldn’t wait to secure his immortality, so it seemed likely that this, in and of itself, set the parameters for their timeline.

They were in need of a fourth death in that era, so the ‘Who’ came into question for some time, along with the where, and what order, and what artifacts that were already all debatable.

But 1943 to 1955 gave them something to constrain their endless search.

As for locations, it was both embarrassingly simple and yet somehow also reaching. Because of that timeline and order uncertainty, potential locations were broken down by significance and security. Little Hangleton, the former home of both the Gaunts and the Riddles, and Wool’s Orphanage, joining the Chamber of Secrets and the – entirely unconnected, but known – cave on the list of significant locations. Hogwarts - sometimes the headmaster’s office specifically, depending on which of them were speaking - and Gringotts rounding out of the list of secure locations.

Wool’s Orphanage was one of their first true, solo discoveries. Knowing that a pregnant Merope Gaunt wouldn’t have had any family to turn to after the elder Tom Riddle abandoned her, they theorized that Tom Marvolo Riddle would’ve been left in an orphanage after her death. There was no orphanage in Little Hangleton, but there were plenty of others to consider across the UK.

Isabella found an interesting article in the British Library archives about a gas leak in an orphanage in London that killed everyone inside in 1955. Both the year and the strangeness of everyone dying, not from a gas explosion, but simply from ‘suspected carbon monoxide poisoning of an unknown source’ raised numerous red flags. There wasn’t much else on Wool’s Orphanage, but records suggested that the building still sat abandoned more than two decades later.

Sure, upon Regulus’ absolute conniption about their adventure, Sirius acknowledged that they probably shouldn’t have been in the library in the first place; the risk of being seen in public investigating such a thing almost certainly outweighed any benefit that the muggle resources could provide… but then again, if they could confirm in any way that Wool’s was the correct orphanage, the fourth death in their timeframe and the location both felt significant, and therefore, the adventure worth it.

Unequivocally.

At least in his mind.

To further challenge them, Secrets of the Darkest Art was not the fountain of information they’d hoped it would be. As an instruction manual for how to create a horcrux, the book was seemingly quite useful. But on the destruction of a horcrux, the information was vague at best – undoubtedly a consequence of its intended audience.

There seemed to be two options. To undo one’s own horcrux, the creator needed to feel genuine, and painful, remorse for the death that split their soul. And to destroy a horcrux, the object needed to be damaged beyond the point of magical repair.

One of their earliest theories was the use of dementors to simply remove and destroy the part of the soul, but that didn’t align with what they’d read. It confirmed Regulus’ recollection that the soul itself should be thought of as tethered to the object, not trapped in the object. A dementor’s kiss left a human worse than dead, but the human, the flesh and bones, was still intact. And if the book was correct that the fate of the soul rested with the fate of the object, they needed to be far less preoccupied with destroying the soul itself, but with damaging the artifacts beyond magical repair.

The section, of course, offered no suggestions for how to accomplish this.

And then on horcrux theory, Secrets of the Darkest Art was almost negligent. The book used vague terms like ‘ripping’, ‘tearing’, and ‘splitting’ to describe the defilement of the soul, unaccompanied by any study or details. And because the book made no mention of multiple horcruxes, there was nothing to substantiate or refute their theory that the soul was split in half each time, making further horcruxes weaker.

Incredibly, or depressingly, that was where their discoveries ended. In two and a half months they had proved nothing that they hadn’t been informed of the first day.

It wasn’t that they weren’t busy, but Merlin, if the New Year came and nothing had changed someone was getting turned into a badger at the next argument and it was unclear who.

The days leading up to Christmas were a flurry of productivity – half motivated by their genuine desire to make progress, and half by the welcome distraction it provided. It was the first holiday season without Orion Black. And though Sirius would not say that he mourned the death of his father in the traditional sense, his father’s absence was felt deeply. There were responsibilities Sirius was asked to undertake, and rituals he had to step up and perform with his grandfather because he was no longer the future heir, he was the heir. And he would serve the house alongside its current Head.

Their holiday schedules were packed to the brim. They dutifully attended the rituals for the Winter Solstice and Yule, and they paraded themselves around the Yule Soiree at 12 Grimmauld the next day dressed to the nines. The clean-up work they had done in the library alone to prepare the house to entertain that many guests of a certain background should’ve counted as an event in and of itself, and it had left them exhausted before the party even started and forced them – or gave them an excuse - to depart early. They considered skipping the theater on the 23^rd, but a letter from Isabella’s cousin, Evan Rosier, asking why they had left the Soiree early, reminded them of just how much of a risk it was to not be where they were expected. So they attended, sitting up on a balcony seat, entertaining so many quick visitors, they were beginning to believe the entire theater had come by to say hello.

They went to Christmas Eve at the Rosiers, expecting an intimate crowd and getting nothing of the sort. Sirius found himself sandwiched between Isabella’s uncle, Emeric Rosier, one of the most feared Death Eaters in the Inner Circle, and her father, Alcaeus, who, while not a Death Eater, had to be one of the hardest to read men Sirius had ever met in his life. He tried, of course to get Isabella’s attention, but she was approaching hour two of a conversation with her cousin, Evan, and her brother, Lyzander, that showed no signs of stopping.

They would get out of New Years at the Malfoy’s, they promised each other as they departed the Rosier’s deeply on the wrong side of midnight. The Malfoy’s threw a party for everyone who was anyone every year and it would be so large that no one could possibly notice their absence.

It had been days since they’d opened a book on the subject of their search, weeks since doing so had made any sort of difference, and neither were sure they’d reached such a state of exhaustion since the Potter’s wedding.

They weren’t well. But there was no getting out of Christmas Day.

Enjoying each other company far more than the others, Sirius and Isabella always had a habit of latching on to each other at family events, speaking in quite whispers, standing in the corner of a room, tuning the rest of the world out around them. But according to Regulus’ extended and multifaceted lecture afterwards, never had their behavior been so abnormal.

Both of them arrived to his grandfather’s house frustrated and testy. Sirius watched as Isabella sat down with a concerningly sharp expression, and rather forcefully asked Regulus to tear her off a piece of bread from one of the loaves in the center of table. Regulus obliged, which from an external perspective, Sirius could acknowledge in no way warranted the pointed look Isabella gave him after receiving her single slice of bread. Though he was hardly one to judge - he swiftly followed it up by asking one of the house elves bustling around the table if he could split his lunch with his wife. Neither bothered to mask their interest when the meals came back evenly plated.

Throughout the lunch, their thoughts strayed so far away from the conversation at hand, it was as though they were speaking in another language entirely. They couldn’t help themselves from latching on to strange words or phrases. At one point, Sirius began to deliver a rather impassioned rant on the importance of documentation in the study of magic, and Isabella laughed just a little too hard when someone suggested that if Sirius had such an issue with the records, he should simply perform the spell or ritual himself and amend it.

If anything could be said in favor of their odd and erratic behavior, it meant that neither of the Lestranges got much in the way of a recruitment pitch in before Sirius or Isabella interjected with another semantical debate.

Regulus refused to even acknowledge that silver lining.

It was after that meal when Isabella and Sirius first admitted to one another that they were at a standstill. They had just as many questions as they had answers, and their avenues for exploring those questions were becoming narrower and narrower. There were too many eyes on them to push beyond what they were already doing. But then it was the same voices, pulling from the same resources, reaching the same conclusions and roadblocks over, and over, and over. It was becoming an echo chamber of stale thoughts and it was suffocating them.

Something needed to give. Either they needed a greater pool of resources or a larger team, and with the concern with Order still standing, one of those felt far more manageable than the other.

Sirius found his brother and his wife landed on opposite ends of the spectrum when it came to getting that additional pool. Isabella saw no other path forward and pushed hard when it came to exploring other avenues, other tools and resources, other means to get the information they desperately needed. Regulus, on the other hand, was far too aware of what was happening in the Death Eater camp to encourage any such expansion.

If the myriad of comments from affiliated family members weren’t enough to clue them in, Regulus made it clear that he was outright instructed to spend more time with Sirius and Isabella to try and recruit them. They tried to look at the positives; his time on research would hardly be scrutinized, and they could only imagine how much more aggressive things could have gotten had the Death Eaters not felt that they had someone on the inside persuading.

Regulus cautioned them, though, he was an approach, but when he proved insufficient, he would certainly not be their only approach. Sirius and Isabella needed to be extremely smart. All eyes were on them.

But what could be done?

They weren’t suggesting to throw caution into the wind in exchange for progress; it was more a tweak than anything else, and they weren’t even balancing the scales. They had reined themselves in too tightly, and all they wanted was enough slack to allow the possibility of progress.

Despite Regulus’ incessant warnings, Isabella and Sirius decided to try their luck at a few different antiquarian book curators in Knockturn Alley on Boxing Day – notorious for the backroom collections available for the right potential buyer. Discretion was assumed in these sorts of transactions, but as Regulus pointed out, it was no guarantee.

There were books upon books on the dusty shelves in the hidden rooms, but it seemed all the tomes and grimoires the curators were excited to show them were already in their collection. By the final shop on their list, the prospects were admittedly looking grim.

“If you could tell me more specifically the kinds of spells or rituals you’re looking to perform, I might be able to direct you a resource better…” the elder woman said with a placating, soft smile as she led Sirius and Isabella down a hidden staircase behind the register into the cavern below.

The candlelight swung from the lantern in her hand, casting shadows on the rickety wooden stairs. With a flick of her wand, the light dispersed to all four corners of the cavern, illuminating each of the sconces lining the wooden shelves.

Sirius just shook his head, leaning back against one of the bookcases, brushing a cobweb off his shoulder while Isabella wandered farther down the aisles, tracing the thick layer of dust on the spines with her finger as she went. There was always a unique mustiness in a place like this; a place that had seen old magic far more recently than sunlight.

“Do you have any book in mind that I can reference?” the elder woman tried again, the slightest hint of annoyance in her voice. “Anything at all to guide me?”

“Do you have a copy of Secrets of the Darkest Art?” Isabella asked suddenly, her voice echoing through the cavern, eerily bouncing off the walls.

The woman stilled. With a quick glance back to Sirius, she moved swiftly to find Isabella in the maze of shelves. Sirius followed, arguably equally curious to see where his wife was taking the conversation.

“I understand why you wouldn’t have wanted to ask that question above ground.” The woman’s tone shifted instantly, as though Isabella had finally given her a reason that she may yet be worth her time. “Is that really what you’re looking for?”

“It is.”

“I must admit, I’m almost disappointed - not that Secrets of the Darkest Art is not worth seeking, but that you’re seeking it.” She wrapped her shawl around her tighter. “I’ve only ever heard of the book; I don’t know anyone who has ever obtained a copy and Merlin, rest assured, I would know if any had. Based on the records and mentions of the book, I think most bibliographers or historians of such… material believe that if any copy still exists it would be in the Sacred House of Black’s collection. If you’re seeking a copy, then I’m afraid there might not be one to seek. It may very well be lost to time.”

Isabella maintained an instructible expression as she continued and Sirius felt lucky that the woman’s back was turned to him because he was far less composed.

“Do you have anything that might contain similar information?”

“No. Nothing of that caliber. May I ask – what is it that you’re trying achieve that would need that sort book?”

“No, you may not,” Sirius joined the conversation, uncertain how much Isabella was willing to divulge, but wanting to ensure that nothing further was said. “Do your patrons usually answer that?”

“My patrons are usually people I’ve known for years and they rarely come in looking for such serious content, let alone without an explanation.”

“You’re in the wrong business if you want transparency,” Sirius said casually, though it came out far colder than he’d intended.

The woman snorted.

“Maybe so, but I’m under no obligation to sell to anyone. Shall we?” she said, gesturing back towards the stairs.

“Of course, thank you for your time,” Isabella jumped in as she grabbed Sirius’ hand; a terse smile plastered on her otherwise stoic face.

Isabella’s grip on his hand tightened with each step towards the exit and he could feel the woman’s eyes boring a hole in his back.

“James and Lily,” she whispered in a hushed and hurried voice the moment they crossed the threshold of the door, spilling on Knockturn Alley. “We’ll give them our copy.”

“What?!”

“Secrets of the Darkest Art. If we can’t buy a copy, we’ll give them ours to get them started.”

He paused them on the streets, pulling her into a dark corner just out of eyesight from the main road.

“You want to loop in James and Lily?”

“How much longer could we do this on our own? We have nothing new to offer each other, no new resources to pull from, and even today’s adventure was a risk and I know we won’t hear the end of it from Reg. We can’t shake them and we can’t really progress with them on our back. Merlin, Sirius, I love you but the walls are closing in.”

It was the first either of them had truly said it but it didn’t make it any less true.

“So you want to…?”

“I want to put the right information in front of the Potters and hope they reached the right conclusion. Start with horcruxes and expand from there. It’s passive, but it’s not nothing, and Merlin knows we need additional sets of eyes.”

“And the Order?

“We won’t take it to the Order; the Potters can do whatever they want with it.”

“Why don’t we just sit them down, tell them everything we know about Tom Riddle and horcruxes, and give them the choice to take it out of our hands and bring it to the Order, or work directly with us?”

“The Regulus problem still stands.” Isabella shook her head. She dropped her voice and he could see the distinct look of guilt in her eyes as she continued. “And I’m sorry, I know this sounds selfish and awful of me but I just know that conversation would inevitably lead James and Lily to conclude that we need to join the Order. And once the information’s passed to that side, and they know the origin, the recruitment and pressure to join would be just as unrelenting as it is from the Death Eaters. I can’t take it from both sides.”

Sirius just stared at her for a moment, uncertain if he even understood her proposal, let alone where she was drawing the line.

“We won’t say a word,” she continued, as though reading his mind. “They won’t know it’s coming from us, not really. We’re out of the war, they’ll assume they’re seeing connection we don’t see. We’ll just put the right resources in front of them and let them work it out. We’re a month further into research than we were the last time we had this conversation. We have a better idea of what’s relevant and what’s not. It’ll be a curated version of what we’ve done.”

“Is that even helpful?”

“I-I don’t know. But it’s better than nothing – Merlin, it’s more than what we’re doing now. I’m not suggesting we stop doing what we’re doing. But this gets relevant information into the hands of people who could see things differently.”

Sirius nodded, processing the information carefully before agreeing, “It gets horcruxes to the Order without us having to bring it to them. I don’t know that I see that as a bad thing.”

It felt strange to suggest giving up any control when they had gotten so deep into the search. But when he reflected back to their earliest horcrux conversation, it had always been on the table; they just couldn’t conceive of how to do it.

The idea bothered him less than he would’ve expected

“Our copy… it might even be for the best,” he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and kissed her forehead as he moved them back into the main road. “The section on horcruxes is where the spine’s the most worn out, maybe it’ll stand out to them.”

Isabella wrapped her arm around his waist and leaned into him. He could feel her relax as they moved on.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: Not Crossing the Line

James and Lily received an ancient leather-bound grimoire, wrapped up in a silk scarf and twine as a New Year’s Eve gift over drinks at their house. Though they refrained from reacting at the time, both Potters found the ‘gift’ odd for a myriad of reasons. New Year’s Eve was in no way, shape, or form a gift-giving holiday. The book’s contents itself were vile and disgusting, containing the darkest, most grotesque curses and potions imaginable. There was nothing about it that would ever appeal to James, nor Lily, but their friends were extremely insistent that they have the book. And yet, it was also given under the pretenses that they may need to borrow it back at some point.

After Sirius and Isabella left, the newlyweds came to the conclusion that their friends must be expecting some sort of ministry raid and wanted to get the book out of their possession; though their need to lie and pretend it was a gift was a bit of a mystery. Raids had all but stopped with the Death Eaters influence on the Ministry, but, knowing the Blacks’ situation, a raid could easily have been a pressure tactic stemming from that side.

The Potters didn’t claim to understand, but opted to bury the abhorrent book in the back of a broom cupboard until the Blacks asked for it back.

Life got busy in the following months. James’ mother and father passed away within a week of each other mid-January; a sobering reminder that time ticked on even during the war. James always knew his parents were older, but it wasn’t yet their time and their deaths hit him hard. Had he known that they had been in their last few years, he liked to think he would’ve done things differently; less of an emphasis on the war, and more of a focus on his family. Because life continued, even when he wasn’t paying attention.

Thank Merlin he had a support system. Lily had lost her parents young, so she knew exactly what he was going through, and Sirius was right at his side as well. When Sirius had lost his own father back in the spring, he only gotten colder, forced to acknowledge that his timeline for assuming the Head of the Sacred House of Black had just been cut in half. Sirius’ reaction to the loss of James’ parents was different; it was the loss of people he loved.

As much as James hated looking at the deaths of his parents in a purely pragmatic sense, he found he related to Sirius’ coldness far more than he ever let on. There was shameful resentment that came with picking up the reigns for the House of Potter far earlier than he expected to.

But he did not passively accept his responsibilities; he would no longer let life pass him by.

James and Lily adopted a new perspective that guided them – what would they do if the war was not a factor? They encouraged each other to look beyond the war and at the world that existed outside of the war.

And there was new news on the horizon; they were starting a family.

They could acknowledge that the timing wasn’t perfect, but it was so rarely perfect, and they refused to put their lives on hold for a conflict that had already stretched on for a decade.

If James was honest, with everything else going on he had forgotten all about the strange New Year’s gift he received from his best mate until they received further books from the Blacks for the archaic holiday of Imbolc. This time the content was less grotesque, but still strange. The theme was clearly a history of the Hogwarts Founders, which while vaguely interesting, the couple wasn’t sure they needed two new books on every founder. It felt excessive and not at all relevant.

It was also clear that in the Blacks free time, they had read all of the books and were anxious to discuss, approaching the conversation like a high-pressure book club. Sirius pulled James aside, and in a very serious tone, asked that when James finished one of the books on Helga Hufflepuff, he let him know if there were any symbols that stood out to him other than badgers. Isabella had apparently done the same to Lily, letting her know how important it was to learn about Salazar Slytherin, and if Lily were to start anywhere, Isabella recommend there – pointing aggressively to the cover of one of the books with a large portrait of Slytherin. James theorized that since she was the only Slytherin in the friend group, maybe she just felt passionate about it.

Only a day later, for – apparently - Groundhog Day, the Potters were presented with further biographies on Slytherin. At this point, James politely pulled Sirius aside to let him know that while it was admirable that he and Isabella were clearly trying to build up the Potter’s library, there were many other subjects that he and Lily, particularly as Gryffindors, found more engaging than Salazar Slytherin’s life.

Sirius seemed more concerned by this revelation than he ought to have been, and while he nodded, he also made sure to emphasize that it was very important to learn about Slytherin.

He did not elaborate.

Though the Black’s antics were undoubtedly strange, between his now-pregnant wife and the new responsibilities that came with a heading the House of Potter, James allowed himself to put his confusion on the backburner. To whatever extent his friends needed his attention, there was now a queue.

Mid-February, James and Lily broke the news that they were expecting, due end of July, and Sirius and Isabella were ecstatic. Though the baby shower wouldn’t be until June, the Blacks took the announcement as yet another gift giving opportunity. And it was these gifts that moved their behavior from confusing to concerning.

Sirius had opted for a book called ‘The Caves of England’ along with another book called ‘A Wizard’s Guide to Potholing’ explaining that maybe exploring caves could be a past time for James and his son or daughter.

James just stared at him.

“You want me to take my infant child into caves?”

“Well, maybe it’s something you’ll get into when they’re older? Like a hobby?”

“Huh, sure, why chose a hobby like quidditch that I’ve been playing my whole life to instill upon my child, instead I’ll get into potholing.”

“I just think caves are important.”

“Why? WHY do you think caves are important? Is it the same reason you think Slytherin’s important?!”

Sirius just stared at him.

“You know Padfoot, you and Isabella have been so, so weird lately. And your gifts even weirder. Are you going to tell me what’s happening?”

Sirius gave no indication that he had more to say.  

“No? Then can you just pull it together? It’s almost getting uncomfortable how bad you two are at gift-giving.”

Almost would’ve been a fair descriptor before Isabella gave Lily her gift. It was undoubtedly uncomfortable afterwards.

Lily painted a rather strange picture of the whole affair - Isabella handed over the gift with the biggest smile on her face as though this was in some way different from all ‘gifts’ that had come before it. It was beautifully wrapped in green toile wrapping paper and an oversized silver bow. Between Isabella’s optimism and the obvious attention to detail, Lily said she’d almost expected it to be a real present. But, of course, it was a book. Another book; like the dozen before it. This one was called ‘The Great Traditions’ and Lily only managed to plaster a smile on her face because at the very least, it did not seem to be about Slytherin. She studied the silver cover with black writing only for a moment, before dropping it on to the coffee table and moving the conversation into the next room. If Isabella wasn’t going to tell her why she kept giving them books, then Lily was under no obligation to feign any level of enthusiasm over them. It was after the couple left and it was just her and James that she realized exactly she’d been given. And she was more than a little upset.

Passing the book over to James, he quickly understood her objection. If he were to come up with a subtitle for The Great Traditions it would be ‘A pureblood’s guide to being more pureblood.’

And the implications of who gave whom the gift weren’t lost on him either.

“Does Isabella think there’s something wrong with me? Does she think I’m going to force this child into a muggle upbringing until they’re 11?! Or does she think I’m interested in raising a kid to be a pretentious pureblood like half the kids we went to school with?”

“Honestly, Lils, I wouldn’t read into it if I were you. They’re just horrible gift-givers, I don’t know what’s happened to them. I brought it up to Sirius today after he gave me books on caves for the baby.”

“Yes, but that’s not insulting! There’re no implications about your background with that gift! With this, it feels like Isabella, or both of them, meant something by this.”

“Okay, but think about their backgrounds – she may not have even noticed how pureblood-focused it was. She may just have thought the traditions were interesting, particularly since you didn’t grow up with them.”

Lily sighed, “I’m not trying to being closed-minded. I’m a witch; I’m not going back... and I so want to think of it as an interesting book on culture that I’m not as familiar with. But honestly James, doesn’t this kind of remind you of the Dark Arts book they gave us? No one else that we know or interact with would’ve given me that book. I’m sorry, but I really think something’s going on with them.”

James couldn’t quite bring himself to respond. He hated that he agreed with her, and he’d spent far too much of his life defending Sirius whenever the topic of his background came up to know what to say now.

“They’re Darker than we pretend they are,” Lily continued, “you have to acknowledge that.”

“I’ve been acknowledging that about Sirius since we were 11 years old.”

----------------------

For the first time in months, the sun felt just a little brighter as Isabella stepped out on to Diagon Alley on the way to The Florentia Conservatory. The main street was bustling and energetic, as though the wizarding world as a whole was feeling the relief of the thick blanket of grey lifting. It had been a long and bitter winter, the kind that left a person gasping for warmth as though it were air and chilled them to their core. After the deaths of the elder Potters, they had been too busy surviving to dwell on how unproductive they’d been. And that was okay; it had to be.

They hadn’t given up entirely in February, throwing a bundle of resources at the Potters with barely the energy for subtlety. They were so blatant that something was bound to stick. And it made them feel better knowing that there was still a focused effort happening.

By the time the fog of the winter lifted, new news was on the horizon. With the Potter’s announcement, any lingering annoyance that the two of them hadn’t been as thorough in their reading as Sirius and Isabella hoped went out the window. The news was wonderful – unexpected, certainly, but absolutely wonderful.

It was also a good reminder of why they were doing what they were doing. Their closest friends were bringing a child into this world, and good Merlin, the Blacks wanted to ensure that there would be a world for this child to grow up in. Lily’s pregnancy reinvigorated them in a way that they hadn’t felt since Halloween. They worked fast and efficiently to bring them more relevant resources, hoping to clue them into both the cave – something that they themselves had struggled to find any reasonable link to – and to potential Gaunt and Slytherin artifacts.

And now they had confirmation that what they were doing was working.

Between James’ comments to Sirius and a cryptic letter they’d received from him that morning, it was clear that the Potters were starting to pay attention to the books, not as individual gifts, but as part of a whole collection. It felt like these things they’d been doing weren’t being lost on them; they were starting to see the bigger picture.

There was always bound to be a point where they’d confuse, or even frustrate, the Potters before they helped them, and thank Merlin they’d finally reached the crossroad.

Things broadly were looking up as the winter conceded to early signs of spring. Regulus was, for all intents and purposes, still manning the recruitment effort for the Death Eaters. And though there were some family members that they continued to strategically avoid, they were no longer suffering from the heighted attention brought on by the Potter’s wedding. They had followed Regulus’ advice and had been smart about their documented public appearances, and they hadn’t let their goals overwhelm them. They’d proved themselves capable of moderate, rational involvement, and it felt like an appropriate time to loosen the reigns and see what could be done if they pushed just a little further.

Ever since Isabella was little, she’d felt there was something special about opening day of The Florentia Conservatory’s Spring Exhibition. She’d gone every year that she could remember and it tended to attract an interesting crowd of society people. For years, she had begged her father to sponsor one of the exhibits, desperate to make her dream of a Rosier rose garden a reality. But it was too early in the Spring for roses, her father would always remind her, and then he would point to the plaque on the wall right at the entrance with their name on it; they had already donated the building, they didn’t need an exhibit as well.

Since Hogwarts, it had also been a worthwhile event to attend; it attracted a diverse crowd, making it light on the politics and a brilliant place to make her rounds to broaden her horizons. This year, she expected the usefulness to increase tenfold. She had already seen the Smith family on the list of this year’s sponsors and knew if there was any time to approach one of the grandchildren, it was this.

She was close enough to see the shining plaque on the conservatory when a harsh voice pulled her attention away.

“Oh HELLO cousin!”

Isabella whipped around to find Bellatrix Lestrange strutting towards her with relaxed determination.

Though only in her late 20s, Bellatrix had established herself as one of the most feared Death Eaters and relished in her notoriety. Unlike many Death Eaters who maintained a separation between their public persona and affiliation by hiding behind a mask, she made no such pretenses. She’d wear it or she wouldn’t. She’d torture and kill in broad daylight if that’s what struck her fancy in that moment. She wanted the wizarding world to know who she was and what she was capable of. Wanted posters with her face filled the streets of Diagon Alley, but the Death Eaters control of the Ministry was sufficient that it rendered her, along with many of the other higher ranking Death Eaters, seemingly untouchable. The posters served at best as a warning to civilians, and at worst as a fear and control tactic.

Of all of the people on their strategic avoidance list, Bellatrix had safely secured her spot as number one. Isabella found her to be a terrifying witch who used her stature and sharp features to antagonize and intimidate. She was a disturbing combination of all of her worst characteristics, bundled up and heighted, and yet didn’t seem to have many, if any, redeeming qualities. She had no semblance of remorse, no filter between a thought and an action, and she gave the distinct impression that she could, and would, hurt you at the first opportunity.

Isabella supposed she was fortunate that Bellatrix didn’t seem to mind her too much. She wouldn’t venture that she was liked, Bellatrix didn’t seem to like people, but she treated her like a vaguely slow, younger sister, and from what she could tell, that was about as good as it got.

“You’re a rather difficult person to get ahold of,” Bellatrix said with suppressed annoyance as she caught up with her. “Thank Merlin, you’re predictable. Walk with me?”

This was posed less as a question and more of a command, as she quicky grabbed her arm to pull her along.

Walking arm-in-arm with Bellatrix Lestrange down Diagon Alley was about as bad of a look as Isabella could imagine. The crowds were clearing as she approached; parents ushering their children inside, men and women staring as they, too, quickly hurried along. If there was anyone who’d questioned the Black’s stance in the war, this painted a rather clear picture. She had a sinking feeling that the publicity of it all was by design rather than coincidence.

“Bella – I was just about to leave actually…”

“Well, how splendid that you were already done - gives us plenty of time to chat,” she said as she hurried them along the road towards Gringotts. “We’re long overdue for a conversation, just the two of us.”

“I…”

“How’s the marriage treating you? How are you liking being a Black?”

“Well it’s – it’s been great? Great.”

“I suppose being a Black isn’t too, too different from a Rosier. I know your uncle well, Evan too of course. Both Dark families.”

“Sure…”

“And you, Isabella, would you consider yourself a Dark witch?”

There was nothing inherently wrong with the label, but she was hesitant to say anything that would play into Bellatrix’s hand. She’d sat through enough recruitment pitches to willingly give ammunition.

“I don’t feel that it’s so black and white.”

Bellatrix paused at the square in front of Gringotts, surveying the crowd around them. If her march down the road had inspired fear, the fact that she had stopped brought about terror. She seemed to savor the wide berth the crowd was giving them as they cleared out the square. After a moment had passed, she turned her attention back to Isabella.

“Look at me,” she demanded as she painfully gripped her cheeks, pulling Isabella’s face so her eyes to meet her own, “Do you practice the Dark Arts?”

In an instant, Isabella felt the piercing sensation of someone plunging into her mind and she couldn’t stop the thoughts from flooding in. Legillimency was a practice highly appreciated in the Black family and Isabella’s mind was entirely unprotected.

Visions and memories of the blood magic Isabella and Sirius had done when moving into their home flashed in her mind, along with memories of sacrifices throughout the years. Worse memories started coming, ones she couldn’t share; the books that she’d been reading to find powerful curses to destroy beyond repair, to learn more about the darkest sides of magic that could’ve been exploited – she yanked her head away and fast.

She couldn’t have Bella knowing the project at hand.

Bellatrix just cackled.

“My, my, my Isabella – you know all of that is illegal?”

“It’s rude to enter someone’s mind like that.”

She tried to pull away, but Bellatrix held her arm fast, laughing at her remarks.

“Do you know why that’s illegal? All of it?”

“Because the ministry and half the families out there have some serious misconceptions about the Dark Arts…” she began, feeling no need to dilute her words for her current audience.

“Correct. And who’s to blame for that?”

“It begins with our education system,” Isabella said with well-rehearsed confidence. “The fact that we’re so polarized tha - ”

“I’m sure you have a LOT to say on the subject! I hear you’re quite a passionate debater,” Bellatrix interrupted with a smile. “But I don’t think your usual audience challenges you; I intend to.”

There was something in the way that she said it that sent a chill down Isabella’s spine.

“You’ve started far too late in our history,” Bellatrix continued. “There is a reason our education system looks the way it does. Why have we let those misconceptions that you speak of grow? Why would something so natural, so normal, so beneficial for wizards not even be TAUGHT? Why?”

“I-I don’t know?” she faltered, unaccustomed to pushback coming from that direction.

“Because it makes the mudbloods uncomfortable. That’s it. They spend their childhood learning what’s right and what’s wrong for muggles, then they bring their uneducated, unsubstantiated, and unfounded ideologies with them when they infiltrate our society, over a DECADE late, and we’re all stuck suffering the consequences.”

“Infiltrate? Really?” Isabella knew getting lost in the semantics was poor form, but if this were to be the foundation of the conversation, they needed to agree on the terms. There was deliberateness and choice implied with the word infiltrate that she fundamentally disagreed with in this context.

“How else would you describe the gradual, insidious influx of a population that wants nothing to do with our culture and our ways? And let me dissuade your notion that I speak of some choice to have magical abilities. I do not. I speak of their choice to bring their old ways with them when they ‘integrate’ into wizarding society. They are stuck in the world they came from, and because we are the surprise entity, we must be the ones to bridge the gap between the two. They will continue to mold our world in their image until it will look nothing like the world we deserve. The world magic needs to flourish.”

“Do you really feel it’s fair to say they want nothing to do with our culture?”

“To even ask that, Isabella, tells me you haven’t spent much time amongst muggles, have you? Or at the very least, your history education has failed you. I would entertain a conversation on mudbloods’ perception of witchcraft insofar as you can tell me muggles’ perception of witchcraft.”

And that, Isabella hated to admit, she couldn’t. But really, they weren’t discussing a witch’s integration into muggle society where those perceptions would prove problematic, quite the opposite. If muggle-borns were failing to grasp the differences between the two worlds, then they were being given insufficient tools and resources for integration.

“Isn’t it our responsibility to educate them?” she pushed back. “If we’re failing at that, that is our shortcomings, not theirs.”

“That is the challenge, isn’t it?” Bellatrix smiled. “Because of their upbringing, they come into our society at 11 years old with these preconceived notions and it would take serious work to un-indoctrinate them. And that we seem to refuse to do. See, there is a certain subsect of our population that believes that if we push against those boundaries too hard, too early we’ll have a lower success rate of integration. And in their mind, that is the worst possible outcome. What they fail to take into consideration is the irreparable damage they do by holding back that information until it is too late and it cannot be safely introduced. Because the way we talk about magic matters very, very much. And when you structure magical education to cater to a population that is already disinclined to trust magic, then you raise a population that is uncomfortable using magic to the fullest extent.”

It was clear how much smarter Bellatrix was than the average Death Eater. She spoke with authority and presented opinion as fact, as she perfectly wove her message for her audience of one. It was hard to poke holes in her logic, even knowing the things Bella said were essentially propaganda.

The message was tailor-made for her.

“That… that may be, but… you can’t – you can’t blame the child…”

“You know there are genuine, physical differences between muggles and wizards? You can test for them. We have tested it. Hypothetically, no magical child would ever need to be raised by muggles. Remove the mudbloods and their muggle beliefs from society, and wizarding culture could flourish and progress again!”

“How are you… accomplishing that exactly?”

“Sweetheart,” Bella said in a condescending tone, “just tell me this – do you really want to live in a world where your traditions and beliefs, these things you’re already doing, could land you in Azkaban?”

“That’s not - ”

“You know as well as I do that that’s the world we live in and even more so, that the world that the opposition wants to create. I wish I could tell you that they do not understand what they are doing, but after all these years I fear that they are far more nefarious than we give them credit for. They want to neuter magic and magical ability, to the point that magic is mundane, not the incredible, mystical, art that it is. They want to make it so there’s no distinction between the wizarding world and the muggle world; make the transition and lives as easy as possible for those who have only ever held BACK our society. How could anyone stand by and let that happen?”

“But your methods…”

“This is WAR! Magic, Isabella, is worth fighting for.”

Isabella started to notice the pops of apparating in the cleared out square around them. They were no longer alone. Death Eaters had started to gather.

“Oh Merlin, Bella, I need to go…”

Isabella tried again to struggle free, but Bellatrix dug her nails into Isabella’s forearm, grabbing her other arm to stop her from turning away.

“I’m sure in the coming days and weeks you’ll think of countless rebuttals and arguments that you wish you’d made. And I would love to continue this discussion.” Her voice echoed through the eerily quiet streets.

“Bella, please - please let me go.”

“So I hope that when you reflect back on this conversation, you remember that it did not need to play out like this. That it was your stubbornness that forced my hand. You are too smart to waste your talents on those who cannot push you.”

She heard the distinct popping sounds on the other side of the square as well; members of the Order had arrived. And there she was, clear as day, standing in a sea of Death Eaters, arm linked with the most dangerous of them all.

“And let it be said,” Bellatrix whispered with a sinister grin, “I’ve fostered your growth in more ways than one today.”

Isabella turned just in time to spot Lily and James Potter, staring right at her. But they weren’t looking at her with fear or sympathy, they were looking at her with horror.

“FUCK – BELLA!”

Bellatrix scanned the gathered crowd and cackled, only then letting go of her arm; she knew exactly what she’d done.

Isabella disapparated on the spot.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: Allegiances

“SIRIUS!” Isabella screamed as she sprinted into their house, tearing through the first floor looking for her husband. Her heart beat faster and faster and it felt as though the clock was working against her. The longer she was the only person who truly knew what had happened, the more dangerous her situation became.

She slammed into Sirius, who had made his way downstairs sometime during her second lap, still in the front hall. No sooner had she buried her face against his chest than the story began spilling out of her, a rambling mess of accusations and theories interwoven with the reality of the situation – that she had been spotted by their friends, arms-locked with Bellatrix Lestrange, in the middle of a Death Eater demonstration. And before she could question if there was a more rational approach, she had simple fled the scene.

If there was anything more condemning than that, she couldn’t name it.

By the end of her winding tale, Sirius’ blood pressure was just as elevated as hers, though he seemed far more pissed than concerned, unable to wrap his head around the fact that his bloody cousin had pulled such a public stunt. But to that, Isabella felt his cousin’s explanation more than sufficed; like the rest of the fallout that would come from this, this, too, was Isabella’s fault.

“But this is James and Lily we’re talking about, even if the rest of the Order doesn’t understand, they won’t think…”

“Won’t they?! Darling, it’s not like this came out of left field. If I were them-”

“If I were them,” Sirius interrupted, “I’d be looking for explanations in charity. We don’t know for sure what’s going through their minds, so we shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Were Moony and Wormtail there? ‘Cause that’s more support to our side.”

“I didn’t see them, but again I was panicking. Sirius, it felt staged. It was too perfect, the way she held on to me right up until they arrived. In the middle of her pitch too, like she was hedging from both sides.”

“She always has been sadistically smart,” he seemed to laugh without realizing it. “It’s not like she could actually make a compelling argument for their side.”

“Mmhmm…” Isabella said rather evasively. She could hardly find the words to rebuke his statement, unsure if it was the strength of his cousin’s arguments that horrified her the most, or the fact that she agreed with anything Bellatrix Lestrange put forward on the subject of blood purity.

Or maybe it was the fact that Bella had wiped the floor with her.

It was almost flattering how much thought had gone into Bella’s argument. How much she must’ve researched her to know just the points that would cause her to stumble and which points would take things a step too far and lose her entirely. It was so perfectly tailored for her, or perhaps her and Sirius.

But that could just as easily be her own naivety speaking; maybe Bella was right and Isabella’s current audience was simply failing to challenge her.

Maybe Bella was that much smarter.

She had been perniciously prescient; Isabella’s mind was like highlight reel of missed opportunities and certainly against her better judgement, she already wanted another go at the conversation. She should’ve pushed harder at how much could be accomplished through muggle-born integration reforms, stressed the sheer lack of resources that were currently being directed that way, and emphasized that both sides would need to make serious concession to push beyond the integration barrier. The muggle-borns were coming no matter what…

Unless they weren’t.

There were parts of Bella’s argument that genuinely scared her because she couldn’t think of a sensible rebuttal, nor a humane way to implement her suggestions. She would not be swindled by a plea for the greater good; the greater good required a minority of the population to lose, and it was too subjective, too open to interpretation by whatever party wielded it as their banner. But a magic-first agenda, rallying a society behind something that united every last one of them, that she found to be terrifyingly compelling.

“And if she can’t convince you,” Sirius continued, “she can at least make sure that the other side isn’t an option. Cast dispersions on our character, isolate us from our friends, turn the Order against us. If they can’t have us, why not ensure that no one can.”

Isabella nodded slowly, though she hardly knew what she was even agreeing to.

“Look, I don’t want to worry about that too much,” he grabbed her hand, pulling her out of her introspection, “we’ll talk to James and Lily, they’ll understand.”

“What if they don’t?” The words came out far harsher than she’d intended.

“Then we’ll do whatever it takes to make them understand. We have nothing to hide.”

Isabella looked at him incredulously before collapsing on to the stairs, letting her head fall in her hands.

“Sirius, that couldn’t be further from the truth. I can think of four rather significant things we’re hiding from them. You need to remember - we are not at the same place with them that we were even six months ago.”

“The books…” he said with a grimace, the reality of her situation – their situation – dawning on him just as it had on her when she’d seen the looks on the Potter’s faces.

“They are confused and frustrated with us, and I am finding it hard to turn that into a positive anymore. Coupled with my attendance at a Death Eater demonstration, our actions will be seen in a very unfortunate light, if they weren’t already.” She rubbed her temples with her thumbs as Sirius settled down next to her. “At least you weren’t there.”

“What difference would that make?” he said steadily; there was a stoic-ness to his words where there had previously been confidence. “You said there were, what, six masked Death Eaters? If they’ve determined that you’re a Death Eater, the next logical conclusion was that I was there too, just behind a mask.”

Isabella found herself visibly conceding, even though she knew it wasn’t true.

There was always going to be a difference between her and her husband. Sirius was a Gryffindor; she was a Slytherin. Their friends had grown up with Sirius; they hadn’t with her. Sirius ran away from his staunchly pureblood family; she had done everything in her power not to lose hers. She knew that every single one of them felt that she was the reason Sirius had gone back to his family. And she was the reason he wasn’t in the Order today.

She ticked more boxes for being a Dark wizard than her husband did. And she was judged accordingly.

This did not explicitly bother her, but she did know there was a line drawn by the lighter families more broadly, and often, her and Sirius stood on either side of it. To complicate matters further, it did not always seem that Sirius was explicitly aware of these differences between them. She felt that over the years, they had become less pronounced; they were balancing each other out in a rather remarkable way.

Now, if toeing the line was the goal, it felt that she was quite rapidly sliding farther from the mark than she’d ever been previously.

It made her want to vomit.

So she found herself letting go of the pitfalls of her husband’s logic. She would not take the opportunity to spotlight the former or current existence of these differences between them, particularly when she was far less certain how pronounced these differences were. When she spoke, she spoke with conviction. And right now, she felt anything but.

“No. This is… no, listen,” Sirius said after a moment, shaking his head, “these are our friends; they’ll hear us out. They care about us.”

“They don’t care for our family.”

“Do you care for our family?” he joked.

She found she did not appreciate the callousness of his words.

“You know, I’m afraid I do.” She pried her face away from her hands to look at him. “I’m proud of my lineage and I will not let any individuals sour my pride in being a Rosier and a Black. I care about the House, don’t you?”

He stared at her for a moment, making a concerted effort to mask just how much of a blow that question really was. She couldn’t for the life of her understand why she’d said it like that; like she wanted to use his perceived shortcomings to bury her own.

“A work in progress,” he said softly, as though she’d truly managed to knock the wind out of him.

There would always be a difference between her and her husband.

And sometimes it just made her feel utterly insane.

She leaned her head against his shoulder with a shutter.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not handling this well at all. It’s just…” She let her words trail off.

There was a reason she wasn’t offering up the contents of her conversation freely; until her mind started acting more like itself, until she felt more like herself, there were things best left unsaid. Anything that came out of her mouth now besides an apology would only make the situation worse; make her look worse and make everyone around her worse for knowing her.

“We’ll fix this, I promise,” Sirius moved his arm around her waist, pulling her in closer, “we’ll fix this.”

“I’m just so sorry.”

---------------------

The Order had been tipped off a few days prior that the Death Eaters were planning something at Gringotts that weekend. Once they’d received word that Bellatrix Lestrange had been spotted in Diagon Alley, they knew it was time to act on the information.

Eight of them - James and Lily Potter, Frank and Alice Longbottom, twins Fabian and Gideon Prewett, Edgar Bones, and Benjy Fenwick - arrived in the practically empty square in front of the bank and were greeted by about six masked Death Eaters spread across the front of the bank’s entrance. In the middle of the six were Bellatrix Lestrange and Isabella Black, who appeared to be in an intimate conversation; Bellatrix was holding onto Isabella, almost as if she was comforting the younger witch. This only lasted for a second as the two were seemingly pulled away from the conversation by the Order’s appearance.

The only thing that everyone could agree on was that it looked like Isabella Black spotted the Order, specifically James and Lily, screamed “Fuck, Bella!” – Bellatrix’s nickname for those who were close to her – and immediately apparated away.

The strangest thing about it was that the Death Eaters didn’t stay more than a moment longer than Isabella did. Bellatrix just laughed and rolled her eyes, before she apparated off as well, followed quickly by the remaining six. Less than 30 seconds after arriving, the Order found themselves standing alone in the square.

“What the hell just happened?!” Frank Longbottom looked around at the rest of the group.

“They did what they came here to do, I guess,” James interjected immediately, hoping to defuse the tension before accusations started flying. “Probably some set up to get to Isabella, right?”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it? A set up? Really?” Alice Longbottom shot back.

James looked around the group and realized almost everyone had the same look of grim certainty on their faces. Only Lily looked like she half agreed with him, and even she had a clear look of concern in her eyes.

“James, that’s not what I saw either,” Frank said, backing up his wife. “There’s no way to for sure reach that conclusion from what we just witnessed.”

“Except for the fact Isabella Black wouldn’t be and is not a Death Eater…” Lily joined the group debate.

“Lily,” Alice replied in a tone that suggested the other witch was being quite naïve, “Let’s not pretend that there’s no chance that a Rosier-Black would align with the Death Eaters. I could name half a dozen Rosiers and Blacks in their ranks just off the top of my head…”

“Yeah, but not that Black!”

“Well neither of those Blacks are in the Order, now are they?” Alice goaded the younger witch on.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well we know where Isabella Black was; we don’t know who was under those masks, do we?”

“Don’t you DARE,” James replied sharply to the accusation.

“Well,” Alice raised her hands conciliatorily, “someone needed to say it, I know I’m not the only one thinking it.”

“Alice, Frank, these aren’t strangers, this is Isabella and Sirius you’re talking about!” James continued his defense. “These are our friends!”

“And are you friends with ‘Bella’ too? Did you notice that? I don’t know anyone who calls Bellatrix Lestrange by a nickname…”

“It’s Sirius’ cousin,” said Lily, “he’s probably called her that since childhood and she just picked it up.”

“Right,” Alice replied in the same condescending tone, “they’re family. It explains why they seemed so well acquainted…”

“Isabella’s just had the displeasure of interacting with her before, I don’t think they’re well acquainted!”

“See even that,” Frank jumped back in, “whom amongst us would continue to associate with our relatives if we knew they were Death Eaters? Let alone someone as sadistic as Bellatrix Lestrange.”

“Sirius has always had a complicated relationship with his family…” James replied cautiously. It wasn’t his place to air his best mate’s dirty laundry, even if it was in his defense.

“I know you’ve said that a few times in the past, James,” Frank frowned, “but if I’m being honest, it hasn’t seemed like it’s been very complicated in the last year or two.”

“It’s – it’s complicated.”

It was a weak defense and even James knew it. The Longbottoms, along with the other four men there, were justifiably unconvinced.

“I know your instinct will be to say no immediately,” Edgar Bones spoke up. “And all of us here understand that. But you two are obviously very close with Isabella and Sirius Black, have you noticed anything unusual or different about her behavior, or their behavior? Anything at all that might signal a change in their allegiances?”

James and Lily just stared at the group, minds racing. The answer was unfortunately, absolutely. Both knew it. The Dark Arts book, the emphasis on Slytherin, the strange, secretive behavior…

“No,” James said with the confidence only someone who’d be put in this situation before could muster. How many times had he lied on Sirius’ behalf? “Nothing comes to mind.”

Lily cast a quick glance at him, but otherwise stayed very still and very quiet. He knew she had to be fuming that he was lying; lying to Order at that. But they should be a united front. He found him watching his breathing to make sure he looked normal every time he caught her gaze.

“Well, think about it and keep an eye out. Let us know if they reach out to you. I imagine Isabella will want to say something about what happened.” Edgar looked around at the rest of the group. “Anything else I’m missing? No? Then Frank why don’t you come with me and we’ll give Dumbledore a report. And everyone else can be off. Keeps your eyes open, okay?”

“Constant vigilance!” Frank added with a weak laugh. Although the line was thrown around more often than any of them could count, this was a war, and what had just occurred was exactly why the line bore repeating.

Not feeling the need to linger, James and Lily apparated to just outside of Potter Manor in an instant.

“That was a bloody lie, James, what - ”

“Shh, let’s get inside.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and ushered her quickly across the remaining drive.

They had barely made in through the front door when Lily launched into him, “Is this how it is again? Are you back to lying and defending Sirius Black no matter what he’s done? Have you not matured past this?!”

“I’m not defending him no matter what! Lily, can you honestly tell me that you think Sirius and Isabella are Death Eaters? Do you actually think that with 100% certainty?”

“No, of course I don’t. I think there’s some things to really be concerned about, but with certainty? No!”

“Then why would we openly add fuel to the fire? You saw all of them – they’d jump at any opportunity to declare the two Death Eaters. And if we - who know the two better than anyone else - don’t think they’re Death Eaters, why would we hand them ‘proof’?”

“But lying to the Order, that sets a bad precedent…”

“And if I had told them the truth? I’d essentially be condemning them. Shouldn’t we at least give them the decency of hearing them out first, before we throw them to the wolves?”

Lily nodded slowly at first, but seemed to genuinely come around. This wasn’t information to treat callously.

“Look,” James continued, “if the gifts and the interests are irrelevant, we’re better off never introducing them than trying to convince that group that they’re actually irrelevant. But if we’re wrong… and all the strangeness in the last few months is relevant, of course we’ll tell the Order everything we know. It’s just much easier to hold back information than try and take it back.”

Lily took a deep breath. “But - and you know I love Isabella - but I just have to know, would you be defending Isabella Rosier just as strongly as Isabella Black, or if Padfoot wasn’t looped in by the group at all?”

“That’s – that’s not really a fair question. Sirius is like my brother and I’ve known him three times as long as I’ve known Isabella. I do think I know her well enough to feel pretty confident when I say she’s not a Death Eater. I think that’s half the reason her and Sirius got together. But, I mean, yeah, it’s Padfoot’s wife; implicitly, I absolutely am trusting his judgement.”

“Do you think it’s possible she’d join even if he wouldn’t?”

“No.” His voice dropped. “I think they’re a package-deal. We’ve seen that since they first got together, they operate on their own wavelength. Just the two of them. It would break the mold for one to go a direction the other didn’t. And think about the gifts, the Dark Arts book was from both of them, both of them have pulled us aside at separate times to tell us how important Slytherin is – whatever’s happening is a joint thing.”

“Wait – wait – then are you saying you’re still… concerned?”

“Of course.”

“About both?”

“Yeah, I am.”

The gravity of his words wasn’t lost on him. The amount of time since their last conversation on the subject was easier to measure in hours than in days. To whatever extent he’d hope for clarity, James had never wanted the evidence less. This was not the direction this was supposed to go. He knew Sirius well enough to know he was missing something rather significant, but he had known that the day before just as well. He worried now that whatever was missing had been interpreted very differently through Sirius’ eyes than it would have been through his own.

Padfoot had a tendency to veer off-course when left to navigate with his own moral compass, and he could hardly speak to Isabella as a guide.

“I can’t explain the last couple months,” he continued, “I have no idea what caused this behavior shift, and I couldn’t give you a good reason for why Isabella would be talking to Bellatrix Lestrange in the middle of Diagon Alley during a Death Eater demonstration. I know what I’m implying and my whole body is viscerally begging me to take it back, but I don’t know what we’re dealing with.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: Veritaserum 

Isabella and Sirius sat on the couch opposite the two Potters in the living room of the Potter manor. The sundrenched room had always felt strangely stiff in Lily’s opinion, and the mood in the room did nothing to shift her perspective. The furniture was all antique, a blend of warm pastels bleached from years of harsh sun exposure. Neither of the couches were particularly comfortable; the stiff frames of days of yore combined with little to no restuffing would do that to furniture over the years. It was the one room in the manor she could never quite get comfortable in. Everything about it felt like it belonged in a museum or staged in Buckingham Palace.

It was the one room in the house that seemed to highlight the difference between her and her husband’s backgrounds; and for the conversation at hand, it would serve its purpose.

Isabella sat awfully still, fidgeting with the sleeve of her robe. It was a nervous habit of hers that Lily had picked up on over the years. People so often got distracted by Isabella’s big gestures - the taunting nature of her smile, the way she used her eyes against a person, the way she would flip her long hair when going in for the kill – that they entirely missed out on her real emotions out on full display in her smaller movements. She would fidget with sleeves or tug on a skirt as though the couture pieces weren’t designed for her precise measurements.

The rest of Isabella was entirely calm; her face showed nothing more than pleasant interest.

Sirius leaned back on the couch, one arm hooked over its back, surveying the room with muted amusement.

There was a point in Lily’s life where she would’ve taken this attitude as cockiness, but she had learned better. This wasn’t the sort of thing that fazed him - not because he was above it, but because he had assessed the worst possible outcome, and that, in and of itself, had been deemed tolerable. He had seen worse. James made it abundantly clear that they were not to ask if Sirius had experience with veritaserum. She knew that he had limited occlumency training from his grandfather, not enough to resist if asked a direct question, but enough that he could stop his words from wandering away from him. But she wouldn’t ask anything else about his experience with such a potion; she’d understood her husband, and the Blacks, well enough.

Veritaserum was, Lily reminded herself as she stared at her friends, no one’s first choice. But they had been forced to face the facts. The Black hadn’t joined the Order, and even James had to admit there always felt like there was more to the story than the couple let on. They were clearly still interacting with the Death Eaters in their family. And catching Isabella arm-in-arm with Bellatrix Lestrange, surrounded by other Death Eaters, was just icing on the cake to the building strange behavior from her; from both of them.

How could James and Lily withhold, potentially incriminating, information from the Order, without being absolutely certain that they were getting the full and honest truth from the both of the Blacks?

And, unfortunately, the time for just talking to them was over. They had asked them more than once what was happening with the gifts, and their questions had been dodged and ignored time and time again. This was no longer just a personal issue and neither of the Potters would sustain a lie at the expense of the Cause.

Veritaserum was the only option.

It was a shame that it had come to it because they would likely be learning more about their friends than they wished to know, and that their friends would ever willing share. Veritaserum didn’t discriminate between one’s deepest, darkest secrets and worst thoughts, and one’s core beliefs that guided their everyday actions. If you believed it to be the truth, no matter how horrid you thought the truth was, that would be your answer on veritaserum.

There was a parable they were taught in school about a wife giving her husband the truth serum and asking him if he thought she was the prettiest witch on the planet, and getting hurt when he replied, ‘absolutely not, there are hundreds, if not thousands, prettier than you.’ He could have loved his wife more than anyone else, believed her to be the most beautiful because of the combination of her looks, her personality, her interests, and passions, and have never even dreamt of any other witch. But if he didn’t believe that the truth was that she was the prettiest witch on the entire planet, none of that would matter.

Knowing what someone thought was the truth at the deepest corners of their being was very different than seeing how people chose to implement the truth, how they went about their lives, and what people chose to believe and chose to follow. That was what defined someone’s character far more than simply the cold, hard perception of the truth.

Outside of confirming that Isabella and Sirius had not joined the Death Eaters and didn’t intend to join the Death Eaters, the rest of would have to be thought of as superfluous. James and Lily had promised.

It wasn’t as though they thought this was a normal thing to ask of a friend, but everyone in the room was keenly aware of just how abnormal the circumstances were. They’d hardly needed to justify the use of veritaserum; it was clear from Black’s initial explanation over owl that they understood the extent to which they’d dug themselves in a hole. All they needed to say was that this was simply the closest they could get to proof for the Order and the matter was considered closed.

It was undoubtedly true, but Lily thought what was left unsaid was just as relevant.

It wasn’t just the circumstances leading up to the encounter that called for more severe measures, the fact also was that Sirius was an impressive liar. He didn’t get away with everything in school, but that was mostly attributed to the number of witnesses and the sheer improbability of it being anyone else causing the mayhem. Giving him time to prep his excuse was the death of the truth - and the Potters had effectively given him days. Lily had witnessed Isabella lie less, but they had watched her carry on an entire relationship while engaged, keeping her entire House in the dark. And though Lily didn’t want be biased, the fact that she was a Slytherin wasn’t a point in her direction when it came to honesty and forthcomingness.

“Are you ready?” Lily asked, eyes shifting between Isabella and Sirius down to the ornate tea set laid out in front of them.

Sirius slowly pulled out a pocket watch, and with an exaggerated glance and a rather cheeky smile, nodded as he slipped it back into his breast pocket.

With a confirming look to her husband, Isabella, too, gave a nod; she didn’t even seem to be breathing.

Lily put three drops of the veritaserum she'd brewed in both Isabella and Sirius’ cups – enough for approximately 15 minutes of the truth, and nothing but the truth.

Tea cup in hand, Isabella began to laugh. She’d often said it was a nervous habit of hers, this unbridled energy and confidence that would rise to the surface when she was at her most insecure. Lily wouldn’t have believed her had she not witnessed it before. Sirius put his hand on her thigh, pulling her attention towards him. And with a reassuring nod, he clinked his cup against hers in a cheers before gulping down the liquid. She followed suit.

James began, “We’ll start easy to make sure it’s working. What are your names?”

“Isabella Margaux Rosier Black. I was born a Rosier, married into the Black family.”

“Sirius Orion Black, Heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.”

“Oh, going formal now, aren’t we, Padfoot?”

Sirius tried to just give a nod, but instead corrected James. “Padfoot is a nickname and the name of my animagus form.”

James raised his eyebrow. While both Isabella and Lily had known about their moonlight activities since their sixth-year, it was good that this wasn’t happening in front of the Order as James and her had half-considered.

“Seems like it’s working to me.” He took a deep breath. “So. Isabella, are you a Death Eater?”

“No, I am definitely not a Death Eater. I have never been a Death Eater. I fought my way out of my first engagement to not become a Death Eater. And I cannot believe I’m still having this conversation. Bella set me up, holding me there until it was clear I’d be spotted, everyone knows how heavily we’re being recruited. Recruited, not joining. And then you all bought it. Just lapped up what Bella put down. It’s pathetic.”

Isabella blinked, barely aware of her words. Unlike Sirius, Isabella had no occlumency training, the truth would spill from her like a broken spigot.

“Thank you. Sirius, are you a Death Eater?”

“I am not a Death Eater.”

“Do you agree with the Death Eaters?”

“It’s subject-dependent. I agree with many Death Eaters on werewolf and magical creature rights, perception, education, freedom, and practice of the Dark Arts, and isolationism from muggles.”

“Isabella, do you agree with the Death Eaters?”

“That is the question, isn’t it? So many Death Eaters are sheep and there are big things they care about that I don’t, like blood purity. But I agree on their stance on the freedom and education reforms for the Dark Arts; I’d like some real legal changes around that. I agree with magical creature rights. I agree with isolationism from muggles. And I agree with wizarding superiority to muggles – there’s nothing muggles can do that we can’t do, and clearly that’s not the same in reverse – but we should ignore them, not enslave them or kill them, which differs. And Bella made a great point that magical children shouldn’t be raised by muggles, which I agree with. Bella made a lot of great points.”

The placid expression on Isabella’s face juxtaposed the severity of her statement and Lily struggled to keep the emotions off her own. Isabella had affirmed that she wasn’t a Death Eater, had fought against becoming a Death Eaters, had never cared about blood purity, nor did she agree with the oppression of muggles. That would have to be enough to cling to.

“What did Bella tell you?” James pressed her.

Isabella’s dead eyes did nothing to prepare them to the impassioned words that followed.

“Bella made the argument that the wizarding world’s insistence on making the transition from the muggle world to the wizarding world as seamless as possible is what’s hindering our progress. That mudbloods come in with their own preconceived notions of right and wrong, how things should be done and shouldn’t.”

Lily worked to keep her breathing controlled; it was so foreign to watch such an ugly word roll off one of her closest friend’s tongue.

“And rather than teach them how things may be different between muggles and wizards,” Isabella continued seamlessly, “we simply accommodate. We lose pieces of magic as we go to make it comfortable for those who didn’t grow up around it. So rather than pushing the boundaries of magic, expanding what a wizarding culture could look like, we become stagnant, or worse, lose the art of magic entirely.

“She talked about the idea that the opposition, the Order, seeks to blur the lines between the muggle world and the Wizarding World. Magic has the potential to be world-altering, but if you have to hold it back to make integration as easy as possible, you turn magic from this incredible power source, to instead, essentially, magical alternatives to muggle tasks, entirely constricted and mundane.”

Though the neutral expression remained painted on her face, there was a flicker of life in her eyes at the word ‘mundane’ – maybe a window into where Isabella’s beliefs coincided with Bellatrix’s.

“She proposed that the solution was to make sure that no mudblood grows up in the muggle world. That they don’t enter our world over a decade later, and their formative years are around magic. I’m sorry, I keep using that word,” she continued without pause, trying to censor herself, but blurted it out anyway, “mudblood. I don’t use that word. Bella used that word, and I can’t stop quoting her.”

Lily would be lying if she said she wasn’t deeply unsettled – but it wasn’t the word, it was the argument itself. In terms of the word, she as amazed that even through veritaserum, Isabella disliked the term enough that she was trying to correct herself. For that, she wasn’t just forgiven, Lily was actively impressed. The rest of it, though, Lily almost had a hard time processing. Her summary of Bellatrix Lestrange’s arguments was the most succinct and worse, compelling, argument in favor of the Death Eaters and the pureblood perspective that she had ever heard.

It was a perfect example of the risk of veritaserum.

Isabella had stated in the beginning that she was not a Death Eater and that she was frustrated by the recruitment. She never would’ve shared what Bellatrix had said to recruit her, nor ever made such a passionate speech about it, but they had forced the words out of her.

“Sirius, do you agree with what Bellatrix Lestrange said?”

It was a question Lily would never have thought to ask, and she was rather stunned that James had. It wasn’t like him – maybe it was the momentum or maybe he was proving something to himself. Sirius had never been as forthcoming with his political perspectives as Isabella; they really didn’t know the answer.

Sirius’ expression changed in an instant; the air of amusement was gone and he was locked-jaw, concentrating.

“I did not hear Bellatrix Lestrange say anything.”

He was fighting the veritaserum. James was going to need to word the question better to pry that out.

“Sirius,” James scolded, “your wife just summarized Bellatrix’s argument for the Death Eater’s cause, please share your thoughts on the argument.”

“I’m unable to disagree with it the way I wish I was…” He tried to cut himself off there, but James had asked for thoughts, plural. “Take blood magic; the muggles are squeamish around blood or just don’t mess with it, so, despite the fact that it often more powerful, potent, sustainable, etcetera, compared to alternatives, and isn’t actually harmful, we’ve fully banned its use. Am I going to tell you that was a good idea? A beneficial idea? Of course not – it’s regression. The stances on the Darks Arts - it’s all regression rather than advancement to make one subsect feel comfortable. Rather than teaching why these methodologies were adapted in the first place and the benefits, we’ve just eliminated it.

“And are muggles equipped to raise wizards? Would the children not be better off growing up in the wizarding world, exposed to magic early on, understanding who they are? And I don’t know that we can even say, right now, the difference it would make to our society for integration not to be an issue. For magic and wizarding culture to flourish independent of our muggle counterparts.”

There were things that Lily mentally prepared herself to hear, and this was not amongst them. Sirius’ words stung more than they had any right to.

She vehemently disagreed that there any reason to think that her parents had done any worse of a job raising her than James’ parents had. Merlin, having magical abilities didn’t make up for a lack of love in a household – she was better off than Sirius by a mile and she was half tempted to let him hear it. Had her parents had any resources or insights at all into what made her different, they would’ve done a better job than everyone’s in the room. They just… didn’t know. And it hadn’t been easy.

No, it had actually been really, really hard. Her only living relative thought she was a freak. Half of the wizarding world thought she was a mutation. And she had spent years of her life not understanding herself at all - hating herself for it.

Thank God for Severus, she thought for the first time in years. She hadn’t made the transition alone. And she was the person she was today because of her background. She was strong, and fair, and better person because of it.

But deep down, it didn’t matter how it had shaped her, she would not wish those same struggles on others. It was why the words cut so deeply; if there was a better way…

But she could not reconcile the message with the messenger.

“How accurate is that in terms of the Death Eater’s agenda?” Sirius’ words echoed her own thoughts. There was more power in his voice as he continued; he seemed more sure of his words, his mind and mouth back in alignment. “95% of Death Eaters strike me as naïve, idiotic followers, swayed by an absurd blood purity agenda. What Bella said sounds like it was tailored for Isabella and I. I think Isabella knew that, and that’s why she didn’t even share it with me.”

And air of calmness settled over James. He looked rather pleased and rather done with the whole show, slowly absorbing Sirius’ words, turning them over in his mind to file them in his summation of his friend, just so.

Lily knew he particularly hated psychoanalyzing Sirius. James always been too protective over him to pull back the curtain; it was almost as though he knew Sirius too well to subject him to any level of scrutiny. But it was broader than that. James had never felt the innate interest to understand a person the way Lily had; he was the type to make a judgement call at first encounter and every interaction after that built his case. It was just the kind of person he was.

James had been almost as big of a proponent of veritaserum as Lily had, but there would be the things that James remembered from the conversation and the things that Lily did – and they would be far more aligned where Isabella was concerned than Sirius.

Sirius had presented himself well, both of them had really. But Lily had a sinking feeling that had Sirius rolled up his sleeves and showed off a Dark Mark, they still would’ve entertained the conversation.

“Isabella,” Lily continued as her husband seemed quite ready to call it. “I understand from your letter that Bellatrix grabbed on to you for a recruitment pitch and wouldn’t let you go until we all arrived, is that right?”

“Yes, absolutely. I had no intention of meeting up with her, I was not walking with her voluntarily, and I asked her repeatedly to let me go even before you arrived. I don’t think I got in more than a few sentences the entire time - ”

“Then what brought you to Diagon Alley in the first place?”

“I was going to attend the conservatory exhibition at Florentia’s, as I always do, every year. Predictably, so it seems. And to meet Octavia Smith or her sister, or really any of the descendent of Hepzibah Smith - the Smiths are decedents of Hufflepuffs, you know? Well, you might not know, the Smiths aren’t in the Pure-Blood Directory. I mean, I hardly know them, they’d never associate with us, but it is absolutely essential that I get their insights into the collection of a descendent of a Founder.”

She gave a half smile that came across far creepier than she had intended.

“Huh,” Lily said, a flare of emotions overtaking her. She was half happy that the topic of the books had come up on its own, but it didn’t soften her lingering frustration and pent-up concern. “What the fuck is up with the Founders and the gifts?!”

The question was vague enough that Sirius seemed able to push down his desire to answer, particularly as the effects were wearing off.

But not Isabella.

“They’re important! How else would you understand; they’re to help you! They’re hints and clues to help you unravel Tom Riddle’s secret horcruxes. And then you can help us identify them and find them, because we need help. Desperately. And we shouldn’t know about it, and we didn’t want to take it to the Order, so we thought we could just give you the clues and you’d put it together. We just need you to tell us if the four founders/four horcrux theory is accurate or the family-focused theory is accurate ,and then clue us into the objects. Because if Sirius and I talk about badgers and snakes one more time, one of us is going to hex the other one, and it’s unclear who.”

Well. There it was. It was almost incomprehensible to both of the Potters, but they certainly recognized the name in the beginning.

“How… how do you both know who Tom Riddle is?”

“My mother-in-law, Walburga Black, used to date him.”

Isabella couldn’t have caused more of a visceral reaction had she thrown a knockback jinx straight to their chests.

It was only then that the effects of veritaserum fully left Sirius’ body.

“Merlin – wow, are you two satisfied?” Sirius coughed out. “This is a much more serious conversation -” he swallowed back bile “ - than I think Isabella just made it sound. We’ll – oof – we’ll tell you everything… but, Merlin, let’s wait until the veritaserum out of her system a bit more, please?” The last word coming out more like a plead than a question.

Neither James nor Lily could even formulate a response. Isabella had just flat-out told them that Sirius’ mother had been in a relationship with Lord Voldemort. Although they couldn’t make heads or tails of the rest of what Isabella had said, their minds were reeling with endless follow-up questions.

“Oh Merlin.” Isabella covered her mouth as she sprung up off the couch and sprinted out of room. Not ten seconds later, they heard her emptying the contents of her stomach in the nearest loo.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: Joining the Search

Isabella could hear Sirius sprint after her but she could hardly lift her head up off over the toilet to acknowledge his presence in the doorway.

“It’s awful, right?” he asked as he closed the bathroom door behind him, leaning against it for support. The half bath was cramped enough with one person, two sprawled on the floor would test its capacity. The red chinoiserie wallpaper covering the walls, coupled with the mysteriously large chandelier hanging the center, cast a sunburned hue on the couple – a welcome addition to their appearance. Any color in their cheeks made them look more alive than they felt.

Isabella barely nodded before she found herself hunched over the toilet again. Her mind replayed the conversation as wave after wave of her own words came back to gut her. But it wasn’t just her transparency making her feel ill; the after-effects of the potion were awful. Like her body had been physically emptied and she was left as a hollow shell of a person. It was stunningly cold, and each breath felt like she was manually pumping her body back up. The emptiness made it feel like her stomach had been flipped around and she was having no luck hold herself back from puking.

“It’s like your insides are shaking around in an oddly inflated balloon,” Sirius groaned.

His words echoed her own sentiments precisely.

“I’m dying,” Isabella said flatly. “At least I went out with a bang. Glad I didn’t spare any details.”

She turned back to the toilet and puked again.

“You have no training; we knew this was going to happen. I even have training, and you heard me, right?”

“I missed your impassioned Death Eater recruitment speech…” She unceremoniously rested her head on her arm, leaning on the toilet seat.

Though Sirius had put on a tougher front, it was clear that he wasn’t doing much better than she was as he slumped down so he was sitting against the door.

“You know you could have told me, right? What Bella told you?”

She tried to shrug it off but what she managed was more of an upper-body twitch.

“I would’ve told you that you weren’t a horrible person for agreeing with her,” Sirius continued, staring at her with more compassion than she felt she deserved. “And I could’ve told you that you weren’t alone either. Because you’re not. And I wish it hadn’t taken veritaserum for us to have this conversation. I… I don’t really know what else to say. There should be no secrets between us, because I love you, and you should never feel like you’re holding any part of yourself back. That’s never been us.”

Merlin, every time she thought she couldn’t love him more he just had to prove her wrong. A flicker of warmth settled back in her core.

“Are they gonna to hate us?” Isabella loathed how genuinely she asked it.

“No, we said what we needed to.”

“We said a lot more than we needed to…”

“They knew the risks and so did we. They gave us their word. They won’t take it back.”

Isabella couldn’t decide it this was the best possible outcome or the worst, which probably put it somewhere in the grey. Had they just told the Potters the truth back in October, they would’ve saved themselves months, and taken far less of a reputational hit – and physical hit – to boot. But they would’ve approached it all wrong; they would’ve focused specifically on horcruxes and artifacts in isolation, and politics would’ve been entirely absent from the conversation. They would’ve held back their beliefs to their own detriment and it would’ve quickly pivoted to joining the Order. The very thing they would’ve done to protect themselves, would’ve cost them the most.

Their methodology was flawed, but it didn’t make it devoid of logic. This had not been a waste of time and she would not trap herself with that sort of thinking.

Any conversation that happened now would happen against the backdrop of the political landscape and their beliefs, and that would change the nature of the conversation. The Potters would not reach the same conclusion and they would not ask the same of the Blacks. She could tell she was starting to feel more like herself as she began to contemplate not just how the truth wasn’t an outright negative, but how she could leverage it going forward.

But now, not everything Isabella had said had been so productive.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out.

“I can’t think of a single thing you should be apologizing for right now.”

She raised her eyebrow.

“Well, I know that’s how you interpreted what my mother said… I mean, clearly.”

“Well, I wish I didn’t say it. It wasn’t my secret. I’m sorry. But Sirius - ” her head was off of the toilet seat at this point and she was starting to feel a bit less hollow “ - should we get you more veritaserum and see what you really think she meant?”

“Merlin no, I’m never volunteering to go through this again!” He gave her a smirk as he propped himself back on to his feet.

“We need to go back, right? We can’t stay in the bathroom forever.”

Sirius nodded and extended his hand.

They started off by making the Potters gather every book they had bought over the last couple months. As they watch Lily and James scramble around their house, pulling these books out of the most random nooks and crannies, they realized just how lucky they’d been that the two had kept the books at all. James blamed Lily; apparently, she had a ‘thing’ against throwing away gifts.

In front of them on the coffee table lay the product of months of effort – 14 books. Secrets of the Darkest Art, two books on Godric Gryffindor, two books on Helga Hufflepuff, two on Rowena Ravenclaw, a whopping four on Salazar Slytherin, The Caves of England, A Wizard’s Guide to Potholing, and finally, The Great Traditions. They were dismayed to learn that not only had neither Lily nor James found any deeper meaning to the books, neither had read a single one. In fact, Secrets of the Darkest Art had been kept in the back of a broom closet since they’d given it to them.

They kept the introduction to horcruxes short and blunt, bulldozing through the natural reactions of revulsion stemming from their new companions. There was no time, or more accurately patience, to sugarcoat it. There was too much else to cover. With the books as their guides, they walked James and Lily through their conclusions – the four horcruxes, the significant locations and the secure locations, the two competing theories on the artifacts, and every other tidbit about the Dark Lord’s life and the people he surrounded himself with along the way. The only information they still held back was Regulus’ role in the whole ordeal. There was a difference between transparency and superfluousness, and they categorized the current Death Eater’s role in the later. The risk wasn’t worth it, not with the Potter’s still on the front lines.

They also admitted their shortcomings. They had no idea if the order in which the horcruxes were created truly impacted the potency of the horcrux or the difficulty to fight it, nor had they discovered any means by which an object could be destroyed beyond magical repair. They hadn’t found anything that belonged to Helga Hufflepuff. They didn’t know enough about the Sword of Gryffindor to know how long it had sat in the headmaster’s office, potentially reducing its chances of being a horcrux altogether. Little Hangleton was an entire village and though they theorized that the Gaunt or Riddle home was the significant location, they’d yet to set foot in the village and attempt to identify those houses, nor did they know enough about the family to reasonably narrow down heirlooms.

And Merlin, they weren’t sure which was more impenetrable; Gringotts, which had never been robbed, or the Chamber of Secrets, which had never been found.

It was one of those unusual conversations where the audience only seemed to grow more confused - and concerned - by each subsequent revelation.

“Are you… fucking with us?” Lily asked. It was unclear from her tone if she was more horrified or pissed, but her expression made it obvious she was certainly displeased.

“Of course not!” both Blacks said in unison.

“No… of course not. So you’re telling us point-blank that you know that Voldemort’s immortal?”

“Yes,” Isabella said, though it came out more as a question.

“And your approach to handle this was to – and please, correct me if I’m wrong here – give us a series of books to hint at this knowledge?”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly -”

“What is WRONG with you two!?” Lily exploded at them. “How could this ever, EVER have worked?! It feels like you intentionally held back the keystone! Because unless you explicitly told us that Slytherin’s locket had been turned into a horcrux and found in a cave that connected to Voldemort’s past, this was never something we were getting on our own.”

“Well, had you read any one of the books you would’ve been able to help us at least identify other potential - ”

“Like monkeys on a God-damn typewriter!” Lily scoffed. “We wouldn’t have a clue what we were doing, but by-God we could accidentally hit something that you would find important! And THAT’S why I’m so frustrated right now – because if you thought you could do it on your own you would’ve. And it seems like we never would’ve been the wiser! But any attempt to loop us in, as muddled as it might’ve been, shows me that you knew you needed a TEAM behind you!”

Part of Isabella wanted to defend their logic, but staying sitting up was about as much fight as she had in her on the subject. The truth was, the secrecy was deliberate and she wouldn’t pretend otherwise. They had protected themselves first, and sought out guidance second. What was there really to say but yes, and? It was flawed, it hadn’t worked, and now it was time to move forward.

“Why make us unwilling participants when we would’ve been more than willing?” Lily asked sincerely. “You needed the Order and you had an open invitation to join.”

“But Lily, why would they?” James surprised them by speaking up.

“Why would they what?! Join up with their side of the war?!”

“You heard them today; the Order’s not their side.”

Isabella felt her stomach drop.

“Prongs - ” Sirius tried to interject.

“No,” James held up his hand to stop him. “But how much of a fucking idiot am I? I got so caught up in my own world that I accepted that Sirius Black was sitting out the war – I don’t even know where to being with that level of naivety.”

“We tried…”

“And maybe that’s how I’ll have to defend myself.” He rubbed his forehead as he continued. “I don’t know why I let myself believe you’d changed that much. Because neutrality doesn’t suit you. And the fact you made it, what, a year? Year and change? It’s a testament to your new-found willpower. I mean, you made it three months 7^th-year when you set your no duel-related detentions goal?”

“Duels that resulted in a trip to the infirmary-related detentions,” Sirius correct automatically.

“I – Merlin, when you say these things do you think you’re helping your cause, Padfoot?” James laughed, shaking his head. “And Isabella, sorry but you’re no better.”

He paused looking between the two Blacks. Though both her and her husband maintained rather placid expressions, she could tell Sirius was just as tense as she was as they awaited the verdict from a hung jury.

“I think you’re wrong,” James spoke carefully. “I think you’re wrong to think that the Order is fighting against the Dark Arts just as passionately as it’s fighting against Voldemort and the Death Eaters, but I understand why you feel like both are on the agenda. And why you would never subscribe to an organization that had both on the agenda.”

“You know them better than we do, do you feel there’s any flexibility?” Sirius asked before Isabella could even process their friend’s words enough to breathe a sigh of relief. “Any way to take it off the agenda?”

“No, I don’t. Maybe it could be a conversation after the war, but with a Dark Lord seizing power, it’s not the time anyone wants re-evaluate their stance on the Dark Arts, let alone reduce restrictions. No.”

“Can you not just - move past it?” Lily asked, glancing between her husband and friends. “Fight towards the common goal and we’ll hash the rest out later? I don’t think I understand.”

“It’s that it’s not a common goal,” Sirius replied candidly. “I want to flip it for a second – you asked us earlier what we agreed with the Death Eaters on and there was a lot, right? We told you we agree on magical creature rights, which I know you two do as well, we agreed with them on isolationism, which isn’t that controversial in its own right, and we agreed with them on the Dark Arts, which can be up for debate, but I know we can all agree that there’s more to the conversation than what’s happening today. So then why aren’t we Death Eaters?”

She shifted her gaze between the Potters, who looked both expectant, and rather taken aback, by the direction the conversation had progressed.

“It’s simple, really,” he said, his tone cool and calculated. “It’s because they added blood purity to their agenda and that goes directly against our beliefs. It vitiates our willingness to fight alongside them for all of those other things we do agree with.”

Isabella couldn’t help but smile as she leaned against Sirius’ arm; she couldn’t have said it better herself.

“After the war, I think those in Order would be more likely to negotiate when it comes to the Dark Arts than the Death Eaters would be to negotiate blood purity stances. The Dark Lord is a power-hungry fear-mongerer and I don’t feel that his followers have any control either. But for right now, joining the Order feels like I’d genuinely be fighting against my own best interests. Our own beliefs. Isabella’s been an advocate for years now, independent of either faction. And I think this,” he gestured to the wide range of books in front of them, “this is how we make a difference on our own terms.”

“So – so are you all asking us not to bring this to the Order either?” Lily replied, uncertainty coating her words.

“We won’t work with the Order. But you can bring as much or as little of this as you want to them. If you think that there’s some in between where you can work with both us and them on this, we’ll entertain that conversation. We’ve just never seen that as a feasible outcome. The one thing I ask explicitly is to not loop us in if you cannot assure us that we’ll be out. It’s not just a safety concern; you’ve seen first-hand what we’re dealing with in the Death Eater camp, we won’t deal with it from both sides,” Sirius paraphrased the same thing Isabella had said so many times before.

They had talked about the reality of agreeing to veritaserum only briefly; enough to acknowledge that there was no other option, and the conversation had lost steam then and there. The furthest they’d taken it was to reaffirm that they would not join the Order, and they hoped that the truth was enough of an explanation. If it wasn’t, Isabella hadn’t been sure how they’d proceed.

But it didn’t matter, Sirius knew exactly what to say.

Isabella would never say that she’d underestimated her husband, but he had such a propensity for fast and forceful action, it was easy to overlook just how deeply and deliberately he could speak on a subject. These words were not hers, they borrowed from discussions they’d had, but they went beyond anything she’d felt the need to say.

He was just as firm in his convictions as she was and it dispelled a fear she never wanted to acknowledge again.

“You have to understand,” James said with some reservation, “you’re giving us the far more logical choice to bring this to the Order. If you’re drawing the line and declaring that it’s you or them, you have to be willing to accept that we should choose them. Would you really be willing to pass this off?”

“See, I don’t think you will choose them,” Isabella came back with more conviction in her voice than she’d had all conversation. This was the argument that couldn’t have been made unless they laid all their cards on the table. This was the difference between October and now.

“Because where would you get your information from? No one in the Order, save for maybe Dumbledore, would’ve recognized that the locket was a horcrux – they wouldn’t have even recognized the locket as Salazar Slytherin’s. I don’t know that anyone would’ve known the Gaunts as a relevant pureblood family with connections to the Slytherin line. I mean – James – the Potters aren’t in the Pure-Blood Directory, but it was in a copy of that book where the name caught my attention… it’s unlikely many families in the Order would make the same connection. I know Dumbledore was a professor when Tom Riddle was at school, but did he know he opened the Chamber of Secrets? Did anyone outside of Slytherin?

“See, once you bring this information to the Order it will be so obvious who you’re working with, and that’s the only thing we’ve asked you to protect. And let’s be honest here; am I so popular that you’re going to convince them to act on that information? And let’s say by some miracle you manage to keep our names out of this entirely. What’s next for you? I’m sorry, but to take down the Dark Lord, I think you need Slytherins; you the prominent Dark families, and the Order has done nothing to solicit their opinions. If you’re confident that they’ll be able to proceed without that, great! But I wouldn’t take that bet.”

She let her words linger between them and she could see the weight of them resting on James and Lily’s shoulders.

“From our perspective…” Lily struggled to find the right words, “well, we’ve only just learned that you’ve been working for the Cause behind the scenes, you can imagine why we might be apprehensive to keep this from the Order and work with you directly…”

“Of course,” Sirius said firmly. “And if you think that the Order is capable of effectively locating and destroying horcruxes, then I understand why you’d chose that. You know - more than you needed to - why we’ve made the decisions we’re making. If you think the Order can handle this better than we can, then make that choice. But if you don’t, then I hope you have a very good reason to risk it.”

For something that wasn’t a threat, Sirius had certainly phrased it in a similarly menacing tone, following her lead down the strongest path for the argument. They weren’t trying to be cruel or manipulative, but they wanted this done and done well. It would do no good to let their friends run in the wrong direction with it. She found herself sitting awfully still, as though sudden motions would spook them, before James asked one of the only questions that she could truly say she hadn’t seen coming.

“Sirius, what does your family know of the war? What have you seen?”

It was such a fair question, but the Black prophecies were so rarely addressed directly, she could earnestly say it caught her off-guard.

“Almost nothing. What I know is limited to what my grandfather’s seen, and there’s not much there I can share outside of family. Binded. But what I haven’t seen could fill a book. My grandfather calls it the ‘Proximity-Precision Paradox’ – when you’re too close to the future to get an accurate read. He says it's more of an art than a science to be the beneficiary of the seen future, without truly impacting it. And to do so successfully, you have to make an active effort to remove yourself from the equation. So... I was doomed from the beginning. I mean, it’s always been bad, I’m too tied up in it between you all and Gryffindor and who knows what else, but since the horcrux search began, it’s useless.”

“So you really can’t say if there’s a right direction here or where this path might lead?”

“It would be like throwing a quaffle from the other side of the pitch.”

James nodded slowly, moving his gaze up from Sirius to the windows behind them. “Lil, I’ll defer to you.”

“Just promise me – if it looks like we’re going to lose the war, please bring this to the Order. This can’t be done without you both - I know that, I think James knows that - but you both and the Order could change the tides of the war even if everything else looks lost. I’ll be, we’ll be, out of commission in just a few months,” she looked down fondly at her growing belly, “when it’s back to being just you two, if it's not working, if something goes wrong, I want the flexibility to change the terms.”

The Blacks agreed with ease. It was a small concession for what they’d get; a pass into Hogwarts and Dumbledore, an easier in with the lighter families like the Smiths, and Merlin, another set of eyes on the potential theories and artifacts. And if they played it safe, what could really go wrong?

“So then - ” James gave a sly grin,“ - how can we help?”

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: Dumbledore’s Office

“It sounds like you’re confident that Isabella Black has not switched allegiances?” Dumbledore asked the young couple as they stepped out of the floo. The Potters had arrived bright and early with only a very short letter preceding them. “And Sirius Black as well I suppose, though I know most were more concerned over her than your old friend.”

There was a strangeness in the way he said it, as though he wanted to draw attention to the fact that he did not view Isabella in the same light as Sirius. And maybe with the circumstances it made sense, but it left James with this sense of uneasiness.

“Well, both are our friends,” Lily responded as they sat. Knowing James would take the lead when it came to more prying questions later on, they had agreed that it would look less strange if Lily took the lead here. “But yes, we’re confident that neither are Death Eaters, nor intend to join the Death Eaters.”

“And how, may I ask, are you so confident?”

“They agreed to take veritaserum and have a conversation with us. We asked them explicitly if they were Death Eaters and went into their beliefs, and I speak for both of us when I say their answers more than satisfied us.”

“Hmm I see, you felt that was necessary?”

“Not necessarily necessary, so much as – well – they can be funny about that kind of thing.”

“Funny about… their beliefs? Their allegiances?”

“No no no!” Lily found herself on the defensive. “Funny about their family and questions on their family – it’s a touchy subject. Between Bellatrix Lestrange, Evan Rosier, Regulus Black, and well, you know, the list goes on. Sometimes it feels like it’s hard to get direct answers out of them when it veers too close to home.”

“And that doesn’t concern you both?”

“Of course it does!” Lily took a deep breath to steady her voice; this wasn’t supposed to be the challenging part of the conversation. “It’s always concerned us. But it’s far more complicated than you may be making it out to be.”

“I see. I know that’s always been the case for Sirius; first Black in Gryffindor as far back as anyone can remember.”

“Well and it’s the same for Isabella. She went about it slightly differently, but so much of what she’d done was just to try and appease her family, right?”

“What you say is true, but I get the sense you meant that in a reassuring way.”

“Of course! Look, I understand that you have your reservations about Isabella or about both of them, but after talking to them on veritaserum, rest assured you don’t need to.”

“I appreciate that,” Dumbledore replied; though his words were sincere, they felt almost dismissive. “I do have a concern with the efficacy of vertiaserum with a trained mind. You’re both aware that the Blacks are usually quite prolific Occlumens, correct? I assume Sirius has been trained at least decently; do you feel that it impacted the truth of what you heard?”

“He did let us know ahead of time,” James jumped in, unable to sit back and let Dumbledore toy around with their summations of their friends’ characters any longer. “Sirius was a bit more controlled with his responses than Isabella, but it was definitely still effective. I was asking the questions, which probably attributed to him not fighting back. I mean, I wouldn’t give veritaserum to Arcturus Black and assume it would do anything, but with Sirius, it worked.”

Dumbledore allowed a quick laugh and a smile to creep across his otherwise stoic face. “No, I would assume veritaserum would be rendered useless on the Black patriarch, and I certainly wouldn’t like the outcome for anyone who tried.” He paused for a second in contemplation. “Isabella is not trained?”

“No, she’s not. We learned a lot more about her than we otherwise would have and the after-effects were strong.”

“How interesting. I’ve heard Bellatrix Lestrange is a prolific Occlumens and Legillimens, I suppose it just led me to wonder…”

“Well, they’re not close!” Lily took back the reigns, “If you’re wondering if she trained her, that’s absolutely not their relationship.”

Dumbledore paused for a moment, and James found he rather hated the way he studied the two of them, as though he was looking right into them, trying to assess how much further he should or could push the conversation before the couple in front of him was no longer cooperative.

“Do you feel that the frequent comparisons between Bellatrix Lestrange and Isabella Black are inaccurate or unwarranted then?”

“What?!” James and Lily asked simultaneously in disgust.

“If people feel that way,” Lily continued, “then that’s a sentiment that’s been said behind our backs, certainly not to our faces. Of course, it’s inaccurate and insulting.”

“Insulting to Isabella, or insulting to Sirius Black?” Dumbledore asked back.

James scoffed, “I know what you’re implying – that we wouldn’t be sitting here defended Isabella Rosier, I’ve heard it before – but again, it’s not true.”

