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Chapter Text

«Sirius, 

I want to start my letter by imploring you to please do not eat food that you have doubts about poisoning. 

If you think something might be poisoned, do me a favour and keep it away from you. 

I am surprised by what you have told me in your very brief letter, I think that will require further conversation once you and your brother are back home. 

As for petrifications, I can remember some of it from my school years. To be honest, I do not have much to say about it. You will understand, Sirius, that I was a rather carefree young man then, and never cared enough about what happened to my classmates. However, perhaps I can get in touch with former classmates to see what they have to say about it. 

Sincerely,

Alphard Black. »

It was as if the cold winds of winter were coming early, and the entire castle was engulfed in a deadly grey snowfall. If this could be equated to anything, Severus mused in agitation, perhaps it would be like the death of the crops; like when the cold comes early, and no farmer has been able to do more than watch the cold winds take away their hard months of work.  

The professors would be the farmers in this analogy, of course, and the students would be the rows of sick and frozen crops, literally frozen. Only one student had been attacked (so far), but Severus did not feel sure that this would be an exclusive case. In fact, Severus was quite paranoid as his frantic look and bristling skin testified. Avery being attacked of all students had done little to take away some of his concern, for, if they had been able to get away with attacking a son of a powerful and well-placed family, what awaited Severus and his friends?

The bad atmosphere in the castle was further darkened by the arrival of cold, torrential rain. A bad time to arrive. Everyone was now basically barracked inside the school, unable to set foot outside; the rain was pelting the skin like thin blades of ice, and even the Quidditch season, already off to a turbulent start, had to be paused until further notice. Severus had no interest in the status of Quidditch, but he found that such a situation spoke volumes about how everything had gone downhill so quickly; very few things would have the strength and urgency to go to the lengths necessary to stop a Quidditch season, a sport where not even injured players could pause it. It spoke volumes then, Severus thought, that the professors had come to such a sensible decision, they could no longer afford to have any more injured students on such short notice and a match in the middle of a storm was sure to be a guaranteed visit to the infirmary. 

And it all came down to Sirius Black. Always Sirius Black. 

Sitting in an empty corridor, with one of the many inner cloisters in front of him, the breeze from the rain clung to his skin. Was it foolish of him to wander around the castle alone? With the rain falling, the interior of the castle had become dark and spectral, and with the supposedly invisible danger strolling among the students, Severus should be more careful. But care is rarely helpful in cases like this. Severus already had a very good idea of who might be behind the cloak of the Heir of Slytherin, like so many in the castle, and the desire to confront such a ruffian roared in him. Alone in one of the many corridors, Severus was well aware of what might happen and almost expected it. 

"It's so cold in here!" Gilderoy's whine broke the mystery of the evening, putting an end to any bloody skirmish that might have been brewing. Gilderoy's presence could be that anticlimactic; just like putting a clown in the middle of a battlefield "Very, very cold" continued the mouthy annoyance "Why can't we go somewhere warmer?"

"Warm places are infested with people," replied Severus. He was frowning with instinctive naturalness, but even if they had to rip out his tongue first, Severus had found a certain relish for the bustle Lockhart dragged with him. "Here's better," and as if to emphasise his reasoning, he glanced at the not-so-small figure shuffling behind Gilderoy.  

Reluctantly, and with many evenings of not-so-idiotic arguments, Severus had come to see in Lockhart something more than a mere glib oaf with easy smiles. The boy was clever in his own way, perceptive even if he did not seem so. Whatever intelligence Gilderoy may have lacked in academics, he knew how to make up for with halfway decent social skills. And that… that was not such a bad thing. It was well known that Severus had neither delicacy nor acuity for sticky, prickly things like feelings. Lockhart, on the other hand, is always on the lookout to get into other people's problems, and to do that, he must have the ears and eyes of a gossipy old lady, well-trained to read and interpret others. 

Right now, Gilderoy is the only one who can get close to Lily without accidentally hitting the least pleasant spots. And boy hadn't Severus hit so many points that he couldn't even say good morning without fearing that Lily was going to run back to lock herself in Gryffindor Tower. Severus couldn't even tell what those points might be. The tension in the castle had rubbed off on Lily, and it was as if Severus always had the worst words at the worst time. Gilderoy is better with this.  

So, Severus gives Lily a short but meaningful glance, and Gilderoy's childish protests are silenced. A crowded place? With Lily who looks like a wounded bird? This may be a cold and gloomy place, but at least there is no sound of shouting to make Lily shudder. Even Severus can muster his few ounces of emotional intelligence for cases like this.  

Gilderoy approaches and Lily comes after him. Severus has no idea how they ended up like this. Or well, he has a lot of ideas, all of which he can perhaps take some of the blame for. He should have known better than to tell all the Chamber of Secrets horror stories to these two. Though he had hoped it was Gilderoy who would be frightened, and not Lily.  

His thoughts inevitably return to Sirius Black, and Severus is once again flooded with anger and indignation.  

"I like it here," Lily's little voice has a cadence similar to raindrops "I don't… like being in my common room now." 

Gilderoy and Lily take a seat on the stone floor. The black of their uniforms blends into each other; the fabrics on Lily's uniform are a little more worn and stringier, but Gilderoy's are no better. What does that say about them? Three rather lonely children, are they genuine friends, or friends out of necessity?  

They must look pitiful. Three children in a cold, grey corridor, with the rain in front of them. Give them an empty tin can, and they will surely be given a few good coins.  

"Have they got the jitters there too?" asks Gilderoy, hugging his knees to his chest. 

Lily bites her lips. From her expression, it was obvious that things in Gryffindor's house might be a little too complicated to be called jitters. And so, Severus remained silent, not wanting to say anything yet of what was already rattling around in his head. 

"It's complicated," Lily explained, tugging roughly on her fingers. Around her nails, the skin was red and irritated; gently, Severus took Lily's hands to stop her from fidgeting, and she seemed to grow more taciturn "Some people are pleased with what happened… Not all of them, but a good portion of them find it deserved, I suppose. As if Avery had it coming." 

Severus snorted, unable to help himself. His dismissive sound earned him a reproachful look from Lockhart, and Severus shifted uncomfortably on the floor… It was not enough to shut him up, however "I never thought I could agree with a Gryffindor," he mumbled "but if anyone would have earned it, it would be Avery, though no more than Mulciber." 

"Neither of them would deserve something like that," Lily defended, fire burning in her eyes. That was emotion, more than she had shown in days.  

"They called you a mudblood."  

"And that doesn't mean they deserve to be attacked like that. This is not helpful to anyone. Avery is stuck in the infirmary, and none of it will make a difference. When he walks out of that infirmary, he'll still be calling me every name imaginable. He'll be the same bad boy he's always been." 

"It's not about making a difference. It's about justice. Nobody does anything to put a stop to them, just tap their hands and let them keep rounding us up in the corridors. They let them get away with it, I think this is something they have well earned." 

"Suddenly you're siding with the Heir of Slytherin? I thought you hated him." 

"I do" Severus averted his gaze "But even a broken clock gets it right twice." 

"And you would get it right every time" Lily sneered gaining malice in her eyes. Lily is not one to be malicious or cruel, but when she was not fleeing in terror back to her tower, then her temper was flaring in the air. "I know what you think, I know what you really want. You're happy that Avery was attacked, but you hate that it was not you who did it, why is that Severus?" 

"Guys…" Gilderoy tried to mediate "Don't fight…" 

"I do not wish to be the Heir of Slytherin." Severus completely ignored Lockhart's paltry attempts to restore peace. 

"I didn't say you wish that. But maybe you do. What would that mean to you?

You think I don't see it, how you always seem desperate for something you don't have, that we don't have. What do you think would happen if you were the heir? Do you think you would be respected? That suddenly a thousand-year fortune and the right to claim a good name would be revealed to you? You wish it had been you who attacked Avery, but you would never have the courage to do it."

Severus let go of Lily's hands roughly "'Tis not about courage" he exploded "What do you think might happen to us if one of us were that damned heir? I don't want to be it; I couldn't be it. To people like us, Lily, they don't forgive this sort of thing, never mind if we're the very rebirth of Merlin. In their eyes, we are street rats, the lowest scum of all. They wait for us to make the slightest slip-up so they can throw it back in our faces. And in the meantime, brats like Avery can go around the castle insulting as many people as they like, and no one will ever do more than give him a useless lecture. I think Avery had it coming, but it wasn't up to the stupid Heir of Slytherin to do it. That stupid heir can go and attack whoever he wants, while we must put up and shut up. Because if we stand up for ourselves, they're not so sympathetic. Don't you see? Everyone knows who the supposed heir is, everyone, and have they done anything about it? No, instead he's out there walking the corridors, he's out there free of any consequences. Sirius Black can do whatever he wants, and he never has any consequences." 

"You don't know for a fact that Sirius is the heir," Lily's face paled and the rage inside Severus dimmed. He did not want to frighten Lily any more than she already was, but what was the point of denying the truth? Sirius Black is the Heir of Slytherin, the same heir who shares classes, colours, and meals with Lily.  

"I think it's pretty obvious." said Severus "Who else could be if not him?" 

"I suppose it makes sense." 

"Gilderoy!" bellowed Lily, her voice choking "Why would you say that? Sirius would never do that!" 

"Because you know him so well, don't you?" snorted Severus. 

Lily shook her head, biting her lips nervously "He wouldn't" she continued defending "He's not like that. Didn't the heir seek to take out students like - like us?" 

"That's why I say it makes sense" Lockhart interjected again, though nervousness coloured his voice with every word. Gilderoy was not a person who liked to get in Lily's and Severus' way, preferring to mediate and conciliate. "He hasn't attacked any half-bloods or Muggle-borns, only Avery. That doesn't go along with the Slytherin heir, but it does go along with Black." 

"And what could Sirius's goal in doing this be?"  

"Does it matter? Don't think that, just because he is the heir, it means he has some noble cause. I told you; his family is nothing but a nest of vipers. They think they're above everyone. He didn't attack Avery for the same reason anyone would have. He attacked him because he could, because that's Black's true nature. They think they're even above the rest of the purebloods. If it was us attacking a fellow student, we would have been expelled by now, but Sirius Black? How can Headmaster Dumbledore expel him? Surely his family has bought his innocence. And if he can even get away with attacking boys like Avery, what wouldn't he do to us?" 

"Ex-expel us?" Lily drew in a shaky breath, her eyes widening in horror "That - that's too much." 

"For harming the precious son of a mediocre politician? It would even be kind." 

They will always be at a disadvantage. What could they do about it? No name binds them irrevocably to the magical world, no fortune that can buy them forgiveness. That much Severus has always known. Whether in the dingy village of Cokeworth or at Hogwarts. And expulsion for Severus would equal banishment from the magical world. It is already an odyssey for his mother to raise the money to send him to Hogwarts, if he is expelled, there is nowhere else they can afford to send him, and without a formal magical education, there is no job he can get. The taint of an expulsion alone would put a lot of brakes on him, creating a snowball that would stop any dreams of magic.  

It would be better to die than to be expelled.  

The children stood in silence, watching the rain fall. To Severus, it was all so unfair. He hated that he couldn't feel safe in the castle, he hated that Lily had to share rooms with a psychopath like Black… he hated that Black could get away with it, when were they going to stop him? If the attack on Avery had been shaken up as a small thing, what would make the professors act? How far was Black willing to take his evil antics? And when he crossed the line, what would happen? 

