Where There's a Will

Oh dear, it was fudge.

Over the years, Remus Lupin had found himself sitting in Dumbledore's office on many occasions. As schoolboy, teacher, and member of the Order of the Phoenix, the one thing he had learned to look out for was the size of the preliminary sweet, as it was directly proportionate to the bad news about to be imparted. If, for example, there rested upon the exquisite seventeenth-century mahogany of Dumbledore's desk an unobtrusive bowl of liquorice twists, the information that followed was likely to be relatively minor, such as:

'Mr Lupin, now that you are a prefect may I enquire as to whether there is the slightest chance you would be able to impose a modicum of restraint upon certain of your fellow Gryffindors?'

Or perhaps:

'By the way, Professor Lupin, I feel it is my duty to inform you that Miss Morgan in your second-year Ravenclaw class intends to send you two dozen red roses and a dancing pixie on the fourteenth of February, as a small token of her undying love for you. You may wish to take appropriate protective measures'.

If, on the other hand, you were offered something more substantial, such as a few Jelly Slugs or Chocolate Frogs, it was probably something slightly more depressing, like 'I am pleased to say Severus has finished his first batch of Wolfsbane potion, and will be dropping by this evening to give it to you'.

The morning after the night in sixth year when Severus Snape had narrowly escaped being given an extremely pressing incentive to perfect his Wolfsbane skills, Remus had been faced with a wide selection of chocolate biscuits and sweets, not to mention an actual cup of tea, and it had been several months before he could look at a pair of sugar tongs without going pale.

Today, however, it was fudge, which was at least better than tea and biscuits, but unfortunately it looked like Honeydukes' best. Remus leant forward to take a piece of delicious chocolate-covered harbinger, and waited for the blow to fall.

'As you may or may not know, Remus, before his death, Sirius appointed me executor of his will.'

Oh. Definitely fudge-worthy. Remus cleared his throat uncertainly.

'He- he hasn't left me anything, has he? I thought he knew about the law regarding werewolves and inheritance...' Dumbledore smiled benevolently through his beard.

'Sirius was indeed aware of the law, and sadly correct in assuming it would not have changed by the time he died. However, along with his will, he also left a rather more...unofficial, shall we say, note to be opened by me should I not predecease him. It is therefore my pleasure to tell you that you are now the proud owner of Arcturus Black's rather magnificent collection of Scottish Firewhisky, which has, of course, in no way been left or bequeathed to you. It is merely an inexplicable twist of Fate made manifest.'

Dumbledore flourished his wand and a large metal trunk zoomed from the corner of the room to stop next to Remus' chair. Remus flicked open the lid with the toe of his boot, and felt a bubble of pure glee rise up through his chest. Someone had used a very neat Compression Charm to make the space inside the trunk stretch to something more the size of a small cellar. Specifically, a cellar lined with shelves of alcohol. Stuck to the nearest dusty bottle of amber liquid was a parchment note, covered in Sirius' familiar messy scrawl:

Hi Moony, I suppose this means I went before you after all, hey? No surprises there then. I wanted to leave you more but the Magical Creatures lot have clearly still got their heads up their collective arse or I would have changed the terms of my will by now. Don't worry, I'll come back and haunt whoever's Head of Department.

You will anyway, but look after Harry.

Now stop moping like a big girl and drink up. Mischief managed.

Love Sirius

Remus laughed, shakily, and looked up. Dumbledore was tactfully examining the portraits on the wall behind his desk, but it was uncanny how you could feel the man twinkling at you even when he had his back turned.

'Who has he left everything else to?' said Remus, finding his voice again. 'Harry, is it?'

'Yes,' said Dumbledore. 'And that is the other reason I have called you here today. It is highly likely, given the Black family's...propensities, that enchantments have been placed on most of Sirius's property to ensure that it is not passed on to anyone they would consider unsuitable.'

'And Harry's half-blood.'

'Exactly. It is possible that Sirius foresaw this problem and took measures to prevent it, but unfortunately at this present time I have no way of knowing. I am visiting Harry in three days time, when I intend to explain this to him and test by means of Kreacher whether or not he has successfully inherited. If he has, well and good, but if he has not-'

'Everything will automatically pass on to the nearest pure-blood Black,' Remus finished. A horrible thought and a half-remembered glimpse of a tapestry in Grimmauld Place suddenly struck him. 'There aren't any Blacks left, though. It won't- not Bellatrix Lestrange?'