“But you understand why she might raise some concerns, do you not?”

“What? Because she’s powerful witch from a Dark family? Just like Sirius is a powerful wizard from an even darker family?”

“Well, I suppose you see the concern for both then, don’t you? People are afraid of them, and I think they’ve given people reasons to be afraid of them over the years.”

“Are we really getting into school-age behavior?” Lily snapped back. “Should we just go ahead and add James to the list as well?”

“Lily, you know why James is different. You also know what makes Isabella and Sirius different from each other”

“What, that she was a Slytherin? You can’t possibly be writing off a quarter of the school, YOUR school! And she can’t help her family either, just like Sirius can’t. I think this blatant bias against Slytherins and Dark families is doing us a disservice!”

“Are you suggesting we ought to have more Slytherins and Dark families in the Order? I fear that there’s already a side recruiting them quite heavily…”

Lily faltered. While it had worked when Isabella explained it, the argument made no sense out of context. Neither of the Potters had come into the conversation prepared for a debate, and Lily was clearly floundering. She’d have to pull back.

“I’m sorry – I think I’m just, well, surprised to hear that Isabella and Bellatrix Lestrange are often compared. I don’t feel that to be fair at all. You’re right that there are, albeit surface-level, characteristics that may invite the comparison, but Isabella is charismatic, interesting, engaging, and just a great friend of mine in a way that completely contrasts with Bellatrix's cold, cruel, and frankly psychotic demeanor.”

“If I may offer a more outside perspective? Isabella and Bellatrix were extremely similar students. Arguably two of the most powerful people in their respective years, both Slytherin prefects, both superficially popular because of their status, but with no close friends because those around them feared them, and both, on the rare occasions they demonstrated their capacity for violence, showed the world why they should be afraid of them. You both know her far better than I do, but as a professor and as a headmaster, I have learned to spot a dangerous combination of qualities in my students. Bellatrix was not the first to exhibit this exact list of characteristics and follow a Dark path, but Isabella would be the first not to.”

James just sat there staring at the leader of the Order. He knew Lily wanted to defend Isabella with every fiber of her being, particularly after Dumbledore used her same argument on Rosier vs. Black, but she seemed just as tongue-tied as he was. By holding back the information on the books, they believed that they had made Isabella’s appearance in front of Gringotts with the Death Eaters seem like it came out of nowhere. But the more Dumbledore talked, the more he realized that it wasn’t so. The Gringotts incident didn’t need to follow a long list of suspicious behavior to burry Isabella. She was inherently enough to condemn. And not Sirius, nor the Potter’s attestations, were enough to shed the veil of suspicion that surrounded her.  

“I don’t want you to think that I’m wishing this on her, not at all in fact,” Dumbledore tried to appease their obvious concern, “I just want to make it clear why I’m more hesitant to believe Isabella’s innocence than Sirius’, and why others may feel that the comparison between the two women is warranted.”

It wasn’t as though Sirius was unsinkable; people were always willing to turn against him too. But Isabella wasn’t just on thin-ice, she’d never been given a platform.

“There always has to be a first,” James said after only a moment, “Sirius was a great example of that. And Isabella – you cannot fault her for the name she was born with or the house she was sorted into, neither were her choice. And you can’t possibly think that being a brilliant witch and a hard-working student to make prefect is a negative. You created an award system, it can’t mean one thing for three fourths of the students, and something entirely different for one fourth.  I stand by what Lily said earlier, I heard Isabella on veritaserum, she’s no Death Eater. I’m sorry – I just think you’re dead-wrong about this and I don’t wish to discuss this any longer.”

“Then let us move on.” Dumbledore gave a polite smile. “Was their anything else that came up in the conversation that was noteworthy?”

While they may not have expected such push-back on the veritaserum conversation, the Potter’s had prepared for this specific question. They knew they needed to give Dumbledore something, but better to give him something that he may alright know, than something that may steer the conversation in the wrong direction.

“Yes, actually…” Lily spoke as though she was letting him in on an embarrassing secret. “Sirius’ mother, Walburga Black, had a history with Tom Riddle in school. We’re not entirely sure as to the nature of the relationship, but Isabella seemed to feel it was… romantic.”

“Is that so?” Dumbledore sat back in his chair, absorbing this revelation. “What year would’ve that been?”

“I think between 1943-1944?”

Dumbledore nodded slowly.

“I often wonder if there will ever be a time that I don’t regret how split my attention was in the first half of the 1940s. Things began to escalate at Hogwarts right at the height of the Global Wizarding War and I’m ashamed to admit neither got my full attention as a result.

“Walburga Black would’ve been a year older than him in Slytherin, so the timeline makes sense. And though I find it hard to imagine Tom had genuine romantic feelings towards her, I wouldn’t be surprised if the idea of marrying a Black didn’t have great appeal to him. But, on the other hand, I can only assume Walburga Black would’ve never been allowed to take the last name Riddle. Am I correct in assuming that ended things between them? And is that why Walburga Black, and the late Orion Black, were never Death Eaters?”

Both of the Potters shrugged; they didn’t actually know.

“But as interesting as it is to know more about Voldemort’s more intimate history, I’m not sure if there’s a practical use for it. Am I correct to assume that Walburga Black is not volunteering to aid the effort?”

“Merlin noooo.” James couldn’t help but laugh at the sheer absurdity of it.

“Well I’ll think on it then, in the meantime thank you - ”

“Sir,” James interrupted what risked being Dumbledore’s closing statements, “should we be concerned about the portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black? I know there’s a portrait of him in the Black family library, at least there was when I was there a few years ago.”

James stood up and began walking towards the back wall with the portrait… and the case that housed the Sword of Gryffindor. “Can he not pass information back and forth between the two?”

James glanced back at Dumbledore while leaning against the wall, as close to the sword’s case as he could, trying to sense any unusual pull or energy from the artifact.

“No, headmaster’s portraits are unable to divulge the secrets of the current headmaster. If you and Lily were alone in this office having the very same conversation, the restriction would not apply, but in this case we’re very safe.”

“I assume the portraits remain on the walls between each headmaster, is that correct?” James shifted his position to appear to look at the other portraits, while also leaning forward, closer to the sword. He had picked up nothing unusual; perhaps it was because the sword was behind glass - could that be affecting?

“Yes, that’s correct. Why?” Dumbledore replied to James’ portrait question.

“Could - ” James kept leaning in while trying to keep up the conversation. “Could they reiterate conversations between one headmaster to the next? For example, if former Headmaster Dippet had a conversation with Tom Riddle, could the other portraits tell you about it?”

James turned around pretended to get on his tippy toes to look around for Dippet’s portrait while leaning further back into the shelf with the sword. Still, absolutely nothing that would lead him to conclude that the sword was in any way sentient.

“That’s an interesting question, but I believe the answer is still no. Not because the portraits are bound to loyalty to the previous headmaster, but because portraits don’t build memories like that. They can reference their past life and memories instilled in the portrait to help with current problems, but they’re not building a knowledge base beyond what was instilled in them.”

“And if the portraits are passed down, are the possessions in the office as well? There’s an impressive collection of historic artifacts here… I admit this is more personal curiosity than anything useful, but this is the Sword of Gryffindor, is it not?!” James let his obvious interest in the artifact creep into his voice. It was only natural for a Gryffindor to be curious about such a thing.

“It is indeed. Many artifacts have been passed down from headmaster to headmaster, such as the pensive in the corner over there, but that particular artifact was not.”

“How did you come to obtain the Sword of Gryffindor? Are you a descendent?!”

“Ah, I have no reason to believe that I’m a descendent of Gryffindor, as interesting as that would be. No, the sword came to me in 1940, just after I declared that I’d take action in the Global Wizarding War against Grindelwald. The ministry was in shambles, only a few months earlier the Minister for Magic had to step down due to inaction, and it looked like there was no way to stop Gellert Grindelwald and his campaign for the so-called greater good. The truth was I, too, had originally hesitated to take action, until I realized that I may not have a choice.

“The legend goes that the Sword of Gryffindor will appear to a true Gryffindor in times of need and valor. Early in my quest for Grindelwald, I had stumbled across a prison. The facilities were designed, under Grindelwald’s orders, to test out how muggles were ‘stealing’ magic to create muggle-born. I need not say more on the subject, as I’m sure you understand gravity of the situation I encountered. I, naïvely, believed that I could go in and rescue the hundred or so muggles and muggle-borns with only my will and my wand. What I had not accounted for was that while I could get in, I could not get out. It took me years after the ordeal to figure out the spells and enchantments in place that effectively rendered my wand useless. But in that moment, I found myself stymied by a simple 20-foot-tall rod-iron fence and a padlock. As I had gathered the prisoners in front of the wall, I was forced to all but declare us dead-on-sight, until I noticed something glimmering out of the corner of my eye. The Sword of Gryffindor; Goblin-made with silver that allowed me to cut straight through the padlock, freeing every-last person in the facility.

“I believe, had there been some combination of spells that I could have cast that would be saved us all, that the sword never would have presented itself to me. But it was the only solution. I don’t know who had the sword before me, and I admit that I had kept it a secret for a good few years after, but it’s sat there on the wall since I became headmaster.”

James and Lily had found themselves completely enthralled in Dumbledore’s story. It was one thing to know that Dumbledore was a war-hero, but hear history come alive, first-hand, was simply mesmerizing, so much so that they almost forgot why it was James asked.

“You rarely talk about the Global Wizarding War, sir,” Lily couldn’t stop herself from inquiring further, “why is that? It’s a fascinating piece of wizarding history, far more interesting that the Goblin Rebellions and Giant Wars we endlessly learned about in History of Magic.”

“Alas – what is history to you isn’t quite so firmly the past for me and for many others. When you started here at Hogwarts, it had been about 25-odd years since the end of the Global War. A quarter of a century feels like such a long time to you in your youth, but with age you’ll find that 25 years is really no time at all. Unlike the Goblin or Giant Wars, we, wizardkind, were not a united front in the Global War. There were wizards on both sides, and the lines between the two, much like today, were not always cut and dry. Do you think in 25 years you will have forgotten the passion you feel for this conflict? Will the current Death Eaters? Will you not pass that to your children? Will they not? History is written by the victors, but it is taught to the decedents of both sides. You ought not excavate a graveyard while the mourners are still paying their respects.”

“Do you – do you ever take the sword out of the box to fight with it? Do others?” It was, undoubtedly, the stupidest question James could possibly ask as a follow-up to Dumbledore’s legendary heroics, but it was the only thing he could think of that could direct the question to the nature of the box itself. James leaned in the closest he had yet to the sword – still absolutely nothing.

Dumbledore was good-natured enough to laugh, “No James, I don’t take it out to fight with. I find my wand works quite nicely. The box can only be opened by me, but I assume there will be a day where it is no longer in the box and another Gryffindor has called for it. It will be fascinating to see when that day comes.”

For James, that was the last piece of information he needed.

The Sword of Gryffindor wasn’t a horcrux. It couldn’t be. It had been in Dumbledore’s possession, both secretly and then impenetrably, far before Riddle began creating horcruxes. None of Riddle’s actions could have called the Sword and gotten it back in the box. And it had none of the signs the book had described nor ones that Sirius had mentioned the locket having.

“Are there any other Gryffindor artifacts?” It was another bizarre question but what else could James ask? He had to at least try.

“I don’t believe so. I believe the sword is the only known relic.”

“Well,” Lily interjected, picking up on the strange change in direction of the questions and realizing it was getting into suspicious territory, “as much as I want to be a good Gryffindor, here’s hoping we never call the Sword of Gryffindor. Terrifying, frankly.”

“Having called it once, I’m inclined to agree with you,” Dumbledore said solemnly before rising from his desk. “As I said before, I’ll think if there’s any use to the Walburga Black situation, but in the meantime, thank you both for following up with the Blacks. I know it couldn’t have been easy to confront your friends. Please don’t take anything I said about either of them personally, I simply wish to make sure you understand where others may be coming from, before it becomes a conflict. Do you understand?”

James smiled and Lily nodded as she rose from her chair and joined her husband by the fireplace. Both were in fact taking it personally as neither appreciated the obviously insinuations against their friends. But this was neither the time nor the place.

“Meeting next weekend, I’ll see you both then, correct?”

And with a final nod, the couple took their leave.

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: A Different Approach

The spring crept on with a new, noxious energy in the air. There was a certain pressure that prickled the back of the Blacks’ minds, urging them onwards.

Isabella felt it first, right after they departed from the Potter manor. Getting James and Lily on their side should’ve felt like this grand breakthrough; a cathartic release of information. But if she was honest, she left more frustrated than anything. It wasn’t the timing of the conversation that was getting to her – not really – but it was how little they could speak to with conviction. Laying out their months of research to the Potter’s only highlighted how little they’d accomplished since the locket discovery. It was almost depressing.

By the time the Potters updated them on the Sword of Gryffindor, and the fact that Dumbledore himself believed it to be the only existing artifact belonging to Godric Gryffindor, Isabella knew Sirius felt that same pressure building. For the first time since they’d drawn out the potential connections between the objects, the Family-Focused theory looked more promising than the Four Houses theory, and that wasn’t a comfort.

They needed more.

The remaining objects for the Family-Focused theory were speculative at best. Simply due to the fact that the Gaunt’s were purebloods, they suspected a house ring, but there were no records that referenced one. There were a few references to golden snakes that guarded the doors to Slytherin’s office; a compelling artifact, but one which they couldn’t find any reference to after Slytherin’s departure from Hogwarts.

From the limited description, the golden snakes looked like an intricate door knocker, serving a similar function to the gargoyle outside of the headmaster’s office. But instead of a password, it was entirely controlled using parseltongue, making it impenetrable for anyone other than Slytherin and his decedents. It was likely removed out of necessity after his time, and after that, remained only as a footnote in the history books.

James and Lily promised to spend the next weeks working their way through the collection of books on the founders that the Blacks had so carefully curated for them – better late than never, Isabella felt. They also planned to solicit a few antique shops to see if any experts in the field were aware of anything that might connect back to Gryffindor.

Or Hufflepuff, for that matter.

The need to meet with the Octavia Smith or any member of the Smith family wasn’t shaken with the Four Houses theory. Hepzibah Smith’s death still felt significant, and they had no way of knowing what all could’ve been in her collection that the Dark Lord may have stolen.

But the Smiths were a bit of a challenge. While they were certainly a Light family, they were not members of the Order, and nor were they particularly close with the Potters, at least in this generation. They couldn’t just hope for a chance encounter. The Potter’s said they’d give it some further thought, but the main idea floating around was somewhat of a recruitment campaign. It helped that once the Order was brought up, anything else they’d mentioned would seem trivial, if not actively superficial, covering up their actual purpose seamlessly.

While the Potters focused on artifact research - a subject that the Blacks themselves struggled to return to - Sirius and Isabella pivoted their focus to destruction. While the Secrets of the Darkest Art section on horcruxes hadn’t proved useful in that regard, they borrowed the book back from the Potters in hopes that the solution could be hidden in the hundreds of unread pages.

The information was interesting; far more interesting than either recalled from their first glance through. The content towed a fine line between impressive and immoral, but even in the instances where it slipped just a little over the edge, Isabella felt the creator ought to be credited for the ingenious use of spellcasting and magic. There were things that could be done that pushed the boundaries of magic as they knew it. And though it remained unsaid between, Sirius seemed to recognize, just as clearly as she did, that there very well could come a time where such creativity would be necessary.

It was Secrets of the Darkest Art that gave them Fiendfyre.

They had heard of it, particularly from its usage in the Global Wizarding War and rumored usage in the current war. The fire was supposedly semi-sentient and capable of destroying all things the castor set it on with speed and absoluteness. If cast correctly, it was capable of extremely targeted attacks and nothing ever survived its wrath.

Similar to many of the elemental-based spells like aguamenti or ventus, Fiendfyre cast a continuous jet of fire from the caster’s wand. But unlike the others, a flick of the wrist or simply stopping the hand motion, would not terminate the spell; it would release it. Because of Fiendfyre’s semi-sentient properties, it was capable of growing in power once released. It couldn’t be put out with regular water, and other methods, such as removing the oxygen in an area, were almost as devastating to humans as the Fiendfyre itself.

For most layman, knowledge of Fiendfyre stopped there. Cast it, release it, apparate away, and let it wreak havoc on a home or a village without having to even be there.

But according to the book, there was both a casting and closing incantation.

Though the dangers were astronomical - including to the caster - because Fiendfyre could be cast and released, and still function as intended, use of the closing incantation, or even knowledge that there was a closing incantation, was far more limited.

And yet it was vital.

If a castor intended to use Fiendfyre in a duel or for a targeted purpose, the closing incantation was essential. It functioned almost like a counter-spell, except it could only be used by the original castor while still actively in control of the Fiendfyre. A wizard couldn’t direct the closing incantation at the castor’s wand, nor would it have any effect on a released Fiendfyre, regardless of who cast it.

But it meant Fiendfyre could be controlled.

If a skilled wizard, with knowledge of both the casting incantation - pestis incendium - and the closing incantation - occidio pestis - concentrated while casting, it didn’t feel like an impossible task.

There was only one question that remained; would it actually destroy a horcrux?

The way they saw it, there were two approaches they could take. They could try and read up on Fiendfyre, on the properties of the fire and historical usage, and determine whether it met the criteria of destruction beyond magical repair.

Or, they could simply test it.

With the rarity of horcruxes, it felt extremely unlikely that there was written documentation that would directly link Fiendfyre. Had there been, they felt that their months of research would have illuminated that connection earlier.

It was time, it seemed, to take a different approach. They knew where at least one horcrux was and had a strong suspicion of where another one may be. With absolutely zero interest in stepping into the Inferi-filled cave, Little Hangleton was their best bet.

They weren’t dismissing the risk of taking their campaign public, but it was time. Isabella figured they still had a window after the incident with Bellatrix. And one unplanned trip to a small northern village would hardly raise suspicions. If they made a habit of it or if they were making regular trips at scheduled intervals, the chances of someone catching on would be higher. But with the methods they were using, it was hardly likely they would be spotted, or that anything would come of it, even if they were.

And they needed more.

If it worked, it was undoubtedly worth the risk.

In the late afternoon of a gloomy April day, the couple made their way to the quaint village of Little Hangleton, nestled snuggly in a damp valley. Since graduating, both Isabella and Sirius had consistently worn a blend of more traditional wizard garb and muggle clothing. They leaned into the layered silhouettes of their collegiate London peers, which aligned quite nicely with the more classic robes look. That afternoon, despite the mist, they looked posh, elegant – almost businesslike – and the large coats allowed them to conceal their wands easily. They wouldn’t be mistaken for wizards.

Except setting foot in the small northern village, it became clear that they still looked entirely out of place. Whether it was their clothes or their accents or something else about them, they were catching attention left and right. At least two separate people mutter ‘Londoners’ under their breath as they shook their heads. It didn’t really matter, for the questions they needed to ask, it would make sense that they were from out of town.

They made their way to the local pub in the town center and sat at two stools along the long wooden bar that stretched the length of the wall. There was a decent crowd seated between the bar and the tables behind them, and the old bartender, who looked to be in his 60s, seemed friendly enough and open for a chat.

Much to Isabella’s disappointment, they ordered two pints of whatever it was everyone else was drinking; Sirius had developed a taste for muggle beer over the years, but Isabella felt strongly that it tasted like cold, sparkling bread-water and had they not been trying to somewhat blend in, would have avoided it at all costs. Wizards preferred alcohol that was either sweet or spicy, bread-like was not an adjective that belonged with a beverage.

“What brings you two into town?” The bartender asked, leaning back against the wooden shelves behind him.

Sirius took the lead, looking completely at ease in a muggle pub with a beer in his hand. “Our family used to live around these parts, just came back to see the area after so many years.”

“Hmm I don’t know of many folks around here that have family in London. You say it’s been some years now?”

“Mmhmm, unfortunately bit of a tragedy for the family.”

“You don’t say? No chance you’re related to the Riddles of the old Riddle House, now are you? You both look like the type…”

A sly grin crossed Isabella’s face – she was ready to claim that they were related to the Gaunts but might as well take the opportunity when it was handed to them.

“Yes, in fact we are,” Isabella said. “The old Riddle House?”

The bartender shrugged. “Most people in the village still call it the Riddle House; no one has lived there since the incident. Beautiful home though, it’s a shame. Are you folks headed up that way?”

“That’s the plan. Would you say it’s walking distance or would we be better off… driving?” She was rather proud of her muggle term knowledge, aided by Sirius’ recent determination to purchase a muggle motorbike and charm it to fly – Merlin-knows why.

“It’s just at the top of the hill, so depends how you feel about a bit of a hike, but nothing in town is too far to walk.”

“I almost hate to ask, but that other family – are they still around?”

“Goodness no. Their shack still sits on the outskirts of town but they’re long-gone. Kept to themselves, they did. Rumor had it they were a coven, or a group of sorcerers practicing dark and spooky magic, charming snakes, and eating children and all that.”

Isabella and Sirius both must’ve had such stunned expressions on their faces that the bartender quickly backtracked, “Sorry – I realize you might not see the humor given what they did to your family. A bit of a ghost story now in the town, hard to remember these were real people, all of them. That other family was a group of lunatics. Last one was carted off to some insane asylum on the other side of the country. And good riddance.”

“And their house is on the other side town?”

“Eh just outskirts, the main road leading through the village passes by. But I certainly wouldn’t make a trip over there if I were you two. The place has been booby trapped, at least if rumors are to be believed. Some even say it’s cursed.”

Sirius and Isabella exchanged glances.

“No, don’t worry, we have no interest,” she said casually, trying to mask just how promising such a thing sounded. “That side of the story is best forgotten to history.”

“Couldn’t agree more, love. Best to leave witches and sorcerers for fairytales,” Sirius cheekily replied.

Isabella almost choked with laughter as she tossed down more of the beer. She’d learned the longer you sip it, the worse it gets - warm and flat made bread water actually undrinkable; though the idea of whipping out her wand right in the middle of the conversation to cast a cooling charm had great comedic appeal to her.

They chatted for a few minutes longer before Sirius downed the rest of his pint in a gulp and paid the bartender in muggle money, which thank-Merlin he’d remembered to bring.

“Ready?”

She took one glance at her half-drunk glass, determined she’d made a significant enough dent, and gave him a reassuring smile before they headed on their way.

They rounded the corner past the pub to get off the main street and apparated to the bottom of the foothill looking up at the large Riddle House. The manor was a beautiful example of quintessentially British architecture. Though it had been some years since its last occupants rather unsavory departure, the grounds lacked the telltale signs of abandonment. The grass was still well-manicured, the hedges sculpted, and the ivy on the face trimmed back. The only signs that the house lay empty was wear on the roof with a few missing tiles. The door was locked, but required no more than an alohomora for it to give way.

The inside of the house was a different story. It seemed that many of the smaller items the stately home had been pilfered away and what remained was damp and derelict. Its former beauty wasn’t lost on Isabella and Sirius, which made its current state all the more depressing. They entered through a reception hall, on their right was a study, and to their left was a dining room. There were a number of family portraits still on the walls – muggle, though, of course, making them hardly more useful than a written description of the former family’s appearances.

As they entered into the great room, they made a point to try and identify Tom Riddle, the father. Over the large stone fireplace hung one of the more modern portraits, as of the 1930s or 40s at least. It depicted a small family; a very handsome man in his late 20s or early 30s, standing by what appeared to be his parents. What interested them about the portrait, outside of the obvious good looks of the man himself, was that there was no other woman or children in the portrait, implying he never remarried after Merope Gaunt. Why that was, wasn’t clear.

“Was that – is that what the Dark Lord looks like?” Sirius asked.

“In my memory? Not really? But that’s working off the memory of a scared 8-year-old. It’s the closet to family resemblance that we’ve seen. If you blurred the oil paint around his face just slightly, so his features felt tighter, but somehow less sharp in your vision, I think that’s accurate.”

“So at least we know we have the right house…” His voice trailed off as he looked around. “Shall we?”

And from there, they cautiously walked room by room, trying to spot anything unusual or sense any sort of magic. After learning from the bartender that the Gaunt property was thought to be cursed, they were more inclined to believe whatever it was they were looking for was there, rather than in the Riddle House. After all, regardless that one was a shack and the other was a manor, would the Dark Lord not be more inclined to use the home of his connection to Salazar Slytherin than that of his muggle relatives?

Their procession through the home was swift, but thorough; opening up closets and drawers, looking under furniture, testing creaky floorboards, and pushing aside easily accessible portraits. As most of the smaller objects had been separated from the home, there wasn’t anything visible that stood out to them as a potential artifact. By the time they made it up to the attic, the early evening sun made the dank space feel like a cave and they needed the help of their wands to see into the dark crevasses. Old boxes with molded family albums and baby clothes littered the ground. Still, nothing of note. Making their way back down, they heard the distinct sound of a door opening and froze.

“You GOD DAMN teenagers! I saw the light in the attic, you know you shouldn’t be in here! It’s the police for you this time, I swear!”

The shouting from the unknown man echoed through the house.

“Who is that?!” Isabella whispered in a panic.

“I don’t know, but I’d rather not stay around to find out…” Sirius grabbed her hand. “Have we seen enough?”

She nodded. “Outskirts of town, main road, right?”

“Right.”

He apparated them away.

Chapter Text

Chapter 12: The Criminal’s Loop

They arrived smack in the middle of the main road, a quarter of a mile outside of town, and spotted what looked like a small jungle about 50 yards ahead of them on the left.

“Well, I think I know where we’re headed,” Sirius said with an uncomfortable laugh as they began to cross over.

It took them a minute to even find the gate to the property, if it could even be called that anymore. It was part of the remains of a peeling white picket fence, hanging on by one rusted hinge. The whole property, as they predicted, radiated magic. It was the same almost prickling sensation they got as they approached Hogwarts, though not nearly as pleasant.

Sirius paused outside the entrance and began to inspect the ground around it.

“Wards?” Isabella asked.

“Just trying to see if I can locate the ward stone or stones. I’m worried they’re buried.”

Isabella joined him on his hunt. Between the two of them, they had the N.E.W.T. qualifications of a curse breaker, and had spent the better part of six months now reading up on the Darks Arts. The biggest challenge was practical application of textbook knowledge.

It took them only a minute to find the ward stone, not buried, but leaned against the dilapidated fence, positioned just out sight under an overgrown bush. Either the Dark Lord had conviction that no one would come to inspect the property, or he had the hubris to believe that no one could circumnavigate the runes that he’s transcribed.

Looking closer at the transcription, it seemed the latter was likely the most accurate.

“Outside of the simple anti-muggle wards here,” Sirius pulled the ward stone out into the open, pointing to a curve that looked almost like an afterthought, “it seems the main wards are layered. Starting with the edge and working around, it looks like they severely disorientate anyone who passes through the property line. Essentially, if you enter, you won’t just forget why you’re there, but you’ll forget who you are, how you got there, and most importantly, how to leave. This next layer then prevents you from accidently wander off the property line, keeping you bound between the fixed points. And finally, and this is probably the most relevant, it seemed to be linked to an external source, like a notification system. We studied rudimentary versions of this in school where you would link it to a coin, for example, and the coin would heat up when the notification was triggered. This is not a rudimentary version. He clearly wanted to know who was coming here and why.”

“Can you break the ward?”

“No, I can’t,” he said flatly. “Save for Dumbledore himself coming to the Gaunt property, the Dark Lord was right to think there was no need to bury the stone.”

“Well, fuck,” she gave a puzzled laugh. “What – what’re we supposed to do now? Are we just screwed?”

“Not exactly. There is… another option.”

“I don’t think I like the way you just said that….”

Sirius glanced up from the ward stone. Despite her words, Isabella didn’t look the least bit worried. If anything she looked vaguely intrigued. She knew exactly where he was going and he knew she wouldn’t object.

“See - Secrets of the Darkest Art described something called ‘The Criminal’s Loop’ -”

“I recall the name…”

“- which essentially allows the user to temporarily bypass any runes.”

“And you think it would work?” Optimism slipped into her otherwise casual demeanor, and if he wasn’t mistaken there was a hint of excitement too. “I mean, if something like that works, why would it not be extremely commonplace?”

“Well, for one, how many copies of Secrets of the Darkest Art exist? Ours? And maybe a second if we’re operating under the assumption that that’s where the Dark Lord learned about horcruxes and he didn’t somehow have our copy. And it’s a dark bit of magic; I think the after affects are pretty unpleasant.”

“How unpleasant? Veritaserum, unpleasant?”

“I mean… does it matter? We won’t die,” he said, maybe more flippantly than he should’ve. “It’s not like we have multiple options to choose from here. Depending on how bad it is, we’ll go to James’ and he can watch us.”

Isabella stared at him for a moment, her eyes locked in his, before nodding ever so slowly.

“Fine.” Her lips curve up at the corners. “What do we need to do?”

“The Criminal’s Loop is done by carving a spiral around the runes, the longer the spiral, the longer you have, though worse the after effects, so we’ll want to create one long enough that we have time to do what we need to, but short enough that… well, you know. You then feed the spiral the blood it’s designed to protect, so in this case yours and mine. It’s similar to how you’d create a blood ward, so enough blood to thoroughly trace the loop.

“Then, it requires animal blood. Any animal will do but probably bigger than a mouse and smaller than sheep, and you hang it over the ward stone so that it’s blood drips into the spiral. As the blood fills it, it acts as a clock for the remaining time until the enchantments are restored. Because of the connection between your blood and the spiral, at least as I understood it, you’ll have a sense of the time remaining so you don’t need to keep an eye on the stone. Once the time is up, the spiral will completely disappear so there’s no signs that it’s ever been tampered with. You need to be completely out of the warded zone at that point. And then get rid of the animal, and it should be impossible to see that you’ve been there at all.”

Isabella nodded along, “The sacrifice; any particular type of sacrifice? Any incantations or specific cuts?”

“No, I don’t believe so. I think it’s the death and the blood that’s required.”

“Okay, for that we’re best off slitting the animal’s throat. Easy cut, fast death, and can control the bleeding.”

“I’ll leave that up to you, love.” He gave her a weary smile.

She was the only one in his life that would hear that explanation and proceed as if it were merely cooking instructions. But it was exactly what he needed from her right now.

Sirius got down to carving as Isabella went off in search of a rabbit or another woodland creature. The lines weren’t perfect, but pretty close to it, and no breaks. A quick diffindo sliced the tip of his pointer finger on his left hand – always smarter not to use a wand hand for anything blood related - and he carefully traced the blood along the spiral, making sure to evenly coat the line as he went. Once done, he attempted a quick episkey just to discover it did nothing to the cut.

Of course, he thought to himself.

He heard Isabella laugh behind him, before casting a stunning charm and doubling back.

“Look what I found!” She announced her return in sing-song voice, lifting a stunned badger high in the air.

“You just had to, didn’t you?”

“Well, yeah!” She grinned. “I saw a rabbit first, and then I saw this guy and realized I couldn’t possibly pass up the opportunity.”

“You’re hilarious. Really.” He rolled his eyes, but it didn’t hide his obvious smile. “Here, drop it for a minute and give me your finger.”

She dropped the badger with a thud and handed over her left hand. She pushed the blood to a bubble before she too traced the spiral. Just as he had done, she attempted a quick episkey to no avail.

“Not for this type of magic,” Sirius explained, lifting up his still-bleeding finger.

She sighed, “Typical.”

“I’m going to put the ward stone back under the bush, and we can hang the badger from the fence. That way as we’re leaving, we only need to worry about getting rid of the animal, not moving the stone as well, sound good?”

“Yeah, sounds good.”

Isabella lifted up the badger and un-stunned it before swiftly slitting its throat and holding it open until the bleeding slowed slightly. Death was less meaningful when the creature didn’t know it was dying; it wasn’t worth risking it for something like this. Sirius transfigured some branches into twine as she went and they strung up the badger by its feet at a very slight tilt, allowing the blood to drip at a consistent pace.

“Is it working?” She looked up at him.

“I guess we just have to hope, right? I’ll go first and if I fail, just summon me back or something.”

He cautiously opened the broken gate and took a step forward.

Nothing.

It was working.

He beckoned her onwards.

The trees and plants were so overgrown, it made the evening sky look like it was the dead of night. Winding up the narrow pathway towards the shack, it was hard to imagine that anyone had ever lived here, even 35 years ago. It appeared as though no one had updated the property since the turn of the century.

“Oh MERLIN OW!” Isabella shouted, clutching her left wrist.

“Fuck thaaat!” Sirius replied. “You felt that too?”

“What was that?!” She rolled up her sleeve and stared in horror. “Oh Merlin, it’s the clock.”

There, on the top of her left wrist, was the beginning formation of a spiral, in the form of a burning, bloody scab.

Sirius glanced down at his own inflamed wrist, “Well isn’t that convenient. I feel like it failed to mention how it would keep us in the loop.”

“Was that a pun? Right now?” She rolled her eyes. “Maybe you just didn’t read that carefully.”

She sped up along the path, leaving him before he could even formulate a witty enough reply; he knew it would likely only get worse from there.

As they approached the door, they noticed something strange.

“Is that – is that a snake?” Isabella asked.

“Isn’t that what you theorized?”

“Merlin no, I read that Slytherin used to have gold snake door knockers, not live snakes nailed to their door with rusty nails!” She looked disgusted as she approached. “I mean, this tells me a lot about the state of their wealth though. It doesn’t seem like the gold made anywhere near this generation…”

“Could it be a replacement? If the gold snake knocker is somewhere else?”

“I mean… I don’t think so. Just look at the state of this home; that would be entirely out of place. And wouldn’t that imply that at some point then the Dark Lord decided to come back, take the knocker, and then spend a few extra moments nailing a snake to the door himself? That feels deranged and weird.”

She got closer to the door.

“Be careful – it might still require parseltongue to pass. Wanna try and throw a stone at it or something first?”

Their wrists stung again, worse than the first time. It felt like it was radiating up his arm.

“No time,” Isabella replied, “let’s just force our way in.”

She cast a silent opening charm that caused the door to burst open. The snake hissed, clearly a charm was keeping it alive, but it made no effort to strike. With the door itself now effectively between the entrance and the snake, the couple made their way in.

The state of the Gaunt hovel made the Riddle House look like it was ready to host the Minister for Magic himself. The main room was small, cramped, and in absolute disarray. The furniture and the floors looked like they were trying their best to become one, and ceiling looked like it was ready to come and join it. There weren’t too many spots that could hide a horcrux. No closets and the cabinet doors in the kitchens were almost all off their hinges, but they looked through them anyway. The floorboard creaked and squished with every step, making it seem like a likely area, just as they had checked at the Riddle House.

Their wrists flared up again, signaling that about a third of their time had passed. This flare up sent bouts of pain across his side and lingered for longer, creating an immensely burning and itchy sensation underneath his clothes. Isabella looked equally in pain.

Collecting themselves, they stood very still, trying to see if they could sense any additional presence or dark magic. There was definitely something else there with them, and it felt it was coming from beneath the floors. They spent the next five or so minutes taking slow and deliberate steps around the shack, checking under any floorboard that creaked or cracked or bent under their weight, repairing the broken pieces as they went. About two thirds of the way through the living room, they were stopped in their tracks – not just by the creak of the floorboard, but by the spontaneous, yet immense desire to get at something under the floor.

Their wrists stung again, sending shockwaves through their bodies. And thank Merlin. The intense pain pulled both of them out of the trance for just long enough to realize that something was very wrong. They needed to proceed with extreme caution.

Prying the floor board back, they discovered an untarnished gold box sitting in a pile of dust and dirt. The couple cast a continuous barrage of spells, testing for jinxes and curses, as well as shooting a number of precautionary counter-curses. Once they were convinced that the box as least was safe enough, they pulled it out from the floor and rested it next to them, patching up the floor board to make it look like nothing had changed.

With a confirming glance to his wife, Sirius opened it up. There, nestled in a jewelry pillow, sat a gold Head of House ring with a black stone. But it was not the Slytherin crest engraved in the stone.

“I – I don’t think I understand,” Isabella whispered, staring intently at the ring.

“Well, this proves you were right, it’s definitely the Family-Focused theory then, right?”

“Yes, but the symbol. That’s not Slytherin, I don’t know it. Do you? Is it a rune?”

“I don’t think so? You don’t think…” He went to reach for the ring and Isabella smacked his hand away.

“Don’t touch it! We have no idea when the ring was created. If he created the ring right when he murdered the Riddles, this might be the most powerful horcrux of his. We cannot touch it.”

Their wrists stung again; this one worse than the previous times combined. Sirius gasped as Isabella let out a shriek in pain.

“It’s – it’s not stopping! Why is the pain not stopping?!” Isabella shouted.

Sirius glanced at his wrist. Time was almost up.

“Come on, we need to leave now. Grab the box and I’ll take care of the rest.”

She carefully shut the box, dragged herself off the floor, and took off down the path towards the entrance. Sirius followed suit, slamming the door behind them and hurrying after her, limbs weak from the pain. They cleared the fence at the bottom of the property with only a minute or so to spare.

It felt like his body was covered in stinging nettles, and it was the oddest sensation that it was coming directly from his clothes. Sirius cast a quick evanesco on the dead badger over the ward stones and grabbed ahold of Isabella’s hand.

“We’re going to the Potter’s; I don’t know what’s happening but I feel like my clothes are on fire and it’s burning me to the bone,” he said through gritted teeth.

Isabella nodded and grabbed his hand as he apparated them and the box away.

They landed in the Potter’s front yard with an ungraceful thud.

“I think it’s my coat,” Isabella said while trying to take a deep breath to not absolutely lose it. “If I can just take my coat off, my skin won’t be trying to bubble off of me.”

She threw off her belt and her coat in the Potters yard and Sirius quickly followed suit. The spiral on her wrist glowed bright red – if they were being searched for, it was a brilliant tool for spotted a criminal just after the act.

“Coat’s not enough, the fucking sleeves… of this damn shirt… are…” Sirius couldn’t even get the words out before getting into a wrestling match with his oxford shirt to get it over his head as quickly as possible.

Isabella was clearly in agreement as she was already half-way through taking off her boots.

-----------------------------

By the time Lily realized that something was amiss in their front yard, the couple had shed almost every layer that they could. And despite running out as quickly as possible to grab them, by the time the she ushered her strange friends inside, they were down to just their underwear, clothing strewn across the yard.

They were just the people they needed to see but clearly in no state to talk.

“What the HELL is happening?!” James joined his wife in the kitchen, staring at his friends in horror.

“I have no idea. I found them like this in the front yard. They haven’t said anything, they’ve just been scratching and taking off more clothes.”

James turned his attention to the Blacks, hoping for a better explanation.

Isabella gave a sound kind of like a whimpering animal as she flopped the top half of her body against the cool countertop and stuck her left hand under the sink faucet, hoping the water would turn on despite the fact she left her wand outside with the rest of her things.

“What is that?! On your wrist?! Both of you!”

Sirius had moved to laying prone on the cold tile floor. “The Criminal’s Loop. Blood magic. Secrets of the Darkest Art. It’s the after-affect. It’s wearing off though, sloooowly.”

“And look, in his defense, it worked; we got a horcrux.” Isabella lifted her head. “Oh MERLIN! I left the horcrux outside!”

And with that she bolted from the side door in the kitchen back into the front yard.

“You have a horcrux?!?” James and Lily gasped, still struggling to process the scene in front of them.

Sirius had shut his eyes as though he was posing as a dead man.

It took only a few minutes before Isabella marched back in, wearing at least a few more layers than the last time they’d seen her and carrying Sirius’ clothes as well, which she tossed in his direction.

“Well, sorry about THAT one! It was the strangest sensation – like our clothes were made of stinging nettles and all I could think to do was get them off of me. It was awful. I imagine it would work wonders though if you robbed a bank using The Criminal’s Loop and then you’re running through the town center naked with a bright red spiral. Merlin, magic is a give and a take, isn’t it?” she laughed.

There were about a hundred other questions circling through Lily’s mind – chiefly amongst them was what the hell they were doing messing with that kind of magic – but Isabella seemed to glide past that as though it was merely an afterthought.

“I was right,” Isabella placed the gold box on the countertop in front of them, “it’s the Family-Focused theory. Only it’s - ”

“Wait what?” Lily interrupted; James’ confused expression matched her tone.

“The – the Family-Focused theory?” Isabella said again, only this time a little less confidently.

“That’s not… that’s not possible,” said James.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s the Four Horcruxes/Four Houses theory. We confirmed it.”

“What?” the now-dressed Sirius chimed in.

“We confirmed, just last night.”

“That’s impossible – we have a House ring…” Isabella tried to get back to her point.

“What? No,” Lily continued, “see you were right to wonder about Hepzibah Smith’s antiques. When Voldemort killed her, he stole two things from her collection. He stole Salazar Slytherin’s Locket and Helga Hufflepuff’s cup.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: Octavia Smith

Lily had joined the Order right out of Hogwarts without a moment’s hesitation. She was close enough to the issues that she felt there was no other path forward; how could she start her career when her ability to have any future at all hung in the balance? But as essential as the Order was, it was undoubtedly a flawed organization – even she knew it. They simply didn’t make enough of an impact. Save for a few instances of loose-lipped luck late night at pub or from a shop keeper in Diagon Alley, the Order had no concrete system for getting information prior to an attack or to anticipate an advance. They were constantly on the defense and at the mercy of delayed information.

It’s what made the Black’s proposal all the more enticing; for the first time the Potter’s had information to act on, not just react to.

But it was concerns over the organization itself that tipped the scale in the Black’s direction. Dumbledore was a secretive person, who shared information with the Order on a need-to-know basis, and most in the organization felt they understood why.

There was no reason that the Order should be as ineffective as it was.

Fears and suspicions of traitors in the mix grew with each passing month. If word got back to Voldemort that the Order, or anyone frankly, knew about the horcruxes, all progress on locations and objects would likely be lost, to say nothing of the violent retribution that was all but guaranteed.

The Order didn’t feel like the right path forward for this sort of information. And Merlin, did it feel good to have the Blacks on their side.

So the Potters took up their new mission in stride, making a habit of shopping in antique stores and getting to know the shop owners whenever they had the opportunity. Diagon Alley was littered with these interesting nick-nack stores whose contents ranged from oddities to outright monstrosities, and little treasures to be found throughout. The cover for this almost incessant shopping was easy; Lily was visibly pregnant at this point and the couple made a point to briefly mention in each store how they wanted their child’s nursey to be decorated with unique and historic items full of wizarding history.

Time after time, the Potters were able to get the shop keepers talking about their oldest and most unique acquisitions. Sometimes they were utterly useless like a single vanishing cabinet, missing its pairs, and sometime they were prohibitively expensive, like Gellert Grindelwald’s first wand. But without fail, the Potter’s could easily slide in questions about the Hogwarts founders and artifacts without raising any red flags at all.

Lily was starting to feel like Isabella as she walked down the road and half the shop keepers smiled or waved or pulled them aside for a quick chat about what was new in their collection. It certainly helped that James just kept buying things. Regardless of the practicality, their child was going to have the most interesting and expensive collection of historical treasures lining their room; they could only hope their son or daughter would grow to appreciate it all when they were old enough to understand.

It was during one of these shopping expeditions where they finally got the chance to meet Octavia Smith, Hepzibah Smith’s eldest granddaughter. According to their sources, she had taken up much of the upkeep of the Smith’s vast collection from her parents. And while maybe not as deliberate as they’d originally intended, the Potters had gotten in the habit of frequenting a shop where they knew Octavia often went to sell. It was a very high-end shop run by the prestigious collector, Axus Braum. The few items they’d bought from the stores, regardless of how small they seemed, were some of the most expensive they’d purchased for the mission. But it was worth it if it connected them to the right person.

Axus Braum was man of connections, as every collector on Diagon Alley was. The moment the Potter’s flung open the creaking door, he seized the opportunity to introduce two of his newest clients to one of his oldest, who stood at the counter with a large crate.

“Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Potter, so glad to see you’ve returned!” Axus exclaimed, “I have a few new pieces I think could really interest you. If you just give me a moment, I’m just working to appraise a few items Ms. Smith brought in – have you all had the chance to meet? The Smiths have been dear friends of mine and this shop for many, many years now. Ms. Smith, allow me to introduce you to Lily and James Potter. Though I’m sure the Potters have quite a family collection, the young couple has just begun their own personal collection while they’re expecting their first!”

“Oh isn’t that wonderful!” Octavia set her crate down on the counter and extended her hand and a warm smile to the couple. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both! And congratulations I should say!”

“Thank you so much!” Lily beamed back, shaking her hand and holding her bump with her other. “We’re so excited.”

“It’s so nice to meet you as well, Ms. Smith.” James extended his hand to takes hers as well.

“Please, Octavia is quite alright.”

“James and Lily then, please,” James continued. “I’ve heard wonders about your family’s collection.”

“Oh, thank you. I can take almost none of the credit, my grandmother was avid collector.”

Lily couldn’t help but grin.

“If you have time to spare,” Lily said, “we’d love to take you out for a drink or a bite and learn more about how she built the collection, and how you all have maintained and added to it over the years. It’s certainly top of mind for us right now.”

Octavia glanced at the box resting on the countertop; it was clear that while she appreciated the Potter’s graceful introduction, she felt there was more to the story than they were letting on. The question was whether or not she was willing to entertain a pitch for the side of the war she knew the Potters represented.

“It’ll take me about 20 to 30 minutes to get through the box,” Axus spoke up, “if you wish to step out, be my guest!”

James and Lily smiled. It was fine that Octavia assumed something more; James had said nothing but the upmost truth, but it was almost better if she didn’t believe that.

“Yeah, I suppose I wouldn’t mind. Let’s,” she said with a cautious smile.

They walked down the road to a small, rather dark, cafe and nestled down in the back booth, away from any prying eyes or ears. It was well after the dinner rush at this point, but they still felt the need to be cautious.

“So, tell us about your grandmother!” Lily asked a touch too directly before burying the lead. “How did she go about starting her collection?”

“Oh, my grandmother, Hepzibah Smith, if you’re familiar with her name, was an iconic woman. In my memories of her she was like a queen. She was always dressed to the nines regardless of the occasion and always entertaining.”

“I’m picturing her as effortlessly chic?”

“Oh good Merlin, no! I don’t think anyone who knew her would ever, ever describe her as effortlessly chic. I’d try instead effortfully eccentric. She was, very much, her own woman.” She laughed. “As for the collection, I believe it got started actually by my grandfather, right after they were married, oh, right around the turn century. Though it quickly became my grandmother’s pride and joy. But really, as I’m sure you know, the Smiths are an old wizarding family. We actually trace our roots all the way back to Helga Hufflepuff -”

Lily and James worked hard to mask their excitement at her induction of that particular fact into the conversation.

“ - which look, please don’t mistake it as some ancient linage or blood purity stance. In this day and age you have to be smart about what you say,” Octavia continued. “And while of course I’m proud of the lineage, I say that just to say that while the collection certainly expanded around the turn of the century and under my grandmother’s tutelage, it wasn’t exactly new.”

“Merlin, are you saying that your collection dates back to Helga Hufflepuff herself?” Lily asked, excitement justifiably creeping into her voice.

“Yes and no; unfortunately, a bit of a depressing modern history. But as I’m sure the conversation will be progressing that direction anyhow - ” she gave them both a knowing look “ - I’d love to share some of the history and highlights first… if you’re genuinely interested that is.”

“Of course!” James exclaimed, unwilling to get veered off the actual desired subject too early. “So had she always worked with Axus Braum?”

“No, there were a few other dealers that I’d say she favored more than Axus, as lovely of a man as he is. See, she really valued people. She was such a relationship person and had this larger-than-life personality, and as I’m sure you’ve seen as you’re getting started in this world, those two qualities are absolutely vital for success. I think as an iconic woman herself, she valued the things that belonged, preferably had belonged, to other iconic people. But her collection at times veered into dubious legal territory, which was not an area in which Axus specialized. For those pieces, particularly the pieces that, say, someone else may come looking for, she worked with Borgin and Burkes.”

As much as Lily was dying to learn more, Octavia seemed so happy talking about the positives of her grandmother, she didn’t want to push her on the dubiously legal territory right away and make her unwilling to share.

“How would your grandmother go about finding pieces she was interested in?” Lily asked. It wasn’t exactly a perfect bridge to the desired subject, but it might still prove useful.

“It was all about the network, really, and it still is. It’s knowing the right people and genuinely letting them get to know you. That way, when the right piece comes along, you’re their first thought; you have the right of first refusal. And these dealers - many are wonderful, many are… not. It’s important to find someone who knows who’s who and can show you the ropes. Honestly, it’s really why I’m happy to talk to you both. Eventually, you’ll get to know the community and some deals will just happen naturally. There are barters, there are trades, there are deals struck.

“But I warn you, it’s more of a minefield than you might realize. There will be a big deal or two that will put your name out there, and people will know you own these things. And it won’t just be that; they’ll start paying attention to your other purchases too. You need to be careful when that starts happening. It feels almost invasive, but then you’ll find yourself doing the exact same thing. Be smart though, you never want someone to feel like you’re walking into their home assessing what they have, looking for it to be your own. Coveting is a sickly disease. So be smart. Be courteous. Say the right things to the right people, asking the right questions, rub elbows with community, and you’ll find yourself with quite the collection.”

“You mentioned that your grandmother had an interest in iconic people’s iconic things, is that right?” Lily asked, carefully choosing her words to slowly steer the conversation back to Borgin & Burkes. “Are you suggesting she ran into that issue? Coveting other’s things?”

“I think she was both a predatory and the prey. She was, undoubtedly, better than most when it came to the game. Near the end of her life, her rather large home wasn’t big enough house all of her things. And it wasn’t rubbish littering her house; these were things that many collectors would’ve give an arm and a leg for that she didn’t even have room to display. You see, she had made a name for herself in the 20’s with a handful of big, big purchases. Things that most people couldn’t believe were still in existence, let alone on the market. One of these, arguably the crown jewel of her collection, was Salazar Slytherin’s amber locket.”

Lily tried to breathe to neutralize her stunned reaction and process what she’d just heard. Instead, both of them found themselves slack-jawed and unable to exhale; it went without saying, they were not expecting that particular artifact at all.

“You’re familiar with it, then? Many who weren’t in Slytherin are not, but I suppose you’re in the antique world now so I shouldn’t be too surprised…”

“We find ourselves particularly interested in anything belonging to any of the four Hogwarts Founders,” James stated, rather transparently for Lily’s taste, but successfully prodding for more.

“Really? Well, it might interest you to note that for a good while, my grandmother’s collection actually housed two artifacts from two Founders. Though, I must tell you, this does bring us to that more unfortunate modern history I mentioned earlier…”

“Really?!” Lily’s voice cracked as she asked. She was worried Octavia would hear her heart beating from the other side of the booth if she didn’t say something.

“I mentioned earlier that the Smiths are decedents of Helga Hufflepuff; for many generations my family had what I believe to be the only artifact that remained from Hufflepuff herself; a golden cup. See, she gave the commencement speech for the opening of Hogwarts, and toasted the opening using that cup. For us, and for many, that cup represents the beginning of Hogwarts, more than that, the beginning of formalized education for witches and wizards. It really is, or was, a beautiful cup; gold, with two handles, and an engraving of a badger on the front.” She smiled as she spoke, clearly fondly remembering it.

“Why do you speak of it as if this was in the past?” James delicately questioned. “What happened?”

“It’s because the predator became the prey. As I said, my dear grandmother was a relationship person, an entertainer – I don’t think she could keep a secret if tried, particularly when she could tell that revealing just a little more would have her audience wrapped around her finger. But her trust in people was ultimately her downfall. She revealed too much to the wrong person, and wound up dead as a result.

“It’s not really seen anymore, but into the 1950s, it was rather common for these antique dealers to have relationship managers make house calls to their more affluent or prolific clients. It had a number of benefits, right? It feels more personalized, the relationship feels stronger, and the dealer gets a better sense of what their client is seriously looking for and what they might be willing to sell. I feel like for the dealers, that was the best part, an inside view of the collection itself.

“There was one particular relationship manager, affiliated with Borgin and Burkes for about a decade, that my grandmother, as well as many in the community, just adored. I was only 10 at the time of the incident so I don’t claim to have known him or worked with him, but my family talked enough about it in the subsequent decades that I feel I can speak to the subject fairly well. I’ll explain it the way they always did; he was a charming and impossibly handsome young man. He was smart enough that he could’ve had any job he wanted, but he particularly excelled at working people and had an unmatched curiosity for history and antiques. After the incident, as people began trading stories, it became so clear he spoke with a forked-tongue; manipulative, deceptive, and dishonest.”

“The incident?” Lily pried further.

“In 1955, my grandmother was poisoned. At first, it seemed that her old house elf poisoned her on accident. Like cyanide in the tea or something absurd like that. It was a month or so into clearing out her home, when the family was forced to face the facts - Slytherin’s Locket and Hufflepuff’s cup, two essentially priceless processions, were gone. And guess who else was gone? The Borgin & Burkes relationship manager, Tom Riddle, the only other person who knew my grandmother’s collection like the back of his own hand. Neither artifact has ever been seen again.”

“And him?” Lily asked, trying to keep her voice steady as she absorbed the fact that they had almost certainly just uncovered another horcrux.

“If you have to ask that, I’m far more concerned about the state of the war than I had been.”

It couldn’t have been a more perfect set up for their cover had Octavia actively tried. Lily let her husband take the lead; he was always talented when it came to making a persuasive argument.

“And what are your thought on the war? With that history, I can’t imagine your allegiances falling that direction.” James smiled.

“They do not. The Smiths have always been a Light family. I’ve personally lost my grandmother and my husband, just after my daughter was born, to the other side. I feel I have rather strong opinions on the war.”

“And have you had any interest in acting on those opinion?”

“I can’t say I’ve had the opportunity. Correct me if I’m wrong, the resistance doesn’t exactly recruit out in the open.”

“We’re approachable.”

“That’s a dangerous assumption for me make; imagine I’m wrong about who I think aligns with the resistance. I imagine it’s much like the antique world, it’s a game of connections. But with far higher fatality rate. So, you couldn’t and wouldn’t bring in an outsider anyhow.”

“It doesn’t help our numbers,” James agreed. “The fatality rate - if you were to get involved, act on those rather strong opinions, would you say that’s your chief concern?”

“Hmm – I’ve lost two family members now who haven’t been involved at all. I’m afraid the fatality rate seems to be following me regardless.”

“It is a risk you have to be willing to take.”

“A risk you both have determined worthwhile, correct? Frankly, I have a young daughter. This isn’t the world I want her to grow up in, I’m sure you understand.”

Neither of the Potters had really expected the recruitment pitch to be a success, but this was a welcomed surprise.

“The one thing we cannot emphasize enough is that secrecy is of upmost importance to the Order,” James continued. “You do not talk to your family, your friends, anyone about your activities, unless you trust them entirely and plan to bring them in as well, do you understand?”

“I said before, my grandmother’s trust in people, revealing too much to the wrong person, killed her. I don’t plan to make the same mistake.”

“Well then, I would like to officially extend an invitation to join the Order of the Phoenix. If you chose to accept, I’ll escort you to the first meeting, and then from there it’s up to you.”

“Absolutely. I look forward to it,” she said as she stood to go.

“And if you ever happen to have the time,” James added, impossibly casually, “I’d love to get a sketch of the cup. Just in case we ever come across it.”

Octavia smiled, “Deal.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 14: The Deathly Hallows

“I’m sorry,” Sirius stared blankly at the Potters, his mind racing, “how did Borgin & Burke come to have Salazar Slytherin’s locket in the 1920s?!”

“Oh forget about that,” James flipped it back, “how did we come to have a horcrux in our kitchen right now?!”

The gold box glistened on the countertop of the kitchen island; the new focal point of the room.

Isabella smiled. “We think we know how to destroy them, but there’s no written documentation to guide us, so we realized the only way to know for sure was to… test it.”

“Are you serious right now?” Lily dropped her voice. “How can you destroy a horcrux?”

“Fiendfyre,” Sirius leaned back against the cabinets as he spoke. “Just utterly annihilate it.”

“Merlin. Which of you knows how to use Fiendfyre?!”

“Neither one of us, honestly. But Secrets of the Darkest Art has both the casting and closing incantation, so we should be able to control it.”

James’ jaw locked, while Lily’s posture stiffened.

“Really?” Lily couldn’t hold back the condescending tone. “After what we just saw from you two, we’re going back to that book for answers?”

“I mean,” Isabella said cautiously, the occasional scratch and tug at her left sleeve, right at her wrist, “what choice do we have? We need to be able to destroy them, right?”

Sirius tried to laugh it off; the Potters were making something out of nothing and his wife had no need to get so serious. But it did nothing to ease the tension in the room.

“I’m with Lily here,” said James, “I think you both might be getting a little too caviler with some of the magic you’re experimenting with. We accept that there are things you two are comfortable with that we’re not, but I mean, Fiendfyre? And what did you use today, The Criminal’s Loop? This stuff isn’t third-tier Dark Arts, or even second-tier. This is original definition Dark Arts. That’s… a risk.”

“Do you think we don’t know that? We don’t know that we’re taking risks?” annoyance built in Sirius’ voice as he spoke. “Are you not taking any risks? This whole war, you’ve been playing it safe, James, is that right?”

“It’s different -”

“And you’re the grand decider of that? Who gave you that right?”

“I’m just saying…” James put up his hands in appeasement. “It’s the kind of stuff that corrupts; are you really okay with that?”

It was useless talking to Light wizards about magic like this and Sirius hardly had the energy after the day they’d had to fight that battle.

It just pissed him off.

“There’s a reason you’re working with us and not just the Order; because we’re willing to go further than they are, make choices that they’re not willing to make,” Sirius replied slowly and sharply. “You can like it or you can loathe it, but I don’t want to have this same conversation every time something like this comes up.”

“Fine. Fine. We’re all taking risks here. It just… so long as you know it’s a risk, it’s fine.” James took a deep breath.

Despite his words, there was an unmistakable look of disappointment that lingered on his face that Sirius had no interest in addressing.

James continued, “We got off track - how did this box end on our countertop?”

“Right!” Isabella jumped in. “So if we want to test Fiendfyre as a solution, we needed to get our hands on a horcrux. We know one location, right? The cave? But we’re not going to go there without a very well thought out plan. So, the other most likely option was Little Hangleton, either in the Riddle House or the Gaunt’s old shack. And that’s where we found the ring, under the floorboard of the Gaunt’s.”

“And you’re certain it’s a horcrux?!”

At least James had the decency to sound impressed now.

“Yeah, and I wouldn’t touch it. We think it might be the first, and it’s got an almost allure to it, which makes it seem all the more dangerous.”

“So then, order-wise, ring, cup, locket?” Though Isabella looked ready to dispute his logic, James pushed on, “I mean, he murdered a descendent of Hufflepuff and acquired the only artifact of Hufflepuff herself, at the height of his horcrux campaign… the temptation would be astronomical. There’s no way he didn’t seize that opportunity.”

Isabella leaned back, eyes darting back and forth between the gold box and the Potters.

“But we have the ring. And we know the locket is a horcrux as well. If we agree that the cup is a third horcrux, we essentially have to throw our logic out the window.”

“Well, we might’ve needed to reevaluate our criteria anyway, right?” Sirius directed at Isabella. “‘Cause the symbol on the ring, it’s not Gaunt, I don’t think, and it’s definitely not Slytherin. It’s a ring, yes, but I don’t know how it connects to his family.”

“What are you on about?” Lily asked.

“Here, take a look.” Isabella pushed the box towards them. “It’s a House ring, or at least it kind of looks like one, only it’s got a symbol or a rune on it, but nothing we recognized. It kind of looks like a triangular eye…”

Lily opened the box, took a quick look and shrugged, passing along to her husband.

In an instant, James looked like he’d been petrified.

“James, honey, all good there?”

He stared into the box with what almost seemed like horror. They gave him another moment or two; his eyes didn’t leave the ring. Sirius wasn’t sure he’d ever seen his best mate look so perplexed.

“Uhhh, Prongs?”

“You don’t… hmm… you can’t – you can’t destroy this with Fiendfyre.” James’ voice was low and serious as he clearly struggled to get the words right. “You have to find another way to separate the soul from the ring.”

“Do you… recognize the symbol?” Isabella asked. “Or… what?”

James didn’t respond, instead lifting up the box to give the ring a closer look against the light.

“Oh good Merlin, please don’t touch it!” Isabella attempted to move forward to grab it back. “Sirius can you - ”

“No, no – I won’t touch it! It shouldn’t be in this house, certainly not in my possession.”

“Okay… well?” Isabella replied, a touch cavalier for the strangeness of the moment. “No one wants a horcrux. Which is why we’re going to destroy it.”

“NO!” James slammed the lid shut. “That… also no.”

“Prongs, seriously, you need to tell us what’s going through your head right now. What’s that symbol?”

“I – I literally cannot tell you. Oh Merlin, I’m going to have to buy you books. This is how it happens!” He began laughing to himself in a sort of maniacal way. “Fuck me, wow! This is… disastrous! I’m going to take this – I won’t touch it – and Lily, work with Fiendfyre One and Two here to help them find a different solution. I’m going to the study to consult…. hmm… any work around at all.”

The next thing the remaining three knew, they were staring at an empty doorway.

“Did he… just walk off with the horcrux?” Isabella asked in disbelief.

“If either of you are curious, this, right here, was what it was like being friends with you two for MONTHS,” Lily chided, though she looked entirely puzzled by the whole turn of events herself.

Sirius walked towards the doorway and glanced down the empty hall. James had, indeed, walked off with the horcrux. Turning back to Lily he paused for just a moment before asking, “… Fiendfyre One and Two?”

“Oh. Like Thing One and Thing Two. The Cat in the Hat by Dr. Seuss. It’s a muggle children’s story – I’ve been making James read them before the baby comes…”

“A children’s story?” Isabella glanced up at the ceiling where they could hear James pacing.

Lily just shook her head in equal befuddlement.

-------------------------

Many families had a long and demanding ritual process when someone assumes Head of House. Not the Potters. In leu of a long list of restrictions and oaths, there were only two mandates. The first being that the heir would assume responsibility for the House; protect those who belong to the it, guard its interests, maintain its allies – essentially do right by the House and the Potter name.

The second mandate was the protection and secrecy of the Deathly Hallows.

James had known since he was a boy that the Potters were decedents of the youngest of the three Peverell brothers, Ignotus Peverell. The conditions of the mandate were such that the Head of House, bounded by oath, could only share the truth of the invisibility cloak and lineage with their eldest son. It had become somewhat of a tradition to have that conversation on the child’s 11^th birthday, the same year they received their Hogwarts letter. Now, no Potter brought the invisibility cloak with them their first year; it was held out as a privilege only granted once the seriousness of matter was impressed upon the boy. It was, to this day, the only secrets that neither Sirius nor Lily knew about him.

The importance of the secrecy and protection varied through the ages, but the idea was that there would always be three separate families guarding the three items; three Masters, never to unite. The Potters or their ancestors had been in possession of the Cloak of Invisibility since Ignotus passed it to his eldest son. Though the story of The Three Brothers would suggest differently, they believed the second brother, Cadmus, had in fact passed the Resurrection Stone down to his eldest child before he died, and in turn, the Resurrection Stone had also been guarded, generation after generation, by his descendants.

The history of the Elder Wand was such that it wasn’t one single family guarding it. There may have been points in history where it made it to two generations in a family, but its history was bloody and those who won it, rarely kept it for long. A consequence of that, whether positive or negative, was that the holders of the Elder Wand rarely knew it was part of a larger set. When the possessor of the Elder Wand was aware of the Deathly Hallows, that was typically when the protection of the other two was most vital.

Between James’ father’s introduction to the Hallows and James’, there had been the Global Wizarding War, and as a result, James’ training had been far stricter than it had been for many generations. It was fairly well-known, at least amongst those who paid attention to whispers surrounding the Hallows, that Gellert Grindelwald had sought to unite them. The title of ‘Master of Death’ wasn’t to be taken lightly and would create a power imbalance with untold consequences. It was instilled upon James that even two united could be a grave risk.

Whether Grindelwald had succeeded in obtaining any of them was unclear; he certainly had not obtained the Cloak of Invisibility, and there was no reason to believe that he had obtained the Resurrection Stone - no unusual stories of people in his life coming back from the dead. As for the Elder Wand, it was unclear. Grindelwald was an incredible duelist and an immensely powerful and talented wizard, but that in no way meant he had the Elder Wand. He had famously lost the final duel with Dumbledore, effectively ending the war, which meant that either Albus Dumbledore was now the possessor of the Elder Wand or Grindelwald had never had the wand in the first place.

James, admittedly, had never considered whether or not Dumbledore possessed the Elder Wand. He had never given much thought as to where the other Hallows may reside. In fact, until he was sworn in as Head of the House of Potter after his father’s death last year, he had all but forgotten the weight of his invisibility cloak. The responsibility of being one of three Masters and protectors of the Hallows had never really burdened him.

Until he found himself in possession of two of the Deathly Hallows.

A million questions raced through his mind as he paced the study, collecting every grimoire, journal, and diary he could get his hands before he started waking portraits. Was he sworn to protect all of the Deathly Hallows or just the Cloak of Invisibility? Would the destruction of one have consequences on the others? How much could he say on the subject before it was considered a violation of the oath? He had already felt his words being repressed in his mouth as he even tried to ask his friends and his wife if they really didn’t recognize the symbol. Provided it was even possible, what were the consequences of violating the oath? If he stood by and watched his friends annihilate the Resurrection Stone – and he was certain this was the Resurrection Stone – what would happen?

The wording of the oath he took mattered. It was the first piece of the puzzle he dug out.

… sworn to the protection of the Deathly Hallows; its secret-carrier and Master of the Cloak of Invisibility.

That was the crux of it. He had sworn to the protection of the three Hallows… as its secret-carrier. And then he was directly responsible for the Cloak of Invisibility. Or, had he sworn to the protection of the Hallows, including keeping it secret? He was clearly the guardian of the Cloak of Invisibility, but was he indirectly the guardian of the other two? If the Cloak was destroyed, it would be his responsibility because he allowed it to fall into hands that destroyed it. But if Isabella and Sirius had never shown him the ring, and destroyed it, he couldn’t be held liable, right? He wasn’t the direct guardian of the Resurrection Stone. But now that he knew what they were – well, currently he was – in possession of, did that invoke an indirect guardianship? Had he sworn to its protection?

After about an hour of investigating, he had read nothing that suggested his ancestors had ever come in contact with another Hallow, nor had been faced with the prospect of the destruction of one.

He found his thoughts when it came to the Hallows were far more emotional than rational. Since he and Lily learned they were expecting, in any quiet moment, James had thought of little else besides being a father. There was nothing in this world he was more excited for than to meet his baby, and watch and guide them as they grew up. And as he played through all of the milestones they would have to celebrate, the tradition of the invisibility cloak never failed to make the mental list. A bond he had lost with the death of his father, that he would get to reclaim with his own child. He loved the idea of having one, singular, private secret that would just be theirs. He didn’t want to take that away. But he couldn’t cling to tradition at the expense of the destruction of Voldemort.

Taking it further, was there a value to the Deathly Hallows beyond just powerful, interesting trinkets? Not to disparage the wand, the stone, and cloak, but would there be real adverse consequences to their destruction beyond sentimental ones? What had made his family for so many generations swear to the protection of an invisibility cloak? It had never occurred to him to question it and it was practically too late now. It was a wonderful tool, but in the end, it was just a tool. Why not destroy the cloak and rid the world of the possibility of a Master of Death rising? Pride? Selfishness? Provided the items were not connected, and oath-allowing, he could almost do just that – destroy the ring and risk-free keep the cloak. It could still be a tradition, if maybe a less burdensome one.

Another hour went by.

There were also the questions no book or journal could answer; how much did Voldemort know about the Deathly Hallows? How had he come to possess the Resurrection Stone - possess in every sense of the word. Based on everything they knew about Voldemort and his true priorities and objectives, if he knew he could become the Master of Death by uniting the Hallows, all actions, focuses, and efforts would be redirected to that one singular goal. But if he knew about the Hallows, and knew he had acquired the Resurrection Stone, there was no way that he would’ve left it buried under the floorboards of a crumbling shack, let alone desecrate it by turning into a horcrux.

James rarely liked to believe in coincidences, particularly for something as large as this, but he didn’t know what else to make of it. Would it be worse for Voldemort to have come in possession of the Resurrection Stone, knowing exactly what it was, and intend to use it and unite it with the other two? Or, as it appeared to have happened, for him to have no idea what he was in possession of, turn it into a horcrux, and as a consequence, one of the Hallows would likely be destroyed?

Ideally, there would be another strategy to destroy a horcrux without destroying the artifact. Regardless of his sensitivities towards this particular ring, Isabella and Sirius’ solution would effectively be destroying some of the most priceless artifacts in wizarding history. If there was any other option, they ought to exhaust that list. Unfortunately, the crossover between ‘beyond magical repair’ and ‘intact’ might close to nil.

Another hour went by.

He had two brief and unproductive discussions with two of the portraits in the study, who he found were in complete disagreement, both as to the severity of the risk of having two of the Deathly Hallows under the same roof, and as to whether or not his promise to protect the Hallows pertained just to his Hallow. Both did agree that he physically couldn’t violate the secrecy of it, so he didn’t need to watch what he said; he would be stopped before he said anything of consequence. As for the consequences of the destruction of a Hallow, not his own, they genuinely couldn’t say, and couldn’t seem to fathom how such a situation could arise.

Frankly, James could hardly articulate it either.

After a rather unsatisfying few hours of self-study, he was forced to conclude that he needed to pause and at least try and offer some explanation for his conduct. There would be other sources, outside his family’s notes on the Hallows, that he would consult to learn about any link between the three. With a final look at the stone he was never supposed to have, he headed back down to the rest of his group who had migrated from the kitchen into the living room.

“Oh hi James,” Lily said, leaning back on the couch with a smirk as he re-emerged, “No one here was wondering what you’d been up to for the last THREE AND HALF HOURS! Had we not heard you pacing non-stop, we would’ve been concerned you were dead. So… how’s it going?”

James took a seat in front of them, perched on the edge of the cushion of an old arm chair and just stared at them.

“Prongs, would love your take on the project we’ve been working on for months that – well – you seem to have some real information on.” Sirius was clearly not enjoying this guessing game either.

“Let me be clear, my reaction has nothing to do with horcruxes or this specific project. Though I am still concerned about your methods for destruction. Lily, Sirius, you are the two people I’m closest with in this world and this room really represents the only family I have, save for a few distant cousins. You know there’s nothing I would choose to hold back from you. Incredibly, we have stumbled into the one topic I’m afraid I can’t speak freely on. Let me emphasize, I cannot speak freely on it.”

“Merlin, are you under an unbreakable vow?!” Sirius asked cautiously.

“Not… hmm… not exactly, but you have the right idea.”

“Oh God, James, are you okay?! Should we be worried?!” Lily's concern dwarfed her frustration as she spoke.

“Yes, nothing to worry about with that. I am worried though, but it’s bigger. A balance of - ” He choked rather than say ‘power’ as he intended, good to know where the boundaries were hitting. “Well, can’t go there!”

“James, we don’t need to test the boundaries,” Isabella spoke quickly. “If it’s like an unbreakable vow, you risk death if you don’t toe the line. Don’t do that.”

“I don’t know that those are the stakes here, but I’ll be very careful. I promise.” He smiled; he couldn’t even begin to imagine what this must look like from their perspective. “Are you all familiar with Tales of Beedle the Bard?”

Both Sirius and Isabella nodded, looking more confused than ever, but Lily just shook her head.

“Right! Lils – it’s a children’s book full of short stories; we’ll need to get a copy for the baby.”

“I’ll buy you one! It’s a MUST have!” Isabella chimed in.

“Knew I could count of one of you to purchase another book!” James laughed. “What were your favorite stories growing up?”

“Oh? I loved The Fountain of Fair Fortunate, mostly because the garden was beautiful in the illustrated copy we had.” Isabella gave him a questioning smile.

“Sirius?”

“I guess I liked Babbity Rabbity and the Cackling Stump, but like Isabella, I think it just stuck with me because I thought it would be cool to be an animagus. I don’t know that I liked the moral of the story or anything… is this helping you?”

“No. It’s not. What other stories were there? Remember Lily hasn’t read it.”

“Well, there was The Warlock’s Hairy Heart, which I think every child hated, right? And there was The Tale of the Three Brothers, which - ” James coughed loudly interrupting Sirius. “ - which it sounds like James would like to elaborate on.”

“Yes, you go ahead and elaborate on that!” James threw back.

“Okay… well three brothers come to a raging river, but being wizards, they fashion a bridge to cross. Death, feeling cheated, pretended to offer the brothers a deal or a reward, offering them their heart’s desires, but it’s a trick. The eldest brother asks for an unbeatable wand, proceeds to brag all over town that he has it, and is ultimately killed for it. So, Death takes the first brother. The middle brother asked for a device to bring back loved ones from the dead, but when he brings them back, they’re not truly there and they’re miserable. The middle brother kills himself, so Death takes the second brother. The youngest brother is smart, and sees that they’re being tricked, and asks for Death’s own cloak. He uses it to hide himself from Death, till he’s old and ready to depart this realm. When he removes it and Death comes to collect him, they depart as equals.”

“That’s a hell of a childen’s story!” Lily exclaimed.

“Well,” Sirius laughed, “it’s more symbolic when Beedle the Bard tells it than when I tell it more than a decade after I last read it. James – did that do it justice?”

The answer was sort of? Not that James could apparently say it. He was happy that Sirius hadn’t used the word ‘invisibility cloak’, but he’d also forgotten the resurrection device was a stone from the river.

It didn’t matter too much, James’ only objective in this conversation was to make it clear he wasn’t trying to hide anything from his friends and get them to delay destroying the Resurrection Stone. If he could at least instill doubt in their mind, he’d consider it a success.

“Is the ring connected to Beedle the Bard? No – specifically to the Tale of the Three Brothers?” Sirius paused for a moment, clearly waiting on a response. When one wasn’t coming, he continued, “But it has nothing to do with horcruxes, correct?

“Correct.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow at James’ response; he hadn’t gone mute. “And your biggest concern right now is that we plan to destroy the horcrux with Fiendfyre, correct?”

“Correct – it’s specifically the absolute destruction or annihilation of the whole ring that concerns me.”

“Because of the ring’s connection to the Tale of the Three Brothers, correct?”

James once again found himself silent; Merlin, this was excruciating.

“None of the brothers are wearing a ring that’s highlighted in the story. None of the objects Death creates are rings. So is your concern connected to Death himself?”

Nothing. There was, once again, no reply that was acceptable.

Isabella shook her head, “Merlin knows if there’s such a thing as Death’s rings, the Dark Lord would’ve discovered it. But why would James Potter? Not just know it’s existence, but be bound to secrecy around it?”

“I’m finding all of this deeply concerning,” Lily interjected “Worse still is the fact that if this ring or the symbol is connected to Death, that James’ chief concern is not destroying it.”

“Look,” James spoke up before the trio in front of him reached some conclusion that he’d made a pact with Death - he hadn’t, “if you take away anything from this, I hope it’s that we should hold off on using Fiendfyre on historical artifacts that we find that are now horcruxes. Obviously, I have a strong, un-stateable, opinion on the ring. But it’s worth looking just a little longer.”

“If it’s a little more research, we can do that,” Sirius appeased, “but seriously, Prongs, are you okay? You have to admit this is bizarre.”

“I’m completely okay. Honestly, out of everything I thought we could run into on this search, this didn’t even cross my mind. Simply awful luck.”

Sirius and Lily looked calmer by that, but Isabella didn’t look fully convinced.

“If our only option is to destroy the horcrux with Fiendfyre, will you still be okay?” she asked.

“That, I don’t know.” The expressions on each of his companions faces fell. “I think so, but I would like to look into it further. I’m sure there’s something I’m missing. But I will not be the reason we don’t win this war. If it comes down to it, and Fiendfyre is our only option, take it. Regardless of the consequences.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 15: The Constrained Consultation

Sirius stood in by the front door, tapping his fingers on the cover of the newly purchased copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard. The book sat on a half-moon table by the front door, haphazardly placed between a set of keys and a candle stick. No matter how innocuous it may have appeared to others, both Sirius and Isabella stared at it as though it was the most intriguing thing in the world.

“It’s fair to be curious. It’s nothing we’re forbidden from asking…,” Sirius ventured.

Isabella smirked.

They could have, of course, gone straight from Diagon Alley to the Potter Manor with the copy of the book in hand, but both found excuses to delay the transfer. Isabella claimed she left a letter she’d written Lily to accompany the book behind, and Sirius found himself babbling about the need to give James something or other that he’d left at home, though he knew it was even less sincere than his wife’s explanation.

“Lily’ll read it,” Isabella said, eyes unmoved from his hand on the cover.

The truth was both, without wanting to admit it, desperately wanted the chance to reread The Tale of the Three Brothers. Neither had said much on James’ reaction; it felt like it ought not be discussed. They had been taught from a very young age that everyone had the right to their secrets, that prying into those matters was inappropriate, and that the consequences could be rather severe.

Sirius believed that neither really cared about maintaining the façade of aloof indifference. Afterall, it was more than fair to have questions, concerns, even, under such circumstances. They had every right to shove the precedent of tact and decorum to the wayside. But old habits die hard.

He stopped his tapping.

“Prongs is under an unbreakable vow, right? That was your take as well?”

“A variation of it, at least.”

“It has to be stemming from an oath he took when he assumed Head of the House of Potter last year. The number of oaths I’ll have to take someday is…” he shook his head, letting the words trail away from him. The number was astronomical, if he was being honest. But the Potter’s weren’t like them, he was almost certain James hadn’t been subjected to the same thing he would one day face. But then again, he really didn’t know.

“Then it’s not something dark. Do you think it’s in conflict?”

Sirius gave her an exasperated look.

“But…”

But it was an unknown.

Before he could stop himself, he scooped up the book and flipped through to The Tale of the Three Brothers. It was a story he’d read countless times. This wasn’t an invasion of privacy, he assured himself, not if it was relevant.

Three words jumped off the page at him.

Cloak of Invisibility.

His stomach dropped.

Years ago, back at Hogwarts, Isabella had asked him about James’ invisibility cloak. ‘It’s apparently a Potter family secret,’ he had said. ‘James won’t even tell me.’ She then pointed out the obvious; there weren’t many on the market, certain none like that. He shrugged it off at the time.

But now, he could barely move.

Isabella moved over to his side, reading over his shoulder.

“You don’t think…” she began.

His mind was moving too fast to formulate any coherent words. It wasn’t possible. But more than that, this wasn’t something he should know. He had no right.

“I mean, polished stone…?” Isabella said quietly.

He slammed the book closed as a dizzying sensation that he’d seen something he really shouldn't have settled over him and a horrid, gnawing sensation grew in the pit of his stomach.

“It’s a children’s book,” he said, the words felt forced in his dry mouth. “Maybe it means nothing. Just coincidence.”

“Do you really think that?” Isabella’s eyes bore into him, her face only inches from his.

“I don’t think -” he paused, trying to collect his thoughts. “We don’t need to mention anything to James.”

She took a moment to absorb his words before nodding slowly.

“And why would we?” Isabella replied, clearing her expression. If it wasn’t for the slight glint in her eyes, he could’ve almost taken her words at face value. “I don’t know that we understood what we just read. We won’t jump to any conclusions.”

She began to make her way to the door.

“Isabella… is it possible?”

“It’s a children’s story.” She paused, turning back to face him, her voice low and monotone, “Sirius, it would complicate things.”

And it was personal; far more personal than he had realized.

So, despite the words circling, screaming in his mind, he knew he had to force himself to move on.

He would have to believe that there was a way.

---------------------------------

‘Beyond magical repair.’

The words echoed in James’ mind long after the Blacks left, horcrux in tow, and they plagued him like an ear worm for countless days following.

How something could be destroyed beyond magical repair and also preserved felt like an oxymoron. If it could be done, Sirius and Isabella wouldn’t have struggled for months to identify a solution, and they certainly wouldn’t have landed on Fiendfyre. He wanted to share their optimism that there was another way, but that was a focus best left to them.

He needed to know what would happen when they were forced to conclude that there wasn’t.

The two Blacks were so neutral when they brought over the copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard for Lily. James knew they reread it; they would’ve been fools not to. He half expected Sirius to bust down the doors of the Potter Manor and launch into an invariably chaotic hunt for the invisibility cloak. And if he was honest, he had been looking forward to the conversation that would surely follow. Sirius was smart enough to work around the oath if he wanted to…

The fact that Sirius didn’t, frankly, stunned him.

He said nothing of the invisibility cloak, nothing of the stone, and the conversation around the investigation was surface-level at best. There must’ve been part of Sirius that felt that it was too private to pry into; his already secretive nature had only been exacerbated under his grandfather’s tutelage. James supposed it only made sense that he’d try to give others the same courtesy.

There was also a chance that Sirius didn’t understand the severity of it, and Merlin-knows James couldn’t prompt the conversation. He couldn’t even name the story.

So he was forced to proceed without him.

There were lessons to be learned from the Blacks’ modus operandi. James would not make the same mistakes they had made with the horcruxes; keeping it amongst themselves for months, running in circles pulling information from the same resources, talking into an echo chamber. It was a waste of time when there were other sources to consult.

Though it wouldn’t be simple, he thought to himself as he stepped out of the floo into the headmaster’s office, it was the only path forward.

“Ah, James – you got my reply?” Professor Dumbledore glanced up from the stack of papers on his desk with a smile.

“Yes, sir, I know you must be incredibly busy - ”

“Time is rarely the issue people make it out to be, management on the other hand...” Dumbledore laughed. “What is it you wished to discuss? Family matters, you said?”

James had given a lot of thought as to how he wanted to approach this. He didn’t want to come up against what he couldn’t say and raise suspicion, so he kept his reason for meeting with Dumbledore simple – he was there to learn more about House oaths, the kind of magic that bound them, and the consequences for breaking them.

He had been able to explain his plan to Lily and that was enough to assure him; so long as he could steer away from specifics, he should be in the clear.

James took a seat in one of the well-worn chairs in front of Dumbledore’s desk.

“As you know, my parents passed away last fall and I’ve taken up the reigns for the House of Potter. As I’ve begun to take on more responsibilities, I’ve found myself with a few questions and unfortunately few people to turn to. I was hoping you could shed some light on the kind of magic used when assuming the Head of a House. What exactly does the magic do to a person?”

“I assume you’ve taken the corresponding oath?”

"I have."

“Then my understanding is that the magic used in those sort of oaths essentially binds you to the House. The House survives so long as you survive. Does that answer your question?”

James held back his initial thought – not in the slightest – and elected for something a little more diplomatic.

“Could you elaborate on that? By bound, does it mean my life is tied to the house?”

He was almost embarrassed to admit that, despite how quickly he’d assumed the title after his father’s death, he hardly understood the kind of magic at play.

“You would not be the first heir that took the oath before taking a step back and analyzing what exactly they were doing, and why they were proceeding with such urgency,” Dumbledore said rather presciently. “The pull that comes with the death of the Head of House is astronomical. You would’ve dived to the deepest depths of the ocean to claim that ring you’re wearing. The House’s only priority is survival and it calls out to the heir to do so.”

“You speak as though the House is alive… is that right?”

“It is and it isn’t. The magic that binds it all together is old, and the interconnectedness of it all – the oaths, the hereditary seats, the vaults, properties, heirlooms – that’s what makes it feel as though the House itself is alive. But really, it is just powerful magic at play.”

“So if the House itself is not alive, it’s essentially tied to me like a lifeline?”

“Precisely.”

“So if I die, with no current heir, do I take the House of Potter down with me?”

“Ah, see that risk was one of the earliest justifications for the Ministry of Magic. It is true that no one would feel the pull as you did, but the Ministry would do its best to ensure that an heir of sorts is identified. Now, I should clarify, the goal of the Ministry isn’t necessarily the preservation of the family, but more of the House’s assets. I won’t get too into the specifics because I can’t imagine this is what you came here to discuss -”

“No please!” James said, a bit too urgently for either of their comfort. “Sorry! I just – I do want to know more.”

“Well,” Dumbledore laughed, though there was an unmistakable hint of surprise in his voice, “I’ll give you an example then. As I’m sure you recall from History of Magic, relations between wizards and goblins have been strained for time and memorial. If the Head of a House dies with no heir, the goblins would sooner lock up the vault and throw away the key that let even the wizard’s wife in. The wife might have a personal vault, or she might have been locked out of everything - not just their life savings, but the deed to the house, precious family mementos and heirlooms, everything. The widow’s left penniless, destitute, and heartbroken.”

James made a rather urgent mental note to ensure that Lily did have a personal vaults, and that both of them ought to maintain a vault outside of just the Potter Family vault.

“Sometimes the situation is less dire,” Dumbledore continued, “but still absolutely necessary to prevent. For example, I’m sure the patent for chocolate frogs is locked in a family vault, just as I’m sure the ownership agreements for the Wimbourne Wasps, or the lease agreements for the shops of Diagon Alley, etcetera. The ministry has determined that for society to function, we cannot be permanently barred from accessing these vault. And you must remember, the Gringotts vaults are only one piece of a very large puzzle. So in the event of the death of a Head of the House with no obvious heir, the Ministry steps in to facilitate.”

“Well that… simplifies things…”

If Dumbledore understood James’ sarcasm, he didn’t let on.

“But it’s not always simple. See, some Houses are what I’ll call cooperative. The oaths are written to be functional. I don’t know the oath that you took to assume the Head of the House of Potter, but I have known your family for generations and I feel it is safe to assume that your family falls in this category. You can rest assured that if you died, Lily would not be left with nothing. That is not the intent of the magic that binds your House.”

“But it would still have to go through the Ministry?” James asked with no small amount of trepidation.

“With no heir? Unless you had a rather extensive marriage contract, and we don’t tend to see that outside of select families, then yes. But then it’s also a rather turn-key process. The magic’s archaic; it complicates things. But the Ministry is well-versed in untangling it.”

“Well, who’s letting these archaic practices continue?” James’ voice rose as he spoke. “That seems ABSURD!”

Dumbledore only looked on with the same puzzled, yet almost intrigued, expression on his face.

“I’ll allow you to make your own determination, but you should understand both sides. I said the Ministry’s goal isn’t the preservation of the House, but, of course, the House’s priority is survival. Think how easy it would be to take down a House and its assets if all someone needed to do was marry the heir or the Head, kill them, and automatically inherit, sealed by some of the most complex magic out there. Our traditions come from darker times, but the blatant truth is that this archaic magic is still in practice because it works. No one wants centuries of work undone by one cursed marriage. Our current system - the one overseen by the combination of oaths and the Ministry - protects those who have married into a family, and those born into it; the individuals, and the House.”

It wasn’t as though James couldn’t see the logic, but the logic didn’t ease the pounding in his chest. If something were to happen to him before he had an heir, Lily would be forces to face the Death Eater-infested Ministry to access anything he left behind. She would effectively be losing the safety net of the Potter family.

It wasn’t a promising start.

“Now I fear I’m getting into awfully technical territory,” Dumbledore commented; James’ silence urging him on, “but it should be noted that there is a reason that complex marriage agreements are used by certain families. There are Houses that will do everything in their power to keep the Ministry out. They make it extremely clear who can assume the role of Head of the House, all of the benefits and beneficiaries, and the contracts and oaths lock that in explicitly.

“I am certain the Sacred House of Black is a good example of this. I imagine that while Sirius Black and Isabella Rosier were enjoying their 7^th year here at Hogwarts, months were spent negotiating their marriage contract. Because if a tragedy were to befall the House, the ministry would have absolutely no power to intervene. The Rosiers knew that, in fact, I’m certain they operate in the same manner, so they would’ve needed to lock in Isabella’s security.”