Severus hated knowing he was a fool.  

He knew firsthand that the magical world is not fair, and he knew how cruel the Black family could be. How many families have they not disgraced and vilified over the centuries. They are not saints by any means, and they have never tempted their hearts in their ambitions. But for a moment, just in a fraction of foolish weakness, he had almost believed that Sirius Black could not be so selfish and putrid.  

But of course, there was no reason why Black would be any different. Just another rising insane maniac ready to decimate the entire world for his own satisfaction.  

"Though expulsion would be the least of it." Severus tensed his shoulders "They're not going to expel Black, but they can't do anything either. If more students are attacked, the Ministry may have to intervene, and the school may have to be closed." 

That seemed to strike all of them in a bad way.  

Because more than anything that could anger Severus, the possibility that they might have to close the castle was what filled him with rage the most. The castle is a safe place for Severus. Here his father cannot lay a hand on him. Here he does not have to go hungry or cold. And that he could lose that, because of a spoilt child like Black?  

The rain was easing, but the stormy grey in the sky did not dissipate.  

Severus almost wished the heir would find them. In this deserted corridor, just the three of them. If the professors were not going to do anything to stop the supposed heir of Slytherin, Severus was prepared to do what was necessary.

Remus's and Sirius's birthday comes and goes. They do not have a very big celebration, especially since Sirius has just now earned a reputation as the number one undesirable, and very few people seem to have the courage to look him in the eye. Their housemates have favoured them with a cold shoulder and rarely give them more than a glance, in fact, it is almost as if they can see right through them. Remus prefers it that way. The only ones who are friendly with them are the older students who do not believe all the horror stories there are to tell, but even they are either too busy with their senior classes or prefer to stay away from any unnecessary drama. 

With the fear so fresh, a certain deferential treatment has come, and that is better than whatever was going on before when the gossip machine was running around the clock. Now there was silence. Perhaps too quiet, but quiet, nonetheless. With one student comatose for the foreseeable future, the students have shut down; fear has crept up their throats and made room under their skins. They do not speak directly to them, and any room Sirius enters is immediately silent, only for the whispering to resume with his departure.  

It's all far more serious than Remus wants to take the time to accept.  

The rumours have become something of an open secret. Though given the escalating implications, while the students have pre-emptively decided to stay out of Sirius' way, they no longer make direct accusations with his name. Not where they can hear. After all, it's one thing to accuse a fellow classmate of petrifying an unloved cat, to accuse him of petrifying a student — just as unloved. More than anything, students keep their accusations where Sirius cannot hear them, which does not prevent him from hearing them, only from pointing out who said what.  

The morning after Sirius emerged from the infirmary, it was already on everyone's lips the events of the night. Very few had any genuine concern to show for Avery, but all the students shared the same nervous apprehension. No message on the walls, but the petrified boy was sign enough. And with Sirius in the infirmary, some could argue his innocence, with Sirius being under Madam Pomfrey's watch; others, however, could use Sirius's stay outside the dormitories as an opportunity to roam and attack.  

No. This had become very serious. 

By the time Avery's parents arrived at the castle, Remus was partially ready to gather their belongings and flee. Avery's parents might not be the most prominent individuals in terms of power or wealth, but they were still members of high magical society. Remus quickly reminded himself that the Averys may be high society, but the Blacks are royalty. No one came to take Sirius to Azkaban that night and Remus could only thank all the stars in the sky for that. 

And Avery's parents were furious. Hiding under the Invisibility Cloak, Remus and Sirius witnessed Herman and Norine Avery meeting with Madam Pomfrey and Headmaster Dumbledore, along with Professor Slughorn as an unwilling referee. The Averys had brought up the idea of taking their son to some good magical hospital but gave it all up when Madam Pomfrey informed them of the slim chance of getting a more favourable diagnosis for their son. The only safe and proven way to bring Avery out of his petrified state is with a mandrake-based restorative potion. The only problem is that the mandrake season came to an end with the summer, and finding one this time of year will take time and letters. 

It was a bittersweet note, and with that taste inside their mouths, their birthday came. A modest but comforting celebration, just what Remus needed in such an overwhelming time. With a strawberry and chocolate cake, some open presents with friends, and plenty of photos to reminisce over. The ballroom that Regulus and his friends had restored would soon become a party room with the number of birthdays that were starting to be held there.  

It was not a long party. First of all, part of the new measures taken by the professors was to increase the curfew, so they could not just wander around the castle after dinner. Also, the prefects started calling roll before the students went to bed, counting each student and keeping an eye on them. On the other hand, the full moon arrived later that night.  

His father had made his way to the castle in the early hours of the following morning, with a small banana pancake and a candle, along with a crumpled party hat.  

Full moon and all, Remus considered it a good birthday. He was able to have a pleasant evening with his friends and acquaintances, received some nice presents — thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Black, and Mr. and Mrs. Potter — and got to see his father. He suffered no more than a twisted ankle after the transformation, and he has a sneaking suspicion that Moony wanted to give him a birthday present, or at least that's how Remus is going to interpret the rabbit corpse on the floor of the Shrieking Shack. It was a cute rabbit, soft fur and all. If you take away, you know, the dead stuff, it could be almost nice. Like when a cat brings in animal bodies for their humans, except Moony is not a cat or a pet, but a feral creature that monthly takes over Remus's body. Details.  

Remus is trying this whole optimism thing, okay? See the glass as half full and not half empty. Make the good out of the bad. Not seeing the gift horse's teeth.  

And if Remus thinks he is having a hard time, he can always think back to Avery who has to endure Mulciber's daily visits with no escape. Or Mr. Black, who has to take care of Sirius and his public image.  

"Mum's really worried about all this." James flutters a wooden spoon inside his misshapen mug. He insists that Hagrid's tea tastes better cold than hot, but Remus gives little credence to that idea. The more time passes, the more the flavours settle and the more the bitter brew deepens. "I think they've been sending letters to each other with Madam Pomfrey since the… the dungeon incident." 

The dungeon incident. What a name they had given it. So many versions of Avery's tragedy have been told, but they all agree on a couple of basic facts. Avery was found by Professor Slughorn a few corridors away from the entrance to the Slytherin common room, near where once stood the old (and now flooded) dungeons of the castle. Why Avery would have gone there in the first place was unknown; many questions hung in the air and the students took it upon themselves to put in their bits and pieces to fill in the gaps. 

"Your dad is one of the few potioneer who grows his own ingredients." Peter added enthusiastically "Though I highly doubt he has any extra mandrake to give to Madam Pomfrey. Mandrake is a tricky ingredient, in the summer he barely managed to grow a dozen of them. Who knows how many survived by the end of the season."

Hagrid, who observed the four of them with his small black eyes, seemed lost in his thoughts. If they had come to visit the groundskeeper it was not because the man had invited them, in fact, it was because Hagrid had not sent an invitation to tea in weeks and the children had been worried about it. Something was going on with the half-giant, something serious. And his big shaking hands did little to make the children ignore their concerns. 

"At least it is just one student." Sirius mused with a heavy sigh. "If this were a plague that caught more than one, things would become uncomfortable for everyone. One student is worrisome, but not enough to run around like headless chickens."

 "Careful." warned Remus wearily "If anyone else heard you say that you would only be encouraging all the already crazy stories about you." 

Little Sirius had done to discourage his unlikely guilt. And it's not like Sirius is encouraging it either. As much as Remus likes to joke about Sirius and his crashes over the past few weeks, Remus knows that there has been no intention on Sirius' part to get involved in any of this. Though it certainly wouldn't hurt Sirius to play the victim a little and show some concern instead of walking around the castle carelessly. 

Somehow, Kreacher seems to be responsible for most — if not all — of Sirius's misfortunes. At Mrs. Black's behest, the elf has left a bloody, steaming mess. If Kreacher's intention was to help, he has done the opposite. It is even possible, as Sirius and Remus discussed the other night, that it was even Kreacher who was scaring James around the castle, following him like a ghostly little goblin.  

It's still worrying, though. Because yes, they already know who's to blame for blowing up the train, who surely poisoned Sutton's food to get him out of the match — and bless Avery for stealing all the attention away from that incident so that no one can blame Sirius for it too - and they also know who surely tried to scare James, perhaps as a way of scaring the rest of them too. But… Would Kreacher have anything to do with Avery and Mrs. Norris's condition? It very well could, except for what they had overheard the professors saying behind the doors. 

These attacks are not so new. 

Wrapped in that line of thought, Remus takes a sip of his tea and looks at Hagrid in a new light. Maybe this is why the half-giant has been so reclusive. Maybe this is something he has seen before too, and now it brings back bad memories.  

"I think you'd better leave now, boys." 

The boys pause like nervous little rabbits. 

Remus manages to recover quickly from his shock. Hagrid is not… Hagrid is not well. The boys have only been in the hut for less than it takes to spend two incense — and Hagrid loves his incense — with their mugs still steaming and still full of stories to tell. In the past, they have spent most of an afternoon with the half-giant, wasting time with idle chatter and incomplete board games. And now, will they leave before they get to the usual round of complaints about Slughorn's homework? Without discussing Pickerin's latest failed lesson? Hagrid loves to hear about Pickerin's incompetence! 

Hagrid won't drag them out of the hut just because. Remus is sure they could come in the middle of the night and the half-giant would greet them with a cup of bitter chocolate and a plate of chocolate chip rocks. Hagrid is kind like that. Hagrid also hides a lot of things behind his kindness.  

He sets his mug down on the table. "I think you're right, Hagrid." says Remus, when none of the other boys are sure how to proceed now "The weather is a bit unpredictable lately, it could rain at any moment." 

With a tremulous, grateful smile, Hagrid looked tired "It is. I wouldn't want you to have to go back with the rain on you… I'm sorry if I couldn't be a fun host today, lads."  

"You don't have to apologise, Hagrid. We came unexpectedly, we just wanted to make sure you were alright." Sirius is gentle but terse. He and Remus are both the least close to Hagrid, taking advantage of many of their other two friends' visits to the half-giant to browse the library archives, but Hagrid is no less dear to them. If anything, Sirius and Remus owe Hagrid respect and gratitude for the patience he has shown for the two little scamps they call friends. 

The half-giant turns his small eyes on Sirius, and beneath his bushy beard, his lips pucker stiffly. "You're a good boy, Sirius. Good indeed. I'm very sorry for all that has been said about you."  

"Their words have not made me bleed."

Hagrid shakes his head but seems reassured at Sirius's indifference "I appreciate you coming today. I really do… But I think it would be best for everyone if you are not seen around here for a while." 

"What? Why?" asks James shocked. 

"It doesn't do your image any good to be seen hanging around with me." 

"But why?" presses Peter with droopy eyes. 

"Just trust me on this." requests Hagrid "When this all blows over, I'll be happy to welcome you back. I'll make you a chocolate and cherry pie to go with it! Maybe you can even invite some of your other little friends." 

However, even as Hagrid sounded excited for that day to come, the man hid uncertainty beneath his hopeful voice. If Remus was interpreting him correctly, Hagrid did not seem confident that such a reunion with chocolate and cherry pie was going to happen. That clear lack of confidence only fuelled the nerves inside Remus, what was Hagrid not telling them? 