“That seems…” James wanted to say accurate but it felt tactless to speculate over the terms of his friends’ marriage. “… complicated. Quite complicated. Has a House ever been lost because of that?”

“It’s not unheard of, but it’s not common that a significant House falls. Usually the families are large enough to prevent it, a cousin or a Great Uncle with enough lineage to seize the reigns, and even the need for that is rare. But it does happen. I expect, for example, that we will see the extinction of the Sacred House of Gaunt in the next generation.”

“Really? But even with - ”

“He’s not a pureblood. He will be ineligible.”

James paused for a moment. He didn’t want to ask the next question but it felt imperative.

“Will my children be?”

“Will your children… will your children be ineligible to be your heir?”

“All of my children will be half-bloods. I didn’t swear to anything of the sort, I never would’ve, but - ”

“No, you cannot be held to anything you did not swear to.”

“If I had, could I… change it?”

“Had you sworn that your heir would be a pureblood, no. You would be bound by it. But the Potter’s never would’ve put in such exclusionary clause.”

Dumbledore said it with no malice in his voice but it still made James feel foolish for even asking. Of course his future son would one day be his heir; he hated that it even occurred to him to seek confirmation. But then again, maybe he only felt embarrassed because he was having the conversation with Albus Dumbledore, rather than his own father. He was having to look outside his family for the answers to personal questions that he felt he shouldn’t have to ask.

Or he should’ve asked earlier.

He hadn’t lied when he said that there were things that kept coming up that he had no answers for and no one else to turn to. But the point of this conversation wasn’t to dwell on the quesitions that drew his attention back to the festering gap in his heart.

“Now,” Dumbledore pushed on, “do understand, it is not naivety that works a House into such a bind. Anyone who has ever been Head of the Sacred House of Gaunt, or the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black wants it like that explicitly. They would rather the House fall than their morals.”

It was an unproductive avenue they were going down and James felt that they had rather exhausted subject of Padfoot’s family, so he moved the conversation in a slightly different direction.

“What would happen if I violate one of the mandates that I swore to in the oath?”

Dumbledore looked bemused for a moment before simply shaking his head. “Do you intend to?”

“I don’t know,” James said lightly; this was the moment he needed to sell. “I don’t really take well to restrictions and life is so very long.”

“Having watched you over the last decade, I fear I can attest to that limitation of yours. But I might advise that you don’t let your instincts take over. You are, after all, bound to the mandates within the oath you took.”

“So I’ll die, you’re saying?”

“I couldn’t say. Frankly, I don’t know that it will be possible for you to break the oath.”

“What if it’s not my actions that break it?”

“As in your held responsible for someone else’s actions?”

James nodded.

“That’s an unusual mandate, then. Why would that – why would that be the case?”

“I could be misinterpreting it. Or it’s a best-efforts sort of thing.”

“Subjectivity is a challenge, and yet it is so often a pillar of magic. But I cannot imagine something as subject as a ‘best-efforts sort of thing’ would result in death if you failed, unless it was recklessly written, or I suppose, very carefully written.”

“Or extremely implausible,” James muttered.

“Hmm.” Dumbledore’s expression clouded. “Do you find yourself in a situation that your ancestors deemed implausible?”

“What a good question!” He felt the words biting back; he was skirting right on the edge.

“Can you share the mandate?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“How essential is it to violate the terms of the mandate? I get the sense you wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t in the cards already.”

James just laughed.

“I suppose the only advice I can really give you then is that the reason that these oaths exist in the first place is to preserve the House and as we’ve discussed, they are heavily based off intent. If you intend to violate your oath, even through the actions of others, then that will almost certainly be taken severely. Alternatively, if what you intend to do is for the betterment of the House, then the oath may understand that. Your death would harm the House, but that doesn’t preclude you from punishment. You’ll have to make your own interpretations based on the oath only you know.”

The idea that the intention behind violating the oath mattered was the first glimmer of hope that he’d seen since starting his search. And yet, it was hardly much to hold on to with potential death and a legal battle in the wake looming over him.

“On the subject of the House of Potter,” Dumbledore pushed the conversation away from the rocky waters they were swimming towards, “I’d be remiss not to mention that your family’s presence in the Wizengamot has been sorely missed.”

James felt the familiar pang in his chest.

“I'm not surprised; my father was a brilliant man.”

“I’m sure you must feel you have large shoes to fill, but your insights would certainly be additive.”

“I think we have a few years before then…” James laughed.

“Why? If you don’t mind me asking. You know there are no age requirements for the hereditary seats; you don’t need to use a proxy.”

“Oh please, what would I have to contribute to right now?”

“James Potter – I think you’re understating your capabilities!” Dumbledore said with a sparkle in his eyes. “How very uncharacteristic of you?”

“I mean, there’s a precedent, right? It’s essentially unheard of for someone under 30 to take up the seat.”

“I wouldn’t say so; I can think of a few exceptions. And if Arcturus Black passed away, do you think your friend Sirius would use a proxy?”

James could hardly understand how they had circled back to this subject of all things.

“I mean he – well, no he wouldn’t. But it’s not his ego, he’s been training for years. He would probably be ready.”

“But isn’t it a shame, then, that you’re holding yourself back?”

“No - Merlin, no! I’m not holding myself back, I’m just not being irrational! It’ll take me 10 years to get to where Sirius is today.”

Dumbledore sighed with soft, sad smile plastered on his face.

“I think,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “that the Dark families do a very effective job instilling the value of power onto the next generation. I know it must be so easy to compare yourself to him, but don’t make Sirius Black your benchmark. That boy will be held to an almost unattainable standard and expected to do things I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy.”

James wanted to argue that he wasn’t the one who kept bringing Sirius up, but Dumbledore’s point stood. Had he not seen the sheer amount of work that was going into preparing Sirius for his future responsibilities, James would feel far more confident with his own existing abilities.

As though reading his thoughts, Dumbledore addressed the underlying issue head-on, “I am sorry that you won’t get the same education he’s getting, from your father nor your grandfather. And I understand if you feel you’re starting at a disadvantage. But I want you to know that I am always here. We can do just as we’ve done today, any time you’d like. I know the political scene like I know this school; if I can provide you guidance as you get started, never hesitate to ask.”

James wasn’t quite sure how to respond. It wasn’t as though he didn’t appreciate the offer – in fact it made his heart swell knowing that there was an adult out there still thinking about his best interests even after his parents were gone. He didn’t have to be the highest authority. But with so much else going on, it was hard to imagine dedicating time to the political arena now too.

“Maybe after the baby’s born,” James said weakly.

“Of course." The expression on Dumbledore's face seemed to neutralize in a moment. "Forgive me for not asking earlier – how is Lily? And the baby?”

“Both fine! I think we’re just getting excited now - final trimester!”

“Good, I'm glad to hear! I don't want to keep you then, I'm sure it's been a busy time for you all."

“One last thing though,” James said as the close of the conversation approached, “if I wanted to change some of the mandates in the oath, not for myself, I know you said that was impossible, but between myself and the next generation, is that… is that possible?”

“I think there’s flexibility in every generation to change how they want to raise the next one. You’ll have to consult your family records to confirm, but it may be as easy as simply changing the verbiage as Head of House.”

James smiled as he rose. At the very least, he would have the opportunity to change the Hallows mandate.

He hoped it wouldn’t be the last thing he did before he had to die, of course.

Always one step forward, two steps back.

Chapter Text

Chapter 16: Destruction

The days and weeks that followed did nothing to ease the Blacks' concern. James had made no progress. Whether or not he was even happy to see the new copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard was up for debate. The conversation was strained and choppy, the usual, casual flow hindered by thoughts left unsaid on both sides.

Everyone was trying, at least that much was clear.

As much as they hadn’t wanted to hear it, James was also right; Fiendfyre ought to be their last resort. Salazar Slytherin’s locket, and now Helga Hufflepuff’s cup, had genuine historical significance to wizardkind. They belong in a museum, not burned to ash. And the mysterious Gaunt ring certainly had greater value than just the sum of the gold and the stone. So long as they were still moving forward, they could be patient.

But it wasn’t without trepidation.

Sirius and Isabella could genuinely say they dabbled in more facets of magic than they had in their lives. They started cautiously, but desperation built day in and day out. The spells got nastier and nastier as they poured more and more of themselves into it. They tried everything ranging from severing spells to obscure taxidermy spells in the hopes of preserving the artifact they refused to think about, while destroying the soul that plagued them every waking moment.

And yet nothing worked.

There was a fog that had settled over the expansive grounds of the property that lingered for days on end. The Blacks stood out on their back patio, once again before the sun was even high enough in the sky to dry the early morning dew. Every inch of the wrought iron furniture was covered in an eclectic assortment of old books and grimoires; the pages damp and crimping from exposure to the elements. They no longer bothered bringing them inside in the evening – what would be the point? They would only have to bring them right back out the next day.

That morning, under the damp fog, they were testing a series of exorcism rituals that they’d found scribbled in the margins of a 15th century book on antique appraisals – they were only half-certain it was genuine magic.

“Are you being deliberately obtuse?” a familiar voice echoed across the patio causing them to jump.

It had been some time since Sirius had seen his younger brother, and that time hadn’t been kind to Regulus. He looked as though he hadn’t slept since they’d seen him last, and it had been weeks, at least. He stood in the doorway glaring; they had no idea how long he’d been watching, but he looked thoroughly bored.

“We’re trying…” Isabella let her frustration be known, “and we’ve been trying.”

“Not really though, right?” Regulus replied dismissively. His grey eyes were cold, like all humanity had been stripped away, leaving little life in his face as he moved closer. “That’s a horcrux, I presume? You’re trying to destroy the soul without annihilating the ring, which we already know is impossible. So my guess is you’re trying to rip the soul from the artifact, right? Given that I don’t see any dementors around here, there’s only one thing you should’ve bothered trying.”

He pulled out his wand.

“Reg -”

“Avada Kedavra!”

There was something so chilling about how easily the words came out of Regulus’ mouth. No hesitation, no uncertainty; this was a well-rehearsed spell in his arsenal.

Sirius knew that the appropriate reaction should be horror, but a sickly part of him felt grateful. Reg was right, they were scraping the bottom of the barrel when the obvious answer was right in front of them. But neither him, nor Isabella, would’ve been willing to cast it.

In utter silence they started at the ring in front of them. Nothing had changed.

“At least now you can say you’ve tried everything,” Regulus said, his voice devoid of any sort of emotion.

He turned and began marching back to the house.

“Reg – wait!” Sirius called after him.

He didn’t even slow down.

“Reg, stop! Talk to us! What’s gotten into you?”

“Did you not even THINK to tell me that you had one of the horcruxes?!” Regulus spun around to face them. “Merlin, or tell me that you were even going after one?!”

Sirius faltered, “You were part of the conversations in the library…”

“The last thing you told me was that you thought Secrets of the Darkest Art could be the ticket to finding a method to destroy an artifact beyond magical repair. And that was a month ago, at least.”

“Well… where have you been?”

“Where have I been? WHERE HAVE I BEEN?! Oh I don’t know, Sirius, on vacation?! What do you think?”

In the months since Regulus first came to them with knowledge of the locket, they had consciously avoided outright addressing his continued involvements. Even as his role in the organization became ostensibly connected to them, a head-on conversation felt unproductive. There was no solution and that was just the brutal reality Sirius accepted.

“What do you want me to say here? I’m not sorry that we haven’t catered to your schedule, because Merlin, Reg, you don’t even control your own schedule.”

“So that’s why I have to come and find you?! You’ve deliberately been keeping me at arm’s length!”

“We didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t need to. I know you don’t trust me, not fully.”

“And really, Reg, why would we? You’re one of them.” The words slipped out before Sirius could pull back the punch.

“I don’t want to be one of them, haven’t I made that clear?”

“And we wish that was enough,” Isabella spoke up, her words packing less of a bite than Sirius’. “You don’t get to just leave. We’re not saying that you’re not helpful or that we don’t need your help. But, I’m sorry, I’m not going to stand here and tell you that it hasn’t crossed my mind that every additional detail we give you creates an additional risk for us. It is hard enough to keep something like this a secret, but with the company you keep – the company you must keep…”

“That ‘company’ being HALF our generation,” his brother pushed back.

“Isabella’s brother’s not a Death Eater, we’re not Death Eaters, you had a choice.”

Regulus just stared at them, a frozen expression on his face, mouth hanging open.

“Do I still have a choice?”

The question didn’t warrant a response.

“Then why not cut me out entirely? Or is it too much of a risk to dismiss me?” Regulus laughed. “Am I like a mangey dog that you’re forced to give scraps to hoping it’ll keep the thing appeased, lest it take the opportunity to attack?”

Sirius really didn’t see any humor in his brother’s words.

“That’s not what we’re saying either,” Isabella tried to appease. “Look, our schedules are ours and we can afford to dedicate a significant amount of time and energy to this. You can’t. If you want it done, and I think you do, then you cannot be mad that we’re progressing without you.”

“I can be frustrated.”

“You can be mature,” Sirius shot back.

Regulus stared at the ground for a moment, clearly struggling to maintain any pretense of calm.

How such a small action could get under Sirius’ skin so easily, Merlin-knows. He wasn’t sure if he wanted more fight out of his younger brother or less, but he just didn’t want this display of naïve anger and weak passivity.

“So,” Reg said after a moment, “the ring? That means your Family-Focused theory is right, then… right?”

“Not exactly,” Isabella groaned.

“We were right to think that Hepzibah Smith was the key. We have reason to believe that she had a cup that belonged to Helga Hufflepuff herself in her collection. We’ve known the Smiths were descendants of Hufflepuff and the cup went missing at the time her death, same time as the locket.”

“Same time as the… are you saying Salazar Slytherin’s locket was - ”

“Yeah. Both were in her collection. If we throw away our theories entirely and accept the locket, ring, and the cup as horcruxes, then more likely than not she was killed to create the cup. Descendent and all that.”

“It doesn’t take away from the fact that we still think there’s something that connects the locations and the deaths to the artifacts – even the ring, right?” Isabella tacked on. “The ring was significant because it served as a House ring, the Dark Lord used the murder of his father and grandparents to turn it into a horcrux, and he had hidden it in the Gaunt shack – the connector across all three components being family. The difference is that all of the artifacts just aren’t as connected as we thought.”

“Okay… well if you’re getting rid of the founders and family theories, then we could pick from anything?” Reg asked. “Could you round it out with – what – the Lost Diadem of Ravenclaw?”

It had been too long since they’d discussed the Diadem – but they had never ruled it out. Not really. It had just never felt like a strong addition to the list.

Neither Sirius nor Isabella quite knew how to respond.

“It’s not the Sword of Gryffindor,” Regulus elaborated, “we’ve struggled to narrow down other specific family-focused artifacts, the diadem’s the only specific thing we haven’t eliminated, and it’s the right level of – I don’t know – power? Significance?”

“Doesn’t the fact that it’s lost kind of negate that as a possibility?” Isabella asked.

“He discovered the Chamber of Secrets, why not the Diadem?”

“Well, for starters, he’s a Slytherin. And a descendant of Slytherin.”

“He’s also the Dark Lord,” Regulus said matter-of-factly. “Can you definitively tell me I’m wrong?”

Neither responded.

“I think, at this point, it doesn’t matter if you can say how it happened, so long as you can’t say that it couldn’t have happened. In the end, it comes down to locations, right? Did you know, with certainty, that you’d find the ring in the Gaunt’s house? Or was that just a significant location?”

His brother was right – the connection between the location, artifact, and murder seemed so abundantly clear in hindsight, it almost made Sirius forget that they had only gone to Little Hangleton to learn more; to see what could be found.

“Unless, have you changed your mind on locations too?”

“Not really,” Sirius affirmed, “though with the Sword out, I think it’s likely only one artifact would be hidden in Hogwarts – and that has to be in the Chamber of Secrets.”

“So that leaves you with the cave, the Chamber of Secrets, and Gringotts, if we’re thinking the locket wasn’t the last to be moved.”

“And Wool’s Orphanage, where that ‘gas leak’ was in 1955.”

“Honestly, I don’t like Wool’s on the list,” Regulus said, “it doesn’t sit right with me. It’s the only location that was also the site of a significant death, and the idea of keeping the horcrux where it was created feels tremendously unreasonable. It’s like leaving evidence at the scene of the crime. I’m sorry, but don’t see it.”

Sirius felt himself nodding, even as a pit in his stomach grew. He glanced over at Isabella, who looked equally uneasy about Regulus’ analysis.

It wasn’t that Regulus’ logic was flawed, the problem was that it wasn’t flawed at all, and the conclusion that inevitably followed was a problem. If they ruled out Wool’s Orphanage, that left them with Gringotts, and that was a challenge he couldn’t even conceive of how they’d handle.

“Maybe Wool’s should be our next stop,” Sirius said after a moment. “Eliminate it, if possible. And if not, brilliant – because if you’re right… well, we’ll see.”

“I’ll come,” Regulus added. There was a certain note of optimism in his voice that hadn’t made an appearance thus far in the conversation.

It was a shame to have to squelch it.

“You know you can’t. That’s too much public exposure, it’s not worth the risk.”

“You can’t keep asking me to sit back and do nothing.”

“We’ve actually never asked that of you,” Sirius chided. “You also can’t possibly think we’re done with research. Not with infiri, the Chamber of Secrets, and quite possibly robbing Gringotts all still in front of us. Do you feel we’re even remotely equipped for that?”

“I’m coming to the cave. I brought it to you -”

“And more power to you if that’s where you’ll draw the line. I still think it should be the last thing we do.”

“Fine,” Regulus practically spat out the words.

“Don’t say fine like this is some burden I’m putting on you!” He knew he shouldn’t provoke, but it was too tempting.

“Would you prefer I say it with enthusiasm?”

“I’d prefer you to have some SEMBLANCE of a grasp of your limitations! I’m AWARE that you want to be at the center of the action but you need to be anywhere else!”

“I just want to help - ”

“You keep saying that but then DO IT! I am sorry you made a choice that put you in this position, but you need to ride it out! You can help when you can, how you can – but just use your fucking brain.”

Reg looked defiant, but entirely lost for words.

Good. At least he wasn’t sulking.

“I can keep trying to destroy it – the ring,” he said, softer this time. “From the privacy of my home, of course.”

“No, I don’t want it at Grimmauld. Too many eyes. Keep it here, but that’s a good path to go down.”

“We want to try and keep the artifact intact,” Isabella added diplomatically. “We’re talking about some of the most valuable wizarding artifacts in history, if we can, we don’t want to be the ones that destroy them.”

“But you wouldn’t be, not really,” Regulus replied coolly. “He destroyed them, you’d simply be disposing of them.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 17: The Prophecy

There was a cold snap before spring finally gave way to summer. The promise of sunshine, along with two new additions to the Order family, had left the group rather excited for the warmer season.

As James glanced at the glum faces of his peers around the table in the Potter’s oversized dining room, he could honestly say that there wasn’t much else to be excited about. The meetings always seemed to go the same way. They would report on the little information they had collected on the Death Eaters advances, review the plethora of incidences the Death Eaters had caused since their previous meeting, and try and strategize what could be done differently to make a dent.

It was demoralizing, to put it lightly.

Octavia Smith sat to his right; she was settling in nicely with the group and had attended the last few meetings. It was one of the very few recruits that the group had in some time, but even that success hardly fueled them. Seeing the organization through the eyes of a newcomer had a special way of shedding light on the Order’s limitations. For every time Octavia asked ‘why?’ – why they weren’t exploiting a vulnerability or exploring a potential lead or trying something else – there were at least three separate people who could give a solid answer as to why not. It had been done before; too often. It was an unreliable source; they had learned the hard way. It had become predictable, the Death Eaters had closed the gap, there was no longer a way. The list went on and on.

But Octavia Smith, just like the rest of them, kept returning. Something was still better than nothing.

True to her word, she brought a sketch of Helga Hufflepuff’s cup with her to one of her earliest meetings, telling the Potters how much she appreciated their compassion. Of course, they couldn’t reasonably express how much they appreciated her sketch; James transparently feared that the flimsy piece of paper was all that stood between them and being a net negative to the Black’s horcrux campaign.

But at least on the horcrux front there was still a sense of excitement; progress was attainable, the Blacks would ensure it.

That evening in the Potter Manor, the exhausted looks on most of the members were nothing new. But in hindsight, Dumbledore, usually a beacon of light even in the darkest of times, seemed off. He sat at the head at the opposite end of the table, leaning back in his chair. He seemed to take in the room without really being a part of it at all. This distracted distance carried on for the majority of the conversation and he was quick to close out the meeting.

But even then, James couldn’t say he picked up on anything unusual until Dumbledore asked both the Potters and the Longbottoms for a quick word in private afterwards. He seemed stiff and uncertain as he spoke; two emotions that none of the four were accustomed to seeing from him. As the rest of the crowd cleared out, he sat in silence; whatever he had to say was meant for their ears only.

“Lily, Alice, can you remind me of your expected due dates?”

“End of July!” / “Less than two months away now!” Both women spoke nearly in unison.

There was a troubling juxtaposition between Lily and Alice’s excited tone and the solemn expression on Dumbledore’s face.

“I see.”

“Is that – a problem?” Frank Longbottom asked.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure – I’m not sure I know what to make of it.”

Dumbledore appeared lost in thought again, and though they had dismissed it for the last hour, it felt far more concerning now. The two couples all exchanged glances around the long table, trying to see if any of them understood Dumbledore’s cryptic meaning.

“I apologize,” Dumbledore continued after an uncomfortable silence, “I find I’m getting rather ahead of myself. Allow me to walk back for a moment.”

Rather than offer a smile or a laugh as he often did when breaking a tense moment, he remained stoic and serious, and James felt a distinct shift in the mood of the room as a result.

“I was asked near the end of the school year to interview a woman for a teaching position for the subject of Divination. This may come as a surprise to some, if not all of you, as I haven’t exactly been subtle about my distaste for the subject. But this woman’s great-great grandmother was a rather renowned seer and I suppose I let my curiosity get the best of me to see if she had the family talent. She was staying at the Hogs Head Inn and I paid her a visit yesterday for a brief discussion, just to see if her claims had any merit. Easily 10 minutes in, I would’ve told you she was fraud; perhaps well-intentioned, but a fraud nonetheless. Until – well, I’m not quite sure I know what happened. It appeared as though she gave a rather genuine prophecy. I confess, I believed it to be an act at first, but she genuinely had no recollection of what she had said, nor that she had gone into a trance-like state. So, I’m forced to reckon with the fact that I heard a rather concerning, genuine prophecy.

“Now, I do not put much weight into prophecies. I find divination to be a rather wooly subject and I think it would be a grave mistake to act too extremely in the face of something that could be interpreted dozens of different ways and still proven ‘accurate’. But unfortunately, I was not the only one that heard the prophecy. There was a bit of commotion right outside the door about half-way through the first speaking of the prophecy and I was informed later by Aberforth that there had been a Death Eater spying in on the meeting. As a consequence, instead of having the freedom to disregard the strange prophecy, I’m forced to acknowledge the fact that Voldemort will hear that first half of the prophecy, and we therefore need to interpret it as he will, and act accordingly.”

“And what exactly does this have to do with the due dates?” James could hardly claim to be processing the conversation’s progression, but he could read body language enough to be concerned.

“I believe that the prophecy may be referring to one of your children.”

“What?” James asked incredulously. “And what interest could that POSSIBLY be to Voldemort?”

“If you are suggesting - ” Frank gripped the edge of the table “ - that there is a prophecy that connects my unborn child and Voldemort, that Voldemort is now aware of, I suggest you tell us right now exactly what you know or this conversation is going to take a very ugly turn, very quickly.”

James was sure that it couldn’t possibly be what Dumbledore was suggestion. He snuck a quick glance over at Lily who had a similar look of disbelief plastered on her face.

But Dumbledore didn’t refute it.

He simply took a deep breath and nodded, “The part of the prophecy that was overheard went as follows – ‘The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies.’”

All four stilled. Frank wrapped his arm around Alice as she went completely white. Lily had an inscrutable expression on her face. And James’s wasn’t accepting that as an answer at all.

“The full prophecy, Dumbledore, what was it?” he demanded; his voice unwavering.

“You must forgive me as I know this is not what you want to hear, but I do not wish to share…”

Lily laughed. “No I’m sorry, you must’ve misunderstood James, he’s not asking for the memory – I’m sure that would put the seer or soothsayer or whatever you want to call that fraud at risk. We just want to know what all was said.”

“Lily,” Dumbledore’s voice softened, “I’m sorry -”

“Whose side are you on?” Frank snapped, “You can’t unilaterally make that decision!”

“Wait, is he fucking with us?” Lily turned to James; her mind seemed to be refusing to accept the reality of their position. “What am I missing here? Professor, you’re telling us that Voldemort is going to hear that one of our babies is going to vanquish him and we’re supposed to… what? Accept that you don’t want to give us more?! You’re fucking joking!”

Dumbledore put his hands up to try and appease. “ - I do not wish to share the full prophecy at this time. I am far less confident that I have accurately interpreted or truly made any sense of the second half. As I alone know its contents, there’s less urgency to interpret and act upon it. I trust each one of you, but it is undeniable that knowledge held amongst one is far safer than knowledge held amongst five. If the time comes and the meaning of the second half of the prophecy becomes apparent or relevant, I won’t withhold it. But for now, I strongly believe this is the wisest course of action.”

The silence around the table was deafening. It seemed no one could quite think of the right rebuttal. It wasn’t that Dumbledore was wrong, necessarily, but he was just… insane, apparently.

“This beyond unacceptable for innumerable reasons. I don’t… I almost don’t know where to start! How could you be so careless?” James finally founds the words he was looking for. “A muffliato would’ve solved this entire situation. Had you done HALF of what you expect us to do… Merlin! No part of the prophecy should’ve been overheard!”

“We were discussing nothing of consequence…”

“Well, it wasn’t so inconsequential,” Frank mocked, “was it?!”

“Now what?” Alice’s spoke up for the first time since the conversation began. Her voice was the kind of calm that came right before someone burst into tears. “Should we leave the country?”

“Alice, honey, I don’t think we’re done - ”

“No, we are done. He’s not going to tell us.” She looked to be the most at peace, but her eyes told a different story. “If it’s safer for him to not say anything else, if it’s safer for the baby, it’s… it’s fine. I trust that he is giving us enough information to protect ourselves and the baby, and if the rest of the prophecy will help us, he won’t choose secrecy over our lives or our baby’s life, right?”

Her expression made it look far more like she was pleading than asking.

“I promise, Alice. All of you. I am simply doing what I think is the safest course for you and your children. As for leaving the country, it’s completely up to you. I do not suggest staying in your respective family homes; lay low for a while and if you chose to remain in the UK, we – the Order – will be able to support you far better than if you were abroad. If something were to go wrong, our options would be far more limited.”

“Honey,” Frank turned to his wife, “would you feel comfortable having the baby abroad?”

She shook her head.

“I’m sorry,” James glared at their former headmaster, “you must actually have lost your mind if you think we’re going to – what – take a step back? Hide?! No, the question is now how can we be doing more!”

“James, I have no reason to believe that Voldemort would immediately connect a child born at the end of July with either Lily or Alice,” Dumbledore said, “but the last thing we need is someone making that connection because they see them visibly pregnant. ‘Thrice defied’ will already have them looking at the Order.”

“But if we’re lying low, what are we actually doing? Hmm?” James raised his voice, “It sounds to me like I’m leaving a war to be fought by my son or daughter, born a decade after it started!”

“We will keep fighting.”

“Well that’ll really depend on how much weight you’re giving the prophecy, won’t it?

“It doesn’t matter if I believe it in or not,” Dumbledore replied diplomatically, “I’m not sure how to interpret it -”

“No, it rather DOES matter! Because if the leader of the resistance believes that Voldemort will not be defeated until a child, who is not yet born, vanquishes him, your approach is going to be vastly different.”

“And James,” Frank added, equal parts anger and frustration in his voice, “that’s assuming the rest of the prophecy stays on that course. It could go any direction, offer any other solution, and we don’t know. We may even be interpreting ‘born’ wrong, right? It seems cut and dry but it’s a prophecy, it could go directions we don’t know because someone refuses to give us the full picture!”

“I’m sympathetic to your frustration Frank, yours as well James. But the second half is far less direct than the first. I am inclined to believe the full prophecy is about someone who will be born at the end of July playing a pivotal role in Voldemort’s demise. But I see no reason to change our tactic or our course based on -”

“No? ‘Course not! Because our currently strategy is working swimmingly,” James said with a huff.

Dumbledore kept his relatively calm demeanor and continued as though he had said nothing at all, “I intend to one day look back and see how the prophecy could be interpreted through the lens of what did happen to make it true; I do not intend to try and waste time and energy speculating on the intricacies of it, or worse, change our approach to try and fit with our interpretation of the prophecy.”

“I swear to God,” Lily interrupted, “if your plan to win the war now relies on a literal child, based on a PROPHECY, of a crackpot seer no less -” 

“I will not plan for a child to win this war for me,” Dumbledore said sternly. “But that does not mean that the danger to the child is any less real. We cannot control how Voldemort may take this and how he chooses to proceed; it may even be through this danger that the prophecy is rendered true. So please, take the proper precautions and lay low. I suggest you both move somewhere more populated, with a high wizarding concentration, somewhere like Hogsmead, or a flat on Diagon Alley, or even Godric’s Hollow, where there’s at least a higher population. You’ll be safer and harder to track quickly.”

“Can you say the prophecy one more time?” Frank said through gritted teeth. He extended his commentary under his breath, “The part that was overheard, exclusively, of course. I would hate to fully understand the risks to my child by learning the full prophecy, seems totally unnecessary…”

Dumbledore cut him off.

“‘The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies.’”

“Please leave,” James said quietly at first, but firmly, standing as he spoke. “I need to speak with my wife and I no longer wish for you to be in my home. Leave. Now.”

“I am so sorry. All of you. We will work through this.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” Frank muttered, helping Alice out of her chair and walking hand and hand out of the dining room.

Dumbledore, with a final glance at Lily and James, followed suit.

There was a moment of complete silence in the manor before their less filtered reactions began, and James found himself clinging to the only thing he had that could make a difference.

“I’ve transferred a good chunk of liquid assets over to your old personal vault,” James began slowly, walking through his Dumbledore-aided mental checklist, “it’ll take time, of course, but that should settle in a matter of days, weeks at most. I’ve had an old family lawyer of ours draw up paperwork to hopefully expediate any sort of legal transition, but the money in your vault would hold you off no matter the delay.”

He began to pace back and forth across the dining room floor, wearing the threadbare oriental rug down with each pivot.

“And I’ll speak with Sirius as soon as I get the chance, it’s just been… well, it’s been hard to find the right time to bring something like this up. I have some additional paperwork I want him to sign, essentially brining him on as a limited, lasting power of attorney. He wouldn’t do much necessarily, but it gives him access to the information and his name alone will make a difference in any Ministry hang-ups. And -”

“Stop,” Lily snapped at him, planted in her seat. “Stop talking. I’m still not entertaining a conversation on how I’ll make do without you!”

“It’s just a precautionary measure in case… in case intent matters less than I think it does. But we need to actually talk about it, especially now.”

“No, I don’t believe the value of destroying the ring immediately outweighs the risk. I’m serious, I’m not entertaining this!”

“We’ve addressed this, Lily. It’s not just about destroying the ring; it’s about testing a destruction method. Once we’ve done that, progress can move exponentially faster, which we need now. It gives us a legitimate reason to risk the cave. Then the Chamber of Secrets - and Padfoot and I know Hogwarts like the back of our hand, it’s do-able. And then Gringotts is a challenge, but Sirius and Isabella know the right people, we’ll get it done.”

Even as he spoke, he knew he was downplaying the path forward. As the Black’s liked to remind them, they weren’t sure which would be a greater obstacle – the Chamber of Secrets, which had never been found, or Gringotts, which had never been robbed. But he needed to believe it could be done.

The urgency to get it done has just increased ten-fold.

“Lily, we can’t stand in the way, not with a prophecy like this out in the open.”

It was as though his words went in one ear and out the other; she was defiant.

“Who’s to even say that Voldemort would put any weight in seers?”

“Because we know he does - why do you think they want the Blacks?”

“It’s a money thing! They’re just - that’s just hedging their bets.”

James didn’t need to respond; he could see it in her eyes that she knew exactly what ‘hedging their bets’ would look when it came to the prophecy.

“Then let’s talk about moving,” he said after a moment.

“Why?”

“What - what do you mean why?”

“I mean WHY? I don’t put any weight into fucking fortune tellers, that’s why!”

“Lily – seers and prophecies aren’t like muggle fortune tellers, there’s a certain legitimacy to them that can’t be dismissed.”

“You heard Dumbledore – even he said all of divination is a ‘rather wooly’ subject.”

“It’s a hard subject to teach, but he was interviewing the seer in the first place for a reason. We can talk to Sirius about it; he can speak to it much more eloquently than I can. It’s just… a real prophecy is rare, but it’s also very real. The ministry of magic keeps records of them and everything. It’s a really big deal. We can’t just dismiss it.”

“Well… I can dismiss thrice defied! That’s not accurate at all. We’ve gone up against the Death Eaters far more times than that.”

“I mean, do we know how often the Death Eaters were working under direct commands from Voldemort vs. alternate commands?”

“I mean -”

“And more importantly, does it even matter?” He could feel himself losing control over his temper. “You heard what Dumbledore said, thrice defied will have him looking at the Order. Who cares if we meet the criteria or not? They won’t know, and I’m worried they won’t care.”

“Well… well, but also the baby would have to be born at the end of July. The due date’s the 31^st, but – what did that pre-natal book say – only something like 5% of babies are born on their due date. The chances are slim I even given birth in July!”

“That’s if they wait to fucking find out, Lily! Do you not realize that?!”

“You’re genuinely worried about this?” Though her words were dismissive her, face said otherwise.

“Lily – I’m absolutely terrified! When Voldemort wants someone dead, they’re a dead man walking. No one survives if he doesn’t want them to. There is a Death Eater out there right now who is letting Voldemort himself know that an Order member will be giving birth to a baby in the next few months that has the power to vanquish him. How could you possibly, POSSIBLY think that’s not effectively a death sentence? For little Harry James or Sophia Lily. Or for YOU Lily, he will JUST KILL YOU!”

“Then don’t you DARE leave me alone just to chip away at his immortality.”

And with that she began to sob. It was as though her final declaration took every ounce of strength away from her and she simply crumbled under the weight of the reality he forced her to confront.

“Oh Lil…”

James was at her side in an instant. He knelt down beside her chair, wrapping his arms around her, as her body began to shake.

“This can’t be h-happening. Y-you can’t leave me. You j-just can’t, please!” she begged into his shoulder.

“I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere. We’re going to do the best we can.”

“How - how can you even talk like that?! Vaults and paperwork and plans on plans,” she yelled, panicky tears still flowing down her cheeks. “Don’t you want to meet your baby?”

The lump in his throat made it impossible to respond.

There was nothing she could’ve said that would’ve hurt him more. Because there was only one thing in this world that he wanted more than that –

He wanted his baby to survive.

Chapter Text

Chapter 18: House Hunting

Where the Potters were anguished, Isabella felt nothing but rage.

Though no one had ever accused her, nor Sirius, of being pacifists, it had been some years since the full extent of their crueler tendences had been unleashed. There were certain standards for how one ought to conduct themselves in polite society that Isabella and Sirius both made a conscious effort to adhered to, no matter how… tedious it seemed.

But the years had not softened them. Their capacity and desire for violent retribution remained, lingering just below the surface. And there had been a certain pressure building behind it. For every debate that ended in a polite smile, for every opinion left unchecked, for every argument where their wands remained firmly planted in their pockets, the pressure built and built.

Upon reflection, it was easy to argue that the horcrux and the magic surrounding it had created considerable cracks.

The prophecy broke the damn.

“Name,” Isabella demanded, as she paced in front of the large stone fireplace in the Black’s living room. The Potters sat together on the antique couch opposite her. “What was the name of the Death Eater who overheard?”

“Dumbledore didn’t say.”

“Well, then we’ll get it out of him. Because I’ve been awfully creative lately and unfortunately my canvas hasn’t exactly been cooperative! But I’ve a good feeling that a human body is a lot more vulnerable than that ring.”

“What use would that be?” Lily shook her head. “It’s been two days, it’s probably too late.”

“Well, then I’ll use him to extract information and kill him for fun.”

Sirius laughed. James and Lily did not.

“Whoever’s responsible for this deserves to die. I’d be doing society a favor,” she said, albeit rather stoically for the sharp message she was delivering.

The Potters barely seemed to register her words.

They’d been like that all morning; dulled and dazed, miserable, and unwilling to entertain any solutions or strategies or opinions that contradicted their fatalistic perspective. It was like a storm cloud had settled over them and there was nothing the Blacks could do to get their friends to step out of the rain.

“Prongs, Lily, you said there are two potential babies that could fit this prophecy, right? At least two in the Order?”

Sirius sat in one of the arm chairs that flanked the fireplace. There was cold indifference in his voice as he spoke and his grey eyes had never looked icier. It was as if he was deliberately shutting off part of himself.

“We could – tilt the scale in your favor, so to speak. Merlin-knows Isabella and I know the right people. Just the slip of the tongue at the right party or family gathering about an abnormally power child, born at the end of July, and the target’s off your back.”

Confused disbelief flashed across the Potters’ faces, but somehow it still felt like a step up from outright dismissal.  

“You… you don’t mean - you wouldn’t…” James began, almost unwilling to put into words what Isabella very well knew her husband was suggesting.

“We would do it,” she stated, no hint of shame in her voice.

She stopped her pacing and stood beside Sirius’ chair. No words needed to be exchanged, no glances necessary – the two of them knew each other well enough to know that both were unabashedly genuine in this offer.

There were very few lines they wouldn’t be willing to cross to protect the ones they loved.

“You can’t be serious.” Lily’s eyes darted between the two of them, brows furrowed. “We would never, ever ask you to! To put a target on a child’s back – it’s just as bad as the Death Eater!”

Lily had always been one of those people that showed every emotion she felt at full volume. Sitting stiffly on the couch next to James, she was doing her best to appear disgusted, almost outraged, but her uncertainty was ever-apparent in her wide eyes and fidgeting hands.

“It’s horrible, sadistic, and inhumane – until it’s your child’s life at stake,” Sirius replied flatly. “Then it’s a very different choice than the one the Death Eater made.”

“They would never do that to us, we couldn’t,” Lily whispered. “We absolutely couldn’t. James – am I…”

“You’re right, they would never do that to us… they have no way to.”

It was the caveat at the end that exposed James’ true thoughts. How could he outright refuse what appeared to be the only solution that would guarantee his child’s safety? Of course he would put his child’s life above of other children’s wellbeing – it was his prerogative as a parent. Isabella felt it entirely justified.

“We couldn’t – James, we couldn’t. I couldn’t live with myself. Knowing what I had done. No.”

“You don’t need to do anything,” Isabella said. “If you give us their names, we could make that decision for you. We’d bear the burden, not you.”

“No. I’m sorry, but no,” Lily shut them down, more assertively this time. “James, we knew the risk of joining the Order; the risk to our lives, to our families’ lives. This is a horrible consequence of fighting for what we believe in, but it’s a consequence we ought to bear ourselves. There are other ways to go about this. We won’t make either of you responsible for the death of a child because of our decision to get involved. And we certainly will not use a child to cover our mistakes.

“But please,” Lily dropped her voice again, barely above a whisper, her eyes showing every ounce of the exhaustion she felt from the last 12 hours, “please don’t ask again. Even as I say this… it weighs on me. I don’t know that I could say no again.”

Isabella had always known that Lily was principled to a fault, but Merlin she didn’t realize how far she’d take it. She just stared at her for a moment, eyes boring into her pregnant friend. Lily was a better person than she was, that much was obviously.

She never would’ve made that decision.

Isabella wasn’t angry, not at Lily at least, but the reality of the situation was hitting her, and she was suddenly struck by the fact that she was scared, genuinely scared. It was not an emotion she liked, particularly when her hands were tied with what she could do about it.

Without word, she moved to the shelves that lined the fireplace, grabbing a select few books as she went.

“Fiendfyre…?” Sirius asked with no small amount of reservation.

“I don’t know,” James said.

“Still?”

“After the baby’s born, whenever the baby’s born, we’ll… revisit.” There was something in his tone that told them not to press on it.

Sirius sighed. “Then what can we do?”

“We need to move, we’re thinking Godric’s Hollow, right near you both.”

Isabella took a seat on the other armchair with a huff, a stack of books on her lap weighing her down. There were probably a handful that still lived outside that would be of use, but their first choices, the ones they’d already worked their way through, would almost certainly suffice.

The conversation progressed without her – diving into the challenges of purchasing a muggle home that was ‘wired’ and the intricacies of something or other involving currency conversions; nothing worth her attention. Sirius was the first to bring up defenses around the home and whether there was a point to being strategic with the property they purchased. The Potters rebuffed in no uncertain terms, not because they didn’t see a need – Merlin, they saw a need – but what they didn’t see was a point.

“Then wards, yes?” Isabella looked up from her copy of Secrets of the Darkest Art – they were back on track. “Sirius, love, can you get me an ox? Something small won’t work for the amount of blood I need.”

“Course.”

“Woah there!” Lily said at almost the same time.

“You have no idea what I’m planning for your house – it’s so illegal, but it’s absolutely brilliant.” She paused with a smile.

She could tell from the way their eyes grew larger and the corners of their mouths turned down as she spoke, that they were not taking it nearly a reassuringly as she meant it. But transparently, it didn’t matter if they liked it or not, it was by far the safest option and that was really her only prerogative.

“And then Sirius,” she continued, “you can use the horns for the runes…”

She flipped back through the book to make sure she understood what that would take.

“I don’t know how comfortable -”

“Merlin!” Sirius cut Lily off, “you’re proposing the Inverted Lachesism, aren’t you? Daring, love, it’s brilliant. Is an ox enough?”

“It keeps using the word ‘soak’ to describe the ground’s coating, so I don’t - ”

“Oh please,” Lily sounded disgusted, “do not soak our ground in blood!”

“Oh gosh, Lil, it won’t be inside the new house! And I only need just a little of your blood, so you’ll barely notice!”

“And how are you getting blood of the enemy?” Sirius asked, seemingly unaware of the horror on their companions’ faces.

“Well that’s gonna come from the bloody Death Eater Dumbledore’s going to help me identify! Though at this point Dumbledore’s might even do the trick,” she rolled her eyes, “I still don’t understand how you screw up this badly.”

“And then don’t forget he’s also not telling them half of what they deserve to know,” Sirius added, turning back to James and Lily. “I’d have proposed you both use your proclivity for veritaserum there, but he’s a better occlumens than I am, there’s no use.”

“I think you two are putting the cart before the horse here, or well, the ox before the house, in this case.” James laughed nervously, “Lily was looking in the paper this morning and there’s a few on the market. If you can resist spilling any blood while we’re there, we’d love to walk through the village and take a look. And again, you’re welcome to come.”

“Now?” Sirius almost didn’t let James finish his thought.

“I-I guess now works.”

“Yes, let’s.” Sirius leapt up, Isabella barely a step behind him.

The Potters had been lucky to keep them seated for as long as they did.

Godric’s Hollow was the only place in the UK where the ratio of wizards to muggles was about one to one. It was said that most of the muggles knew something was amiss in their small village – unusual colored chimney smoke, a few more brooms in places that in other villages may’ve had bikes, late night enthusiastic conversations about sports that didn’t exist, an unusual penchant for cloaks regardless of the season, and of course, the ever-present ornamental sticks many residences carried around like a lifeline. The muggles grew up knowing that they should never address any of these strange behaviors if they spotted it; those more interesting residences were skittish and would vehemently deny any strangeness at all. The muggle residences of Godric’s Hollow had nevertheless grown to embrace the unusualness, stating that the village felt a bit more magical because of it.

And Godric’s Hollow did feel magically. It was a sleepy village that looked like someone had dropped it out of a storybook. The narrow cobblestone streets were clearly designed before cars, giving it a timeless feel. The town center was quaint and cozy, with just enough small shops to keep it interesting. The storefronts all had big display windows with thick glass and old masonry and tiling showing the original names from when the stores were built – a few of which notably remained the same to this day. Past the shops and pub, there was a beautiful old church and cemetery, a focal point in the square. Winding their way out of the village center, they got a sense of just how intimate the hollow was; they would get to know their neighbors and their neighbors them. The Tudor-style cottages felt familiar and welcoming as the four of them meandered their way to the different properties in the paper ads. It felt like a safe place to raise a family.

Walking to one of the final houses on their list - a two-bedroom with a large garden – they found themselves approaching a vaguely familiar-looking couple on the street, about a decade older than them, coming from the opposite direction.

“Shit,” James muttered under his breath.

The closer they got, the more Isabella understood his tone.

“They’re…” she began.

“The Longbottoms – Frank and Alice,” James filled them in.

That wasn’t really her question.

“Aurors,” Sirius answered with a bit more trepidation in his voice. “And they’re ex-”

“In the Order with us.” Lily cut him off, though she looked like she immediately wished she hadn’t.

Because the Longbottoms' involvement was hardly the most noticeable thing about them in that moment, but it certain connected a few dots.

Best left unsaid, Isabella thought.

With big smile and warm ‘Hello!’ Isabella tried to reach out her hand to greet them.

“Bella, right?” Alice said, glancing at her extended hand without moving.

“I prefer Isabella, actually.”

She tried moving a bit more forward and was again dismissed.

“Yeah, I guess that’d get confusing, wouldn’t it?”

“I’m sorry – what does that mean?” Sirius jumped in at her defense.

Isabella slowly lowered her hand, and with a moment to compose herself, brushed her coat down instinctively. She knew exactly what Alice meant and found herself almost curious to see how far the woman would take it.

“Alice, please,” Lily tried to interject before the conversation quickly nose-dived into more controversial territory.

“You have to forgive us,” Frank followed his wife, seizing up Isabella, “Bellatrix Black was in our year and was, well, the worst person we’ve ever met. Can’t say we’re exactly jumping at the opportunity to get to know Bella Black II.”

Isabella raised her brow.

“Well fortunately for you, I go by ISA-bella. Isabella. Whole different name, for a whole different person. No ‘X’!” she laughed.

“And Sirius Black, right?” Alice glared at him, ignoring Isabella’s retort entirely. “First one in your family in Gryffindor, so we’ve been told. Didn’t seem to have much of an effect though.”

“I don’t think that’s true…” James interjected.

“He married some Rosier and does what for a living?” Frank scoffed. “That’s not exactly ground-breaking.”

Isabella had to make a conscious effort to keep her jaw from going slack.

“I’m standing right here. I think I’m a rather good Rosier…”

“It’s a rather low bar,” Alice sneered

“Wow, that’s actively rude! What a thing to say about say about someone’s family - ”

“That was actually on the nicest end of things I could think to say about your family.”

“We just met, correct? Is this how you introduce yourself to everyone or are we just special?”

“Oh please, don’t play naïve.” Alice gave her a condescending scan. “It’s kind of pathetic coming from someone like you. I know your family - do you?”

Though Isabella had never had much luck with lighter families, it was clear that her own recent history, as well as what she strongly suspected occurred the prior night, fueled Alice’s disproportionate hostility towards them. Unfortunately for Alice, there was no polite way to warn her that she shouldn’t jump into the deep-end with them unless she was a very good swimmer.

Isabella took a deep breath. For the Potters' sake, she could contain it.

“How many people do you think Evan Rosier’s killed?”

Never mind.

“I’m sorry – WHAT?!” Isabella’s tone shifted in an instant.

“Killed, tortured, scarred – just curious how much you know or care about your cousin’s activities. What about your uncle? Or your brother?”

“Lyzander’s not - ”

“Oh, are you sure? That’s not what I’ve heard… and seen.”

It was a rare comment that could truly catch Isabella off guard. She didn’t fluster easily and almost always assumed that she had heard worse. She had probably said worse back in the day. But it went without saying, Alice’s remark on her brother had hit her ever so precisely. Isabella was entirely at a loss for words. It… it couldn’t be true. She would’ve known if he’d…

She couldn’t think about it, it wasn’t worth the energy.

No, she would’ve known.

“And what about your brother, Black? How many do you think Regulus Black has killed?”

The memories of Reg on their back patio flashed in Isabella’s mind. She didn’t want to go there either.

“I’d walk us through the extensive list of Blacks amongst their ranks,” Alice continued her tirade, “but I’m afraid we’d be here all day.”

“This is an unnecessary and inappropriate game you’re playing,” Sirius responded, standing up straighter as he spoke. “If you think I’m going to entertain this conversation, you are sorely mistaken. I don’t know you. Why would I get into private matters with you?”

“Frank, Alice, look,” James tried to walk the group off the edge, “this has been a bad introduction coming at a horrible time, but these are good friends of ours. We trust them without a shadow of doubt.”

“Yeah, we know you’re convinced already,” Frank said bluntly.

“Knowing what the Death Eaters are capable of, how can they – how can anyone look the other way? You and I both know EXACTLY the damage a Death Eater can do,” Alice voice cracked as she spoke, “and those are the same people they choose to continue associating with.”

“I didn’t choose to be born a Rosier any more than you chose your bloody background! You’re grossly overestimating our relationship with these people; sometimes you can share nothing more than a last name with a person, it’s why they’re individuals.”

Isabella knew she ought to cut her comments there, but she just couldn’t resist when she knew saying just a little more would hit just a little harder.

“And honestly, I think you’re understating the contributions families like mine have made to Wizarding society. Fucking Light - ”

“I’m sorry - did you expect me to stand here complimenting the Rosiers?” Alice interrupted with a laugh, “And the Blacks are somehow worse, it’s incredible. It’s not just a few rotten apples, it’s the whole damn tree! We could really save some time if we just sent your future children to Azkaban when they turn 11 rather than Hogwarts…”

“ALICE!” Lily shouted, “Seriously, that’s - ”

“No, that’s quite alright – I’ve heard pregnancy hormones can be a total challenge.” Isabella’s voice turned artificially sweet as her eyes narrowed in on Alice, “You look like you’re about as far along as Lily! When are you due? End of the seventh month?”

The reactions were explosive and instantaneous. From stunned to hysterical; Isabella wasn’t sure she would’ve gotten such a drastic response had she just outright hexed Alice Longbottom. Oh she would feel guilty later, probably, but at that moment, she was relishing in delivering the devastating final blow. Everyone was shouting at once but she had said enough.

The Longbottoms were in a full-blow panic that both her and her husband knew of the prophecy and it seemed the Potters were trying to defend – maybe not her directly – but there decision certainly.

It seemed a bit dramatic; if they were Death Eaters, then they would know the prophecy anyhow. And they already knew Lily was pregnant. It certainly wasn’t the Potters' intention to introduce the Blacks to the Longbottoms either. And if the Longbottoms were genuinely concerned about Death Eaters learning Alice was pregnant, maybe they should’ve have been strolling around in broad daylight. This wasn’t some remote muggle hovel; this was Godric’s Hollow. They could’ve just as easily ran into actual Death Eaters who learned of the prophecy from another actual Death Eater.

Sirius looked no more ready to apologize than she was. It may have been a cruel thing to bring up, but it wasn’t as though Alice didn’t have it coming.

In furious storm of anger, the Longbottoms apparated away leaving the Potters and Blacks alone on the street once more.

“Jesus, you - mhmm,” Lily turned to Isabella furiously, “I know Alice was being God-awful, but how much of a bitch do you have to be to use someone’s fear for their child like that?!”

“That’s right,” Sirius took a step forward, “I’m glad you recognize how horrible someone needs to be to suggest you send their children to Azkaban.”

“You don’t have children! That’s not – You don’t - ”

“I believe she covered her bases there with ‘future’…”

“Sirius, shut it,” James interrupted, before turning to Isabella. “I know why you said it. And Merlin, I wish you didn’t. But we take the responsibility here – we never should’ve let this conversation continue for that long. I think we’re frankly lucky you didn’t say worse.”

Sirius raised his brow.

“But you cannot do anything with this. Promise me.” James’ voice was unwavering and cold; a tone unfamiliar to both of them. It must’ve emerged post-Hogwarts; a by-product of the war. “You will not use what you just learned. I imagine you absolutely loathe the Longbottoms right now, but they are scared out of their minds just like we are. They’re good people, even if they didn’t show it today. What Lily said earlier stands – we will not use a child to cover our mistakes.”

The look in James and Lily’s eyes told them everything they needed to know. This was not something they would waver on.

There would just have to be another way.

Chapter Text

Chapter 19: With the Salt Wind from the Sea

The days and weeks that followed passed altogether too slowly and too quickly, all at once. James and Lily moved into last house on the house-hunting adventure. It was exactly what they were looking for; a gorgeous two-bedroom cottage with a beautiful front garden and more than enough living space to entertain. The main rooms on the first floor felt cozy and warm, leaning into creams and reds and natural woods. The furniture was an eclectic combination of old shabby pieces they’d moved from the manor and new pieces that they had purchased to supplement when nothing fit the space well.

They didn’t want to officially move out of the manor, they were going back one day, but this cottage was where they would have Harry and they didn’t want any part of it to feel temporary.

And in just a few short weeks. they’d succeeded. It was truly a home.

The nursery itself was a spectacle to behold. The built-in bookcases were filled with unique artifacts and a library’s worth of muggle and wizard children’s stories. Sirius teased that they had done too good of a job filling the space that they’d forgotten to make room for a child. The joke didn’t land with James, though, and  the subject was dropped before it treaded into unspoken territory.

Conversations of substance, of the ring, of Fiendfyre, of horcruxes, and destruction, died on delivery. The focus was on the baby, and neither Isabella, nor Sirius, had the heart to emphasize the connection. The Potters knew. Of course they knew. Even in conversation on preparation, the reality slipped through the cracks. But otherwise, it was silence.

And it was this silence, and this unsettling sense of stalling propelled them forward. On a cool summer day, Isabella and Sirius made their way to the London Borough of Tower Hamlets to locate the abandoned Wool’s Orphanage. They wouldn't speak of their motivations, not in public, nor would either of them admit how much of a dead end they feared it would be.

It was still something.

When everything else seemed to fail and nothing else could be done, this was something.

The orphanage was tucked between Limehouse and the Isle of Dogs, just beyond the completely deserted West India Docks. For what had once been one of the busiest docks in the world, the whole area appeared to be abandoned. Isabella hadn’t read anything of the sort, but was sudden struck with the thought that perhaps 1980 was the year muggles stopped using boats.

Without much else to explain the stunning desolation of the area, it was clear that it couldn’t remain like this for long; the abandoned docks were sitting on a goldmine. They were only just outside of the City of London, no further from the center than they’d be at 12 Grimmauld in Islington. Though there were no signs that construction or redevelopment had started, it could only be a matter of time for property like this, Isabella felt confident.

Though she had no reason to own muggle land, similar to what the Rosiers had done with Diagon Alley centuries before her, there could be opportunity to reallocate some of the land for wizarding use. And was she really above making a few pounds by leasing the rest to muggles? She stored that thought in the back of her mind for later.

The orphanage was good few blocks off the docks, nestled amongst old housing for dockers who had long left the area along with the work. It was on one of those unfortunately designed streets that even on a sunny day, the light didn’t quite reach the pavement. The building itself wasn’t as oppressive as Isabella had expected; it was just old and it was clear the years abandoned had done a number on it. The red bricks looked dingy and the windows had cracks and holes. The ironwork “Wool’s” still remained above the gate, though the entrance was barred by blue tape and metal chains.

As they approached, there was no sense of magic, certainly not the unpleasant, prickling sensation they had gotten at the Gaunt shack. Isabella and Sirius cast a quick round of spells at the gate and surrounding area to test for wards and came back with nothing. In the blink of an eye, the couple apparated to the other side and disappeared behind the tall brick wall into overgrown courtyard.

Despite the absolute stillness, they proceeded as if there was something lurking in the tall, dried grasses. Slowly, cautiously, not a sound made between the two of them. Barely a push and the nearly 20 ft tall wooden doors gave way with a loud creek. The pungent smell of must and dust wafted out; it was clear no one had been inside in some time. The first floor appeared to be primarily administrative offices along with a hospital wing. Yellowing papers lay strewn across the old desks. Old filing cabinets lined the walls, dusty, but otherwise untouched.

Though they felt decently confident that Tom Riddle had once resided in Wool’s Orphanage, and that the tragedy that befell it was no accident, it was also true to say that their evidence was circumstantial at best. Finding concrete proof that the Dark Lord had once walked these halls would at least help them nail down what a portion of his life looked like.

They tried to cast a quick accio for Tom Riddle’s records, which returned nothing, forcing them to take a more muggle approach. The labels had long faded or peeled off the filing cabinet fronts and it took them a few minutes to locate the section with 1920s records. They had to jimmy the drawers to get them to open, but they were certain they’d be rewarded for their efforts based on the mountain of information the orphanage kept on each of the children. Locating the ‘R’s, Isabella felt a rush of adrenaline as she spotted the very name they were looking for on a small, well-worn tab near the back of the drawer.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

They both took deep breaths, as if they were bracing themselves to be attacked by the contents of the file. It needed to be done – no matter how weird, and invasive, and uncomfortable it made them feel to be prying into the personal records of a young orphaned boy – the man he’d become made his history relevant. They needed to know everything they could about him, including his childhood. Isabella cast her eyes between Sirius and the filing cabinet, gesturing him on.

With an extended exhale, he pulled back the tab.

Nothing.

To whatever extend Tom Riddle had a presence and a history worth documenting at Wool’s, those records were long-gone.

The couple paused and stared at the empty space for a good moment, before shutting it slowly, and physically and mentally shaking it off. Though they had hoped for more, this was the proof they needed that Tom Riddle had in fact lived in the orphanage.

And that the Dark Lord had been back since.

They took the old spiraling stairs at the back of the corridor up. The second floor was the beginning of the residential floors, predominantly classrooms and a recreation center, with old board games, cards, building blocks, and other nick knacks thrown about. There was really no way of telling how nice or dingy it had been at its heyday – there were toys and education supplies, and it seem to be on the better end of an orphanage, but it didn’t have a homey feel to it, at least not now.

Suddenly a wave of nausea washed over Isabella. Standing in the recreation center, the weight of what Riddle had done in the Orphanage hit her like a bludger. From the newspaper, there had been close to 30 deaths, many adults, but also children, ages ranging from 0 to 13. They couldn’t depersonalize it; these were children’s things strewn about where they had played - likely where they had been playing.

Sirius looked equally disgusted as he glanced around the room before ushering them out.

The bedrooms on the third through fifth floors drove the point home. Each room had a bed, a desk, and a dresser, and if it wasn’t for the thick layer of dust, it almost looked like the children had just stepped away for a moment. There were little treasures on the desks, faded drawings hung on the walls, beds made haphazardly evidencing all ranges of ages and skills, and stuffed animals waiting patiently on the pillows for kids who never came back.

“He’s a fucking monster,” Isabella’s voice cracked as she spoke, standing in the center of a little girl’s room who had customized her walls with drawings full of stars. “These – these weren’t even the same kids he went to school with? Why do this? Why?”

Sirius reached out and held Isabella’s hand tight, “He’s depraved - fucking sadistic. I would say he’s an evil man, but I don’t think he’s even a man anymore.”

They kept moving. Walking room by room, corridor by corridor, trying to keep their senses open to something that may be out of the ordinary.

There was nothing - nothing magical, at least. But the weight of the tragedy overlayed the orphanage like a thick blanket, in a way that both wizards and muggles alike could perceive. No one who spent more than five minutes in the upper floors of the old building would want anything to do with it; in a very human sense, it felt awful. There was no repurposing a building like this. Wool’s Orphanage should, and at this point almost certainly would, remain abandoned until the whole area was cleared away, leaving nothing but dust and articles to tell the world of the events of 1955.

Escaping the top floor brought no relief. With every flight of stairs they were forced to relive the tragic time capsule they’d unveiled on every level of the muggle orphanage. It wasn’t just utterly depressing, it was enraging.

For all they debated the nuances of the Death Eater’s perspective, this was the man they followed. Seeing the aftermath of the Dark Lord’s senseless violence reemphasized that he was not a man of principles. His prerogative was power, and power by whatever means he could get it. The Death Eaters had no principles stemming from the top down. Each Death Eater may as well be fighting under their own banner of what they wished to achieve; she was certain that the Dark Lord would even encourage each person to believe whatever necessary to continue fighting for his own personal glory.

It was almost a shame for someone like Bellatrix Lestrange. She was powerful and intelligent enough that she could’ve had a following in her own right. She could’ve had an illustrious career in politics; her magic-first perspectives would’ve resonated with a significant percentage of the population.

Now, no matter how persuasive and thought-provoking her ideas were – and Merlin did it make Isabella’s stomach turn to think how compelling she really did find her; how easily it could’ve…

No.

She refused go there.

After the war, Bellatrix’s only future would be a life-sentence in Azkaban. She had decided that magic was worth fighting for, and hitched her wagon to a Dark Lord that didn’t care one way or another, didn’t care about the bodies left in his wake, so long as he ended up on top.

Every step down seemed to elevate Isabella’s blood pressure until she was ready to burst as they cleared the first floor into the decaying courtyard.

“We should just burn it down. It’s like – it’s like is a bloody monument to his cruelty!” Isabella could barely get the words out behind her anger.

Sirius looked back up at the building; neck craning to see the top floor.

“Or like a mausoleum.” His words were cold and bitter, a sharp contrast to Isabella’s demeanor. “The kids were orphans, no one was coming for their things. There was no one to notice they were gone. No one to - ”

“Well, WE’RE here! Sirius, we’re here now. Let’s light this shit up and get rid of it! End it!” She lowered her voice ever-so-slightly, “I do know the closing incantation."

That caught his attention.

“You can’t.”

“Why not?” she fired back.

“I want it gone too, don’t misunderstand me. But you’re not using Fiendfyre this close to the center of London - you’re just not.”

Isabella couldn’t peel her eyes away from the building. “Doesn’t it almost feel like he’s mocking us? Showing the world that he can take and take and take and we’ll just ACCEPT IT?!”

“But not Fiendfyre. And besides destroying it, won’t that draw attention?”

“It’s fire, it’ll look natural.”

“Fiendfyre won’t look natural. It’ll leave magical residue; it’ll jump to every building in this forsaken borough. No. Try again.”

“What about a ward to prevent it? Something like what we saw at the Gaunt shack?”

“Even less so. That’ll make it all the more obvious it was a wizard’s doing. And where else have you seen those runes, really?”

“In Secrets of the Darkest Art…”

Sirius scoffed.

Fine, Isabella thought to herself as another plan formed. She turned towards him, softening her gaze.

“Do you have a fag?” she asked ever so sweetly, batting her eyes along with her request.

It couldn’t have looked more suspicious had she done a little jig to accompany it.

“You know I do…” Sirius replied, “…why?”

“Why does anyone ask for a smoke Sirius, gosh?” She turned towards him, wrapping her arms around the back of his neck. “Please?”

He pulled out the pack from his pocket and offered it to her.

Isabella cocked her head; oh, he knew exactly what she wanted.

She traced her fingers along the back of his neck, pulling a smile out of her husband for the first time since they’d left for this cursed place. Sirius took out a single fag and placed it between her slightly parted lips.

She smirked, running her hands through the back of his hair before letting him go.

Lighting the cigarette with her wand, she walked with purpose back down towards the gate. She didn’t need to glance back to know that Sirius was following her.

With a long drag she apparated to the opposite side of the wall, joined swiftly by her husband, who closed the gap between them.

“Do I need to be worried?” Sirius whispered in her ear, wrapping his arm around her waist.

“Oh, most definitely.”

And with a final glance through the iron gate at the place too deeply scarred by its history, she flicked her cigarette through the bars and watched at the dried grasses lit in seconds.

Chapter Text

Chapter 20: Harry James Potter

Harry James Potter was born on July 31^st, 1980.

They were so close.

They’d heard the Longbottom’s boy was born the day prior and that wasn’t taken lightly.

When Lily hadn’t given birth yet, those closest to them started to get optimistic - quietly, but there were certainly whispers. There was this glimmer of hope that their baby wasn’t coming in July. That the baby born at the end of the seventh month had already been born.

Knowing the significance of the date, Sirius and Isabella arrived to the Potters new cottage in Godric’s Hollow bright and early on the 31^st. By mid-morning, Peter and, to their surprise and joy, Remus arrived as well. By noon, Marlene McKinnon arrived with lunch and Lily still hadn’t gone into labor. The whispers were turning to cautious excitement. It was a strange feeling, rooting for a baby not to come on time. By dinnertime, the groups optimism soared – even if she went into labor, an August 1^st birthday was now feasibly on the table. There was a nervous excitement in the air; in just a few short hours, they would fall out of the criteria of the prophecy.

And then Lily’s water broke just after sunset.

There was an eeriness to the near empty St. Mungos, but it was a necessity given the circumstances. Sirius, who had flanked the group as they walked in, subtly pulled aside the Head of the Department and asked that anyone else who came in that night be redirected to another floor. Isabella had never known him to exert his influence in that capacity, but he did so guiltlessly. This was a moment to use everything in their arsenal.

Isabella sat between Sirius and Peter in the waiting room, Marlene and Remus across from them. The only sound in the room was that of an ugly old clock ticking, hung high on the wall. It was positioned just above the doorway to the maternity ward. And though each one of them feigned interest in the door their friends had cleared moments earlier, the truth was every one of them was watching the clock. Time seemed to have slowed down.

Almost as suddenly as he had left, James burst through the very same door and every eye in the waiting room turned to him.

And then up to the clock that so clearly showed them it was not yet the next day.

“It’s a boy!” he announced, slightly out of breath.

He was grinning, but also trembling, hand gripping the door frame.

“Harry James Potter.”

It felt like something inside Isabella broke. It was a sort of helpless pain that she wasn’t sure she’d ever felt before and hoped she would never feel again. She had always separated pain into the kind that made her cry and the kind that made her cruel, but rarely had she experienced the kind that made her crumble. It was unforgivable how unprepared she was. Her emotions crashed over her, crushing and compressing her to the point that she found it nearly impossible to breath.

The only thing stopping her from collapsing was Sirius. He squeezed her hand tightly, wordlessly letting her know that he was there and that he felt it all too. But it also reminded her that it was not the time to react. Not in front of James.

The next few minutes were a blur, but it seemed everyone managed to pulled themselves together quickly enough celebrate.

“The new Potter heir,” James said, staring down at the bundle in Lily’s arms.

Isabella took a quick glance around the room, but she seemed to be the only one surprised by that proclamation.

Harry was far and above the cutest baby they had ever seen. He was born with this jet-black spikey hair that James kept affectionally referring to as ‘windswept’, and he had clearly taken after his mother with his big, bright green eyes. He was so small with a little scrunched up face; they could hardly believe he was real. How anyone, anyone, could see this little tiny thing as a threat was beyond them.

It hurt to even think about.

The atmosphere in the hospital room was emotional – a rather even split between joyous and sorrow. Though there was nothing but smiles and excitement in front of the new parents, everyone took a private moment away from the rest of the group to grieve. They could hear it in each one of their voices the moment they cracked, words left suspended in a pregnant pause, unable to finish without exposing themselves too much.

There were whispered talks of fudging the date, postponing the announcement; Peter even suggested taking the birth records all together.

But still, they smiled.

The Potters took the opportunity to ask Sirius and Isabella to be the Godparents, an honor that almost brought both of them to tears. Though Sirius didn’t acknowledge it, Isabella could’ve sworn there was a strange look in James’ eyes as he asked them, almost as though he wanted them to understand the severity of the request. It reminded Isabella a bit of the paperwork Sirius had signed a few weeks earlier at James’ behest. Just a precaution, Sirius explained. Both could agree that it was James getting his affairs in order before the baby arrived, but Isabella got the sense they both meant it differently.

Had she not already been suspicious of James’ behavior, she almost certainly wouldn’t have been fixating on the fact that he’d referred to Harry as the ‘Potter heir.’ Such a label was in her vernacular, Sirius’ too, but it was not a casual comment from James Potter. A Light wizard’s first thought after having a child, particularly a Light wizard married to a muggle-born, was not about securing the legacy of their House.

Isabella tuned back to the conversation at hand - a playful debate over what baby Harry ought to call them. She laughed along at proposals like ‘Uncle Padfoot the Great’ or ‘Padfoot the Great’ – “for short!” – that were quickly shut down. They didn’t even bother trying to get a nickname for Isabella - not the time for that conversation. As Sirius and James joked back and forth about more appropriate names, there was a real lightness in the air that they hadn’t felt since James fetched them from the waiting room.

Isabella tried to embrace it; ignore the sinking feeling that they were missing something rather significant.

But the feeling persisted.

Peter, Remus, and Marlene had taken their leave and Lily and the baby looked like they were getting ready to dose off when Isabella caught James’ eye and her heart dropped. She knew that look.

He asked to speak to the couple in the hallway.

There was a tightness in her throat as she walked out after him.

The hallways the hospital employed a sort of super-charged bioluminescent system that gave the appearance of florescent lights, except for its uneven and varying distribution of light and faint discolored glow. The sterile hallway appeared to stretch on indefinitely and there were odd sounds echoing through the floor and ceiling, not uncommon in a hospital for magical maladies and injuries, but still setting them on edge.

James’ expression as he closed the door did nothing to ease her concern. There ought to be no one wandering by to overhear, but James still cast a muffliato dropped his voice as he spoke.

“You need to destroy the ring.” His tone was serious and unemotive. “I – I know what I’m asking - ”

Just a precaution. The words echoed in her mind.

“Prongs, what?” Sirius interrupted. “No. How can you – where’s this coming from?!”

“I know what happened tonight – and we appreciate you all putting on a strong face, but we were watching clock in there as well. He was coming no matter what, there was nothing that could be done. And the son of two Order members was born…” James’ voice caught. He gritted his teeth as he took a deep breath. “I want it done. I know what I’m asking and what I’m risking - ”

“So you’ve interpreted it? Are you sure?”

“I think I have a better understanding.”

Sirius objected, “Better’s not good; better’s still a risk. Do you or do you not understand what’s going to happen if we destroy the ring?”

“I think intent matters, but I don’t know, that’s the truth. There are a lot of ways to interpret… it. I don’t know the risk. But if it’s a choice between his life and mine, then that’s not a choice at all. I refuse to be an obstacle in Voldemort’s demise, particularly at my own son’s risk. No.”

“Then we’ll collect -”

James shook his head. “No, you can’t. It’s an astronomical risk to have one under your roof. Three more? No. Unless you have a bona fide destruction method, you’d be a fool to go after more.”

“We could destroy the others,” Sirius tried again, “it’s just the ring…”

“And then, eventually, you’ll have to destroy the ring. Have you found anything, at all, that gives you hope that there’s another option? Another method? I haven’t.”

Sirius fell silent and Isabella had nothing to add.

“It can happen now or it can happen in 6 months,” James said.

“Then give it 6 more months, why -”

“Because I am NOT going to look at my son every day knowing that I haven’t done EVERYTHING in my power to protect him. Do you understand me? Everything’s in place if it doesn’t… if it doesn’t work out in my favor. I know you’ll be there for them; I know you.”

Sirius glanced over towards Isabella, hoping for an objection, but she couldn’t disguise the fact that James words, as frustrating and demoralizing as they were, only confirmed what she’d begun to suspect.

“I don’t know that you can ask this of us,” Sirius tried, “Prongs, I -”

“This isn’t a negotiation. I’m not asking you; I’m telling you,” James interrupted, his voice unwavering. “The risk doesn’t matter. Not to me, not anymore.”

He smiled but there was a look of profound sadness in his eyes. “I got to meet my son. So for Harry, please. Please do this for Harry.”

And with that, James turned around and went back into the room, leaving the Blacks standing alone under the flickering lights of the desolate hallway.

He hadn’t said goodbye. It was a small thing to cling to, but it was all they had. If he genuinely believed that destroying the ring would prove fatal, he would’ve said goodbye, they were certain.

They walked quickly and silently through the corridor, out of the maternity ward, and back to the apparition point. Isabella would’ve said she was desperate to get out of the hospital’s claustrophobic halls, but moments later, standing in the living room of their estate, it seemed as though the wall were closing in no matter where she stood. The gold box sat in front of them on the coffee table like a corpse – they didn’t want to look at it, but they couldn’t look away.

“He said he’d wait until the baby’s born – the day he told us about the prophecy? He said ‘after the baby’s born; whenever the baby’s born.’ I thought he meant… it’s how you knew this was coming, right?”

“I didn’t even realize,” Isabella said softly. “It was just today - he called Harry the ‘Potter heir’. That’s not… between the Power of Attorney and the Godparents, he just seemed to be preparing.”

“How long do you think he’s been planning this? He checked every fucking box, didn’t he?” he kicked the coffee table.

Sirius wore an almost inscrutable expression; a rather even keel of determination and antagonism. But he didn’t have anything else to say. Had it been anyone else, they would be deep in a conversation about the nature of the request; the ethicality of the request. But it was James.

“What about the Isle of Wight?” Sirius posed suddenly, staring straight ahead.

“Are you… do we need to discuss this?”

“No,” he said brusquely. “Isle of Wight? How many people could possibly live there?”

“Like a 100,000, that’s a horrible option. What about somewhere in the Isles of Scilly? St. Helens? Is that the old quarantine island?”

“The spattergroit one? I think so. There’s gotta be 50 uninhabited islands in the archipelago, if not that one then we can bounce around.”

There a silent moment where they continued to stare at the daunting object in front of them.

“We’re not going to make a mistake,” Isabella said, trying to ease the palpable tension. “Going somewhere, I mean, this is just a precaution. We know what we’re doing.”

“Do we?”

Isabella shrugged. “We’re sure we don’t want to wait till morning? It’s gonna be pitch-black.”

“We’ll manage. I want this done. I don’t want this hanging over his head.”

There was a strain in his voice that made Isabella question how sincerely he meant what he was saying. But if this was something that needed to be done, she wasn’t going to be the person to stop it. Without allowing herself to hesitate, she grabbed the box and apparated on the spot; Sirius followed with only a second delay.

St. Helens was only illuminated by the stars and the moon, still large in the sky following the full moon less than a week prior. There was a lighthouse on the island just across the water, whose light created an almost disorienting strobe effect, making it nearly impossible for their eyes to adjust to the dark. Sirius cast a lumos maxima to help minimize the impact from the lighthouse and guide their steps across the rocky shore terrain as they made their way to the other side of the island. While the orb may not catch the lightkeepers attention, Fiendfyre just might. The sea breeze was strong, and the gusts of wind misted them, leaving them feeling salty and chilled, even on the hot summer night. Most of the island was covered in tall grass, with the occasional taller plant life, nothing substantial, and they made out the outline of the old spattergroit house through the dark.

They were nearly silent as they walked, concentrating on their steps and the task at hand. Sirius knew more about oaths than she did, more about the kind of magic involved in assuming the Head of a House, and she would defer to him. Because Isabella knew all she needed to; she knew her husband’s relationship with his oldest friend. If Sirius really believed this was going to kill James Potter, he’d put a stop to it. She knew it with certainty.

It was the only thing that kept her moving forward.

Once they were sufficiently blocked by the island, she set the box down on a large bolder and moved back about 20 or so paces; enough space that they felt safer, but still a controllable distance.

“Isabella – I’m sorry,” Sirius’ voice broke the silence, “you’re gonna have to do this. I can’t – I won’t be able to concentrate - not with James…”  

His voice cut out. The sudden display of emotion was exactly what she hadn’t wanted from him, but it was entirely unfair to ask him to be her rock at a time like this.

He looked apologetic, but he didn’t need to. She had intended to be the castor anyway; controlled rage played to her strengths more than his. And with the risk to James, she wouldn’t have asked him to even try.

She took a deep breath. There would be no practice round, no attempt number two, either she would cut it correctly or there would be nothing remaining of St. Helens by the time the sun rose on August 1^st. She had read up on the curse as much as possible; she knew the incantations and correct wand motions, and she expected it to yank her and feel like it was fighting her – she couldn’t let that take her by surprise. She raised her wand.

“Pestis Incendium!”

The flames jumped from her wand like a stampede. She concentrated on pouring her rage through it – the threat to Harry, the overheard prophecy, the cruelty of the Dark Lord, the bedrooms at the orphanage – she poured it all into the spell. The flames start to take shapes but she need more to feed them. She gave it more personal rage – Alice Longbottom’s awful comments, the unknowns around her brother, the fact that her closest friend felt the need for veritaserum – she felt the kickback she expected as the undefined shapes merged together into a giant striking serpent. The mouth of the serpent engulfed the gold box and the rock, diving into the earth. There was clearest sound of a scream and dark smoke swirled with the soaring flames. Something was happening, she held fast. The scream peaked as the blinding flames exploded outwards creating a giant Runespoor whose three heads were turned towards her.

“Occidio Pestis!” She screamed, snuffing the Fiendfyre in one fell swoop. All went dark. She gasped for air as she felt her legs give out from under her, falling into Sirius. Her heart was beating fast but exhaustion was taking over. Her vision tunneled and her hearing cut in and out. She could tell Sirius was trying to see if she was alright, arms wrapped tight around her to support her weight, but she couldn’t bring herself to focus on his face.

“Check - check the rock,” she gasped through labored breath. “I’ll sit – I’m fine. Check the box.”

“Isabella, there’s nothing left. Nothing. The box is gone, the ring along with it. It’s gone.” Sirius tried to pull her attention as her head because impossibly heavy. “Isabella – look at me, the ring is gone. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said in what she hoped sounded passably casual, “we need to get back to the hospital.”

The words spilled out of her, not because she had any ability to execute on her suggestion, but because she knew they were the right thing to say. It was what Sirius needed her to say.

 Sirius froze for a moment.

“But can you stand on your own?”

She nodded, just to discover that wasn’t the case at all. She couldn’t even look up from his chest.

“That’s fine,” he said slowly, weighing two rather poor options. “I’ll – I’ll apparate us. You ready?”

She was, barely. In the least comfortable apparation she had done in several years, they found themselves back at St. Mungo’s apparation point. The healers rushed forwards at their appearance, assuming Isabella was being brought to the hospital.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, eyes barely opening. She was finally standing, though rather uneasy on her feet.

One of the healers attempted to argue, “I’m sorry, you both smell like fire and she looks magically exhausted…”

“No, please, I’m okay.”

“Isabella, why don’t you - ” Sirius began before Isabella’s grip on his arm tightened considerably.

“No, I’m just tired, Sirius,” she said pointedly. “I’d hate to have to explain that to a Healer!”

He seemed to understand her meaning, wrapping his arm around her waist to prop her up as they took a few steps away from the crowd.

“Are you sure?” he whispered in her ear, pulling her closer as though he was tucking her under his wing. She felt a flutter in her chest; she wasn’t usually the type to need taking care of.

“What - that I bothered the elves in the kitchen and caused a fire that left me magically exhausted?” she focused in on his face. “From us? No.”

“Then let’s go,” he quickened his step, not quite carrying, but certainly more than supporting Isabella as he sped back towards the maternity ward.

“The floor’s closed!” one of the attendings called out from behind him. “I’d be happy to just take a quick look at her!”

Sirius glanced over his shoulder, his piercing grey eyes telling them all they needed to.

“We’re just here to see a friend,” he shouted back, “she’s just tired.”

It was a weak and suspicious excuse, but both of them were too desperate to move to concoct a better lie and slow them down.

They crashed into the maternity ward and threw open the door to Lily’s hospital room. Lily was asleep in the bed, and there was James, baby in his arms, seemingly asleep in the chair.

James' eyes blinked open.

“What are you - ?”

“OH THANK MERLIN!” Sirius shouted, waking the baby and Lily up in the process. Tension visibly lifted from his shoulders as he signed with relief.

With the adrenaline gone, Isabella slide down to the floor against the wall.

“Did you - ?”

“It’s gone.” Sirius grinned.

“And I’m alive?!”

“It sure seems like it!”

Lily, obviously exhausted herself managed only to raise her head for a moment, scan James up and down, before her head fell back in her pillow

“Oh thank God,” she managed to mutter before she her eyes fluttered shut.

“Do you feel sick at all?” Sirius asked, moving in closer.

“No, it -”

“Coughing? Headache?”

“No, really -”

“Fever? Aches? Cramps?”

“Seriously, Padfoot - ”

“Cuts? Bruises?”

“Take the victory!”

“Brilliant!” Sirius’ pivoted almost instantly, “I need to get Isabella help.”

“No,” Isabella looked up from the ground, “you can’t.”

“Look at you!”

“You can’t check me in. What I did was illegal – just let me lie here on the floor for a little, I’ll be fine.”

“Oh Merlin,” James interrupted, “no, please at least have the chair, I’ll put Harry in the cradle.”

With significant help from Sirius, Isabella made it over to the chair, which she could concede was a step up from the ground. She would’ve said so, but she was too exhausted to find the right words. Her eyes began to flutter closed as James and Sirius stared at Harry in the cradle.

“You know I thought…” James’ voice was trembling. He spoke quietly, as though he didn’t want to wake the rest of the room. “When you left, I asked Lily if it would be alright for me to hold him instead of him sleeping in the cradle. He just melted into my arms. And I just stared at him, playing with his little fingers…” James sniffled. “And he slept so peacefully. And I felt myself drifting off, I knew I ought to put him back in the cradle, but he was so warm. And I just – I remember the moment when my eyelids were heavy and I knew I wasn’t keeping them open any longer. And the last thing I saw was my son, asleep in my arms. And in that moment, I thought if it was my last, it was a good one…

“Sirius, I was prepared to die tonight.”

Silence seemed to consume the room before her husband softly responded. “I know.”

“Thank you,” James sniffled. “For doing it anyway.”

“I didn’t. I don’t know that I could’ve. I’d risk my own life for Harry, for you, for every person in this room, but risking your life? That’s different.”

There was a shared silent understanding.

“Padfoot, it’s much easier to risk your own life than watch someone else risk theirs…” James began cautiously.

“Then don’t make me do it again.”

“That’s not…" James took a deep breath, "it’s gonna be a long war.”

“Fine – then next time I need more than a hunch. I’m gonna need a concrete plan. No – I need a fucking concrete plan in writing.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 21: The Cloak of Invisibility

James kept it together for the duration of the hospital visit. Lily wasn’t mad. They discussed it. Not in detail; the oath, interestingly, held. To his surprise, his usually fiery wife had no judgement in her tone as she spoke – she would’ve pushed back had he told her, but there was nothing he did that she wouldn’t have done if the situations were reversed. Her words left him with no doubt in his mind that he had made the right choice.

He was more than occupied by little Harry James for his mind to wander too much. But there was, of course, one question that remained unanswered -

What had become of the Cloak of Invisibility?

The repressed question hit him like a shockwave the moment they stepped into the cottage in Godric’s Hollow.

Their hospital things lay strewn about the living room as he sprinted up the flight of stairs and tore into the master bedroom. The cloak sat on the top shelf of a large cedar closet and he nearly threw the door off the hinges getting at it. He grabbed it so aggressively that most would’ve been concerned it could snag on a splinter or a loose nail. But the cloak could never tear.

Had he given his emotions time to sink in, he may have felt hesitant or nervous to put on the cloak again. But he hadn’t and he didn’t. Over his shoulders it went and, like a deranged deer, he galloped into the bathroom to stare at himself in the mirror.

All that stared back was a floating head.

It wasn’t the same emotions he felt when he realized that the Resurrection Stone had been destroyed and he was still alive. He had been emotional, elated, and exuberant then. He now just stared at his reflection in disbelief. He was relieved, sure. But he also found he was vaguely pissed. For centuries his family had foretold of the risk of a Master of Death and the chaos the Master of Death could reign upon the earth. And all it took to rid the world of that risk was to destroy one of the three Hallows. How selfish does one have to be to make generations and generations of your decedents swear to protect a bloody trinket that could cause such terror?

There were three Hallows and three Masters; had any of the three destroyed their Hallow rather than swear to protect it, they could’ve eliminated the risk of a Master of Death centuries ago. But if only one had to destroy it, the argument was clear - why should it be them? Why should any of them have to lose this wonderful gift that has been bestowed upon them? A pure diffusion of responsibility.

It must’ve been believed, though now lost to history, that the objects relied on each other’s continued existence - it had been his own unsubstantiated theory. There was no other justification for why Masters of one Hallow didn’t spend their life scouring the earth for just one other, explicitly to destroy it. Perhaps the temptation to unite the Hallows became too great if a Master had two. The first time the Elder Wand had crossed his mind in a decade had been when he found himself in possession of the Cloak of Invisibility and the Resurrection Stone – perhaps that itself was the risk of possessing two, or he was more suggestable than he’d realized.

The Deathly Hallows’ path through history was paved in greed, but anyone who had studied that Hallows could say that much. It wasn’t until he stared at his head in the dimly lit bathroom that he realized just how deeply and accidently rooted that was. He could fault his ancestors for what they did not do and did not know. Or, he could choose to not. It could be an interesting intellectual project to dive into how this whole mess had come to be; perhaps a project he’d undertake with Harry in the future when he introduced him to the Deathly Hallows. Merlin-knows Harry would not be taking the same oath; he had already seen to it. But for a plethora of reasons, the origins of the cloak would need to remain a secret; if not for its own sake, for the sake of shrouding the Elder Wand behind some veil of fiction.

The tradition would evolve, but it was for the best. And after a minute or two of staring at his reflection, he found he still looked forward to it.

James had won. A horcrux was annihilated. He hadn’t succumbed to the temptation to searchig for the Elder Wand. He had effectively rid the world of the risk of a Master of Death. And he had gotten to keep his ancestor’s gift. Without risk and without guilt, he possessed the only true invisibility cloak in the world.

That - he had to admit - felt pretty damn good.

So when Sirius and Isabella wrote, asking to borrow the cloak, it was with enthusiasm that he had the ability to say yes.

James’ eyes lit up at the sight of Isabella and Sirius in the doorway mere hours later, and a massive grin spread across his face. “Should I take it you’re going somewhere you really ought not?”

“ABSOLUTELY!” Sirius bounded in, slapping James on the back and kissing Lily on the cheek as he strolled past.

“How are you feeling?” Lily asked Isabella as she entered behind him.

“Better, much better,” Isabella said with a smile as she reached over to pry baby Harry out of Lily’s arms, pulling the bundle in close to her chest. “More of a mental game than I’m ready to admit, but physically I think I’m back up to snuff.”

James couldn’t think of how to phrase it in a way that didn’t sound insulting, but the comment made him worry about how poorly she must be doing mentally because, physically, Isabella didn’t look ‘up to snuff’. She still looked rather emaciated. Or just… colder.

“How are you both holding up? Merlin,” Isabella scanned the cottage from the entryway, “every time I come over, I think you must be finished, but look at this place! I swear, half the artwork wasn’t up last time I was here, and it’s hasn’t been long.”

James gave a muted laugh. A good chunk of the artwork in question – a series of portraits of three generations of Potters - had resided in the nursery, which James had entirely taken over until Harry’s birth. They’d moved things from the Potter Manor over in waves; some things went in their designated spot, others had gone up to the nursery, with nothing but a knowing nod between Lily and himself serving as an explanation.

His research into the Hallows had ended; positively, conclusively, though not entirely satisfyingly. He was alive and had a functioning invisibility cloak, but it had taken him a week to accept that he may never understand why either had come to be. It took him another week to sort through the papers and tomes and grimoires that littered, not just the bookshelves, but the floors of Harry’s room. Most he elected to bring back to the Potter Manor; none of it would be relevant for Harry and him to discuss for years and the shelves were full enough already.