"All right," Remus stepped forward to say, smiling reassuringly at the big man, "We'll take your word for it, Hagrid. We trust you." he shot a glance at the other three, silently begging them not to insist on something Hagrid was not ready to reveal. 

Hesitantly, Sirius nodded "If you find yourself in need of any favours, you can always send a letter." 

Moved beyond words, Hagrid sniffled. Immediately, Peter pulled a tissue from his pocket and offered it to the big man so he could wipe away his tears — Peter always carried tissues for Hagrid. Remus wondered what had made the man so sentimental, but he patted him comfortingly on the shoulder. Perhaps it was the easy acceptance of the children, perhaps that he would not be able to see them for an unknown length of time. With Hagrid, many things could make him weep and cry.  

Such a big man with a heart to match.

But something was happening to good old Hagrid. Remus could only hope that Hagrid could trust them, and if whatever had him so distraught came to bite him, he knew to find in them some helping hand. They might be children in the eyes of the half-giant, but they were still his friends, willing to give Hagrid the same kindness and protection they knew the man would give them.  

Leaving the man to collect himself at his own pace, the children picked up their cups and carried them to the sink. They removed the tea and scrubbed the bottom, cleared the table, and put away the cups, plates, and spoons.  

They put some leftover meatloaf from that afternoon's lunch on Fangs' plate and refilled the dog's water bowl. For some reason, Hagrid rarely took meals with the rest of the castle in the Great Hall, and now he was rarely seen there at all — with all the hustle and bustle, Remus was ashamed to say that he didn't even notice when the man had started to stop attending meals, too concerned with supposedly bigger problems. He would be sure to speak to one of the elves in the kitchens to have meals brought to Hagrid directly to the hut.  

Hagrid's hut didn't have much, but whatever had plagued Hagrid also seemed to have spread its claws into the small space, leaving clutter and neglect everywhere in sight. A depression, perhaps, Remus thought, not without reason. And so, they did as much as they could, for some reason Sirius knew a wide range of cleaning spells that were ideal for leaving the place in good order, and by the end of the evening, they were able to leave with the assurance that they had done if only a small thing for Hagrid.

Sometimes his brother's logic is too confusing for Regulus to keep up with. He cannot tell if Sirius is being reasonable or recklessly egomaniacal. A mixture of both, it would not surprise Regulus if that were the case.  

In Sirius's line of thinking, his older brother must think he is the best wizard in the whole silly castle and is therefore logical and reasonable when he proposes solutions that are anything but logical and reasonable. Sirius's solutions, however, are the last thing Regulus is going to fight, not as long as he is not being restricted in his freedoms in adherence to the Big Sibling Laws that were so wisely drafted once upon a time far, far away by one Bellatrix Black now Lestrange.  

The Big Siblings Laws are mockery and childishness, but they exist. Their main rationale comes from «I am the oldest and know best» along with some principles of «first in time, first in right» and «don't do as I do, do as I say». On several occasions, Andy, Cissa, and Regulus have considered setting up a congress and repealing the stupid laws of the older siblings, but they have never had recourse to that extreme. Instead, they have come up with some interesting modifications with what they have titled «The Younger Siblings' Bill of Rights» that among many things have granted them freedoms and protections against the abuse of authority by their older siblings. For Andy, there is a special chapter on «Considerations for middle siblings». 

All of that, of course, made perfect sense when Regulus had just turned five. Uncle Alphard had even been quite amused reading the nearly twenty feet of parchment detailing every clause of their statutes.  

Then, when Sirius tried to say, "No, Reggie. It is not safe for you to wander around the abandoned side of the castle. You should meet somewhere less likely to be a serial killer's den."  

Regulus was all too happy to remind Sirius of the contents of clause eighty-two, amended at Christmas dinner in '67, which expressly stated that no older sibling could forbid younger siblings access to activities deemed dangerous until there was an injury at least equivalent to the breaking of two bones. And, in keeping with his rights, Regulus made use of Andy's privilege number seven, under which it can be proposed that the non-conforming older sibling supervise during activities that are the subject of disagreement.  

Sirius's response, predictably, was on a par with the argument: "You can't use that as a basis. Bellatrix and I never acknowledged the legality of that document." 

To which Regulus displayed the same level of eloquence, "Grandfather acknowledged it! That's like the Prime Minister's approval. I'm not leaving MY ballroom just because you say so. You're very welcome to join us if you care so much." 

"A literal student is attacking other students!" 

"Do you see that attacker over here?" 

And so, they came to an agreement. Regulus is not an unreasonable prat; his brother's concern was not unfounded. But — and he hoped he would not regret the thought — he did not think it was that big of a deal either. He would compromise with his brother, though, just enough to take the worry off Sirius's shoulders.

The deal was as simple as any of the conciliatory agreements they had had before. Under the watchful eyes of their friends, all of them at one end of a corridor near the Ravenclaw tower, Sirius and Regulus exchanged ideas and proposals for what might be a mutually acceptable arrangement. Thus, on Tuesdays and Thursdays — the days when Regulus and his friends spent the evenings before dinner in the ballroom — Sirius would come and fetch them and escort them to and from the ballroom.  

Was Regulus being stubborn, as hard-headed as his older brother was famously known to be? No, that was not how Regulus saw it. To him, this was as much an act of bravery as it was an act of comfort. The passing of the days grew slow, a gap of years existed in the space of mere weeks. And in that time, so short and so impossibly long, many faced the twists and turns differently. 

It is not just Sirius who has had it hard. Like his brother, Regulus has had to turn a deaf ear to some hurtful whispers, but it is not his own comfort that Regulus worries about. Whispers have existed around him and his family forever; they can ignore that uncomfortable rejection.  

Dorcas. Regulus cares about Dorcas.  

Though even in the Slytherin house Avery is not considered someone to be loved, his condition has raised itchiness and discomfort. He is still a pureblood, someone for whom until then the legend of the Chamber of Secrets and the writing on the wall were of no great concern. Avery was not the one who had to worry about the elusive heir putting him in his crosshairs. Doubts have been sown in the dungeons, no more Slytherin cackles the story of the Slytherin heir with clamour, nor any other pureblood in the castle. 

Now, they look at the Muggle-borns and half-bloods in their own house — whom prior to Avery's attack, they treated as mere sacks of dispensable meat — and wonder: will it be one of them? Rejection turns to repudiation. The house has been divided once again this semester and Dorcas is left stranded alone. It is not good for her to be left alone. It leaves her unprotected from the reprisals of fearful Slytherins who prefer to believe in legends and mysticism. Logical thinking flies out the window, the great old families persist in the dark and unknown, ignoring reason. That very poison is what kills them in the end.  

With no allies within her house, other than Pandora, Dorcas is the perfect target for fear to come out in hatred. As far as Regulus knows — for Dorcas won't say anything about it outright — she has been locked out of the common room about five times already. As if the Slytherins were saying to the heir "Look, here's one for you to take. Mudblood as it should be."  

Of those five times, Pandora has been there about three of them to let Dorcas in. On the other two occasions, it has been Narcissa who has shown the appropriate behaviour expected of peers in the same house. Everyone else, even the Muggle-born and half-bloods, seems happy to let Dorcas be the scapegoat.  

So, Sirius can talk about danger and recklessness, none of that is important to Regulus. This ballroom is the one place where Dorcas does not have to worry about protecting her back from her housemates. Anywhere else in the castle, she must look twice over her shoulders and watch her step. Here Dorcas has left parts of herself in every corner, everywhere, everywhere to be seen, there are pieces of his friend to be cherished…. Dorcas never had the chance to leave her footprints in her house, in her common room, or in her bedroom. It's only in this ballroom, which is more hers than the rest, and none of them envy her that. 

How can Regulus just leave her on her own? Dorcas would come alone if no one accompanied her. It's not wise for them to walk alone, in that he knows Sirius is right. They still do not understand who has planted threats on the students, nor do they know if this is the work of one of their peers or what. There are no clear motivations and targets have been called into question. Dorcas being on her own is unacceptable. 

By sticking together, there are too many of them for anyone to think of ambushing them. Who Slytherin would? They've been a little rebellious lately, but they have not reached the point of forgetting themselves. Narcissa's iron grip has loosened a little, but that's because she does not want to force anyone to submit to her. If Narcissa wants everyone in Slytherin's house to behave according to her rules, she does not even need to use her magic. His cousin will not use all her tricks just for a childish riot that will be over shortly; she will not do it for a few half-bloods and Muggle-borns, never mind if one of them is dear to Regulus, not unless he expressly asks her to… Regulus would not ask, or at least not yet and no more than Narcissa out of her goodwill has already been willing to do. He knows how the politicking and palaver work in Slytherin house, the advantages to be gained from the name, and he also knows the risks. Even if many of the children in Slytherin have been raised to be upcoming lords and ladies, they are still children, and children do not like to be ordered around. Middle ground does not exist in such confrontations, extremes are the most precise ways to get results, with brutal threats and blunt results to back them up and Regulus has no desire to lead Narcissa into that, something that in the future might be hard to leave behind.  

That is what Sirius has not understood, not yet. His older brother is violent, lashing out with all his might, throwing punches and kicks, breaking bones, and something else. That's how Sirius dealt with everything, that's how he made sure he made his presence known to the other kids at galas and parties. But what Sirius didn't understand — Regulus is not sure if he does now — is that physical violence is just one trick of many, one that is not useful with children. Because the bruises heal. The blood that is spilled only sends a message when the victim can understand it. And children don't yet understand that someone of their own size and weight can have great power behind them. They see the too-small body, but not the huge shadow behind it.  

When Sirius landed a smack on some spoilt child, what he was looking for was not achieved. But, Regulus thinks with a rush, when his uncle broke Mr. Malfoy's nose, the message was clear then. No one came after his uncle to give him reprimands or trouble. No one vilified his name for such a barbaric reaction. The shadow that clings to their bodies is a black pit of power. They can break someone else's bones, and no one will come after the Black family. Children are too narrow-minded to understand that and seek to strike back hard. But adults know better, and a broken bone is enough to put them back in line. 

But bones heal. There are other forms of violence, more effective, and more bestial, that even children can fear. A broken bone heals, the economic ruin of a family takes generations to mend. Stripping someone of all wealth and illusions of power is a far more savage way of eliminating opposition. It creates resentment, a much greater one, but how much of a threat can an enemy be when every shred of prosperity has been maimed?  

He imagined that might be the one thing that would put a stop to any evil machinations in Slytherin House. Something that even Regulus, who is not part of the house, could do. It would be something that would transcend primal fear, for hitting a frightened animal would only make it more violent, but putting a chain on it and pulling it?  

Regulus would never.  

He avoids the path of violence, threats, and plots. He simply does not have what it takes for that. He is not Sirius, he is not Bellatrix, he is not Narcissa. He is definitely not his mother. He is a fiasco as a son of the Blacks. And now he seeks to heal rather than break, but, for Dorcas, for them whom he can call his own, couldn't his hands get just a little dirty? For them, he could be as cruel as his own blood. There is not much more Regulus can give them, his love is so cheap, and his concern is never enough. He can give them his name and its horror stories.  

Something he is not. Something he cannot be. The miscreant everyone expects him to be. Cruelty is not natural to him, but what about rage, is it not rage that he feels at the suffering of others? And that one does come naturally; it must go somewhere. At times like this he can taste the pain and wish to inflict it on others, he holds on to that hatred as long as he can — it always escapes and leaves a rotten taint. He cannot know how to hold on to his anger without burning himself in the process. 

He understands the mechanics behind intrigue and foul play. Regulus understands the theory more than he knows how to execute the attack. That is the only advantage he could muster over his brother. Sirius is strong, fearless, and magically capable. Regulus is observant, analytical, and logical. Whether it is correct to say that this is the dynamic that Walburga wished to enchain for her children, Regulus is unsure; he does not believe that to be the case. His mother and Sirius are so much alike; both inclined to act on their nature without stopping to think about what has given them the right to break and never build.  

Regulus regrets the selfishness that led him to Ravenclaw's house. If he were a Slytherin, as they all wished, couldn't he do more for Dorcas? He would do it without depending on Narcissa or anyone else. Something more than empty hits. But this is all he can give Dorcas without being a hindrance to her. He cannot stand in the middle and earn her more resentment for half her house; he cannot release fire and stoke fear and hatred in the other half. What he can give her without causing her further trouble, is a place to return to with friends, always friends. A family of fragile threads. 

Here they look out for each other — deep down Regulus feels it's natural, as if this is the way things must be: just them to look out for each other. Ridiculous. Regulus knows he has his family and his brother to look after him and by extension his few friends, his brother's caution and care, his uncle's letters, and Narcissa's good intentions proved it. But somehow it was not the same. Only Regulus seemed to understand his troubled thoughts, along with his dirty-water dreams and waking forebodings.  

In the afternoons, when he can still feel dirty water in his lungs, Regulus finds comfort in Dorcas's embrace. Sleep never comes faster and safer than when his head is in her lap, with Barty's watchful gaze and Pandora and Evan's soft whispers. Her fingers play with his hair, making small braids and undoing them with measured movements. It is inevitable to lower his defenses. Dorcas's presence reminds him of his brother, a little of Cissa with a slight hint of Andy. She looks a lot like Bellatrix, a Bellatrix from so long ago, one that Regulus remembers not quite, but he knows existed. Regulus tugs at his cuticles trying to decipher what that means, what that makes Dorcas. 

"Five… six… seven… eight…" Dorcas counts, stretching out her numbers for long moments and Regulus brings peace of mind with it.  

He forces himself to come back to reality and focus on the present. The musical notes are low, barely an audible murmur above the rain that beats against the castle and rattles the windowpanes. The windows are one of Regulus' favourite parts, the room, in general, is very beautiful, almost straight out of a fairytale castle, but the tall windows are simply beautiful. With the room located in the west wing of the castle, they are always in time to watch the sunset. There are limestone columns between each window that shimmer in golden reflections in the sun; the effect is mesmerising, and Regulus enjoys it.  

They have made this room a delight to the eyes and a balm to the soul. There are afternoons, when the golden rivers of light hit the mirrored wall, that Regulus can almost see the dust motes perpetually floating in the air and glimpse the illusory outlines of what were once students at the school, running on the wooden floors and dancing in front of the bars. It is only his active imagination of course, but what is not his imagination is the lighter air that has taken place. That oppressive heaviness in the atmosphere, the stale taste of magic is now fresh. Like a good lemon tart or the scent of tuberose.  

"Palms up." Regulus tapped Barty's hand. "You must be in supine."  

The other boy snorted but was obedient. Keeping Barty in a state of repose was proving to be a challenge — sometimes Regulus found himself consumed by the urge to cast a petrification spell on Barty. However, Regulus appreciated Barty lending himself to being his practice dummy. The two of them were somewhat removed from the stretching and warming up their friends were doing in the other half of the room, but not far enough away for Regulus not to hear Evan's muffled laughter. 

"Does it matter?" Barty asked, frowning slightly.

He shook his head and placed a scrawled piece of parchment on top of where he had no doubt the radius bone was. "It does," Regulus said "If you put your palms against the ground, you change the position of the radius and ulna." 

"Grotesque" Barty grinned, perhaps imagining all the strange movements going on under his skin. Regulus was confident that Barty would find morbid interest in this, and they were both now avid students of anatomy, though Barty's interest was far removed from medicine and closer to figuring out where to fit a knife to cause pain, but not death. "Come on," he urged, "You've got twenty-six bones left in the foot," and Barty wiggled his toes covered in warm, plush socks.  

"Twenty-six bones in the foot… eight bones in the skull… six bones in the ear…" crooned Pandora, something sinister in her sweet melody.  

"Two hundred and six bones from tip to string," finished Dorcas.  

Not to be left behind, Alexander's lethargic meowing accompanied the gentle teasing. His cat… Alexander followed him around the castle, sometimes brazenly entering classrooms when he was not perched at the door, waiting. Perhaps the cat missed him, at home they spent all day together, all hours, and now they did not. But this was recent behaviour, and Regulus found it amusing that the cat and his brother seemed to agree not to let him wander off on his own.  

Regulus put another parchment on his last bone, the humerus, and moved on to the next body part. Learning by systems was just the start of all the basics, Madam Pomfrey had thrown him a book as wide as a bloody block of concrete, worn to the point where parts of the text had become illegible and written in every conceivable space in unhinged handwriting and dark ink. Regulus had a duty to learn the entire length of that book during his first year of school. A single book for a year does not sound like a bad deal, except that there are so many infinitely complicated things inside a single body that Regulus has mini-anxiety attacks when he thinks of all he has yet to learn. They go through the basics now, literal grade-schooler knowledge, much of which Regulus already knows, if only because he is not an uneducated brute. Except, Regulus may be informed of where to find his femur, but he still confuses the scaphoid with the talus.  

There is a lesson awaiting him for his next meeting with Madame Pomfrey, and he has no intention of allowing the woman to consider slowing the pace of the subjects. He survived the lesson on organs and trick questions, he will survive with the bones even if he has to drag Barty out of the dormitory early on Saturday morning to lie on one of the hospital beds and be his demonstration mannequin.  

Regulus's lessons with Madam Pomfrey were scheduled for every Saturday, as early as sunrise until the dinner bells were ringing in the main courtyard. Sirius made the futile attempt to sneak into those meetings as well, but to his misfortune, Madam Pomfrey is just as indulgent as Regulus with his antics. Either way, Madam Pomfrey was concerned enough with one bedridden student, that she would not let another student — let alone one she has taken under her direct protection — join in to accompany Avery. And always with punctuality at the forefront, Madam Pomfrey made sure to escort him from Ravenclaw Tower to the infirmary and drop him off at the doors of the Great Hall in time for the start of dinner.  

He likes Madam Pomfrey. She is extremely intelligent and Regulus has met intelligent people before, Madam Pomfrey could easily be the most intelligent of them all. In her first lesson alone — before dropping the definitive compendium of anatomy into his arms — she made a perfect demonstration to make her mastery clear by questioning him extensively on bodily functions with a clinical analysis of how Avery's petrified state might affect other parts besides his obvious lack of movement and consciousness. Would Avery need to be fed? How has his heartbeat been affected? Will the lack of mobility atrophy any muscles? Madame Pomfrey could only speculate on many of the questions, and that put her against the clock to bring Avery back before there could be permanent consequences. 

"Five… six… seven… eight…"  

Curious, Regulus raised his eyes and looked across the room at Dorcas and the others. The three of them were sitting on the floor with their legs stretched out in front of them, their stomachs bent at the waist and their arms stretched out to touch the tips of their toes. Dorcas was fully stretched out with her head pressed to her knees and her hands wrapped around her feet. Evan was well on his way, a grimace of discomfort twisting his lips; Pandora… her hands were barely touching her calves, but that was an improvement over the last few weeks. 

Before Dorcas integrated them into her artistic activities, Pandora had never been in a dance class. She didn't have much flexibility compared to Evan or Regulus, who for some years were forced to take the standard dance classes for aristocratic children — for Regulus, in fact, those were some of the classes he had looked forward to most in his childhood. With the age difference between him and Narcissa, it was not possible for the two of them to be schoolmates, except for the ballet classes; it is a happy memory to reminisce about those afternoons with his cousin.  

As for Dorcas, it had only taken her a few weeks to recover her condition. She said it was the least she should strive for if she hoped to resume some of her old dancing lessons during the Christmas holidays and not be humiliated in the process. The dance industry is ruthless.  

Regulus presses another strip of parchment with the word «calcaneus» written on it in Muggle ink. Pens have become one of many Muggle widgets that Regulus now uses frequently; Muggle stationery is colourful and simple, and he finds many of the things Dorcas pulls out of her pencil case to be quite ingenious. It is easier to write with a pen than with a quill, and that's from him, who has never needed to learn to use any other writing tool. It is less tiring, and the strokes are quicker. His handwriting is crooked, but he is just learning! He likes to think that swapping places helps Dorcas feel less strange.  

He exchanges silent words with Barty as the strips of parchment run out. They ask each other questions back and forth, tricky, logical things that test each other — it's amazing how Barty can memorise books in one reading, though memorising does not equal understanding, Barty knows that kidneys filter blood, but does not understand what relevance that might have; that is fine because he and Regulus can whisper about it until Xeno begs them to turn out the lights in the dormitory.  

Now that Barty no longer has to rely on his family elf, he has become a professional reader. Expert at everything and anything. Regulus just knows Barty will make an amazing wizard. 

"A bone for your thoughts," asked Barty, smiling brightly. The use of the word 'bone' was mixed into their vocabulary with disturbing frequency. They used it as a suffix, a prefix, a noun, a verb, and as a morbid joke. Regulus loved to hear it; it was amusing to see the puzzled looks on other students' faces as they caught random snippets of their conversations in the corridors.  

"Nothing important," Regulus dismissed, admiring his finished work: a human body with hopefully well-placed tags. "I was just thinking that you are a good friend." 

"The best." cackled Barty. His eyes lit up mischievously. "Rosier, come to check." 

Evan came running, almost slipping. He left Pandora and Dorcas behind as if he had been patiently waiting to be summoned. Cas was being nice to them today, letting them go at their own pace, but who knew if that would last much longer; muscles ached more after an afternoon with Dorcas than after Quidditch practice.  

"Let's see," Evan picked up the anatomy compendium, opening it to one of the many marked pages, but knowing full well which one he needed. The book lay open in front of them, with Barty on the other side wiggling his fingers against the wood of the floor. "Right… right… right…" Evan hums, tracing the contents of the book with one finger and scanning Barty-practice-doll. "All perfect!" he chirps happily, bumping shoulders with Regulus. 

"Finally," Regulus sighs.  

Good news for Xeno, he can sleep without discomfort tonight. 

Bad news for them, Dorcas is not letting them waste any time.

"Congratulations, bone boys," Dorcas smiled as a flash of thunder lit up the hall "You took your time. Now come here," she commanded.

Regulus obeyed, because — number one — he is not stupid, and — number two — Dorcas is a tough teacher to Dora, Evan, and Barty, not so to Regulus. His dance instructor, the one he shared with Cissa, was a woman as strict as a military officer, an older witch who knew no yielding or limits. Madame Legnani twisted his joints like braids; it is possible that she changed his entire bone and muscle structure irrevocably.  

Dorcas in comparison to Madame Legnani has not reached the point of breaking their bones. But Barty is pushing his luck with that… his eyes filled with despair as he watches Regulus depart serenely to meet Dorcas. Evan lets out a pitiful sigh but resigned at heart — he hurries to free Barty from his paper prison, walking together across the room, as if they were heading to an inquisition court. 