The portraits, which had been haphazardly leaning against the far wall in the nursery, were the last vestige of his research. He supposed he could’ve taken them back to the manor too, but there was empty wall space right off the entrance to the cottage, and he rather liked having family around.

“Well,” James said, “we certainly have time to spare for decorating.”

“That bad, huh?” Sirius asked, immediately reading through his words.

“No, it’s…” he tried, “it’s just an adjustment.”

James was embarrassed that the truth might reflect too poorly on him to share in mixed company.

In the two months between learning the prophecy and Harry’s birth, James had enjoyed far more freedom than he realized. After the move, Lily was the only one who really ought not be seen in public. It wasn’t worth the risk. James didn’t abuse his ‘freedom’ by any means; he was still home 95% of the time. And he was cautious. He hated the idea that his presence somewhere could trigger someone’s memory that the Potter’s had been expecting.

But he had been the person who ran every errand for both of them. Groceries, apothecary, a message that couldn’t wait for the morning post, and whatever else came up as life continued around them. It wasn’t much, but it was still contact with the outside world.

Since Harry’s birth, this freedom had been cut in half. Rightly so; the constraint that had kept Lily at home had been lifted and to whatever extent she was up for it, James encouraged her to take the errands that allowed her to travel beyond the garden gate.

But Merlin – it was an adjustment for him.

He could only hope he’d been sufficiently sympathetic when Lily, genuinely, hadn’t set foot outside of the cottage for nearly two months. Because only a few weeks in, and still not nearly as limited as she had been, he was getting a little restless. James had never been one for staying quiet, standing by idly, cooperating. It was probably the defining characteristic that had bonded him and Sirius – there was almost no greater pursuit than a pursuit against boredom.

Harry’s safety was meaningfully more important. But the list wasn’t much longer.

“I’ve been racking my brain since we got your letter… are you searching for the Chamber of Secrets next?” Lily asked, no shortage of genuine curiosity in her question.

Isabella gave her a sly smile.

“Why wait?” Sirius said. “School starts soon, might as well try and tackle it with the least number of people around. And Merlin – doesn’t progress feel good?! I want to keep it up!”

“Do you feel ready?”

Sirius and Isabella both shrugged.

They had preliminary research, James knew that much, but it wasn’t exactly a deep archive. Thanks to Walburga Black’s information, they knew the Chamber had last been opened 37 years earlier in 1943. They knew that a muggle-born had died, and from the extremely few newspaper articles at the time that even mentioned a death at Hogwarts, it was only said that it was a third-year girl. Between the Global Wizarding War and the blatant disregard of muggle-born in the early 40s, all of them could agree they were lucky to find even that.

“I must confess,” Isabella said dryly as they made their way into the living room, looking only at Lily as she spoke, “I’m slightly worried I’m going to need to befriend Moaning Myrtle.”

Lily laughed, and then both of them really began to cackle when they noticed the confused looks on their husbands’ faces.

Through stifled giggles and a smattering of difficult-to-follow anecdotes, Isabella and Lily painted a rather stunning picture of the young ghost. Though James was almost certain half the details were escaping him, he couldn’t bring himself to interrupt them when they were being so normal. Lily had been exhausted since Harry was born, really, since the prophecy, and Isabella likewise after destroying the ring. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d really heard them laugh. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it.

“I’m sorry,” Sirius shook his head in disbelief once the two finally lost steam, “you’re telling me there’s a horrid 14-year-old girl from the 1940s who haunts the girl lavatory on the second floor? And no one’s objected - ”

“Oh she haunts all the bathrooms,” Isabella interrupted. “Just because you haven’t seen her, does not mean she hasn’t seen you…”

“That’s disgusting. You realize how creepy that is, right?”

“Of course! She’s creepy, sure, but her real flaw – which I feel like you’re not getting – is that she’s miserably annoying. Just a real drag.”

“No, you’re correct that the perverted, spying, bathroom-living, 14-year-old ghost did catch my attention above your extended description of her grating voice and incessant crying.”

“In my defense, she’s not called Pervy Myrvy, she’s called Moaning Myrtle!”

James and Sirius just stared at her, watching the wheels turn in her mind.

“…which, admittedly, sounded very different when I was 11 than it does now.”

Lily broke down in another fit of giggles.

“But you think she could help us?” Sirius asked. “And she’ll talk to us?”

“If you’re extraordinarily patient and kind,” Lily croaked out.

“So I take it Isabella and Myrtle got along swimmingly?” Sirius teased, which earned him a well-deserved flick of the wrist from his wife.

“I don’t know another place to start,” Isabella said. “That’s the only other person I can think of who would’ve been at school at the same time as Tom Riddle who we could talk to – outside of…”

Sirius saved her the trouble, “My mother, of course. And those vaults have once again been sealed by the ever-caring Walburga Black.”

“Admittedly, we did try!”

“And my mother looked as us like we’d sprouted additional heads. Apparently, such ancient history is hardly worth discussing.”

James had heard more than enough about Sirius’ family, particularly his mother, over the years to have any doubts that it was a dead end. But they raised another interesting point; who they could talk to, unfortunately, presented significant limitations.

Wizarding society was littered with people in Riddle’s generation, Slytherins in his generation, who would’ve been at the school when the Chamber was last open. But those names were almost as notorious as You-Know-Who’s himself. The idea of approaching the likes of Charlus Avery or Oliver Nott, or any one of the inner circle – including Isabella’s uncle, Emeric Rosier – to ask prying details about the Chamber of Secrets was undoubtedly out of the question.

“And if Moaning Myrtle’s a dead end?” Lily asked.

“Then I guess we’ll just search, bottom to top,” Sirius said. “Probably start in the Slytherin common room, dormitories, and then just keep going.”

“I know I’m stuck home, but is this something you want to loop… Wormtail into?” James said it in a way that he hoped sounded casual, but feared sounded like he’d been looking for a way to insert the idea into the conversation – which, admittedly, he had been. “Rats are incredible detectives and can get into small places; you remember that with the map.”

“God rest its soul,” Lily muttered unthinkingly. Isabella snorted.

“I mean,” James tried again, “having you all here before Harry was born got me thinking, you know? We have resources – not just the Order – that we’re not tapping into. And you know the rest of the Marauders would be thrilled to help. Especially with this.”

Sirius sat for a moment, before tilting his head.

“No, you’re right. Wormtail, especially, would be useful for this. But I don’t know if I can do that to them, especially Moony.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean give him that kind of information and then send him off to a clan that’s much more inclined to side with the Dark Lord than not. That’s an unfair burden. What if he’s captured? Even just living there… I don’t want to put him in that position.”

James didn’t call him out for what he felt was likely left unsaid; it was just as much a risk to Moony as Moony could be to the mission at hand. One slip up in front of a friend, whose loyalty lay with the clan and not Remus, and the whole thing risked exposure if and when the clan fell.

But James couldn’t imagine a scenario in which either of them said that part out loud.

“I get it,” James said quietly.

“So if I don’t feel comfortable looping in Moony, then I feel like we shouldn’t loop Wormtail into this either, you know? That feels…”

Unfair. Prejudicial. Wrong.

Once again, the words were left unsaid.

“I guess, it would feel weird. You’re not wrong. It’s just – all three of us are in the Order together so there’s not a precedent that we’re all four doing things together.

“Yeah, but that was my choice – you haven’t hidden it from me. And I know what you all are doing.”

“Well…”

“You know what I mean.” Sirius gave him an exasperated look. “I don’t know, it feels different. You’re not exactly pulling the wool over my eyes on this one. If I wanted to, I could join the Order today. I know about it. The option is out there.”

James hated the way his mind immediately jumped back to his conversations with Dumbledore.

“Well, dear Sirius,” Lily said with a hint of humor in her voice, “being the most popular Black amongst the Light families, doesn’t actually mean you’re popular…”

“Nooo,” Isabella chimed in. “The Longbottom’s were right chummy with us!”

Sirius laughed. “EVEN still, we could join if we wanted to, couldn’t we?”

“We?” Isabella asked casually, but with just a hint of a challenge in her voice.

It was still true, no matter the Longbottom’s thoughts or even Dumbledore’s thoughts, the Blacks would still be welcomed regardless of the events of the spring. They simply had the ticket in.

“With your funds– sorry, friends at your disposal?” James said with a grin. “Almost certainly!”

That got a good laugh out of the group and James once again found himself appreciating the gift of meaningful progress.

“But with Peter…” Sirius brought the conversation back around, “I don’t know. Maybe I’m mistaking the person he is as 20 for the person he was at 11, but I just… I mean, Prongs, if we tell him to jump - ?” he gave a knowing shrug.

“Do you really think this is that much riskier than joining the Order?” James asked.

“Did he choose to do that?”

James knew there was truth to that as well. Peter joined the Order because he had joined the Order. If they asked him to join a project outside of the Order, hunting horcruxes at that, Peter wouldn’t say no. Because Peter had never said no to him in his life.

“If Remus was around, it would be different. You agreed to this, but you’re you. And you agreed to this too,” Sirius turned to Lily, “and again, you’re you.”

Isabella coughed.

“Oh don’t even get me started on you, love.” Sirius gave her a mischievous grin before turning back to the group. “Remus is more cautious, more sane, than any of us. He would help us gauge if it’s a reasonable thing to ask of someone.”

James begrudgingly nodded.

“But leaving Moony out and forcing Wormtail in just feels…”

“Cruel,” he finished Padfoot’s thought.

“Yeah.”

“You know they have no idea what you’re up to? They’d be so impressed, Remus especially. I mean he’d be trembling in his well-worn britches at the ‘risk of it all’,” James did his best Remus impression.

“Oh bollocks - look what he’s gotten himself involved in now!”

“I know, we’ve taught him so well!” James swooned, wiping away a fake tear. “But it is a shame you can’t let them know you’re on our – this side at least.”

Sirius shrugged.

“Well,” he said with a grin, “let’s hope we knock the next three out quickly and then we can celebrate the end of the war with them. Now - where is that old cloak of yours?”

Chapter Text

Chapter 22: A Ghost and A Dog

On the last Sunday of August, Sirius and Isabella apparated up to the Shrieking Shack. Though they only had about 36 hours before the Hogwarts Express arrived with the children on Monday, no students, and teacher frantically finishing their last-minute preparations, meant that there would be no better time to search for the Chamber of Secrets.

They intended to leverage both the Womping Willow tunnel and the Honeydukes passage, provided they executed everything correctly. Mid-day Sunday would likely have the highest concentration of teachers in Hogsmead, so rather than risk running into staff who might have questions about the Blacks unexpected appearance, they figured they’d be better off chancing drawing attention to the Womping Willow. They would take the Honeydukes passage for the return; there would be far less people in Hogsmead and if things took longer than expected, it eliminated the need to wander the grounds as students arrived, even if they would only be presenting as one large black dog.

It had been over two years since the Marauder’s last full moon in the Shrieking Shack and the state of the house reflected their extended absence. Though it had never been much to look at, even monthly movement had been enough to curb some of the more enthusiastic cobwebs. And though he had expected it, Sirius was a bit taken aback by the thick layer of dust. It had been more than a few moons since the Marauders had last been together for a transformation; life had simply gotten in the way. They had been diligent right out of Hogwarts about keeping up with the tradition, but by the following fall, Remus had gone off, Sirius suspected on Order business, to work with some of the largest werewolf clans and there was no longer this pressing need.

Remus came back only sporadically, usually with little warning and rarely around a full moon. Sirius had never asked, and he didn’t believe James or Peter had either, but it was sort of understood that the full moon was easier amongst his own kind. The three boys had done everything they possibly could, but it wasn’t the same. They would never understand the pain, the anxiety, and the fear that Remus felt every full moon. At the end of the day, they had a choice and he did not.

So perhaps it was selfish that Sirius missed their monthly adventures. It wasn’t as though he’d been risk-averse, or worse, bored; Regulus had certainly seen to that. James had gotten married and had a child, and his life had taken on a whole new meaning. The Order, combined with greater family needs, was certainly keep Peter busy as well. Life was moving on, and even though Sirius loved the direction it was going, sometimes it was hard to not to want to go back. Just for a little.

Isabella sneezed as she pried the door open to the tunnel, pulling him out of his introspection. He traced his finger along the jagged windowsill, pulling up dust and debris as he went. With a final glance around the dilapidated shack, he followed her. They made their way through the winding corridor, and with a quick thunk hit the knot in the base of the Womping Willow, causing it to freeze mid-swing. Out from the trunk popped a massive black dog and nothing else.

The grounds smelled like the beginning of the school year and he had to remind himself that they weren’t really returning.

They quickly made their way into the school, following a path that only years of experience could know, and up to the second-floor lavatory. Throwing off the invisibility cloak, Isabella cast a knowing glance at Padfoot, who in the blink of an eye was back to a man.

She grinned – so far, so good.

Sirius took a moment to take in the lavatory. Though it had been on the Marauder’s Map back in the day, he couldn’t recall ever setting foot in such a place. He frankly couldn’t believe it existed at Hogwarts. It looked like a poorly maintained time capsule or shrine to another time and it certainly appeared that staff and repairmen were amongst the list of people who did not enter.

There was a large hexagon of marble sinks right as they walked in that almost looked like a Doric pillar shooting up from the center of the floor. There were two wings of bathroom stalls that jutted off the center loop. To their left, there was a large, round window that sat high on the wall, illuminating the two rows of stalls. But even the sunny, bright afternoon light didn’t seem to be enough to reach the right wing, leaving only stubby candles to illuminate a further row of stalls and a row of sinks under a large, cracked mirror. The bathroom felt damp and musty and Sirius felt he was beginning to understand why it was so avoided.

“YOU!” a rather hysterical, young ghost floated right up and screamed in Isabella’s face.

The primary reason the bathroom was avoided had made her appearance.

“Oh hello, Myrtle! Been a minute, hasn’t it?” Isabella glanced over towards Sirius as she spoke.

Lily’s words flashed in his mind – ‘extraordinarily patient and kind’ - he had to hold himself back from laughing.

“You left!” the ghost screamed, “I know you did! You shouldn’t be here!”

“Well, Myrtle, I missed you!” Isabella smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I came back specifically to talk to you!”

“You’re awful! Just awful!” Myrtle whined. “No one wants to talk to miserable, moping, moaning Myrtle! Especially YOU.”

Isabella cast another pointed glance in his direction; Sirius had to admit, he was starting to see her complaints.

“I’m serious. We’re here to talk to you!”

“He shouldn’t even be here! This is the GIRLS lavatory!”

“Well, let me introduce you to my husband, Sirius Black.”

Without thinking, Sirius took a step forward and extended his hand. Myrtle took one look at the gesture she couldn’t reciprocate, and eyes filled up with translucent tears, she began to sob. Loudly. She dove into one of the stalls to the left and her cries echoed through the bathroom chamber.

“She’s dead, Sirius,” Isabella delivered a deadpan critique. “How is she supposed to shake your hand when she’s dead?”

“Oh I’m sorry, love, you spend two decades shaking everyone’s hand you meet and you form a bit of a habit.” He resisted rolling his eye, but the sarcasm was unmistakable.

“I’m just feeling like someone should’ve paid more attention to my personality analysis instead of getting lost in the minute details.”

Sirius gave an exasperated exhaled and moved himself in front of Myrtle’s bathroom stall. He hated to play a game right now, especially when time was rather of the essence, but who was he to squander an awfully rare opportunity to force his wife to eat her words.

He knocked.

“Myrtle? You in there? I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met before. I’m Sirius Black, it’s nice to meet you,” he shouted over the door. The sobs gave way to muted sniffles, at least for a moment. “I know you’ve met Isabella.”

“She’s AWFUL! I don’t know how you could possibly want her.”

“Well, I don’t think she’s awful, after all, she’s the one who’s introducing us. And I just really wanted to meet you.”

“What’re you doing?” Isabella mouthed at him.

He waved her off. She could ignore the reality of Moaning Myrtle all she liked, but he had a rather good idea of what it was going to take to get the ghost to cooperate.

“She hasn’t told me a lot about you,” he continued, “but from what she’s said, I think we’d really get along well.”

“Are you flirting?! She’s fourteen!” Isabella angrily whispered.

“Really?” Myrtle’s voice drifted over the stall. “Usually, she can be very mean.”

“Fifty-one,” Sirius mouthed back.

“She CAN be mean, can’t she!” he shouted over the door, grinning at his wife, who was starting to look very cross about the whole interaction. “If you come out, we can talk more about it. And really get to know each other, you know?”

Myrtle slowly drifted through the stall and perched herself on the window sill above them.

“Does she have to stay?” Myrtle stared at Sirius.

“I’m afraid I’m rather attached to her,” he gave Isabella a wink, “but it could be discussed…”

“It’s SO unfair! ALL the cute ones fall for girls like that! But you were one of the worst.”

“Oh, is that so?” Sirius goaded her on, wanting to make sure his lovely wife understood that there were far more problematic things than a temperamental ghost.

“Well, you were always with her! Even with your friends, you certainly wouldn’t shut up about her. And she’s really not that special.” Myrtle scowled at Isabella, seizing her up and down.

“And here I was thinking we’d never had the pleasure! I take it you’ve seen me around before?”

“You? Sirius Black? Of course!” She batted her eyes and giggled, floating on down towards him. “You were the only non-Prefect’s that used their bath.”

Sirius laughed hard.

“How about that, love? Can you think of anything else that’s happened in the Prefect’s bath?” He did, admittedly, felt a bit queasy about the whole situation. But the satisfaction of knowing he was right certainly outweighed the nausea that came with, well, knowing he was right.

Isabella’s jaw dropped. “Oh good Merlin, I think I’m gonna be sick.”

“See, Myrtle, I can explain that one,” Sirius said, not bothering to curb his enjoyment of the moment. “My, well, girlfriend at the time here was a Prefect, and was very generous about letting me join her for a late night… swim? I think I only had to surprise her once in order to get the invite back.”

To this day, it was the best mistake he’d ever made.

Isabella seemed equally lost in the memories of their Hogwarts escapades, but judging by her paleness, she hadn’t quite gotten to the stage where she found it humorous. “That’s… no. No. Oh Merlin, please, please tell me...”

“I preferred it before she was always with you,” Myrtle said with a huff.

“And I preferred her company.” Sirius replied, resisting the urge to pull Isabella into his arms. Merlin, he was lucky. He couldn’t help but grin before he collected himself. “But – recognizing that you’ve seen us at rather… intimate moments, I’d like to ask you a more intimate question. In exchange.”

“Go on. I don’t mind.” Myrtle’s ghostly figure nestled herself next to him as Isabella turned an even more ghastly color.

“How did you die?” Sirius asked bluntly.

Myrtle froze, floating slightly away from him.

“You know? Too few people ask me that. There was this retched girl, Olive Hornby – reminds me a bit of your wife – well, she was teasing me about my glasses. So I came in here to cry, actually right here in this very stall. And a few minutes later, I heard someone enter. A BOY, if you believe it. And he started speaking in this funny language - ”

Sirius and Isabella’s eyes widened; any flicker of lingering uncomfortableness seemed to dissipate as the usefulness of their companion became rather apparent.

“- well it must’ve been another language; I couldn’t understand a word. So I pulled myself together to go confront him, flung open the stall, and then – I died.”

“Do you remember anything – anything at all about what you saw when you opened the stall?” Sirius asked, excitement spilling into his otherwise soft tone.

“Well, there was this pair of huge yellow eyes…”

“Slytherin’s monster,” Isabella whispered under her breath.

“And then I died! I suppose I woke up a few minutes later, over my own body. You know it was actually Olive Hornby who found me? Took her long enough.”

“I’m so sorry, Myrtle, that’s awful. And you said you were in this stall here?” Sirius asked as he moved closer, peering in.

The ghost nodded.

“And which direction did you look when you exited? Or where did you hear the voice coming from?”

“I heard the boy closer to the entrance and I turned towards that direction, towards the sinks. Why? You’re asking quite a lot of questions, you know?”

“And you saw quite a lot of us, so you should keep answering.” Sirius responded unthinking, fortunately eliciting no negative reaction from Myrtle. She appeared to just be happy to be talking with him.

Turning towards Isabella, Sirius continued, his words louder, more authoritative, “So she hears Riddle speaking parseltongue close to the entrance, potentially by the sinks. Close enough that he’s able to call whatever serpent must be Slytherin’s monster, a serpent with yellow eyes, isn’t that right?”

“Riddle. Riddle,” Myrtle echoes, “I haven’t heard that name in some time. There was an extremely handsome Prefect called Riddle a few years above me. Maybe even just as handsome, if not more handsome than YOU, Sirius Black.”

“Probably a different one!” he shot off his remark. The likelihood that something could get back to anyone relevant was slim, but it was not zero. “This is not a handsome man.”

“Oh Merlin, it could really be here. Could it be that easy!?” To whatever extent Isabella hadn’t approved of his methods, she’d clearly had a change of heart at its success. She quickly took charge. “You check the sink while I check the entrance. Look for anything at all that could be signs of something amiss. Something Slytherin. Remember the door knockers!”

Sirius beelined towards the pillar of sinks in the center and began to assess.

It must’ve once been beautiful, though now sat gloomy and untouched for decades. He started by walking around in a circle, seeing if he could spot anything out of the ordinary. Lap one, nothing. He pressed against each of the large six mirrors his second lap around, seeing if anything would give way. Lap two, nothing. He decided he ought to work from bottom to top, starting with the base of each of the sinks. He studied the carved marble for unnatural blemishes, unintentional indentations, and magical scars. Lap three, nothing. He made his way around again inspecting the basins, observing the smoothness of the well-worn stone, the still-shinning drains. Lap four, nothing. He moved up to the hardware itself, scrutinizing each of the faucets and handles, turning each to make sure it functioned properly, observing the old ironwork. Five out of six sinks in, he froze. Unlike any of the faucets he’d seen before, this faucet had something carved out on the side.

The faucet had a snake.

“Merlin’s beard – Isabella, come here!” he whispered.

She was at his side in an instant, staring down at the same ironwork he was looking at.

“Alohomora!” she cast out without a moment of hesitation.

“This is Salazar Slytherin’s work. I don’t think that’s enough.”

“Then I’ll work through every spell in the dictionary. Bombar- ”

“Stop!” Sirius interrupted, grabbing her wrist. “You can’t destroy it! If it gets out that there was an explosion in a bathroom in Hogwarts, alarm bells are rung immediately. It’s not as though he doesn’t know exactly where this entrance is.”

“We could repair it?”

“You know as well as I do that neither of us have the technical skills to repair this if you blow it up. Nor even close to the time... Try anything not as destructive.”

And just like that it felt like they were transported back to their back patio, shooting everything – everything safe, at least - in their arsenal at an inanimate object that refused to yield to their command.

“Well I can only assume the answer isn’t Fiendfyre?”

Isabella sighed. “No, it’s going to be Parseltongue.”

“You said that’s how the door knockers worked, right?”

“Unfortunately.”

They stared at the sink for another moment.

“Sirius, I have no idea what Parseltongue sounds like. I’ve read that it’s snake’s tongue but I’ve never heard it, I’ve never met a parselmouth, the best I could do is hiss at it. Do you… want me to hiss at it?”

“Myrtle?” Sirius called. “You said you heard someone speaking another language, correct? Do you remember what that sounded like? What he might have said?”

“No. It was a rather traumatizing moment for me if you MUST know. Given how I DIED,” Myrtle shouted. “And to think I thought you were more sympathetic! Hmph!”

And with that, she sped away from them, diving head-first into a toilet, leaving the couple standing there alone in the lavatory.

“Well, yes,” Sirius turned back to his wife, “I guess we should hiss at it.”

Isabella glanced between him and the sink before giving it her first attempt, “Psss psspps pssss!”

She blinked for a minute, staring intently at the snake, hoping it moved. But nothing.

Sirius tried next, “Thissss sissss isss ttttthhhhisssss.”

She shook her head, rolling her eyes at his attempt. “Just stop, this is absolutely ridiculous!” she cut him off.

And she was right, they had no evidence that they were even close to achieving the right sound, let alone saying the right thing.

“We need a next option,” Sirius said.

“Criminal’s Loop?”

“We’d need a ward stone; it wouldn’t work on a charmed snake,” he replied.

“And again,” Isabella said as she traced the outline of the metal snake, “this is Slytherin’s work. I don’t know that Gringotts curse-breakers could do this.”

“So without destroying it, Merlin-knows if it even could be destroyed, what are we left with?”

“Okay. Well,” she paused for a minute, “soliciting a parselmouth?”

“Are there any paintings of Slytherin or his descendants that we could use?”

Isabella shook her head.

“What about the Bloody Barron, he’s not a descendant, is he?”

“No, he’s not. I don’t actually know his connection to Slytherin… he knew the Ravenclaws. Do you remember that book, what was it, ‘The Lost Mind’ - something like that - that went into the final path of the diadem?”

Sirius gave her a skeptical look.

”I know, I know - it was essentially an urban legend - but it did spell out what other sources merely hinted at… about the Grey Lady and the Bloody Barron? About Helena Ravenclaw and him?”

”Right…”

The more Sirius pushed into the field, the more he discovered that the ghosts of Hogwarts were far more disturbed than he had given them credit for. It was interesting the way that one filtered something like that out; the ghosts had always been a part of the school.

“So then what, a snake?” he continued. He wasn’t optimistic as he said it, but the longer it lingered in the air the less ridiculous it sounded.

“Why not?” Isabella said with huff. “If it’s a specific pass-phrase then we’re doomed, but if it’s general, we can probably make it talk.”

“Okay… well… let’s go fetch ourselves a snake!”

Chapter Text

Chapter 23: Parseltongue

Padfoot took off towards the lake and the marshier ground, followed by Isabella at an unknown distance under the invisibility cloak. The evening sky clued them in to their dwindling time at Hogwarts in a way that the poorly lit bathroom had not. But it also forced him to confront their position; no matter how things played out, they weren’t likely to need the full remaining time. Either they would be in the Chamber of Secrets soon or they weren’t getting into the Chamber this visit.

Padfoot dashed and bounded around, using his nose to try and scope out any snakes near the lake’s edge.

The wizard of the two had different plans.

“Accio nearest snake!” he heard Isabella shout from about ten yards off the shore. He appreciated the specificity of the spell; had their positions been reversed he knew he would’ve accidently sent dozens of snakes hurdling towards him.

Out of marsh, mere feet from where Padfoot stood, one medium-sized red and black snake took flight. “Stupify!” Isabella called out, not a moment before Padfoot leapt into the air, catching the limp snake in his jaw. Softly, of course, so as not to kill it before they could use it.

Had anyone been observing the grounds, it had to have been a sight to behold – and an unfortunate one at that. They could only hope that their luck continued or else someone may object to a large dogs bringing a flying snake into the school.

But there was no one to say a word the whole march back to the girl’s lavatory.

Isabella snatched the the snake out of Padfoot’s jaw, dropping the thing into the sink basin under the snake-engraved faucet.

“You know,” she laughed, slightly out of breath as he transformed back into a human, “had you not bounded out of here, we could’ve just summoned a snake?”

“Oh, well… where’s the fun in that?” He grinned - woops. “Do those summoned snakes speak parseltongue?”

She blinked at him. “I have absolutely no idea. This one though, I’m optimistic.”

They stared at the red and black scales piled in the sink.

“Now what?” Sirius asked. “I guess we could wake it and see if it hisses being in a new environment?”

“Rennervate!” Isabella cast. The snake lifted its head to peer out of the basin, then quickly coiled, seemingly content in its new surroundings.

“Huh. Well, I’d say poke it, but I don’t want it to strike. Maybe water?” Sirius turned the faucet on at a distance, not enough to drown the snake, but just enough that it would notice the disturbance.

The snake seemed totally neutral towards it.

“Did you grab a water snake? Nothing?” Sirius looked puzzled.

“Avis!” Sirius tried, though the snake managed to catch and eat one of the small birds rather than be frighted by the soaring creatures. “I swear to Merlin, he thinks he’s been brought to a spa…”

Charm after charm, hex after hex, and nothing was getting the snake to hiss. The snake was ambivalent, if not pleased, by nearly all choices. They were trying to steer away from really hurting it, but their options were getting slimmer by the minute.

Sirius wasn’t sure if it was the fact that they had only just gone through this song and dance with the Chamber directly, or if it was again reminiscent of the days upon days, weeks upon weeks, spent on the ring, but he found his patience was quickly running thin. He knew that finding the Chamber itself should be thought of as a massive accomplishment. But that had been easy. It had taken mere minutes. And what difference did it really make knowing where the entrance was if there was no way to get inside? How was that any better than knowing that the locket sat in an infiri-infested cave? Or that the cup likely sat in Gringotts? Impenetrable was impenetrable.

Encountering the impenetrable was not synonymous with progress; it was anything but.

“Rictusempra!” Isabella with about a quarter of the amount of force she had her previous spells.

Unsurprisingly, nothing.

“Well aren’t you lucky that a level 2 spell, ‘cause I’ve never seen someone look less confident casting a tickling charm,” Sirius laughed. “Tickling a snake? Really?”

“You know you’re being awfully difficult today?” Isabella snapped back. “I thought… well I thought it might disturb him! Like poking him. I guess snakes don’t tickle.”

“I just can’t imagine it would’ve even occurred to me to tickle the snake.”

“Well if it worked you wouldn’t be laughing.”

“And it didn’t work, so I am laughing!”

“Still. You’re being an arse, Sirius. It’s not like anything you’ve done worked!” He could tell from her sharp tone how angry she was, but he couldn’t bring himself to soften his words.

“I’m not the one casting pre-teen charms at it!” he threw back at her.

“Do you think I don’t know that it was a bit ridiculous? I’m not an IDIOT! It is not my fault that we’ve encountered the least cooperative snake in existence!”

“That can’t possibly be beyond you,” he scoffed. “At least I’m taking it seriously,”

The second it came out he knew he’d said it to provoke her. She was too powerful of a witch to sully herself with such a pathetic display of magic.

“Oh you want to see me taking it fucking seriously?!” she replied venomously. “Fine. IMPERIO!”

The snake tensed then eased under her control.

“Face the snake.” She whirled her wand around and the snake’s head moved in turn, positioning itself straight in front of the metal snake detailing. The Imperius Curse was in effect.

Sirius just stared straight ahead, raising his brow. He’s never heard her cast an Unforgivable. It very well might be a step in the right direction; just an absolutely terrifying one. He tried to steady his heartrate and concentrate specifically on what she was directing.

The Imperius Curse, at least from his understanding, was flawed on animals. The mental connection made it possible to give physical commands - it was intent that mattered - but an animal couldn’t be ordered to do anything it actually couldn’t do.

“Hiss,” she commanded. The snake stared straight ahead. “Speak. Communicate with the snake in front of you.”

Nothing.

“Open the Chamber of Secrets. Help us open the Chamber. Ask the metal snake to open.”

Again, nothing.

“Shit, Sirius, I’m saying it in English. I can only visualize it in English or in what I imagine it should sound like. The command isn’t being sent correctly.”

“You’re already asking more than I would’ve thought to,” Sirius’ voice was low and unemotive.

“Hiss ‘open’. Make as close to this sound as possible, ‘sssshshhssshssss’,” she tried again to no avail.

“Release him.” Sirius ordered; his voice unwavering.

Though he liked to believe his work with his grandfather had helped curb some of his more vicious tendencies, there had been a few good years where victories were measured by bodies in hospital beds. James had once said that when he lost his temper, he didn’t think about anyone or anything else besides how to inflict the maximum amount of pain.

He had learned to control it, but it had never really gone away.

“Crucio!”

It felt as though he was inhaling fire.

He could feel it like a rush of air, in through his nostrils, burning the back of his throat as it spread through his veins. The icy heat made his eyes widen and his mouth feel almost dry. His heart beat faster; he could feel the pulsing through his body. It felt good. More than good, he was on top of the fucking world. He felt impossibly light, fast, and like he could say or do anything. With each inhale he could feel the spelling sparking through his body.

The snake screamed and hissed and writhed around in the sink basin. It was exactly the sounds they’d been hoping for, but nothing was changing. The ironwork snake was unmoved.

Sirius held it for no more than 30 seconds before releasing the snake.

The high went away almost as soon as he dropped the spell and he had to work to steady his breathing. It was uncomfortable, but it wasn’t unbearable. He just felt a bit jittery and he wasn’t really sure what he was supposed to do now. Had it worked, maybe the right words would come easier than they did. But as it stood, he didn’t know what to say.

So he let the silence linger, both sets of eyes glued to the coiled snake.

“Is Morfin Gaunt still alive?” Isabella broke his trace-like state, pulled his attention towards her.

He blinked slowly. Was she not going to -

“In Azkaban?” she broke his train of thought. “I mean, who knows if he’s there mentally, it’s been decades since Tom Riddle framed him. But is he still alive?”

“I don’t… I don’t know?”

He wouldn’t go so far as to say he minded the abrupt transition; there was someone almost unspeakable about the fluidity with which the spell had come out of him. He didn’t want to address, not really. But he found himself playing a surprising game of catch up when it came to moving on.

“How old was he when he was imprisoned?” he added. “The Pure-Blood Directory had his birth year, right?”

“He would’ve been 37-38, putting him in his early 70s now.”

“That’s nothing for a wizard,” he spoke with more fuel behind his words. “But half his life in Azkaban, I don’t know.”

“He’s the only Parselmouth – only other Parselmouth – I imagine is alive. So if he is - alive that is - that’s our next option.”

Sirius faltered, “So… we’re going to break him out of Azkaban? Is that what you’re suggesting?”

“No, of course not! Just visit him, see if we can either learn a few phrases from him or record him.”

“You can visit prisoners in Azkaban?” he asked incredulously, bemused by his inability to find his footing in the conversation.

“Of course! Have you never had family in Azkaban?”

“No actually, I haven’t… stunning right? I guess the Rosiers always were more violent, at least publicly...”

“Hey!” She flicked him on the shoulder. “You’re on fire today, Sirius, Merlin’s beard! It wasn’t… well, it wasn’t that violent. Nor was it a Rosier, actually. My uncle on my mum’s side was in there for a few years when I was little for some muggle prank gone wrong. I think you met him, my Uncle Peter, at the wedding, right? Peter Burke? Well, you might not – you weren’t…” She offered up one of those half-hearted, unnecessarily toothy grins that people only seem to make when they know they said just the wrong thing and are silently begging their companion to disregard it entirely.

Sirius laughed despite himself; the truth was that he couldn’t recall and Isabella knew as much.

Their wedding had been a parade of names he knew and faces he couldn’t bring himself to care about enough to remember. There would come a time where that lofty network of the Rosiers and the Blacks would come in handy, but there was only one person in the entire sea of Dark families that he cared about on his wedding day.

“… anyway, I never visited, but my mother did. There’s a ton of paperwork required,” Isabella continued, “so we’ll need to come up with a cover and list of people we’re going to see because it would raise far too many alarm bells if we only go to see his uncle…”

Isabella was arguably her most attractive when she was determined. Something about relentlessly driving towards a goal suited her and she seemed to light up at a mission. And this was no exception. As she paced back in forth the bathroom floor explaining the intricacies of how they ought to go about getting at Morfin Gaunt – provided he was alive, of course – she was an alluring explosion of energy.

But her plan was awfully insane.

“You want to submit a request to see the Dark Lord’s uncle?”

“We’ll -”

“To the Death Eater-infiltrated ministry?”

“We’ll bury it!”

“What happened to subtlety?”

“The prophecy happened, Sirius!” Her enthusiastic tone turned bitter. “If it wasn’t the only option, I wouldn’t be suggesting it, obviously! Again, darling, I’m not an idiot! But we cannot justify not trying everything. The Chamber of Secrets is the most logical location, far more logical that Gringotts or even the Gaunt Shack. Or the bloody cave?! We need to get in because we need to get this done. What’s your grand suggestion? Give up?!”

He felt his body tense and then relax again. “I guess blowing it up would be less subtle.”

“Far less subtle. We’ll bury it, it’ll be fine. We’ll discuss more at home. It’ll be fine, really. In the meantime, I’ll bring the snake back outside, if you can just – I don’t know – clean the bathroom? I’m not sure if what we did in here is going to leave magical residue or a mark or a trace, it’s Hogwarts, it radiates magic, but this was…”

“Beyond the Hogwarts curriculum?”

That got a snorting laugh out of her.

“Merlin, I love you.” She beamed. “I’ll meet you by the one-eyed witch, right?”

He toyed with whether or not to say anything as she scooping up the invisibility cloak and moved towards the sink for the snake, wondering whether addressing the use of Unforgivables highlighted it in a way that did more harm than good.

But in the end, his impulse won.

“That magic. That was…” Sirius struggled to find exactly the right way to phrase what he was about to say so as not to be misunderstood. “It was just so…”

“Easy?” Isabella filled in the blanks as though she’d read his mind.

“YES! It was so, unbelievably easy!” Relief flooded his body. She’d felt it too.

“There’s almost like a warmth to it…”

“Warmth?” he laughed. “I don’t know about warmth, maybe an adrenaline high.”

“Huh, interesting?” She looked inquisitive for a moment before shaking her head. “Do we need to talk about this? No, right?”

Sirius wrapped his arms around his wife’s waist the way he’d wanted to all afternoon, pulling her in close to him.

He shook his head.

“No, we hunt animals far more intelligent than a snake,” he playfully scoffed. “And besides, had it worked – had we gotten into the Chamber of Secrets that easily, no one would’ve thought twice about it. Not even the Potters.”

“Yeah,” she smiled, “we couldn’t have justified not trying everything.”

And with a quick peck she pulled away. Grabbing the snake, she threw the cloak over herself and proceeded out, leaving Sirius alone in the ladies’ lavatory.

Sirius gave the sink and surrounding area a decent clean, uncertain if it would make any difference in the way Isabella had intended. But once he was done, he realized that it may have the opposite effect – it was now the only area of the bathroom not caked in a considerable layer of dust and grim. He spent the next few minutes undoing as much of his work as possible, reallocating dust and smudges until the sink looked no different than anything around it. He could only hope it had been enough.

He transitioned into Padfoot and made his way through the school towards the secret passage.

The sun had long set and candles illuminated the extended hallways, lined with portraits and tapestries. The school was beautiful in the daytime, but this, this was how he would always remember Hogwarts.

His momentary lapse down memory lane was abruptly interrupted by a scream behind him.

“THE GRIM!” a haunting woman’s voice shouted.

Padfoot whipped around to find himself only a few yards in front of a young woman who he’d never seen before in his life. She looked to be within only a few years of himself, but he was certain they hadn’t overlapped at Hogwarts. He would’ve remembered; she was that distinct-looking. Her outfit was reminiscent of a muggle hippy and she paired it with these thick round glasses that frankly, made her look like a bug.

He cocked his head at her.

“The Grim walks the halls of the school just before the students!” she gasped for air as she spoke. “Oh such an omen at such a time… this foretells of terrible thing! The students – the students are in grave danger! I must consult the headmaster – no – I must consult my tea leaves!”

Oh good Merlin, this was the new Divination professor.

The Divination professor; the one of the prophecy.

He reacted before he could process what he was doing, snarling at the young woman and his hackles raised. He would not attack. It wasn’t this woman’s fault that Dumbledore couldn’t even follow his own directions, but she still had caused so much chaos and pain in their lives, it was hard to ignore the rage pulsing through him.

The young professor fainted.

She hit the ground with a thud and Padfoot stared at her for a moment before approaching cautiously. She was still breathing. With that confirmed, he simply turned around and walked away, tail between his legs. He probably shouldn’t have done that.

He moved swiftly through the rest of the school towards the one-eyed witch, not allowing himself to get distracted.

“Padfoot, why do you look so guilty?!” Isabella whispered from beneath the cloak as he approached. His ears pinned back as he sat in front of her waiting for her to open the passageway. “Do I need to be worried?”

He shook his head almost imperceptibly quickly.

“Padfoooot?” Seeing no change in his expression, Isabella must’ve turned back to the witch.

“Dissendium.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 24: Prisoner Transportation and Visitation Procedures

Morfin Gaunt was still alive.

According to incarceration records, he had been in Azkaban since July of 1943 – 37 years ago. He had spent half of his life locked away in the isolated fortress, devoid of human interaction, and surrounded by dementors. There was no telling his mental state, but he was - according to every source they could find – the last remaining descendent of Salazar Slytherin.

And the last Parselmouth.

Timing, for once, seemed to be on their side. The latest mandate coming out of the DMLE was one of the most egregious oversteps that Sirius and Isabella had seen under the Crouch administration. The proposed mandate would make it so that people could be arrested and imprisoned, in Azkaban, with their trial at an unspecified date if caught ‘practicing the Dark Arts’ – ever-loosely defined. The Wizengamot was entirely split on the matter, but what was unanimously agreed upon was that this was the furthest regulations had ever tried to push into controlling magic.

It hit the news cycle hard. Outside of the war itself, it seemed to be the new topic no one could get enough of and papers across Wizarding Britain eagerly lapped up the attention. Though both of the Blacks had grown rather wary of the news cycle’s proclivity for fixation and exaggeration, particularly where the Dark families were concerned, this presented an undeniable opportunity.

The papers had given them the gift of ensuring that that their interest in Azkaban would not be scrutinized in the slightest.

In their visitation request form - just as complex as Isabella remembered – they outlined how she intended to write an article about the effects of an extended stay on the prisoners of Azkaban. Knowing the demographic currently in control of so much of the Ministry, the letter had a certain pureblood lean to it, focusing on five prisoners whose targeted crimes against muggles or muggle-borns had landed them a lifetime behind bars. They hoped they’d written the letter in a way that would appear as though they’d simply pulled a list of names, incarceration dates, and crimes and requested their visits.

It was, in fact, exactly what they had done, with the sole differentiator being that they had carefully chosen the criteria so that Morfin Gaunt had fit the definition perfectly.

And then they waited.

And waited.

There was nothing wrong with the first week of waiting, per se. There were still unknowns worth exploring before further action felt compulsory.

If the artifacts they were searching for were the subject of legends, the Chamber of Secrets was no more than a whisper in the wind. Source upon source gave them nothing that could prepare them for what they’d find, and they were slowly forced to conclude that their primary knowledge of the Chamber surpassed anything that had been written. It was said that the school had been searched time and again and no one had ever found evidence of its existence. They knew where its entrance was. They knew the last time it had been opened and that it required Parseltongue to do so. And they knew that whatever was down there – Slytherin’s Monster - had killed someone the last time it was opened.

It wasn’t hard to reach the conclusion that Slytherin’s Monster was a basilisk. It followed that it was a serpent of sorts; in order to command the monster, a Slytherin needed to be able to speak to it. It needed to be a serpent that could live or hibernate for centuries on end. And Moaning Myrtle’s comments eliminated any further doubts.

There was only one creature that had a pair of large, yellow eyes that could kill on sight.

Week one was fine in a way that week two was not. The questions became less focused, the avenues less necessary to explore before the Chamber, and yet they continued winding their way down the rabbit hole.

Though Regulus had made a compelling point about focusing on significant locations rather than the objects themselves, they couldn’t help but speculate. What else was there to do?

There was a strong case to be made for both Hufflepuff’s Cup and Ravenclaw’s Diadem to be the artifact at Hogwarts; both belonged to one of the four founders, both had historically resided in Hogwarts, the cup represented the beginning of formalized education for wizards, while the diadem represented intelligence and academic success.

It seemed the deaths associated with each object made the only meaningful difference. There was no doubt in their mind that Hepzibah Smith’s death was used to turn the cup into a horcrux. The timeline then followed that Wool’s Orphanage was used for Slytherin’s locket, leaving Arman Greengrass’ death for the diadem, wrapping up 1955 in a bloody bow.

Greengrass had been schoolmates with Tom Riddle, irrefutably connecting their relationship to Hogwarts, whereas there was no such connection with Hepzibah Smith. Of course, without further knowledge of Greengrass, they had no way of knowing if there was also a connection to Gringotts, or the diadem itself.

There were two things, they conceded, that they had never found a connection to in all their months of research – the cave Kreacher had visited and the Lost Diadem of Ravenclaw.

In many respects, they were lucky. They had been handed the cave. And they didn’t need to fixate on how the Dark Lord had come to possess the diadem. It was enough to declare that it could have happened, and then search the significant locations. Provided it departed the school with the Blacks, the diadem could’ve sprouted legs and walked itself into the Chamber of Secrets. It was a curiosity, sure, but it was not their chief concern.

They wanted it destroyed.

And yet their visitation request, the key to getting into said Chamber, lingered in a void.

By week three a certain sense of idleness clung to them like wet fabric; unpleasant, unsubtle, and entirely unignorable.

If they rested on the conclusion that the diadem resided in the Chamber, that left the cup in Gringotts. And haulted on one end, the question of the Gringotts vaults was pushed to the surface.

The cup was certainly not in the Smith’s vault; for an artifact that went missing 25 years earlier, it sounded as though it was still fresh in the family’s mind. They would not overlook it on a bank statement.

The safest location would be in the vault of an old family, buried deep in the depths of the bank’s caverns, and likely under the supervision of a high-ranking Death Eater. Now this didn’t exactly narrow things down; there was no shortage of prominent families in the Dark Lord’s ranks. The smartest options would be ones with multi-generational followers, such as the Notts, the Malfoys, the Averys, and the Rosiers – all Sacred families, all with deep vaults.

The Lestrange vault, too, was worth consideration. Cyrille Lestrange had been in the same year as Tom Riddle, and Arman Greengrass, and had been a formidable figure in both the legitimate and illegitimate political scene from the very beginning until his brutal death in 1978.

And of course, the artifact’s placement, tucked securely in the vaults of Gringotts, had almost certainly preceded his death.

Lestrange’s murder was one of the only hits from the resistance that had ever managed to shake the Dark Lord’s ranks. Many suggested that Rodolphus Lestrange would step in to his place, others argued Rodolphus and Bellatrix would both been brought up to fill his father’s rather large shoes. To that, Isabella couldn’t speak to, only that Bellatrix carried herself as though she was in the inner circle, and Regulus certainly spoke of her as though she was.

But she was not - not yet at least - in the same league as Oliver Nott, Abraxas Malfoy, Charlus Avery, and one Emeric Rosier.

Isabella vehemently denied that the Rosier vault should be on the consideration list; her grandfather was in control of the main vault, and though his younger son and his grandson were Death Eaters, they weren’t in the main line.

But then there was the matter of Zander.

She had refused to ask the Potters if Alice Longbottom had spoken truthfully about her brother, and she didn’t bring it up to Regulus either. Neither had volunteered the information and she found she had serious reservations about prying it out of them. It was like Schrodinger's Cat; it could both be true and untrue, until she learned any better. It was too serious, too awful, too… heartbreaking, frankly.

But if Lyzander Rosier was a Death Eater, the possibility of their vault opened up.

And even willful ignorance wasn’t enough to dismiss potential progress.

Isabella checked the Rosier vault herself late-September, under the pretenses of looking for a particular opal pendent. To her immeasurable relief, there was no cup to be found. Of course, Sirius, and Regulus, and James, and Lily had all in turn reminded her just how much they had been hoping the search for the second horcrux would’ve been successful then and there, and how very difficult it was going to be to access any of the other vaults on the list.

They were right. But it didn’t change how she felt.

The cat remained in the box for another day.

A consequence of this… she refused to call it denial, but avoidance of the potential truth, was that she had hardly spoken to Zander in months. She couldn’t bring herself to. It hurt to ignore, but it wasn’t impossible.

There was quite enough else to fixate on.

In the end, it took almost a full month before they even heard from the Ministry on their visitation request and the response was as bureaucratic as it got –

Dear Sir/Madame,  

Due to an extended backlog, the Ministry regrets to inform you that the reviewal process will take longer than anticipated. Please keep an eye out for a follow-up owl in the next 4-6 weeks.

Thank you for your patience.

Prisoner Transportation and Visitation Procedures

Department of Magical Law Enforcement

Isabella had stared at the slip of paper in front of her, not even on official stationery, and had to resist the urge not to crumple it before passing it over to Sirius.

It was entirely and unequivocally unacceptable.

And she was in no place to accept setbacks.

“Who the bloody hell is in charge of Azkaban visitations right now? Or what do they call it – the Head of ‘Prisoner Transportation and Visitation Procedures’?” Isabella demanded, storming into the Black Library, Sirius at her heels.

“Oh hello. I see we’re in a wonderful mood this fine morning.” Regulus glanced up from his newspaper. “Isabella, trust me when I tell you, you don’t want to know.”

It was almost certainly a Death Eater then. It was the exact kind of role that the organization had done such a strong job infiltrating; positions that weren’t high enough to raise alarm bells, but were significant enough that having someone in the role would make a real difference. It was still relatively unique to have them within the DMLE.

“So it is one of yours then? To be clear - ” she shoved the letter in his direction, “ - I don’t have the luxury of not knowing.”

Regulus slowly put down his paper and took a moment to process the letter’s contents. “Merlin, this is – this is really rather unfortunate.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You have no idea how bad this is gonna to be…”

“Enlighten us then,” Sirius grumbled. “Who is it?”

“Is it Lucius?” Isabella asked, her mind running through a list of younger Death Eaters who could conceivably hold ministry jobs.

“No. No that would be… that would be preferred.”

“Then who? Who could possibly -”

“Oh fuck me – is it Snape?” Sirius interrupted. “‘Cause we’re getting fuck-all out of him, if so.”

“Okay,” Regulus stifled a laugh as he straightened himself slightly, “that makes me feel slightly better because it’s not Severus, and I’m inclined to agree that would be worse. Maybe. It’s – well – Isabella…”

The second he addressed her directly, her heart sunk.

There had been many bridges burned after Sirius and Isabella’s relationship, and then engagement, came to light - exacerbated a bit of a violent situation in Slytherin common room. When provoked, she found she could be a rather brutal duelist. Though she wasn’t left without scars, her “capacity for violence” – as Dumbledore had called it when he politely explained why she wouldn’t be made Head Girl – had won her the duel.

As the scars faded, she built back some of the relationships where necessary, like with Alecto Carrow, who she had nearly a year and a half left of living with, and Rabastan Lestrange, whose family was tightly connected to the Blacks - at least she got to a point where she could be cordial. Others she could ignore and allow herself to slowly move on.

But there was one name she had never quite forgiven.

“It’s Yaxley. Corban Yaxley.”

“Oh good Merlin,” Isabella said, slumping in the armchair to her right. Sirius remained standing, white-knuckle gripping the chair in front of him.

It was somewhat luck on Yaxley’s part that he was the one that had actually landed anything on her. All of them had intended to hurt her, he was just the only one who did.

“Is there any reason to think this was personal?” Sirius asked his brother, as Isabella struggled to focus on the conversation at hand.

“No, the orders are just to muck things up with communications with Azkaban, nothing personal. I didn't know it went this far, or I would've... well, I don't know. Warned you?”

“Alright,” Sirius straightened abruptly, “well then, I suppose we best be off to the Ministry to have a little chat with our old pal. Shall we, love?”

Isabella froze for only a moment, staring into middle distance, before an unnecessarily large smile spread across her face.

“Absolutely!” She accepted his outstretched hand with a loud clap, practically flying out her seat. “I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.”

“Woah there, both of you, is that smart idea?!” Regulus interjected.

“Of course not,” Sirius snapped back, “but it’s my only idea.”

“Well at least take a breather first. Remember what it is you’re supposed to be angry about… because you both are disproportionately angry about getting delayed in writing an article.”

“Fine, then I’m pissed off about the bureaucracy of it all and that I have to deal with Yaxley!” Isabella shouted. “Consider the article a second tier of anger!”

“Look at you both! You look like you’re gearing up for a duel. If you walk into the ministry like this, you’ll have everyone on high alert. Don’t you want to think at all before you charge into the Ministry?!”

Both of them looked at Regulus like had just spit on them before they stormed out of the library.

They’d had a month to wait and think. It had been two months since they’d destroyed a horcrux, five months since they discovered the existence of the potential fourth horcrux, and five since they’d located the only horcrux they’d actually had in their possession.

And it had been a full year since their search began.

There was a time and a place for careful planning, but this was not it. The request had already been drafted and sent, their cover created, and all that was left was to take it a step further.

The Ministry had become the epicenter of the conflict, stuck in the crossfire between the DMLE’s staunch and aggressive resistance and the Death Eater’s infiltration. The Wizengamot remained one of the only untouched Ministry institutions, but only because there was almost no need for subtlety. Those that sat on the Wizengamot could, and did, speak vocally about their beliefs. The sheer fact seats were majority hereditary aided its independence - it was essentially a pureblood institution.

The primary floor of the Ministry was quieter than it had ever been throughout recent history. Those not involved in the conflict had learned to keep their head down when going about their day job. The only ones who dared stand out were those who could afford to make a scene.

The Blacks, of course, could make a scene. And though they tried to slow themselves down to a more reasonable pace, Regulus was right; they looked like hell. Their movement echoed in the chamber as they exited the floo and made their way towards the wand checkers, wands already at their side.

“Good morning – please state your business?” a young blonde checker who looked straight out of Hogwarts asked as they approached, barely looking up from her book.

They just stared at her.

“Wands please!” she held out her other hand, eyes still glued to the pages in front of her.

They shrugged and handed over their wands.

“Mr. & Mrs. … Black.” The checker finally looked up with a far more concerned in her eyes. “Apologies – what did you say your purpose was for this visit?”

“We didn’t,” Sirius replied flatly.

“I’m… I’m sorry I don’t mean to be a bother, it’s just procedure, I need to write it down…”

“Of course,” Isabella narrowed her eyes as she spoke. “How about ‘for fun’?”

“Uhhh, that’s not really one of the accepted options…”

“Fine. Then why don’t you put that we’re here for a brief conversation with an old friend,” Isabella said, unmistakably insincere.

“I’ll p-put personal matters, then,” the wand checker said quickly. “Proceed.”

They swooped through the atrium, Isabella’s heels clacking on the tile floors below before finally taking shelter away from prying eyes in the elevators. Only few had truly turned and watched them, most were only willing to sneak a glance before quickly averting their gaze, but it was still more than they would’ve liked.

“Wartime must be rather good for funding,” Sirius joked as the elevator door opened up to a rather opulent lobby for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. While most of the working floors were still blessed with the 1960s gift of wood paneling, the DMLE had upgraded. Black marble met gold finishes, giving it a rather sleek, modern, and expensive, look.

It took them only a few moments to find Yaxley’s office.

“Is he in a meeting?” Isabella asked his receptionist brusquely.

“No – but he doesn’t take walk-ins either…”

“He’ll make an exception.” Sirius moved past the desk and opened the door for Isabella to enter first.

“Hell-” Yaxley froze mid-word staring at the couple in his doorway.

“Hello,” Isabella said coolly, glancing around the modest office before turning back to her husband. “Darling, close the door behind us.”

Sirius snorted at her casual delivery and followed her in.

Physically, Isabella could only hope that she looked like she was in complete control, because mentally she was screaming. She hadn’t interacted with Yaxley since that morning; the morning he sliced up her face and her hair and had threated worse. She could still remember the feeling of complete and utter helplessness. Looking his direction, she struggled not to be transported back to that terror.

Yaxley cautiously rose to greet them and they didn’t miss the fact he’d grabbed his wand in the process.

“Please, take a seat,” he directed them to the wooden chairs in front of his desk as he himself slowly sat back down, studying both of their faces. “I’ll be transparent, I don’t know what to make of this. I am frankly… stunned to see you both in my office... I don’t know what else to say.”

“If we could have this conversation with anyone else, rest assured, we wouldn’t be here,” Sirius said bluntly.

Yaxley sighed. “I should’ve reached out - ”

“So you’ve seen our bloody visitation request?!” Isabella blurted out before Yaxley could even finish his thought.

“What? No… oh good Merlin, please tell there’s not a Black or a Rosier in Azkaban right now…” He began shuffling through the short stacks of paper on his desk. “That’s a huge oversight. There’s not supposed to be.”

“There’s not. Unless it’s new, there’s not.” Sirius turned to Isabella who nodded.

“Then what request? Why didn’t you submit it directly to me?” Yaxley caught himself and quickly shook his head. “Of course. So then I’m assuming you got stuck in the bureaucratic loop…”

He turned to a separate, far less organized pile of papers stacked on a shelf behind him. “Either of your families should’ve been able to tell you that’s not how this is done. I’ll have a word with them.”

“Don’t bother. We didn’t tell them. It wasn’t urgent,” Sirius wisely added, “but it had just become immensely frustrating.”

“Here it is.” Yaxley pulled their request form from the pile and began to skim through, “Merlin, this is interesting. You’re writing an article?”

He turned to Isabella and made eye contact for the first time since she’d entered the office. Looking into his icy blue eyes, she felt like she was going to puke, but she focused instead on nodding.

Yaxley looked through five prisoner’s names without seeming too focused on any one of them. “I recognize most of these prisoners, but they’re all old cases. Similar crimes. All with extended incarceration dates?”

“That’s correct,” she managed to say.

“I assume I don’t need to ask what got this on your radar?”

“As I’m sure many have pointed out,” Sirius seized the conversation, “it has become a bit too easy to find yourself with a one-way ticket to Azkaban.”

Yaxley raised his eyebrow with a knowing nod.

“And we feel that the public has gotten a bit flexible when it comes to what should constitute as an imprisonable offense. Perhaps if they were more aware of the conditions in Azkaban, they wouldn’t be so callous about who they sent there.”

“Hmm,” Yaxley said with a slight smile, “very interesting. Very, very interesting. And you both intend to go?”

The couple nodded.

“Okay, if you’re sure, but you know Azkaban is an unpleasant place. You’ll hear it from the prisoners, but the conditions are no better as a visitor. You’re just there for less time.”

“I can handle unpleasant,” Isabella said through gritted teeth.

“I know.” Yaxley sighed, looking back up at her. “I know this is not what you came here today to discuss, but a conversation between the two of us is long overdue. And I apologize that I’ve not reached out.”

He paused, seemingly to gather his thoughts. If he was about to take the conversation where she thought, she was in serious danger of passing out; she certainly wasn’t getting enough oxygen and it couldn’t possibly be healthy for her heart to be beating this fast.

“Isabella, I’m truly sorry for what happened between us back at Hogwarts. At the time, it seemed like the right course of action because of everything that had happened and where it seemed your allegiances were. I’m sure others have said this to you before, but this is war. We have never been soft on our enemies. Ever. But we made a mistake targeting you. An egregious mistake that I can only offer my sincerest apologies for now.”

She was too stunned to even know how to react so she simply stared at him, mouth agape, as he continued -

“It has been… suggested that what transpired that morning may be a catalyst for your lack of participation in the Cause. Or perhaps, a contributing factor. If that’s the case, let me know what I can do to make it up to you. Or what we can do. Please.”

Though he sounded genuinely remorseful, the pressure he must be under couldn’t be understated if the Death Eaters believed him to be the reason the two of them hadn’t joined.

She couldn’t tell if it made her feel better or worse.

What had happened between the two of them that morning in the Slytherin common room had been one of the worst moments of Isabella’s life and part of her wanted dig into it with him. The other part of her wanted to accept the apology she never thought she’d get. But there was a third option, one she knew she had to choose, even if it checked neither of the boxed.

She worked to steady her heart rate and control her voice. “If you can get me into Azkaban, I’ll consider it a strong start.”

“Consider it done, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can with the details. We should be able to get you out there early-November at the latest.” Yaxley glanced down again at their request form. “For the record, this is exactly the kind of action that our side supports. No one deserves what we put those prisoners through. It is unending torture, plain and simple. And for those longer-term prisoners you’re looking at, it hasn’t stopped for a decade, some decades. And Black, as you pointed out, we have an administration that’s hell-bent on imprisoning people for things that the three of us wouldn’t even consider a crime. And now without a trial.”

He stacked up their paperwork, knocking it into a neat pile, before slipping it back into its folder.

“It’s good to know that someone outside of our circle sees what’s happening. Just know you’re not alone in thinking that there’s something very wrong with this system.” Yaxley smiled. “I’m glad you came by.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 25: The Prisoners of Azkaban

Sirius and Isabella received their official approval only days after their meeting with Corban Yaxley, and the turnaround was a mere week before they met the boat in Sunderland to take them to Azkaban. The instructions were rather vague but could be best summarized as ‘prepare for everything’.

Bundled up in their thickest cloaks, they arrived early to the boat docks under strict directions from the captain. They needed to get out with sufficient enough time to beat the wind that was expected around noon. Depending on the current, it took about two hours to get out there and two hours to get back. It was recommended that visitors stay for no more than an hour, but with five different prisoners to visit, they were granted an hour and a half, essentially 15 minute per prisoner, with 15 additional minutes to spare for moving about the island.

Provided they left at 6:30 AM, they’d be back to the mainland by noon.

Standing on the docks overlooking the lapping waves on shores of the North Sea, it seemed almost peaceful - though they knew better than to expect that for the duration of their trip. Even with only three of them, the small boat felt cramped as they boarded, exacerbated by the hard dome cover that made it look as though the boat was prepared to go under at any given moment.

The journey to Azkaban was separated into two very distinct halves. For the first half of the trip, Sirius could almost fool himself into thinking that they were on a pleasant boat ride; a deep-sea fishing expedition of sorts. They were out of the wind in the covered boat and the rocking on the gentle waves felt calming, relaxing even, lulling them into a warm sleepy trace.

And then they were forced to part with their wands.

The use of magic was strictly prohibited on Azkaban. The wards made it all but impossible, but as a precautionary measure in the event the wards failed, wands were left in a secure black box that could almost be mistaken for a buoy or beacon nearly a mile off the shore. No other weapons, including muggle weapons, could be brought with visitors. The prisoners were restrained in their cells and the captain, along with the official clearance letter, assured them that they were well subdued – long-term dementor exposure did that to a person – so no wands should be necessary.

But that did little to comfort them.

The black box also marked the start of the anti-muggle wards and the second half of the journey. Though the lack of wands certainly weighed on the psyche, it was the dementor just beyond the wards that truly got to a person. The effects were instantaneous. The gigantic waves that infamously inhabited the North Sea pummelled against the small boat, proving once and for all why the hard cap was necessary. The skies darkened and there was a new, unmistakable chill that prickled their skin.

It was unsettling how quickly their own minds started to work against them. Misery and dread coated the air like a thick mist, but it was the voices and the visions that truly unnerved them. The voices were just perceptible enough to be understood, but specific enough that they knew it couldn’t be real. It was as though a highlight reel of their worst moments played softly, just out of the corner of their vision. Ignorable, for the most part, but certainly not unnoticed.

It hadn’t occurred to Sirius, nor Isabella, that there was arguably a far, far more secure location in Wizarding Britain than Hogwarts and Gringotts until they approached the fortress that was Azkaban, wandless and completely on edge.

While they would be on high alert for anything unusual, they felt the prison was an unlikely location for the Dark Lord to have stored a horcrux. The logistics of getting it out there weren’t the issue; the Dark Lord had stacked his followers around the entire prison enterprise. It was the dementors that gave them pause. Though they had eliminated the use of dementors as a method to destroy horcruxes based on the explanation of the object-soul tether, the creator of a horcrux may feel the need to hedge their bets further. The idea of storing something as precious as a part of a soul on an island surrounded by soul-sucking guards felt irrationally risky.

Azkaban had to be the closest earth got to hell.

And soon they found themselves the willing visitors.

There was no interrogation or visitation room on the island and the captain didn’t get off the boat; they would be the only people on the island outside of the prisoners. There was a certain anxiety that came with the self-guided tour of hell, but there was no preferable alternative. They would be spending far longer with one prisoner than the others, and they’d be asking some extremely peculiar questions.

They led themselves through the musty and damp stone tunnels of the prison, following signage to the long-term holding cellblock. Cells lined either end of the corridor, though it appeared that over half lay empty. True to the captain’s words, even in the cells that contained prisoners, there was little sign of life.

Just before the turn to the second of three corridors of the triangle that made up the cellblock, they spotted the very name they were searching for, etched into the stone above the cell door.

Morfin Gaunt.

The man looks as close to death as anyone either of them had ever seen. Dressed in a tattered striped uniform, the old man lay slumped against the back wall of his desolate cell, neck crooked as his head hung limp to the side. Though, by their estimates, Gaunt would only be in his 70s, his sallow skin and skeletal frame could’ve easily belongs to a wizard in his 100s.

“Morfin Gaunt?” Sirius whispered through the metal bars of the cell.

There was no motion.

“Gaunt? Sir?” Isabella chimed in a little louder.

“GAUNT! Hey MORFIN GAUNT!” Sirius shouted now.

Still, nothing.

“Sirius, he’s not… you don’t think he’s dead, do you?”

“Well, only way to find out,” Sirius said as he began loudly banging on the metal bars. A moment or two in and the man stirred, which made Isabella join her husband on his noisy endeavor.

Minutes went by and little could be noted except for the occasional twitch from the man inside. They kicked, hit, and rattled the bars until their hands were numb and their feet were sore, shouting as they went.

Could the man not wake or would he not wake?

That was the gamble Sirius took as he shouted, at the top of his lungs, “IS THIS WHAT HAS BECOME OF THE SLYTHERIN LINE?!”

If other prisoners were listening, the intentions of their visit had just become very, very clear.

Gaunt’s eyes opened at once. They were a ghastly yellow color; a true window into the health of the man in front of them. He opened his mouth as if he intended to speak, beginning with a slight croaking cough, adjusting after the infrequent use of his vocal cords.

Only what came next couldn’t possibly be described as words.

A low, unsteady hiss spilled out of Morfin Gaunt’s mouth – uninterrupted by the need to breath or swallow. It reminded Sirius of the sound of a rattlesnake, but even that didn’t quite capture its eeriness. There was something so perturbing about the unhuman pitch Gaunt spoke in as he continued. Combined with the way his mouth moved to form the sounds he was making; it could genuinely be described as disturbing.

If this was Parseltongue, the sounds they had made in the lavatory back at Hogwarts hadn’t even come close.

“Mr. Gaunt, we have a number of questions for you. Do you – do you mind if we switch to English?” Sirius said, the steadiness in his voice surprising even him.

Gaunt made a gargled sound that could almost be described at laugh, followed by another hiss.

“Mr. Gaunt, apologies – let me introduce myself. My name is Sirius Orion Black, and this is my wife, Isabella Rosier Black. We’re here to talk. Neither the Sacred House of Black nor the Sacred House of Rosier have the ability to speak…” Sirius faltered as he struggled to know how direct he ought to be, but then again, the questions themselves were entirely about Parseltongue so there was no point in subtlety now.

He inhaled.

“Unfortunately, while our families are nothing but the purest blood and traditionally all fall under your ancestors House, neither of us are Parselmouths. Though, we would love to learn more about the language, I’m afraid the conversation must continue in English.”

The man stared back at them, and then just shook his head slowly.

He would not switch.

It appeared, after no shortage of attempts, that no matter how they phrased the request, no matter how much they pushed or appealed, Morfin Gaunt would only reply in Parseltongue. It was unclear if he recognized what he was doing and was being deliberately difficult, or if he genuinely couldn’t understand, after all these years, that he was speaking another language.

And Merlin, did they spend a long time trying to decipher that.

Once the reality of their limitations set in, they resorted to strange pantomimes and odd questions around opening doors or cans. They thought they were starting to hear a pattern in the hisses, but it was so foreign to them it was hard to say. They could just as easily be making connections out of desperation rather than reality – ‘open’ the door could be ‘unlock’, and ‘open’ the can could be ‘crack - or Merlin-knows. He could be asking them how long he’s been locked away over and over again, for all they knew.

It became clear that verbal communication could not be a viable path forward, which meant they had to resort to a more severe alternative – a more invasive one.

Neither were confident enough in their ability to syphon someone else’s memories for a pensive, particularly ones that may or may not be given willingly. Which meant the best they could do was have Sirius extract the memory, and then share his own memory of the memory. It wasn’t perfect, it would likely be muddled and blurred, but it could work as long Sirius could intensely focus on the exact sound.

The last few years had given Sirius a decent background in both Occlumency and Legillimency, and the six months since the veritaserum ordeal with the Potters had reemphasized the need for further training; the benefits weren’t exactly subtle. But still, Sirius was no legillimens-savant. Matched against a trained mind, it was likely he’d come away with no more than a glimpse into their last meal. Even against an untrained, but stable mind, his skills were nothing impressive.

Fortunately, Mofin Gaunt’s mind was not trained, nor could it be described as remotely stable, which meant it was ripe for extraction.

A glance to his wife confirmed that was only one course of action left, and with her subtle, but reassuring nod, he dove in.

The memories he weaved through were dull and colorless, and it took a considerable amount of time to locate a memory that couldn’t be described as painful. Usually, at least how he’d been taught, the way to bring a specific memory or memories to the forefront of people’s minds was to ask a specific question – but there was enough of a language barrier that he was less confident than usual.

“How did you get past the snake hanging on the front of your door?”

The memories flashed before him and Sirius did his best to hold steady to at least one.

He recognized the Gaunt shack immediately - though decades earlier, the home was only slightly less delipidated than it had been when they had visited. Three people milled about the front of the house or approached it on the drive, it wasn’t perfectly clear in the fractured memory. An older wizard, whom Sirius would’ve been inclined to call decrepit had he not now been standing in front of the decaying Morfin Gaunt, was screaming at a small, scrawny girl who couldn’t have been more than 13 or 14 at the time. A younger Morfin Gaunt approached the door and hissed, this time distinctly and directly.

Sirius forced the memory to replay in Gaunt’s mind. Whatever it was he was saying wasn’t too long, though not nearly as short as the word ‘open’. It had a distinct rattle to it, cutting rapidly in and out.

From Gaunt’s reactions, it appeared the snake on the door was communicating back with him, but it was as though the snake spoke almost entirely outside of Sirius’ hearing range.

When spoken by a human, Parseltongue must not sound exactly like a snake or at least it was the human equivalent of snake tongue, spoken within the human auditory range. Hypothetically, a wizard could memorize enough phrases in Parseltongue that they could communicate with other Parselmouths – and on their end, speak to snakes – but there was no sense that they would in turn be able to understand a snake.

That was where the phonetics broke off from the gift of being a Parselmouth. It must be the reason the ability was genetically inherited - it wasn’t just a language; one’s hearing or mind must be wired differently.

“How would you open a locked room guarded by a snake?” Sirius pried further.

Once again, the memories flooded in and Sirius narrowed in on a quick memory of Morfin Gaunt as a little boy playing with some sort of antique music box, locked by a slithering metal snake. The sounds he made were becoming familiar. It was the same rattling hiss, far more emphasis on the ‘s’ sound and even the ‘h’ sound than they had used when they had tried to imitate it before hearing it.

Sirius pried through a number of other memories, working hard to isolated the specific sound Morfin Gaunt made, along with the two other people he identified as his father and his sister, when they opened up the door to their old shack, bobbing and weaving through the distant memories.

“MERLIN!” Isabella shouted, pulling Sirius out of his mental trance. “How long have we been here?! You’ve got a pocket watch, right?”

Sirius’ heart dropped as he glanced down as the time on the watch.

They had been talking to Morfin Gaunt for 45 minutes – adding in the time it had taken them to reach his cell, nearly an hour was gone, just like that. Factoring in the ten minutes or so it would take them to return to the boat, their time to talk to the remaining four prisoners on their list was dwindling fast.

They couldn’t just ignore the other four; the article had to be written, and written well to justify the trip. They had no choice but to be done here.

“Do you think…?” Isabella trailed off, her motions panicky as she glanced between her husband and Morfin Gaunt.

“I think I have enough,” said Sirius. “We have what we came for.”

He could feel a headache forming, exhausting a part of his mind that he so rarely exerted. Coupled with the dulling effects of the dementors, he wanted nothing more than a long nap. But they were down to mere minutes, rather than hours, before this was done and he wouldn’t let himself get distracted.

They tore down the hall towards the next prisoner; a paper with a prepared list of questions squeezed in Isabella’s hand as they made their way cell to cell.

These weren’t thorough interviews and they hardly had time to ask half of the questions that would’ve wanted to in order to form a more complete analysis of the conditions in the prison and its long-term effects. But the prisoner’s answers, coupled with the Blacks’ observations of the inhabitants, barely better off than Gaunt himself, painted a clear enough story.

The four prisoners survived because there was something outside of the prison walls that drove them to survive. Given the requirements to land in Azkaban, that ‘something’ was usually a twisted form of vengeance or a sadistic campaign. Evil could survive far better in a place like this than good. But at least they survived.

Day after day. Year after year. Decade after decade.

There was something nauseatingly painful about spending that amount of time in a room staring at the same four walls. To say nothing of the conditions; to say nothing of the rotting walls, and decaying people with hollowed minds, consumed by the hood guards that swarmed at all hours of every day. To stare at the same four walls was enough to drive a person mad, of that Sirius was certain.

They couldn’t have exited the prison quicker had they flown. It was abundantly clear once their time came to an end why most visitors were limited to only an hour. The dementors, and the island itself, had taken a serious toll on their minds, and it would take days before they started to feel like themselves again.

Sirius sat in silence on the boat ride back to the mainland; praying that they had gotten what they needed and that they would never have to return.

Chapter Text

Chapter 26: Emptied: Decades lost inside the cells of Azkaban

EMPTIED: Decades lost inside the cells of Azkaban

By Isabella Rosier Black  

November 24^th, 1980

When I was 7 years old, my mother sat me down in the drawing room and let me know that her brother would be going away for a while. A long while. As she spoke, she pulled at a loose string on the couch cushion, winding it and unwinding it around a fabric button. I watched as the button twisted and turned, wobbling as she pulled tighter and tighter, putting more pressure on the stitch holding it in place. I watched as it finally popped. The stitch gave and the button sailed across the room. I followed its trajectory as it landed under the piano and then traced its path back to my mother. I waited for a reaction, some acknowledgement that this was not how we treat out furniture, or a reminder to be careful, lest things like this happen. But she said none of that; she seemed to have hardly registered any part of the button fiasco. Her eyes were glassy, her lips trembling, and her fingers still twiddled with the loose string.

I had never seen her cry before that day.

My uncle was sent to Azkaban in 1967 for a five-year sentence. The crimes are public and I won’t go into them now. I’m sure there are some that feel he deserved it, and others who I am sure feel he deserved more. I am not here to dispute the merits of his imprisonment; I want to address the tears. Any family that has received that notice can speak to the same wave of emotions my mother felt. Five years may not seem like a lot, but there is no way to know what state they will be in once they return.

Nor if they return.

Not a lot is known to the public of the conditions of Azkaban, and I fear that I cannot say with conviction whether that is by design or a byproduct of the system. It is true that those who get out almost exclusive refuse to speak of their time inside. And we’ve built a culture around that; I wouldn’t dream of asking a former inmate about their experience. Prisoners who get out deserve a life free of the pressure to relive those memories – though anyone who understands long-term dementor exposure understands how easily those memories resurface.

But some must talk, mustn’t they? For the numbers that we imprison, is silence on the subject even feasible? Well, the statistics paint a rather clear, and troubling, picture of how this could be so.

The truth is, those who are imprisoned for the duration of their sentence and get out are a minority – no more than 30%.

Most do not survive. It is estimated that between 50 to a full 70% pass away within the first few weeks of their imprisonment.

Let me emphasize this, in case the significance of these figures is lost on any reader, two out of every three people that we send to Azkaban die within weeks of their incarceration.

I understand why my mother cried; Azkaban is a death sentence more often than it is prison.  

The final group, no more than 20%, are prisoners who have been given lifetime sentences and are still alive and serving them years, if not decades, later.

Too often we forget about this group, gone from the public eye for longer than many readers have been alive. But to me, they are the clearest window into the conditions of Azkaban. A perfectly preserved reflection of what we intend to happen to those who break the law.

I had the privilege of speaking with five prisoners, all of whom have been in Azkaban for over 20 years. The stories they shared were harrowing, and I do not say that lightly.

The prevailing perspective was that they had become livestock at a feeding farm for their hooded guards. The dementors are willing to give them only enough to ensure their survival, but nothing above that. Where they differ from livestock is that at least humans have come to realize that the wellbeing of an animal has an impact on the quality of its production. Whether that be milk, eggs, or wool, there are bare minimum conditions that must be met for animals to continue producing.

It does not appear that there is any such acknowledgement between the dementors and the humans they guard. Fresh prisoners with fresh emotions are drained fast. And there is no replenishing the positive emotions; no human connection around them that could spark any memory or feeling. They are drained until they have nothing left but misery and despair.

Most do not survive.  

After a few weeks, it feels as though there is nothing worth staying alive for. In their cells, the prisoners are at an unimaginable low, and as far as they remember, there is nothing that could bring them joy if they ever were to get out. And so many, listening to the tortured screams of those around them, give up. They stop eating or drinking, and simply wait to die. And the dementors can’t, and frankly won’t, do a thing to stop it.

Ironically, it is around the three-to-four-week mark where things start to improve – marginally. Because they are thoroughly drained at that point, with no chance of replenishing, the dementors essentially leave them alone. Yes, the effects of dementors are ever-present at Azkaban – even as visitors we can attest to that much – but it is not the same as the targeting the new prisoners endured. If a witch or a wizard can simply survive being emptied of all that was good, and accept a life as a shell of themselves, they can survive for years on end.

There tends to be two types of people that survive beyond that point; the mentally insane, whose minds are too far gone to understand what was happening to them, or those who have something that they care enough about on the outside to persevere. Family, a goal, a purpose, a campaign; they survive because something drives them to.

The prisoners we spoke with were sedated, slow, emaciated, and in dire need of medical attention. Despite the fact they could barely stand, they remained shackled, wrist and ankles deformed from years of these restraints. The prisoners we spoke with seemed to understand that they would not get out. That whatever drove them to survive was no more than a dim dream. That this was their life and would be their life until they, too, gave up.  

I don’t know if surviving in such a state is a blessing or a curse.  

We are torturing the prisoners.

There is no justification for this treatment of our fellow witches and wizards. The death rate is egregious; a blood-red stain on our modern society. Our use of dementors needs to be questioned and overhauled. There should be serious investigations into who has allowed this system to prevail seemingly unchecked.

And yet as I write this, our Ministry would have us moving in the opposite direction. They are greasing the path to Azkaban.  

Many of you have never had a conversation like my mother did with me at seven years old. Many of you have never shed a tear for an incarcerated family member or friend. And I understand if in this day and age, there is no sympathy for the witches and wizards who land themselves with a one-way ticket to the notorious prison.

But as we stand today, contemplating the legality of pre-trial imprisonment, of internment, I want you to hold the three-week survival rate in your mind. Genuinely innocent people could die in Azkaban before they’re given a chance to plead their case. Beyond the ethicality of the use of dementors, beyond the ever-easing criteria for imprisonment, ask yourself, can you justify that risk?

I do not ask you to advocate for the criminals; I ask you to advocate for the innocent.

“This was reckless,” Lily said, letting the Daily Prophet collapse as she stared at the Blacks in front of her.

“It was calculated,” Isabella responded.

“Calculated?!”

“I actually think it was rather clever,” Sirius chimed in.

“‘Our Ministry would have us moving in the opposite direction.’,” Lily quoted. “‘They are greasing the path to Azkaban.’ Greasing the path… you think that’s CLEVER?”

“Honestly?” Isabella struggled to word her thoughts correctly, not feeling entirely patient. “Yes. Yeah, as both a distraction and, I suppose, as a political statement, yes. I rather do think it was clever. But come on; it’s not like this is my first step into a political career here. Let’s not pretend we don’t know why I did this.”

“And who else knows? I just feel like you’re not thinking about how the public will take this.”

“You know, for the most part, it’s actually been rather well received.”

“That’s not– by WHOM?”

“We’ve gotten quite a lot of positive feedback across the board, I’ll have you know. It seems most, still, fall somewhere in the middle…”

“Well it’s all anyone can talk about,” James said stoically. “Got quite a lot of time at the last Order meeting. Dumbledore said -”

“You’re back to attending Order meetings?” Sirius interrupted glancing between the two Potters. “Both of you?”

James nodded. “It’s been six months since the prophecy was overheard and nothing’s really come of it. It’s not – we’re not back in action, but baby steps. It makes sense to test the waters, Dumbledore said.”

“And Harry?”

“No,” Lily bemoaned, “the poor boy hasn’t gone beyond our front garden since he came home from the hospital. That wall’s starting to feel almost suffocating. Once he’s a little older, though, and maybe doesn’t look exactly like a 5-month-old, or if a full year goes by and there’s… well, nothing else on the subject. It’s just, there’s almost no such thing as comfortable enough, you know?”

“Of course, let us know if you ever need us to watch him, we’re always happy to,” Isabella said, smiling over at Harry, wiggling on Sirius’ lap.

“He does love you both, my goodness,” Lily said with a laugh, smiling at the scene as well before shaking her head. “Now stop distracting me – the DMLE’s absolutely pissed about this, you know that, right?”

“We had a feeling, there’ve been a few articles – and letters – that clued us in,” Isabella said with only the slightest hint of sarcasm. The DMLE had made their thoughts on the matter abundantly clear.

“Content aside, the Order’s more concerned by the fact that Isabella Black was the one who wrote the article.”

This, too, she was all too aware of. The fact that she had written such an article seemed to be more noteworthy than its incendiary contents, and to that, Isabella didn’t know what to say. She’d expected attention, and she wasn’t dispassionate about the topic, but now she was talked about as though she was an expert on Azkaban and at the forefront of any political decisions made on it.

“My influence is frustratingly overblown, let me assure you.”

“I don’t think it is,” said James.

“But I also don’t think it matters!” Lily added. “You’re grossly underestimating the power of the press. You are the news; the topic tangentially bolstered the attention, but your sudden and public dive into politics, that’s the news!”

“Oh because saying something like this is so out of character of me?” Isabella wanted to laugh but found the expressions on James and Lily’s face too disconcerting to ignore. “What?”

“Even Wormtail asked us about this.”

“Then Peter’s an idiot,” Sirius scoffed. “And he should come to us if he has questions, that’s ridiculous.”

“You and Isabella both have been ‘neutral’,” James said with air quotes, “since we left school. This looks like a statement. Like a declaration, and you know it.”

“For what side?”

“ ‘…the ever-easing criteria for imprisonment,’,” Lily quoted, wiggling the paper, still in her hands, “what side do you think?”

“Then the article’s doing its job!” Isabella rebuffed. “It IS a compelling distraction. If the Death Eaters take it as proof of our true allegiances, then let it be amusing juxtaposition to the genuine cause.”

“But if the Order does too? Or even if the Order just interprets this as some anti-law campaign -”

“Then tell them to read it again. Merlin, I don’t know! How many more times could I have spelled out that the point of the article was not about the crimes, but the conditions?!”

“You can’t claim that! Multiple times do you allude to issues with the changing criteria.”

“That’s not what I meant by criteria.”

“Really, Isabella, really? Was it not?”

“Weeell,” Isabella smiled, “I maintain full denial, of course. But if it led people to, say, contemplate the changing laws around the Dark Arts as well as pre-trial imprisonment, I wouldn’t complain.”

“And Wormtail’s thinking this is out of character?” Sirius laughed, but if Isabella wasn’t mistaken, there was just a hint of something else in his tone.

“I just -” Lily tried, “how do you want us to address this?”

Sirius shrugged. “Say nothing. It’ll blow over. And when we’re not at any Death Eater rallies or fighting them at a raid in Hogsmead, they’ll have the privilege of – once again – learning that we’re not Death Eaters. You’re not worried about us personally, are you?”

“Of course not,” James said. “But it’s going to keep getting harder, keeping this up, you know? The longer this goes on?”

“It might. So let’s get it done! Maybe we can wrap this whole thing up by Christmas, have a real celebration!”

“You’ve got a plan for Gringotts?”

“Don’t ruin my optimism with realism!” Sirius lightened the somber mood with a laugh. “At least the Parseltongue’s getting better, you know, the reason for the article in the first place?”

At least this they knew was a winning topic for them. As they’d anticipated, Sirius’ memory was a piss-poor delivery mechanism for Morfin Gaunt’s memories. It was blurred and dull from the effects of the dementors, nauseating and confusing from the strange perspective and rapid replays and memories shifts, but the audio could be heard clearly enough. And that, really, was all that mattered.

Isabella and Sirius studied it as closely as they could and practiced it between themselves, trying to match the strangled hisses and rattled intonations as closely as possible.

Though they wouldn’t, and couldn’t, tell the Potters it now, they had thought to ask Regulus if it sounded like Parseltongue, recognizing that he, more so than anyone else in their small circle, may have heard the Dark Lord speak it. But Regulus tensed up at the first sound of it and made it clear that Sirius should never, ever do that again in his presences before he stormed out of the room. Though they weren’t privy to the Dark Lord’s methods, it was clear however he’d leveraged his ability to speak with snakes was not a memory Regulus wanted to recall. But the fact it has elicited that reaction alone said enough.

They were getting close.

“How much longer do you need, do you think?”

“We’re aiming for the end of term; it’s longer than we would’ve liked, but best time to get into the school.”

“You’re not going to use fiendfyre in Hogwarts, are you?” asked Lily.

“Merlin – no, could you imagine? If something were to go wrong, and we unleashed fiendfyre on the Chamber of Secrets, not only would we not survive, but we would then be the people who burned down Hogwarts. “

“Good. If we can’t explain the article,” James cracked a grin, “how would we possibly explain that?”

“Oh simply indefensible!” Sirius cackled.

“Plus, we want to get out of there as quickly as possible,” Isabella explained to Lily. “We, unfortunately, know what else is down there.”

“Do you have a contingency plan? I know you’re hoping saying ‘open’ won’t wake the basilisk, but in case it does, please tell me you have a plan or found something that would work.

“Oh trust me,” Sirius gave Isabella an exasperated look, “you do not want to know what this one’s insisting on…”

Chapter Text

Chapter 27: The Chamber of Secrets

On a bright and crisp mid-December day, Isabella trailed after her husband with two stunned roosters in her bag. Roosters had not been Sirius’ choice of companions, but Isabella – and Lily – had insisted. If they encountered a basilisk, they would simply wake the roosters and startle them into crowing. It was a ridiculous visual – them holding out roosters in leu of wands – but if it worked, then it worked and no more needed to be said.

The Blacks swiftly made their way through the Honeyduke's passage and brushed beside the One-Eyed Witch. Isabella, once again under James’ invisibility cloak, followed the massive black dog down the hallway toward the ladies’ lavatory on the second floor.

The majority of the students had gone home for winter break the day prior, and those that remained were almost certainly not spending their free time in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. Staff would likely be embracing the calmness after the chaos of first semester, and they weren't expecting any difficulties. If rumors were to be believed, there was traditionally a steady stream of professors that went from dropping off the students at the Hogwarts Express down to the Hogsmead pubs, which meant the morning following had been be quite the slow start for most.

Four months since their first attempt, Isabella and Sirius found themselves back in the lavatory in front of the impressive column of sinks. Though a latent part of her was excited to see a part of history most only speculated existed, there was no sense that either of them wanted to savor the moment.

Getting at the Chamber of Secrets had been a Hydra of a chore and the only thing that would cauterize it would be the destruction of the horcrux within. That thought, and that thought alone, energized her.

“Where’s Myrtle?” Sirius asked, the corners of his lips turning up in a way that made it abundantly clear this wasn’t just a passing observation.

“No. I’m not entertaining it this time. We don’t have time for your theatrics.”

“Hey! You’ve always loved my theatrics!”

“I must be a masochist...,” Isabella huffed.

“I hope you’re not holding out for me to disagree with you, love…” her husband laughed, glancing at the sink in front of them, “Shall we?”