Dramatics, Regulus snorted. All of them. And they dared to call his family dramatic, him a drama child! What would they know? Regulus is not on the level of a Bellatrix tantrum — or at least he hadn't had to throw a tantrum in years. But here they are, dragging their feet, walking around with weights on their ankles and ghosts on their faces.  

At least Dorcas is not insulted by the snub. She wears it like a badge of honour. She, with her spindly arms, is intimidating enough for the heir to a noble house and the meanest boy in the castle. Fear can be that empowering, Regulus and all the tales he has heard would know. But Dorcas, above any desire for power, is made of a compassionate soul; she is also gentle, after all, Regulus has seen her cast her signature spell, the Ebury hex, against Barty and Evan, but he has never heard of any Slytherin floating around in their common room… 

"You can do better than that," Dorcas chides Barty. Now that they are all gathered in a circle, without the excuse of needing to study to save them, Barty is Dorcas' focus. He is always her focus. She is convinced that she can turn Barty from a wooden figure into a rubber one. She is not cruel in her attempts, just… optimistic, maybe. In moments like this, where the stillness of the afternoon settles into the misty sky, Regulus is blinded by the gleam in Dorcas's eyes. She seems to think only the best of them and hope only the best.  

Neither of them refuses Dorcas or backs down in her face. No one wants to disappoint her, not when she seems so sure they are the best of the best, never being cruel about it. Not like their parents, who expect more than they can give, but are always disappointed, with no real hopes, only demands.  

Dorcas has that look — Regulus doubts if she knows it — charged with some sort of childish longing. She looks at them as if they were figures on an altar far beyond her reach. Characters from some book — is that how Regulus looks at Muggle doctors and their creations? At the inventive mind without magic? She sees Pandora as if she were the most fascinating creature in a fairy forest. Evan as some kind of fairy-tale knight. Barty with the same surprised air of seeing a fire-eater.  

And Regulus… there is no real way he can describe what Dorcas looks like when she sees him, that indescribable thing in her eyes. It is, Regulus thinks, exactly how he knows he sees her. Like a star. Admiration that goes both ways. Because Dorcas is terrifying in everything she does and knows. She makes him rethink everything he knows about blood purity. 

Has Regulus ever been seen like this before? It's terrifying and unknown. He would never want to lose it. He would, however, like Dorcas to give herself equal credit. If the rest are figures on an altar and Dorcas looks to them as miracle workers, then she is even more impressive than they are. What would mere figures with no one to receive or believe in do miracles for?  

(For the first time someone believes in them as something more than disappointing sons or strange children). 

"I can't touch my feet," Barty growled, his face red and sweaty. Regulus felt sorry for him.  

"Of course you can. Like this!" joined in Evan, abandoning his own exercises and taking a chance at freedom by throwing himself at Barty. 

"Merlin!" exclaimed Barty with a beaten air "Evan, get off me." 

"You're almost there" grinned Regulus. He liked to stretch and bend, the pull on his joints well received. He almost immediately went over the names of the bones from his spine to his feet but gave up. Now is not the time for further study. He is persistent but not silly, he does not want to burn out his brain.  

Dorcas nodded "I think he needs a bit more weight. Like this!" 

"Dorcas!" Barty breathed, two bodies of extra weight crushing his words. Evan and Dorcas piled onto Bart's back, forcing him past his limits. "There, now. I've done it." he indeed managed to do it; his fingers were wrapped around his feet. It will hurt like hell the next morning.  

Regulus's laughter broke through — it is a sound Regulus is not used to, but now creates with routine naturalness. Does it sound like Sirius's laughter? Can it be the same as the laughter of his mother that he has never heard? Or does it have that background of his father's harshness? If he is lucky, it is a completely different sound, unique, but not lonely. A camera flash cuts through the chaos. He must remember to ask Pandora for the photograph so he can put it in his album before he goes to bed; not forgetting to give a copy to the others. The fact that his photo album is running out of pages, and he already needed to order packet after packet of photo paper from his uncle is a plush, vibrant tickle.

To have friends is a blessing.  

Time passes and the little light of sunset fades; there are spells that exist in the room to chase away the darkness, they are not spells that have come from their wands, they just put them back to work. And by the time there is no longer a trace of daylight, the candles in the chandelier hanging from the ceiling are lit one by one. Their shadows dance on the walls and on the floor, silhouettes larger than their owners. 

Sirius is a perceptive person, which of course means that he will be the first to recognise that whoever calls themselves "a perceptive person" is probably only able to perceive the change from day to night, and that is not even reliable. But he is a perceptive person, at least where it matters. Is it not perception to sense magic? Is it not perception to smell trouble? Frankly, that already puts him way ahead of a lot of mental healers, and Sirius has met quite a few. 

Right now, however, the magic in the castle has thickened so much that it would be impossible to ignore, even for those without the slightest fibre of magical sensitivity. The air feels thick and the stone walls tight; it's not uncomfortable, not for Sirius. This is the way the castle's ancient magic cares and nurtures; this, much like it, is how the castle felt during Sirius's last school years. The war outside the castle walls influenced the stones and wards; the castle has a duty to the students. There is no war — not yet — raging outside, but there is an apparent enemy, and the castle knows it. The magic comes out of old foundations; it wants to give comfort, but the old magic is not as well received by the children and wizards of today.

Old magic is heavy and condensed. Pure? No, that would be the magic of nature, that which floats over the wildflowers on the fringes of the forbidden forest. This magic is aged, almost stale in its taste and texture. The wizards of today could not endure it, even when the magic has no malicious intent behind it. It will not kill them, it just… Will give them indigestion, headaches too? It's a little different for everyone. Wizards from older families would cope better, benefits of growing up in old homes loaded to the ceiling with old magic. Sirius might have a bit of a runny nose; to him, old magic feels like dust or pollen. It feels like family, too. That happens when your family's properties date back to a time when private property was just coming into existence.  

"Achoo!" Sirius sneezes, sniffling uncomfortably. 

Without looking up from his notepad, Remus pushed the box of tissues across the floor. 

"Thanks." Sirius took a tissue and blew his nose. The dust of the restricted section and the dust of the castle stung his nose. He wished the winter holidays would come, then he could leave the red nose and wet tissues behind. He could leave behind this old castle that seemed more alive and sentient than many of the Ministry workers. 

Sirius shook his head. No need to belittle the castle's efforts, he told himself, Hogwarts was only doing what it considered natural. And it was not doing a bad job at that. While he doubted that many people in the castle realised what was going on, they knew that the air in the castle had become sick. It was a great way to encourage students to stay in their common rooms! In open, populated areas, away from the cold corridors and abandoned rooms laden with even more ancient magic. Too bad Regulus does not seem to recognise the warnings that even a millennia-old structure tries to give him. Whatever, Sirius just has to add more to his list of responsibilities as a big brother. Engaging in another argument with Regulus is pointless, Regulus would do whatever he wants and better that Sirius knows where he is than Regulus wanting to push his luck by being evasive.  

"We should stop by Madam Pomfrey's before dinner," Remus suggested. He, as a young and healthy werewolf did not face the same mortal difficulties as Sirius. The last full moon was not long ago, but that had hardly affected Remus's defences. Ancient magic or not, cold temperatures or not, a werewolf catches a cold every blue moon, warm blood hides beneath scarred skin. "It would do you good to take a pepperup potion." 

Icy air rushed under his robes and Sirius held back a shiver. "No, thanks. That stuff makes my ears hot." 

Sirius gave Remus's thick jumper an envious glance; he didn't wear the uniform robes, but what teacher would tell him anything? Privileges of the good student… The combination of colours and shapes is dreadful, every time Remus wears one of his hideous grandfatherly jumpers a house of fashion falls into ruin, but they are so damn comfortable. They warm to the soul. Sirius remembers spending afternoons wrapped in one of those jumpers while the common room fire burned placidly. The cold, though it chills the skin on his arms, has not reached low enough temperatures for Sirius to steal one of Remus's many jumpers; he promises himself to remember, however, to grab one or two for when they are packing their belongings for the winter holidays.  

"Better a pair of warm ears than a runny nose."  

"Better if we could get this over now so we can get back to the tower before James or Peter decide to start a fire in the room again." Sirius pinches his nose, a pounding headache threatening to rise. Without Hagrid to occupy part of their days, Peter and James have little to do during this time of year at the castle. Strong winds and heavy rain leave them without much to do; and Sirius already knows that children like his friends, who are easily bored in James's case or curious like Peter, find complicated ways to pass the time. 

Hagrid… he never thought this day would come, but Sirius might be missing his inedible cakes and poisonous tea. It makes him feel bad, very bad, worse than anything else had ever done before, that Hagrid had taken them out of his hut indefinitely. It hurts him, because without any more reasons given by the giant, all Sirius can think of is that it was his fault. 

"What do you suppose Hagrid is doing now?" asks Sirius. Have the elves brought him his meal by now? How is Fangs coping with the cold temperatures? 

Remus tapped the back of the quill against his notes, he too looked worried. "Perhaps he is securing some of the creature shelters in the forest. With the winds and rains, I wouldn't be surprised if some of the nests or burrows are damaged." 

"Yes, maybe he is." nodded Sirius, perfectly able to see the big man going into the forest and rescuing some injured animal. For someone so huge and gruff-looking, Hagrid held gentleness in his touch. "I wonder, you know, what that was all about last time we visited Hagrid?" 

Remus raised his eyebrows, then his brow furrowed, seeing through Sirius. "I don't know," said Remus. "But whatever you're thinking about, you couldn't be more wrong."

Sirius laughed self-deprecatingly. He sometimes missed being able to be mysterious and dark, now anyone who claimed to feel a drop of love for him could see into him. It is the price of being loved; you lose a unique part of yourself to give it to others. His thoughts are unprotected, and his intentions betray him; when was the last time Sirius could lie to Remus and get away with it? That is love, Sirius reminds himself; love is awkward and distrustful, not always, but sometimes. To love another is to trust them, but to always look twice; to doubt, and to question. Sirius would tell Remus that he was feeling wonderful, but Remus would see through it and doubt it. Such is the curse of being loved, the flaw that no one talks about, but everyone judges; like Orpheus and Eurydice, the two distrusted, doubted. They looked back because to love each other so much is to turn around and doubt. You do not doubt the one you do not care about.  

"Sirius." Remus draws their attention back. "There's something wrong with Hagrid, we know that. But you have no reason to think it has anything to do with you. There's a lot we don't know about Hagrid, but there's one thing we both know. Hagrid is a good man, and he wouldn't blame a child or punish him on the basis of mere rumours." 

"I don't care if Hagrid believes the rumours or not." Sirius clenches his fists "I care if… if Hagrid might be afraid of me." 

Remus denies. "I think he's more afraid for you." he averts his eyes, thinking. "Last time… Hagrid seems to know something." 

"Do you think he knows anything about the Chamber? The heir?" asks Sirius mockingly. 

"Maybe," Remus states without sharing Sirius's humour for it. "If this has happened before, as you heard Dumbledore hint at, maybe Hagrid knows something about it. Just think about it, Hagrid has been in the castle for a long time, what is it, about thirty years? Maybe he doesn't know about the chamber or the heir, but he does know about the petrifactions. And besides -" Remus pauses as if he has suddenly come to a disturbing thought. 