The faster the better.

“You can do the honors," she said, "you’re better than I am.”

With a deep inhale, Sirius let out the eerie, rattled hiss that they’d become all-too familiar with.

And the snake carving moved.

It felt like the oxygen had been sucked out of the room as they watched the ‘S’ shaped snake straighten out its small body. It draped itself around the back of the faucet, causing it to bend forward, as if it was collapsing into the sink basin. And then, slowly but surely, the entire sink, base to mirror, began to sink into the ground. Just as it hit its half-way point, the mirror suspended itself into the air as though to clear a passage for them. The sink met the floor and out appeared stone steps, the beginnings of a spiral along the walls of the well into the black abyss below.

But only about five steps appeared.

“I think more will appear as you continue… right?” Isabella stated, staring straight ahead. “It must be a defense mechanism so people can’t follow. We’ll need to walk really close together.”

“Then you go first," Sirius said, "just in case. Okay?”

Isabella nodded, approaching the landing. She took the first step cautiously – it was secure. She moved to the second as Sirius joined her on the steps. They followed this pattern down the extended staircase, ensuring there was never more than a stair between them. It took nearly 10 minutes to make it down, lit only by the light on the tip of their wands, fearing that anything more would force them to confront the reality of the potential fall.

Isabella cast a lumos maxima the moment she reached the base. It looked as though they had entered a large cave and there were tunnels jutting off in either direction. The ground was rather filthy; every surface coated in a thick layer of blacked dust.

“No cobwebs?” Isabella observed.

“Spiders flee…”

Right. She quickly shook that thought away.

“But Merlin,” he continued, a hint of excitement in his voice, “we’re here.”

“We’re finally here.” Isabella couldn’t help but smile.

Sirius whistled as he looked around the cavern. “You know how to open any door or anything you encounter, right?”

“Yeah, I mean, as well I can. Do you thinking we should split up? Does that seem smart?”

“It’d be a lot faster if we do, plus everything gets a double look then.”

Isabella nodded as she dug into her extended bag to pull out a large, still rooster.

Sirius groaned.

“Hey,” she shot him a scathing glare, handing the feathery mess over, “I don’t care that it looks ridiculous; it’s safe.”

She was trying her best to maintain a stoic expression to match her tone, but as she watched Sirius tuck the petrified bird under his arm with a gentle pat on its head, she couldn’t help but laugh.

“Merlin, Isabella, I’m just thanking my protector…” Sirius gently mocked as he proceeded down the tunnel to his left.

“First sign of motion!” she shouted down after him.

He wiggled his wand in the air to signify that she’d been heard.

She proceeded down the other corridor, quickly reaching a dead-end at a large round door, decorated with an intricate gold snake locking system.

She asked it to open.

And it did.

The air that wafted out was one of the most pungent, musty smells that she had ever experienced. A strange and gaging combination of ancient water, stale air, and the faint, but distinct note of something earthy, like old sage; as thought the green tiles that lined the floors of the expansive room before her had been dyed with it, before years of damp abandonment had muted it to a darker hue.

There was a moment where she found herself almost lost. She had to remind herself that she was there for a purpose – not just a tourist exploring an abandoned museum. For while the Chamber had long been neglected, it was no less beautiful. Marble Corinthian pillars supported the archways along the main chamber; but in leu of the order’s usual ode to nature, the curves at the tops of the pillar were created by snakes bobbing and weaving through the design as though they were alive.

Pools lined the edge of the chamber leading up to a massive, floor to ceiling statue of Salazar Slytherin himself; a looming presence, reminding her that while she may feel kinship with the symbolism, she was, herself, an intruder and she ought not get comfortable.

Each pool warranted further investigation, each side room through each archway further exploration. She was meticulous; each step deliberate, her thoughts never straying far from the purpose, completely in tune with her senses.

She spent well over an hour exploring every corner of the Chamber of Secrets. Though the entire chamber exuded a sort of old magic, she had yet to sense the horcrux.

She must still be too far away.

“Merlin! You should’ve seen the hellish caves I’ve been exploring!” Sirius exclaimed as he entered the main chamber, rooster still in hand. “This is – wow – mind boggling, honestly.”

“Did you find anything?”

“No, nothing but dozens of dead ends. You?”

She shook her head.

They had all the time in the world, and the chamber was undoubtedly large, but this was strange. She focused her attention on the pillars that she’d simply passed between, carefully tracing the curves and trying her luck with asking them to open whenever she felt a bump or a ridge out of the place. The writhing snakes above her would pause for a moment when she spoke, almost in acknowledgement of their language, but nothing would change.

From pillar to pillar, archway to archway, room to room they both went until another hour had passed and still, nothing.

They cast a myriad of spells at the towering bust of Slytherin – enough to determine that there was certainly something alive, and massive, resting behind the head – but the Dark magic they were searching for simply wasn’t there.

Something was wrong.

“Does anything feel… off to you?” Sirius asked hesitantly.

Isabella paused, kneeled next to the pool of water she was once again manipulating and glanced around. “No, I don’t think so. We just need to try hard- ”

“But shouldn’t something feel off?” he interrupted. “Wouldn’t you have said something felt off at the Gaunt Shack?”

“I - w-hmm,” she faltered. She closed her eyes and took a steading breath. “Sirius, don’t. Don’t – don’t say that. This place has seen magic, Dark magic.”

“Old magic. Powerful magic. But Dark? I don’t know. The feeling’s familiar, isn’t it?”

“It feels like the lowest vaults in Gringotts,” Isabella added quietly, as if she hadn’t quite intended to say it out loud.

“But it doesn’t feel like the Gaunt’s…”

“NO.” The word burst out of her as she rose from her crouched position.

“No," she said again, calmer, sharper this time. "No, don’t even suggest it. Not after EVERYTHING we’ve done to get here. Merlin, Sirius, we’re just missing something!”

She took off towards the entrance they’d come through to enter the main chamber. She would revisit everywhere Sirius looked before. He must’ve just missed something, she tried to reassure herself.

But even as she made her way back through the intricate door and down the cave-like corridors, a part of her was already losing hope. Why would the Dark Lord hide something so carefully in a Chamber he believed he alone could access? And something he alone had knowledge of?

She tore through the tunnels commanding every dead-end to open until her lungs burned and her throat was horse from the harsh sounds she was making. Another hour went by. And still, nothing. She navigated her way back to the room they had entered and banged against the wall opposite the stairs, as though she could will a third option into existence. But she couldn’t.

There was no horcrux in the Chamber of Secrets.

It hit her in an instant and all she could do was scream. Everything they had done for months now had been entirely and utterly useless. Purposeless. Irrelevant. She was carrying a petrified rooster because she had voluntarily broken into an underground chamber that was home to an ancient and deadly basilisk. She had gone to Azkaban to learn how to break into the damn chamber, not just subjecting her and husband to dementors, but outright exposing their interest in the Dark Lord’s relative to a Death Eater. And then she had gone published the whole thing for the world to see. And the Potters weren't wrong, the article wasn't nothing.

It was supposed to have been worth. All of it. All of it was worth because it was a step in the right direction. A step towards their goal. It was progress. It got them the Chamber of Secrets, the only location that they had never doubted, never questioned; from the moment they had learned of its existence and its role in the Dark Lord's rising, they had known, with certainty, that it must be significant. 

But there was no horcrux in the Chamber of Secrets.

She was just managing to catch her breath when Sirius stormed in. His eyes were pale and cold and clenched his jaw as he approached her.

“So you’ve come to the same conclusion?” He shoved the rooster in her bag. “This chamber has fuck-all for us?”

“Months, Sirius, months…”

“We’re not going to think about it. Not now, maybe not ever.”

He grabbed her arm to pull her towards the stairs.

“What now? Are we just -,” she found herself almost lost for words, hoping that the complete and utter feeling of gut-wrenching failure wouldn’t present itself in tears.

“No, Merlin no. We’re not leaving Hogwarts." He spoke clearly and quickly, "Do you still this a horcrux is in the school? I sure as hell do. Significantly locations or secure locations, who the fuck cares, it’s here. I know it’s here.”

She nodded.

“We’re going to the Ravenclaw Tower and getting some answers out of a certain fucking ghost.”

Climbing from the depths of the Chamber of Secrets felt as though they were summiting a never-ending mountain. Only adrenaline propelled their burning legs on towards the Bird’s Nest once they reached the surface.

Knowing it was practically a Ravenclaw tradition to stay at Hogwarts during the winter break of seventh year to study, they would almost certainly been an inexplicable and unwelcome presence, but the options were limited if that’s where they were to find her. Sirius and Isabella both squeezed under the invisibility cloak.

But they didn’t have to make it that far up.

“HELENA RAVENCLAW!” Isabella shouted up the stairs, fortunate to catch her just before the entrance to the tower, removing the cloak so that Helena could identify where exactly the voice was coming from.

The Grey Lady greeted them with a look of polite puzzlement.

“Most students don’t know me by that name… but you both look to be a bit older than students. Not professors either, I would assume from your cloak. Should you even be here?”

“We’ve come to talk to you about your mother’s diadem.” Sirius said, brushing aside her question.

“Well, you’re hardly the first.” The ghost’s expression turning from neutral to cold. “I’m afraid I cannot help you.”

“You can and you will help us,” Isabella replied, her words dancing along the edge between harsh and desperate.

“Where did you take it?” Sirius demanded. “And where is it now?”

“My, I assume neither of you were Ravenclaws?” The ghost shook her head dismissively. “You know, most come to me hoping to soften me up. Delicate inquiry, strategically placed between placid flattery. Rarely has anyone thought that threatening me was an effective strategy. You do not encourage me to speak.”

She turned to go.

“STOP!” Isabella shouted back. “This is far bigger than you realize. This cannot be done without you. You don’t understand!”

The Grey Lady looked back over her shoulder.

“If you plan is dependent on my cooperation, you have made a grave mistake. If my extended time on this earth has taught me anything, it is that people like you, both of you, frankly, should not be trusted. There is a darkness in both of you; I do not believe you are forthcoming about your intentions and you will not receive my guidance.”

And with that she drifted through the wall, leaving Isabella and Sirius stunned in her wake.

“There are things we can do to make her talk,” Isabella spoke quickly and coldly, as if all warm emotions had simply evaporated from her body. “Make no mistake, we will make her talk.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 28: The Grey Lady

There was only one conversation that took place as they exited Hogwarts, and it was a promise between the two of them that they would not waste any mental capacity concerned with the months wasted on the Chamber of Secrets. They had done it and it was done. In the past. All they could do was move forward and try and ignore the aching anger that radiated in their core.

They could direct that anger towards something far more productive than wallowing.

While they had originally planned to go to the Potter’s after their anticipated ‘success’ in the Chamber, the Potter’s residence in Godric’s Hollow couldn’t have been further from their mind. They would not walk through their doors until the word success rang truer.

There was a method for summoning and manipulating ghosts, just as Isabella had described. They had come across it in one of the many ancient texts in the Black library, but it wasn’t exactly simple and time, Sirius feared, was rather of the essence. Developed nearly a millennium earlier, the method was first employed in battle to leverage the ghosts of the enemy to gain a tactical understanding of the enemy’s strategy and defenses. As with much of the Dark Arts, it certainly fell outside of the purview of Hogwarts teachings, but it was also a style of magic that was hardly practiced in the modern era – ritual circles.

Ritual circles had fallen out of fashion around the 15^th century because the method require a disproportionate amount of planning and power for frankly weak magic compared to what could be done with a potion or a wand. But there were still pockets in which it was used, particularly in fields like necromancy, so taboo that no one had dared to push the boundaries or explore alternate methods.

Like with so much of the Dark Arts, Sirius thought to himself as he pulled a second book on necromancy off the shelf in the library, it was interesting to see where the line had been drawn. Ghosts could reside at Hogwarts, interact with students, teach classes, even, but expand the understanding of how they’d come to remain on the mortal plane or delve into how else one could interact or communicate with the dead, and all of the sudden you had crossed into very dark territory indeed.

Sirius couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

The greatest challenge of this particular summoning circle was that they needed to establish a strong connection to the spirit through elements or objects, positioned at the critical points of the circle, at just the right time. Had they been in possession of anything that belonged to Ravenclaw, this, of course, wouldn’t have even been necessary. But they would be forced to get creative with book passages that mentioned her name and sketches that accompanied her description.

And then there was the issue of the date.

The ritual circle would be at its most powerful on the winter solstice, the darkest night of the years, but that was in two days. They had two days to compensate for their limited knowledge and almost non-existent experience with anything of the sort.

Ritual circles, though often complex, were still relatively low-level magic, and the consequences were minimal. They felt they were smart enough, or certainly determined enough, to get it right and do it well. On the other hand, necromancy, even facilitated through a ritual circle, was an extremely high order magic, and the consequences for practitioners was rather severe. It was said necromancers blurred the lines between the living and the dead, and ultimately find themselves trapped in a similar position. They would start to look wrong, not quite human, not translucent like a ghost, but distorted - blurred.

It made them wonder if there were consequences of having ghosts at Hogwarts, but it appeared that – like with much of magic – there was an element of intentionality and deliberateness that came into play. Perhaps perception itself played a role.

In the world of necromancy, what they were doing was… perhaps not benign, but they certainly weren’t making a routine of it, so the consequences were unlikely to be too severe. Nevertheless, the book warned that they may look off for a few days. Nothing anyone could put their finger on, but just off. And there was a tiny footnote that mentioned that they could also hear voices, but that those usually went away as well.

Magic was, always, a give and a take.

It was clear that every aspect of the circle made a difference; every minuscule decision created a rippling impact. In many ways, it reminded Sirius of advanced potions the way even the smallest change could completely alter the potion’s properties. Except while potions had been broken down over the centuries, lowering the barrier to entry to the point that children as young as 11 could follow a pre-set recipe, nothing of the sort had been done for ritual circles or necromancy. They were covering what ought to have been seven years of material in a matter of days; essentially running an experiment of their own interpretations of the ancient texts.

So they didn’t sleep. How could they possibly justify resting when it felt they were in a race against the sun? They were sustained only by their voracious appetite for information. Though whether it was the things they learned or the thoughts they repressed keeping them awake, it was anyone’s guess.

The night smothered the day just for the morning to quickly overtake. The sun rose and fell again, and with nothing but a window to highlight the passage of time, the eve of the solstice was upon them and theory would have to be put to action.

Truly, everything mattered. The timing, the floor material, the design of the circle, the connection elements, their own wording – each required careful scrutiny and deliberation. It was made doubly challenging because elements required mid-ritual tweaking in order to adjust the pressure on the ghost – turning it from a casual conversation to a painful inquisition.

They debated whether they ought to use the blood of an eagle or a raven to create the circle - one connecting to the house, the other to the name - but given the challenge of hunting eagles, as well as acknowledging what seemed to be a fallout between Helena and her mother, they decided that a raven was the stronger choice. And it would allow them to use the raven’s claws as needed, which it seemed the wordplay would work in their favor.

They made their way out into the grounds of their estate at twilight, skirting the edge of the woods. They moved as though walking in a dream. It could been frigid but Sirius found he was entirely numb. His mind was relatively quiet for the task at hand and Isabella didn’t seem any more preoccupied than he was. As they settled their things in the forest glade, he found it was a rather dark thought that comforted him – ghosts cannot die. No matter how twisted what they were about to do was, it would not take a life. No matter how hard they pushed, there would be no risk of that. He allowed the thought to ruminate, taking comfort in the freedom it provided.

Without a word between the two of them nor a hint of reservation, Isabella sacrificed the raven, ripping its head clear from its body. Unlike with the badger months earlier, she explained, the violent nature of the sacrifice awoke the sanguis, necessary for their intention. With the blood, she drew the intricate circle that they had conceived for their purpose, before stepping back to allow Sirius to laid out the connection elements they brought.

Though it wasn’t too different from what they had done with the Criminal’s Loop, it felt very foreign. Closing the circle, lighting each of the candles along its critical points, gave a mild warmth across their bodies, similar to the connection between a wizard and their wand.

“We call Helena Ravenclaw, the Grey Lady of the Ravenclaw Tower, daughter of Rowena Ravenclaw, to the circle.”

The wind swirled around them, chilling them to the bone.

“We call Helena Ravenclaw, the Grey Lady of the Ravenclaw Tower, daughter of Rowena Ravenclaw, to the circle.”

There was a clear shimmering in the middle of the circle now, an entity was appearing.

“We call Helena Ravenclaw, the Grey Lady of the Ravenclaw Tower, daughter of Rowena Ravenclaw, to the circle.”

Helena Ravenclaw’s eyes rest on them now.

“This is very old magic. I do hope you know what you’re doing.”

“We don’t,” Sirius said coolly. “So I suggest we get to the point.”

“Well then. Fascinating.” Helena spoke calmly, a haughty expression plastered on her face. “Let me be the first to tell you then that you have made a horrible mistake. I do wish that I wasn’t the subject, for I so would have enjoyed hearing of the consequences of your actions rather than witnessing it. But I’ll make do. You on the other hand…”

“We wish to speak to you about the -”

“The diadem, yes I’m aware,” Helena interrupted. “And I assume you plan to torture that information out of me, correct?”

“Why don’t we try and have a conversation first, Helena, and see if that’s necessary,” Isabella said politely, though her unwavering voice made it clear that she would not hesitate if it came to that.

Helena laughed. “I see no reason I’d cooperate. Torture me. I want you to prove me right that you’re the type of people to do it.”

“I see no reason we shouldn’t oblige...” Sirius muttered to his wife, who wore a rather frosty expression herself.

“Come now,” Isabella smirked, “give us a moment to explain ourselves and we’ll see if we’re the enemy you make us out to be.”

The Grey Lady’s expression remained inscrutable.

“Please, proceed. You have me for as long as you’d like me. I am, evidently, at your mercy.”

“I would then first like to make a distinction between us and those who have come before us - we do not seek the diadem to use it; we seek to destroy it.”

Helena raised a translucent eyebrow and then scoffed.

“We believe that a man named Tom Riddle, more commonly known now as Lord Voldemort, stole the diadem for his own purposes. And it needs to be destroyed.”

“He did not steal the diadem.” Helena quietly corrected, catching both Sirius and Isabella off-guard.

“What?” Sirius replied. “What do you mean he did not steal the diadem? Do you mean he does not have the diadem? Or that he did not steal the diadem?”

“How could he steal what has not been owned for many centuries?”

“Not since you stole the diadem from your mother, correct? Or were there owners between you and Tom?

Helena shook her head slowly. “How has it come to be that my greatest mistake is still being speculated on centuries later?”

“And so then you can confirm – Tom Riddle was in possession of the diadem?! How did he know where to find it?”

“I told him.”

“What?! Why? How?”

“I don’t wish to share.”

“Then where?” Isabella interjected before Sirius blew a fuse. “Where was the diadem over the last millennium?”

“Hidden.”

“Where?”

“Far.”

“WHERE?”

“Abroad.”

The word seemed to catch his attention far more than it did his wife’s.

“When in the hell did the Dark Lord go abroad?” Sirius asked Isabella aside.

“Oh for fuck’s sake – ENOUGH of these one-word answers! WHERE ABROAD OR I SWEAR TO MERLIN YOU WILL SUFFER!”

“So be it.”

And with that, Isabella lit one of the raven’s claws on fire.

Helena Ravenclaw’s screams could be heard from across the grounds, echoing through the trees. Her body twitch and buckled, reminding Sirius of the snake under the Cruciatus curse; it must be a similar sort of pain, he observed rather neutrally.

Interesting though it was, there was another thought that had taken precedent in his mind.

Isabella snuffed the flame.

“Far easier in theory isn’t it. Where?” she demanded again.

“Al-Albania,” Helena stammered out, clearly reeling from the pain.

“I’m sorry – Albania?” Isabella turned towards Sirius. “What the fuck is in Albania?”

“Isabella, listen to me! When did the Dark Lord go abroad?”

She froze.

“Wait. No, no, no – he didn’t…” her words trailed off.

“He didn’t go abroad until 1955. After Hepzibah Smith. After the orphanage.”

“ - that would mean he didn’t get hold of the diadem until after 1955…”

“And after he’d already killed Greengrass.” Sirius stared straight ahead, clearly processing it at the same time as Isabella.

They stood in silence for a good minute. One of them needed to say it and it looked like Isabella would volunteer -

“So then our timeline’s wrong.”

Sirius gave a long exhale.

“So then did he kill someone abroad?”

“Who? Who would’ve he been close enough with to kill abroad that would’ve been significant enough?”

“I mean – we know nothing about that decade.” Isabella began pacing along the tree line. “It’s a dark hole and we didn’t even bother investigating because we assumed he’d created all horcruxes before he left.”

“What if he wasn’t in a rush? We made that assumption early – what if… what if we were just wrong?”

“Muffliato.” Isabella cast with a wary glance at their companion. “So you’re saying he could’ve created horcruxes abroad?”

“I’m saying he could’ve still been creating horcruxes when he got back. In 1965. He might’ve thought he secured his immortality with the ring and everything beyond that was just a vanity project.”

“No –what? No!” Isabella sounded almost panicked now. “He used the death of his father to create the ring; the location made sense, the timing made sense, the symbolism made sense. And using the death of Hepzibah Smith to create the cup makes sense; a Hufflepuff decedent, the owner of the cup – it works.”

“And the locket?”

Isabella just stared at him.

“Could he not have killed his Slytherin classmate, who threatened to uproot his rise to power and steal his followers - followers he obtained after he proved he was, in fact, the Heir of Slytherin? Do you think he would’ve seen it as a way to show who the true Slytherin was?”

“Then – then what about the orphanage?”

“It… could’ve been a gas leak.”

“Don’t be naïve, it wasn’t a ‘gas leak from an unidentified source’ you know just as well as I do that just what muggles say to the unexplainable! And his file was gone!”

“He could’ve gone to the orphanage any time within the last two decades, right? Just like we did...” Sirius backpedaled at Isabella’s genuine look of horror, “No – well, fine. He might have just killed them for the sake of killing them. Or to test a new spell or something on them. Like he’s done to hundreds, if not thousands, of others.”

Defeat mixed with resolute determinism in her words. “It’s… I mean it’s possible. But it doesn’t necessarily change anything, right?’

“I mean, what do you want me to say right now? We’ve been at this for a year and a half – how much have we just made up?! The deaths at the orphanage – wrong. The timeline – wrong. The fucking Chamber of Secrets? This - this is horrifying, isn’t it? I mean correct me if I’m wrong, which, well,” he scoffed, “this is genuinely, painfully, horrifying. What else have we just gotten fucking wrong?! Good Merlin. Isabella, how can we possibly win?!”

“Stop. Right now. Stop.” Isabella said bluntly; the smallest hint of disgust flickered in her tone. “You didn’t let me spiral in the Chamber and I won’t let you. We will get it done. And does it really matter when they were created? If they were created in 1945 or 1975, we know the artifacts and that’s what matters. And we don’t even know if we’re right that the order matters in terms of danger; but if we are, we’ve already destroyed the ring! And unless you think he held off on turning the Gaunt ring for well over a decade, then we’ve seen the worst it can get. The rest are – what – a quarter or less of him?

“The ONLY reason we’d potentially need to know who was killed for what – beyond the ring – would be if it helped identify the fucking vault. And you know as well as I do that it’s most likely unconnected! It’s almost certainly in either the Malfoy, Avery, Nott, or Lestrange vault. But you know what we really don’t know? Where the FUCK the diadem is in Hogwarts?! So can we PLEASE get back to our guest now?!”

She pulled his attention back to the ghost suspended on their grounds, dropping the Muffliato.

“So controversial, how interesting? Have you both always had tempers like that or is that… new?” Helena cackled.

“Is the diadem at Hogwarts?” Isabella responded, unamused.

Helena gave a coy smile, “I believe it is.”

“Would you like me to ask you where or would you like me to skip that part and jump straight into what works?”

“I find I’m at an impasse that no amount of torture will supersede. You see, I can tell you exactly where it is, but unless you know where to look, it won’t tell you much at all.”

“Try then.” Sirius smiled, confident he knew more about Hogwarts than almost anyone else alive.

“The Room of Requirement.”

Sirius’ cocky expression fell in an instant.

“What?”

“And where is that?” Isabella demanded, patience once again slipping.

“I could not tell you where it is, for it is nowhere. And everywhere.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Sirius ignited the second raven’s claw. He held the flames steady, shrugging off Isabella’s look of surprise as the ghost’s screams echoed around them, before snuffing it once more.

Helena Ravenclaw came out of it laughing. Shaking, but laughing.

“I-I don’t k-know what else t-there is to say…” Helena smiled through her stutter. “I have n-nothing else for you.”

“So you have given us the location of the diadem to the best of your knowledge?”

She nodded.

“And what will you say of the conversation today to the headmaster or anyone else?”

“Nothing.” Helena steadied herself for a moment before she continued, “I have given one of the most powerful and dangerous wizards of this time access to a tool many have only dreamed of. I’m disinclined to share anything about my life. This – rest assured – is no exception.”

Isabella and Sirius exchanged glances. They had understood each other perfectly; though they may not know the location she referred to, they had confirmation that the diadem had been the in Dark Lord’s possession and that it now resided at Hogwarts. That, for the first time in months, was a step in the right direction.

“Thank you, Helena. Sincerely.” Isabella offered. “I’m sorry this wasn’t easier, but I hope you see in time how beneficial this was.”

“Hmm. We shall see... And good luck to you. With your search, and well,” Helena laughed, “these next few days…”

And with that, they snuffed the candles, closing the circle.

Chapter Text

Chapter 29: Cracks in the Façade

The Blacks did not look good.

It was such a strange observation about two people who were almost inarguably the most attractive individuals the Potters knew. Model-esque, hauntingly good looking, both of them. And had been for as long as they’d known them.

Until a few months ago.

It wasn’t a personality shift – not really. Both of them had gotten to know Sirius, and then Isabella, at a far more volatile time in their lives. And though occasionally those old traits shined through, they had matured since then. Nowadays, it was when either of them appeared emotionless that they felt something was amiss, and that was still rare.

But their use of the Dark Arts had started to take a real, physical toll on them.

James started paying attention to it the morning they told them about the prophecy. It was the first time he had ever noticed that there was no warmth in Sirius’ eyes. At the time he wrote it off; they were all in a bad place. He thought that maybe he had only noticed it because the subject matter had gotten so dark, and Sirius had suggested something so cruel with such casualness. But casual cruelty, though not as common now, was nothing new for him, and he had understood his rational.

Isabella was different. She had looked and acted exactly as they’d expected her to that day. Cold and violent, undoubtedly - but in the face of a threat to people she cared about, they could expect nothing else.

It wasn’t until she destroyed the ring with Fiendfyre that they really saw the change – far more drastic than Sirius’ had been. Even after her recovery, she seemed duller; she was paler, her smile not nearly as warm as it had been in the years she’d been with Sirius, and she looked permanently tired.

The tiredness was only exacerbated after their first attempt at the Chamber of Secrets. Both of them had developed permanent dark circles under their eyes and their faces looked hollow.

Isabella had confessed to Lily that she hadn’t been sleeping well and Lily held herself back from asking why - something James knew she still ate at her. She had known the answer. Only she also knew that she was prohibited from criticizing their choices when it came to the Dark Arts. Both of them were. But Isabella had still deserved someone to talk to.

There had been a slight recovery while they had waited for clearance to visit Azkaban, but then the prison took a serious toll. The Potters theorized that Parseltongue, in and of itself, should be classified as a Dark Art, and therefore, had its own repercussions. And if their harrowing account of the prison wasn’t proof enough of the conditions, the torment was etched in their faces.

It was fine, they said, par for the course, really. But it didn’t feel fine. It felt unduly risky, unjustifiably harmful, action under-analyzed, and the legality itself dubiously understated.

Things had reached a point where the Potters knew they needed to say something. They prepared themselves for how poorly it would be received, but for their friend’s sake, for the sake of the Godparents of their child, they couldn’t sit back any longer.

And then the Black’s disappeared.

It had been six days since the Potter’s had last seen them, approaching three days since they had supposedly left for the Chamber of Secrets. They were supposed to have come by that night to fill them in, but for the life of them, neither James, nor Lily, could remember if that had been agreed upon explicitly, or if they had just assumed.

They wouldn’t lie to themselves and say that the Blacks had been fully transparent with them – silences, on occasion, lingered just a little too long for comfort – but it was not 1979. They were not shut out. They were used to hearing from them, so to hear nothing felt indicative of something. Nothing good.

In the absence of answers, their imagination expanded to fill the gaps and the explanations it derived weren’t pleasant. There were too many ways in which the whole operation could’ve gone awry; getting caught in Hogwarts, the basilisk, Fiendfyre - the list was enough to make anyone feel sick. And worse still, there was nothing the Potter’s could do. Though their instincts begged them to go to Hogwarts or loop in the headmaster, if they were wrong at the step in which the Black’s had been held up, such action would implode the whole operation.

So they waited and fervently willed a knock at the door to the point that when it finally came, they were hardly sure if it was honest or another figment of their imagination.

And there Sirius and Isabella were on the doorstep, looking worse than James had ever seen them, but with more excitement and energy than they’d had in weeks – if not months.

“Oh Merlin… LILY!” James shouted back into the house. “Thank MERLIN you’re alive! Where the hell have you been?! Are you okay?”

“Do you know what the Room of Requirement is?! In Hogwarts?” Sirius bounded in.

James faltered, uncertain how to react to their strange, blurred appearances.

“Seriously… where have you been?! Have you two… been in public?”

“No, came straight over!”

“You’ve been in the Cham-”

“Room of Requirement – do you know it?” Sirius cut him off.

“N-no. Actually I don’t, ask Lily.” James replied, a bit surprised. “But before anything else, you both know that you look - ”

“That we look like hell? Yeah, don’t worry, we’re not oblivious.” Sirius replied, unthinking.

“Look, we know we look terrible. Also we’re hearing so many whispering voices; it was a footnote in the book and it should’ve been in bold at the top. Totally understated,” Isabella laughed. “But sorry – we have new news; for the first time in months.”

They heard Lily’s footsteps walking down the stairs, and she rounded the corner not a moment later – Harry on her hip.

“Oh my God! What happened?! We were so worried!”

“No, Lils, they’re not injured. They’re quite happy right now… they’re also hearing voice, apparently, but we’re brushing that aside.”

“Jesus Christ, okay. Well. I’m so relieved to see you, but I’m going to put Harry down so he’s not scared by… this.” And with that she swiftly turned around and headed back towards the stairs.

“This isn’t permanent, is it?” James asked, giving them another look over.

“No, the book said it would likely only last a few days; blurring the lines between the living and the dead, I guess,” Sirius said.

“Oh – necromancy now? Huh! That’s… something. Need I even ask what book?”

“I actually don’t remember the name, do you, love? It wasn’t Secrets of the Darkest Art this time.”

Isabella shook her head just as Lily reappeared in the front hall.

“Please tell me you didn’t say necromancy, right?”

“Lily, it was really nothing,” Isabella tried to reassure. “We just needed to talk to Helena Ravenclaw, the Grey Lady. She wouldn’t cooperate at Hogwarts, but we got what we needed. But listen! She told Tom Riddle where the diadem was and she confirmed that the diadem is now hidden in the Room of Requirement in Hogwarts. So that means we now know 100% that the diadem is a horcrux, and we know where it is… sort of.”

“Wait, wait, wait so there’s a second horcrux at Hogwarts?”

Isabella and Sirius looked at her like her words hadn’t quite registered, almost as though she had slipped into another language. She hadn’t, of course, but outside of that, it wasn’t clear what in Lily’s question had possibly been so murky.

“The… the Chamber of Secrets,” she said with some trepidation, “that’s where you were? Right?”

They continued to stare at her blankly.

“If not the diadem, the cup then?”

Nothing.

“In Chamber,” James added weight behind her words, “did you find the cup?”

“No,” Sirius said, furrowing his brow.

“You made it to the Chamber, yes?”

“Yes.” It was Isabella’s turn to answer.

“What’s happening right now? What does it feel like we’re pulling teeth with you two? Did you or did you not find a horcrux in the Chamber of Secrets?”

“We did not.”

That couldn’t have been further from the answer James anticipated and the words caught in his throat as sort of an affirmative groan.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself before studying the calculated expressions on their guests. “Shit. I’m sorry. That’s -”

“So then you searched for Helena Ravenclaw? Right? And landed on necromancy -"

“And today’s the winter solstice. The darkest night of the year. Which is why it had to happen today, right?"

James and Lily’s thoughts and words bounced off of each other until they stood in awkward silence. For everything the Blacks had done to get there, the months of work, throwing caution into the wind along with their reputation…

“Are you done?” Isabella’s curt response snapped them back to the current reality.

“Here, come in. Let’s sit,” James said, as warmly as he could muster. He needed the minute it took to move into the living room to think – to accept what they had just learned and allow himself to move on without further answers that he knew she wasn’t getting.

“The problem is that we haven’t heard of the Room of Requirement either,” Sirius followed. “Helena Ravenclaw said it was essentially nowhere and everywhere. I don’t know how to interpret that, do you?”

Both Potters shook their heads.

“I mean, we could ask the Order?” James said. “We could say we read it in a book or something and it caught our attention.”

“I don’t know,” Sirius replied flippantly. “If it was in a book, we would’ve read it already, right? I think in the last year and a half, we’ve read just about every book on Hogwarts and that name’s not familiar.”

“They haven’t read every book.”

“You don’t know that though, right?”

“But okay, then what’s the plan?” Lily asked, a hint of frustration slipping through. “If asking those who might know isn’t an option and finding the information in a book is out too, what’s the next step?”

“I guess reread, specifically looking any reference.”

“Oh come on, what? If that’s your plan, then it’s NOT implausible that it would be in a book!”

“Lily – it’s not just that, right?” Isabella said. “It’s that vocalizing something like that in front of the Order automatically connects it to the resistance. It’s not a casual, off-hand comment to a friend…”

“That’s not fair. We have other conversation that aren’t about the resistance, I mean, who else do we talk to?!”

“Us. And I’d bet they make that connection too,” Sirius added. “If it’s not in a book and it ‘crossed your radar’ it makes it sound like we brought it up and you connected it with something to do with the war. And of course there’s the fact that saying anything in front of Dumbledore, or any of the staff at Hogwarts, puts extra eyes on the Room of Requirement, wherever that might be. Which we just can’t have.”

“I’m sorry,” James argued, “I have to ask – why was it that when a plan involved Corban Yaxley it was fine to proceed, but when it involves anyone on OUR side, we get pushback?! That’s ridiculous, really!”

“It’s different – Azkaban wasn’t directly connected to a horcrux. We had a reasonable excuse. And we’d exhausted all other possibilities before we went to him. We just haven’t done the same here yet.”

“Had you? Had you really ‘exhausted all other possibilities’?!”

The Blacks both went cold.

“We had,” they said in unison, their expressions making it abundantly clear that it was not a topic they wished to discuss.

“Merlin – fine! But if you find it referenced in a book and it doesn’t say exactly where it is, then we’re bringing it to the Order, okay? With the bloody book in hand.”

“No, that’s - fine. That’s reasonable. It’s fine.” Sirius nodded, his frosty demeanor easing slightly.

“What’re you doing for Christmas now?” Lily asked, moving the conversation along. “Do you want to come here? I’ll cook.”

“Well, we have the Yule Soiree on Tuesday, the 22nd or 23^rd, then Christmas Eve at the Rosier’s again, and then Christmas Day at my grandparents’ this year…”

As he spoke, a growing look of concern spread across both of the Potter’s faces.

“Sirius…” James began.

It took Sirius only a glance at his wife to understand his friend’s concern.

“Fuck. Oh fuck, we can’t go. Not looking like this."

“Merlin, I didn’t even think about it,” Isabella said, her head dropping back on to the couch cushion behind her. “Oh and I was so looking forward to the three-bird roast.”

“They’re going to be beyond livid. And they’ll use this as social leverage of the highest order. We’re not getting out of anything for the next YEAR.”

“We’ll say we’re sick. That’s has to help. Something serious like dragon pox or something.”

“Honestly,” Sirius turned back to James and Lily, “it’s worse than it sounds. The Soiree was our best opportunity to talk the Malfoy’s, Avery’s, and Nott’s and see if there was any hint about a favorite amongst the group. Bella and Rodolphus we would’ve, fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your persuasion, covered on Christmas, but that’s gone too now.”

The vaults; James understood them now. There weren’t too many instances in which any one of them found themselves in a room with that many members of the inner circle. But something organized by Sirius’ family, something he had attended every year, without fail, no one would suspect any other intentions. Sirius wasn’t wrong; it was a blow to miss it.

Isabella rolled her head so she was facing her husband rather than the ceiling.

“We should go to the Malfoy’s,” she said.

Sirius stared at her, mouth agape, as though he’d been petrified mid-thought.

“The Malfoy’s?” Lily asked.

“They throw this New Year’s party every year; everyone who’s anyone’s invited – I mean,” she backtracked glancing between her companion’s faces, “within reason, I should say. We declined our first year out of school – we were on our honeymoon or something that had us out of the country – and last year…”

“Last year you were at our house with, what was it? Secrets of the Darkest Art?”

“And you’re sooo welcome!” Isabella laughed. “Well, last year I can’t remember the excuse we gave, but we were, clearly, not in attendance.”

“And why brake precedent now?” Sirius finally seemed to pull out of his trance.

“Is that stubbornness or obtuseness? I mean, the networking opportunities would be astronomical.”

“You know?” He laughed, wrapping his arm around her. “Sometimes I find your logic loathsomely infallible.”

“But you’d be a spy?” There was no lingering hint of humor in Lily’s question.

“Nothing so dramatic,” Isabella said. “An observant guest.”

“It’s not like the soiree, if you’ve been avoiding it every year, people will notice your miraculous appearance.”

“They will,” Sirius conceded. “And there are charitable explanations. Another year out of school. The recruitment efforts. I mean the article? We’ll get my br-” he cut himself off and shook his head. “We’ll be ready to answer questions if someone has them, but I think their egos will get in the way of questioning it.”

“That’s still such a risk,” Lily shook her head, “don’t pretend it’s not.”

“I know,” Isabella seemed to surprisingly concede. “It is a risk, absolutely. But look at us? I mean really, look at us? What path are we on? We cannot afford to stop making progress, of course not. But a deviation from the path we’re on? The opportunity to make progress beyond the magic we’re employing. Leverage another tool in our arsenal. I think it’s really appealing, I really do.”

There was such warmth in her tone; yet there was no sign of life in her eyes.

“I don’t like it,” Lily said.

Sirius shrugged. “But is it the best path forward?”

Silence lingered between the four of them and James found himself aware of how very dark and how very cold it was. He ought to have lit a fire in the fireplace when they moved into the room but he hadn’t and he was hesitant to do so now, as though shining a light on the two Blacks would expose something he was trying his best not to see.

“Would the Greengrasses be there?” Lily asked. “Would it be an opportunity to talk to them as well? See what they know of the diadem or the Room of Requirement?”

Isabella and Sirius exchanged glances; the strangeness of their appearance seemed all the more off-putting with the swell of emotion.

“I don’t know that that’s necessary,” Isabella said almost cautiously. “Helena Ravenclaw said the diadem was in Albania, which means the Dark Lord acquired it when he was abroad, far after he murdered Greengrass. That doesn’t make Greengrass irrelevant, he would’ve had the locket by the time he killed him.”

“But that eliminates the orphanage.”

“It does.” She spoke in a tone that made it clear that, yet again, this was not a path she wanted to venture down.

To whatever extent James and Lily had questions, they would have to theorize amongst themselves at another time.

“We should be transparent,” she continued, “a lot of what we’ve done has been guess work, and we’re not always right – it feels like that’s the name of our damn memoir right now.”

“The vaults are a theory,” Sirius continued when Isabella didn’t seem inclined to, “one that we’ve built a case around, but it’s speculative at best. We know that he moved the locket within the last 18 months, which means it had to be somewhere secure. And while we don’t understand the connection to the cave, both Hogwarts and the Gaunt Shack were both significant locations in Tom Riddle’s life. I think the orphanage would’ve been a good fit, but it’s going to be torn down.

“But it’s important to remember what’s a fact and what’s not when it comes to the vaults. The only thing that’s a fact is that Gringotts is one of the most secure locations in the wizarding world. Everything else – from which family’s vaults to the idea that the cup is there at all – it’s all a theory. I still think it’s a good theory, but I’m prepared to be wrong… more than I was about the Chamber of Secrets.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 30: Mr. & Mrs. Perfect

“Merlin, do you know how excited people would be if you and Sirius attended?” Regulus said, laughing after Isabella explained their potential New Year’s plans.

The two of them had finished up lunch and moved into the Black library while waiting for Sirius to wrap up something or other with their grandfather. As for what that was, Regulus could only speculate, but he was almost certain that Sirius was on the receiving end of an extended lecture. His poorly timed ‘illness’ right around the holidays had not been well received. They’d expected him an hour ago and he’d yet to make an appearance. Isabella’s eyes kept drifting towards the doorway.

“Yeah, I’m sure Lucius would love to have us…” she scoffed.

“You know he and Cissy just had a baby a few months ago? If anything, he’s eternally indebted to you. Genuinely. You brought them back together. Do you and Cissy get along?”

“I don’t know, really. We’ve only spoken on rare occasions and nothing of any substance. Do you think I remind her of her sister?”

“I mean, I’m sure; you remind a LOT of people of Bella.”

“No! Not Bella.” Isabella slumped in her seat. “I meant Andromeda; I just thought… she was a Slytherin, and she forged a different path for herself.”

“Yeah, you could say that…” Regulus rolled his eyes. “But no, your path doesn’t look anything like Andy’s and you yourself are certainly not like her. She was kind, sweet - ”

“Are you saying I’m not sweet?”

“Definitely. With my chest.”

Isabella reached over and smacked him as he cackled.

“I don’t want to say Andy’s not tough,” he continued, “she’s a Black, but I guess you could say she didn’t make her presence known. I think that’s how she got away with dating that Tonks fellow for so long; no one asked her and no one expected her to say much of anything. She was amazing when we were kids with elaborate crafts and tea parties with stuffed animals and her old blue tea set. I’m sure it’s buried somewhere in our vaults now; all of her old stuff is. She would’ve been a phenomenal nanny or primary school teacher, but honestly, Isabella, you would’ve found her boring. Each of my cousins are very much Slytherins, but where I’d say Bella’s ambitious, and Cissy’s cunning… Andy’s resourceful – and that doesn’t make her any less of a Slytherin, it’s just - not how I would summarize you. Or Sirius, for that matter.”

“Talking about me?” a third voice echoed through the library.

“Merlin, took you long enough! Were you just having too much fun?” 

Sirius chose a characteristically mature gesture over a response so Regulus continued, “Isabella here was saying you’re going to the Malfoy’s New Year’s party?”

“So I’ve been told.” Sirius planted a sloppy kiss on Isabella’s cheek and gave Regulus a sly grin. “You hoping to take credit?”

“Oh, don’t mind if I do! I’ve not exactly impressed with my recruitment skills thus far.”

Sirius groaned as he took a seat, scooting his chair closer to Isabella and began to comb through the book she’d been reading. They had this tendency when it was just the three of them to forget he was there, as though he was just another oddity of the antiquated room. The larger the group the worse they were, entirely in a world of their own, but then Regulus could at least tell himself that maybe there were others that they were avoiding. But when it was only the three of them it just felt… demeaning.

“You know what it’s going to look like though, right?” He reinserted himself into whatever it was that was happening.

“We do,” Isabella responded. “But if we want this done, then this is the side we need to leverage to get it done. It’s not the Light families or the Order… I mean, my reputation is essentially in the gutter with them already. But,” she paused for a moment, “I know Sirius is in a bit of a different position. It’s kind of miserable - ”

“- but it is do-able.”

Merlin, they were finishing each other’s sentences now.

“Certainly do-able,” Sirius finished his thought. “A gesture of good-will to the people who will help us win the war against them, what’s not to like about that? And Reg here is probably long overdue for a victory of some kind.”

Regulus laughed, but simply screaming would’ve encapsulated his emotions far better.

It had been a long 15 months.

He understood the need to maintain his position within the Death Eaters, and not just for appearances-sake; the truth was, no one left. That wasn’t an option and he knew it. But then he’d been all but removed from the horcrux search because he was still a Death Eater – that had hurt a little more. His relationship with Sirius was as fragile as the ice on a pond after the first freeze; one wrong step and the cracks would form, a second and it would break apart in an instant.

It was nothing like it had been when they were younger, but that was just as much his fault as anyone’s. He watched Sirius’ already tense relationship with their parents disintegrate after he became a Gryffindor, and rather than taking his side, and be the united front they’d always been, he relished in being the new golden child. After so many years of their neglect, he found his parent’s hollow praise, given only as a slight to Sirius, almost meaningless. He liked the attention, it was better than it was before, but he didn’t really care what they had to say.

What Regulus had wanted was his grandfather’s attention. When Arcturus Black said something, he meant it. There was no superficiality to it. The cruelest parts of his mind told him that if Sirius screwed up enough, he’d be the heir and he would get all the attention that came with it.

But it didn’t work out that way. Clearly.

So in search of attention and validation outside of his family… well, the rest was history. It did happen to make his relationship with his family infinitely more complicated.

Which was swell.

Regulus’ relationship with Isabella was better. They had developed a decent relationship at school and that had carried into the almost friendship they had today. He wasn’t sure if Sirius had just never told her what the years looked like before he ran away or if she was giving him the chance to redeem himself, but he suspected it was the former. She was mean, but mean in a way that told him she expected more from him; Sirius didn’t care enough to expect more.

She really did remind him of Bellatrix though, if someone cranked up Bella’s humanity a good bit. He felt like it had gotten more pronounced in the last few months, but it was also possible he was just spending a lot more time with both of them. He would never say it front of Sirius; for obvious reasons, it would be the jump that broke the thin ice instantaneously. Sirius was awfully protective over Isabella, and her, likewise, over him.

And they were just so infatuated with each other. It was like a string had been tied around both of their hearts and there was only so much distance, so much difference, the string would allow for. They were part of an inseparable unit and either didn’t notice or didn’t care how insular they’d become. He kept thinking it would fade. He wondered if they would age to become more like his parent: more refined, statuesque, haughtier. But if the change was coming, it was nowhere on the horizon. The insular infatuation wasn’t fading, if anything they were fueling each other. They just kept getting worse.

And if Regulus was honest, worse in every sense of the word.

It had been many, many months since any discussion of whose fight this was crossed their mind. And for that, Regulus was relieved. This - this version of them - was more them than they’d been in a long time. Sirius and Isabella took to conflict like a niffler to gold. They needed it; they craved it. He welcomed this reversion to their truest form. But there was a part of Regulus that realized he was advocating against their well-being. Was a volatile Sirius really better off? Was a ruthless Isabella? Or were they both tools to win the war for their side?

Whatever side that may be, of course.

There were times where Regulus found himself almost hating them. It wasn’t fair, he knew it was that same jealousy from childhood creeping back in, but he couldn’t help himself. Isabella was stunning, brilliant, charming, and completely dangerous. And Sirius was, well, Sirius Orion Black.

Maybe his ambivalence, boarding on advocacy, for this violent resurgence, was some warped form of revenge for the fact that one brother got to learn the House secrets, have an enviable marriage, and got to win the damn war. While the other brother got to be a fucking Death Eater; day in and day out. He was stuck in limbo, leeching on to Mr. and Mrs. Perfect. He was like the unnecessary third wheel dangling off the side of an incredibly fast motorbike.

If Sirius crashed, well, what did it matter? Regulus was going down either way.

“Anything we should know going into the party?” Sirius asked, snapping Regulus back to reality. “Any sore subjects or ongoing recruitment efforts we should be aware of?”

“No sore subjects I’m privy to at least. Though, if you’re planning on having kids any time soon - ” Isabella and Sirius both had expressions that could only be described as a cross between horror, intrigue, and embarrassment that stopped Regulus dead in his tracks. “ - well I’m gonna take that as a no… but don’t make that face at anyone EVER again. Merlin. But what I was trying to say was that a decent number of people in the ranks had kids in the last year – Malfoys, Notts, Goyles, Parkinsons, Crabbes – just to name a few. And then, starting around the beginning of the summer, it became a completely taboo subject to mention children. So I just wouldn’t. But look, there’s no way the Malfoy baby won’t be there, so I don’t know. Take it with a grain of salt?”

Sirius and Isabella nodded extraordinarily slowly.

“What?” Regulus said, mildly annoyed. “What’re you not saying?”

“Nothing really,” Sirius spoke up, “we had just heard rumors about a threat to children, it’s a shame to hear there’s a validity to it.”

“Werewolves?” Regulus ventured, eyes narrowing. “It’s a smart political ploy… if you’re fucking sadistic. Which, they are.”

The couple nodded, more enthusiastically this time.

“As for recruitment, you two are still priority number one, don’t worry. No one has taken your crown.” Regulus smirked as Isabella batted at his arm and Sirius rubbed the bridge of his nose. “But there are updates, priority number two is actually Barty Crouch –

“WHAT?!” both exclaimed in unison.

“ – Junior. Year below me in Slytherin; he just finished his 7^th year in June and I think we have him. ‘I’ - I should say – I have him.”

“Is this your doing, then?”

“Mmhmm. Yep. I guess running the Department of Magical Law Enforcement doesn’t leave a lot of time to be a father. Easy target.”

“Merlin, Reg, at least show some remorse,” Sirius chided.

“How much sway does he have with his father?” asked Isabella. “How serious is this?”

“Honestly, not as much as everyone wants to believe. I think his father would have him arrested without hesitation – he seems like the type.”

“Hmm.” Isabella frowned. “Anyone else?”

“No one significant, I don’t think. But both of you should know this party’ll change things. Your presence won’t be taken lightly. So watch your words – I mean, everything you say will be poured over to try and decipher where your allegiances are. I know there are people you need to talk to, but be smart. Do not ask the same thing twice, don’t cross over each other, plan meticulously, because all eyes will be on you. I mean,” he laughed, “not that both of you aren’t used to that.”

 “You flatter us.”

“I really don’t,” Regulus matched his brother’s deadpan reply. “So I have to ask… this - ” he loosely gestured to both of them “ – this is an improvement from where you were a week ago?”

“In terms of…?”

“Merlin, Sirius, don’t play dumb. Did our grandfather not comment on it?”

“Oh, our appearance,” Sirius said as though it was somehow strange that Regulus had brought it up. “He did. Knew it was likely necromancy; I acknowledged it, and we moved on.”

“Well, I don’t expect the rest of the party will be so quick to move on. They’ll know exactly what it is, you’re not the first, but it doesn’t make it any less noteworthy.”

“We still have a few days. We’re almost back to normal.”

Isabella was the one to correct him. “No we’re not. I know my own face and I know yours, darling, we’re not. But Sirius is right,” she turned back to Regulus, “we’re mountains above where we were. My hope is that by Wednesday we’ll look like we’re off, but not so… recognizably so. As though we’ve just been sick.”

“And if you don’t?” he asked. "If you still look like you've done exactly what you've done?"

"Merlin, Reg, it's fine! I don't need to dive into this fucking conversation with you too," Sirius snapped.

While he'd expected to hear some cover story, he couldn't say his brother's reaction surprised him. The meeting with his grandfather had gone just as poorly as Regulus expected, of that he was now certain. Though her reaction was almost imperceptible, he could tell Isabella picked up on it too. And though he would've love nothing more than for her to press on it, she wouldn't. Not in front of him, and certainly not in this house. In that moment, she seemed to be more annoyed by his question than anything; a look he knew to mean that he'd quickly regret his choice of words.

“If we don’t," she answered his question with a smirk, "then I’ll just dress particularly well for the occasion and give people a whole different reason to stare.”

Tit for tat. It was Isabella's modus operandi. He'd pushed too far, and she'd return the favor.

It didn't help that obnoxious distraction was his brother's favorite coping mechanism.

Sirius grinned. “Oh I really like that plan.”

“Do you?” she dropped her voice, turning her body to face him.

“Yeah,” he pulled her chair even closer to his so her legs intertwined with his, “I think that’s really wise.”

“Is that so?”

“You should wear that black dress, the backless one with the cut in the leg that goes up to -” he traced something underneath the table. “I mean, no reason in particular, but I’m rather fond of it.”

“I also have that gold dress, the layered flowy one?”

“The see-through one?”

“It’s sort of… sheer.”

“It’s phenomenal, is what it is. I’m looking forward to the party more already.” He leaned forward to kiss her. “Or, you know, you could wear the dress, and we can just forget about the party. Doesn’t that sound more fun?”

“And on that note,” Regulus stood as he spoke, “I am out of here before you recreate the scene you caused in the Great Hall my fifth-year. That was mortifying and I don’t wish for a reprise.”

“Sorry!” Isabella leaned her chain back, blushing. “He’s done!”

“No. No I’m not – but two things we need from you, Reg, only if you have the time.”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“Let us know if you hear anything at all about Gringotts, specifically in the deepest vaults. It could point us in the right direction of who to talk to. And if you have any ideas at ALL about how to break in, we all ears.”

“I’ll let you know what I find.”

Before Regulus had even finished the thought, Sirius’ attention was already entirely redirected to Isabella.

Merlin, they were the worst.

Chapter Text

Chapter 31: New Year’s Eve

Isabella paced the floor of their living room waiting for Sirius. If they left now, they’d be 15 minutes late exactly. Appropriately late. Respectfully late. But at the rate he was going, they’d cross from the fashionable territory to the disorganized in no time. Her nerves weren’t helping her patience one iota. She looked better at least, sort of. At least she looked good.

It helped mask the fact that she felt anything but.

Zander would be at the Malfoy’s, she thought, not for the first time that evening, staring down at the invitation again. The timestamp on the card glowed back at her as the pit in her stomach grew.

Out of every person that would likely be in attendance, it was entirely irrational that it was her own brother that gave her the most pause. And yet there was no denying that Lyzander Rosier was the one person on the other side of that fireplace that could dismantle her confident exterior completely. She wasn’t ready for a confrontation, and yet she knew it was almost promised to her.

The holidays should’ve been a reunion of sorts. After months of strategic avoidance, Christmas Eve would’ve put them in the same room. Now, it wouldn’t have been the first time since June; she’d seen him a handful of time, and she’d been desperately and meticulously strategic in each instance. And it met her goal - the Longbottom’s comment about his associations had been left unaddressed. She’d intended to embrace the same tactic during Christmas Eve – after all, how much could really be said over a dinner table?

But Christmas Eve had come and went and it had now been months, even since the last sighting. And people had a funny way of forcing the most intimate conversations in the largest of gatherings.

Though Zander may have topped it, the list of expected attendees that set her on edge was rather extensive - their hosts included. Though there was no ill-will between Isabella & Sirius and Narcissa & Lucius Malfoy, there was a history that sat between the four of them like a botched beauty potion; impossible to ignore, but equally impossible to address.

Isabella had known Narcissa only superficially before their lives became ostensibly connected. They had run in similar social circles, but Narcissa was in her cousin Evan’s year in school and was only as friendly to Isabella as a 6^th-year needed to be to a 1^st-year of their background. After Narcissa graduated, Isabella had seen her at an occasional event, and they knew each other well enough to say ‘hello’ and ‘you look lovely’ but beyond that there was nothing between the two women.

Until, of course, Isabella found herself engaged to Narcissa’s ex, now-husband, and in love with Cissy’s cousin, Sirius Black.

The rest was a little known, but heavily speculated on, course of events that put them where they were now. And yet, neither Isabella nor Narcissa had even felt the need to discuss it amongst themselves. For both women, it seemed the events had unfolded just as they’d needed them to and nothing more needed to be said. Politeness would suffice.

As for Isabella and Lucius Malfoy, nothing had ever been said of the winter they’d spent engaged. The speed at which both of them had moved on was proof enough that neither had wanted the relationship, so there was little need to remind each other of the fact. In fact, it was arguable that the bigger contention point would’ve been between Sirius and Lucius, due only to the fact that Lucius had been right to worry about the nature of her relationship with Gryffindor. But whether it was the positive outcome, or for the sake of his wife’s family, or perhaps for the sake of the Cause alone, there had never been any issues between either of the men.

They had never pushed it.

And the Blacks certainly wouldn’t push; the Malfoys were amongst the most important people they would be seeing – in every sense of the word.

The mental list continued through her former classmates: the Averys, the Mulcibers… it was unclear if she was walking through a list in order of importance to speak to, or ones that made her nerves soar. The overlap between the two was disconcerting, to say the least. At least she had no particular personal history with the Notts or the Dolohovs.

She felt it fairly unlikely Severus Snape would be in attendance, but she had absolutely no faith in her husband to handle himself maturely if he was. Fortunately, that stain of a man was nowhere near the list of people they needed to leverage.

Nor the Carrows. Nor Corban Yaxley, she reflected with a slightly calmer breath.

“Ready? Wow - you look stunning.” Sirius came up from behind, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her cheek. “Merlin, I can feel your heart beating – you okay?”

“Barely.” She leaned back against him, letting his arms engulf her.

“You don’t need to be nervous; this is easy,” he said, his words surprising her enough to pull her out of her introspection. “Handling them in a more intimate setting, sitting through dinner, getting to know them? That’s suffocating. They’re just so… hexable, you know? Here we can breeze through the crowd of them.”

“Easy for you to say…” she muttered, thoughts trailing back to the top of her mental list.

“I know,” he kissed her cheek before spinning her around, “it is rather easy for me to say. Standing next to you all night, I think I become rather invisible.”

Scanning her husband up and down she couldn’t imagine a world in which that were true.

“You should test that theory out, Sirius,” she grinned, wrapping her arms around his waist, “show up nude and see if anyone notices.”

“No, that’s not how this works – you’re supposed to tell me you bought me a really expensive set of new robes, and that while they might look invisible to me, everyone sees them exactly how they envision the most beautiful robes would look.”

“I think they’ve made those, actually, a new charm or something.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she forced her herself to maintain perfect eye contact with him, “I’ll have to buy you a set for the next party.”

Slowly a massive grin replaced his curious expression.

“Don’t think I wouldn’t wear it just to watch your reaction.”

“Don’t think I wouldn’t get myself a matching set.”

Sirius bit his tongue as he pulled her in closer, so his lips just brushed against her ear. “Keep this up, Mrs. Black, and I’m going to have to make us far later than I know you’re comfortable with.”

Only then did she finally crack, a fit of giggles escaping her statuesque face.

“Come on,” he said, throwing his arm around her shoulder.

“We’re really doing this?”

“We’re smart, we’re prepared, and we’re the most highly desired people at the party,” he reassured her, “it’d be hard to screw this up”

“And if we do?”

“That’s why we have wands.”

Stepping out of the fireplace at Malfoy Manor, Isabella was concerned for a second that one of them somehow had arrived in the nude. Every set of eyes turned to them and seemed to freeze. She gave a huge grin; though she had gotten better with age at not acting irrationally confident when nervous, she hadn’t perfected it.

Even if there hadn’t been an audience, the manor itself intimidated. Built in the mid-17^th century, Malfoy Manor was one of, if not the, largest stately homes owned by a wizarding family. Isabella had been to the manor more than a few times in her life, but could hardly say she knew the layout or the grounds well; it was simply too large to absorb in her sporadic visits. The ballroom was one of the most beautiful rooms that she’d ever seen. The cathedral-esque vaulted ceilings supported two massive crystal chandeliers that sparkled on to the stone floor below. The walls were lined with an impressive collection of artwork that made the room itself felt like part of museum rather than a personal home. Through a large archway to their left, there was a sun room that opened up to an oversized terrace, leading out to the expansive gardens below. And to their right, there were further rooms with further entertainment and food, though of course the staff was making their rounds with large trays of hors d’oeuvres and drinks.

Isabella scanned the crowded room like she was on a stage and instantaneously spotted the one person she hadn’t wanted to walking with her cousin into the sunroom. She quickly averted her gaze.

The Malfoy’s were standing only a few paces to the right and Sirius gently ushered her over to greet their host and hostess. For what could’ve been an incredibly strained interaction, the conversation flowed seamlessly. It shouldn’t have come a surprise; Lucius was practically taught diplomacy at the same time as his letters and Narcissa had known Sirius since before he could walk. Not to mention, the Malfoy’s were likely under strict instructions for how to endear themselves to the couple. They could only hope easy, pleasant conversation was emblematic of the tone of the day.

Helping to melt away at any tension the Blacks felt, Narcissa was holding their little baby boy.

“We’re so proud to introduce our son, Draco.” Narcissa beamed. “Oh he’s smiling to you both! Are you saying hi, Draco?”

“Cissy, he’s beautiful. Congratulations, genuinely.” Sirius smiled down at the tiny infant.

“Oh, he’s precious!” Isabella cooed. “How old is he?”

“Born in the 6^th month,” Narcissa replied unthinking.

“Sorry, 6-months old?”

Narcissa froze. “I’m sorry, that’s – that’s such a silly way of saying…”

“Yes, he’s six months old. Born in June.” Lucius corrected, wrapping his arm around his wife’s waist. Though Narcissa was still smiling, her grip on Draco had tightened considerably.

Her slip-up wasn’t lost on them. Isabella knew exactly why Narcissa had given them the month her infant child was born in like it was more important than his age. She wondered how common that was in her social circle for that to come out so naturally. Isabella heart sort of broke for her; she had to be so scared and there was nothing she could do but clarify and clarify and hope it was enough. Hadn’t they learned at the orphanage - there wasn’t always logic when there was evil. She composed herself quickly. There was no reason for either of them to know anything about the prophecy; Narcissa’s slip-up should be meaningless.

“I was thinking you looked teeny tiny!” Sirius played with baby Draco’s hand as he spoke directly to the infant, pretending to have him wave at Isabella.

The little gesture pulled at Isabella’s emotions more than it had any right to.

On the day of their wedding, Sirius only truly interacted with six of their 300 guests present. As far as Isabella could recall, no one outside of her brother & parents, his grandfather, his brother, and James Potter got more than a ‘thank you’ or a vague smile. It seemed all of the warmth he could muster had been directed to her that day, and while he showed her nothing but love and affection, it had been so clear how out of place he felt at his own wedding.

That was not the same Sirius Black that stood before the Malfoy’s today. She knew he was focusing on comporting himself correctly and exerting effort to keep a level head in a room surrounded by Death Eaters, but she never would’ve guessed had she not known. He didn’t look the least bit tense or sound unnatural at all. He was older, more mature, and the stakes for his performance were certainly higher, but there was something else. She loved him every bit as much as she did on their wedding night, maybe more, if that was even possible, but there was something different about him. The way he carried himself, the way he spoke; he looked as though he undoubtedly belonged in this room.

“Thank you so much for inviting us,” Sirius refocused him attention to Lucius and Narcissa, “I’m sure we’ll catch up later?”

They exchanged the appropriate pleasantries further down the line with Lucius’ parents, Abraxas and Calista Malfoy. Had they had the opportunity, this would’ve been a conversation to prolong, but no sooner had they approached the couple, than Oliver Nott, another notorious member of the Dark Lord’s inner circle stepped out of the floo. Talking to any one of them alone was risky, the idea of tackling two of them at the same time was absurd. So as Nott moved himself from the younger Malfoy’s to the elders, Isabella and Sirius moved their way further into the party.

“Brilliant catch on the 6^th month, I don’t think you did it on purpose, but was brilliant,” Sirius whispered to her, taking her arm in his. “Don’t get in your own head again though, okay? You’re better than that.”

Isabella nodded, modestly at first before she couldn’t help but laugh, tossing her hair. She was indeed fixating too much on why she was there. She needed to stop thinking of herself as some foreigner; an outsider. She wasn’t. This was her scene.

But Sirius barely gave her a moment of composed confidence before reminding her what exactly had her so tense in the first place.

“We have to greet our family next, proper etiquette and all that fun. Do you see them?” Sirius glanced around the hall.

“Your family?” she asked.

“No… you shouldn’t keep putting it off, you know.”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” she lied. It was entirely unnecessary and she knew it, but even a small delay felt like a victory.

“It’s been how many months? Lyzander’s bound to have noticed that you haven’t even sent so much as a letter.”

“I just – I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to him.”

“He’s your brother, just talk to him.”

She stared at her husband for a moment, eyes piercing into him as he glanced around the room.

“Or you can continue to avoid him – you know I’m never above strategic avoidance,” he laughed. “Speaking of, I think I spot my mother and my Aunt Druella in the corner over there to the right so if we can just march our way left to the sunroom - ”

“No wait!” she tried to protest as he began to direct them.

“Is he…?”

“Yes,” she hissed, “with Evan. I noticed them walking that direction when we first arrived.”

“Alright, fun start, shall we?”

“But Evan?”

“I thought you liked Evan?”

“I do. Well, I like Evan more than I like some of your cousins, but that’s not saying much.”

“Come on, your brother’s great; you just need to talk to him. And Evan’s fine, he’s just…”

“Volatile?”

Sirius raised his eyebrows in knowing agreement.

They made their way through the archway into the sunroom, a airy contrast to the interior ballroom. The moonlight shown through the large, old muntin windows and through the sets of open French doors leading out to the terrace. The room may have felt inviting, but Isabella felt self-conscious as her heels clacked on the black and white checkered floor below, pulling even further attention towards herself. Evan and Zander were standing near the open doors and smiled as they approached.

But before they could quite reach them, they were intercepted by an even less welcome family member.

“Oh hello, cousins!”

Apparently, Evan Rosier wasn’t the only volatile cousin they’d be seeing.

“Bella,” Sirius replied unemotive, wrapping his wife’s hand in his own and giving her a tight squeeze.

Bella sauntered over to them with an air of confidence that said that this event, if not the house itself, was as much hers as it was her sisters. She wasn’t dressed particularly festive, plain black as always, though with the way she carried herself, Isabella felt confident she’d spent one tenth the amount of time thinking about her outfit that she herself had. Of course, Bellatrix Lestrange didn’t have to. She waved a martini glass with similar ferocity as her wand, and in her hands, it looks almost as lethal.

“So, so glad to see you both here!” Bella glanced between the two of them with an unmistakable air of smugness, eyes lingering for a second or two longer on Isabella. “I must say, your attendance was much anticipated – a fervent topic of conversation, rest assured, I heard enough from my sister. But both of you know exactly how to make a statement, or a scene, don’t you?”

“Unintentional, I assure,” Isabella replied coolly, resisting the urge to say what she was really thinking on the topic of ‘making a scene.’ Merlin, was she really going there?

Bella’s laughter echoed through the sunroom. “Well, don’t let me keep you,” she looked knowingly towards the two boys, “I’m sure you all have much to discuss. Just wanted to make sure I saw you both here with my own eyes, of course.”

“Of course,” Isabella replied with a cursory smile. Sirius didn’t even bother trying.

“You do come from such a good family, Isabella,” Bella called back as she departed, leaving Isabella even more uneasy than she’d been about greeting said family.

Evan Rosier, at least, seemed genuinely pleased to see them. He had always been an interesting character. He had the perfect build for a Seeker, a bit on the shorter side and lean, but every bit as athletic as a professional player. He had the mentality and mannerisms of someone who’d grown up scrappy and learned to compensate by being tougher and meaner than everyone around him.

Not dissimilar to her own husband, Evan had always been popular, he just also had a screw loose. But unlike Sirius, there had never been an impetus to course-correct. He was high-energy, and fun as hell, just not someone you’d want to get on the wrong side of.

Contrasting his cousin’s delighted demeanor, Zander looked almost disappointed to see them approaching. He was taller than Evan, but had always been quieter, more serious, less likely to take risks, and far less likely to make mistakes. Sirius had pointed out early on in their relationship that there were definitely similarities appearance-wise between James Potter and her brother – both were a similar height with lighter eyes and thick, dark hair – though Zander kept his hair far more tame and was a good bit broader than James as well. He was seven years their senior and certainly looked that much older.

“Good Merlin!” Evan exclaimed, rubbing his eyes dramatically, “Am I just seeing things or is little Isabella actually here?”

She laughed as he pulled her into a bear hug. “I’m not sure ‘little’ is fair anymore, I’m in my twenties!”

“Your twenty,” Zander said plainly as she turned to greet him, “That’s not in your twenties, that just twenty. You’re essentially a child.”

“And good to see you too!” She gave him a side hug, which she was certain looked every bit as awkward as it felt.

“Well, she may only be twenty, but she did get herself married, so I suppose she’s not really a little kid anymore, now is she?” Evan gave her brother a strange glare that she wasn’t sure what make of. “And speaking of the husband – Sirius Black, great to see you.”

Evan extended his hand to greet him, but before Sirius could say any at all, Zander interjected.

“Bells, can I talk to you for a minute?”

He’d brought out her childhood nickname; she could’ve screamed.

She gave a slight nod, and let herself be led away, leaving Sirius to chat with Evan. She’d hoped she’d have a few minutes of a catch-up before they’d inevitably get into anything serious, but evidently, she’d get no buffer.

He led her off to the back corner of the terrace where the cold winter air was prickled her spine, but the manor blocked most of the wind that howled through the countryside. She leaned against the railing, trying to look casual, as if she wasn’t absolutely dreading the conversation.

Zander stood in front of her, arms crossed.

“What are you both doing here?” he demanded.

“We were invited, what do you mean?”

“You’re invited to a lot of things, and you both don’t usually show. Why this? Why now?”

“This is a large party, we don’t mean anything by it, which I feel like you’re implying. I’m a fairly social person, you know.”

“No I don’t know – you haven’t talked to me in months! You miss the holidays and then you show up to the Malfoy’s New Year’s party of all things, completely out of the blue -”

“I was sick -” she tried to interject.

“- I mean, Bells, is there something I should know?”

“No. Is there something I should know?” Her tone turned accusatory. “There are rumors -”

“Oh, so you cut me out because of rumors?! That’s really mature of you.”

“Don’t get snippy with me! I mean, are they true?”

“So funny Bells, I forgot I was a legilimens! Thanks for reminding me! Oh wait! No – I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t like your tone.”

“Wow, are you my mother now?”

“Well you didn’t answer my question -”

“You didn’t ask a question! You vaguely hinted at the existence of unidentified rumors.” Zander looked rather annoyed. “Use your words, you’ve been able to talk for a few years now if I recall.”

“Fine! Then show me your arm!” she spat out at him.

Zander cackled and she felt her breath catch.

“Oh Merlin, so that is what this is about, isn’t it?” he laughed at her. “I could roll up my sleeves, but I can also just tell you – it’s there.”

“What?” her voice cracked.

In all these month, the fact that the answer still surprised her felt cruel. But it was true; she had been holding on to this hope that Alice Longbottom was just being cruel or she was mistaken. James and Lily hadn’t said anything; but they never did say anything when it came to their family. It was like an unspoken rule.

“Why?” She looked at him in disbelief. “How – how could you do this?”

Confusion flashed across his face, only for a second, before his expression hardened.

“Do you really want to know?”

“I do!”

Zander quickly cast a heating charm around them, but she felt no difference. She was entirely numb.

“This isn’t me trying to…” he paused, then shook his head. “You see what’s happening in the world around us. I know you do. The older generations don’t; they’re stuck in the past where they still believe the power is held by the oligarchs, the old guard, the Sacred 28. I don’t know that they even noticed their power and control slowly whittling away. You’re smart though, I imagine that you’ve at least noticed that.

“Now, in the last few years, we’ve had the opportunity seize it back; where pillars of the community have stepped up to actually take control of the neglected situation. I spent too long as a passive beneficiary instead of an active supporter; a leech, frankly. And maybe that’s how you feel, or maybe you don’t; I don’t know that it alone was quite enough to push me in the right direction. But in the last year, there’s been a shift. We’re seeing a changing of the guards. And you’re either in,” he tapped his forearm, “or you’re out. The decade-long war’s almost over, we have this final push - with no distractions, we’ve got maybe a year at most. And the new guard will look similar to the old guard, but there will be differences. And if I’m brutally honest, I refuse to be on the outs.”

“So you’re an opportunist?” Isabella said, disgust creeping into her tone.

“Maybe,” he shrugged as though it they were discussing nothing more than the weather, “or maybe I’m just not a leech.”

“Are you calling me a leech?”

“And that’s why I didn’t…” he muttered no one in particularly as he scanned the patio behind him.

“No,” he said with more power behind his words. “Frankly, you’re exactly where I’d want you to be. And I’d rather not see that change. Your husband though…” He raised his eyebrow as though there were things best left unsaid. “He would be a phenomenal addition to the ranks, for all the reasons I’m sure you know. But you? Selfishly, I don’t want you join. I would rather you be a beneficiary of the changing tides, instead of a driving force behind it. It’s not… glamorous.”

“Not glamorous?! Is that how you’re really describing the bloody sadistic shit you do?!”

“Language! The counteractions are proportionate to the original actions. We’ve just condensed the timeline; undoing nearly a century of anti-wizarding pseudoscience, legislation, and propaganda in less than a decade is going to feel excessive, extreme even, but rest assured it’s not.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?”

“If you’re angry that I said I don’t think you should join – please understand, I’m under no false pretenses that you couldn’t, but I just – I just wish you wouldn’t.”

“I don’t want to join!”

“Then why are you here? You know the message you’re sending!”

“Can I not just be here to be social? Be normal? These are my friends, my family, I’ve known these people my entire life – not everything is so political!”

“Your friends? Really?”

“Fine, social acquaintances – is that better?” she practically hissed at him. “It seems like a cruel time to harp on me about a lack of friends.”

“You know I’ve heard some rumors about you as well – about some of the friends you do keep. Just a heads up, everyone here will be nothing but nice to you, but that doesn’t mean they actually trust you. They want something from you both, and are willing to overlook some of your indiscretions to get it. But that doesn’t make your indiscretions any less known. The Black name’s saving you, just as it’s saved you both before. But just know you’re teetering on the blood traitor’s edge.” Zander lowered his voice, “Don’t mistake your popularity for security. See it for what it really is – power recognizing power.”

“Are we done now? I feel like you’ve said quite enough.” She stood up straighter, crossing her arms to match his posture.

“Don’t be like – just - Bells, just remember I care about you, okay? Don’t take this any other way.”

Her throat felt tight. She cared about him too; he was never going to win. She knew, she’s always known, and still she’d let this happen. Why couldn’t she protect him?

In silence, they walked back to the others, who looked to be at least three drinks further into the night than they’d been when they left them.

“Drink?” Isabella bee-lined straight to Sirius and grab his hand like it was the only thing that would keep her standing.

“Good talk Sirius, I’m sure I’ll see you both around?” Evan turned to Isabella, “Sorry we didn’t get the chance to catch up; I’m sure your brother had something very important to say.” He smiled, but there was a hint of a question in his eyes as he turned back to Lyzander.

Passing back through the ballroom, Sirius gave her hand a squeeze and pulled her into one of the small rooms in the wings.

“Are you okay? Evan told me, he’s - ”

“Definitely a bloody Death Eater. I want to scream or cry; I barely held it together talking to him.” She took a deep breath. “How did you do it? Knowing Regulus was one, it’s horrible!”

“It was different. I was eased into it; I knew the crowd he was running with, I knew where he was leaning, so it’s not the same. For the record, it’s still awful. I’m so sorry.”

Isabella just nodded, leaning into Sirius’ cloak. The truth was she felt awful. She felt a sickening combination of embarrassment and betrayal that her brother had joined the Death Eaters, particularly without telling her, and at the number of people in her life who knew before she did, all whom hadn’t told her either. She had always relished in the fact that no one in her immediate family was a Death Eater and she’d certainly been knocked down a few pegs.

Even if she couldn’t tell him the Black prophecies, she felt as though she ought to have been a better sister and done more to expose the Dark Lord and the Death Eater’s propaganda, but to what end? She had nothing that would’ve combated his reasons for joining and without knowing his perspective, it would’ve been a tremendous risk, but that just left her feeling upset that she hadn’t even tried.

She was also irrationally angry that her brother felt like he could tell her what to do – that he still viewed her as a child that needed to be protected and helped – particularly in the face of everything she had done for the war already. And then there was what Zander said about their friends…

“Are you okay to stay?” Sirius interrupted her thought spiral.

“Yeah, I should be. I ought to be. I can’t just waste away this opportunity because of my brother.” She tried to shake it off. “How was Evan?”

“Eh…?” The words seemed to be escaping Sirius completely as he filled the silence with vague gestures. “I’m not sure what else there is to say.”

“Recruitment pitch? Or… a drinking competition?” she asked.

“Yeah, I have no excuse there. In another life I think… man, if James and I were a dangerous combination. Merlin, he’s a fucking psychopath. But yeah – sort of. It was kind of an appeal to violent retribution. You?”

“No, actually, not really. Zander doesn’t want me to join.”

“Well at least I still agree with your brother on one thing,” he laughed.

“But listen,” Isabella continued, “he said very explicitly that we’ve been walking a fine line and that there’s already reasons to think we’re blood traitors. He said that we shouldn’t mistake our popularity for security and that all this is, is power recognizing power. We can’t and we won’t squelch the rumors today but can we just please be smart?”

Chapter Text

Chapter 32: Narcissa Malfoy

Had the Blacks been smart, there would’ve been a drink limit. But they weren’t and there wasn’t. The helpful little elves kept circling with their ever-delicious sherbet lemon martinis and vintage meads and fire whiskey on the rocks and before the couple knew it, they were so very many drinks into the evening. It wasn’t as though either of them were particularly light drinkers, but there was a difference between drinking to cut the uncomfortableness and drinking to be social; there’s a certain urgency and speed with one, that’s just not quite present with the other.

To their surprise, though not necessarily delight, they were on the receiving end of far-fewer outright recruitment pitches than they’d anticipated. The Death Eaters were far more strategic. Every conversation followed a similar pattern; a number of questions directed to each of them, gauging their perspectives on the state of the world, an acknowledgement of a concern they all shared, and then a compelling, though worrisome, fact pertaining to the concern. They’d follow this up by asking how the Blacks thought it ought to be addressed, and then casually offer their extremely well-articulated thoughts on how the issue could be resolved. It was a depressingly effective tactic that left the Blacks far more worried about their already existing concerns, and far less certain that they alone knew how to tackle them.

Isabella’s article, referred to only by its headline ‘Emptied’, had opened the floodgates. Guest after guest dispelled any notion that the now ratified mandate had truly suffered under the additional scrutiny. If anything, it fueled its creators to push in a manner of different ways. Not only was the push against the Dark Arts increasing, arrests for explicitly ‘practicing the Dark Arts’ had gone up by 30% in the month since the article’s publication. Where Emptied had softened – though notably not diminished – the language around internment, it had taken things further than anyone had anticipated, authorizing Aurors to use lethal force, including all Unforgivables, against suspected Death Eaters. An overstep, certainly, that brought up additional concerns with both of their siblings. But worse still, the term ‘suspected’ gave them an unsettling feeling that conversations, like the one they’d had with the Longbottoms in Godric’s Hollow, could now legally have a far bloodier ending.

And it didn’t stop with the Ministry either, muggle accommodation measures were taking an unusual turn at Hogwarts, as talks about removing apparation points at Platform 9 ¾ were gaining traction, advertised as both a safety measure and as a way to break down pre-school barriers between muggle-borns and wizarding families. Everyone would enter the same way, which at a surface-level wasn’t so egregious, except it then had hundreds of wizards, with varying degrees of familiarity with muggle culture, walking through King’s Cross Station at the same time, multiple times a year. A far greater risk for a significant limitation for a wizard.

It was important to remind themselves that everyone one of these concerns represented the concerns of an individual, not the beliefs of the organization, certainly not stemming from the top. The Dark Lord had no core beliefs, no principles that guided his actions – the end goal was power. And power for the sake of power is nothing if you’re not on top.

But it didn’t make the conversations any easier.

So they kept drinking.

Isabella wanted nothing more than to sprint out to the back gardens; get away from it all, her husband at her side. To debrief, to strategize, to mess around in the gardens for all she cared – she just needed to breath.

But that wouldn’t do. Too many eyes.

So with a grand smile and an arm gracefully in her husband’s, they made a slow lap around the room saying nothing they wanted to say, but greeting everyone. It hadn’t been fruitful, not yet, but the right people were in the room, Isabella could feel it.

“Isabella?” an airy voice called out from behind them.

“Cissy! Hi, hello! Lovely, lovey party,” Isabella said as she turned and saw her host with the strangest expression on her face. “Oh, is something the matter?”

“Can we talk for a minute?”

Sirius didn’t even give her time to think about the request.

“I’ll let you go,” he said diplomatically, “I ought to go find Reg anyway.”

And with a light kiss on the cheek, he abandoned her to his cousin.

“Here, come – let’s chat in here.” Narcissa led her into a rather sunning pale pink powder room and took a seat on a velvet makeup desk chair, turning to face the mirror.

Isabella glanced around the room but there was no other natural place to sit for a conversation, so she brushed aside a thick curtain and balanced against the windowsill as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m supposed to talk to you, you know?” Narcissa made eye contact through the mirror before turning back to her hair.

“In the… in here?”

Her companion cast an annoyed glance.

“What are we to talk about?”

This seemed to make Narcissa all the more annoyed as she pulled another piece of hair forward from her updo.

“I don’t mean to bother you…” Isabella continued, “but I followed you in here. Is -”

“Merlin,” Narcissa cut her off, “I thought if I gave you the privacy we wouldn’t have to do this whole song and dance.”

“I’m afraid don’t know what you mean.”

Narcissa huffed, swirling around in her seat to face her.

“How are you and Sirius?” she began casually with just the slightest brusqueness in her voice.

“We’re good – great, honestly… marriage suits us.”

“You suit each other,” she said with a quick smirk. “You complement each other very, very nicely.”

“That’s very nice of you to say, thank you.”

“I say it selfishly; my life is immeasurably better for it.”

Isabella faltered; this couldn’t possibly be the time to address the elephant in the room.

“Cissy …”

“It’s okay!” Narcissa reassured. “I’m not really looking to dive into ancient history. You should know, though, that I never took offense to the fact that you didn’t want Lucius. He didn’t want you either.”

It was such a quick insult Isabella barely reacted. A few less drinks and she might’ve had a poignant response, but instead she maintained a smile like a fool, an absolute fool. There was no other way to describe placidly smiling at a direct jab.

“And don’t you take that personally either,” Narcissa added, “a poor fit, you both. It would be like me marrying Rodolphus, Bella’s husband. Just a poor match. Though you and Rodolphus I could see, which I suppose makes sense given… well, you know. But you wouldn’t have accepted Rodolphus either, would’ve you?”

“I don’t… well, he’s a bit older?”

“He’s a decade older than you and they’ve been married since you were a firstie, of course. But I don’t mean because of that, and I don’t mean him specifically, either… see,” Narcissa dropped her voice, “I know there were politics involved in your decision.”

The rational for the powder room conversation rapidly revealed itself and it was almost worse than the direction she’d anticipated.

“How do you figure?” Isabella said curtly, fidgeting with the sleeves on her dress.

“You don’t forget that I was a Black before I was a Malfoy, do you?”

“I do not.”

“Good. Then let’s remember I knew your husband before you. And I don’t think you understand – I don’t know how you could understand - what was happening. What he was like. And what he was becoming.”

“He was my year, you know?”

“Yes, but his shortcomings were meaningless to you. And frankly, it wasn’t your job to watch him. I was the only other Black at Hogwarts Sirius’ first year. Just imagine – we’re all waiting in the Great Hall before the Sorting, Sirius’ name is called, and the Slytherin table goes quiet. Everyone around me is nudging me because they know who this is and what comes next. I doubt there was even another table paying attention, because everyone, Isabella, everyone knows where Sirius Orion Black is going. And then?”

“Gryffindor,” Isabella muttered.

“Exactly. First Gryffindor of his year and it still took their House a good, long moment before they started to cheer. And I remember it as if it were yesterday; Sirius just sat there, as still a stone, and then as the cheers begun to erupt from the Gryffindor table, he just… smirks.”

“You can’t hold that against him; how would’ve you reacted?”

“I don’t know? At eleven? I probably would’ve cried! Wouldn’t you have?”

Isabella shrugged, but she knew deep down she would’ve reacted the exact same way as Sirius; she would always prefer to seem overly confidently than remotely vulnerable.

“And there he went – the future Head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black – nestling himself into the Gryffindor table.” She paused for a moment, glancing around the powder room as though their privacy was in question, before continuing, “I found him before he even made it to the Gryffindor Tower and I begged him to come talk to Professor Slughorn with me. It seemed so obvious to me at the time that there had been some sort of mistake, but he wouldn’t hear a word of it. He shook me off and turned to that Potter boy and rolled his eyes as if I was making something out of nothing! As if what had happened was nothing!”

Isabella sat quietly, working to keep as neutral of an expression as possible. The truth was, she wasn’t sure if she felt it was something. She believed in tradition as much as the next person, and she knew that she, herself, was perfectly suited for Slytherin, as her mother and father had been, and their parents before them. But was it the end of the world if her husband hadn’t been? She wasn’t sure she could much bring herself to care.

“The years that followed only proved my point,” Narcissa continued, as though targeting Isabella’s doubts. “He grew further and further from the family, becoming more and more radical, until one day, he actually left. He was gone. The future head of our House had simply walked out on the family and we were supposed to carry on as though this was – what – par for the course? Of course it wasn’t.”

“But he came back,” Isabella tried to say calmly, but it came across far more like a question.

Narcissa snorted.

“There were those who maintained this – this hope that he would. That he would see the error of his ways and would mature and correct them. And there are those in my family who I wanted to believe when they said for years that they could talk some sense into him. Only I never thought Sirius would give them the chance. They didn’t see him with the Sorting Hat. Sirius was gone the moment that hat gave him the way out and he never, ever intended to look back.

“Only then, he met you. And – seemingly – everything changed. Sirius Orion Black returned in tow with the perfect pureblood wife.”

There was something in the way she said ‘perfect’, over-enunciating the ‘p’ so that it sounded as though she was spitting out the word, that concerned Isabella more than anything else she had said.

“And that… bothers you?”

“I don’t buy a word of it,” Narcissa replied, wielding her tongue like a razorblade while maintaining a level expression. “For all that people want you to be this rescuer, Sirius couldn’t be rescued. He wanted nothing to do with this family, with his name, with pureblood society. But no one asks themselves how on earth Isabella Rosier won him over, do they? Because look at you - he’s headstrong, but he was a 16-year-old boy. Congrats. But Sirius, this volatile Gryffindor who’d spent the better part of six years floundering his reputation and social standing away, won Isabella Rosier over? Over Lucius Malfoy? I’m not trying to be conceded here, but that’s social retardation. But it got me thinking, really, why not Lucius? He’s wealthy, influential, socially upstanding, and you can’t deny he’s quite good looking. So then why downgrade?”

“Well, Cissy, I wouldn’t phrase it like that.” Isabella no longer felt like taking the insult in stride.

“Of course you wouldn’t, not today. You’ve raised Sirius up, haven’t you? But then what’s the real difference between your husband and mine, hmm?”

Isabella waited a moment, mentally urging Cissy to finish the statement before she began what would undoubtedly be an unflattering guessing game.

“I guess they’re wrong about you, you do know when to hold your tongue,” Narcissa laughed. “There’s only one difference that mattered to you. Lucius is a Death Eater and there is nothing in this world that would ever make Sirius consider that path. That is why you made the switch.”

“I don’t -”

“Don’t bother denying it, I’ll never say a word. I tried not to have this conversation in the first place if you recall. But you insisted,” Narcissa said with a completely straight face. “I consider the ending of your engagement to him such a favor to me I feel as though I owe you this. Everyone out there thinks that by you coming tonight we have some greater shot at recruiting you. But we don’t. You knew the kind of person Sirius was from the beginning and you chose him because of it. I think – no, I know love came second. I see the way you two are – disgustingly obsessed with each other.”

Isabella couldn’t seem to pull any words to surface.

“Everyone thinks that you changed Sirius Black, but the reality is, they only think that because they don’t know you. Nobody knows you at all. I don’t even claim to know you; you talk so much, and so loudly, and make your presence so known everyone thinks they know you. But you share nothing.”

Isabella leaned back against the window trying to assess whether that was yet another insult. But before she could determine whether to feel offended or concerned, she was pulled out of her introspection - 

“Keep it that way,” Narcissa said suddenly. “Do you understand me? If I can give you one piece of advice tonight, stay anonymous. The moment anyone out there gets to know the real you, this tower you’ve built will come tumbling down.”

“I’m not trying to be secretive,” Isabella lied. It was all she could muster.

“Does that work on your Gryffindor friends?” Narcissa mocked. “Look, there are a lot of reasons that get floated around for why you haven’t joined. I think what happened to you after you and Lucius ended, and you and Sirius announced your engagement, would be enough of a reason to want nothing to do with this side of the war. But obviously it came before that or we wouldn’t have gone through… that, right? But so then the conclusion reflects rather poorly on you in this company, but again, I don’t know that I'm bothered.”

“So long as I’m making your life easier,” Isabella said, finally finding her footing in the conversation, “it sounds as though you don’t really care. But you’d like for your solution to not become a problem.”

“I knew we could have a frank and honest conversation!” Narcissa smiled. She leaned forward from her velvet chairs and dropped her voice again. “Do you mind if I give you just one more piece of advice?”

“Not at all.”

“I know you and Sirius have been married for just over two years now, and you might be talking about… next steps in the relationship. Don’t. This is not a good time to have a baby.”

Isabella’s body reacted for her. She slipped forward off the lip of the window, slamming her hands into the wood frame to stabilize herself. But before she could even apologize for her embarrassing display of coordination, Cissy scooped up the blame.

“I know, I’m sorry! I’m sure this seems crass and a complete invasion of your privacy, but please, I beg you. Do not have a child right now,” she rubbed her midriff absentmindedly, “it’s not worth it.”

“Is everything okay?” Isabella pried, mentally chastising herself for failing to keep it together when this was likely the most important thing she’d heard all night.

“I don’t know, honestly. I love Draco with every fiber of my being, but I sometimes feel like it was a mistake. We took a hit for it… politically, that is, and I don’t know why.”

Isabella filed that comment away for later.

“If I’m being honest, it doesn’t feel safe. I don’t want to say any more and endanger you.”

“No it’s okay!” Isabella urged on, but it was clear she was done. “Is there anything we can be doing to help?”

“Coming today helped, honestly.” Narcissa smiled. “So just listen to me. Stay unknown and childfree and ride out this, okay? Please?”

“Are you… are you worried? For us?”

“I will always be a Black.” She looked up at Isabella and shook her head to try and downplay her own words, but her eyes told a different story. She couldn’t have been more sincere.

“We’ve been gone for long enough; we should get back.” Narcissa rose from her seat and moved towards the door. “I would say keep this conversation to yourself, but we wouldn’t have had it had I had any doubts about that.”

“Thank you, Cissy, seriously.”

Narcissa snorted as she exited. “Whatever for?”

No sooner had they made it back into the ballroom did Isabella lose her host in the crowd and find herself surrounded by a sea of familiar faces, not a one as friendly or welcome as her husband’s.

There was something so much worse about being surrounded by people she knew but didn’t want to interact with, than people who she didn’t know at all. And the spotlight was certainly still on her, standing alone emphasized it all the more. She wouldn’t overreact but every set of eyes seemed to linger on her a little longer than a casual pass.

She straightened her posture, tussled her hair, and planted an intentionally haughty expression on her face; it wasn’t good, but it was a step up from a maniacal smile that came all too naturally to her in moments like this.

Though Merlin-knows she hardly needed one, another elf passed by with another tray of sherbet lemon martinis and she wasn’t sure she could’ve grabbed a glass faster had it been a competition.

She was beginning to become rather self-conscious about the fact that she had planted in one spot for an unnatural amount of time. So martini in hand, she started walking – no destination in particular, but she had clearly confirmed that her husband was not in her direct vicinity, so moving felt like the only option.

It felt almost crass the way every head seemed to swerve as she passed.

She tried to subtly scan the crowd around her to no avail. Though her husband was by far the most attractive man in attendance, a dark blue cloak wasn’t exactly eye-catching at party like this. And she couldn’t bring herself to really look, there was something utterly embarrassing about looking like she was lost without him, especially with this many eyes on her.

Suddenly, not the right face, but not the wrong face, caught her attention leaving one of the adjacent rooms with a plate of food. She set off on a bee-line for him.

“Reg!” She grabbed his sleeve, pulling her brother-in-law’s attention towards her.

He gave her a look like a cornered animal; clearly, she’d come off slightly too strong.

She softened her grip and her tone. “Where’s Sirius?”

“Uhhh…”

“Didn’t he find you?”

“Uh, yeah. Yes.” His eyes darted away from her, which she found she really rather didn’t like.

“Regulus,” she reverted to her more comfortable harshness, “where is my husband?”

“He’s… I don’t know that you…” Regulus rather unsubtly tried to delay his answer.

Isabella’s grip tightened on his arm.

“Where the fuck is he?!”

“By the entrance, that way.” He nodded towards the grand fireplace.

She followed his gaze and her heart sunk.

There, near the center of the room was Sirius, held in a conversation with the six most dangerous men in the room.

The Inner Circle.

Charlus Avery, to Sirius’ right, was as close to a second in command that could exist under a dictatorship. He had come up at the same time as the late Lestrange and, of course, Arman Greengrass, though no one ever seemed to mention the later.

Abraxas Malfoy stood in almost the same spot Isabella had seen him earlier; it in no way surprised her that the party had moved around him. He was flanked by Oliver Nott, and between the two of them half of the Dark Lord’s political power was on display. Like Avery, they were both the heads of a Sacred family, and both had established themselves as one of the most formidable voices in the Wizengamot. From what Sirius had told her, Malfoy came only second to Arcturus Black on their side of the aisle.

Isabella’s uncle, Emeric Rosier, stood to Sirius’ left. He had been one of the earliest and most critical members to establishing the organization as it stood today, a credit to both his mind and his wand. He was one of the only men in the group that Isabella knew beyond a polite greeting at a party, though knowing her uncle, she doubted he was there to serve as an ally to her husband. If anything, familiarity brought scrutiny in her uncle’s book.

And then there were Antonin Dolohov and Phineas Mulciber, who had joined around the same time as her uncle, years prior to the war. They were loyal and powerful; to the Dark Lord, there were no greater qualities.

Cyrille Lestrange had, of course, rounded out the seven until his untimely death in 1978 at the hands of one Alastor Moody. Isabella didn’t know the details, but the papers claimed it had cost Moody his leg.

If most people in the room had their way, it would’ve cost him his head.

It was said that Lestrange’s death was one of the few losses on that side of the war that the Dark Lord took personally. Whether their extended history had actually made him sentimental, or he simply recognized the hit his side took after the loss of what was almost inarguably his strongest soldier was unknown. But the idea of replacing him...

Isabella spotted Bellatrix as well, not by Sirius, but watching her nonetheless. Rodolphus stood next to his wife, engaged in a conversation with Evan, seemingly unaware of the harshness of Bella’s gaze. Usually, Isabella found that Bellatrix was the type to laugh, to mock whoever she was staring down, but right now there was no hint of humor on her face.

And then there was a camera.

A smarmy looking man, barely taller than an elf, was walking around with a huge camera box dangling around his neck. Based on his attire, along with the fact he was entirely unrecognizable, Isabella assumed he must be a member of the press, brought to the function to remind the wizarding world of the ins and outs of high society. But it wasn’t his presence that perturbed her; it was the fact that he seemed to be in the process of wrangling the men in the Inner Circle in for a picture, her husband dragged along for the ride.

If that picture was taken… if that picture was circulated. Sirius stood in a precarious enough position without photo evidence of any such camaraderie with such members of society – as staged and superficial as it might be. It wouldn’t matter. The public, nor the Order, were really in the discerning mood.

Her body acting before her mind could process the consequences. Discarding the empty martini glass on a nearby table, she tore through the crowd, unwilling to pay heed to the number of shoulder she bumped and heads that turned. Within seconds she was at husbands back just as the flash went off. She grabbed his shoulder and yanked him far harder than she should’ve, and he stumbled back, latching on to her to catch his balance.

Before she could conceive of any rational reason she’d done such a thing, she threw her other arm around his neck slamming her body into his and planted the most obscene and aggressive kiss that she’d ever delivered in front of such a large audience.

Chapter Text

Chapter 33: The Inner Circle

Lemony

Sirius thought to himself as he fell further and further away from reality, somewhere where Isabella was the only other person who existed in the world. He knew he shouldn’t get sucked in; this certainly wasn’t the time, nor the place, for whatever was happening. In fact, what was happening was wildly inappropriate. He ought to let her go, he thought as he resisted the urge to bite her lip. Yet he pulled her in closer. And then he gave into his impulse. With the warmth of her body in his arms and the sweet and citrusy taste of her mouth, how could he not? She was utterly irresistible.

Isabella laughed, throwing her head back.

“Hey,” she smiled, that crazed grin of hers that had screwed with his sense of sensibility since he was 16. “Camera.”

Her eyes darted over to their side. He knew what she meant, Merlin, he knew. But it was the perfect delivery; no one else would suspect she meant anything other than to avoid putting themselves in a compromising position in front of an eager lens.

The world was coming back to him now. The crowd had parted around them, sure, but the crowd hadn’t been standing that close to begin with. Not with his company. Now, saying his choice of company would be taking it a step too far; he wasn’t close to forgiving his brother’s strategic handoff. He’d been all too aware of where he was standing and who he was standing with.

“Don’t stop on my account,” the goblin of a man behind the camera spoke up, laughing. “I was rather enjoying the show!”

Sirius jerked his head in the man’s direction; most of the men in the group had done the same. Under different circumstances, Sirius was fairly certain the comment would’ve gotten a few snickers from the group. It was a crude joke, but they weren’t exactly reserved gentlemen. But the cameraman was flanked by Isabella’s uncle to his front and her cousin to his rear, both of whom looked like they were seeing red.

The man’s comments also showed a disconcerting lack of judgement. It was clear in an instant that he did not recognize his place, nor, regardless of the implausibility of someone in his profession being so ignorant, did he seem to recognize who he was surrounded by. To even speak up was a gamble most wouldn’t dare to make.

“‘Cause really, doll,” the man added, moving toward Isabella, “I wouldn’t mind photographing more of you!”

The cameraman wore such a smarmy expression, the thought occurred to Sirius that he was being intentionally provocative. Was he that pissed off that Isabella ruined his shot? And one can only hope she did ruin the shot.

Admittedly, if the man was looking for a fight, Sirius would indulge, company be damned. The death grip Isabella had on his arm showed that she knew it too. He could hear the counter-arguments turning in his mind: ‘He’s looking for a reaction.’ ‘This is a test.’ ‘It’ll play into their hands.’ The list went on and on like a monotonous drone, easily drowned out by Evan’s earlier words –

‘You’re awfully good at it.’

“Sometimes people hesitate to call things that scare them a talent, and what a shame that is. It leads little schoolchildren all across the country to think they’re talentless, they’re weak, they’re troubled,’ he mocked, ‘but have you ever started a fight you couldn’t finish? Have you ever started a fight you didn’t win? Better still, have you ever lost?

“Now, Sirius, that’s what I call talent. It’s not trained, no one trained you, you sort of – came out that way. We get all wrapped up in… society, let’s say. And there are certain standards, right? For how one ought to conduct themselves in polite society. How fucking tedious? Think how much easier it would be if we could just whip people into shape just like that,’ he snapped. ‘We walk this delicate tightrope, hoping to ruffle the least number of feathers, cause the least number of ripples. But sometimes? Sometimes I think we need a fucking tidal wave. Diplomacy caters to the weakest amongst us, and fails to break the worst amongst us.

“Now I think there is a time and a place for a reasonable conversation, as I’m sure you do. But some people, far more than either of us would like to believe, are too moronic for words. They need pain and fear to guide them. So who are we to expect more from them when we’re not giving them the proper tools to motivate,” he laughed.  

“So then there you have it, your talent is faster than diplomacy and more effective for the general populous.”

Evan paused for a moment before shaking his head and throwing back his drink, grabbing two more off the passing elf.    

“And that’s what I should say, of course, but there’s also the truth. It’s just fucking fun. There’s a euphoric high that comes with looking into someone’s eyes and knowing they are just so afraid. Of knowing that you can and you will hurt them. And though they’ll try, one of you will be walking away from the fight and the other… won’t. Oh it’s not the right thing to say, and we’ve all had nice friends who’ve tried to steer us in the right direction. But that’s misguided. Foster it, that’s what I say.

"But here’s what concerns me, I don’t know that you’ve stretched your legs in a while. Don’t you miss it? The energy? The feeling? Putting people in their place? You’re awfully good at it.”

Merlin, Sirius stared straight ahead, it had been a minute.

“Is that how you greet everyone?” the cameraman continued his verbal pursuit to the quiet horror of everyone in the group. “Cause if so -” he took a step closer.

In an instant, Emeric Rosier silenced the man with the wordless flick of his wand, and on the return, slit directly across the man’s eyes. The cameraman’s gaping mouth was the only indicator that he was screaming as blood poured into his hands. He stood frozen in a sea of onlookers, hunched over, clutching his butchered face.

“Ah, it seemed the eyes were already severed from the brain,” Emeric said, as though he was nothing more than a casual observer. “Evan – please. Deal with him.”

Evan wore an all-too familiar smile. Had Sirius not seen the similarities before, this left him with no doubt. It must be a Rosier trait.

The younger of the two Rosier men wrapped his arm around the cameraman, whose black robes were damp with blood and sticking to his torso, and began to march them back the direction Isabella had come from.

“Care to join?” he whispered to Sirius as he passed.

The answer was no, it had to be no, but Sirius was closer than he should’ve been to following along, adrenaline still coursing through his veins. But Isabella’s grip hadn’t softened. Her politely curious expression had become all the more strained and despite her best efforts, her breathing more erratic. Nothing the rest of the group would observe, but he could tell she was horrified. Her reaction was normal, natural for what they had just witnessed, and yet he felt nothing of the sort. He knew exactly who these men were and expected nothing else of them. He felt no guilt or remorse for the man. In fact, had another second gone by, Sirius knew he would’ve reacted, likely worse than Emeric Rosier had. He always forgot the power of a silencing charm; he supposed he never really minded the screams.

Still, he let the men pass, reminding himself that it was best for his soul’s sake, and probably humanity more broadly, that he spend as little time with Evan Rosier as possible.

And that was that. Nothing else was said on the subject of Isabella’s greeting or anything that had followed.

There was a time in his life where Sirius was awfully used to drawing blood, but Evan was right, even then, his friends made an attempt to discourage or at least chide his violent tendencies. Emeric Rosier, at least according to whispers, was amongst the more violent of the inner circle. But not a one of them even blinked at the mutilation.

With such resounding indifference, Sirius could hardly tell if he would be amongst the best or the worst of them.

“Isabella!" Emeric smiled, his tone lighter and expression softening at once. "My favorite niece. How are you?”

He swooped her up in a hug, pulling her away from Sirius.

“We missed you over the holidays!" he said. "I hope you had the chance to see your parents while they were here, they were so sorry you were ill. And did you have the chance to catch up with Evan?”

Isabella nodded.

“Isabella and Evan were so close when they were younger,” Emeric turned towards Dolohov and Mulciber, “after Lyzander was off in Hogwarts, I remember Isabella would follow Evan around like a puppy, so eager for an older brother. And Evan was so protective over her, for such a… boisterous boy, it was sweet how great he was with his little cousin. I was so glad they overlapped at Hogwarts for a few years – I dare say it was the two years they were the best behaved. I don’t think your parents had to meet with Slughorn or the Headmaster once either of those years, or am I misremembering?”

“No,” Isabella laughed, slightly red in the face, “I saved it up for the next year.”

“Yes, well, I don’t know that I’ve met a scarier witch than my dear niece at 13!”

“Oh now,” she rolled her eyes, casting a quick glance over her shoulder back to Sirius, whom she tried to usher into the group, “I was hardly the worst behaved in my year, not by a lot!”

“No, no I believe that title goes to your husband, correct?”

Sirius had half a mind to counter with a few Slytherins that he found equally deserving of that title, but stifled himself given his current audience. It would do no good to remind Phineas Mulciber just how often his son had seen the infirmary because of him. Them, actually; Isabella had earned her own list.

“Merlin, could you imagine having boring kids?” Emeric said, nodding to the other two men. “I’d be worried sick that I’d done something wrong. At least with them you know they have a backbone.”

The conversation progressed from there, a fitting combination of topics, fluttering ceaselessly between nostalgia and empire-building. What was and what could be. It was easier to face the inner circle with Isabella there alongside him, Sirius felt. It wasn’t necessarily that she softened them -  Emeric Rosier perhaps, but the rest of them not really - it was more that the harshness of their gaze and questions were now divided between two. And Isabella really was in her element.

Of course, there was never really such thing comfort around such men.

“Sirius,” Oliver Nott made a bid to pulled him away from Isabella’s conversation to join him alongside Avery and Malfoy.

Though any semblance of self-preservation left screamed against, there, there stood the reason he was at the New Year’s party in the first place. There were four Gringotts vaults in question, and Sirius was aware enough that he was being invited to stand with three of the key keepers themselves. A part of him felt as though he ought to be relieved to be so fortuitously positioned, but the truth was, he felt anything but. Knowing that he was supposed to act on what he knew took the company from unsettling to feeling like the heat had been turn up underneath him.

And Oliver Nott’s next question made him feel as though he was being brought to a boil.

“Your Uncle Cygus was telling us a few months back that you’re rather passionate about research, is that right?”

Sirius faltered, cognizant of the fact that he had both no idea what Nott, nor Uncle Cygus, may have been referring to, and of the fact that any attempts to speculate led him to horribly dangerous territory.

“And please,” Nott continued, “do correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe he said that you were rather passionate about documentation in magical experimentation and records? I recall him saying that you had some fascinating points.”

Christmas.

Christmas Day at his grandfather’s. Merlin, what was that – a year ago? A year and a half ago? When he was losing his ever-loving mind over horcrux creation. ‘Rip’ and ‘tear’. ‘Even’ or ‘split’. Fucking hell, of course his family would latch on to the most banal rant and overinflate it to make him seem like a savant to their colleagues.

He grabbed another drink off of a passing by elf, and watched as his wife, still engrossed in the other conversation, did the same.

“Oh, yes. I’d been expanding my knowledge of the resources in the Black library in my family home. You know it used to be a research library? The collection of books and tomes is incredible, and I was concerned about how much information in there was turning to dust. And no one’s truly kept it up since the connection to Hogwarts was severed, so I was working my way through the collection, seeing if there were any books that were worth donating or disposing of, and what we might need to expand.”

“Fascinating, to have access to all of that information right at your fingertips. And what did you discover?”

“I was right to think there were areas to prune, as well as areas that could be spruced up.”

“For the ones to prune, as you put it, is that because they’re outdated or repetitive? Or because you don’t wish to have… such content in your collection?”

“Excellent question. Of course, if I was parsing by the safety or legality of the content, I’m afraid I might as well light the room ablaze.”

The three men laughed.

“Still,” Avery said, “worth knowing what’s in there. There are many reasons to be aware of such things.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Ask, Sirius thought, ask how they keep track of their collections. At home or in the vaults.

But the words wouldn’t leave him.

“And I assume that’s what gave you trouble?” Nott continued his questioning. “Understanding the nature of the content?”

“Yes and no,” Sirius struggled to keep it vague, “some of the content was hard to follow, but the worst of it were studies built off of knowledge that I fear has been lost to time. Things that must’ve been widely understood or such common knowledge that it wasn’t worth documenting. And it made it nearly impossible to understand how they’d made such discoveries and reached such conclusions, because the fundamentals, these building blocks, were missing.”

As he spoke, he realized how much of the truth had spilled into his analysis. It had been a struggle with understanding the creation of horcruxes, yes, but it had been worse with understanding their destruction. And it had been worse still with ritual circles and necromancy. Knowledge was missing, and every one of these men knew. He’d quoted their own philosophy back to them.

“Makes you feel behind, doesn’t it?” Avery replied. “As though generations before had knowledge and intelligence you could only dream of possessing.”

Sirius had worked himself into this trap - it wasn’t even fair to call it a trap, this rabbit hole was entirely his doing. He begrudgingly nodded.

“How are you resolving it?” Nott asked. “I assume running the experiments yourself?”

“When possible.”

“With that sort of collection, I’m sure you feel the weight of that responsibility, to fill in the gaps.”

To whatever extent that was true, it was a burden Sirius wouldn’t put upon himself until after the war.

Ask. Now. He begged himself. They brought up the word collection, it was a natural transition.

“I’d love to read any journals you’re keeping through this process,” Avery said, “I’m sure it’s fascinating.”

The voice in his head changed in an instant. Say nothing. Something was off.

“Rest assure,” Sirius laughed in hopes that it would mask the fact that the request made his blood run cold, “there are far finer reading materials that the rambling journaling of someone my age.”

“I don’t know that that’s true,” Abraxas Malfoy spoke up for the first time since Sirius rejoined the conversation. “There are journals from people younger than yourself that are some of the most important records to preserve.”

Sirius forced himself to nod while barely able to breath. He could tell they suspected something, there was no other reason they would be so interested it what he was researching. But there was no reason to suspect him of anything close to what he was actually doing. Sirius kept replaying the conversation in his head, and all of the conversations leading up to it. There was nothing; nothing that could’ve pointed a finger at him.

Now that didn’t mean he wasn’t without intrigue, Sirius reminded himself as he took another swig of fire whiskey. He expected the burn but it went down like water. There were always the Black prophecies. Maybe, hopefully, they were giving him far more credit than he deserved when it came to divination. And they were asking the same question everyone always asked – where will the money go? And which way will the war?

But Isabella’s words rang in his ear. Power recognizes power. If he had information worth pressing for, the prophecies wouldn’t be where to press. Could they tell that wasn’t what he knew that was worth learning? Or was he just being entirely paranoid?

“Now Abraxas, don’t say such things.” There was a glint in Avery’s eyes as he spoke that Sirius couldn’t explain and it put him all the more on edge. “You’ll make him worry about us.”

If that was supposed to mean something to Sirius it didn’t.

“It’s almost midnight anyway,” Nott laughed, “And Sirius, I’m sure Isabella would never forgive you if you’re stuck with us when the clock strikes 12.”

Had he had once less drink, or possibly one more drink. Or had he not spent the last ten minute in a bizarrely unsettling conversation about his personal research, he liked to believe that he would’ve thought of the perfect question to bring it back to collections, to records, to the Gringotts vaults. But there he stood in front of Oliver Nott, Charlus Avery, and Abraxas Malfoy; three of the most powerful men in Britain, three of the most notorious. And the right words never came to him.

Nothing in this world would even make him try.

Chapter Text

Chapter 34: The Daily Prophet

“Before I have to shake you, can you just acknowledge that you’re alive?”

The curtains in the room were open, but that wasn’t exactly a sign of life. It was just as easily a routine-oriented elf as one of them. And the muted, grey light spilling in from the outside world was barely enough to alert someone to the hour. But it was late, uncomfortably so.

Sirius’ head lifted from his mattress at such a crippling slow pace it looked as though it was trying to break off from his neck.

“Prongs,” he croaked, before even opening his eyes, “are you in our bedroom?”

“Merlin. Thank you. It’s past noon.”

“The answer appears to be ‘yes’ to that one,” Isabella muttered, head emerging from a cocoon of comforters and pillows. “Good morning, James.”

“Good afternoon, Isabella.”

“Lily around?”

“Order meeting. See - ”

“And yet?” Sirius tilted his head, delivering a rather labored asynchronous blink. “You are here.”

“Yes, well -”

“To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“He’s brought us the paper, that’s… fun!” Isabella sat up to make a grab for it.

“Now -”

“Hold that thought -” she held her hand out while the other covered her mouth, “no, all good, sat up too fast I think.”

“Page seven.” James tossed them the paper. Neither caught it; neither really made an attempt to. “Now I’ve already spoken with Dumbledore today - a nice summons this morning when this was fresh off the print - and I’ll be frank with you, I had no idea what to say. How the FUCK did this happen, Padfoot?”

“And by this you mean…”

There, plastered across a full half of the society section, was a picture of Sirius and every member of the inner circle.

“Ah. That.”

“Yes, THAT!”

Sirius’ eyes were glued to the page as though the photograph was just as much of a surprise to him as it was to general public this morning.

“How did this happen?” James asked again.

“I don’t understand…”

Isabella pried herself out of the tangle of sheets to glance at the paper herself. It was hard to distinguish whether it was the movement or the photograph that had the more dire effect on her.

“Oh that’s so embarrassing,” she whispered, her head falling into her lap. “I had almost forgotten I did that, and for it to not even work! Oh, just kill me now. That’s… mmhmm.”

“Please,” James glanced between Isabella’s crumpled form and Sirius’ stiff one, “I’m begging for an explanation here. You didn’t approach the group of them, did you?!”

“N-no. No. Of course not, no. My brother, in all his infinite wisdom, hand-delivered me to them.”

“You’re on those kind of terms with your brother?”

“What?” Sirius looked all the more confused, eyes rapidly shifting between James and the paper.

“With Regulus?”

“Oh, yeah. I mean, yeah. At an event like this I’m on ‘good’ terms with everyone and their mothers.”

“Your mother?”

“Nah,” Sirius cracked a grin, “I did avoid her.”

“Picture! Explain.”

“I mean I was just standing there, trying to not lose my ever-loving mind, or my head, and, well, I guess this cameraman came over and wrangled us all together and I thought Isabella pulled me out in time, but I guess - well I mean I can see that that’s not so. But even still, with who these men are… I don’t I understand how this got printed.”

“That was Dumbledore and my conversation this morning as well.”

“Because this didn’t just happen, right?” Isabella added, back in an upright position. “Every person in this photograph, Sirius as the clear exception, would’ve had to sign off on their inclusion.”

“And?” James pried for more.

“And the Daily Prophet had to sign off and say that they, in turn, approved their inclusion.”

“Exactly. The fact that Rosier, Avery, Mulciber, Nott, Dolohov, and Malfoy were all photographed together is unprecedented. This photograph, with the six of them, that would never, ever have happened before. Dumbledore’s thinks it’s their way of saying that the papers have fallen. It’s under their control now. And Sirius, you’re in the picture!”

“If it’s any consolation,” Sirius grimaced, “I think the photographer is now blind.”

“How would that… why… what?!”

“Eh, Ev’s good with charms,” Isabella said, far too warmly for James’ taste.

“Ev? Evan Rosier blinded the photographer?”

“No, no, no. Healed. I think.”

James glanced from Isabella to Sirius who looked far less sure than she did.

“My Uncle Emeric’s original doing,” she elaborated. “You can see me trying to get Sirius out of the frame, sort of, see – there – when his shoulder turns? My tactics were a bit…. unconventional. Mortifying, perhaps, upon further reflection, and the photographer made a dumb comment. Or a couple. It was regrettable.”

What specifically was regrettable about the moment was left unsaid.

“Dumbledore can’t make heads or tails of this,” James explained, turning to Sirius. “I will say, any attempt to bring you in is off. I think he, along with the rest of the Order, fear you’re too connected.”

“Too connected?”

“It was - honestly, it reminded me a lot of your comments about Moony and looping him into the horcrux search. We – “we”,” he clarified, “don’t know who you trust, but we can clearly see the type of people you surround yourself with. And that’s… well, that’s enough. It’s a risk for you and it’s a risk for us.”

“That’s not – did I really say that about Moony?”

“No, you softened it. It doesn’t mean you didn’t mean it. And I’m not going to soften it for you. We talked about it then, and we talked about it when the Emptied article came out, and maybe I was too soft then, but Padfoot, seriously mate, you have to think about what you’re doing to your reputation.”

“That’s for you to know and me to find out.”

“That’s not the expression.”

“Then it’s for neither of us to know, and for both of us to find out.”

“Are you… are you still drunk?”

“Merlin, Prongs, can you let me make a joke?” Sirius sat up straighter.

“Can you honestly tell me you’ve thought about this? That you know what you’re doing? Both of you?”

“I mean… no. I don’t know, okay?” There was a bit more of a punch behind his words. “I’m not – well, I’m not thrilled by this picture! I’m not thrilled that they have control of the papers! But no, I really don’t know what I’m doing, do you? Does the Order? I’m trying, isn’t that more than most can say?”

And that was the disconnect, and James knew it. James had seen the way that the conversations concerning Sirius had shifted over the last year. But Sirius hadn’t. Sirius couldn’t understand why it was worth doing things in a way that didn’t sound alarm bells on either side of aisle. He’d become so fixated on the outcome that he’d forgotten that he was one of the only ones who knew he was driving towards that outcome; everyone else just saw a careless driver. He seemed to believe that once the war was over everything would snap back in to place. But it wouldn’t, James knew that better than most. You can’t put your personal life on pause. People don’t remain exactly as you left them.

But in the argument of progress versus process, James knew what would always come out on top.

“Then tell me this was worth it,” he said. “That you got something out of this gamble more than just a photograph proving you were there.”

“Last night, we probably talked with the person in possession of Hufflepuff’s cup; I mean, there’s a good shot they’re in that picture with me. It’s not flawless. But I’m putting myself in the right room with the right people.”

“Please tell me you didn’t just say probably. Any leads at all?”

Sirius bit his tongue. “Well, when you put it -”

“Yes, actually,” Isabella interrupted.

“Really?” both James and Sirius said in unisons.

“I think so. Take this with a grain of salt, okay? I talked to Narcissa Malfoy in the bathroom for quite a while. She’s kind of a bitch, by the way, so thank you for that one, darling. Really had some fun there.”

“That’s just how she talks, it’s – she’s – no, it’s… different.”

Isabella stared at Sirius for a good long moment before she started again.

“Okay. Sirius’ sweet and darling cousin Cissy and I had a long conversation, and outside of describing it as ‘social retardation’ to ‘downgrade’ myself to Sirius, and that oh I ‘do know how to hold my tongue’ despite the fact I ‘talk so much and so obnoxiously,’ and Merlin I’m sure I’m missing half of the flattering and sweet comments she made!”

Sirius’ jaw fell open, and James couldn’t help but laugh.

“Sorry. I was drunk, and unlike Sirius I’ll admit that I might still be drunk! But she doesn’t hate me. In fact, I’d wager she’s rather protective over Sirius and possibly me. I get the sense she feels we helped her, and we’re the next generation of Blacks; two large check marks in her book. And so she said a number of very interesting things. Including the fact that she feels we shouldn’t have kids right now. And that because of her son, Draco, she feels they took a hit politically. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get her to elaborate. But honestly, to me, the way she talked about it made me wonder if the Malfoy’s have lost favor. And if they have, maybe, we can infer that he wouldn’t necessarily trust them with something like a horcrux.”

“I mean, I don’t hate that,” James said. “Unless we see any information to the contrary, that’s good enough information to me.”

“I think the Dark Lord’s closer with Oliver Nott anyway. Nott and Lestrange had always been the top of the top, at least from what I’ve always heard,” Sirius said. “They had questions on the research by the way - Nott, Avery, and Malfoy. They might’ve just been making conversation, or maybe it was about my family’s particular skill, let’s say. But I didn’t like it. It set me on edge. It hit too close to a subject they’d want to know about, and they’re smart enough I worry they can sniff it out.”

“Anything useful?”

“Honestly, no. It was too risky to push.” Sirius paused for a second, leaning back against the pillows. “I’ll eliminate Malfoy. The timing isn’t perfect, but I have to believe that the Dark Lord’s smart enough not to spurn those in possession of his soul. I won’t eliminate Avery, yet, but my bet’s on Nott or Lestrange.”

“I’d bet one had the locket, and one has the cup,” James said. “Do you think if it’s in the Lestrange’s vault Rodolphus or Bellatrix knows?”

“They’d have to, right?”

James shrugged. “This is a long shot, and I’ll admit it’s purely speculative - ”

“Oh, speculation is our favorite tool.” Isabella laughed.

“What do we know of the cave? Anything? No, right? I mean outside of the fact that we know in 1979 he moves the locket from somewhere secure - we assume - into the cave, which we’d like to believe is somewhere significant, but we don’t know that. Maybe it has something to do with Arman Greengrass, maybe it doesn’t. Maybe Slytherin, maybe it doesn’t. But hear me out, what if either the cup or the locket could’ve ended up in the cave? And You-Know-Who simply picked whichever one was more accessible in 1979 – the year after Cyrille Lestrange was killed.

“You thought whatever object was in Gringotts had the most to do with the orphanage, right? But after the Grey Lady, it didn’t sound like you really believed the orphanage had to do with much of anything. What if whatever object was in Gringotts was just sort of stuck there because the person who knew died. Maybe not stuck there, but…”

“Hidden,” Sirius said. “Even from those in charge of the vaults.”

“Exactly. From our information both your cousin Bellatrix and her husband Rodolphus Lestrange are up there in the ranks, but they’re skirting the edge of the inner circle.”

“There’s just not that history,” Sirius agreed. “I saw it yesterday. Those men have known each other since they were boys in school. Every one of them. They grew up together, they saw the birth of the organization together; it’s a history impossible to crack. I don’t know how the Dark Lord brings in the next generation in the same way.”

“Isabella, what do you think?”

“Yes…” she said, though it sounded more like a question. “Sorry, I agree with the Lestrange vault being the most likely… but I’m not going to break into it based on this theory. I’m not going to stand in the vault like I did the Chamber of Secrets, throwing caution into the wind to get nothing. I want more.”

“Well it’s a moot point until we know how to do Gringotts.”

“Is that the next thing to research?”

“Yes? No? I don’t know – Isabella’s right, I’m not doing another Chamber of Secrets. I’m not dedicating that much time and research into what could be nothing.”

“Then the Room of Requirements?”

“No, I’m not ready to do Hogwarts again. I mean, I guess I can’t… obviously I can’t just declare that. It needs to be done,” Sirius sighed, falling back against the mattress. “Last night wasn’t a failure and I refuse to call it such. But it wasn’t… groundbreaking. It’s been a minute since I’ve done or seen anything groundbreaking. Is it really too much to ask for more than a taste of progress? I mean can’t we just have a fucking win? Hasn’t it been long enough?”

“Actually,” Isabella smiled, wrapping the comforter back around her shoulders, “I think it has been long enough. What about the cave? We know where it is, we know what it’ll take, and we will get a horcrux out of it. It’s been, what, a year and a half since the Dark Lord moved it? Eyes are off it. I’m not going to call it an easy win, but… a win.”

“Yes. That I can get behind. Dear Prongs, what do we think about that?”

“I don’t hate the idea. It’s the least public out of the three of them too, which feels advantageous for your two.” He glanced back down at the paper, the photograph still splayed out at the foot of the bed.

“I think you look rather handsome in the paper, darling, don’t let James tell you otherwise” Isabella stifled a laugh, falling further back into her cocoon.

“Thanks, Isabella. Thank you for that… contribution. And on that note, I’d like to have a sober conversation with you both, one where at least one of the two of you is sitting up straight.”

Sirius raised his arm to flip him off. Anything more than that appeared too strenuous.

“Yeah, this is strong showing from both of you. Let’s talk about the cave and next steps, maybe in a day or two? I want to give this,” he gestured, “time. I’ve got to go relieve Bathilda Bagshot of Harry duty anyhow.”

“Where’s Lily?” Sirius asked.

“She’s at an Order meeting, remember?”

“I don’t remember you coming in this room in the first place.”

“Brilliant. Fucking brilliant. What were they serving you?”

“Everything,” Isabella muttered, “I drank everything.”

“Merlin.” James exhaled. “It was bloody impossible to reach you this morning, you know?”

“Right. Fuck,” Sirius groaned, sitting up again. “Well I guarantee that you’re not the only one who’s tried. If he thought it was remotely proper, I’m sure we’d be graced with my grandfather’s presence here as well. He wasn’t downstairs, was he?”

“Arcturus Black? No – well, not that I saw. Maybe he didn’t read the society section? I mean what does he care?”

Sirius scoffed. “Ammunition. He reads it like it’s his job.”

“Are you going to try and see him now?”

Sirius shrugged.

“Could you do me a favor then?”

“Now?”

“Eh,” James said lightly. “When you’re making your rounds, can you stop by the Leaky Caldron and talk to Moony and Wormtail? I know they’ll have more questions than I do and I can’t answer them. I think they know I’ve been hiding something; everyone’s so on edge, I think they’re just letting it go. But it would make a real difference, hearing it from you, you know?”

“Wait Moony’s in town?”

“Shoot,” he shook his head, “no, you’re right. He was here through the holidays but he was planning to leave this morning. You should still write him though.”

“When’d he get in?”

“Day or two after the full moon, I want to say the 22^nd or the 23^rd?”

“Oh. Well, had I known - ”

“You were busy or, well, indisposed at least. It’s alright, he’ll be back.”

“The full moon’s still… what? Gotta be a few weeks out, right?”

“Gotten out of the habit of tracking?” James laughed. There was a look that flashed across Sirius’ face, though, that made him feel bad for drawing attention to it at all. “You’re right, it’s the 20^th. It’s a penumbral lunar eclipse and apparently there’s a bit of a superstition around it. The clan wants everyone present for the full month.”

“Got it. Yeah. No, yeah, I’ll write him and I’ll go see Peter – did you say at the Leaky Caldron?”

“Well, he might’ve gone home now, actually, but I’d shoot him a letter before you head there.”

“Why was he – why were either of them staying at the Leaky Caldron?”

“I mean Remus had been staying with us, before we downsized. And then the Pettigrew’s, but – well, you know Pete’s mum’s ill, right? In and out of hospital, it’s been a whole mess and a serious strain on him. I think he didn’t want to burden her with another person in the house, and honestly, though he’d never say it, I think he needed a break. So he put Remus up in the Leaky Caldron, and joined right after Christmas. I offered the Potter Manor, but there’s security concerns, I guess. They just don’t want people really going in and out and drawing attention to it.”

“Why didn’t they stay here?” Sirius’ voice sounded strained; a controlled sort of frustration, like forcing lid on a pot where the steam won’t quite let it close. “We genuinely have plenty of room. I would’ve been thrilled to have them.”

“I’m sorry, mate, we just didn’t even think about it.”

James didn’t like the way the words tasted as they left his mouth, so he tried to compensate, “And I guess thank Merlin we didn’t, right? You performed a surprise necromancy ritual circle under the solstice full moon. I mean, I saw you on 21^st, could you IMAGINE if we had to explain your appearance to both of them?! Horrifying!”

Sirius just stared at him. He had such a blank expression on his face the thought occurred to James, only for a moment, that Sirius hadn’t registered a word he said. But it wasn’t that. Sirius had just stopped giving him anything. The lid was closed and the result was a person James felt was surprisingly unrecognizable.

“I really didn’t see them much, honestly. At an Order meeting, and they came over last night for New Years, but I mean I think that was essentially it.”

“Sure. Okay.”

James felt a flicker of guilt in the pit of his stomach.

“Definitely talk to them,” he emphasized. “One of those things that’s best to hit head on, don’t let them wonder. Especially Wormy, he likes guidance.”

Sirius stared at him for another moment before he seemed to slowly morph back to himself.

“We’re always happy to host, just know that,” Sirius said with a smile that looked just a little unnatural. “I’ll write… both of them and I’ll say the same. Along with an explanation for the party and photo. When in doubt, there’s an extended family tree to pull an excuse off of. I’m looking at my father-in-law’s brother right there.”

“By the way, Sirius.” Isabella spoke up, still burrowed in too many layers, “that reminds me, is Evan coming over for dinner tonight? Maybe tomorrow? Do you remember that conversation? It’s like a memory of a memory I’m working with.”

“Really?” There was an odd inflection in Sirius’ voice that James couldn’t quite follow. “And when did we agree to that?”

“Well after midnight. I think it’s the last thing I remember before James woke us up. Oh, and that was a you – you agreed to that. Possible… initiated that.”

“Brilliant. I’m sure I did. Just brilliant.” Sirius stared into the middle distance for a moment before shaking it off. “James, I’m never drinking again and I expect you to hold me to that.”

“I will do no such thing,” James laughed. It was a change of tone he hadn’t been expecting, and the laugh felt all the better for it.

“Wow,” Sirius fell back on to the mattress before propelling himself up again, “slow start to the New Year.”

“Or a fast one,” James replied, “depending on your persuasion.”

“Alright,” Sirius slammed his hands on the bed, “I’ve got to go get lectured for a few hours. James, you have to get Harry. And Isabella, apparently you have to prepare for your cousin to come over tonight - maybe.”

“Oh, no,” Isabella laughed, “I will be telling the elves and I will be laying right here until the final moment where I have to accept that either I will be dining in a bedsheet or I need to get moving.”

“Merlin, may this level of a hangover never find me,” James snorted. “Good luck and happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year, James,” Isabella said as she curled back into bed. “Thank you for bringing the paper. I’m sorry we’re in it.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 35: The Brewer

Sirius found the copy of the Daily Prophet that James left behind eye-opening for reasons that went far beyond his own inclusion. His grandfather had many thoughts on how he ought to conduct himself, and many rules that he expected Sirius to obey. And though Sirius was, on principle, disinclined to follow such stringent instructions, it seemed that one of his grandfather’s practices had slipped into his routine. Though he hated to admit it, he’d spent the better part of a year turning a bit of a blind eye to the broader wizarding world. And the general sentiment was far more dire than Sirius had realized.

There had been an attack on New Year’s Eve; the muggle fireworks display on The Hoe in Plymouth seemingly came to life. It started slowly, the fireworks lingered in the air just a little longer than they should have. After a minute or so, it was said that the display looked as though it was melting. The fireworks drooped and dripped down through the sky, until they began to plant, first on the water where they would dissolve beneath the midnight current, but then on the boats and on the shore, setting the dried woods and grasses ablaze. It was worse still when different shaped fireworks, of animals and figures, ones that muggles had never sent up, began to take shape in smoke-filled sky. They swooped down and chased the muggles along the waterfront, sending the terrified masses spinning in a whirlpool-like hoard.

At the time of the printing, the Obliviators were still working to clean up the mess in Plymouth. Attacks on muggles always presented a unique challenge for the wizarding community and the muggles themselves were no help. Although the tone of the article would suggest differently, it was no fault of the muggles that they were ill-equipped for their fireworks display to attack them. Muggles were never met to take part in a wizarding war, and yet they were on the front lines. The muggles knew that something was amiss, the paper made that much clear. They knew there was a reason to be afraid, and yet they had no idea what had set the British populous so on edge.

Wizards knew more, yet fared no better. The paper made that clear as well. Beginning on New Year’s Day there was a new curfew, enforced on Diagon Alley and Hogsmead. Officially, it was a protection measure for the shops and shopkeepers against the rising crime in wizarding communities. The official statement also emphasized that most people were already concentrating their shopping expeditions to the daytime hours so the shift in time should not affect the majority of the shoppers. It also ensured that there was no need for stores to feel obligated to stay open later for stragglers at their own risk.

Unofficially, the columnists made it clear that it was a resource issue. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement could not be everywhere at once, there were not enough employees. And unless they began to station Aurors and Hit Wizards at every corner, two divisions that were certainly stretched as is, there was not enough manpower to safely protect the population.

People were afraid and the paper told them they should be.

The propaganda machine was turning.

Had Sirius stayed up to date, he wondered if the change in the paper would’ve seemed less blatant. But as it stood, there was such a stark difference in the tone between the articles on January 1^st, and the articles back when they’d published Emptied in the fall. But even then, he was already disengaged. He knew the politics, of course, the theory, but they really hadn’t read up on the discourse until after the article was published. There was too much else going on. The article itself was no more than a secondary measure; nothing more than covering their tracks. To whatever extent they stayed engaged after was purely reactionary.

Sirius wanted to believe the mental withdrawal had happened in the summer; between the prophecy and Harry’s birth and destroying the ring, it was almost justified. But he thought about his behavior before that, in the spring, and knew it wasn’t so. Involving the Potters, finding the ring, and figuring out how to destroy a horcrux, particularly given the constraints, had felt just as all-consuming.

So winter then; a full year.

To feel so insulated from a war that one loses the pulse of the nation entirely was a privilege afforded to such few people Sirius was convinced he could list them if he tried. He was likely related to most of them anyhow. It wasn’t anything he didn’t know, but it did turn the curiosity he’d felt towards the events mentioned in the paper to guilt. Had he not been deemed important enough to feature, there was no way he would’ve woken up on New Year’s Day and sought out the paper. He wouldn’t have known about the attacks on New Year’s Eve, nor the curfew changes, nor the growing unrest in the muggle population.

To pile on to his guilt, knowing and not knowing didn’t make a difference to his life one iota. He didn’t wish that it did, but at the same time, he hated that it didn’t. ‘The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black will always above the drivel’; he couldn’t say how many times he’d heard his grandfather or his mother say just that.

But then again, he reminded himself, being a Black was also the very thing that allowed him to do what he was doing for the war effort. And he wasn’t doing nothing.

To be insulated was both a consequence and a gift, but to be naïve was a choice. James had done a rather effective job highlighting just how out of the loop Sirius had fallen. A Daily Prophet a day wouldn’t close the gap, but it was something. It felt normal. A connection to a life he should’ve been living, a life everyone else was living. And Sirius needed something more than writing fucking letters.

‘Write them’ - another half measure that was only productive in the sense he could tell himself he hadn’t done nothing.

These barriers were ridiculous. As if there wasn’t enough history there. As though Peter and Remus were no more than acquaintances where such reintroductions were necessary. The whole thing was aggravating; a pointless charade that Sirius was hardly inclined to entertain. But it wasn’t meaningless. There was something more behind James’ words and there was a reason they’d gotten under Sirius’ skin.

James could just as easily serve as barrier as he could a bridge between Sirius and the other two. Sirius himself had put him that position. So, it seemed to Sirius, it wasn’t Peter or Remus that he needed to prove himself to, it was James. James controlled the narrative, and if all he’d seen of Sirius recently was obliviousness and Dark, result-less, action, then who could say what he was passing along. Compulsive, aggressive, volatile; he was all too familiar with those labels as though they’d been branded on his forehead. But he was more than that; maybe James just needed a reminder.

And that, Sirius felt as they headed over to the Potter’s a few days into the New Year, that he could do.

The scene before him felt both familiar and different, as he tried to analyze himself through his friend’s eyes. James wasn’t a stranger, but the tension was strange. Sirius couldn’t be sure if James felt it too.

“Did you see the New Year’s attack in Plymouth?” Sirius strategically asked.

“Oh that was nothing. Compared to the bridge incident in Bristol last month?” James shook his head. “No, this was just an initiation. You can always tell – no casualties.”

Sirius nodded, too cognizant of the fact that he had no idea what had happened in Bristol.

“I wondered. Felt like we had most Death Eaters accounted for,” Isabella commented. “Do you know who they initiated?”

Sirius wasn’t sure what made her ask; didn’t she know? Regulus had spelled out who topped their recruitment list not three weeks earlier.

“…just finished his 7th year in June and I think we have him. ‘I’ - I should say – I have him.”

James’ response made him feel all the worse for the information he didn’t share.

“No idea; we never do.”

“Well thank goodness we were so clearly accounted for then,” Isabella joked, seemingly operating on a very different wavelength than Sirius. “Oh I say that, but actually I’m not in the picture, now am I? Perhaps they think I have a proclivity for pyrotechnics… I do, of course,” she winked. “Do you think I’d still be hot even in a Death Eater mask?”

“Oh don’t even joke about such things,” Lily admonished, “it’s not funny!”

“I think it’s funny.”

“Well, you have poor judgement.”

“Trivializing their symbolism by declaring it nothing more than fashion choice, and then degrading it further by asking if it makes my physically more or less desirable – I think my insults are potent!”

“Poor judgement and a sound mind; you’re a scary combination.”

“Thank you!” Isabella curtsied.

That confidence, he’d seen it too many times before: voice just a little louder, movements more exaggerated, flirtier, overtly so. She was nervous too.

They made their way to the living room, couples split between the old Potter Manor furniture, Harry taking residence on Sirius’ lap.

“Here me out,” Lily said with no small amount of trepidation as she sat, “what do I need to say to convince you to wait till February for the cave?”

The question irritated him. It wasn’t something he was inclined to do, or even entertain, that much was true. But the way that both Lily and James looked as though they were practically bracing for his response was just bizarre.

“Do we seem that rushed?” Sirius reclined on his couch.

“Do you… do you seem that rushed?” James’ forehead creased. “Is that – are we actually taking the time to have that discussion?”

“I feel relaxed.”

“Do you? Do you really? I’m afraid I know you too well, Padfoot, this stillness… this is not the environment you thrive in.”

Sirius snorted, not trusting himself to find the right words to capture what he was thinking while maintaining the persona he was trying to put forward. The idea of sitting still for another week seemed foolish, let alone another month. Once the idea of the cave had been vocalized, it had been like roots that spread and tangled their mind. It would squeeze and strangle them until they acted on the only thought that was allowed to fester. His brain had never felt so fried.

“Well, Lil - I’d start with ‘why?’,” Isabella said casually, ignoring the baby sitting on her husband’s lap running his little stubby hands through her hair. “Why do we need to hold off till February? And if your ‘why’ is good enough, then I suppose we’ll entertain the rest of the conversation.”

“The potions. Effects and side-effects; you’ll need to know what one of you is drinking, and you’ll want an antidote wherever possible. You’ll also want to replace whatever’s in the basin, won’t you? You made a locket along with the fake Hufflepuff cup from Octavia’s illustration. So locket but no potion, that gets you nowhere. So the potion’s the hold-up - you’ll need a batch of whatever’s in that basin, and that’s going to take time. At least a month.”

Lily paused, surveying the faces around her. Sirius could admit she’d caught their attention.

“Based on Kreacher’s description,” she continued, “ - bitter and drying, painful, a hallucinogenic, terror-inducing - I think I’ve identified three potential potions that could fit the criter—”

“You’ve been researching?” Isabella interrupted.

“Of course I’ve been researching! Since the beginning! You asked for our help, didn’t you?”

“I – well, I suppose we did…”

“You don’t need to tell us that we haven’t contributed much. We’re so very aware. So let me help here. Options one and two; Draught of Living Death—”

“Now, wait, that can’t be right,” Sirius interjected. “We made that 6^th or 7^th year in NEWT-level Potions, did we not? I’m trying to remember if James or Isabella was my partner for it.”

“Oh please,” Isabella laughed, “you shared a bench with me for two weeks max, before abandoning me to go back to James.”

“Well, you took class far too seriously. Prongs never had that problem.”

James snorted. “Should I be insulted?”

“No,” Isabella laughed, “he’s insulting me. I didn’t like when he cost Slytherin points by tampering with our best potioneer.”

“Oh don’t make it sound like he was special; I tampered with yours as well!”

“Yes, thank you darling, I recall.” Isabella rolled her eyes.

“But he is right, Lily,” she added, “isn’t Draught of Living Death just a sleeping potion?”

“Yes, well,” Lily tilted her head, “see the combination of asphodel and wormwood is potent, and the expectation is that with a single drop, you’ll fall into a deep, dreamless slumber. But there’s a thing that happens if you fight Draught of Living Death; if you fight though the call of nothing, then the hallucinations start. Now, and this moves purely into theory, asphodel is often associated with the afterlife, you can find it throughout Greek mythology. So the theory is that at a certain quantity - if you’re able to stay awake to take such a quantity - it begins to trick your brain into thinking you’re really dying, you feel the pain and agony that goes along with that, and because of the hallucinogenic properties, you start to think you’re really seeing the afterlife.”

“Merlin,” James said, his expression matching the shock on both Isabella and Sirius’ own face, “well, Padfoot, I guess I’m glad you exploded Snivillus’s caldron with that one.”

“No,” Isabella corrected, shooting a rather piercing side-eye Sirius’ direction, “Snape brewed it perfectly. Do you not remember the praise and adoration he received for that?”

“Oh and the bloody Felix Felicis!” James exclaimed. “I wanted that so badly, Merlin help me.”

“Ohhh, Sirius, did too,” Isabella added, sarcasm building in her tone, “so – brilliantly - he exploded MY caldron!”

“It was in the heat of the moment,” Sirius quipped, “I panicked. Yours was perfect and lilac—”

“Yours was too!”

“Mine was periwinkle at the half-way stage.”

“Yours was ‘periwinkle’, Sirius, do you hear yourself? Yours was periwinkle?!”

“Please, what were you going to use the Felix Felicis for anyway?”

“Oh wouldn’t you like to know?” she teased, a glint in her eyes.

Sirius raised his brow and made a mental note to follow up on that line of question later in private.

“Better question,” James said with a mischievous grin, “what did Snivillus use Felix Felicis for, hmm?”

Sirius had to stop himself from gaging as a far less pleasant mental imagine overtook the previous fantasy. Isabella crinkled her nose.

“As I was saying…” Lily strategically took back the conversation, “options one and two, Draught of Living Death and the Elixir of the Damned would take about a week or so to source the ingredients, and then an hour or two for the draught and two-ish weeks for Elixir of the Damned. Not necessarily more complicated, just longer.”

“We can help on the ingredients-side, of course,” said Isabella.

“And I’ll need it,” Lily replied bluntly. “The ingredients themselves… well, there’ll be question, though less, I imagine, if either of you are the ones buying.”

“That puts us, what, end of January still though, right?”

“For those two, yes. Both Draught of the Living Dead and the Elixir of the Damned are manageable. In fact, there’s an antidote for the draught that I can brew alongside it. And the elixir is technically a poison because of the use of monkshood, wolfsbane.”

James and Sirius nodded, all too familiar with that particular shade of purple. Still.

Sirius held himself back from emphasizing that point.

“So because a key ingredient is poisonous, a bezoar actually counteracts it. But the third option, that’s the one to worry about. It doesn’t have a name, not officially, but those who’ve come across it refer to it only as ‘depravatio’ or corruption. I had never heard of its use, or anything that proved its existence or even suggest what form it existed in, until… well, let me backtrack, in NEWT-level History of Mag—”

“Lily,” Isabella dropping her voice dramatically, “we’ve talked about this, you shouldn’t admit to people that you took History of Magic through to a NEWT, it’s embarrassing.”

“Oh fuck off.” Lily chucked a cat toy that happened to be next to her at Isabella, who laughed as she dodged it. “I’m not taking that! There were a few of us in the class – Remus was in it! Mary Macdonald too!”

“See I told you we should’ve set Mary up with Moony,” Sirius muttered to James.

Lily glanced between the two of them before she chuckled.

“Oh, you think they never…?”

“What?!” The question sputtered out of Sirius. James across from him to seemed to have frozen, catching him off guard even more than the news itself. He pushed the words out of his tightening throat. “Wait, Prongs, no - did you know this?”

“NO!” James said about an octave higher than natural. “What?! WHEN?!”

Sirius felt the tension leave his shoulders.

It was almost pathetic, it really was. But as curious as that information was, the only thing he couldn’t take was thinking he was the only one who didn’t know.

But there was no secret history; he was there for all of it.

“I- wow,” Lily laughed, “fascinating! I guess you have to ask him!

Before they could ask any further details, she plowed on.

“History of Magic – we had a unit on ancient Rome where we read through a number of old tomes that were more like parables than records. One of the terms that came up in some of the darker, more serious passages was depravatio; characters would describe something like… ‘the horrors he endured were nothing short of facing depravatio at the end of a cup.’

“The way Binns taught the word depravatio was that it was beyond just Latin for corruption, which is the direct translation, but still as an expression. But the term kept coming up in the context of drinking it or consuming it. I asked Binns about that and he essentially said to think of it as an antiquated idiom. Much the same way we’d say to ‘chase’ your dreams ‘chasing’ fame, and other synonyms for ‘run’ to mean quick advancements towards an objective, without ever literally meaning the physical movement, he suggested that the word ‘consume’ was much the same, providing a more figurative description for why something has taken over your body.”

“Good Merlin,” Sirius couldn’t stop himself from groaning. “I’m starting to think Binn’s wasn’t dry at all, it’s just the fucking subject!”

“Lily,” Isabella looked equally skeptical, “is this… are you giving us a grammar lecture?”

“I don’t mind the grammar,” James placated, “I just have to confess that I’m still stuck on the fact that you seem to be describing a conversation with Binns.”

Lily rolled her eyes.

“I ended up writing a term paper on one of the tomes by Gavagai the Gallant, if you’ve heard of him?”

The three of them shook their heads.

“Well, anyway, I was given access to the restricted section, just due to the nature of Gavagai’s works, where I read his most infamous tome ‘The Grief and Grievances.’ In it, he described meeting a man who he called The Last Brewer. He said the man had seen life ten times over, each more mercilessly than the last. And that whatever was waiting for him on the other side could not be worse than what he had been through here on Earth. Gavagai asked the man why he’d not let such hellish history die? Why he continued to brew and bottle something that only brought him back. Had Gavagai not understood? The man asked. Time, he explained, had not been linear for him in some time. But one day he would understand where it went wrong and why. Through depravatio, he would be set free.”

She paused, letting her words linger in the silent room. When no one had anything else to say, she continued -

“When you described what had happened to Kreacher on the island in the cave, part of me immediately went back to that passage. I have long believed that whatever this depravatio was, it was more than an expression that plagued the Romans, I believed it was the symptom of a potion that haunted them and spilled into their lexicon. But I didn’t know until I found it in Secrets of the Darkest Art.

“I looked for it, back when you were looking for alternate destruction methods all those months ago. ‘To induce Depravatio’ the title reads. The description’s verbose, but comes down to forcing the drinker to relive the very worst they have been through, and it toys with their mind, exploiting all the ways their most retched memories could be worse still.

“I think it’s the most likely of the three of them,” she said matter-of-factly. “But it’s… brutal. Labor-intensive, more akin to a curse than a poison, and there’s no antidote. This type of potion, it’s nothing like anything I’ve ever come across before.

Sirius stilled, and he could tell Isabella was holding her breath as well. What Lily was describing, there was no way she would ever-

“It’ll take me at least a month to brew, and that’s if you can get me the ingredients.”

“And you’d do it?” Isabella eyes widened. “You’d brew the potion regardless of which it is?”

Lily shrugged, smiling at Harry who seemed transfixed on the light shining on Sirius’ shirt.

“In my mind, I’m pretending that it’s You-Know-Who himself who has to drink it in the end, and it’s made me feel a bit more flexible about the whole thing.”

“We’ll get you everything you need. And the book,” Sirius confirmed. “The fastest you could get it done would be a month?”

“Fastest. But that’s okay, you’ll need time to plan anyway, right?”

Both nodded.

“Do you want us to come?” James asked.

“No,” Sirius said without hesitation. “Based on Kreacher’s description, if we do everything correctly, it’s not hard so much as absolutely miserable. There’s no reason to put you through that. And you have a baby; we would never risk something going wrong and… no, that’s insane.”

“So then is two people enough? Are you sure?”

Isabella took a deep breath, turning to her husband with an unsettling smile. “We’ll figure it out; it’ll be well-planned. We won’t go into this unprepared, I promise.”

The unspoken truth was that they had no intention to proceed with just the two of them; Regulus would be joining.

They had kept him at arms-length for so much of the horcrux campaign, but this was something he had brought to the table. Something that from the beginning, they knew he wanted to do. And they felt strongly that they would need the additional help.

There was an additional risk to it as well, but Regulus had known just as much – if not more – about the cave than they did from the beginning. It wasn’t a matter of preventing the information from being exposed any longer. He had been able to conceal it for well over a year.

And they’d grown to trust him.

Commissioning the locket alongside the cup had even been one of Regulus’ ideas, though they did have to convince him that there was absolutely, positively no need to leave a note.

They spent the weeks while Lily brewed huddled in the Black library brainstorming, particularly focusing their attention on muggle alternatives to necessary spells. The fact that there was a boat suggested that there were anti-apparition wards and Kreacher hadn’t been able to summon water, so that suggested at least some spell blocks. It would be best to assume that limited magic was permissible, particularly where the potion was concerned, and proceed from there.

Preparing for the cave reminded them much more of preparing for the Chamber of Secrets than for Little Hangelton. There was something so much worse about knowing exactly what horrors you were bound to face than not quite knowing, particularly when you couldn’t conceive of anything worse.

By the time Lily handed over the three large vials, the bezoar, and the antidote to Draught of Living Death, the list of additional things they would bring with them had been whittled down just one extra. A water bottle. Along with their wands, and the spells they’d practiced, they wouldn’t be burdened by anything else.

They were prepared.

Chapter Text

Chapter 36: Depravatio

The lights faded in and out in a disorienting, head-throbbing manner as though someone was pulling and releasing a black-out sleeping mask over his eyes.

Sirius tried to ground himself.

He was in a cave. He’d just drunk a potion. He was hallucinating.

But it didn’t matter. He could hear his mother’s voice, just as loudly - just as real - as his wife’s.

“Stop crying Sirius Orion! Merlin, I am your mother. I AM. Don’t act like this, it’s utterly ridiculous!” his mother screamed. “Your nanny was no one. A half-blood. No one! Stop crying at once or I swear, Sirius, I will lock you in your room until you BEG to see your real family, do you understand me? DO YOU? You are five, you are far too old to behave like this. Accept that you’ll never see her again and move on. Forget her!”

………

The lights were back on. Another serving of potion down the throat. He slid down on to the cold stones below; he was too far gone to stand.

………

“And what book did you find, boys?” he could hear his father’s voice booming. “Stand up straight and speak clearly. I don’t have time for these theatrics.”

The Black’s copy of Secrets of the Darkest Arts fell from Regulus’ small hands with a thud on his father’s desk, and Sirius could swear the air it expelled sounded like whispering voices.

“This? This was what you were reading?”

Regulus let out a wallowing sob, and Sirius struggled to stop the tears from falling.

“Pull it together. This is an important book; what specifically did you read?”

“Horcruxes, father,” Sirius heard himself stutter out with a sniffle. “How could anyone -”

“If it can be done, a wizard will find a way to do it. Never as such a foolish question again,” Orion Black replied dismissively. “You’re still young. You’ll grow to understand why things like this exist. You will find, in your hopefully long lives, that it is vital to have a healthy appreciation and respect for the Dark Arts…”

………

Sirius felt himself being pulled from the dream by his collar.

“Are you okay?” he heard a voice asking his, but couldn’t bother to focus on who it was nor a response.

Mouth open, and back down.

………

“They haven’t written you since you told them you got into Gryffindor?” James’ squeaky voice asked on the Hogwarts Express train headed home for winter break.

“I’m sure it’s nothing, they’re not very… they’re not like that,” Sirius tried to sound cool and collected in front of his new best friend.

“Huh,” James replied, “well my parents write me every day. Remus, Peter, both yours too, right?”

“Well, I mean, not every day,” Remus tried to placate. But the pit in Sirius’ stomach grew; there was something wrong with them, wasn’t there?

………

Lights on. Back up. Mouth open.

“Water, please, I need water,” he managed to ask through aggravated gasps for air.

He had a bottle in his hand in an instant. The first sip was one of the greatest sensations he’d ever felt in his life, but it didn’t stop his head from falling back.

Back down.

………

“You’re a disgrace, it’s as simple as that. Are you not a BLACK, Sirius Orion?” his mother was yelling at him. “I thought we could overlook your – your mistake. But we can’t. The people you’re associating with… you’ll stay in your room until you’re ready to acknowledge what you are doing to ALL of us. You ought to have begged to be switched.”

He looked to Regulus for support; his brother, his only ally in this wretched house.

“Don’t look me, I’m in Slytherin,” his brother scoffed, turning away from him.

“That’s right, at least someone here didn’t forget who they bloody were!” And the door slammed behind her.

………

Lights on. Back up. Mouth open. More water. Back down.

………

“You’re leaving? Really? Really? Going to the Potters, are you? Awww! How PATHETIC,” his mother mocked him. “I give them a week of having you under their roof before they realize why no one can stand you. Because, no one can stand you, Sirius. You best remember that. It’ll amuse me when you come crawling back here begging me to let you come back home. Because you know something, Sirius? I won’t. You’re dead to me. And I hope you die on the fucking street like the dirt you are, ‘cause MERLIN KNOWS I’d rather have a DEAD son than a FILTHY BLOOD TRAITOR!”

………

Back up. Mouth open. Water. Back down.

………

“Oh Black, you have no idea what you just set yourself up for,” Severus Snape said with some amusement. “See I happen to know something you’d really rather I didn’t. Would you like me to share?”

“No. Nope. Stop. I don’t care. I don’t care what you think you know or what you think it’ll do.” He heard the anger building in his voice. “You don’t know shit about Remus so stop fucking acting like you do. You’re just a greasy thorn in our side that we can’t get rid of. Stop.”

“Well, you’re wrong on that. I know Remus Lupin is a werewolf. I know you all sneak out every full moon. And I know it all happens under the Whomping Willow.”     

“What the FUCK is wrong with you!? The Whomping Willow?! We’re hanging out with a werewolf once a month under the Whomping Willow? How does that even make sense?!”

“I’m gonna figure that out…”

“ARE YOU? Are you SURE? Cause honestly if what you said was true, you don’t have the FUCKING GUTS to go ‘figure that out’, you miserable prick.”

“Well -”

“No. I’ve had enough of this. You wanna ‘figure it out’, use a large stick to prod the knot at the base of the Whomping Willow. It’ll stop…”

………

Back up. Mouth open. Back down.

………

“No! You’re fucking problem is that you’re THOUGHTLESS!” James screamed at him. “You still think this is about SNAPE!”

“What?” Sirius heard his pathetic voice ask.

“Do you even understand what you almost did to Moony? You almost made him a murderer! And he’s NOT like you or I. There’s no declaring it an accident, and he’s not serving time in Azkaban. No, if he kills someone, he is put down like a bloody animal!

“You almost cost one of your best friends his life because when you lose your temper, you don’t think about anyone or anything else besides how to inflict the maximum amount of pain. No one else, no one, would’ve risked their friend’s life like that.You can be fucking demented,” James seemed to continue. “You get absolutely blinded by your rage and you are genuinely dangerous. If you don’t figure out how to fix this, I swear to Merlin, you’re going to end up in Azkaban with no idea how you got there.”

“I know,” Sirius breathed out the words in a whisper. “I’m trying...”

“Are you? It looks like you’ve just accepted that’s the kind of person you are. And if you want to have people in your life that care about you, you’re gonna need to change that!”

Sirius felt like he’d been punched in the gut all over again.

“I can’t be around you. I can barely fucking look at you.”

………

Mouth open. Down.

………

Snape’s voice echoed through the Hogwarts halls, “Merlin, she really is such a whore… have you passed her around to your friends too?”

“Oh, fuck you! Don’t you DARE.” Sirius was quickly losing any semblance of rationality.

“You really care about her, don’t you? That’s fun. I really think the world deserves to know the kind of person Isabella is.”

“No! No, no, no…. this can’t be happening,” Sirius heard himself mutter. “You can’t do this, you can’t…”

“See, I think Dumbledore put it best when he said your actions have consequences. And I know there is nothing I can do to you that would actually make you feel those consequences. But to her?”

“Listen, it’s over between us, I swear. It’s over.” The weight of those words felt crushing.

“You know something? I don’t believe you. And I don’t think Lucius Malfoy would believe you either. And you know something else? I doubt he’d care. He’d still discard her.”

“Snape - please. Don’t do this,” his voice was shaking as he spoke.

But there was something else. There was something happening beyond just the rage and desire for violent retribution. He was scared.

“I would think about it before you curse me,” Snape said. “After tonight – you curse me right here, and you’re expelled. And when I get out of the hospital, I still tell everyone about you and Isabella. You’re only option would be to kill me. You’d spend your life in Azkaban, sure, but – you’d win right now.

“Is that what you’re going to do? Are you going to kill me?” Snape was clearly mocking him, but there was still a tiny hint of fear in his voice.

He felt it all. Every emotion he’d felt in that moment, he felt again.

“FUCK!” Sirius screamed into the corridor, lowing his wand from its aim at Snape. “Fuck.”

Snape just smirked. “Are you going to let Isabella know you ruined her life? Or just let her find out on her own?”

………

“SIRIUS PLEASE!” Isabella was screaming. “I can’t do it! Merlin, please, it’s not real! It’s not real! I LOVE YOU, PLEASE!”

They were on a boat. The water was on fire. Reg was dead. Or he’d lost enough blood that he would be soon.

“Oh good Merlin, you’re conscious! YOU’RE CONSCIOUS!” Isabella exclaimed, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Grab Reg, NOW!”

He pressed to his feet, but quickly stumbled under his own weight.

Isabella let out a blood-curdling scream.

Sirius couldn’t begin to place what memory he was in now, but it was miserable. He’d never seen Isabella looked so scared.

“Okay, oookay,” Isabella said between deep, arduous breaths, “Stand up, I’ll pull Regulus up. I-I’ll drag you both. We’re not going to die. We can’t die.”

She spoke quickly and then they were moving, he was pretty sure.

“We’re gonna make it! Out of the cave and to the Potters’!” she was trying to convince herself. “No - not to...” She began laughing hysterically as the tear poured down her cheeks. “Of course, not to the FUCKING POTTERS’.”

It was clear he was trapped in his own mind, but at least in the other memories he could move. This – trapped in both his body and mind – this was worse.

The most horrid, rattling, hissing sound emerged from his beautiful wife’s lips. He hoped she wouldn’t do that again.

And pulled by his navel he was… surrounded by terrified muggles.

Something was wrong. This felt too real.

Isabella was no longer crying. She was standing like a statue amongst a sea of muggles.

Wand out.

“KREACHER!” she screamed at the top of her lungs.

They shouldn’t be here. There were too many muggles.

The elf shouldn’t be here, either. This was wrong. This was very, very wrong.

And then Isabella was gone. And he was transported to his family home.

He managed to catch his mother’s attention - “Find her – she’s in trouble, I think they’ll arrest her,” was all he managed to spit out, before he simply collapsed into his bed.

“Sirius. Good Merlin, SIRIUS!” his mother was shouting over his bed.

There was a second figure beside her in the dimly lit room.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” his mother addressed the figure, “he’s been like this since they got home. He blinks, you think he’s listening, and nothing.”

“Sirius,” his grandfather’s sharp voice cut through the darkness, “where is Isabella? Your mother said you think she’s been arrested? Why?”

“Muggles,” Sirius’ voice slurred out a reply. He felt as though he was under water and he was fighting against the tides to keep himself conscious.

There was a conversation happening between his mother and his grandfather before they redirected

“The doctors are on their way – what happened? Are you drunk or poisoned?”

“Cave. Potion. Just find her.”

“Potion – so you’ve been poisoned, then?”

“Don’t care. Leave me – her.”

“I care Sirius – I CARE,” his mother shot back in a rare moment of compassion.

“Then help her. Please,” he begged.

And then there was nothing.

Chapter Text

Chapter 37: The Wizengamot

Don’t puke again, dear Merlin, don’t puke.

“Isabella Black?” the commanding voice at the front of the bench asked once again.

“Hmm?”

Isabella had been trying so hard to follow, really. It’s just the room was so bright and the dementors circling overhead were overwhelming her already frazzled mind.

Oh, and she was pretty sure she was dying from magical exhaustion - not that she could say that.

“You were asked a rather simple question by Mr. Crouch here and I’m afraid you’ve given a rather insufficient answer.” Dumbledore spoke authoritatively, but not aggressively, particularly not when compared to Crouch. A true mediator. “Barty, please repeat your question.”

Crouch gave an exasperated sigh before continuing, “Why – at 5:30 PM this evening – did you apparate into a square full of muggles with your husband and brother-in-law, cast what’s estimated to be nearly a dozen charms and spells, call a house elf to apparate them away, and then apparate away yourself to a new location?”

It was worse every time they said it.

Isabella knew how badly she’d fucked up the second they landed, well outside of the concealment wards of 12 Grimmauld, smack in the middle of the square across the street from the town homes. She tried to shake the memory now, but was struggling to keep her concentration on her excuse rather than the truth.

She sat up straighter in the uncomfortable chair, keenly aware that if she didn’t get her breathing in check, she would pass out right then and there.

“Motorbike accident,” she said, for what felt like the fifteenth time since she’d been brought before the Wizengamot. “We were injured, and I miscalculated.”

“So you’ve said.”

“And why would I lie?” Isabella tried her best to sound assertive and transparent, but the words came out anything but. She sounded snarky and almost drunk as her body rebelled against her.

‘Miscalculated’ put it lightly. She’d been in no state to get herself anywhere alone, even less so supporting the weight of her brother-in-law, who’d fully passed out from blood loss after chunks of his arm had been torn from his body, and her delirious husband, falling in and out of consciousness.

She couldn’t think of Sirius now. It was too much to bear; too much she didn’t know.

“I think that’s the question we’re all asking ourselves as well,” Crouch responded, unamused. “You see, normally, activities muggles are capable of doing don’t lead to magical exhaustion in wizards…”

“Exhaustion? I’m sitting here talking to you, am I not?”

“Yes, well I’d credit that to the pepper-up potion you tested positive for when you were arrested more so than anything else.”

“Now, I think we both know that my stomach did a rather fine job getting that out of my system when I arrived here,” Isabella shot back, “isn’t that right sir?”

Thank Merlin for Lily and her preparedness. Isabella had to have chugged at least four of them the moment she arrived to the Potters, while Lily cast as many healing charms as she could think of.

With Isabella’s wand of course.

Had to bury the use of Fiendfyre somehow.

“And your husband and brother-in-law, you mentioned they were injured, correct? Caused by…?”

She closed her eyes as another wave of anxiety coursed through her.

“The motorbike accident,” she said, working to keep her words steady.

It was a horrible sensation; as if she’d entered the room having left her heart somewhere outside the building. Her chest felt hollow and tight and she struggled to ignore that deep-seeded dread that coursed through her body with every shallow breath.

Sirius opted to drink the potion – they both knew Regulus had gone through far worse as a Death Eater and Isabella needed to be conscious enough to destroy the locket. It had been the potion Lily feared; the one that had no antidote, the one that corrupts the worst memories, making them worse still.

The presence of the dementors in the Wizengamot meant she could still hear his screams.

“Right,” Crouch snapped her back to reality. “The motorbike accident. And then you apparated them away from the unknown location of the accident, and the house elf apparated them… where exactly?”

“Objection, relevance,” a booming voice entered into the conversation. “There’s no need for her to speculate. And I don’t believe Sirius, nor Regulus Black, are on trial right now.”

“Ah, Arcturus Black. So glad you could make it.”

“I’m sure,” Arcturus said flatly. “‘Trial’ – is that the correct term for this? For use of magic in front of muggles? Really? How fast were the Obliviators out there? Was there even any harm to speak of?”

“Well,” Barty Crouch rose up from his position on the bench, “it was a clear and direct violation of the International Statute of Secrecy, was it not? Given the circumstances, and the sheer scope of the exposure, we felt it was necessary to do our due-diligence. But of course, Isabella Black here has been one of the most critical about any sort of detention ahead of trial—”

“Internment.”

“— so where are we to hold her if we postpone it?”

“Of course. All for her benefit, I’m sure. And how interesting is it that it appears a good number of the Wizengamot is absent…”

“An unfortunate consequence of the proposed trial-first policy; we felt it pertinent to expedite.”

“Pure coincidence, I take is your stance on the absent?” Arcturus paused for a moment.

Had Isabella not been paying close attention to her husband’s grandfather, she would’ve missed the subtle hint of excitement that flashed across his face.

“Let me offer up a few names of those absent and see if we start to see a pattern, shall we? Galderic Rosier?”

“Please, when’s the last time you saw Rosier himself here rather than prox-"

“I’d watch what you say next unless you wish to claim that the Rosiers have lost their hereditary seat. Or is it that Galderic would not to wish to be here himself for his granddaughter?”

Barty Crouch remained standing but stayed silent.

“So neither then. Very well. What about Abraxas Malfoy? Oliver Nott?”

Oh good Merlin, her mind was frayed in too many directions; she was being set up and she hadn’t even noticed.

“Charlus Avery?”

“Enough!” Crouches voice boomed as he slammed his hand on the railing in front of him. “You’ve made your point; it seems a particular subsect of the Wizengamot wasn’t near the Ministry when the trial was called. Perhaps you were all together…?”

“Perhaps not.” The Black patriarch’s sharp features could hardly conceal his obvious displeasure.

Heads snapped back to the entrance at the sound of slamming doors once again.

“Ah, looks like Rosier’s made it,” Arcturus continued, “I hope you don’t mind, I did get a few messages out to the relevant parties before I arrived.”

Rather than walking straight to the upper levels as Arcturus had, Isabella watched with curiosity as her grandfather approached her chair on the ground floor.

“Oh good Merlin,” he whispered, crouching down to her level, “are you okay?”

Her wellbeing was hardly her concern. Not until she knew...

“Is my husband alive?”

Her grandfather studied her for far too long before nodding.

"As far as I know; he’s the reason Arcturus knew to come here.”

The weight on her chest lifted slightly. For the first time since she’d abandoned him to Kreacher, she could breathe.

Isabella’d known she couldn’t stick around. Both of their injuries were so clearly the work of Dark magic, had Ministry officials arrived at 12 Grimmauld, it would’ve immediately warranted a Auror-level investigation. And regardless of their injuries, Ministry officials at 12 Grimmauld alone would’ve proved extraordinarily problematic.

She should’ve just gone to the Potter’s straight away. But she knew she couldn’t just land on the Potter’s doorstep, Regulus in tow. She mentally chastised herself - certainly not for the first time that evening - about the way they’d handed the Regulus situation with the Potters. They had just never thought to correct it. But why that was...

Not now. The words seem to flash in her mind. They won't kill you, but the men in this room will.

One problem at a time.

Breathe.

“Rosier! This is highly improper…” Isabella heard a voice from up in the court stands shout down, interrupting her thoughts once again.

Her grandfather put up a hand to silence them and turned back to her.

“We don’t know why you’re here,” he spoke quickly. “But for what needs to happen next, it matters very, very much. Is there anything you can tell me right now?”

She shook her head.

“You do - you understand my meaning, correct? Isabella, we don’t know who best to help you.”

She stared at him, trying to process his words, but falling short of the mark. He was there. The head of the House of Black was there. The temporary relief she’d felt at their presence began to fade; why would they not be the right people to help her?

“When the rest of our friends arrive, I assume they’ll understand what’s happened? They’ll know how to help you?”

His question hit her like a ton of bricks.

Arcturus Black had hedged his bets. If Isabella and Sirius were injured doing work for the Death Eaters, he had ensured that the inner circle would be in the room to defend her.

But, of course, he would take a step back. There were lines he would never cross.

“No. Oh, no, no, no. No, they won’t,” she practically mouthed the words. “You have to trust me. They won’t – you can’t.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes, please, you have to believe me.”

“I do,” he glanced up to the stands where Arcturus Black stared down at them. “I do. I’m not the one you need to convince. Say or do whatever you can to get out of here, we’ll deal with the repercussions later. I want you in a hospital room, not bloody cage.”

Galderic Rosier shifted, turning to face the rest of the Wizengamot just as Avery and Nott entered the upper levels.

“Apologies for the interruption,” her grandfather pulled the crowd’s attention away from the men. “I’d have assumed family would be notified first but given that neither the Rosiers nor the Blacks were here when this began, I take it that’s no longer protocol? Or was an exception made for my granddaughter?”

He scoffed as he made his way up to the court floor, followed in turn by Malfoy who cast a quick scan of the Wizengamot and shook his head. If the anger and whispers of the rest of the assembled were anything to go on, the five men were a formidable block. It had taken only moments to populate the stands with far more familiar, friendly names. And the displeasure at their presence was stunningly unsubtle. Her grandfather made a point to greet Avery and Nott before taking a seat in front of the Black patriarch.

But even during the controlled chaos, there was one man whose attention hadn’t wavered in the slightest.

Arcturus Black seemed to track her eyes and she was suddenly far too conscious of any glances she took to the three men, afraid that if her eyes kept wandering back to them, he’d mistake it for something that it wasn’t. Some sort of sign of a relationship between them when there was nothing.

Nothing beyond the photograph of them and her husband, of course.

But hadn’t Sirius explained it? She urged her brain to remember those early January days. He’d been gone for hours, and not easy hours either. ‘There’s no benefit of the doubt with him. No one gets that advantage,’ Sirius had explained. ‘You either answer his questions or he extracts them,’

She suddenly felt the solution settle on her like a lead veil; Arcturus Black’s unwavering focus coming into clarity. If she needed his help, ifshe had nothing to hide, he wanted – no – he expected her to open her mind to him. There was no other way.

And if it got her out of that bloody room, she was inclined to give it to him. If she could just brush past destroying the horcrux, give him the moments right after. The moment with the damn water bottle.

She would not survive this if he did not intervene on her behalf. He needed to see that. She took a deep breath and, trying to steady her thoughts like Sirius had always said, turned to make eye contact with the head of her house.

He pierced through her mind immediately.

Visions flashed before her. The island in the middle of the interior lake. A brief surge of ecstasy, just as she turned to watch the water bottle slip from Sirius’ hand as he fell unconscious, collapsed on the stone slabs. The bottle rolling down the slope towards the inferi-infested water. And in a moment dominated by reflexes over logic, Regulus attempted to catch it, submerging his arm in the water below.

The following seconds were a blur of the horrors that followed. The inferi rising from the lake instantaneously. The animalistic flames once again jumping from her wand. A panicked, but targeted hit, the most control she’d ever had over Fiendfyre, burning the corpses away from the shore. But not before they had already torn Regulus’ arm to shreds.

Blood. Everywhere.

They dragged Sirius towards the boat, still delirious, even when he would slip back into consciousness. And Regulus almost too injured to help.

The inferi had taken notice. Closing in. Though it had been the disruption to the water that woke them, it was the blood that captivated their attention. The three Blacks had escaped the island, but the inferi were overwhelming the boat. She was sending bursts of flames over across the water, too afraid to let the spell linger in fear of her ability to maintain control.

Then they hit the shore.

What should’ve been a moment of relief was anything but as the jolt of the grounded boat caused Isabella to stumble, unleashing her last bout of Fiendfyre. She realized what she had done in an instant as she watched the winged flames take flight over the water, swooping down to burn any of the dead that dared to cross its flight path.

She half dragged, half supported both Sirius and Regulus out of the cave, a credit only to the adrenaline that propelled her, and the use of Parseltongue to open the cave’s entrance.

The entrance slammed closed behind them, and without a seconds hesitation she apparated.

“Isabella Black!” Dumbledore’s voice echoed through the Wizengamot, pulling her back out of her own head. “May we please continue?”

“Of course.”

Isabella felt the mental intrusion pull away. She briefly glanced over towards Arcturus Black, who was now whispering to her grandfather in front of him.

“How long have you had your apparation license?” Barty Crouch continued his questioning.

“Since I was 17, after the course during my 6^th year at Hogwarts.”

“So quite nearly four years now, is that correct?”

Isabella nodded.

“And do you feel laws have changed? Perhaps that we’ve become more lenient during those four years?”

“No, sir. I don’t know that anyone feels laws have become more lenient in the past few years.”

“How nice of you to say.” A sinister smile spread across Crouch’s face. “Now it’s obvious to everyone in the Wizengamot that you’re lying. What you’re covering up, we don’t know. But knowing your family as we all - fortunately - do, I feel it’s safe to say that it’s probably of great interest to the legal system–”

“Objection – prejudicial. And speculative,” Arcturus interrupted, rising to his feet. “Let’s try and stick to the facts, shall we?”

“I was getting there…”

“I’m sure you were. Though, to my surprise, you had been honing in on a rather critical point. Isabella has been apparating for years now and yet, when she was brought here, she was made sick, wasn’t she? I believe that’s what you were discussing as I arrived. That doesn’t usually happen with years of experience, does it? Maybe the very first time, but after that – with the four years of experience you’ve highlighted – certainly not.

“What that tells me is that she is probably suffering from some sort of head injury. Likely caused by the motorbike accident she’s been trying to tell you about. Now, I think it goes without saying that I feel she ought to be in the hospital, not on trial right now. But before I arrived, or anyone who would represent her best interests arrived, you made an assessment that she’s mentally and physically capable of representing herself. Very well. I suppose in this moment I’m forced to defer to your earlier judgement and we are obligated continue.”

He paused for a moment and cast a meaningful glance her direction. “I just caution the court - it would be a shame if any part of her testimony must be dismissed when it’s found she was unfit to stand trial.”

Isabella could hardly process what he was saying, but if the expressions of his peers were anything to go by, he had backed them into a corner.

“Black,” Dumbledore spoke cautiously, “do you wish to call a formal mistrial?”

“No, not at present.”

“Now Arcturus, that doesn’t give the court much room to operate, does it?”

“Well, I suggest you all proceed carefully then,” he said bluntly as he retook his seat.

Murmurs surged amongst the members of the Wizengamot, not used to such a direct threat.

“If we’re forced to hold court under Arcturus Black’s thumb then I’ll declare it a mistrial myself!” Crouch raised his voice.

“On what grounds?” Arcturus replied.

“If you’re going to declare that she’s unfit to stand trial depending on her answers, then I’ll say the same before we even bother asking.”

“Have you not been here since the trial commenced? You would’ve been given the opportunity to vocalize your concerns regarding her well-being during pre-trial. It’s standard procedure. Your silence was all the affirmation necessary. The only other people, sitting in this room, at least, that could use that particular clause would be Malfoy, Nott, Avery, and Rosier, of course, And rest assured, we’re aligned on this. I’m sure all of the names absent today who have not explicitly waved their vote, could, also, call for further investigation.”

“This ridiculous!” Crouch shouted, head spinning between Albus Dumbledore and Arcturus Black. “You can’t operate like this!”

“Merlin,” Galderic Rosier spoke up, smiling down at his granddaughter before turning to face Crouch himself. “Is this not the consequences of your own actions?”

The head of the DMLE was absolutely seething; she would’ve laughed had she had any remaining energy to do so.

Aided by her light-headedness and still rather loose grasp of her surroundings, Isabella couldn’t help but feel like she was in the theatre or dreaming of sorts. As the adrenaline faded, her ability to stay awake slid away with it. She could feel her head growing heavy and each blink required physical effort to come out of. She could hear the men above her arguing, debating if there was even a need for further questions.

She felt she wouldn’t mind further questions; it could prevent her from passing out from exhaustion in front of them.

There had been no real consequence for the muggles. Obliviators had arrived on the scene only moments after she left. And she hadn’t hurt anyone or done anything intentional. It was obvious enough that any magic in front of muggles had been accidental, or accidental enough. She couldn’t be punished for appearing magically exhausted with no explanation.

It sounded as though she was going to have to get recertified before she was allowed to apparate, with a particular course on side-along apparations. She nodded along when she could tell people were speaking to her, but she would have to ask later what was said.

She couldn’t tell if it had been ten minutes or ten hours since her family, her side, had arrived, but things seemed to be coming to a close. She would be leaving. Walking out of there, hypothetically.

She was surprised when it was Arcturus Black who came down to get her. He was the Head of her House, but not necessarily someone sit next to your hospital bed. He was the type of person you went to when you wanted something done, not a particularly warm or comforting presence. Maybe he’d be taking her to wherever Sirius was rather than St. Mungos.

“Can you walk?” Arcturus asked as he approached.

She stood and attempted to take a step forward; the answer was a resounding no.