"What is it?" prods Sirius to know. "What did you come up with?" 

Remus swallows nervously, looking uncomfortable "Only that Hagrid never told us why he was expelled."  

"You…" Sirius is momentarily speechless. "You don't mean -" 

"I'm not meaning anything," Remus interrupts. "Nothing at all. But there's so much we don't know about Hagrid, and we already know that Dumbledore trusts him with a lot of things, really important secrets. If anyone were to know more about the attacks on the students, especially if this is not the first time they've happened, it could be Hagrid. And maybe that's why he doesn't want us, you, in particular, to be in his house. You're already on a tightrope, Sirius. Hagrid is not the best at keeping secrets, and we're not innocent enough not to hound him for answers, answers you might be better off not having." 

But, just as Remus sees through Sirius, Sirius also sees through Remus. Remus's words are perfectly placed to give Sirius reassurance and security, a suitable excuse that would put an end to the very unease Peter and James feel about the half-giant. And Sirius wonders, doubts, whether this is actually what Remus is thinking, or if there is some other idea, perhaps less favourable to Hagrid, languishing in Remus's thoughts.  

"We shouldn't be talking about this." Remus gives him a pointed look. "We shouldn't be gossiping behind Hagrid's back. Whatever's going on, we'll find out if we have to. Either Hagrid will tell us, or your mother will send her elf again. There is no point in wasting time on this, there are more pressing matters. The war waits for no one and is not paused by mysterious subplots." 

Hagrid. The war. Voldemort. The Heir of Slytherin. There are so many unknowns dangling in the air, waiting to be solved. Sirius is clear about what his priorities should be, but in practice his heart fails him. He worries about Hagrid; he worries about what Remus thinks and won't say. He fears for his brother and the war that awaits in the back; the footsteps of the enemy make the earth tremble. 

What is Hagrid hiding? He is a good man, one of few. Not knowing is a poisoned candy that encourages you to eat and eat, speculate and speculate. Yes, they should not be talking or thinking about this. Whatever Remus has thought about Hagrid, it's better if he keeps it to himself. Because Hagrid is a good man, and even if things seem to be pointing one way, there is no way that is the right direction.  

And the war is still there. Voldemort is out there somewhere, his name has not come up in the paper in months, but that is no promise of anything. More dangerous is the man who hides in the shadows.  

"So, can we put the book from 'Shadowlands: A Guide to Forgotten Places' on the list of missing books?" Sirius decides to resume his list from the archive, banishing any further thoughts or regrets never to be seen again. The library's record is extensive and confusing; Madame Pince should thank them for updating the list of books in the restricted section after what seems almost a century. 

"I think so" Remus nodded "We've already checked the geography section, so…" 

"I'm not sure it's a geography book, though." 

"It's got the word land and places in it, what else could it be?" 

"I don't know, something about legends. Dark magic is too confusing." 

"Well, every legend has a basis of truth. Anyway, it's not in the legends section, it's too small. Must be another book that's gone." 

Sirius looked at the shelves. Yes, in his time in the library, he had come to realise how small the restricted section was in comparison to the splendour it must have had before. "I still don't understand why Dumbledore decided to remove so many books, just look at this: this list is ridiculously huge! How did we go from almost fifteen thousand books on dark magic to only two thousand? I never thought Professor Dumbledore was one to do something like this. Dangerous books or not, they're still knowledge. Isn't this some kind of censorship?" 

At the end of his tirade, quite impassioned of course, Sirius shook his head disapprovingly. Dark magic is dangerous, it's not in the curriculum for good reason. But it is magic, and it is knowledge. Hiding it does not eliminate it. Dark is as natural as light, and it's clearly better to know than not to know.  

"It is censorship, but I don't think that's the question we should be asking." Remus bit his lips, inspecting his notepad and the shelves, adding and subtracting, calculating and dividing. "You're right, this is uncharacteristic of Dumbledore. I mean, Dumbledore is an inventor, first and foremost, he better than anyone else should understand the importance of academic freedom and shit. So, what would make Dumbledore prefer to mutilate an entire historical collection of books?" 

Now that is an interesting question. A few months ago, Sirius and Remus had joked in Minnie's office about Dumbledore's motivations for removing books from the restricted section. But in between the jokes, the truth emerges. Perhaps they had, in fact, been asking the questions, not incorrectly, but incompletely — after all, the idea of using the library and student records was already something they had both thought of to find possible future terrorist candidates. It is only now that they have connected the two facts, leaving a gap of time in the middle to be filled by Lord Voldemort's name. 

"Well, the problem student idea doesn't seem so funny anymore. What do you think the chances would be?" 

"With our luck? Stupidly high."

Sirius… yeah, wow. Stupidly high. Something horrible must have been done by that supposed student to push Dumbledore into cutting years from the library, a decision that must surely have made him unpopular with the board and the student body. Of course, this is speculation. A thousand other reasons could have driven Dumbledore in his decision, but none of them fit the wily old wizard and scholar famous in the international magic community. And knowing Dumbledore, the Dumbledore who led guerrilla warfare efforts, that cautious and paranoid man… So much has happened at the school, here begin the beginnings of any skirmish in the greater world. And if any student had shown traits of a future dark lord, Dumbledore would have seen it, and perhaps taken action.  

Speculation, speculation. But in the end, is it really important to know the man behind the mask? What connection might be hidden in the identity of Lord Voldemort and the Horcrux? It matters, chides the mini-Uncle Alphard who lives over his right shoulder. Know your enemy and you will win, follow in his footsteps and you will catch.  

And the enemy could be so close, his name hovering at his fingertips, but still so elusive. Sirius, however, imagines a faceless, voiceless shadow sitting in the darkest part of the library. It is very likely that Lord Voldemort would sit in this very corner, that he would browse these very books.  

"We are stupid for not thinking of this before. We should check in the archive, if there are lists of the number of times the shelves have been replaced, there must be lists kept somewhere of library loans for the restricted section. We should start with checking the thirties, just to be on the safe side."  

Remus sighs heavily. "Let's get this done first, we can worry about the other stuff later. I'm sure, if we find the right book, then we can do some sort of cross-analysis. In fact, we could start with that book your uncle found, we already know it's here in the castle, now we can see who borrowed it." Remus was breathing fast, his eyes a little manic "Although… let's not be too optimistic either, Sirius, that can be detrimental." 

"Optimism is the only thing that's kept me from suffocating over any of these books, Remus."

"And keep that level of optimism, but don't go too far with it. A little more optimism and we can get biased. We might jump to stupid conclusions like You-Know-Who is Mr. Ollivander." 

"And wouldn't that be surprising…" Sirius massaged his temples, the headache already at a painful point. "We haven't made any stupid progress. We don't have a clue, and we can't even figure out what exactly Voldemort is doing now. Can we even say how much time we have left?" 

"This is not a race against the clock." emphasised Remus "The war will come, whether we want it to or not. It's been brewing since long before we were born, long before Voldemort existed. It's a conflict that was just waiting for a leader to follow. What we need to focus on is getting answers as the enemy prepares. And I don't know about you, but it seems to me that we're almost there. He is here, I know it. In one of these records, You-Know-Who waits to be found. And in one of these books, his secret is hidden. Now, now, now, enough saddening, where's that optimism? Let's finish this, we've got to get these books to your uncle for the holidays or he'll say we're a lost investment." 

"Oh, Remus," sighed Sirius with mock sorrow. "You're starting to sound like a Black already."

Sirius once ate at a Muggle Chinese restaurant. Great experience, ten out of ten. Tasty food and huge portions, a bit different from the Chinese food he remembered eating in China, but extremely yummy. The spring rolls? Give him ten! The setting? Very flashy. The only point that detracted from the place was the biscuits. A fortune biscuit is just as reliable as asking Sybil Trelawney to read the cards for you — and boy, has that girl made an interesting business out of it. Sirius wonders if Professor Flitwick is aware of Sybil's clandestine circle in Ravenclaw Tower. 

Even worse than having a biscuit with an unimpressive prediction, is having an auspiciously specific prediction. 

"Beware of man-sized snakes that talk" Who knows what the opportunities might be, Sirius cracked his biscuit and immediately thought of the dark lord's pet snake. The spring rolls were suddenly looking a little too greasy… Fortunately, Sirius never came face to face with the snake or any other snake, not even his mother! And Sirius easily forgot about it, except that sometimes he found himself sleepless late at night and Sirius would ask himself questions. Important questions like, will Dumbledore wear breeches under his robes? Or, do centaurs count as insects with their six limbs? You see, Sirius has questions. Inevitably Sirius thought about that silly biscuit and wondered, why?  

But things happen. Your brother dies, you travel back in time, you reconnect with your relatives, and you become suspected of attacking your classmates. Eventually, Sirius forgot about the biscuit — which was not even important, to begin with, it was just a stupid phrase that he thought was funny and a bit awkward. Currently, Sirius is too concerned with, you know, overthrowing a dark lord and not becoming one in the process. And that last one is very hard to do, especially when your peers whisper behind your back as if subtlety has died with the Trojans and their horse. 

Sirius enters the Defence classroom, in the corridors the students are parting like the red sea with the man with the stick — Sirius is a wizard of culture — and part of him finds it amusing, another part thinks if they knelt down it might be better, and another part just wants to blast down the corridor to see what they would do. Sirius is the bogeyman for the students in the castle, and sometimes he has to muster all his self-control to avoid intentionally scaring the students. They have many names for him now, among them the unoriginal Heir of Slytherin, but Sirius's personal favourite is The Dread of Gryffindor, an incredible name, if he were a dark lord? He would use it with pride. Whoever came up with it deserves points for creativity and genius.  

"Don't look so smug." reprimanded Remus leading him to the side of the corridor outside the classroom "You only encourage them when you smile at them like that." 

Sirius shrugged "There's not much I can do to stop this mess. At the very least I could enjoy it." 

Practically Sirius had been reduced to the only possible culprit, whether you believe in the Heir of Slytherin's conspiracy or not. Mulciber was left off the list with Avery in the infirmary, and any other Slytherin for that matter has been similarly ruled out; it would not be Slytherin-like to attack a fellow housemate — which only proves to Sirius how little the other houses know about each other! A Slytherin can be the first to attack another Slytherin if it means profit.

No one likes to be accused of what is, legitimately, a crime — what is this, the days of the Inquisition, now we judge people by vibes and laughs? What can Sirius do, though? He tried to defend himself at first and soon realised that was wasted air. All he can do now is ignore it and smile at the crowd. He can do that as long as no Ministry agents come to bother him; they can all say what they think and accuse him of it, and Sirius can laugh because he knows he is innocent and that it's all just gossip. In the end, he will be victorious and will use it to his advantage. He will make everyone in the castle feel guilty and he is going to remind them how during these times of harsh criticism, he kept smiling in the face of adversity.  

"I'm enjoying it," Peter added with nervous, embarrassed eyes. Sirius patted him on the back "They're letting us serve ourselves first at the table now." he hastened to explain when Remus's gaze turned confused. 

"That's because no one wants to sit near us now!" 

"And that's bad how?" Sirius rolls his eyes. "You complain now, but when everyone rushes out of the library and leaves the tables free, you're the first one to sit down." 

"It could be worse," said James with a thoughtful look. 

"It could always be worse." agreed Sirius. 

And this is perhaps why someone up there — or down — heard him and said, "You know what? You're right." He just had to go and say it, didn't he? Keeping his mouth shut is not an option, and just walks into the defence classroom — last ones, because of course they do — Sirius squints. Now, Pickerin's classroom is hardly going to pass inspection by the Ministry's educational affairs department, but the desks certainly help to give the appearance that some sort of class is going on in here. Without the desks? This looks more like nouveau riche's living room than a proper classroom. 

"Excellent!" announces Pickerin from the top of the stairs leading to his office. There are animal-print Christmas ornaments hanging from the ceiling. Christmas is in the air, although no one is in much of a celebratory mood this year. Pickerin, on the other hand, Sirius is going to give him points in the teacher evaluation for defying expectations and staying true to his theme. Christmas in the Jungle is quite a concept. "We were only expecting you, Mr. Black."

Pickerin gestured for him to come to the middle of the room; the rest of his classmates created an imperfect circle around him. Without the tables and seats, Sirius had never realised how big the Defence classroom was. It must be almost the size of the main room in the Gryffindor common room. 

Accustomed to Pickerin taking him as his practice stunt man during lessons, Sirius walked to the centre of the room. What was the man planning to do today? In the last few classes, they had been going over some tricks for restraining small magical creatures, something Sirius had demonstrated a good command of his wand. Since then, Pickerin had praised and favoured him; no one was buying that it was all simply because he could conjure a body-bound curse, more likely, Pickerin was trying to regain his defeated image gained after the accident on the quidditch pitch. When, you know, Pickerin disappeared Sirius' bones. Disastrous, no matter how much Pickerin favoured him now, Sirius was not going to forget that easily, not when with the temperatures dropping day after day, the newly grown bones ached.  

"Now, we need another volunteer."  

I'm a volunteer? Sirius wanted to ask but bit his tongue, Sirius was somewhat intrigued to find out what Pickerin was getting at. From the confused faces and whispers, Sirius could tell that his classmates were no better informed than he was either. 

"Professor," Dorcas called from the back of the class with a politely raised hand. She has grown a little since last year, or perhaps it's the new confidence she has gained "Before we volunteer, I think I speak for all my classmates in asking: what is the purpose of today's activity?" 

Several nodded, and Pickerin planted himself upright as if all along he had been waiting for that question so he could brag. "Well, Miss Meadowes, excellent question. Three, no, five points for Slytherin — And in answer to your question, I am happy to inform you that I have obtained a unique permission from Headmaster Dumbledore to give you a special lesson today." Pickerin smiled proudly, allowing a few seconds to build anticipation. "With the recent events in the castle, I have deemed it vitally important that you, young wizards, are prepared to defend yourselves against the forces of evil. Be honoured, my students, that today, I, Alistair Pickerin, will teach you how to duel." 

If Pickerin had said that a few weeks ago, perhaps the excitement would have been greater. If it was another student besides Sirius who was waiting for his potential opponent, volunteers would be dropping from the sky. But Pickerin had already lost the respect of much of the class and hardly anyone looked happy to have a class like this now. The silence and despondency among the students almost made Sirius feel sorry for Pickerin — yes, Pickerin is an idiot, but an enthusiastic idiot.  

By the door, Remus showed the same discomfort as Sirius as he watched Pickerin's spirits dwindle. Remus stepped forward, ready to offer himself as a sacrifice, but moved too late. 

"I'll do it!" another boy pushed his way from the side of the classroom. Sirius might not have recognised him, frankly, Mulciber looked a little unhinged. His dark eyes pierced Sirius, and the boy clenched his wand as if he was going to plunge it into Sirius' neck. With a start, Sirius swallowed nervously as he remembered in which part of the castle Mulciber's best friend was in, and who was the favourite suspect for putting Avery there. 

"Wonderful," Pickerin laughed in relief, energetically descending the stairs. "So, let's start by explaining the rules of the -" 

"No need," Mulciber grunted, spreading his feet apart and squaring his shoulders. Children grow up fast, Sirius reflected, and Dorcas was not the only one who seemed to have grown some confidence and height. "We're purebloods, aren't we, Black, we know how to fight with honour." 

The word honour in Mulciber's mouth was tainted with anything but. 

"Yes, I think we do," replied Sirius, ignoring Pickerin's miserable attempts to guide the class. "Are you ready?" Sirius took a step back, his back towards the stairs and his wand dropping to his hand. He had no fear of Mulciber, but he was not thrilled to duel a boy who held him responsible for sending his best friend to the infirmary. From Mulciber's deep black eyes alone, Sirius could not expect that the boy was not going to use this as an excuse to try to corner him and get revenge. 

Sirius felt a streak of pity for Mulciber. All his bad qualities made it impossible for one to have anything as human as empathy or compassion for the boy, but Sirius knew better. He understands better than anyone the wounds that lie beneath the purebloods, all the damage that old families inflict on children to the point of severing any unacceptable individuality. And Sirius understands, too, that for children like Mulciber, their friends may be the truest bonds they will ever have; relationships that will not stain them as brutally as their families. They are not the best people, but they are children, and Sirius sees them and wonders how close he came to being like them. They are not so different even now, but they have diverged from each other just enough. But here Sirius sees all that they share; at Mulciber's age, if someone had harmed one of his friends, Sirius would have wanted justice by his own hand too. 

Sirius, however, is not the one who has petrified Avery. It is not with Sirius that Mulciber must exact his justice. If Sirius ever meets the self-proclaimed Heir of Slytherin, he will be sure to bring him whatever Mulciber decides to give him now; for no child (no matter how mean) deserves to lose a friend.  

From the doorway, Sirius followed the movements of his friends as they made their way to his side of the room. James gave him a nervous smile and Peter gave him a thumbs up.  

"Ah, haha." Pickerin sweated, unsure "Looks like you youngsters are pretty hyped up about this. All right, great. To begin with, you must start at the centre. This is an important part, because -" 

Mulciber took the first step and Sirius did not stick around to listen to whatever lecture Pickerin wanted to introduce. The two met in the middle; Mulciber was a few inches taller. When they were within arm's length, the two turned and marched back to their places. Pickerin stumbled over his words but pulled himself together in time to give them the order to face each other.  

Mulciber, of course, went on the attack without a second thought.  

"Expelliarmus!" the boy shouted. Sirius did not even raise his wand, just leaned to the side to let the spell hit a bookshelf behind him. 

Not even put up a barrier? Pickerin is going to get someone killed. Though maybe and it's their fault, for not giving him a chance to teach his class as the man had planned. 

"Calvorio!" Mulciber continued his attacks, one after another in quick succession. Sirius merely raised a shield or deflected the incoming spells. On many occasions, Sirius just stood with his wand on guard, as Mulciber's aim was far from going in the right direction. "Colloshoo! Confundo! Glacius! — What the hell is wrong with you? Why don't you defend yourself? Or am I no match for you?" Mulciber charged acidly, and Sirius? Sirius felt sorry for the boy. "Come on! Fight me, fight me! I know you can do more than this. Or do you just petrify people when there's no one around to see you?" 

Sirius raised another shield and deflected a blue spell into the ceiling's direction. This is too easy, and just because underneath it all he has a heart, Sirius decided to give Mulciber something of an answer. "Expelliarmus!" he shouted, without putting much force or precision into it; the spell hit the ground. 

"Finestra!" Mulciber took a step, his breathing heavy and the grip on his wand trembling. The boy should know better, throwing himself into a duel without any strategy is idiotic. Sirius reckoned Mulciber would have energy for a few more spells before Pickerin had to put a stop to the programme. "You're a smug git!" the boy spat with real anger. Sirius just raised an eyebrow; big words for someone like Mulciber. 

"I'd like to say I'm not, but I'm afraid it's a family trait," Sirius smirked, looking to provoke Mulciber to put all his magic into his next attack and call this day's class to a close. 

Mulciber, of course, took the bait in typical Mulciber fashion, though Sirius underestimated him in his fury and stupidity. So far, the spells were harmless things for Sirius' level; powerful spells, but easily manageable for a wizard of his skill set. Sirius was ready to raise another shield or dodge. 

"Serpensortia!" Mulciber's wand drew a dramatic ring, and his words pushed any negative emotions from the boy to the tip of the wand.  

A nearly eight-metre snake materialised in the centre of the room and Sirius had to back away. Mulciber had not a single ounce of energy left and was wobbling on his feet; Sirius had to give the boy a moment to congratulate him, that snake must not have been easy to bring, and he was grudgingly impressed that Mulciber could still stand — magical exhaustion is not an easy thing to bear. For now, Sirius kept his compliments to himself; the huge snake in the middle of a classroom was by far taking his attention. 

There is not much Sirius can say about snakes; contrary to popular belief, he is not an expert on everything there is to know. Is this snake poisonous? Sirius does not know. But this snake is huge, brownish in colour, and with sharp, sharp fangs.  

Immediately, the students began to scream, Pickerin with them. The snake hissed, little yellow eyes circled the room; the screams were making it nervous, and Sirius was going to play it safe and say that this lady wasn't very fond of people. Wanting to bring her attention to him and away from the children, Sirius sent a small poke with his wand, striking the snake between its scales.

"Sssssss," the snake crawled, approaching Sirius quickly.  

Merlin, damn, how could she move so fast with that huge body? 

His blood was rushing, and Sirius lost precious seconds watching the animal drag itself over his scales, its fangs glistening. Sirius raised his wand and opened his mouth. Excuse him wildlife defenders, he is going to tear that thing apart. There was the spell, the first syllable of a Bombarda, but that was not what was heard in the classroom, and Sirius cut his spell in half. 

"SSSsshs!" 

Another hiss! Not from the snake, but from something else. The hissing stood out; Sirius could almost tell that the sound was more akin to a word than an animal sound as if one could distinguish that cadence of the human voice underneath the sound that was anything but. A language Sirius did not know but could recognise. Not simple gibberish. Sirius's thoughts were flooded with dread as the snake stopped hissing, its body raised halfway. The hissing lady looked confused, how Sirius could tell was beyond his comprehension, but if ever a snake looked confused, this one here was; the creature's yellow eyes twinkled with a glint of recognition. The alien hissing seemed to have brought a certain human aptitude to its animalistic behaviour. Chaos fell silent and Sirius thought of the fortune biscuit. It had not been the snake who had hissed, instead, behind him, James had decided to open his mouth and give interactive learning a chance. James, his best friend James; brother in arms James. That James.  

It took all his willpower not to turn around and confirm his suspicions. If Sirius did, he did not know what would happen. The way the situation was developing, maybe Sirius could still save some of it; a little acting, and a good smokescreen would be bought by the frightened brains of his classmates who were giving him unsure looks, trembling against the walls.  

This was not going to end well. The snake's eyes flickered, so close to him. Whatever command James had thrown at the snake, and which the snake apparently understood, would not stop it forever, and Sirius definitely cannot allow James to try to speak to the snake again — Holy Morgana! James talked to a snake, and the snake understood! 

"Hsshhhhh Sss s-sshsssss!" Sirius tried to hiss now, not needing to think too hard about what he was doing. It did not sound at all like James' hiss, but he hoped that, amongst all the chaos, no one had heard James and was going to call his bluff. Meanwhile, the snake was looking at him as if she had never met a more ridiculous piece of human. "ShhSsssssSs!" and with a quick slash through the air with his wand, Sirius spelled, "Evanesco!"  