“That’s fine, grab my arm and we’ll walk together to the apparation point.”

They moved shocking swiftly through the halls despite her near dead weight. She wanted to keep it together but every action, from walking to breathing, felt laborious.

They apparated the second they crossed the threshold.

She puked, once again, upon landing

It took her only a second to process that they weren’t at St. Mungos and they weren’t at 12 Grimmauld either. They had arrived at the Arcturus Black’s own manor in the countryside.

“I-I’m sorry – let me clean that up. I just need to rest, I’m sorry. I’m -”

She went to grab her wand but realized he hadn’t let go of her wrist. He was just staring at her, an inscrutable expression on his face before the right words finally came to him -

“How are you a Parselmouth?”

Chapter Text

Chapter 38: The Black Manor

Isabella’s mind was reeling. She… wasn’t a Parselmouth? Why would that even occur to Sirius’s grandfather? She had showed him nothing of Azkaban. Nothing of the Chamber of Secrets. Nothing that could explain that particular question.

She just stared at him, mouth agape, begging her brain to throw off the fog.

“I-I’m not…” she stuttered out.

“You’re not in trouble, but rest assured, lying is not your best approach.”

His tone was serious, not the sort of smug assuredness it had been in the Wizengamot with Crouch and Dumbledore, but almost equally as chilling. She couldn’t help but feel like a child getting lectured for something she hadn’t done; infantilized by her inability to advocate for herself.

If glares could break bones, she would be crumbling.

But he would not hurt her, of this she was certain. He was every bit the terrifying and dangerous man he was made out to be, but he was not irrational. He could not use the methods he’d use on other men to extract whatever he wanted from her. For any potential action towards achieving whatever explanation he felt he was owed had to be weighed against the fact that she was also his grandson’s wife.

The wife of the Heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

His eyes narrowed and she was sure he was coming to the same realization. He had explicit authority, but it was littered with asterisks and restrictions and clarifications and footnotes – the most exhausting sort of power. The one that involved emotions.

He dropped her wrist.

“Mipsy!” Arcturus called his for one of his elves, “Clean that and then bring Isabella up to one of the guest bedrooms. And you,” he turned back to her, “go rest. We’ll talk when you’re awake.”

“B-but Sirius?”

“Rest assured, if my grandson were dead, you would not be getting any such break,” Arcturus replied coldly.

Her face fell, eyes watering with confused, panicky tears, prompting her Head of House to begrudgingly elaborate.

“He’s fine, I sent the doctors on staff to 12 Grimmauld to deal with both of them – good Merlin, Isabella, don’t look so lost. Regardless of any official stance, you don’t go through a war without medics on your payroll. There’s always a need for discretion. Now go; you’re of unfortunately little use to me in this state.”

Isabella heaved her body up the stairs at his command. She may not have been in trouble, but the situation was clear enough – she wasn’t leaving until he had more answers.

Isabella did not wake again for over a day. She rose to a near full-moon and a pitch-black room. A quick tempus revealed that it wasn’t quite as late at it seemed, but she had certainly been asleep for well over 24 hours.

She made her way downstairs, taking the stairs one step at a time, unsure of what to expect when she presented herself. Awake - sure. Better - inarguably. But well? No. Certainly not well. She saw shadows dancing on the walls of the drawing room near the front of the manor, and thank Merlin, because she couldn’t have made it much farther.

Soft green wallpaper lined the walls, though decently obstructed by the dozens of portraits of generations of the Black family. The furniture was all antique, but cozier than she would’ve expected. It was clearly a room designed to entertain closer relations, rather that strangers. Smaller, more intimate.

Arcturus was seated in one of the two upholstered armchairs in front the ornate stone fireplace; a roaring fire already set. She hesitated at the entryway, uncertain what the most appropriate way to announce her presence was. The prospect of a sit-down alone with the Head of House was daunting, particularly in such an informal setting, under such circumstances no less.

“Don’t linger at the doorway. It’s unbecoming,” Arcturus’ baritone voice critiqued without ever turning around. “Come take a seat and have a drink. It helps.”

Mipsy arrived only moments later, placing two glasses and a large crystal decanter of firewhiskey on the end table between the two armchairs.

Arcturus moved through the motions of pour them both an inch naturally and formally; mechanics formed through years of practice. First her glass, then his. He  took a long sip and sighed before passing her a copy of the Daily Prophet he’d tucked next to him.

The headline read ‘Not Just Dark, Black: Inside the turbulent evening of one of the most notorious families in Wizarding Britain’. She read the headline once, twice, three times over, but her eyes kept getting caught on the large, black and white photograph before she could make it through the first line. The article was accompanied by an offensively bad picture of Isabella getting led out of the Wizengamot by Arcturus, managing to make both of them look rather terrifying. Whether it was the lighting or the angle, what she knew was exhaustion was coming through the picture looking more like she was indifferent and bored by the whole ordeal.

And it was so public.

Isabella couldn’t even look up at her Head of House as she spoke, too mortified to face the judgement in his eyes and too embarrassed to show him just how damp hers were once again.

“This is…” she tried, her words shaking.

“Rita Skeeter,” Arcturus saved her from whatever sentence she was attempting to bumble through, “the author – I think she’s only maybe a decade older than you, maybe less? She’s making a real name for herself in strategically offense journalism. A glorified gossip columnist who’s clever with who she targets. She’s hated, but popular, in a way that only public figures can be. This is the first time I’ve seen her work on the front page, though.”

Isabella’s eyes darted across the paper. Her expression in the photograph fit the narrative of the article perfectly. It was a culmination of the worst things that had ever been said behind her back, packaged in a pretty little noose, and slapped on the front of the Daily Prophet. It painted her as a nasty little princess who’d sold herself to whoever could give her the most prestigious name. Someone who’d used her looks and wealth to charm her way through every door, just to ‘discover’ that she was simply above everyone there. The article insinuated that she had always felt that she was in a league of her own, not dissimilar to her husband, making them a fascinating pair of ego maniacs.

Skeeter viciously speculated over the timing of Isabella’s article on the conditions in Azkaban and her subsequent arrest. Had she left it at that, Isabella could’ve stomached it, but article progressed to conclude that Isabella had no need to secure a cushier Azkaban; the Blacks were already above the law.

And Merlin, had she laid out her case.

The article made her question her assumption that reporters were not allowed in the Wizengamot with its incendiary account of her brief trial – emphasis, of course, on its brevity. Though it only brushed over the fact that there were a number of families not represented in the room, and that it had been an extraordinarily last-minute trial, it certainly made a point to harp on the fact that the Head of the House of Black and Rosier both arrived late. And it held no punches in its account of Arcturus Black’s absolute bludgering of the court.

But nothing was crueler than the description of her. Snarky. Disinterested. Bored. But of course, also obviously reeling from the consequences of Dark magic that everyone in her family worked to cover up.

The unlikelihood of both occurring at once was left unaddressed.

“I’m so sorry.” Isabella looked up from the article, too aware that she needed to try. “This is mortifying. I sincerely apologize for – for everything. For getting our name on the front page to what transpired in the cave. I-I’m just so sorry. I don’t know how you can possibly forgive me but please, please let me know what I -”

“Nonsense. Rita Skeeter is a wretched witch and we won’t hold that against you. And notice how the article has no quotes? All anonymous sources and no one willing to give a first-hand account of you. I’m not the only one that will notice that. It’s unusual. It means you inspire fear in those who know you, and that will be passed on to anyone who pays too close attention to this rubbish. Good.” There was a flash of a smile across his face. “It makes you a good fit in this family. As for trial, let’s be frank - the Azkaban article made you shockingly unpopular with a specific subsect in the DMLE. Crouch had it out for you, personally, and combined with your name, there was nothing that could be done. So let us acknowledge and move on, shall we?”

They sat in silence for a moment, enough time for her to appreciate how right he'd been; the alcohol was making a tremendous difference. Whether it was the sugar after the exposure to dementors in the Wizengamot, or it was the alcohol itself warming her up, she didn’t know and she hardly cared. It felt as though her brain was finally defogging.

But it meant she had the mental capacity to realize where the conversation was heading.

“This is usually the sort of thing I make my business,” Arcturus continued, his tone slightly softer. “I confess, I’m struggling to understand how this is even the case. I assume it’s your mother’s side of the family that’s related to Slytherin? The Rosiers have no such lineage. But your mother’s side are the Burkes, not Gaunts, correct? The only connection I know of between the Burkes and the Gaunts would’ve been…”

His voice trailed off as he looked at her inquisitively.

“I was born in 1960 and I’m a Rosier by blood,” Isabella responded, squirming under his harsh gaze. “Sir, I’m sorry, I…”

Her mind raced through how the conversation had even gotten here. After everything that had happened, how was this the conversation they were having.

After everything that had happened…

“Oh good Merlin - I opened the cave, on the way out, using Parseltongue, didn’t I? It was a gamble, but it worked. I learned how to say ‘open’ in Parseltongue that’s it, I swear. I’m not a Parselmouth. I swear. I-I-I only know open. Open,” she hissed rather haphazardly.

Arcturus took a second to absorb her declaration, before he simply cocked his head and nodded.

“In Azkaban, Morfin Gaunt must’ve been one of the people you met with then, yes? I know enough about you from my grandson that I have reason to believe it’s not… the other one. But to have understood anything, you must’ve gone with the intention of learning that phrase, or something at least. Why?”

“We…,” she tried not to stutter, “we learned it to open the Chamber of Secrets.”

“And by ‘we’ you mean you and Sirius, or you and both of my grandsons?”

“Just Sirius and I.”

“Interesting.” Arcturus gave her another sly grin. “And were you successful?”

“We were.”

He lifted his glass to salute her, tossing it back in a final gulp and pouring himself another and topping her off.

“I haven’t heard of any mudblood deaths at Hogwarts recently.”

“That wasn’t our intention…”

“I suppose it wouldn’t be. I’ve heard one of your closest friends is a mudblood, is that right?”

“I don’t tend to use that term when I talk about her,” Isabella replied bluntly.

She refrained from telling him not to use that term either; she could not afford to be so bold.

“Hmm, I suppose not. You know, sometimes I forget how very different my grandson and I are in some matters. And you don’t have any issues with them?”

“And what do you mean by that?”

“Your friends,” he clarified. “I imagine maintaining any sort of relations across the aisle would be challenging. The current political climate only exacerbating their long-standing biases and prejudices that have caused such a rift amongst our small population.”

“When talking of prejudices, I’m inclined to think it’s ‘our’ side that makes it impossible for the wizarding community to live in peace.”

“Do you really think that?”

Isabella felt tongue-tied, suddenly overcome with a sense that she’d stepped on a sort of landmine.

“We’re… they’re far more violent.”

“In many respects,” he said matter-of-factly.

It was an incomplete thought; his question posed, still unanswered.

She took another dreg of her firewhiskey and leaned back, gripping the crystal rocks glass. It was easier to define what peace wasn’t than what it was at a time like this; and what peace wasn’t was the cleansing of the community of the undesirable population.

Because whether that was the muggle-borns or the Dark wizards depended on one’s persuasion.

“No,” she said finally.

“No,” he nodded. “But their hatred is harder to highlight. More institutionalized.”

It was a word she felt as though she’d been struggling for, for some time now, yet had never quite reached. Institutionalized.

“If something were to happen to you,” he continued, “do you feel you could rely on the aurors to help you? Of course not. We don’t need the hypothetical – yesterday you were arrested. Do you feel you were given a fair and balanced trial? No. People often forget that the Order of the Phoenix is just as sanctioned as the Death Eaters. You would be mistaken if you think that members of the Order have acted above reproach, yet I’ve seen no internment for members of the Order."

She nodded, slowly absorbing his words. She knew nothing of the supposed misbehavior he spoke of, though he was right about their standing. But it would be challenging, wouldn't it? Alastor Moody, Frank and Alice Longbottom…

“The overlap between the Order and those who enforce the law,” he said, catching her off guard, “if it’s not an active endorsement, then certainly collusion. I should think that’s the greatest, most transparent symptom of the problem they could give us. There is a need to fix the damage that has been done. Our friends have the right to demand fairer treatment in and through all facets of government, from the laws that are passed to their enforcement, from the Wizengamot to DMLE and beyond. Our friends have the right to push for greater, more comprehensive education that does not exclude our history and the truths that these families have known about magic, particularly Dark magic, for a millennium. And our friends have the right to remind the rest of the population that a failure to educate oneself on the culture and practices that came before them does not mean that the culture and practices were backwards or worse, did not exist, before they arrived.

“And yet they fail,” he said, as though it was the most obvious conclusion to his statement. “Their violence, though often retaliatory and even, on occasion, necessary, destroys the moderates’ confidence. Their philosophy, which I share, muddied by fringe perspectives and alienating, bifurcating leadership. So I am not a Death Eater,” he said and then he paused and turned to really look at her.

Isabella furrowed her brow.

“Nor am I,” she said.

“I saw the way Dumbledore treated you; neither you, nor your husband are part of his resistance. And if you’re working with Regulus as well, it would be easy to assume… except, illogical, knowing you both. Between the Chamber of Secrets and now this cave you found yourself in, you’re clearly following some path that follows Slytherin or some other parselmouth.”

Isabella felt the pit in her stomach grow. Another faux pas. Why hadn’t she just said they’d learned it to open the cave? Why bring the Chamber of Secrets into the equation at all?

“So then under whose orders?”

She was taken aback by the question, but the words still stubbled out of her -

“No-no one’s orders. Ours, alone.”

“But you don’t deny that this is connected to the war effort, do you?”

“No… but this has nothing to do with the Order or the Death Eaters. I swear.”

“You swear to it, do you now?”

“I do, I promise. It wasn’t meant to be like this…” her words trailed off as she braced for the explosive reaming that was sure to follow.

He had to push her on this. She braced herself for everything they’d done in the last year and a half to spill out, and for her to have to grovel and beg for his forgiveness. She didn’t know how Sirius had done this for so many years. How he’d never just broken down and confessed it all. How he’d even decided getting involved was worth it. This man would eat her alive, of that she was certain.

But Arcturus simply shook his head and laughed.

“It would be so like Sirius to create his own side in the war just to be difficult. And your reputation precedes you – you’re no different.”

Isabella hardly dared to breath, concerned that any action or any movement would seem like a response she wasn’t prepared to give. An agreement or a disagreement; she couldn’t tell which she thought was worse. Seconds ticked by and she wasn’t sure if she ought to let the silence linger or if his comments had warranted a response.

“But what a match,” the Black patriarch broke the trance. “And what a formidable witch you are. Clearly was not your first use of Fiendfyre, no?”

“N-no. No it wasn’t.”

“And as a strategy to fight inferi no less. How intriguing? Many would’ve tried an overpowered lumos maxima but I dare say your approach was far more permanent. But it wouldn’t have occurred to most… I assume the spell was on your mind?”

She nodded.

“Then I’m afraid I’m at a bit of a loss on another matter, which I’m hoping you can clear up for me. You brought along a muggle canteen with water, I believe, which implies to me that you had done your research on whatever cave you were in. You knew the water could not be touched, and I supposed you feared that there would be wards or charms place to prevent you from getting water by usual means, but then you also knew that water would necessary. That tells me that you knew there would be a potion with no antidote, but went into it expecting that someone would have to drink it and need water. Why? Why did my grandson need to drink the potion?”

“He volunteered – he wasn’t forced into it,” Isabella replied defensively, worried he was setting her up to take the blame. “We believed that the potion would cause the drinker to relive their worst memories and with Regulus’ history—”

“You misunderstood my question,” Arcturus stopped her. “Sirius had gone with his younger brother and wife; I don’t doubt that it was his responsibility to take that burden. But why did he have to drink it?”

“The potion was a sort of barrier or guard that had to be drunk away.”

“And the potion could not be burned away by Fiendfyre because… what laid behind it was too precious to risk that?”

Isabella froze.

“No… no, no, no - oh good Merlin.”

“Then you tried and it did not work?”

She felt her throat tighten around the words she had left unsaid. A physical response to the mental turmoil. Her gripped tightened on her crystal glass, gaze fixed on the roaring fire in front of them. She would rather shut down than confront the reality of what had transpired…

Kreacher had drunk the potion. The Dark Lord had tested his defenses by making Kreacher drink the potion. It had never occurred to them to explore another way.

They hadn’t even tried.

There was no reason to believe the Dark Lord knew that Fiendfyre could destroy a horcrux; there was no written documentation and there was no reason he would’ve experimented with such a thing. Even if he had an inclining about the destruction method, there would be no reason to defend against it, really. Without a closing incantation, Fiendfyre on that island in the middle of the cave was assured suicide. And how few knew the closing incantation?

How could she possible justify what she had done? What she had failed to do? To Arcturus, to the family, even to herself? She had allowed her husband to poison himself. Her brother-in-law was mangled. They all three were almost killed. All three had been exposed because… because of her mistake. She had been tried before the Wizengamot because of her gross negligence.

Arcturus sighed.

“The rest I’ll speak to Sirius on. I don’t know how much you understand about the rather delicate business we’re in, but I cannot afford for you saying more than you should if you don’t know where to stop. But there were obviously mistakes made. I want to make sure you understand what you should take away from this.”

“That I’m a damn fool?”

“Please.” Arcturus took a long sip of his whiskey before setting it down on the table between them. “Let me make myself abundantly clear. The Dark Arts are an extremely useful tool. And if you’re already willing to exploit them, then embrace them fully. You are either in or out; you cannot survive if you cannot commit to your actions.

I don’t doubt that the Rosiers have a long-standing tradition with the Dark Arts, just as the Blacks do. So why do you think it is that the practices that you have done since you were a small child - regardless of how Dark the outside world may perceive them - feel calming, grounding, empowering, even?

It is because of how you feel about what you are doing. How you perceive it genuinely effects how it will impact you.

People want to turn so much of magic into this exact science – a by-product of muggle influence, I’m sure. But magic is so heavily influenced by emotions and perspectives; it is not a science, it is simply an art.

Right now, you think to use these elements of the Dark Arts when it is a last resort, and you feel, in your core, that they ought not be used unless there is no other option. You feel as though you are committing a crime rather than using a tool in your arsenal. But it is that perception alone that I fear damages you.

If it were true that the so-called Dark Arts were deeply and irreparably damaging, then the majority of the Sacred 28 would’ve died out centuries ago. It is as simple as that. I will not sit here and tell you that there is not damaging magic – but it is usually practices where mutilation is part of the intention. As a general rule, the reason you see these ‘Dark’ and powerful wizards become cripplingly disfigured, regardless of the violence of their reign, is because they, themselves, believe that their actions set them apart from society. They believe that the magic they are employing is dangerous and it differentiates them from the pack, and as a very real consequence, it does.

And this is why language matters. The way we talk about the Dark Arts, the way we teach the Dark Arts matters. For if all future generations are taught that the Dark Arts are damaging, then it will be so.

And this may sound like the ramblings of an elder statesman, but I have seen a lot in my life - not just in my lifetime, but I have seen a lot of what there is to be seen. And I can tell you that we have scratched the surface of one of the few things that chills me to the bone. If future generations - not necessarily your children, or your children’s children, but perhaps the next generation - if those future generations are taught that magic is damaging, then it will be so.

I will spend the rest of my life fighting to ensure that we build a strong and separate wizarding society where that could never happen. And I hope the next generations of Blacks follow suit.

This will sound offensive, and I only mean it somewhat offensively; I feel that you and Sirius both have spent so much of your lives thinking how different you were from the rest of the families you associated with, that when you started acting more and more like them, like us, you forgot to ask how we were all doing it. Perhaps it’s not written down that alcohol, particularly firewhiskey, helps alleviate the after-effects of fire-based incantations? Just like chocolate helps alleviate the lingering effects of dementor exposure. Or anything peppermint after the Imperius curse.

There are things that are passed from generation to generation within a wizarding family like ours that are worth learning. Essential to learn.

Now I will be frank with you for a moment - and I say this, recognizing how desperately Sirius would wish I not say this to you - but as the aging Head of this House, my eldest son dead, I would like to see you and Sirius… approaching things differently.

I know that we are in a war. I also know that my own conduct during the Global Wizarding War could hardly be described as cautious. But I want you both to dream of a better future. I don’t want either of you doing anything now that could throw away the potential of a better future. Do not harm yourself to the point where a future with children is impossible.

Ask questions. You are a bright young witch and yet you have charged into whatever it is you’re doing with imprudent reservations and ignored a fountain of resources you ought to have tapped into.

Perhaps you are a fool, Isabella.

But I hope not.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 39: Moony, Wormtail… Padfoot, & Prongs

“What the hell is this?” a voice echoed through the winding Hogwarts corridor.

James whirled around to find his old friend not ten paces behind him in the hall, shaking that morning’s copy of the Daily Prophet.

It was early still, the sun peaking in through the high arched windows, fighting a losing battle for dominance in the grey February skies. Not too many students about; not enough to make them feel out of place.

“Merlin – Remus! You’re back!”

“Yeah, I am! Summoned. Same as you?”

James nodded.

“Brilliant. And same as him.” Remus nodded towards Peter marching behind him at his heels. “Even still, with Isabella’s face blasted across the Prophet this morning, I’d have made my way back here all the same. What does Sirius have to say about this?”

“Haven’t spoken to him,” his words were cool and bitter, “don’t even know where he is.”

“Are you serious?”

James raised his brow. Did he really think he would he take the opportunity to joke about something like this?

“What does Dumbledore think we know about this anyhow?” Peter asked as they rounded the corner to the gargoyle staircase. “I don’t think I’ve spoken to Isabella in a year.”

“Well, I suppose we’re still the resident experts on Sirius.”

“Are we?” Remus asked. “I’ve no idea what he’s been up to. Busy, if the papers are anything to go on.”

“I thought your stance was always that he was doing nothing? Changed your mind?”

“Yeah, you know? For some reason.”

“I’m just saying,” Peter piped in again, “I don’t know anything. They’re injured, aren’t they? I mean should one of us have made a house call? How are we supposed to know anything beyond what’s in the Prophet?”

James knew – well, he’d thought he knew more than that. Isabella’d been at his house for fuck’s sake. She'd stood there, covered in blood, nostrils flared, barking orders. The fire still burned behind her eyes. She’d stepped into the front yard when the aurors arrived; they’d never even known whose house they were at.

It had seemed simple; fucked, but simple. The case opened and shut. They’d gone to the cave, infiri had swarmed, attacking Sirius, and Isabella screwed up the Fiendfyre. She’d dropped him off somewhere, aware that his injuries were too obvious, too Dark, and then fled.

And somehow in all of that, in all of the screams and swears she threw at them, and the potions and pills she’d taken from them, she’d failed to mention the extent of her company. She’d neglected to mention that everything they were doing wasn’t to cover her tracks or Sirius’ tracks. If it were that simple, she would’ve brought him straight to them. What they were doing was covering for her brother-in-law.

She’d forced them to cover for a fucking Death Eater.

“Up,” he barked, gesturing to the gargoyle stairs. “If he’s not up there, he’d want us to wait inside. Not linger in the hallway like a bunch of hooligans.”

“Merlin, you’re even starting to talk like a dad, mate,” Remus patted him on the back as he passed, followed by Peter. James led from the rear.

They rounded the stairs to find the headmaster’s office empty, save for Faulks perched on his rail. No longer students, they’d earned a seat at the table, not just a position in front the desk, and they moved into the meeting area accordingly. James had always been rather fond of the corner; it felt like stepping into a column of books that stretched on and on towards the sky. In peaceful years it had served more as study nook or a private research desk that a war room. There was a certain unignorable warmth that permeated even in the most chilling of conversations. He appreciated it.

Peter and Remus both took a seat at the round table, while James remained standing. He had too much adrenaline coursing through him to sit still. He worried if he stopped moving, he’d simply explode.

“So you were just as surprised as we were when you saw the paper this morning?” Peter asked.

“You could say that,” James said with a huff. “I don’t understand—”

“She looks pissed,” Remus interrupted.

“She ought to look exhausted, right? I mean… based on what the papers are saying about her at least,” James clarified.

“Well,” Peter said, absentmindedly staring back down at the paper in front of Remus, “I’ve never seen Isabella take a bad photo in her life.”

“Watch yourself there, Wormy!”

“I didn’t—” He looked up, turning between the two of them who couldn’t hide they’re amused expressions, “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, I’m sure you’ve never looked twice at her,” Remus teased. “But you’re also not wrong. For everything I can say about her… oh sorry James. I know you’re so particular about this subject.”

“No, by all means. I’m not in the mood to play defense here—”

“Well grand, thank you for that!”

“—but I think the more impor—”

“Ah! No, I believe it’s my turn to think, Prongs,” Remus pushed on. “Isabella doesn’t take a bad picture. So looking at this, is she exhausted? Maybe. Pissed? That’s what I read from this. Or just bored and above it all, like the article suggests she is? We don’t know and we’d be best to admit that, because trying to read her is a losing game. I don’t know if she’s a Death Eater. I really don’t. And I don’t know if she was a Death Eater, if that automatically makes Sirius one, I mean, it’s looking like it. But she is difficult to read, deliberately so, and I’m sorry but that makes her difficult to trust—”

“Merlin,” James huffed.

“No, James, no. This is where the conversation always gets derailed. I’m not suggesting I don’t like her. I do. I actually really do. And I have a tremendous amount of respect for her. She’s brilliant. And an independent thinker. And I think it’s admirable the way she’s stuck to her principles in the face opposition.

“But in a war where the sides are drawn across certain ideological lines, we’ve spent a lot of time ignoring the fact that she’s rather firmly planted herself on the opposite side to us.”

“That doesn’t make her a Death Eater. But combined with—”

“No. But combine it with the ‘renowned pacifist’ she’s married to, one starts to wonder, don’t they?”

“I’ve never heard someone use that term to describe Sirius…” Peter remarked.

“Yes. That’s because no one in their right mind ever would! And here we’ve just accepted that Sirius fucking Black, our Padfoot, is sitting out the war? I don’t even know where to begin with that level of naivety.

“You don’t really think he’s a… Death Eater, do you?”

“Well I don’t know what to think! The photograph from him at New Years? This? Now? There was a whole bloody trial. And look who he was with? I mean—”

“YES! Why the FUCK—” James slammed his hand on the bookshelf causing it to shake, “- why the fuck was he with Regulus Black? THAT is the only question that matters!”

“Is it?”

“YES!” James shouted. “Because we already know they’re Dark wizards, whatever they did, they did poorly and that’s that. It wouldn’t matter if Regulus wasn’t in the mix because it doesn’t add anything new to the equation. We can like it or hate it, but we know what they’re capable of. The Wizengamot made a spectacle of Isabella because she made a spectacle of them in the Emptied article in the fall! We already know the majority of the DMLE bloody hates her! And let’s not be pious here, do you really think Barty Crouch was letting a Black, formerly Rosier, off scot-free? Merlin no!”

It was a more transparent admission than he usually allowed to filter through, but he was too angry to care.

“So the ONLY thing we need to debate is what the significance of Regulus Black is!”

Remus and Peter stared at him.

“And if you don’t like the answer, James?”

James’ throat felt uncomfortably tight, as though all of his own thoughts he’d tried to push down and bury were physically rising up, prompted by an agreeable audience, to explode out of him. James swallowed, slowing himself down.

“Do you think I haven’t been asking myself that question since this morning?”

Remus sighed.

“Is it really that much of a leap? I’m not going to call Sirius morally-weak, that’s cruel. I’d call him… morally ambivalent?”

“Morally ambivalent?” James bit his tongue. A part of him was bothered on principle, but more of him, the part of him that was steering the conversation, was just amused. Of course Sirius’ morality was called into question. He’d been warned, and then he’d been worse. Serves him right, frankly, James thought.

“And who are we kidding,” Remus continued, “I’m sure Isabella has ways to persuade him.”

“She is insanely smart,” Peter said, sitting up ever so slightly straighter.

Remus laughed and James couldn’t help but chuckle as well.

“Look,” Peter shrank back down, “I already made the photograph comment, I’m not adding to it!”

“That girl could persuade an evergreen to lose its leaves through logic alone,” the corner of Remus’ mouth turned up, “but she could persuade a man to do a lot more...”

“Astute, really,” James snorted. “If a little desperate. Camp not treating you well there, Moony?”

“I’m just being honest.” He put his hands up in appeasement. “We can be honest with each other, can’t we? To answer your not-very-sincere question, it’s not. Turns out the fringes of society lack… society and all the modern comforts that come with. I live under a dictator who asks us to worship the dirt he walks on, one who insists we blur the lines between human and animal, and I’m at my wits end with it. So apologies, but I’m disinclined to bury my thoughts on a person beyond what I am required to. I spend too much of my life keeping my mouth shut. I’m not doing it with you.

“But I know why I’m there. It’s brutal, day in and day out. But I will keep going. I will keep pushing. I know the good it does to have a dissenting opinion in the camp. I know the lives I’ve saved. This is a sacrifice I’m willing to make for the Cause, but it is a sacrifice. And it’s just fucking hard to not look at anyone who’s chosen the easier path and not just shake them and say ‘do you know what I’ve been doing? Do you know what we’ve been doing?’ Him and everyone else in society is welcome for our sacrifice!”

James had stopped his pacing to listen and he wasn’t sure if he loved or hated how strong of an argument Remus made, and how much bitterness came through ever word.

“Moony makes a good point, you know?” Peter glanced up at James. “It’s not that we didn’t understand why Sirius didn’t join the Order, but maybe it was easier to stomach a few years ago before we knew what we would have to be doing for the Order. It’s a lot, isn’t it? They ask a lot of us, and we assume a lot of risks, and it pulls us further away from that neutral point where things kind of made sense. And now we’re bringing Sirius’ neutrality into quest—”

“I’d say ‘neutrality’ in and of itself is a problem!” Remus interrupted. “If he’s truly neutral, that means part of him thinks the Death Eaters have grounds for the terror wave they’re inflicting on the population, and whom amongst us could possible, POSSIBLY agree with that? There is clearly a right side and a wrong side in this conflict, and I’m not really willing to entertain that there’s not. And I have a very hard time accepting that someone is caught between such diametrically opposing views.”

“Maybe it’s not neutral, just paralysis?”

“Is it though? Even still, my point stands!”

Had James, himself, been less furious he would’ve told them the truth. Some of the truth; enough of the truth. Certainly more than Sirius would’ve liked. But they would know that Sirius hadn’t neglected the Cause; certainly hadn’t acted as its adversary. They would know that Sirius wasn’t frivolously wasting his twenties while the three of them sacrificed theirs for the war effort. They would know that Sirius really was neutral; he’d heard the proof himself. He could walk them through it, policy by policy.

But he wouldn’t.

If he was being honest, he wanted them angry. He wanted them furious just like he was. He justified it by reminding himself that no matter how he tried, Regulus Black was an unknown, inexplicable addition to the cave, and it meant there were truly things he did not know. And Isabella had forced their hand without giving them the opportunity to volunteer with a full understanding of who they were helping.

Deep down, he knew that where he felt deceived, the other two felt abandoned; betrayed. His anger was fueling a fire that shouldn’t be lit.

But that’s the problem with a smoldering anger; it can take in the heat from any fire to rage.

“I can tell you as of a year ago they weren’t Death Eaters. The veritaserum proved that. They don’t speak of their family, but we know they interact with them on somewhat regular basis. So now, injured alongside Regulus Black, a sea of Dark families coming to their rescue, what am I supposed to think? Give me any options that make as much sense as the obvious one!”

The other two looked up at him blankly.

“I’m serious; fucking brainstorm!” He slammed the table to snap them out of the stupor. “Because I’m TRYING to find anything else!”

“What if it just had something to do with his family?” Remus threw out.

“No, Arcturus Black wouldn’t have been late to the trial.”

“What if he was still cleaning up whatever mess they caused?”

“If he knew, he would’ve prevented any of this from happening,” he urged them past this line of thinking. “Isabella wouldn’t have been trying to apparate them.”

“What if Regulus defected?” Peter asked.

James paused, leaning over the table.

That was a possibility.

But why bring him to the cave? To test his loyalties? But neither of the Blacks had trusted Remus or Peter, even, with this information, they couldn’t possibly use the horcrux as a test of loyalty.

But what else made more sense?

“Death Eaters can’t defect,” Remus responded.

“Well, maybe that’s your answer,” said Peter. “Say he goes to Sirius and Isabella for help, there’s some sort of altercation, they all get injured. Isabella tries to get them out, and the rest is history.”

“Weren’t Malfoy, Nott, and Avery all at the trial? Don’t you think they would’ve done something?”

“Well, not in public,” James answered. “Not with Arcturus Black in the room; he still has them in chokehold politically. Add Galderic Rosier there, and it’s a non-starter.”

“I was thinking maybe they wouldn’t have known yet?”

Remus scoffed. “This also hinges on the idea that Bellatrix Lestrange’s youngest cousin defected.”

"If being related to Bellatrix Lestrange is that matters for Death Eater inclusion, then you’re writing off every Black including Sirius and Isabella.”

“Maybe I am!” Remus retorted.

“Really?”

“I don’t—” he gave an exasperated sigh, “no. Not necessarily. I just think we know Regulus Black. We knew the people he ran with in school and they all went the same direction. His family won’t discourage him, his friends certainly won’t. We have nothing but circumstantial evidence at best to question Regulus’ allegiances… frankly we have a lot more evidence to condemn Sirius than absolve Regulus.”

“I don’t think we’re talking about absolving him here…” James replied.

A cough drew their attention to Albus Dumbledore, standing at the edge of the meeting area beside the outermost book case.

“Thank you for coming so last minute.” He adjusted his spectacles. “I apologize for keeping you waiting, but I’m happy to see you’ve gotten the conversation started in my absence. What is it that you all are discussing? Regulus Black?”

“Whether or not it’s possible he defected, starting this all off.”

“Hmm. I suppose time will tell, won’t it? Either he’ll dead in the next few days or he won’t be, and that will be our answer.”

It had taken some time to adjust to Dumbledore’s seemingly cavalier attitude towards death, but he had a simple philosophy that most of the Order had adopted; during a war you cannot fixate on the death of someone you’re not responsible to protect. Now Dumbledore was generous about who he defined as his responsibility, but a Death Eater was not amongst them.

The headmaster moved swiftly to the table and took a seat across the Peter and Remus, and James followed suit down at the other end of the table.

“Don’t you think Arcturus Black will try to have him spared, hide him out somewhere?”

“Not necessarily. I think if it were Sirius, it would be a different conversation, but I would not expect him to shelter his younger grandson. He may not be a Death Eater, but he believes in their cause. I’ve known the man for many decades now; he would not harbor a traitor.

“I confess Regulus defecting wasn’t one of my primary theories, but that’s why I wanted to have the three of you here. Before bringing this to the larger group, I wanted to do two things. First and foremost, understand, from your perspective, what might have happened and how this should be interpreted. And second, to emphasize to all three of you how very serious it is to have Sirius Black join the Death Eaters and outline how I expect the three of you to behave and engage with him going forward. James – I’ll have a similar conversation with Lily about Isabella, but the political implications aren’t quite as severe.”

“Sir,” James started cautiously, “I don’t know that we’re at point where we’re ready to conclude Sirius’ involvement…”

“Be that as it may, it is my responsibility to think of the bigger picture. And when looking at the risks, I must ask you all to still proceed as if he is. Do you understand me?”

The three of them nodded.

“Very well, are there any details outside of what’s in the paper that you can share with me on this particular incident?”

James shook his head alongside the other two. Maybe if he knew the truth himself, he’d be more inclined to share. But as it stood, the truth landed somewhere between embarrassing to treasonous, and the fact he couldn’t seem to place it on the spectrum made it feel all the worse.

“How close would you say Sirius and Regulus are? And Isabella and Regulus?”

The others turned to him to answer.

“Not particularly. Sirius is closer to him now than they were at Hogwarts. I understand that they see each other on holidays, but they aren’t social acquaintances. I don’t believe Sirius likes him much. Isabella’s in the same camp; she got to know him at school, but I wouldn’t say they’re not friends today.”

“Does that align with both of your understanding as well?”

Remus and Peter nodded again.

“Oh, I should mention,” James added, “I think Sirius said that it was Regulus who set him up for the picture in the paper on New Year’s. I know we talked about it then, but I can’t remember if I mentioned that.”

“Understood.” Dumbledore gave a weak smile. “You said that they’re not social acquaintances, do you have any theories as to what they may have been doing together?”

“No, I really don’t,” James said truthfully.

“How is Isabella’s relationship with Lyzander Rosier?”

“I have no idea. I think she took it poorly when she learned he was a Death Eater. She used to brag that no one in her immediate family was a Death Eater, now she doesn’t talk about him.”

“But she used to spotlight that?”

James nodded.

“Interesting. And Sirius’ relationship with him?”

“I couldn’t really say. They got along at their wedding, but Lyzander has to be nearly a decade older than us, right? And he’s very stoic and serious; I don’t think they have much in common.”

“Eight years older I believe. And understood. What about Bellatrix Lestrange? I know there’ve been a few interactions between her and both Isabella and Sirius, but from your description it’s a bit of a contentious relationship, is that right?”

“Absolutely.”

“And with the history between Lucius Malfoy and Isabella, even with Narcissa and Sirius being cousins, I doubt that the four of them have formed any sort of relationship. Am I right in that?”

“This was their first year not skipping the New Year’s party at the Malfoy’s, if that tells you anything. And as far as I can tell, they went because they’d gotten out of everything else for the holiday season.”

“Or it’s indicative of a change?”

“I don’t think they would’ve told me if that were the case.”

“They’re usually with us,” Remus pipped up, quieter than when they’d been alone, “they needed to explain that somehow.”

“Maybe. I will say, they seemed sincere. It’s a lot of hatred to fake.”

“James, or any of you, is there anyone else I should be thinking of?”

The other two shook their head, but James knew he had something worth sharing. Something that at another time he would’ve held back recognizing the implications, but in that moment, he simply didn’t have the desire to do so.

“Evan Rosier,” he said. “I think they’re closer with him than they let on.”

He could feel the tension radiating off of Peter and Remus, but he kept his eyes fixed on Dumbledore.

“Both of them?”

“Yes, both. I think Sirius and him rather get along,” James said bitterly.

“So you would say they are social acquaintances?”

“I don’t know. I mean I know Sirius has invited him over for dinner before.”

It hadn’t bothered him quite as much at the time. It was clear Sirius had been wasted. But the more he’d thought about it – the strange inflection in Sirius’ voice, the ‘I’m sure I did’ at the fact he’d invited him, that Sirius had even gotten drunk with him in the first place – it bothered him. It bothered him a lot, actually.

“You know that’s rather worth a mention James!” Remus chided. “Wouldn’t have guess Evan Rosier and I had any common friends. You would’ve thought that’d come up!”

“Did I not just…” he shook his head. “Then… you’re welcome?”

“Did it not occur to you that this is concerning?”

“Sure. That’s why I’m mentioning it—”

“James, Remus – thank you.” Dumbledore stared at them until they simmered down. “I wondered if the Death Eaters would try that direction. It wouldn’t be a play on logic or ideologies, Evan’s not smart or passionate enough to pull that off. If he makes any dent with them, it’s because he has two strengths that’re unparalleled. He’ll play on the fact Isabella and him were like siblings the years they overlapped in Hogwarts, and he’ll paint himself as a kindred spirit to Sirius in a way that’ll feel natural because it is entirely authentic.”

Dumbledore strummed his fingers on the table as he sat back, the sort of absent-minded pensiveness they’d become so accustomed to from him.

“This is a scenario we need to worry about and if you’re right that it’s already under way, it needs to be monitored. The last thing Sirius needs is Evan’s influence; he’s already too quick and too casual with violence. Evan’s the biproduct of that exact temperament, exacerbated through years of war. They would just fuel each other.”

“I don’t know that they’re friends,” James tried to clarify; the severity of the reaction catching him off-guard. “I just… don’t know that they’re not.”

“Like with Regulus, we’ll know soon enough. Any sort of partnership between the two of them would certainly be reflected by a jump in the number of casualties.”

James struggled to keep his mouth shut.

“We’ll keep eyes on Arcturus Black; if Sirius is in Voldemort’s pocket, the only thing in the way of moving the Black wealth in their direction is him. And with or without Sirius’ consent, they will go after him. No one is untouchable.”

“Arcturus Black would never consent—”

“He wouldn’t and he won’t know. We’ll monitor public appearances. They’d never try him in his home.”

“I’m sorry – that’s ridiculous!” Remus finally said, echoing James’ thoughts exactly. “Not a single one of us has the power of Arcturus Black. Voldemort’ll go after him, himself. They might be able to battle it out, but what are we doing there?”

“All we’d be are bodies in the way,” Peter spoke up for the first time since Dumbledore sat down.

“I don’t know that he’d ever hit Arcturus Black,” James added to the protests. “That’s a massive casually for their side of the war.”

“He’s lost a lot of pureblood lives already; I don’t know that this is any different.”

The conversation continued from there, a sort of downward spiral of speculation, accusations, and preparation, and James could hardly pay attention. It made him sick to his stomach that there was such a well-thought-out contingency plan for Sirius as a Death Eater. And it wasn’t new, it wasn’t conceived overnight, in the fever pitch of the trial or Isabella and Arcturus Black’s exit. There were months, if not years, behind these plans. That they were now being asked to implement them could hardly be contemplated.

There were three signals they were instructed to look out for as they were shown the door; windows into the truth behind whatever injured the three Blacks. Watch Regulus Black. Watch the death toll. And watch Arcturus Black.

The walk out of Hogwarts was silent, but they took the journey together.

James’ animosity had faded slightly. It was hard to hold on to that white-hot anger that fueled his cavalier attitude towards Sirius' fate when faced with chilling reality of his fate. The consequences of his own comments or lack-there-of. Once he felt they’d put enough space between them and the castle he made a hasty attempt to course correct.

“You know how unlikely it is that Sirius is a Death Eater, right?”

Peter and Remus exchanged glances but offered no commentary.

“Seriously? Good Merlin, a penny for your thoughts?”

“You know… most of what we talked about in there points to the opposite, right? How unlikely it is that Isabella and him aren’t Death Eaters.”

“That hinges on us not knowing them, and we do.”

“I just think at this point it’s clear he’s not sitting out the war.”

“I don’t think so either. No, you know what? I know he’s not!”

“You know?” Peter asked.

“Yes, I do!”

It seemed for a moment that he could let it all go. He felt how easily the words would spill out of him. Line after cathartic line of research, and horcruxes, and antiquities, and history. There were things James did not know and could not explain, but the things he did know were more than enough to make a case for his friend. He didn’t want spite Sirius, not really, not after seeing how easy it was to do.

But who was really the beneficiary of such a truthful tirade?

Was it Sirius who’d all but begged him to keep his actions quiet? Who knows the consequences of how he’d approached this campaign, and accepted that it would take time to correct, and possible not until everything was out in the open after the war? Was it Peter or Remus who would be burdened with the information on a far more dangerous mission than one they’d agreed to? He’d heard Moony today, how could he ask him to do more for the cause?

Or was he, himself, the greatest beneficiary of the truth? Easing the burden of the secret off himself could be done. The truth made his life easier and theirs harder. It was as simple as that.

“And… and if you take a second to think about it… you know it too,” James plowed on, changing directions as his brain worked to catch up with his mouth. “Sirius is part of one of the most politically-inclined families in the Wizarding World, let alone Wizarding Britain. A very Dark family, it should be noted. We know that, for generations, they have been able to change the tides of a war at a whim because of the capital they can throw at a cause. And yet? The money has not moved! Despite the fact that the sides are drawn across clear ideological lines, one of the darkest families in our midst has stayed out of it. We do not know their methods, I’ll… I’ll concede that we do not know the conversations that have happened behind closed doors. But if you don’t think having someone in that room has made a difference, I don’t know what to say.

“Someday, possibly soon, Sirius, our Sirius, will be at the helm of one of the most powerful families out there and it’s very hard for me to make an argument against the benefits of seizing that kind of power, particularly at a time like this. So no, he’s not sitting out the war. I think you see his influence in broader society, in the Wizengamot, and in the wealth that has not moved. This is a war fought in multiple arenas. And sometimes I can admit that I resent him for having the option to have such a different approach. But to criticize him for that is near-sided.”

For a point he hadn’t set out to make until his mouth was already moving, he felt he’d made an eloquent one. But it wasn’t, it seemed, altogether compelling.

“I don’t know that I think that contradicts Dumbledore’s point though. All of that could be true, and if Sirius aligns himself with the Death Eaters, they get every single benefit you mentioned along with the capital, right? But also, Dumbledore implied today that it was entirely Arcturus Black’s decision to or not to financially back the Death Eaters; that he would be in the way. That doesn’t sound to me like Sirius is causing gridlock at all.”

“But what does Dumbledore know of the Black wealth?”

“What do you know of their wealth, James? Hmm?”

The answer was not much, but his silence would have to suffice.

“Sorry,” Peter began candidly, “I just have to ask, would it really be the worst thing in the world if Sirius was a Death Eater? I mean, doesn’t that sort of hedge us on both sides? Kind of a benefit, right?”

“Dear Merlin, Wormy, are you genuinely confused right now about why it would be an obviously horrible thing for Sirius to be a Death Eater?” Remus snapped at him. “Or are you just playing devil’s advocate?”

“Devil’s advocate,” he muttered.

“Okay. Well, don’t. I don’t have time for that.”

“I just thought… well, we’ve cycled through the same arguments. So I thought—”

“Maybe that’s your problem, the thinking. Either leave that to us or sharpen up, seriously.”

“Lay off him, Remus. I know you’re stressed, but—”

“You know what, I AM stressed! You said yourself that you’ve resented the fact that Sirius’ ‘arena’ or whatever the fuck you called it seems so much cushier than yours, imagine how I feel?”

“My son hasn’t left the confines of our house since he was born because of prophecy that connects him to Voldemort’s demise,” James replied coldly. “Let’s not play the pity game.”

He could tell Remus was taking aback by his statement. Good. He wasn’t the only one suffering.

“You’re standing here asking us to hold off declaring Sirius a Death Eater,” Remus began slowly, dragging out his words, “and that’s fine. Because Merlin, Prongs, I don’t want him to be a Death Eater any more than you do! But I am just asking the same… caution of you. Absent his actions, I could understand not wanting to label him, you know, ‘xyz’, because it would feel prejudicial. But now? It’s not a betrayal to question his allegiances after everything he’s done.”

The words sat heavy on his heart. Because it did feel like a betrayal. Every part of it.

“Are you going to try and talk to Sirius?” Peter asked. “Or Sirius and Isabella?”

“Now?”

“Yeah.”

“No,” he nearly scoffed. “I wasn’t kidding when I said I don’t know where he is. And if I did, I’d need to leave my wand outside the room, I’m not feeling very kindly towards either of them.”

Both nodded.

“And Remus, are you heading back?”

“Yeah,” he gave a long sigh, “yeah I am.”

Peter stared back towards the school, and James and Remus followed his gaze.

“Merlin, it’s freezing! Doesn’t a part of you wish we could just go back to the Tower right now? The fire’s probably lit in the common room. Or back in our old room?”

“I could bury under one of the winter duvets right now with a good book…”

“Shouting over Moony with a book in his face; we couldn’t have it any other way.” James grinned.

“Oh and the hot chocolate in the kitchens that we could bring up.”

“Spiked, of course.”

“HA!” The laugh spurted out of Peter. “Essential!”

“What was that bottle Padfoot got?” Remus asked. “Rumble mint? Something like that?”

“That was the taste of fall of 7^th year.”

Remus chuckled almost in spite of himself. “Do you remember Isabella asking him how often he brushed his teeth when he went out?”

“No,” James corrected, “that was Lily to ME!”

“Stop it - was it really?”

“Isabella was in on it! Credit where credit’s due, Isabella’s an absolute degenerate drinker. She could drink all of us under the table.”

“Her and Sirius both.”

“And she would always seem so put together! Meanwhile, Lily would have half the number of drinks and think she could fly.”

“Do you remember Lily on your broom around Christmas?” Peter stifled a laugh.

“No,” James whispered, “how bad is that?”

“Hardly your fault…” Remus gave a pointed glace to Peter.

“I stand by what I said the next morning in the bathroom to you all,” the smallest of the three puffed himself up, “I don’t know why you thought I’d be a good bartender.”

“Oh dear Merlin, that was fizzing whizzbee night, wasn’t it?”

“That was fizzing whizzbee night indeed.”

“I’ve never looked at the candy the same away again…” Peter muttered. “We should get going; it’s fucking freezing.”

“Here’s to all the memories…” Remus’ voice echoing across the barren winter landscape.

“… including the ones we can’t remember!” James laughed.

He took the lead, shaking his head with a private grin as he continued down the winding path out of the apparition wards.

“Which reminds me, dear Moony,” he began walking backwards now to face his companions, oh-so-casually blocking path, “I’ve been meaning to ask you about some of your Hogwarts memories that perhaps we weren’t privy too. Such as any having to do with one Mary Macdonald…”

Chapter Text

Chapter 40: Recovery

It was Isabella’s scent that alerted him to her presence in his bed before he was even aware of her physical proximity. She always smelled of bergamot, the notes of some perfume she’d worn since he’d first met her, with faintest hint of tobacco. It was alluring, intoxicating, and addicting, as if he could never quite get enough of her.

He buried his face into her, kissing her from her chest up to her neck until a soft moan escaped her lip.

“You’re alive,” she said softly, eyes brightening as they met his.

“So are you.” He smiled up at her.

She just shook her head. “I was never the one we needed to be worried about.”

Though she looked tired, she looked healthier than he thought she would. The sunbeams cascaded through the cracks in the red velvet curtains of his childhood bedroom, giving only the certainty of daytime, without a clue into the number of hours or days that had passed.

“Regulus?” he asked.

“Alive and on the mend. Save for a few scars, they think his arm’ll make a full recovery.”

“I must be the sickest since I earned you in my bed…”

Isabella rolled her eyes and ran her hands through his hair. “Doctor’s orders, I came up here to check on you and he took one look at me and said I could either join you in this bed or he’d find me another, but that I was unfit to be standing.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Maybe two days ago now?”

“Merlin, it’s been two days since the cave?”

“No, three, if not nearly four now.”

“Fuck me… where were you?”

“Oh all over…” she gave a nervous laugh. “It’s a better conversation for later, it’s… well, it’s a lot. And there’s an article you should see.”

“About…? The muggles?”

“About my trial following it…”

“Oh good Merlin,” Sirius groaned as he readjusted himself, propping himself up against the headboard.

“Your grandfather helped.”

“Did he now? Good; it’s his arena.”

“He’ll want to talk to you.”

“I imagine he will.” Though it had softened over the years, any sort of summoning from his grandfather still made his heart beat just a little faster. “How much did you have to give him?”

“From everything to nothing, I feel I was rather conservative, given the circumstances.”

His surprise must’ve been written on his face, prompting her to continue, “Oh I am most certainly not that good. It was the Proximity-Precision Paradox. I don’t think he trusted that I’d know where to draw the line.”

Sirius rubbed his eyes with his palms, a visceral reaction to the future headache he’d just been promised. It wasn’t as though neutrality was near and dear to him, but his claim that he was sitting out the war had made his work with his grandfather manageable. The claim was never very strong – he had never seen much, and after the horcrux search began, it had been nothing. But for pretenses and politics, it had made a difference, and it sounded as though he’d lost that advantage.

“So the aftermath hit the news? Nothing above the cave though, right?”

Isabella nodded.

“Still. Regulus included?”

She confirmed again.

“James and Lily… have they, uh, you know…”

“They haven’t written, or at least I haven’t seen anything come through. I don’t… I don’t imagine—”

“A better conversation for another time, I imagine,” he stopped her.

She snorted, staring off to the foot of their bed, eyes unfocused. He could tell her mind was somewhere beyond that point already, but where it was, he couldn’t pinpoint.

“You know,” Isabella said in a slightly different tone. “Your grandfather made a fascinating point afterwards on the impact of language and perception on the Dark Arts.”

“My, you did get an Arcturus Black lecture…”

“He made a very compelling argument! That and the institutionalization of it all—”

“Are you suggesting that the greatest statesman in multiple generations made a compelling argument on a topic that he’s been speaking ad nauseum about for triple our lifetime?” Sirius couldn’t help but tease her as he slid further down into the bed. He wished he had the energy to appreciate the humor in this; his grandfather was nothing if not opportunistic.

“Don’t make fun of me, I don’t get to sit with him or see him in action… often.” She rolled her eyes. “He’s impressive.”

“That he is.”

“I’d like to look into what he was talking about. This – this influence of language on the Dark Arts and magic, more broadly. Study it, if possible, maybe after the war.”

“You want to study the validity behind the Dark families’ arguments on the Dark Arts?”

“In simplified terms.”

“That’s -” her mind had wandered, he thought to himself, “- you couldn’t do that within the confines of the law. You know that, right?”

“But once we’ve won the war -”

“Once the Order’s won the war, you mean?”

“Oh. Right… huh.” She tried to laugh it off, but it fell short of the mark. “Bit of an uphill battle…”

He put his arm around her, pulling her in close so her head rested on his chest. He just liked feeling of the warmth of her body against him, reassuring him that they were both alive.

He knew the conversation she wanted to prompt, but he wouldn’t go there. Not now. Another time, perhaps.

He kissed her forehead before once again succumbing to the exhaustion.

------------------------------------

The physical recovery was faster than any of the three of them would’ve expected, but still slower than they would’ve liked. Even Regulus’ arm barely showed signs of damage after a week of regimented care. He supposed he was lucky it had been his right rather than his left; while it may have made everyday life harder, the Dark Mark was fully intact. It was, Regulus begrudgingly acknowledged, the only thing that would’ve drawn unnecessary attention to his injury.

Socially, reputationally, it did not feel as though recovery was yet in sight.

“Merlin, Isabella, don’t you just look ravishing,” Regulus teased without glancing up from his well-worn copy of the Daily Prophet; newer copies surrounded him, but he was once again flipping through Isabella’s very first appearance in the Prophet, with the now-infamous photograph and accompanying Skeeter article.

He sat in the Black library in one of the taller armchairs, with an air of arrogance that no matter how displeased he was, couldn’t quite be snuffed out of him.

“I like to think I’m looking slightly better these days.”

His eyes appeared over the newspaper and he gave her a quick up and down.

“I don’t know what the papers are talking about; you’re incapable of looking bad.”

“You flatter me.”

“I only say what’s on my mind… when appropriate, of course. Where’s my brother?”

“With our Head of House, for what has to be the seventh time this week.”

“Do you kn—”

“I’m not privy to it,” Isabella cut him off curtly, slumping into the armchair next to him.

Regulus nodded slowly; if there was anything he understood it was the feeling of skirting the edge of knowledge without ever crossing the threshold that would make him in the know.

“How’re you feeling?” he asked.

“Good days and bad,” she smiled weakly, “you?”

“I’ve got the arm back, fully, I think.” He rested the newspaper on his lap and wiggled his digits as though proving some critical point. “Thank Merlin for modern medicine.”

“Thank Merlin for doctors on call.”

Regulus snorted.

“I don’t suppose Kreacher has those kinds of heeling skills?” Isabella asked.

“We’re not having this conversation again…” he cautioned lightly.

They’d gone in circles, over and over, on the subject. Isabella felt immeasurably guilty that she came away from the whole ordeal relatively unscathed – physically, that is – and that she’d failed to deliver them anywhere of use. And then she felt bad that she’d gotten their names in the paper. It was a ridiculous debate, at least from Regulus’ perspective. She wasn’t the one who shoved her hand into the water. And it wasn’t an average witch who could fight Inferi with fiendfyre.

From his perspective, and he knew his brother felt the same, she had saved their lives and they were absolutely, unequivocally indebted to her. And she was being punished for it; it wasn’t their name that was getting dragged across the Daily Prophet for the past week.

“Fine, fine!” she sighed. “But here you are reading that lovely little article all over again; should I take offense?”

There was something he’d been meaning to bring up but hadn’t found the right way to say. Something he’d overheard only a snippet of at the last gathering and that he’d taken back with him to investigate and found nothing good.

“Have you noticed that there’s been no mention of you being magically exhausted from the ‘obvious use of the Dark Arts’ in the Daily Prophet since the original article?” Regulus asked, a step above a casual inquiry.

“I – well – no, if I’m being honest,” she said, her eyes glancing down to the stack of papers at his feet. “I felt like the first article summed it up, and I felt no need to read further fiction about myself.”

“Well, I’m afraid to tell you, you’ve missed a rather interesting saga.”

“Clearly you’ve felt it worth the read.”

“By day three,” he carried on, ignoring her attempt at humor as he shuffled around in his pile to find the relevant newspaper, “no one was even saying that you were magically exhausted anymore.”

“Is that so?” she said, still too blasé for his taste.

“Isabella, it’s as though the narrative was snuffed.”

She leaned back and furrowed her brow.

Regulus continued, “You know the Carrows technically own the Daily Prophet?”

“I do.” Her jaw was locked and her eyes maintained the same icy, questioning, look. “Alecto was my roommate, if you recall, Sirius and I are the same year as the twins.”

“Would you say you two got on?”

“Merlin, Reg, I don’t know! We could’ve been worse. But she was one of them – one of you all – by 6^th-year. I can’t say she was thrilled when I ditched Lucius for your brother. In fact, I believe she was part of my total ‘victims’ that day in the common room. I’m sure there’s a nice report in Filch’s or Dumbledore’s office on it, if you’d like to refresh that memory. So. Could’ve been better.”

“But nothing that would stop her from trying to… do you a favor, let’s say.”

“You think that’s what’s happening? You think that the Carrows have decided it’s time to win me over by – what – plaster my name across the largest paper in circulation?! But, MERLIN,” Isabella said sarcastically, “let’s make sure we don’t explain why she might look like an absolutely bitch on our front cover!”

Regulus couldn’t say that he’d expected a better reaction; it was almost a relief she was taking it seriously.

Both her and his brother had a bad habit of downplaying their mistakes or missteps. They were the champions of ‘onwards and upwards’ and anything that was perceived as step in the wrong direction, anything that was maybe even a slow direction, had to be dismissed.

“I couldn’t tell you. I just think it’s notable – the way the narrative’s changed.”

Isabella grabbed a large stack off the ground and began to flip through. She maintained a puzzled look on her face for the next 10 minutes as she silently skimmed through article after article.

“Well,” her voice seemed to echo after so much time in silence, “I think it’s fair to say I’m not winning many people over with these…”

“No. But you might gain a few admirers.”

“Isn’t that always the way?”

It was. She was far more influential than she was approachable, but it hardly seemed the time to rub that in.

“After this is all over,” he asked tentatively, “after the war, what’s your plan?”

“What are you on about?” she asked, vaguely annoyed, as her thumbing through the papers slowed.

“Doesn’t this make you think about it? I know this isn’t exactly you in the paper, but this will be the you that’s out there publicly – what’s next?”

“I don’t…” she paused, looking back at him, “I don’t know. If you expect me to tell you about a quant pied-à-terre Sirius and I plan to purchase in the South of France or whatever grandiose, escapist version of our lives you’ve painted in your mind, I’m here to tell you, there’s no such plan in the works. Right now?” Isabella looked rather dismayed, waving the newspaper around like a banner. “Right now, Regulus, it looks like my bloody focus needs to be on keeping us out of Azkaban!”

“You know he feels awful? Sirius, I mean, for not being there when you were in the Wizengamot. The fact that you had to go through all of that, and then face my grandfather to boot, I can tell it’s eating him up inside.”

“That’s ridiculous – he drank literal poison! How could he possibly—”

“Well, let me introduce you to your husband. I’m more surprised he hasn’t said anything.”

“Because he knows I wouldn’t accept an apology or any sort of admission of guilt from him,” she said with such finality it was clear it was time to drop the subject.

“You know, some days your stubbornness is almost more Gryffindorish than Slytherin.”

She cast a piercing glare his direction before turning back down to the papers at hand.

“What have you heard about this?” she asked.

“Nothing significant. Enough whispers to prompt me to look closer.”

“From whom?”

“An unknown voice under a mask,” he replied flatly.

He always wished he could be one of those great espionage stories; but he wasn’t. He was an almost insignificant cog in the machine, and those closer to the inner circle were too cautious to reveal anything of significance to someone so lowly. The fact he had the horcrux discovery to offer had been a damn miracle.

Isabella looked at him with the same pitying eyes she often did; the kind of look that told him that he had made a mistake, but she was glad he knew it. A year or two ago, it had been a glare. But that glare had softened to pity. He found he hated it more, but he knew it was meant to be kinder. Somehow, somewhere along this journey, she had found a bit of sympathy for him.

“What’ve they asked you about the day? If there are those in your camp paying attention to how it’s being written about in the Daily Prophet, I assume they’ve enquired.”

“Not as much as you’d expect.”

“Huh. I find that hard to believe.”

“Honestly, after all these years of failing to recruit you, I think they find me to be an unreliable witness to your lives.”

“But you were obviously there. You were injured, for Merlin’s sake.”

“By the time I had to face them my injuries were less obvious.”

“But you were still THERE!”

“It doesn’t MATTER!” he shot back, hard. “Years of incompetence have made my testimonies close to worthless, they hardly bothered even going down that channel. They asked, sure, and I told them it was some spell that backfired, confirmed it was Dark, and said it was incidental that I was even there. They asked if it was something they could leverage to pull you in closer to our ranks, I said I didn’t know, as I so often say, and the conversation moved on. I’m sure it continued without me, but I say my useless piece, and we move on. That’s how it works.”

“Well is that – is that enough?” Her face hardened. “I mean, Reg, you would tell us if we were putting you in danger, right? Do you need more to give them?”

“No,” he said plainly. Though he appreciated the sentiment, it couldn’t be further from the truth. “If I was more useful, it would be a problem. I think I’ve gradually become more useless to the Cause, year in and year out, and that gradualness is one of the only reasons we’ve been able to pull this off. See, the way the Death Eaters work is that you have to constantly prove your usefulness to the Dark Lord and to the Cause. The more you show you can do and are willing to do for the Cause, the higher you move in its ranks. People with money, like the Malfoys can rise fast without having to engage in the less savory activities, shall we say. But then there are people like my lovely cousin Bella and her husband, Rodolphus, who’ve demonstrated that their brutality is just as meaningful a contribution as their financial backing.

“Most offer one or the other; I am in the unique position where I have been offering neither. I’m ‘very well-connected’, which is to say I come from a Sacred 28 family but am not in charge of the vaults, which is about as good of a position that you can be in without the wealth. I’m sure you can think of someone else who might fall under that definition…” he could tell from her unnaturally neutral face that she knew exactly who he was referring to.

“So I had been rather useful on the recruitment front – it’s where they put those of us who are ‘very well-connected’. Useful, that is, until they decided to assign me to exclusively focus on you both. But no, to answer your question, doing nothing isn’t endangering me, unless I make a mistake. We have too much family wrapped up in the ranks and there’s still the chance that you both could potentially join.”

“So is that what you need from us? Essentially keep that sentiment alive?”

“No, not… not exactly…”

What he needed was for them to realize just how closely they were now being watch.

Regulus found himself struggling to find the right way to get Isabella to acknowledge the severity of the articles without resulting in her flying off to go do something about it. She was falling back down her usual trap; she was looking for solutions, looking for action items, when the reality was that what Regulus really needed from them was simply less.

“I’m concerned about these articles,” he said, turning the conversation back to where it needed to go. “I don’t think you or the Noble and Ancient House of Black are close enough to the Sacred House of Carrow to make this make sense as a favor between the families. Which tells me that the Carrows are doing this for the sake of the Cause.

“That means how you’re being talked about in the papers is perceived as relevant to the Cause. I don’t know if it’s you specifically, though it very well might be, or the Dark families in general, but you are now the posterchild for whatever narrative they’re pushing. Do you understand that?”

Isabella nodded tersely.

“So whatever you do next, you need to imagine that you are doing so on a stage with an audience. The Death Eaters have a vested interest in what you do, and they have made your name public enough that they will have a network of people who are watching your every move. You cannot give them a reason to investigate you further.”

Isabella’s head fell in her hands and she rubbed her eyes.

“I don’t like this,” she said quietly. “It sounds like I’m best off doing nothing, and I’m afraid I’m awfully impatient.”

“To put it mildly.”

Her eyes glanced over to the door as though she expected her husband to walk in at any moment, or at least willed him to.

“No, I’ve never been much good at the waiting game.”

“How’re you doing? Really?” Regulus asked again.

Isabella shook her head and had Regulus not been paying close attention, he would’ve missed profound sadness that clouded her features for only a moment.

“Physically, the recovery was fine. It was on par with the first time I used fiendfyre and I did a hell of a lot more this time. I don’t know if I’m just better at it, practice or perception, or if your grandfather was right and firewhiskey was the secret, but Merlin, did it help.” She paused for a second, glancing back down at the stacks of newspapers around them before she continued. “Mentally? Emotionally? Well… I can take a hit to my reputation, I’ve done it before, and I’ve never been one to care much what others thought of me. What most others think of me. But the publicity of it all, including you in the narrative I think, is affecting my relationship with… others. And I’m rather hurt that after all this time, I still haven’t, I don’t know, won their trust?”

“Working with your Death Eater brother-in-law is a harder pill to swallow for the lighter families you associate with, am I understanding you correctly?”

“Yeah,” Isabella said with a sigh, chewing her cheek. “And that’ll pass, or at least I keep telling myself it will. But it’s hard to stay grounded when you’re not sleeping. And the fucking nightmares won’t let up,” she looked back towards the door, “not for either of us. Dreamless Sleep doesn’t seem to work, not with the other potion lingering in his system. It scares me. The doctors say that in a few weeks it should be entirely out of his mind, but I don’t know. And then I feel bad taking it, because why should I get an escape when he doesn’t? And then I’m back in that cave or it’s your grandfather’s words echoing through my dreams over and over again and I just -” she shook her head. “How are you dealing with this?”

Regulus didn’t give himself time to think about how his words could change her perception of him, “I lost enough blood that I don’t remember anything that happened after getting in the boat. And honestly? I think, after everything, I wasn’t so upset with the idea that I was going to die in that cave.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 41: Controlling the Narrative

Lily sat on the couch bouncing Harry on her lap. It was faster that Sirius would’ve done himself, Harry jostling to and fro, but who was he to say the right or wrong way? Lily was the kid’s mother. It was just… usually Harry went to him when they were over; Harry always went to them. James and Lily had all the time in the world with him, Sirius just wanted his time with his godson.

Merlin – that made it sound like Harry was some toy to be shared; the thought sounded as stupid as Sirius had felt standing in the front hall with his arms stretched out expectantly. Lily hadn’t even given him a second glance, marching into the living room of Godric’s Hollow, the baby on her hip.

Enough of that, he thought to himself, physically shaking it off. But still his eyes kept wandering back to the shaggy-haired baby whose scrunched up face took in the room like the victim of a muggle roller coaster.

Isabella sat silently to Sirius’ left, staring at the window over the Potter’s shoulder. Her eyes were unfocused, failing to track the movements of the garden in a way that made it seem as though they’d been stopped by the faint reflection of the room around her, though nothing there seemed to engage her either. Her eyes were as expressive as her face; a dull nothing.

The weeks since the cave were etched in her expression.

It had taken over three weeks for the Potters to finally feel amicable enough to host them. And by that point, Isabella had no interest in the groveling session she was sure they expected it to be. She was tired, they both were. But where Sirius could see that a breakdown of their support system only exacerbated that feeling insufferable exhaustion, she’d come to believe that it was the very system that exhausted her. This cold shoulder from Lily – from Lily and James – she felt was a telling reflection of how the Potters viewed them.

His grandfather had done a number on her, he really had. Had it not been for the trial, Sirius didn’t think his words would’ve resonated the way they had. It wasn’t as though Isabella took them at face value, but it gave her another vantage point from which to analyze everything around her, one which left her bitter and more cynical. And cold. As though they needed any help with that.

Within the last week, Isabella declared that the Potters were now the ones that owed them an apology and that she had nothing, nothing at all to say to them beyond ‘you’re welcome.’

Sirius had been lucky to even get her there. But there she sat, neutrally enough, given the rhetoric Sirius had heard over the last few weeks.

“Now, remind me, was that before or after your grandfather kidnapped your wife?” James responded to Sirius’ last comment. He leaned forward in his seat, biting his thumb nail, and furrowing his brow.

“Please, he didn’t kidnap her,” Sirius defended, “He just…”

“Didn’t let her leave?” Lily filled in the gaps.

“As the ‘kidnapped’ in this discussion,” her words sharp, though expression unchanged, “I felt he showed great reservation. Imagine processing what he’d just seen; he knows – with no further explanation – that his grandson and his -”

“Grand-sons,” Lily interrupted Isabella pointedly.

“Right… the three of us had barely escaped an Inferi-infested cave, using Fiendfyre, and just before he’s shut out, his granddaughter-in-law demonstrates that she is, in fact, a Parselmouth. This occurs whilst all parties are sitting in amongst the entire Wizengamot, during a war in which the enemy leader is believed to be the only Parselmouth outside of Azkaban. And he – the Arcturus Black – found it in himself to let me go rest for over 24 hours before he could get an explanation to any of that. Again, as the kidnapped, I find that very reasonable.”

Sirius vehemently nodded at his wife’s explanation.

“How very Black of you, Isabella, of both of you.” James bared his teeth in an expression that could hardly be classified in the same league as a smile, though seemed it had been its intention. “Now Sirius I believe I interrupted you; you were explaining how your Death – ahem – dear brother Regulus suffered greatly in that cave; while of course not being the one who destroyed the horcrux, nor the one who drank the potion to reach the locket. And please, Isabella, feel no need to remind me that the potion was actually irrelevant and that you could have simply burned it away. Rest assured that – along with your face plastered across every newspaper – will be keeping me up for weeks to come.”

“It was reflexes, it wasn’t his fault,” said Sirius. “And we have no way of knowing if the falling water bottle would’ve triggered the Inferi anyhow. I was only trying to say that had the medics not arrived when they did, he would no longer have an arm. And that would’ve been far harder to explain to the Death Eaters, given that it’s obviously no one buys Isabella’s motorbike story. We should all feel fortunate that’s not the case.”

“We? WE?” Lily shouted, covering little Harry’s ears so as not to alarm him. “Are you suggesting that you’ve let a Death Eater know that you’re working with us? Does he know about Harry?!”

Sirius shook his head, slowly at first and then more confidently as his thoughts caught up with him.

“No,” he said. “I don’t – I don’t think- I mean, look, he obviously knows we’re close. He was the year below us in school and James was the Best Man at our wedding. But in terms of working with you both on this, I don’t think so.”

“Honestly, we’ve kept him at arms-length,” Isabella said coolly. “We have treated him as though he is a Death Eater first, and an asset second.”

“Family third and I’m certain he resents us for it…”

“And serves him right, that fucking bastard,” James said crudely.

“Watch it!” Sirius snapped back, unsure why James’ words bothered him so much. “I know what he’s done and it’s taken me well over a year to even begin to forgive him, so I can’t expect you both to, especially this quickly. I don’t know that he’ll ever forgive himself either. But he’s still my brother. He has done everything in his power to make up for the choices he’s made. We wouldn’t even know about horcruxes had it not been for him.”

“Please, spare me the sermon.” James rolled his eyes. “If you ever thought this was something we were going to accept, why did you keep this from us for so long?!”

“Frankly, James, because it wasn’t about you! I would rather Reg be dead at the hands of the Order, than spared, alive, but in the hands of the Death Eaters as a known traitor. Had the knowledge of his actions caused either of you to hesitate, even for a moment, it would’ve been enough to condemn him to a fate far worse than death.”

James and Lily just stared at them for a moment. They clearly understood what Sirius was saying, and recognized the legitimacy of the argument, but weren’t quite ready to concede.

“It’s been eight months since we were on the front lines, why not tell us during that time?”

“I want to say it was because we didn’t know if you’d be back, but the truth is simply there were always more pressing things. Eventually, I think, we just forgot. But that was a mistake, and I’m genuinely sorry.”

“Do you feel his perspectives have changed? You mentioned he came to you because of what happened to your old house elf…”

“Kreacher.”

“Yes, Kreacher. But do you feel like Regulus has genuinely evolved? That he doesn’t just regret being a Death Eater, but that he no longer thinks like a Death Eater.”

“I have to be transparent with you, I don’t know. I don’t make it a point to talk politics with my family. It depresses me.”

“Well maybe that’s something you ought to figure out if you expect us to work together.”

“We don’t really expect you all will work together,” Isabella interjected. “And let’s be clear, if I thought you both could be convinced that easily, that Regulus was on our side, I would’ve come straight here from the cave and my face wouldn’t be spread across every bloody newspaper.”

“That better not be you blaming us for this,” Lily challenged, “but… we need to talk about these articles – have you read them all?”

Isabella sighed, glancing at the at the sea of different newspapers on the table.

“We know something’s happening with the Prophet,” she said, not looking up from the table, “the tone’s changed, the angle’s clear, and no mention of magical exhaustion from the Dark Arts since the first article. But I mean, who even reads all of these? So, no, I haven’t read them.”

“That’s what we were worried about,” Lily replied, exchanging glances with James who took over the conversation.

“We noticed it with the Prophet first too, but look, it’s all of them. Every single newspaper’s covering this story the exact same way.”

“What? No…” Isabella lowered her voice and dropped to her knees, pushing around the newspapers on the table so they were in chronological order.

“So this isn’t the Carrows and the Prophet taking an angle, this is…” Sirius words trailed off as stood behind his wife.

“I think someone, with a great deal of influence, seems to care quite a lot about how these events are being talked about, period,” James explained. “They may care about Isabella, specifically, but I can’t tell. It’s not exactly all been flattering.”

“Define flattering?” Sirius probed.

“It’s made Isabella sound intimidatingly powerful and manipulative,” Lily said.

“Yeah,” Sirius agreed, glancing down at his wife who could not have been less engaged in the conversation. “My grandfather had similar takeaway after the first article. And he viewed it as a positive.”

“Do you think there's a chance he’s influencing the papers?” James asked.

Sirius shook his head. “No, he’s not. That’s not his style.”

“Could the papers just be wary about how they talk about your family in general?” Lily was grasping at straws but anything was better than the conclusion otherwise. “Or the Darker families? You know they have a peculiar way of not naming Death Eaters any longer.”

“But that shift happened over years – this happened in days.” Sirius collapsed back into his seat. “And that wasn’t without strings being pulled either.”

“I know. Shit.” Unfiltered disappointment spilled into James’ words.

“But then why? To take the time to manipulate papers who might have – what – 10 readers a week? This has to be an initiative then, right? They’re putting serious resources into this. We figured it was some warped favor or someone with a vested interest in how the Dark Arts are being talked about in the paper. But this… goes way beyond that. Why?”

“Would your brother know?”

“No, he doesn’t know shit. He’s at the bottom of the ranks and the papers are beyond his sphere of influence; they wouldn’t loop him in.” Sirius shook off the question.

“So you’re saying you think this goes beyond what they would do to recruit you?” Lily asked. “Beyond controlling the narrative around the Dark Arts?”

Sirius struggled to find the right wording, “I don’t think they know what they’re doing…”

“What do you mean?”

“They don’t know what we did to get in the papers. They know it was Dark, they know it was likely powerful. But they don’t want anyone else talking about it until they do.”

“So they’re working with the reporters to investigate?”

“Or they’re just stopping the investigations entirely. There’s something about this that’s clearly concerning them. I just don’t know if we’ve given them reason to worry.”

“You’ve given them COUNTLESS reasons to worry! What you did with Azkaban alone could’ve, should’ve, blown up on you…”

Lily continued on, but after weeks of playing the scenarios out in his head, he was sick of the whole thing; the arguments blurred with the next. He got her point. He just wasn’t sure it was accurate. He had certainly given the Order more and more cause for concern, but the Death Eaters? It seemed to him that all of their actions looked as though they were moving towards their goal, not away from it.

But what good would arguing that end do, really?

He would of course concede that there was something about this ordeal that interested the Death Eaters, that much was clear enough. A part of him had theorized that it was a communication breakdown within their organization. Regulus’ role seemed awfully crucial. Whatever happened was clearly Dark and almost certainly illegal, and if a loyal Death Eater was there along with two of their top recruit targets, would it not seem as though someone up the chain had orchestrated it? Could it not trigger the communications arm of the Death Eaters to cover those tracks even though they didn’t have insight into what had transpired?

Of course, that theory really only worked if one assumed the Death Eaters learned of the incident from Rita Skeeter’s initial article; but they hadn’t. Abraxas Malfoy, Charlus Avery and Oliver Nott had all been summoned to the Wizengamot for the trial. And unless they’d taken a rather blasé attitude towards the whole thing, that sort of curiosity would’ve started then and there.

Regulus’s role or influence was subject at best. The way he’d portrayed the story was simply that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time; his injuries hardly noticeable by the time he was confronted about it. That narrative, in and of itself, undermined any cover-up that this was in some way, shape, or form a Death Eater mission.

Now, James and Lily’s observations about the scope of the coverage manipulation chipped away at that original theory further; this wasn’t some low-ranked Death Eater playing a guessing game, there was some real thought and power was behind this. The most important question then became why? Why stop the investigations and control the narrative in the papers? Was it to do them a favor? To get them to notice? To investigate it themselves outside of the public eye? That last one was the one to worry about, but it came back to whether or not they’d given them cause to investigate their actions; cause for concern.

Because again, in what world would a Dark spell backfiring logically connect back to the resistance?

“Fair. Fine,” Sirius said dismissively, unsure if she’d even finished her point. “Then what’s next? Cup or crown?”

“You’re n- are you not- no,” Lily faulted, giving her husband an exasperated look.

“You need to stop. All of this. For a good while.” Fear met force in James’ voice and the outcome was commanding. “Genuinely. I know it’s not what either of you want to hear. But do nothing for a while. I mean, really nothing. Lay low and try to build back up your reputation.”

Isabella was still on the floor, frantically shuffling through newspaper after newspaper looking like the weight of the world had fallen on her shoulders. Sirius wasn’t even sure she’d registered the conversation around her, nor was he certain she’d have remained so quiet if she had.

“Can we afford to do nothing?” Sirius leaned forward in the armchair, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “What’s the point of fighting a war right now if the opposition is immortal? What’re you gaining when you stop the only thing that matters?”

“It’s not the only thing that matters,” James fought back, “and I don’t think you have a choice. Think of it like this; there’s been long quidditch game happening around you and everyone thought you were spectators. Until all of the sudden, the snitch is released and you’ve taken off flying towards it. But no one, not the spectators, nor the players, know which side you’re on. So what are they going to do? They’re going to watch your every move, turn, see who you communicate with and when, to try and see if you’re on the opposing team. And once they’ve reached that conclusion, whether accurately or not, the bludgers will start flying. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Suuure… what’s the snitch in your analogy?”

“The trial, or the art- no. You know what? It doesn’t matter! My point is that you have lost the buffer of neutrality, and any action your take from here on out will not be given the benefit of the doubt. You can’t risk getting caught wandering around Hogwarts in search of the Room of Requirement and the lost diadem. And frankly, we can hardly ask about Hogwarts with you all over the news.”

“And it’s the same on the opposite side,” Lily came back, “you both can’t start prying into the contents of the top Death Eater’s Gringott’s vaults while your names are plastered all over the news for doing something unknown. Our side has questions about your actions that they’re fairly certain the Death Eaters have answers to. So if the Death Eaters are asking the same questions, and they know they don’t have answers to them, what’s their logical conclusion?”

“So,” Sirius worked to keep his voice neutral, “you’re saying we’re stuck.”

“Not stuck, just on hiatus for a while.”

“No – I’m sorry, but no.” He shook his head. “Sure, there are reasons to be concerned, to not act irrationally, but shouldn’t all of this be a catalyst for action? I mean, come on, they’ve been paying attention to us for years, that’s not really anything new, it’s just… more public now.”

“Sirius, you know that’s not what this is. It’s not just ‘more public’ it’s ‘everyone in wizarding Britain knows your wife did something that landed her a hasty trial in front of the Wizengamot’ – let’s not downplay that!”

“Yeah, but I mean – she got away with it! It was worth it, in the grand scheme of things.”

“Oh good Merlin, are you insane?!” James was practically shouting. “Maybe you’ve gotten away with too much and forgotten what reasonable looks like; the Malfoy’s, Little Hangleton, necromancy, the Chamber of Secrets – hell, mailing a Death Eater requesting to meet with You-Know-Who’s freaking relative and then doing it! But you need to understand, you DID NOT get away with this! You may have destroyed the horcrux and you may have escaped with your life, but you did not get away with it when it’s plastered on the front cover of every newspaper and being actively investigated by the Death Eaters!”

“It’s not specifically -”

“No. James is right – don’t mistake your luck for achievement or success or whatever you’re deluding yourself into believing. You are lucky you are alive right now. And you are so very lucky that the Death Eaters don’t know exactly what you’ve done. But Lord-knows you’ve laid out the evidence publicly enough for them to put it together. And if they do…” Lily just shook her head, unwilling to put into words what hung over all of them like a black cloud.

Even Isabella looked up from her papers to absorb the Potter’s blunt assessment of their reality.

“I don’t know how you got so lucky with the Morfin Gaunt situation the first time,” James added. “But I don’t think they’ll miss how significant that is a second time around. Whatever you do, don’t give them a reason to dig those files back up. Don’t push your luck.”

The Morfin Gaunt situation, and the Chamber of Secrets ordeal more broadly, was something they didn’t talk about. After everything, it still remained a sore subject. But it was also true that, as immeasurably frustrating as it was to think about, it had probably deserved more thought than they’d allotted in the aftermath. It was, after all, one of the very few pieces of hard evidence out there. And Morfin Gaunt was the Dark Lord’s uncle.

But, as strange and winding as it could be to follow the evidence they’d laid out, in the end, if someone could possibly reach the conclusion that they had in fact gone to Morfin Gaunt deliberately to learn Parseltongue, and somehow reached the conclusion they intended to or had opened the Chamber of Secrets – a path that even Sirius’ grandfather hadn’t reached on his own – that still led nowhere. The Chamber of Secrets had nothing to do with the horcrux search.

And therein lied the paradox; seeking out Morfin Gaunt, inexplicably, was far more damning than the actual reason they’d sought him out.

Fuck.

Sirius’ stomached dropped.

The Gaunt Shack.

The thought had never occurred to him before – to connect the first horcrux they found to the failures of locating the second. Too many months had separated the Gaunt shack from their trip to Azkaban that he hadn’t thought about the fact that Morfin Gaunt had nothing to do with the Chamber of Secrets, but of course everything to do with his old home. The investigation of why they’d met with Morfin Gaunt wouldn’t start with parseltongue, it would start with his old property. And though the wards were intact, there was no replica left behind.

His mind raced through a series of options, each worse than the next. Create a replica, and despite the eyes on them, go back to Little Hangleton a second time, go through the Criminal’s Loop a second time, and hide it – a task that would delay the Dark Lord for a good 30 seconds?

He needed to say something. He’d been silently staring at James now for too long. James, who was right, though Sirius hardly wanted to reward him with such a swift change of tone. But he was right; they could not have the Death Eaters look closer into the Morfin Gaunt situation. They were unequivocally stuck.

Sirius supposed they could make it clear that they had opened the Chamber of Secrets? Formalized that connection to parseltongue. Unleash the basilisk, if they could figure out the wording, or just kill a few muggle-borns—

Oh good MERLIN, he cut his own thought train off, say anything other than that!

“So I get to be bored and useless now?” Sirius directed at no one in particularly as he leaned back in his chair with a forced sigh.

“You’re talking to the wrong people with that one, mate.” James rolled his eyes. “It’s not the end of the world. Merlin, you’re Sirius Black – you and Isabella have enough social obligations to fill a calendar.”

“And you’re both busy outside of that,” Lily continued; though her words suggested nothing cruel, they were unmistakably patronizing, “You have the work with your grandfather and your… studies.”

“Why the attitude, Lily?” Isabella spoke up for the first time since she’d begun reading all of the articles about her. Her tone was frosty and harsh, and she unconsciously crumpled the edges of the newspaper in her hands as she glared up at the Potters. “What do you mean by that?”

“What do you want me to say? It seems to me you have a death-grip on all the evidence that you need to show you’ve been a rather prolific student of the arts outside of the classroom.”

“Are you FUCKING WITH ME?” Isabella slammed the paper down with such force it sent half the stack flying off the table.

“Isabella, this isn’t some affront against you – I’m just saying, don’t blame the articles for the magic you chose to exploit! Now that it’s not just me saying that you’re doing something wrong, fundamentally wrong, can’t you finally take it seriously?”

“Lily, I’m not doing anything wrong! Are you actually letting what you read in these bullshit articles influence what you think about us?! Aren’t you supposed to know us better than anyone else in the world?”

“Then why am I not allowed to be concerned? You read the articles; the things they speculate you’ve done aren’t half as – as Dark as the things I know you’ve done. And look how they’re still talking about it! I’m allowed to worry about you and I should be allowed to say it!”

“They are TOOLS, Lily. And we are allowed to take risks, JUST like you are. I know my choices don’t look like yours, but that doesn’t make it any less legitimate.”

Sirius knew where his wife was going and couldn’t help but wonder how productive or… unproductive the ensuing fight would be. There was a certain purposelessness to it, he felt, or maybe that was the cynic in him talking. After all, there was a reason he had always let Isabella navigate the political conversations when they inevitably occurred.

“I think there are laws that beg to differ,” Lily scoffed.

“Laws? What laws are you drawing the line at? You only think your side and the shit you all do is legitimate because you’re on the same fucking side as the ministry and the aurors.”

Of course, he didn’t have to be just an ideal observer.

“You know? I think that’s accurate! And, you know, they’re a good deal less prejudice!”

“Oh I don’t think that’s true at all!” Isabella snapped. “I am not Death Eater. But am from a Dark family. And I can tell you, I believe with some degree of indisputable evidence, that I am not a part of the population they intend to protect. And the way I have been treated—"

“You’ve also been committing crimes, let’s not brush past that.”

“So have you! The Order is just as sanctioned as the Death Eaters! Only the Order’s fucking colluding with the DMLE—”

“Isabella, what?”

“Don’t you think it’s fucking weird how few of the Sacred families are aurors?! Or professors? Don’t you think it’s fucking WEIRD how as the muggle-born population replaces the pureblood population by percentage, the laws have consistently shifted to the detriment of the majority of the original population?”

If she said something he disagreed with this, maybe he’d be more inclined to intervene.

“Original population? Careful now. So people are advocating for policies they agree with and that meet the demands of an evolving society. That’s not nefarious, Isabella, that’s politics. Laws shift. You don’t mean to tell me that you think the purebloods lack political power, do you?”

“I think we’ve seen that power diminished considerably. We’ve seen structural shifts, not just in the Wizengamot, but in Hogwarts and the Ministry more broadly, particularly across the law enforcement. It’s not enough to have a few seats in the Wizengamot, not when the DMLE holds so much power—”

“Losing power is, again, not synonymous with being stripped of power.”

“They’ve created a self-perpetuating cycle that systematically strips power and rights away from the darker families. We need ministry presence—"

“Oh the Death Eaters are certainly working to get you that ministry presence.”

“You know?” Isabella mocked. “I think that’s accurate!”

“God, Isabella, they are violent murderers! They’re spreading their terror across the UK! How can you possibly justify that?”

“Do you really not see why holding down a population may lead to violence? Why they may feel the need to resort to extreme measures?”

“You cannot be trying to justify their actions. I just don’t believe you’re going there. You’re – what - claiming that the purebloods or the Dark families are some oppressed group?”

“Separate the claim from the group. I’m claiming that the Dark Arts are misunderstood. And in turn the Dark families are misunderstood. And the newer population doesn’t believe that we have the right to even exist—”

“The Dark families don’t believe that MUGGLE-BORNS or for fuck’s sake, even LIGHT families have the right to exist!”

“Maybe if they showed any recognition for the rights of a population and culture that existed here before them—”

“Oh come OFF IT! Do you realize how callous you’re sounding?”

“Thank you for that, Lily, truly nuanced. The truth is, you are raised to hate us just as much as we’re raised to hate you! Only YOU don’t see it because it’s institutionalized! It’s the side of the ministry! It’s the side of aurors! And the laws have been bent in your favor.”

James and Lily both looked stunned and Sirius could hardly blame them. He'd always felt that, given time with most people, Isabella could work them into a corner. Usually this was done in waves, through incremental thought experiments that laid the building blocks for larger challenges, rather than, as she had just done, shoving the harshest version of her argument down their throats.

But to attempt to reframe her argument risked diluting it, and there was truth to Isabella's words that was seldom said, but nevertheless vital to the conflict. And Sirius had no interest in softening it.

“Jesus Christ." Lily's tone shifted in a way that seemed to Sirius disingenuous. "I don’t even know what to say to you right now!”

“Have you never thought about it from a legal perspective? Or do you just not believe me?”

Lily scoffed.

“Where’s your copy of the Declaration of the Rights of Wizards? Or, Statutes of Confederation? Or I suppose we should add in the Addendums as well. Where? Hmm?”

“You know I don’t have any of those on hand.”

“Then I’ll grab ours.” Isabella’s emotionless statement cut through the air in sharp contrast to the passion she had been bringing only seconds earlier. She rose to her feet and moved towards the fireplace.

“Isabella, don’t – come on.”

Without another word she stepped into the floo.

“Seriously, Isabella, just wait…”

----------------------

But it was too late. Before Lily could even finish the thought, a fuming Isabella was already stepping out of the floo in the drawing room 12 Grimmauld.

She was about half-way out of the room, making a bee-line for the Black library, when she noticed she wasn’t alone. Someone was sitting on the couch behind her, eyes boring holes into her back.

“Oh hello, cousin!”

Chapter Text

Chapter 42: Rage

Isabella screamed.

Bellatrix Lestrange smiled up from the couch.

“Now I won’t tell you that I’m usually greeted by anything better than that, but I’ve come to expect slightly better from family.”

“Bella, hello,” Isabella tried to compose herself, but it felt as though her heart was beating out of her chest. Any anger she’d felt had immediately been replaced with a deep-seeded fear. “I promise it’s not personal, I just really didn’t expect anyone to be in the drawing room. Are you here to see Madame Black?”

“Oh no, you actually. I figured you and Sirius would make your way here eventually and I would hang out until then.”

“Would you like me to go get Sirius? We cou—”

“No that’s quite alright, I’m thrilled to talk to you one on one. It’s been a minute and I think a chat between us is long overdue.”

Isabella let the words sink into her; her body stuck in frozen paralysis. It had been a minute since their rather public one on one chat, but now, weighing the publicity of that against the privacy of this, she found there was a certain appeal to the former. Diagon Alley seemed far less dangerous.

“Please, take a seat, you look so restless standing like that.”

Against her better judgement, she obliged.

“You’ve been so busy, I can’t seem to go a day without seeing your name pop up in the paper, I’d love to hear more.” Bellatrix was smiling as she spoke but there was an unmistakable coolness in her tone.

“I think the papers are making me sound far more interesting than I really am.”

“No, they’re not. They’re making you sound far less interesting; we’ve made sure of that.”

Isabella’s inhale hitched in her throat making a faint croaking sound.

She knew; of course she knew. But to hear with certainty who was behind the changing narrative in the papers hit her like a bludger to the gut.

“Should I take that as you noticed? Good. You’re welcome - from all of us, of course.” Bella’s words deliberately testing her. “Now, since we’ve done you this favor, I’d love to know why it was necessary.”

“Oh,” Isabella replied, trying to stall while she thought up a lie better than a motorbike accidently.

She mentally chastised herself for not thinking of a better alibi the moment her name was in the paper, and then chastised herself all the more for letting those sort of thoughts in at a time like this. With someone like Bella, her thoughts were not her own.

“Now, I see the wheels turning in your mind as you think of what you should and shouldn’t tell me about what happened a few weeks ago. The answer is, of course, everything. But I’d actually like to start earlier. Your first appearance in the paper outside of the society section. What can you tell me about Azkaban?”

A better topic, safer, she thought, nodding in acknowledgement of the question. And then forced herself to clear her mind of any signs of relief.

“You know,” Isabella spoke rather calmly, surprising even herself, “you were the one who asked me if I’d want to live in a world where things I was already doing could land me in Azkaban. The answer was a resounding no.”

“Interesting, I’m glad I made a good impression.” Bella genuinely smiled in a way that was almost more unsettling than her usual cocky grin.

“Between trial requirements and additional restrictions, it was starting to become a legitimate fear. But it got me thinking, does the general public understand the conditions? Would the average witch or wizard really be okay with subjecting people to that sort of treatment? I think the takeaway was clearly no. I’ve gotten a few powerful enemies, but I’m pleased with the impact.”

“I think you should be!” Though her words carried the same enthusiasm as her previous statement, the smile slid from her face. Her eyes narrowed and she leaned forward as she continued, “But I’m awful curious about who you went to talk to. There was a name that stood out to me, so I’d love to hear more about your, shall we say, criteria?”

“Oh, is that so? I think they were all rather similar…”

“Really? I feel there’s a bit of an outlier - Morfin Gaunt?”

Isabella swallowed, fixing only on the letter they’d sent to Corban Yaxley and the Department.

“He was amongst the five we went to see, and I wouldn’t say he was… an outlier, as you put it. He met the criteria; crime whose punishment has varied in severity over the years, incarceration date well over a decade...”

“But why did you spend the most time with Morfin Gaunt?”

“I don’t think we did…” she tried to sound casual but she was fully aware that any semblance of control over the conversation had been stripped from her in an instant.

Bellatrix Lestrange shouldn’t know that; she couldn’t know that.

“Who says we spent the most time with Morfin Gaunt?” Isabella tried again.

“The other prisoners say you did.”

“And why would you trust them?” She faked a haughty tone but even her façade was slipping.

“Why would I not trust them if you feel they’re worth interviewing? Hmm?”

“I don’t know… maybe we spent the most time with him? Maybe?”

“But why 45 minutes with one prisoner, when you essentially had to cut your time in half with everyone else?”

“Oh, i-it’s not as strange as it sounds, he was the longest-term inmate that we were meeting with and the man barely spoke English.” Isabella tried to keep her voice steady even as it felt like the world was crumbling around her. “We just needed longer with him than we needed with everyone else to get enough out of it.”

Bellatrix just stared at her for a moment, before closing her eyes.

“Isabella, if he didn’t speak English, what was he speaking? What language was he speaking?”

There was an immediate shift in Bella’s tone, she was done playing games. But there was something else too. It was almost as though she was hoping that there was some reasonable explanation; asking Isabella to give her something other than the obviously damning evidence she’d collected.

But Isabella had nothing to give her.

They had thrown away any sense of self-preservation when they’d put in writing the names of the five prisoners they wished to visit – the Dark Lord’s uncle amongst them – and mailed it straight to a Death Eater. And everything since then… they had simply taken things too far. This was nothing surprising. This was simply the consequences of their actions.

“I-I, well, I don’t know. I didn’t recognize it.”

“Did it sound like French? Russian? Arabic?”

“I don’t – I don’t know, I didn’t recognize it; it didn’t sound like any of those!”

“It didn’t sound like any language you recognized? Did it sound like any - thing you recognized?”

“I don’t know, maybe?” She tugged at her sleeve. “I don’t… it sort of sounded like a snake, okay?”

“So you meet a Parselmouth in Azkaban - let’s be precise, you’re smart. Did you research him afterwards?”

“Not really, I mean—”

“So it’s worth going all the way to interview the man, but you don’t have any interest in opening up the bloody Pure-Blood Directory?”

“I did, okay? I did.” Isabella was surprised when actual frustration came into her voice.

“And?!” Bella demanded.

“It said the Gaunts were decedents of Salazar Slytherin,” Isabella spoke between gritted teeth.

“There we go.” Bella stared at her coldly. “Then let’s try this again Isabella. Tell me again why you spent 45 minutes with Morfin Gaunt?”

“For the art- ”

“STOP. Because you knew exactly who he was before you met with him. AGAIN.”

“Bella – please,” Isabella’s voice cracked.

“Why did you feel the need to go all the way to Azkaban to spend 45 minutes with the descendent of Salazar Slytherin? And what did you do last month that had you so injured? And why the hell to do you look like you have been seeping in Dark magic for months, when every other source would suggest that you’re just a bloody socialite? Everyone knows how gorgeous you’re supposed to be, but Isabella – you look like shit!”

Isabella stared straight ahead at nothing.

She had always imagined her final words as a climactic affair. A lifetime of practice culminating in a grand finale. One for the books. And yet? Isabella realized, as she sat stiffly in the drawing room, there was nothing else to say, really. With the way conversation was going, Bella was going to kill her. She couldn’t run. She hadn’t properly dueled in years, and though she’d put her skills up against many, Bellatrix Lestrange was not one of them. And it was unlikely Sirius would come looking for her any time soon. Why would he?

Her last words to her best friend - a curt remark about a law book after a shouting match. And to her own husband? Nothing. It was sickening the way she couldn’t even remember the last thing she would ever say to Sirius.

How numbingly strange it was, after everything, to be staring at the end?

No, a prickling thought lingered. With what she had done, death would be a kinder out than she would likely get. And everything they’d work towards would fall apart as Bellatrix and countless others tortured every last bit of it out of her.

The only option was to fight. Fight by any means, as aggressively as possible. Death, it seemed, was now the preferred outcome.

“How long have you known?” Her throat sounded horse but she didn’t falter.

“Known what? Is there something you wish to confess?”

“How long have you known something was amiss with us? This Azkaban article isn’t new. Are you telling me that you neglected to do your proper due diligence on who we spoke to originally? Or, as I think is far more likely, are you telling me you did, and that you held back information that would’ve reflected poorly on us? All of us.”

Bellatrix smiled, but a different kind of smile, like she was staring at a child who’d managed to make a point for once that wasn’t entirely incoherent.

“So I’m not wrong then, am I?” Isabella continued. "I’m sure the pressure’s been on you to make some progress with us, isn’t that right? And boy what a victory that must’ve felt like to see that article in the Prophet. Except when you looked under the hood… oh your heart must’ve just stopped! You could say it was poor judgement, right? Or, just as we did, you could acknowledge that every person on that list fell under a very narrow criteria of specific crimes and lengthy sentences. But of course, that assumes one’s open to the rational explanation, and no one has ever accused your Lord of being rational.”

“Don’t fool yourself,” Bella replied coolly, “my failings will not save you.”

There was more to argue there, but something about it felt so futile; a waste of words when there were so few left.

“Will my life save you?” she asked plainly.

“What they don’t know will die with you.”

Bella’s words lacked the sharpness one would expect with such a statement. It wasn’t some intimidation tactic, just an explanation. Had Isabella underwritten Bella’s lies, maybe it would be different. But the full truth was poor insurance. Isabella was nothing but a liability herself; worse than Bella even knew, and, even still, enough so that her death was the only cover.

Fine, it was better than the alternative.

She made a quick decision to change her approach. The promise of death opened doors; things that could never be said because of the risk became the only things worth saying. She didn’t like her odds, but if she was a dead man walking, maybe she had her chance to go out with a bang after all?

“Bella, you are fucking smart – why the hell have you accepted a life where you’ll never amount to anything more than a bloody follower?”

“What is wrong with you?” Bellatrix, for the first time, stood on the defense. “Who do you possibly think you are to ask that! And who do you think I am to answer it?”

“I’m not asking a stranger out on the streets, I’m asking you. In private. Why have you done this?”

Bella scanned her face with the most incredulous look. She seemed almost pained when she spoke, candidly and frankly, “Because he’s brilliant. How have you never understood this? He’s the most powerful wizard alive, possibly to ever live, save for Merlin himself. And he’s given us the opportunity to rise with him!”

“Rise with him?!” She made sure her words packed a punch. “You don’t rise with a man like that. He is the leader and you are his subject, that is the only dynamic that exists.”

“NO! No. It’s – not. He may lead, but we are not all equal subjects – he trusts my husband and I with things he would never, ever trust anyone else with. Me! Because the Lestranges are loyal and have been loyal. He can trust us -”

Isabella had heard it; she wouldn’t react but she knew exactly what Bellatrix Lestrange had just let slip.

“- and I believe in his vision for the world.”

“No, you have a vision for the world,” she made an effort not to change her tone with what she suspected she’d just learned; the anger made it easy. “You have a concrete idea of what a reformed wizarding society should look like. He just wants power.”

“After all this time, how can you have no IDEA what we stand for? Are you deliberately obtuse? What is wrong with you!?”

“The Death Eaters stand for nothing! Nothing, Bella. You’re over here thinking you’re changing the bloody world, and all he wants is power. And he’ll say whatever the hell it takes for you to give him that power. You’re following what you came in believing – he’s just saying it back to you!”

“How long have you felt like this?”

“How long have I felt like this? How long have I felt like this? Take a good, hard look at my friends, Bella. At my husband’s friends. For fuck’s sake – look who’s my husband and who’s not? It’s not my fault that you all were fucking delusional about the whole thing!”

“You cannot tell me we haven’t made progress!” Bella blurted out through an unfiltered display of emotion. “You cannot tell me that you’re the same insolent girl I heard had broken off her engagement to Lucius for my blood traitor of a cousin. You are too smart; I am too smart! You see the world as I do! How do you not see why a war is necessary right now?”

“A war may be necessary, but you’re all fighting under slightly different banners. And the Dark Lord? He doesn’t want a reformed wizarding society – he thrives in the chaos because the chaos is where he has power. And that is his banner. And it SUFFOCATES all of yours!” she shouted. “The collapse of wizarding society as we know it is THE pureblood predicament of our generation and we should’ve been fighting it. You and I; in the Wizengamot, in the Ministry, in Hogwarts, and maybe – maybe on the streets. If it came to it.”

Isabella caught herself for a moment; the moment the anger took over from the debate, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. She didn’t just want Bellatrix to hear the truth; she wanted it to hurt.

“You know, had you gone into politics, you would’ve been bloody lethal. Both a Black and a Lestrange, Merlin. But now you’re just a henchman for a FUCKING. NO-NAME. HALF-BLOOD.”

Bellatrix just stared at her for a moment and there was an embarrassing second where Isabella wondered if her argument had landed.

“I hope you’re wrong.” Bellatrix paused. In an instant, all signs of humanity seemingly drain out away, leaving her eyes hollow and almost dead, and a cruel smirk on her sharp face. “Do you know what happens to those who straddle a divide? When one side collapses, they fall too.”

Isabella felt her blood run cold. This was the kind of interaction with Bellatrix that she’d only read about. A side of her she’d been fortunate to never see. Isabella’s breath was shallow and her heart pounded faster than she’d ever felt in her life.

Her fear only seemed to fuel her companion.

“You will lose. I hope you understand that, my darling girl; no matter who wins, you will lose. You have no allies. No one truly sits in your corner. Both sides see you as weak, manipulative, spineless, and morally corrupt. When anything is fixed - and I promise you, it will be - you will have only others to thank. You will have contributed nothing. And everyone will brand you as the fucking leech you are.

“You know, no one, Isabella, no one has ever insinuated that I am bloodtraitor before. I don’t even – I don’t even know how to respond that because it was such a pitifully foolish thing to say. You think you’re somehow superior? To me? To the rest of us? Look who you sully yourself with! I had this moment when you were talking where I worried I wasn’t creative enough to know what to do with you, but it’s simple, really. You should be made to see your reality. I feel like we should start by killing Lily Potter – there’s no point in letting you keep your pet mudblood anymore. And we’ll make sure it’s slow and oh so painful.”

She stared at Isabella, making sure the weight of her threat was understood.

And then she let out a screeching laugh.

“I can see from your expression that you want to know if we know about her son? Well, I’m afraid that’s above my jurisdiction.”

The world seemed to freeze around them.

People often talk about moments that take ones’ breath away; beautiful moments to be cherished and remembered. But there are also, Isabella discovered, moments that takes ones conscious away. They strip a person of their sense of self, of any semblance of self-preservation, of humanity, of goodness. They leave someone a hollow husk of a person, devoid of air, of flesh, of bone. Only white-hot rage.

The pressure builds.

And builds.

And builds.

And with the slightest provocation, their opposition would see what fury looks like wearing an aristocratic smile.

She wasn’t sure what Bella said next exactly. The words spilled out of her like the fiery breath of a dragon and Isabella too far gone to process the smoke. It was clear she intended to kill Sirius as well. A cathartic end to the most enigmatic member of her family. But that she would hold off killing Isabella until she could be certain that she appreciated the lives that had been destroyed because of her, and understand how very wrong she was about what they could, and would, accomplish. But before that - before the deaths, before the suffering - Isabella would tell her the truth. Isabella would answer every last question.

“No, Bella, no,” she said calmly, her statement rolling off her tongue like a sickening promise, “and you’re going to let me walk out of here.”

Bellatrix’s eyes brightened. “And why would I do that?

Isabella’s body acted far faster than she ever could’ve done consciously.

“IMPERIO!”

Chapter Text

Chapter 43: Gringotts

“Morals, intent, outcome. Morals…” Isabella repeated to herself as she paced the floor of the drawing room at 12 Grimmauld. This was just a tool in her arsenal. “…intent and outcome.”

As it had the last time, she’d felt the tingling, electric pulse run up her arm and through her veins when she’d cast the Imperius curse. And she’d once again found she rather liked control.

And was good at it.

A quick reminder to breath and she turned her attention back to Bellatrix, who sat in a daze on the couch.

“You weak-willed bitch,” Isabella scoffed, wishing she felt half as confident as her words suggested. “Stay seated and still.”

Isabella tore up the stairs towards Regulus’ room in search of the duplicate of Hufflepuff’s cup he’d commissioned at the same time as the locket. Bellatrix said the Dark Lord trusted the Lestranges with things he would never trust anyone else with. It wasn’t confirmation, not by a long shot, but it aligned with everything else they had assumed and it was more to go on than they’d ever had before.

Even if she was wrong, this would be her only shot of getting into the Lestranges’ vault.

She feared she couldn’t risk sending Bellatrix there on her own. There were rumors of defenses in place that would lift all enchantments, including the Imperius Curse, if there was any suspicion something was amiss within the bank. Bloody Goblin-magic. But this was fine. She would simply go with her – the Black and Rosier vaults were at the deepest levels of security, there was nothing she wouldn’t be allowed to pass. They’d just have to share a cart, which was odd, but not alarming with the right excuse.

Bellatrix was a Black, she would simply say they were going to pick up something at the Black vault and drop it off at the Lestrange vault. What they’d pick up and how this was all ending Isabella had no idea.

But it was fine. Everything was fine.

Regulus had left the cup sitting on his dresser – a testament to why 19-year-old boys should hardly be trusted with anything more serious than how they dress themselves in the morning. But at least she didn’t need to scour his room.

She gave herself the single minute she’d had on the stairs between Regulus’ room and the drawing room to think, and realized she could do her damnedest at the end of the day to erase Bella’s memory of the entire afternoon, but she couldn’t erase the fact they went to Gringotts. Too many loose ends.

The best she could do was fix the memory.

So she had to give her something.

Bellatrix was exactly where she’d left her when she made it back downstairs, cup now in hand.

“We’re going to Gringotts. I believe there is a cup in your vault that looks exactly like this. This one should be in your vault, the one that is currently there belongs to me. You will give it to me.”

She didn’t know how important it was to give all of the details but carried on.

“We are going to apparate to Diagon Alley. You will act completely natural and normal, and you are going to be pleased to be walking with me into Gringotts and up to the counter. You with think nothing of this. We will be picking up an item from the Black vault and dropping it off in the Lestrange vault. No need to specify, it is not their business. That is what you will tell the goblins at the counter. And if necessary, you will persuade them of the need for me, as a Black, to come with you to access the vault. Once you have switched the cups, you will return with me to 12 Grimmauld. Shall we?”

Isabella marched them straight out the front door and without a moment of hesitation, held out her hand and side-along apparated Bellatrix to Diagon Alley.

There was still a distinct chill in the air with a cloud layer casting a greyish hue on the bustling street. The crowds moved in a near silent hurry, as though they were being watched by an unknown entity and anything that might draw attention to them as individuals rather than a part of the blurred masses might prove fatal. Bellatrix seemed to snap to the second they landed on the street and Isabella picked up the conversation as if it was a continuation of a past discussion.

“But see, that’s the problem with necromancy,” Isabella found herself saying, “you’re blurring the lines between the living and the dead and it leaves you in almost a similar, half-way position. You won’t repeat this beyond what’s necessary.”

“Of course not,” Bellatrix replied clearly, the corners of her mouth turning up.

Good, Isabella thought to herself, it wasn’t a question.

Necromancy was one of the few aspects of the Dark Arts she felt she could speak on adeptly enough, present knowledge couldn’t have been gained without actual practice, but that also drew no parallels to anything a Death Eater ought not know.

“And that blur happens when you do everything correctly. I, rather obviously - and of course, publicly - did not…” Isabella continued weaving the tale of an extraordinarily botched ritual circle. It made enough sense. It was certainly Dark enough, she would’ve looked like absolute hell after what she was describing, and it was conceivable she would’ve injured her husband and brother-in-law along with herself.

She carried on her tale, trying her best to ignore the horrified stares and whispers from anyone who was brave enough to not just flee at the sight of them. The reactions, as they had been the last time the two of them paraded down the main street of wizarding Britain, were instantaneous and utterly depressing. Worse still, this time, she could hardly tell who they were more afraid of.

She realized about half way up the stairs of Gringotts that she still had her wand out and stiff in her hand. That, combined with her swift pace and choice of company, and she wasn’t sure she could’ve looked more threatening had she actively tried.

‘Intimidatingly powerful and manipulative’ – wasn’t that how Lily paraphrased her characterization in the articles? It felt like a distant memory now, sitting in the Potter’s living room as they practically begged them to slow down, lay low, and build back their reputation.

She’d instead done the equivalent of light her reputation on fire.

But it was fine.

Everything was fine.

They swiftly approached the first open counter and were greeted by a rather cheery goblin. Though she wanted to embrace the fact that something was happy to see them, really, what goblin wouldn’t be cheery to help not one, but two of the wealthiest families in the country?

“Mrs. Lestrange, Mrs. Black – how may I help you both today?”

Isabella flashed her brightest smile and spoke clearly and concisely, “There’s an item I wish to move from the Black vault to the Lestrange vault.”

“We can facilitate bank transfers, for a small fee, if you would like? What is it you wish to move?

“That is not your business,” Bellatrix snapped back. “And this isn’t a complicated request, two vaults. Two stops. Do you need me to carve it into the desk in front of you?”

“Will you be making a withdrawal or is it just a transfer?” the goblin replied, unfazed by the threat.

“Just a transfer, I expect.” Isabella quickly played the scenarios out her mind and tacked on, “But please remove all charms and wards as a precautionary measure. I may change my mind when I’m down there. And so help me Merlin, I will not find myself buried alive under a pile of galleons just because I didn’t watch where I stepped.”

“As you wish. Will you be needing bags or any assistance, for a small -”

“No.” Bellatrix cocked her head and frowned at the small goblin in front of her. “And I’ll ask that you refrain from any further questions. Silence will do.”

He nodded and gestured for them to follow.

The journey in the rickety old cart was a quiet one. Bellatrix sat naturally without any indication that something was amiss while Isabella was praying that she would she be able to sense if they passed through a defense and she lost the Imperious Curse. There shouldn’t have been anything to raise alarm bells, but both of them had a rather notorious reputation, and at least one of them was actively wanted by the ministry – Isabella could only hope that wasn’t enough to cause any problems with the goblins.

She focused on that faint tingling warmth all the way down to the ground level of Gringotts.

Nothing had changed. Everything was fine.

To say she was calm would be a step too far, but the tension and fear that had plagued her since she first saw Bellatrix sitting in the drawing room at 12 Grimmauld eased ever so slightly when they reached the final levels of Gringotts and exited the cart.

Perhaps it was the chill in depths of the bank, the way the sparse lights from the lanterns danced along the walls, barely illuminated the expansive space around them, or perhaps it was the way the presence of old magic prickled her skin, but she found her mind wandering back to the Chamber of Secrets. And that, perhaps, she would get away with this, too.

She could only hope it would prove more fruitful.

As they approached the Black vault, unchallenged, Isabella felt that Sirius’ grandfather had been right. There was power in eliciting fear, and maybe it ought to be looked at as a positive in this day and age.

The goblin opened the doors to the vault - a vast room of organized chaos. It did not sparkle the way newer or personal vaults did; filled to the brim with gallons, sickles, and knuts. Money was kept in the smaller vaults; wealth was kept in the ancient vaults. Centuries of accumulated riches lined the floors and the walls. Magical objects and artifacts whose purposes could hardly be speculated on from appearances alone crowded the expansive cavern. Medieval tapestries, Baroque artwork, ornate furniture and décor, fine china, crystal, silver, tables lined with not just jewelry, but large gems and jewels filled the gaps. The spoils of war lay before them like a menu, and the only question for Isabella was what she would pick.

And then it caught her eye – a Blue Willow tea set, nestled in the corner of a large china cabinet that supported half a dozen other sets of china. It was not the nicest, not by a long shot. It was chipped and worn from years of use by hands who hardly should’ve been trusted to hold anything breakable. And she knew in an instant who it had belonged to. Regulus’ words from all of those months ago echoed in her head -

“She was amazing when we were kids with elaborate crafts and tea parties with stuffed animals and her old blue tea set. I’m sure it’s buried somewhere in our vaults now; all of her old stuff is.”

Isabella’s heart sank. A plan was quickly forming in her mind; a horrid, almost indefensible plan, something so cruel, she could feel her throat tightening in an attempt to prevent the words from exiting. But the strength of the plan was directly proportional to its ruthlessness.

And she would have to be fine with it.

“There it is,” Isabella said with casual calmness, striding over to china cabinet and opening it up.

“Is that…?” Bellatrix began to ask, bewilderment spreading across her face.

“Your sister’s, if I’m not mistaken.”

Bellatrix looked as though she didn’t quite know what to say, as if stuck between reprimanding Isabella for calling her her sister, and angered by the flood of memories coming back from when she hadn’t minded that label.

“It ought to be destroyed,” Bellatrix finally stated. “It’s hardly worth enough to bother keeping after it’s been tainted like it has.”

“Why? Why destroy it when it can be of far more use to you in tact?” Isabella smirked. “It works, Bella, rest assured. I may have mucked up the ritual circle a bit the last time, but never, ever surrender anything you have that once belonged to someone you now loathe.”

Bella picked up one of the dainty tea cups and began to spin it around her finger by its handle. “How do you figure?”

“If you don’t kill Andromeda Tonks yourself, then let us ensure that her death is no great escape.”

A cruel smile replaced Bellatrix’s confused express. “Merlin, you really are a brilliant witch, aren’t you?”

Isabella maintained a stoic expression – at least she hoped she did.

“Take it,” Isabella commanded, “we’ll leave it in the Lestrange vault. And we can hope the time does not come that it’s needed, but if it does…”

Isabella’s voice trailed off as her mind caught up with her words, and she was forced to confront what it was she was truly suggesting. It was true, though there was no need to mention it now, that what they had done to Helena Ravenclaw would only work if Andromeda Tonks became a ghost. But necromancy was a challenging and little understood practice. And it seemed to Isabella that if any group were to advance the knowledge and potential of necromancy it would be the Death Eaters – a risk Isabella just had to accept.

Bellatrix nodded slowly.

“She had a little basket for it,” Bellatrix added, an odd strain of humanity creeping into her voice, “when we were little, a little wicker basket that she would parade around. Insisted that everything goes in its proper place when packing up. You don’t see it, do you?”

“I don’t think so--”

“No, don’t look for it!” Bellatrix snapped before Isabella could even begin searching. “I can carry it by its tray, it’s fine. Better… really. Honestly, the basket was so her – compartmentalizing everything. I’d really rather not.”

Isabella didn’t know what else to say so she just stayed quiet.

She fooled herself for a moment, thinking she was about to see a hint of tenderness in the way that Bellatrix would hold her younger sister’s old possessions. Instead she watched as Bellatrix yanked out the tray, precariously balanced the tea pot, all of the plates, and cups and saucers all on top of one another, pivot and storm straight out of the vault. The actions were so harsh and careless, it almost made it feel as though she had hallucinated that hint of humanity only moments earlier.

There was no need to get back into the cart to reach the Lestranges’ vault. The goblin simply led them across the courtyard with a cowering dragon and there they stood. The Rosier’s vault was on the same level so it was nothing new, but it interested her.

There were only four vaults down on this level. She had long-assumed that the Blacks and the Malfoys had two out of the other three vaults besides her family, but the fourth vault remained up for debate. There was only a short list of other families it could be, the Lestranges certainly amongst them, but it was nonetheless interesting to get that confirmation. The sheer fact that the Lestranges were down on this final level of security certainly boded well to the likelihood that their vault would be selected.

And though she still liked her odds, it didn’t stop her heart from pounding as the goblin opened up the vault. If she was right - if she pulled this off - she was mere moments away from securing the horcrux that could so easily be the hardest one to access.

The moment they entered it became clear what an impossible task it would’ve been to do this on her own. The Lestrange vault was almost as grand as the Black vault, but where the Blacks had a wide array of artifacts and antiques, the Lestrange’s leaned into gold. The pieces were no less diverse in style, cut, and purpose, but searching for a small, gold chalice in a sea of gold was the pureblood equivalent of looking for a needle in a haystack.

Bellatrix moved swiftly through the vault towards the back where the shelves stretched towards the sky as far as the eye could see. Abandoning the tea set on a low shelf with a miscellaneous assortment of odd trinkets – hidden enough it wouldn’t be an eyesore, but logical enough that it seemed intentional – she motioned Isabella over.

“Cup,” Bellatrix stated flatly. “Give me the cup that belongs in my vault and I will give you the one that belongs to you.”

Isabella smiled. Though she would’ve liked to believe that it was a casual, collected smile, she knew that she was positively radiating with excitement. The sureness and directness of Bellatrix’s words were like music to her ears. And better yet, there was no sense in the woman’s eyes that she was even processing what she was saying. Isabella wove her way towards the back. And though in appearances, removing the rather small cup from her bag and handing it over was rather unceremonious, she knew exactly how significant the moment was.

Bellatrix tapped the second shelf three times with her wand, and in an instant a ladder conjured in front of them. Cup in hand, she climbed on to the ladder and ten taps later, it rather quickly took her up ten shelves higher. There on the high shelf almost entirely out of eyesight was a cup that looks almost identical to the cup Regulus commissioned.

Isabella had located Helga Hufflepuff’s cup. The third horcrux.

Suddenly, her hands felt clammy and she was finding it hard to breath.

The two cups weren’t exactly the same.

There was, admittedly, only the slightest size difference between the two. It wasn’t enough to notice, not unless the cups were next to each other, but it was still a visible difference. They had gotten lucky it wasn’t substantial; Regulus had gone to someone who specialized in that period of artifacts and was keenly aware of the standard size. Had he not, it could’ve easily been far, far worse.

But it wasn’t just the size difference that troubled her. Had she had more time to think before embarking on this adventure, she would’ve questioned how the cup had been listed on the bank statements. Was it listed as a horcrux? A cursed chalice? Because what she was now replacing it with may look identical, almost, but was in fact substantially different. She quickly toyed with the idea of asking Bellatrix to come back down with both cups so she could at least put some sort of curse on the replica, but there was always a chance that, in and of itself, would draw more attention to the artifact.

She had to hope that they’d opted for subtlety – that the cup was merely listed as a small gold chalice, or at most a badger chalice. She had no way to know.

But the moment the cup transferred from Bellatrix to Isabella, there was a strange sort of fatalism that washed over her. There would come a time when their activities would be made public. It had to be that way. The cave had already been destroyed. She could hope that day would not be today, that it would not be this adventure that exposed them, but if it was, then she would adapt. She had enough friends that had learned to live their lives as enemies of the Dark Lord, she would learn too. She was now in possession of the third horcrux and she would not let any perceived shortcomings take away from her tremendous accomplishment.

And with that, she slipped the real cup into her purse.

“Let’s get going back to 12 Grimmauld,” she heard Bellatrix state, devoid of any thought, as she made her way towards the entrance.

Isabella followed suit and before she knew it, they were in the rickety cart heading back up towards the ground level. If the journey down to the caverns of the bank was marked by a growing chill and increasing darkness, the opposite could obviously be said about the exit. Every level they climbed felt warmer, brighter - more inviting. By the time they made it back to the lobby, Isabella was feeling as though she was on top of the world and was having to watch herself to make sure she didn’t strut out of Gringotts – they, of course, had enough attention on them without her treating the alley between the bank tellers as her personal runway.

They marched their way past the anti-apparition points of Gringotts and in an instant were standing on the other side of the front gate of 12 Grimmauld.

There was just one obstacle left and Isabella was feeling oh-so good about her ability to accomplish it.

“Don’t move,” she commanded the moment they crossed the threshold of the door. She sprinted up the staircase and threw Hufflepuff’s cup into the guest bedroom just off of the second-floor landing. She was going to lift the Imperius curse and she would not do it while also holding such a precious item.

She took the steps two and a time back down, and just as she’d been the last time, Isabella found Bellatrix patiently waiting her further instructions. Standing in the front hall, she began the memory charm - smoothly, calmly, deliberately.

“You came to talk to me about my recent activities. We sat in the drawing room and discussed how we did, in fact, talk with Morfin Gaunt in Azkaban. How we knew that he was the last descendent of Salazar Slytherin going into the conversation. And how more so than anyone else on that list, we wanted to talk to him because of what he represented of wizarding kind. The end of one of the greatest wizarding families to ever live. And then we understood nothing. We wasted half of our time in Azkaban trying to speak with the last descendent of Slytherin just to discover that if he ever had spoken English, he no longer could.

We had known that Parseltongue was a way to communicate with snakes, but we didn’t realize it was a language, exactly. And then after everything, as we were trying to learn more about Parseltongue, we realized just how very rare of a talent it is. How, truly, it seems only those descended from Slytherin himself are Parselmouths. How it is both a language and a genetic trait. And in that moment, we realized what we had done. And there was nothing we could do. We anonymized the subjects of the article, scrapped any mention of a language barrier, and buried any indication of why any of these men were important to society.

And Bella, you will remember conceding that it would’ve been awfully bold of us to submit a written request to a Death Eater, listing the specific names we wished to visit, if we knew exactly who was on that list.

You will remember this conversation. You will not remember any other conversation on the subject. There was no argument, nothing that surprised you; this was a frank conversation amongst family. A check-in, of sorts.

From there, you will remember that the conversation pivoted to why we were so injured a few weeks ago. The answer was necromancy. The details were not important, but you will remember that it was a trivial, personal curiosity that led me to dive into the depths of magic that have been taboo to explore for centuries. And then you will remember me asking you if you had any need for more creative forms of revenge. And with that, we went to Gringotts.

You, of course, remember all of Diagon Alley and Gringotts, except in the Lestrange vault; you simply dropped off the tea set and you had me wait at the vault entrance. The ordeal could not have been swifter. You apparated me home because I’m still a bit weak from the ordeal last month. We just arrived.

You remember nothing of a cup. No conversations surrounding it, no actions taken. There were no serious take-aways from this check-in with me except, Bella, that I am a darker and crueler witch that you realized.”

And with that, Isabella dropped the Imperious Curse.

“Oh, good Merlin,” Isabella managed to gasp before she found herself clinging to the wall for support, urging herself to stay conscious.

It was as though all positive emotions, all confidence, all strength she had been feeling had all been derived from that single spell. It felt like the crashing comedown from the greatest euphoric high she had ever felt. She wasn’t just mentally and physically exhausted; the exhaustion was accompanied by paranoia, anxiety, and crippling guilt – made worse because she couldn’t find a rational that didn’t justify every one of those emotions.

“What’s wrong with you now?” Bellatrix asked coldly. Though unsympathetic, there was no malic or anger in her voice.

This was the last step. She only needed to pull it together for long enough to see her companion gone.

“Apparating still sucks. Good and bad ones. This was a bad one,” she grimaced, bracing herself against the wall.

“And yet, you feel this is a practice you want to encourage others to try…”

“Maybe do it correctly?” Isabella tried her best to sound humorous, but knew it fell flat.

Bellatrix just stared at her. “Honestly, Isabella, you’ve changed. And I don’t know what to make of it, really. I don’t know if we should be thrilled or absolutely terrified.” She paused for a moment as if she intended to say more, but finally just shook her head.

With a sigh, Bellatrix headed back out the door and left Isabella alone in 12 Grimmauld without saying another word.

Chapter Text

Chapter 44: The Disappearance

Sirius stared at the fireplace for a good while after Isabella departed, and his eyes kept returning to it even after it became clear she wouldn’t be returning through it. Had he known, he would’ve left with her. But to fetch a book? “Oh do I need an escort now?” he could practically hear her tease. He should’ve done it anyway. He’d have felt better if he had - the inkling sensation deep in his chest told him that much.

The situation was unusual. The papers, still strewn across the coffee table where Isabella had abandoned them, served as a constant reminder. But it was more than the outside world clouding things; the conversation surrounding the articles, and the search, and the ensuring fight. He had enough on his mind, he could only imagine what was going through hers.

So to just leave was, itself, usual. In a way, it reminded him of the bathroom conversation coming off of Veritaserum, where he felt a barrier between them that he hadn’t expected nor noticed before.

He would’ve liked to go with her - preferred it, really - but he would’ve settled for knowing she was going at all. This it wasn’t how it was done between them.

And any way he looked at it, this wasn’t how she operated. If she was done with the conversation or her company, she was one to say it. As much as he had agreed with her, she hadn’t exactly been, by definition, agreeable. For what was looking like a no-holds-barred approach, not saying she was leaving was an odd place to draw the line.

As the remaining three rehashed the conversation in her absences, Sirius was reminded how very… different the things she’d been saying were. Lily pummeled him with probing questions, one after another, in an attempt to get him to take a verbal side in their argument, or at the very least concede that he certainly didn’t believe in whatever exaggerated version of Isabella’s argument she was fixating on in that moment.

James, matching his wife’s artistic subtlety, changed the subject no less than three times.

Sirius didn’t have to sit through it. That same gut feeling that told him he should’ve walked out with her reminded him that could leave at any time. But he didn’t. Nor was he there fully. Somewhere, torn between the two paths, he sat in numb discontent, contemplating if he ought to be apologizing for her absence or demanding an apology for her absence.

But he didn’t do either. It was better, he found, to shut out anything more than discontent. There was nothing worth feeling fully unless that explosion was well and truly worth it. Unless it was more productive to let it go, he suppressed it. All of it. He knew Isabella shared his philosophy in this. When thoughts or fears or anything - anything strong - pushed to the surface, it was all-consuming; an explosion of emotion, raging too hot to contain. But that point rarely came now. It didn’t have to, not anymore. It was better for everyone.

And, it seemed, everyone expected it.

But in that moment, he found the truth of such analysis rather contributed to his discontent. Because, frankly, who were James and Lily to expect such a thing? Why had his maturity been such an outstanding expectation, but their own? Why was their own youthful judgement of risks and choices and beliefs so welcome?

Did they not wonder where she was? Did her departure embarrass them? Or affect them at all?

He slumped further into his chairs, eyes taking in the both of them. So confident in their own dominion, so posed, so gracious. So generous of them to host them after everything; that was what he was supposed to think, right? How mature of them?

Yet he felt no urge to speak.

Of course, he ought to watch himself. Say too little, they reprimand them. Say too much – well, he saw the consequences.

Back and forth, back and forth.

Really, who were they to even take on Isabel—

“It was out of character for her not to come back,” Lily’s statement cut through his mental train. “There’s practically nothing in this world that she likes more than to dive into technicalities. And in this case? When I’m certain she knows the law better than me?”

Sirius’ jaw clenched.

Clearly the absence was felt, very much so if his companions’ faces were the determiners.

There was a certain tension that sprang from Lily’s words and rested on his shoulder - it was undoubtedly true; Isabella would’ve relished in tearing apart every one of Lily’s arguments. And he knew it.

Why had his head not gone there?

No, it had, he recalled. But then the blame shifted, along with the concern, and the emotion, and then nothing. But nothing excused the fact that Lily was right, and he knew it, and yet he hadn’t been the one to speak up.

“You agree she’s been different, though, right? You both have been,” James tried.

“Not fundamentally,” Sirius said.

Why hadn’t he been the one to speak up?

“Then… what?” James tried to pull more out of him.

“I’m sure it’s nothing…” Sirius downplayed the sudden feeling of dread coursing through him. Already rising from his chair, he continued, “but you know – with everything – I’m gonna run to 12 Grimmauld – maybe she got stuck in a conversation with my brother. Or worse, my mother.”

He dodged and swerved around the Potter’s living room furniture and entered the fireplace and flooed off in what felt like a single motion.

It had only taken him 15 minutes for every doubt, fear, every paranoid inkling to feel entirely justified.

“SHE’S NOT HOME!” Sirius shouted as he re-emerged through the fireplace. Frantic didn’t even begin to describe his motions. “She’s not at 12 Grimmauld,” he panted, “not at our house, none of the elves have seen her, my brother isn’t home, I didn’t see my mother either, I have NOTHING to go on!”

“Slow down,” James launched from his seat to address the chaos that had just blown in, “that’s only two places. It’s a big world and she’s a free woman. Where does she go when she gets stressed?”

Sirius paced the living room with such ferocity; he risked starting a fire from the friction of his boots on the carpet.

“James,” Lily interjected, “Isabella doesn’t exactly get stressed. I’m surprised she doesn’t have a tattoo that says ‘the cure to stress is solutions.’”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” James reprimanded, “what would you call spending an hour sitting on our floor reading articles about herself in silence then? Meditative?”

How did he miss this? Sirius chastised himself. If something were to-- if something had happened to her…

How was he not there again?

“Plotting?” Lily offered.

“Oh seriously, Lil! Obviously, she’s stressed out! She’d not a bloody psychopath! She feels emotions! Sirius, feel free to chime in – this is your wife we’re talking about!”

“I don’t know,” he found himself saying, unable to focus.

As James’ words finally resonated, Sirius realized he’d never hear anything quite as pathetic as those three little words.

“No wait, no, she’s not a psychopath, she has plenty of emotions. It’s just easier not to,” he threw out with no filter behind his words.

Because it was true, wasn’t it? And it had been true for some time. But that reality didn’t give him comfort, nor a sense of control.

“What the hell are you on about?!” James asked incredulously. “Who the talks like that? You do care, don’t you?”

“YES! Of course I care – don’t go there,” Sirius bit back. “I-I’m stressed and she’s unpredictable, okay? I’m stressed. And I just – I don’t know what to do,” he breathed out the words in a whisper. “I can’t lose her.”

“Now you don’t go there,” Lily snapped. “We are absolutely not jumping to that conclusion. Let’s just say for a moment that we’re all right – she’s stressed, she finds stress unproductive, and she’s unpredictable. Where does she go then?”

“Hogwarts? Gringotts?” James ventured.

“No, she wouldn’t go without me. And not after everything that’s happened, she knows we need to lay low, at least for now.”

Something had happened and he wasn’t there again. Just like the trial, he wasn’t there. It didn’t matter if she needed him or not, he had to stop thinking in those terms, he should’ve been there. And he wasn’t. Once again.

“And if she knows that she needs to lay low for a while,” Lily tried, “that eliminates her trying to go to the Nott’s or Lestrange’s to learn mo—”

“STOP. Just stop being FUCKING optimistic for a second!” Sirius spat the words out like a retched taste in his mouth. “She’s stressed and completely handicapped by the need to lay low. She would’ve taken the small victory and beat you in a semantical debate until you were apologizing for ever having READ the articles about her. THAT is how she would’ve channeled whatever the hell she’s going through. The articles aren’t some interesting footnotes to this whole ordeal, they’re why she’s missing. Not because Lily threw them in her face – which was SUCH a fucked-up thing to do, I might add – but because it put a target on her back.”

“Do you really think…”

“I need to talk to Regulus.” Sirius cut him off.

“Do you think she’s with him?” James asked.

“Maybe? Maybe not, but it has to be someone in my family, right? If she met then at 12 Grimmauld? And at least he’ll know if anything’s… in the works.”

“We’ll come with you,” Lily offered.

“To wait at 12 Grimmauld? No no. No, you don’t have to – I don’t expect you all to ever have to work together.”

“It’s fine, I can’t help but feel like I caused this and I’m not about to do nothing to help.”

“You didn’t print the articles – if I’m right, at least you gave us a heads up. You’ve helped already. You really don’t need to do this.”

“We do,” James replied, unwavering. “We’re not letting you do this alone - we don’t even know where this is going to go.”

“What about Harry? You can’t leave him home alone and you’re absolutely not bringing him.”

“I’ll run over to Bathilda’s and see if she wouldn’t mind coming up,” Lily said. “She positively adores him. He’ll sleep the whole time anyway.”

“Fine, fine.” Sirius paused his incessant pacing and slumped on the couch as Lily rushed off. “Bring the invisibility cloak,” he said absently, eyes never turning from the fireplace.

“You think it’s that much of a risk? I was welcome before.”

“Welcome…” Sirius let his words trail off, his meaning understood by both of them. “But that was then.”

“Lily.”

It was neither a question, nor a statement; just an acknowledge of a reality they both understood as well.

“The invisibility cloak,” Sirius said, firmer this time, “I’d bring it.”

“Dumbledore has it.”

“Are you… what?! Why does Dumbledore have your invisibility cloak? No. You know what? We’ll get into that another time. I don’t want to know right now.”

He couldn’t handle anything else right now.

“Earlier,” James started, the slightest trepidation in his voice, “what was that? Are things between you and Isabella alright?”

“We’re fine. I’m just -” Sirius picked up and discarded half a dozen explanation for what he was feeling. Most seemed to barely scratch the surface, and the ones that dug deeper said more than he was willing to say.

The truth was, none of this was fine. He had a bad habit of letting Isabella carry far more burden than anyone should; she would always volunteer and he knew she could take it. Her resilience and ambition and drive were all things he’d fallen in love with, but these were skills forged in fire. It was as though he had been sitting by, watching her drown because he knew over the years of getting thrown in the deep-end, she’d learned how to keep her head above water.

But she wasn’t swimming.

Neither of them was, of course. But it felt as though she was there for him in a way that he consistently failed to be there for her. She would’ve noticed that he did something completely out of character far before James did. She would’ve followed him out in the first place. She would’ve sat on the floor and poured over every one of those articles with him, by his side.

It felt as though every time she’d truly needed him, he’d been too distracted, too out of it, or too uncaring to be anything more than a presence. And sometimes, he’d even failed at that.

The strangest part of the guilt was that it was a level of affection that he wasn’t sure Isabella would even know to ask for. How very pureblood of him, setting an expectation that Isabella could never be anything less than her very best. And she performed, of course she did. In moments of weakness, he gave her nothing. He’d been so indifferent in his outward appearance James had asked if he even cared…

There was no right way to describe to his friend that he felt he was facing one of his first true failings in his marriage. James had held up a mirror to his behavior and he absolutely loathed the person he saw looking back. And how could he explain that he could only hope that he would get the chance to redeem himself, because there was no other option.

He would not survive losing her.

There had been an unmistakable co-dependency between the two of them. Their actions, opinions, behaviors, and beliefs could all be justified so long as they both agreed on it. They were making the right choice, so long as they were making it together. They’d spent the better part of a year coxing each other closer and closer to the ledge, teetering right on the precipice of destruction. And maybe this was a needed wake-up call, not just because it shined a light on the person he had become, but because it was a preview of how this was going to end.

Sirius had, for better or for worse, assumed that if they went down, they would be going down together. It had never occurred to him that one could fall before the other.

“She’ll be okay,” James tried to comfort him. “You know how tough she is, she can hold her own.”

“I know, but she shouldn’t have to. She shouldn’t -” his voice hitched, “she shouldn’t have to be that tough.”

“She’s always been that way.”

“Then she has nothing better than what she’s always had,” Sirius said, defeated. “No more of a support system than she’s always had. What kind of husband does that make me?”

“That’s not -” James faltered only for a second, but it said enough.

“Right,” Sirius replied coolly.

Before James could even muster up a response, Lily bounded back in the room with Bathilda Bagshot at her heels.

“Ready?” she asked, barely taking a second to process the tension between Sirius and her husband.

Sirius rose to give Bathilda a polite, but quick greeting, before swiftly before making his way over the fireplace. Time, he feared, was of the essence.

“Sirius,” Lily called before he could send off, “there’s no anti-muggleborn wards or anything at 12 Grimmauld, are there?”

“If such a thing existed, I’m sure there would be. But they don’t – of course they don’t, how could they Really?” He shook his head.

Under better circumstances, it would’ve been a nice reminder that there were still differences between him and his parents.

But now, it just felt like a waste of time.

They searched the house from top to bottom before conceding there was no evidence Isabella had even been there. They’d settled in the drawing room, determined to wait for someone – preferably Regulus – to return for any answers they could get.

The Potters looked antsy; the combination of having to interact with Regulus Black, or even potentially his mother, who would hardly take well to James’ presence, let alone Lily’s, and sitting in the macabre living room of the Black’s home meant their guard was up.

“Fuck!” James leapt up from his seat, tearing their attention to the drawing room window.

Within a second, Sirius and Lily joined him to watch Isabella and Bellatrix Lestrange herself walking up the short, front walkway.

“Oh thank MERLIN,” Sirius sighed in relief.

She was alive, and for a moment, that was all that mattered.

“Sirius!” James snapped his attention back.

Both of the Potter’s stood behind him, wands out, glancing between him and the front door. He felt a twinge of guilt that he hadn’t immediately realized the implications for the Potters – and for him – of any sort of interaction with his cousin. But now was not the time for reflection or remorse; he had to act. Fast.

“Upstairs. Now.”

“You can’t possibly expect- ”

“I’m not making any assumptions about any of this and I can’t possibly imagine you think this is an appropriate time. Upstairs, now.”

With only a glance between the each other, James and Lily followed him up to the guest bedroom, just off of the landing on the second floor.

“That wasn’t what I was implying,” Lily replied in a shouted whisper, “you can’t expect us to just let the Bellatrix Lestrange walk out of here?”

“Unless she lays a finger on Isabella, that’s exactly what I expect.”

“Padfoot, mate -”

“No. This isn’t up for discussion. My cousin can’t duel two Order members in a Black family home. Any uncertainty of our allegiances is gone. I don’t care if you think you’ll win, either. She can’t die in 12 Grimmauld – too many questions. And I need to know exactly what’s happened -”

But before Sirius could even finish his thought there were footsteps on the stairs. And not for the first time in his life, Sirius desperately wished there were far more opportunities to hide in that guest bedroom.

Wands out, they positioned themselves behind the door, so as it swung open it partially blocked them from view.

Whichever of the two women it was didn’t linger, but tossed a gold object on to the bed and then slammed the door behind her with the same force she’d opened it with. 

There was a quiet moment where none of the three knew quite how to interpret what just happened.

“What the hell is wrong with this room?” Sirius muttered to himself. James nodded fervently in agreement.

Lily was the first to move, venturing towards the bed to take a closer look at the thrown object and froze.

“Is that… the Hufflepuff’s cup? The replica? The one you commissioned?”

“But why would…” James asked as he moved to Lily’s side.

Sirius followed in turn and stared down at the gold chalice with the tell-tale badger design.

“Regulus commissioned it, actually, along with the locket…,” he felt the need to explain while his mind attempted to catch up with what he was seeing. No matter how he looked at it unable to shake the uneasiness of knowing that it was out and about while Bella was obviously in their home.

James was on much the same page, “Why would it be here right now? You all weren’t keeping it out in the open, were you? Somewhere Bellatrix Lestrange could see it?”

“No, no way. I don’t know where Reg was storing it but it wasn’t in the library or the drawing room, that can’t be it…” Sirius paused for a second absorbing the implications while staring intently at the cup in front of them. He couldn’t find a single explanation for why the cup had been in motion.

“Is it possible that it’s not, well, that it’s not the replica?” Lily asked cautiously.

“The Lestrange vault was one of the vaults in consideration, right?” James replied. “And Merlin-knows this was a productive use of her stress. But in reality, how? There’s just no way… right?”

Sirius felt both set of eyes turn towards him, begging for some sort of explanation or confirmation either way. But he had no idea what to make of this.

“I’m going down there,” Sirius said with a finality that made it clear he wasn’t to be questioned. There was no doubt that he meant alone, either. Sirius lingered at the doorway for just a moment longer. “Look, I know you want Bella dead, but you need to remember that she’s a symptom of the problem, not the cause. You don’t just hack away at the branches of a poisonous plant; you target the root.”

“If you take your wand out…” James began their old deal that they’d struck back in their Hogwarts days.

Sirius just nodded and opened the door as quietly as he could.

He would say that he was in the library when he heard them come in. Though he had no more of a reason to fear his cousin now than he had for the last few weeks, James and Lily’s warnings about the articles plagued his conscious. Her presence couldn’t be a good sign.

But whatever he was hearing didn’t sound like an argument, let alone a duel. He could hear his wife speaking in a steady, low voice, just out of earshot. He could make out bits and pieces; he heard the word ‘conversation’ a few times, and the word ‘check-in’. But then it got far more concerning as he was certain she was talking about ‘necromancy’ and ‘taboo’ and ‘revenge’, before it turned completely cryptic and it seemed Isabella was discussing some sort of ‘tea set’. And then her voice dropped even lower and everything fell quiet for a moment before he heard Isabella exclaim far louder than anything she’d said before

“What’s wrong with you now?” he heard Bella ask coldly.

“Apparating still sucks. Good and bad ones. This was a bad one,” Isabella answered, clearly in some degree of pain.

“And yet, you feel this is a practice you want to encourage others to try…”

“Maybe do it correctly?” Isabella replied.

“Honestly, Isabella, you’ve changed. And I don’t know what to make of it, really. I don’t know if we should be thrilled or absolutely terrified.”

Sirius didn’t waste a moment. Within seconds of the door closing behind Bella, he was down the stairs in the front hall. Isabella stood, eyes closed, back against the wall next to the door, looking as though she was gripping the wall for dear life.

Sirius ran over and swooped her up in his arms.

“You’re alive, you’re alright?!” Every cell in his body felt like it was on fire as his gaze wandered to the door where his cousin had just departed. “What the hell happened? What did she do?! Are you… you’re alright, aren’t you? You’re…”

His voice trailed off as she hung limp in his arms. It was as though she was barely acknowledging his presence.

He pulled her face up towards his own, “You’re okay, aren’t you?” he asked softly.

She stared at him for a moment, the weight of the world seemed to rest in her gaze.

“They know about Harry.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 45: Collision

It felt for a moment that everything froze.

“Wh-what?” he managed to stutter out.

“They know about Harry,” Isabella repeated. “Bellatrix said it was ‘above her.’”

“How did this – how did that even come up?! You didn’t—”

The question came out before he realized what he was asking. And no matter how much he regretted those two words, there was nothing he could do to take them back.

“Ask,” Isabella’s hollow expression taunted him. “Do it, Sirius. Ask me if I gave up my godson.”

“I didn’t -”

“Is that what you think of me?”

“Of course not!”

He watched as her eyes scan his face before retreating into a glassy stare.

“I never want to feel like that again,” her tone fell flat as she looked down at her feet.

He tried to reach out to her again, but she shrank from his touch.

“It—” she took a deep breath, “- it doesn’t matter. I handled it. I left you a present upstairs. Destroy it. I can’t be here right now.”

Isabella turned towards the fireplace in the drawing room, but Sirius grabbed her arm before she could leave again.

“Wait – no no no. What happened?! You left the Godric’s Hollow and went – where – to Gringotts?!”

“Let go of me,” she demanded.

He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been holding her until he saw the mold of his grip on her sleeves.

“Your cousin happened, Sirius. We talked and I stumbled over and over and over again. And she was going to kill you. And Lily. And probably Harry if it wasn’t ‘above her jurisdiction’,” her voice was shaking, “So don’t judge me for what I did next because I was out of options. I did what I HAD to do!”

“Isabella, I would never judge you. Don’t say that. That’s not even in the realm—” he shook his head. Fuck. Nothing was coming out the way it should. “I… I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am that this happened again. But I don’t understand - what did you do?”

“What do you think? How do you think I got Bellatrix Lestrange to come with me to Gringotts and then got her to leave just now, hmm?”

But before either of them could say it, someone was once again at the door.

Sirius had been right – eventually, Regulus was bound to turn up.

“Necromancy!” Regulus exclaimed as he spotted them in the hall.

“What?!” Sirius glanced between his wife and his brother. “And where the fuck were you, Reg? We’ve been looking for you!”

“And to think I thought I was going to die today – and it was the dead that saved me!” Regulus laughed. “Please, you think I was going to be allowed out and about while they interrogated you both? No. If you did something wrong, then I was just as dead as you.”

“What is he talking about?”

“Bellatrix wanted to know what I’d done that got me in front of the Wizengamot; I gave her necromancy.”

“Just you?” Regulus glanced at Sirius with a bemused expression on his face before turning back. “You made a compelling enough argument, I guess!”

“No, I didn’t,” Isabella stood a little taller. Apparently any sign of weakness, if that’s even a far description of what he’d just seen, was reserved exclusively for him. “I made a compelling enough correction.”

“Well, shit, that explains a lot more. I wasn’t privileged to stick around for the rest, but she wasn’t exactly singing your praises…”

“I didn’t think she would. I’m not that good at a memory charm.”

“Good enough, though. You landed it. I’m alive, you’re alive, sounds like you did well.”

“Wait, but Reg, what did you say? If you didn’t know Isabella was going to say necromancy--”

“Eh, I confirmed it was dark magic that backfired and that was really enough. They didn’t really ask. As you know, that obviously that wasn’t their main focus.”

“No, I don’t know!”

 Regulus looked at Isabella incredulously.

“Have you two not caught up?”

“No, and we’ll have to save that for later,” her curt response caught them both off guard, “I’m incredibly late for an appointment with my bed, and since Sirius has now made it clear that he actually came to 12 Grimmauld in search of you instead of me, I think my time here is up.”

Casting cold glance in Sirius’ direction, she turned and headed towards the fireplace.

“Isabella, please, ” Sirius tried to interrupt but she ploughed on.

“Oh and Regulus - top of your dresser, really? Really? Did make my life easier though. Don’t forget the firewhiskey; I think it’s rather essential.”

And with that, she was gone.

“Merlin – she didn’t, did she?! Do we have the third horcrux?!”

And before Sirius could even process the implications, Regulus was on a bee-line right for the stairs.

He froze.

There, waiting about half-way up the staircase, were the Potters, who’d been eavesdropping on the conversation.

“Oh good Merlin… you did say ‘we’, didn’t you? I should’ve asked.” Regulus chuckled, not taking his eyes off of the two Order members in front of him. “Speaking of a death sentence, you know I’m the friendliest face they could’ve run into here, and I have the Dark Mark.”

“Reg, don’t -”

“No Sirius, it’s not a threat. I’m just stating the facts. You brought Order Members to look for me? You brought a blood traitor and a mudblood to the Black family home?" Regulus was really laughing now. "It’s just… so bold!”

Sirius shoved Regulus away from the stairs and pinned him against the wall without a second’s hesitation.

“What’s wrong with you?” Sirius snarled. “Whose side are you on?!”

“Our side? My side? I don’t care! What’s wrong with you? Bringing them here?”

“Sirius,” James said, making his way downstairs, “fight with your family in your own time.”

He loosened his grip on his brother who took the opportunity to shoved him away and smooth down his robes.

The freedom didn’t last long.

“You -” James pointed his wand right between Regulus’ eyes, “what do you know about our son?”

“You… have a son?” Regulus questioned in a rather dismissive tone. “Does that answer your question?”

“No, it doesn’t. We have good reason to believe he might be of interest to the Death Eaters. You’re one of them, what do you know?”

“I’d prefer to not be ‘one of them’ thank you. Sirius, wanna call your lacky off? I’m not appreciating the interrogation.”

“No. Now, stop being an arse and answer the damn question.”

“I don’t know anything, I swear,” Regulus only addressed Sirius. “I didn’t know they had a son until right now. Who’d you hear it from, Bella? I don’t think I could be further removed from the conversations of the inner circle. Whatever’s going on there I’m not privy to. Also, how did I not know your best friends had a son?”

“There were good reasons for keeping that information on a need-to-know basis.”

“And of course, I didn’t need to know.” Regulus turned back to the Potters. “My brother and his wife love keeping their secrets, I’m sure you’ve learned that as well. And your son… frankly, people – no matter how old – don’t last very long once the Dark Lord’s decided he wants them dead. Take comfort in the fact your son’s alive.”

“Is that supposed to be reassuring?” Lily asked, aghast, leading against the wall by the stairs.

Regulus just shrugged before turning back to Sirius. “I figured once you produced the sketch of the cup that you must be working with them or some other of your friends from school. So I’m assuming we don’t need to obliviate them?”

“No, yeah, all set there.”

“Swell. And Isabella got the cup? The real one? Is that what she was implying?”

“Yeah, I think she did.” A hint of pride slipped into his voice. “I’ll destroy it.”

“Do you need help?” Regulus asked, his eyes turning towards James, now standing at Sirius’ side. “I suppose if you did, you’d be asking James Potter though, isn’t that right?”

“I think I will ask James, thanks though.”

“Of course,” Regulus said dryly, shoving past the two towards the stairs, “I best not forget my place.”

“Don’t fool yourself, Reg, you earned your place. Just as James has.”

As Regulus made his way upstairs, Sirius turned back to the Potters, “Anything else you two wish to yell at me about? It looks like I’m O for four today, which is awfully impressive.”

The Potters just stared at him, neither looking like they had much to add to the conversation. The truth was no matter how shitty he might be feeling, they probably felt worse.

The Dark Lord knew about Harry.

“James – are you… are you up to help me destroy this horcrux? I know getting confirmation that… it can’t be easy, if you need space and time I completely -”

“No,” James said, quietly at first before standing up a little straight and speaking with more conviction. “No. I want it destroyed. That’s far more productive than wallowing. And your brother’s right. We know Harry’s… but he’s not yet a target. We’ll do everything in our power to make sure it never gets there.”

Lily departed to relieve Bathilda Bagshot of Harry duty, and Sirius and James made their way back to St. Helens in the Scillies. Sirius had never used Fiendfyre before and he felt it best to give himself the same safety net they’d given Isabella the first time she’d done it when destroying the Gaunt ring. The isle was far less daunting in the evening light, with no lighthouse light strobing in the distance, though the frigid spring breeze was far less subtle than it had been in the dead of summer.

Sirius worked fast. He knew the opening and closing incantations and he knew he needed to feed it all the rage he could pour into it; and Merlin, did he have a lot to offer it.

He unceremoniously dropped the cup on a rock and took a solid fifteen paces back.

“Octavia would be absolutely distraught right now,” James muttered to himself.

“She’ll never know,” Sirius said. “Pestis Incendium!”

And with that, the flames left from his wand and immediately began to take form. All it took was running through the list of everyone he’s nearly gotten killed today. His wife, who he’d left sitting on the floor flipping through articles in a panic. Who he’d let wander into the clutches of his maniacal cousin. Who he hadn’t even thought to go looking for until her best friend thought to mention how extraordinarily out of character it all was. And then his brother, an unwilling Death Eater, who he’d partnered with not one, but two Order members to locate, after spending hours hearing how much they loathed him. And then his best mate and his wife, who he’d led into what was arguably the least welcoming home in the UK. Regulus had been right; he was the best person they could’ve run into and he was still a marked Death Eater.

Perhaps he was incredibly lucky. And unlucky man would’ve seen the four of the people he cared about the most in this world dead within a six-hour span.

The thought didn’t just chill him to the bone, it caught him off guard; had Regulus and Lily really replaced Remus and Peter in his mind?

“SIRIUS!” he heard James’ voice shout to his left.

“OCIDIO PESTIS!”

There, before him, was a charred hole in the ground where a rock and cup had once stood. He hadn’t just gotten rid of the horcrux, he had been well on his way to taking the island with him. He was finding it difficult to breathe and steady his heartrate.

“I-I need to sit,” he found himself saying before collapsing on to the stone next to James.

“You did it – that bad?”

“Bloody exhausting,” Sirius sighed, leaning back and staring at the blue sky, wondering how something so open could simultaneously feel so oppressive. He pulled the hipflask of firewhiskey out and took a few swigs – Isabella had been right; it made a tremendous difference.

“Can we – can we chat for a minute?”

“Yeah,” James replied, the slightest hint of confusion in his response.

“You know Peter’s hasn’t dropped by in well over year? I don’t know why. I don’t know what, if anything’s changed. He just stopped coming.”

“He’s been busy with his mother getting sick and the Order…”

“I know. I know that. But it’s like we’re not even friends anymore, and I don’t think I realized that. It’s like he’s your friend, that I see through you.”

“Have you made the effort?”

“No. No of course I haven’t. And that’s on me. But… it’s Wormtail, he always made the effort, you know?”

“Yeah.”

“And then Remus -”

“You can’t fault yourself for Moony; he’s gone 90% of the time, and when he’s back…”

“And when he’s back, he’s back for Order meetings. Right?” Sirius filled in the blanks.

“Right.”

“It’s like they don’t know where to put me anymore. And don’t say it, please. I know – I-I know.”

There was an uncomfortable silence where Sirius couldn’t tell if James didn’t know how to respond or if he didn’t want to.

“Do they ever ask about me? They haven’t just -”

“All the time.” James leaned back next to Sirius, propping himself up on his elbows. “I wanted to say this earlier… well, no, I didn’t, or would’ve said it. I wanted to say anything but this. But you should know, Dumbledore has instructed the Order to treat you and Isabella as though you’re Death Eaters.”

Sirius’ head fell back.

“I told you it was coming, after the New Years photo. But he escalated it, after the trial. Half the inner circle was there at her defense. I can’t blame him.”

“That was just… my grandfather didn’t know.”

“How much does he know now?”

Sirius just shook his head.

“Moony, Wormtail – they don’t know what to think. I told you -” Sirius’s glare cut him off. “But they do trust Dumbledore. And they don’t know you any better than the version of you that’s in the news right now.”

“Then they ought to fucking ask instead-”

“I think,” James interrupted, “they don’t want to know.”

Those five words hurt more in an instant Sirius could describe.

But only for an instant.

He couldn’t stand to feel anything like that any longer.

“Sometimes I think I don’t even know,” Sirius muttered, eyes turning back to the sky. “It didn’t feel blurred when we started.”

“And now…?”

“Now we’re acting like Death Eaters and members of the Order of the Phoenix at the same time. Both notice, and both hate us for it.”

“You don’t act like a Death Eater. And your friends don’t hate you.” James paused for a moment before lowering his voice, “You’re not a bad person, Sirius.”

“When does someone’s actions catch up with them, hmm?” He felt the emotions spilling into his tone and he tried to pull it back before it got too far out of hand. “When does someone go from being a good person who does questionable things, to simply being a bad person?”

James tried to play it off as though there was any hint of humor in Sirius’ question, but there was an unmistakable touch of concern in his reply.

“You’re safe until the good actions are outnumbered by the bad.”

Sirius turned and looked up into James’ hopeful eyes in front of him and buried the urge to smack the look off his face.

Instead, he ground his teeth and slowly nodded in agreement.

“Well then,” he said calmly, “I’m cutting it awfully close.”

“Don’t say that –.”

“Weren’t that told me that if I wanted to have people in my life that cared about me, I needed to change?”

“That was forever ago, and you did change.”

“For the amount of space in my mind that that comment takes up, you’d expect me to be a model fucking citizen,” Sirius laughed.

James didn’t.

“When I took the potion back in the cave, I got a reprise of that whole night with Snivellus and Moony. And you know what I realized? My problem has always been that I don’t know where to draw the line. I don’t know how to stop. I will charge ahead unrelentingly until I muck things up so badly that I’m forced to a stop. Even now – I know what almost happened today, but Isabella’s alive, you’re all alive, we destroyed a horcrux, and my mind is giving me the signal to keep going. Keeping pushing. How fucked up is that?”

“You’re driven by the right reason here. But then let us make this call; let yourself take a break. You and Isabella both need it. Don’t jeopardize what we’ve already accomplished.”

“So we stop, and then what? Does Moony come home? Does Wormtail start stopping by? Merlin – is Harry safe?”

“Padfoot, some of those aren’t yours to fix.”

There was something about this that James just couldn’t understand; things that couldn’t be seen when a person had no moral quandaries. It helped, Sirius imagined, to be part of an organization where James knew he could not do everything, and nor was he expected to; he was a part of a whole and to do his part well was enough.

To Sirius, there was no such thing as enough; there was a target, and then there was everything that fell short of that.

“Do you think things would’ve been better had I joined the Order with you all right out of school? Is that where this all went wrong?” he asked.

“No. I don’t… I don’t know. Things would’ve been different, but I don’t think better. I won’t lie to you and say that I didn’t resent you for it. And I think you are further removed from Moony and Wormtail because you didn’t join; I think that’s what you’re getting at and it’s probably a fair assessment.”

James straightened himself up and spoke calmly and deliberately. He wasn’t condescending, but there was something about his tone that was reminiscent of a priest speaking to a convict.

“Everyone knows your life would be better if the Death Eaters win. You don’t need tell me how and where your views differ from theirs, I know. But you, Sirius Orion Black, and your wife, Isabella Rosier Black, you both would be far better off under a Death Eater regime than one led by the Order. And you have done nothing publicly to make anyone else believe you feel otherwise – Moony and Wormtail included. I know far more than they know, and I would argue that you’ve taken a rather selfless stance, because I imagine it’s hard to feel passionate about a cause where it seems the outcome would hurt you more than help you.

“So I almost hate to tell you, I think your life would’ve been far easier had you joined the Order. I don’t know how it would’ve worked for Isabella, but I think you wouldn’t have minded losing your family the same way you mind growing apart from your friends. I think you would’ve had a lot more allies than you currently do. And you never would’ve been in this horcrux business.

“But Sirius, that’s the problem. You have done more for the Cause not being in the Order than you ever could’ve had you joined. Your brother never would’ve approached you about the horcruxes. Half of the things you learned early on were because of your family and access to their resources. And the other half have been because of your family name and influence.”

“So,” Sirius lay flat on his back, only his eyes still found James', “my life is worse, but the world is better off? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Maybe. Or maybe not. I don’t know that Isabella ever would’ve joined the Order. Or could’ve, if I’m being honest. She would’ve been the only Slytherin, and you two would’ve been the only two from Dark families. You might not’ve had an alternative. So what do you have today? You have a wife who couldn’t be more perfect for you. A family and a Sacred House, and all of the power and stability that comes with it. A career. Wealth beyond measure. You haven’t lost your friends. And Padfoot, you have means to actually help your godson. You didn’t choose the easy path, but this doesn’t feel like the worse path either.”

It took him a moment to process James’ words, and if he was honest, it would take him a few more days, if not weeks, for them to really sink in. But, for the first time in a very long time, Sirius found he was almost willing to say that maybe had done something right.

“Then what now?”

“Go home. Invite Wormtail over for dinner tomorrow. Owl Remus and see when he’ll be back in town. And with Isabella… you two need each other right now. Take some time, get your lives together, stay out of the news and off the Death Eaters' radars. Let things calm down. Things’ll get better.”

“I don’t know…”

“They will.”

“They know about Harry.”

It was James’ turn to fall silent. His head leaned back, neck craning at an unnatural angle, eyes fixed on the sky as though there were some answers to be found in the pale blue that stretched on as far as the eye could see.

“We… we don’t know how long they’ve known. This could be old news.”

He didn’t want to break his friend’s optimism but he knew his words rang hollow.

“Prongs? Are you -”

“I’m not ready to call it. I-I’m not. There was a dozen or more kids born the same day in St. Mungos alone, let alone other hospitals outside of London, or – no,” James said with finality. “It’s too early to call it.”

“In the Order?”

“What?”

“Order member’s children… born on July 31^st?”

“You don’t have to be in the resistance itself to defy someone, it – it could mean anything. Merlin, you’ve rejected joining the Death Eaters at least three times; you’ve defied him. Others have to!”

“Semantics.”

“Exactly!”

Sirius gritted his teeth. He found himself growing annoyed by James’ optimism, as though everyone ought to be as bitter, as jaded, as hollow as he felt. But at least part of him was conscious enough to realize that he needed to hold his tongue. No one would benefit if he tried to bring James down to his level.

“And besides,” James continued, “even if it was the Order, Harry’s still not the logical choice. Neville – the Longbottom’s boy – he's a pureblood.”

But sometimes, knowing something and doing something are very different.

“And Tom Riddle is?”

Chapter Text

Chapter 46: Just Red

Sirius crashed into his bedroom. He wasn’t drunk, but his body was heavy and slow, as though his brain wasn’t sending the right signals out to the rest of him. Exhaustion didn’t begin to cover the mental strain he was under. He was miserable in his own mind in a way that he hadn’t been in years – after all, it had been years since he’d made such stunning mistakes, one after another. In a way, he felt he almost deserved to rot in his own head, a fitting punishment for the spectacle he’d played such a pivotal role in.

At first, he thought Isabella was asleep and he hated the way relief washed over him. He wished it came from a place of love; a subtle warmth that after everything, she’d managed to fall asleep, a cup of tea still warm on the nightstand. But that wasn’t it.

His first thought, the thought that dictated every emotion that followed, was how lucky he was that he could postpone the conversation he knew they needed to have, even if it was just for a few hours. It was sickening, really. Selfish. But the truth was he didn’t know what to say. There were days, weeks, months, maybe years he needed to apologize for.

The words ‘I’m sorry’ felt beyond insufficient.

He joined her in their bed, and couldn’t help himself but wrap his arms around her. She felt cooler to the touch than he was used to, but her breathing, though labored, told him he had nothing to really fear. She burrowed herself against him, wrapping her legs through his and letting her head fall against his chest. He wouldn’t let go of her again, if he could help it. At least one part of him should be touching her at all times, just to keep her warm, keep her safe, keep her there by his side.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered, the words drowned out against his body.

He was almost too surprised that she’d beaten him to an apology to know how to respond, but he wouldn’t pull his words back. The emotions were too strong to filter himself, anything less than his genuine thoughts would sound superficial. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

“I almost got you killed today and you’re apologizing?” he whispered. “How fucked up is that?”

“You don’t know half—”

“No. Isabella, no.” He gave her an inch of space so he could study her face. “I should’ve come after you. Merlin, I should’ve left with you. I don’t care what you had to do; it’s my fault you had to do.”

“Sirius, I used your cous—”

“You could’ve killed her!” His voice rose. “You could’ve killed her and my answer would be the same. I don’t care so long as you’re alive and you’re safe. You should be – you have every right to be furious with me. Because of her, because of me, and - this,” he gestured around, “because… because I feel like I keep fucking up with you!”

“You don’t…” Her quiet tone made him realize just how loud he’d gotten.

“Please. Don’t flatter me; I know what I’ve done.”

She flinched ever-so-slightly and he pulled her in tighter.

There would be time to apologize for everything else in the coming days, but right now there was one thing that was eating him alive. A loose thread, weaved through every aspect of their lives together, making all too easy to pull them apart.

“You should be able to rely on me, does that – does that even occur to you?”

“I can rely on myself, you know?” she shot back, as though his remark bruised her pride.

“What kind of a support system am I if it doesn’t even occur to you to lean on me? You have the right to ask me for more.”

“Sirius, I like you don’t treat me like I’m breakable. Like I’m someone that needs to be rescued. I like the fact you know I can handle myself, and I can handle the situations I put myself in.”

“So I’ve given you nothing and you appreciate that?”

“You haven’t given me nothing, Sirius, you’ve given a life. And you’ve treated me like an equal – there is nothing better you could’ve given me!”

“But that’s not—”

“And I rely on you every day. In every way you look at it. You are it for me, don’t you see that? You have… I mean you have -” She gave him a faint smile but her lips were shaking. “- Sirius, you are everything to me.”

The vulnerability in Isabella’s voice wasn’t foreign to him, but it was so rare he could count the times he’d heard it. As much as he might’ve needed to hear it, her words were more painful than almost anything else she could’ve said. After everything he’d done…

“I almost got you killed today.”

“And I let you drink poison in a cave surrounded by Inferi.” Her voice was even softer now, as though she’d no longer had the air to put behind her words.

“And I let you face the Wizengamot alone.”

“You did not…”

“I let you face my grandfather alone.”

“He flattered me,” she said.

“Did he now?”

“And educated me.”

“Yeah. I bet he did. Because I brought you into this bloody family.”

“No, darling,” she cupped his cheeks with her hand and pulled his face towards her, “I brought you back.”

Isabella’s lips crashed against his. He knew he could’ve pulled away, and maybe he should have. The intimacy felt more like a reprieve than any sort of absolution; a postponement of a much harder conversation. But if he was honest, he wanted the diversion just as much as she seemed to.

He shifted so she was underneath him.

“You taste like peppermint—”

“Don’t,” she warned him, pushing back as her eyes shot over to the half-drunk cup. “Just… it’s not as instant as firewhiskey for… just...” her words trailed off as she shook her head.

“Are you okay?”

“No.”

She ran her hands through his hair, cutting the conversation by pulling him back. Her cool skin still warmed beneath his touch and he couldn’t believe how much he’d needed to just hold on to her. He ran his hand across her jaw, and down her neck, and let it linger there as his thumb toyed with her collar bone.

She wanted more.

Her grip and pull left lingering pressure across his back; her touch was ever-present.

“Shouldn’t we talk?” he tried breathlessly, lips barely able to escape hers.

“No. I don’t want to talk,” she bit the bottom of his lip, all the while pulling him closer towards her till there were no gaps between them. “I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to think. I don’t want to feel anything other than you.”

She traced her finger down his spine.

He shivered.

“I want you, Sirius.”

“You’ll always have me.” He moved his hand down, tracing a line along her waist down to her thigh.

“Then show me. Distract me. Please.” Her final word came out as a whispered plea.

Her request was one he knew he’d asked wordlessly countless times; he could oblige.

He could make her forget it all, if only for a while.

After, leaning back against the bedframe, he found he still couldn’t bring himself let go of her. Of course he couldn’t stand the idea of her leaving and disappearing again, but the way his chest tightened every time he thought of giving her space, he knew it was more complicated than that. It was as though some innate part of him knew that whatever conversation followed would highlight just how far away she really was from him, and physical proximity would have to compensate.

And yet, cigarette between his lips, Sirius prompted the very conversation he knew both of them were trying to avoid.

“Morfin Gaunt…”

“So Regulus told you Bellatrix knew?”

“Are you serious?!” he sat up straight. “Merlin, was that – in my head, that was only worst-case scenario. Was that really her focus?”

Isabella responded only with a laborious inhale and exhale.

“How the hell did you – so they know about the horcruxes?!”

“What?” She looked genuinely taken aback. “No, Bella knows the names of the prisoners we saw in Azkaban and grilled me on Morfin—”

“But so they haven’t made the connection to his shack?”

“Oh.” Isabella’s mouth fell open. “Oh fuck. I didn’t even think – I hadn’t even made that connection.”

“If the Dark Lord knows who we met with, he’ll make that connection in an instant. It’ll at least warrant checking. Since we’re not dead, he clearly hasn’t. But why would he not know?”

“Good Merlin…” She stared off towards the foot of the bed before continuing. “It’s… complicated. But I-I think Bellatrix is protecting us here. She used the Azkaban article to make it seem like they were making progress with us. But after everything, I think she started combing back through the proof and discovered the names of who we met with and realized there was more to the story. And that she had seriously and unforgivably messed up.”

Isabella took another deep breath before continuing, eyes unfixed on any one point.

“I think there were two possible outcomes from our conversation – either I convinced her that us meeting with Morfin Gaunt wasn’t a big deal, so she’d feel vindicated in saying nothing, or she killed me to cover it up. It got derailed – I derailed it – but in the end, I gave her enough. I mean, I hope,” Isabella’s voice fell at the end.

“Good. She won’t say a thing,” Sirus said with a degree of certainty only another Black could bring. “She knows she’s dead for not investigating in the first place, and she knows she’s certainly dead for covering it up. The problem is anyone else who knows who might not realize what they know.”

“Yaxley?”

Sirius nodded.

“Do you think he’s…”

“Still alive?” Sirius answered. “No, I don’t. If she’d gotten to a point where she was prepared to take you out to cover her tracks, he’s gone.”

Isabella had such an inscrutable expression on her face that he couldn’t quite tell how she felt about it. But he couldn’t bring himself to care. He had no sympathy for Yaxley. And it was better for them that he was dead.

If he learned Corban Yaxley was alive, he would propose killing him himself.

“Because of the Gaunt shack,” he continued seamlessly, “that information is a ticking time bomb. But…”

“But?” she prompted.

“It’s no different than the cave, right? As some point, someone’s going to go there and see that there’s nothing left of it and check everywhere else and see the same. The shack is a problem because we left a trail. An unconnected, pointless trail, but a clear trail nonetheless—”

“Merlin,” Isabella muttered under her breath, “I didn’t think I could regret the Chamber of Secrets any more than I already did.”

“—but no one left who knows will say a thing. And we’ll ride that for as long as we can with their camp.”

Sirius swallowed before pushing the next thought out.

“As for the Order, Dumbledore’s told them to assume we’re Death Eaters.”

She nodded slowly, absorbing his words.

“And they believe him?”

“How could they not?”

“They believe him?”

It took Sirius a moment to understand her question; it shouldn’t have, but it was a question he didn’t want to ask himself.

“The Potters of course don’t, but Peter and Remus…” his words trailed off.

Isabella just stared off again into the middle distance.

“We’ll fix it, of course,” he continued. “With Peter, with Remus, with all of them. We’ll fix it.”

Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, she began to shake her head.

“I can’t keep doing this.”

He could feel his throat tightening as the very thing he’d dreaded seeing began to reveal itself.

“You can’t keep doing what?” he asked carefully.

“How do you think this war ends, Sirius?” Her tone shifted in an instant. It wasn’t harsh, but it was blunt. She spoke calmly, making sure each of her words were understood to the fullest extent before moving on to the next. “What do you think life looks like after the Order wins?

“Our brothers are arrested, along with almost all of our cousins, half of our aunts and uncles – most of the families we grew up with are gone. And then do you think we’re safe? No. If they win, an entire side of the political equation is gone. There is no more debate; their side will have the ability to steamroll any policy into place with no one taking the opposing side. I know the issues that keep you up at night, so I want you to picture what that looks like. What that does to magic.”

Sirius racked his brain for a response, but he couldn’t think of a thing to say. He knew where it was coming from, of course. She’d started the same conversation when they were recovering from the cave; prompted after hearing similar rhetoric from his grandfather, he was sure. And maybe they should’ve circled back, but they didn’t. And then the fight this afternoon with the Potters. And whatever Bella had said to her.

He understood.

He knew exactly where it was coming from, but that didn’t mean he was ready to respond.

“We have no real allies,” she continued. “I don’t think either of us lasts beyond our grandparent’s generation. The laws will move too fast and we won’t be able to evolve fast enough with it. If we don’t stop this, if we don’t take a stand now—”

“What are you talking about? Are you – are you suggesting we need to – what – take a stand against the Order?”

She shrugged.

“Isabella – what? Us and what army? We’re sure as hell not joining the Death Eaters!”

“No, Sirius, no. You have more power than you have any idea, and we have the brainpower to make this work. I don’t know what the right course of action is, but how long do you think we last if we’re the darkest wizards not in Azkaban?”

“It won’t come to that,” he said, finding his footing in the conversation. “What’ll happen when the Order wins is that we won’t have blood purists dominating the conversation, not through media, nor through violence. An Order victory will cut out the voice of the cruelest amongst us. You assume we’re going to be the darkest wizards outside of Azkaban? I don’t assume that. We’re probably the lightest members of our families, and certainly not all of them are Death Eaters. The Dark families will lose political pull, I won’t disagree with you there. Our generation… well, our generation will take a heavy hit. But that is no guarantee of any sort of political direction.”

Even as he said it, he knew that was where she was going to bite back.

“Really? Are you not sure how they feel about the Dark Arts? Are you not sure how they feel about Magical Creature rights? Or education and integration? Or have you never heard them discussing our families before?”

“Yes, but have you ever met our families before, Isabella? I’m not sure anyone who’s in charge of keeping order and control feels blessed to deal with us.”

“With us, Sirius, exactly. With us. Forget the fact that I have sat before a Wizengamot with no Dark families before, I have seen what that looks like. But to say that no legal or political system or society works for us? Are we really so abnormal – so abhorrent – that that’s fair?”

“At least we’re better off under Order rule than James, Lily, or Merlin, Harry is under Death Eater rule!”

“That’s hardly the point! Why are we talking about better offs at all, Sirius! I don’t want the lesser of two evils; I don’t want to settle for ‘better off’. I am tired of pretending that this is all fixable and that I should even want to fix it! I am tired of pretending like we don’t LOSE at the end of this war!”

“What do you mean you don’t want to fix things? Look at us, Isabella, do you really think this really the best we can do? This is it? This is us now? There is a better version—”

“There is a different version of ourselves that our friends expect. But the best version of ourselves? The truest version? I’d be willing entertain a conversation on whether they even like that version of us.”

“How can you even say that?” The question came out before he could determine if he was more hurt or angered by her assessment.

Or whether the gutted feeling wasn’t a product of Isabella’s words at all, but the fact that it had been only hours since he’d all but made the same assessment.

“Because I see the way Lily flips back and forth on me ALL the time! She wants the best for me, she does, but she’s the only one that gets to define what the best is. If I don’t meet her definition, I fall in her eyes. And you know? It hurts; it really does. I’m not an insecure person, but Merlin Sirius, it’s fucking painful to be constantly misinterpreted, and reassessed, and always told that I’ve fallen short of the mark. Told that I am a worse person because of my unfavorable way of making a difference. My contributions to society are so obviously morally reprehensible to her, and she offers no alternative for me. In fact she’s condescending as all hell about it! And then she wonders why we keep things from her?!” Isabella paused her rant only for a moment to steady her breath. “And you know what Sirius? James does the exact same thing to you. And Remus and Peter? Merlin, Sirius, if we take James’ words at face value—”

“This isn’t their fault,” he interrupted, surprising even himself with the sharpness of his voice.

“So it’s ours?”

“I don’t know whose it is, maybe no one’s! Maybe it was inevitable, for everything we needed to get done. But this is fixable. We’ll really take a break and we’ll fix this. Okay? We can change our standing and we will.”

Isabella studied his face for a moment before resting her head on his shoulder.

She didn’t say another word, which was fine by him.

Because it didn’t matter what she thought or what anyone else thought, Sirius knew his friends. He knew his fellow Gryffindors. They wouldn’t resort to assumptions when everything could be cleared up by a question. A stiff upper lip would never be chosen over an honest and frank conversation. And they wouldn’t assume the worst because he wasn’t quite as they wanted him to be. There would never be a conversation over his titles, and labels, and associations with the right or the wrong sort. They would never use such narrow and shallow characteristics to define someone, to criticize someone - worse, to demonize someone that they ought to know better than anyone else in the world.

This had to be true. There was no room for this not to be true.

Because if there came a time where his friends acted like his family, then he could see no victory in this war.