Just as it came, the huge, deadly snake vanished into the wind. Its presence lingered, however, in the fear that roared through the students.  

"Duel over," announced Sirius to the shocked crowd, and taking advantage of the shock, he made his way through the classroom, determined to get out while he had the chance. He did not need to look behind him to know that the rest of his flock were leaving with him, but Sirius still gave a glance over his shoulder and his eyes met James's. 

Light grey with hazel. James's dilated pupils told Sirius all he needed to know for now. He is scared. And to be honest, so was Sirius. 

«Uncle,

I suppose the first thing is to apologise. Remus has let me know that my last letter may have been too incoherent. I wrote it under the influence of a large dose of poppy tea and I don't even remember sending it. Madam Pomfrey is quite fond of exhausting all non-magical resources before jumping into potions and charms — she is teaching Regulus a lot of that, which, by the way, he has been getting off to a good start. I never knew Regulus had such predilections before, if I'm honest, I guess I always thought Regulus would pursue a career as a potionist, maybe even a Quidditch player. Healer, though? It's a noble profession, Regulus will do well there, but I didn't see it coming; I think it scares me how much things change, how everything seems to have gone off script.  

About the poppy tea, I never tried it before, it wasn't too bad, but it leaves the mind very stupid, as I think you had read in my letter… It tastes good with Kreacher's biscuits too, I feel bad I didn't leave any for Regulus, but it would have been hard to explain Kreacher's presence in the castle. I don't think this is something my brother should know about, not yet.

Speaking of Regulus, I think he might have entered his rebellious phase. I could cry about it if he wasn't so stubborn, could you talk some sense into him? He insists on going to that godforsaken room to do Merlin knows what. I think he might be planning world domination or setting up a cult. I've seen the youngest Malfoy kid hanging out there from time to time with the rest of the Scooby Doo gang (it's a Muggle cartoon, in case you didn't know); I don't trust that Malfoy kid, he looks like he could start a cult and convince Regulus to be the hitching figure.  

Raising kids is so hard, isn't it? 

Oh, right, before I forget, do you have any books on how to learn parseltongue? I think it might be useful for me to learn a little… for reasons. 

I wish you good health,

Sirius. »

7th December, 1938.

"Your spells are good." 

Tom tenses his shoulders, and Alphard cannot help but laugh if only a little. The other boy lowers his wand and slowly turns around to face him. Riddle seems unbothered, though not pleased either. That is as much of a warm welcome as Alphard can hope to receive. 

"Why do I sense there's a 'but' in your flattery?" 

"Is there, or are you just that suspicious?" Alphard scoffs but then snorts at the murderous coldness that floods the brown of Riddle's eyes. They are expressive and lively eyes, revealing more than Riddle lets on in his mannerisms and words "Though you're not wrong, I do have a 'but' to give you." 

"And what's that?" asks Tom impatiently. Alphard never tells him much, no more than is necessary to tempt Tom and force him to ask rather than receive. Sometimes, though, that leads to prolonged silences where neither is willing to give in to the other's nonsense. More times than not, Riddle recognises an advantage worth asking for. 

Predictable, Alphard mocks inwardly, but even stray cats know how to beg for a chance to be homed.  

"What is the main element in casting a spell?" Alphard answers with a question, getting a scornful scowl in response. 

"Intention." replies Riddle with obviousness. "I paid enough attention to Dumbledore's lectures." 

Alphard almost rolls his eyes "I think you do a little more than pay attention to Dumbledore's lectures." he retorts wryly, thinking of all the lectures they have had and how Riddle overexerts himself to always have his hand in the air with a textbook answer at the ready. But with Professor Dumbledore, there is a different energy that drives Riddle to become the perfect teacher's pet. He is more aggressive, more voracious. There is history there, but Riddle has given no indication of wanting to talk about it and Alphard does not yet know the right questions to ask. "Intent is one element, all right clever boy. What else?" 

Tom's frown relaxes, and his lips flatten. He is thinking. He is confused.  

He does not know the answer, and Riddle is proud enough to prefer silence to risk making a fool of himself with the wrong answer. 

"It takes power and concentration," Alphard enumerates, closing the distance to the other boy. Riddle loves to come to the abandoned, dusty rooms to practice his magic tricks, away from where there might be peers to taunt him if he happens to fail. He has a knack for learning spells, but he is not perfect, though Riddle is only too willing to prove otherwise. "Intention alone is usually enough, but it's not everything. In theory, wands are responsible for channelling power, but you cannot rely on one wand to do everything. That creates poor and lazy wizards. It makes the average wizard's magic run out with just one Tergeo, because they put too much power behind the spell. The wand will redirect it, yes, but it wears you down." and to let his spiel settle home, he motions with his eyebrows in the direction of Riddle's wand. 

It's an interesting wand. Cream-coloured, almost white. It's creepy with its resemblance to a bone, but terrifyingly beautiful. That wand, of which Alphard does not know the materials, is deadly and intimidating.  

Riddle considers his words for a few seconds, tilting his head with interest. There are books all around him and shards of broken glass everywhere one turns. "What about the rest of the magic used in that scenario?" he asks "If the wand only takes what it needs, what does it do with what it has no use for?" 

Alphard smiles in amusement. This is why he likes this moribund rat. Riddle knows how to listen and ask, he does not just take, he digs for more.  

"It's stored in the wand. A strong core can absorb the excess, but a weak core will eventually break the wand. It takes a long time," he adds as he notices Riddle's slight hesitation, the boy clutches his wand tighter. "Many years, but it happens. And then you have a broken wand, and you must pray that it breaks while you're cooking dinner and not while you're facing a horde of Dementors. Can you imagine? Stressing your wand so much that it leaves you defenceless. Too much magic also defeats the purpose of some spells." 

"You said the wand is responsible for redirecting magic."

"And I also told you that you cannot rely on wands to do everything. A wand can have a personality of its own, they are as fallible as a wizard. They do not let out all the magic you put in, they filter out the excess, but it's not uncommon for some mistakes to happen. They are innocent mistakes, sometimes. At other times, you put so much force behind it that you might accidentally melt a pot instead of boiling water. Not so innocent mistakes anymore then."   

That encourages Riddle, "But what if you wanted to put in more power than the wand lets you?" he questions "If there is a filter on the wand, that would be a limit to what you can do. What if I need to throw a bombarda to demolish, I don't know, a building, but my wand only lets me blow up a wall?" 

"Well," Alphard shrugs, disguising the interest that Riddle's conclusions bring him "wand design is not something that many are aware of. It's just a safety measure to prevent fatal accidents. But if you already know about the limits…" 

"It's like a child safety." Riddle smiles. 

"Like child safety." agrees Alphard. 

"And to remove it, what, I have to be willing to do it?" Riddle dissolves into murmurs. Their housemates already know that Riddle is a born bookworm, a secret Ravenclaw, but his theoretical mutterings only reaffirm that knowledge in Alphard. "Or should I force it?" 

"An extremely powerful wizard may be able to force it. If you cast an absurd amount of magic, you will end up breaking the filter. Like pushing a waterfall into a hole." 

"The pressure and force would bring it down. But that can also drain magic, no? No one can have infinite magic, and I imagine the amount of magic needed to break the brake must be enormous." 

Alphard nods "Or you might just set your intention and let the wand know what you want to do, you know, like a well-educated wizard." 

A pity there are so few educated wizards. The professors at the castle are too simple in their lesson plans, they do not go any deeper. Perhaps because they believe there is no need to delve into every aspect of theoretical magic, or because they are oblivious to the simpler intricacies — unlikely that latter, all the professors are brilliant wizards in their own right and would not have reached that level without the right qualifications. But it is perhaps for that very reason, because all this is a child's knowledge that comes naturally, that professors forget that they should be more precise in their teaching.  

When Dumbledore says intention, he puts in that word all the other colourful ingredients. Home-schooled children understand this, and those who have only just arrived in the magical world or come from a simple family are stuck in a middle ground because their professors take it for granted that they already know or will know. There is no malice behind their actions. Professors are not meant to be tutors; they are just extraordinary wizards whom life and recognition have brought to Hogwarts; that path of success and merit has made them indifferent to everything else. They think nothing of students who cannot use a quill or hold a wand properly. The professors get straight to what they think is important and take for granted what is obvious to them. 

Alphard could come forward to point out that gap in knowledge to his professors, that way his other classmates might have a chance to catch up with the rest of those who are not like them. But why would he do that? Alphard should not be the first pureblood to realise this, and he will not then be the first to choose to keep quiet about it.  

It brings him no benefit. It brings no benefit to the House of Black.  

Nor does it bring any benefit for you to tell your charity project, whispers a scornful voice that sounds so very, very much like Cassiopeia. Alphard tone down that venom. Tom Riddle has a glow unlike any other mudblood. He has potential. He has power. He is not a charity project, because Alphard and his family do not do that sort of thing.  

The Blacks can donate money to the school and fund some school funds. They have passed some interesting legislation, and they are not altogether averse to good community service. But to call it charity would imply that there is goodwill behind all those acts, and that is the last thing on them. 

It is as Malfoy well implied: an investment. Though of course, their investment objectives are different. Abraxas wants a useful lackey. Alphard wants to have a bit of fun.  

How far can Riddle go, how much is in it for Alphard to take out?  

If he gives a bag of gold to a cunning beggar, how much could he do with that fortune? 

"What's the other one?" Riddle looks at his hands with fascination, as if it is now that he sees all the power hidden beneath his skin. In his fingertips, in every joint, and inside every bone, there is magic there, magic that no one had ever taught him before.  

"Concentration," Alphard replies, sweeping his gaze around the room. There is dust and crooked desks. Outside, even with the heavy door shut tight, he can hear muffled piano music; there is a ballroom further back where there are still classrooms in perfect use. "Your emotions influence your magic; your wand has a mind of its own. If you cannot control your thoughts, you cannot hope to control those of your wand. You have to have a clear mind. Nothing good comes from an unfocused mind."  

Knowledge burrows inside that little head of perfect brown locks, a colour so deep it could be mistaken for black. Alphard's words have not gone on deaf ears, and he has no doubt that Tom Riddle will now make use of what has been so kindly revealed to him.  

And the next spell Riddle casts — a transfiguration of crystals into buttons of exquisite taste — is performed more than perfectly. The magic that Alphard can feel pulsing in the whisper of the spell-words has control and mastery. There is no residue of leftover magic floating in the air, no delay in the deformation and transformation of the object. There are only intricately designed buttons.  

"Take" Riddle offers one of the buttons. It is the size of a coin, with the perfect circumference. Inside the crystal are some silvery lines that simulate spider webs, it might as well be a piece of high-level sewing and tailoring. 

Alphard takes the small object, his fingers scraping the thin skin on Riddle's hands, just for a moment lost in time. There is something about this offering, Alphard knows. Riddle does not come across as one who likes to share, and this is a dying dog who barely has a bone to gnaw on. He assumes, and he surely does not assume wrongly, that Riddle does not give of what little he has, even if that little is a trinket.  

He feels it as if this is a breaking point… but now they exist in the present, and never before has Alphard Black been less worried about the consequences of the future. He takes the button — small, delicate, well-made glass — and something of Tom's too. In return, Riddle can keep a piece of him too.