'That is what I thought at first. But then I recalled the memorable case of Alcor Black, who was disowned by his grandfather sometime in the late eighteenth century for passing a Muggle in the street and only cursing him several seconds after, rather than immediately. All mention of his name was subsequently removed from the family records, and occurrences of a similar nature have happened so often that the official Black family tree is not, in fact, entirely accurate. Accio Dearborn's!'

A thick leather-bound book came flying off a shelf to land on the desk with a thud. It was Dearborn's Wizarding Genealogy; Remus could remember Sirius ritually burning his copy when he left home at the age of sixteen. Dumbledore began to flick through its slightly tattered pages, mumbling.

'Avery...Baddock...hm, no, I've gone into Bones now, ah, Black, Black, dear Walburga, Cygnus, Marius...ah! One male cousin, son of Procyon Black, whose father was Marius Black, who was Sirius's grandfather's brother and got blasted off the family tree for being a Squib. Nevertheless, Marius emigrated to Ireland and married a pure-blood witch, Meaghan O'Flaherty, as did his son, so the grandson is still a genuine pure-blood Black.' He swivelled the book around and Remus squinted at the name he was pointing to.

'Er...all of Sirius's possessions are going to be inherited by Vague-Squiggle-That-Could-Begin-With-B Black?'

'It would appear so.'

All the names in the book were printed clearly in an elegant, flowing script, except for the one Dumbledore had indicated, a spiky indecipherable scribble. Every copy of Dearborn's magically updated itself, but in this case it looked as though the charm had given up and gone home in a fit of pique.

'It seems that according to the charms set on this book, it is uncertain whether or not our B. Black actually exists- at least under that name. However, there is no doubt that if he does exist, this mysterious cousin is possibly entitled to inherit. And that, Remus, is where I have a favour to ask.'

Ah. Being offered fudge simply for receiving a large amount of alcohol was clearly too good to be true.

'A few of my contacts in the Ministry have succeeded in tracing a man who could very easily be who we are looking for- though not, alas, to the extent of knowing his name. They believe he is currently in Bloomsbury, though in order to have confused the estimable magic of Dearborn's so thoroughly it seems likely he is not eager to be found. I myself have a rather busy schedule at the moment- a downside, by the way, of attempting to lead both a school and a secret society, should you ever find yourself in a similar position- but I am sure Sirius would not hesitate to put his affairs into your very capable hands. Could I impose upon you to seek this man out?'

'Of course, Headmaster.'

Dumbledore beamed benignly. It was something he did very often.

'Excellent. Here is the address. A bookshop, I am told. Just your cup of tea, eh?'

*

'Bernard.'

Fran sighed. There was a distinct lack of answer.

'Berrrrnaaaard.'

There was, in fact, a distinct lack of anything whatsoever indicating sentient life. Whether the man was alive or dead was uncertain, as he was face down on the desk with what could charitably be called hair (if you squinted and overlooked the fungi) covering any clues that might have helped.

'Bernard!'

The head arose, like a Leviathan from the deep, from where it had been gently reposing amongst the bills in red ink and the angry letters from customers' psychiatrists that adorned the desk. The eyes glowered resentfully at Fran.

'What?'

Somehow, he managed to convey in just one word a whole plethora of emotions: weary disgust, an implied accusation that as a direct result of her selfishness several orphans had just died, general despair at the fact that the rest of the world was too stupid to ever truly comprehend his greatness, and then back to weary disgust again.

'There's a man here to see you, Bernard.'

'Well tell him to go away,' said Bernard, in the same tone of voice you would use to say 'two plus two equals four, of course'.

'I've tried that,' said Fran. 'It didn't work. He said he needed to speak to you urgently. Manny's with him in the kitchen distracting him with tea and small talk about gardening, but I don't think that'll last long. He was very insistent. Calm, but with an air of, of, steely determination, I thought.'

Bernard reached out for the wine bottle and looked around for a glass, ostentatiously Not Listening.

'Come on, it'll only take a minute. And he was very polite.'

Bernard poured some wine in a splashy, defiant fashion with one hand and scrabbled in his pockets for a cigarette with the other.

'He doesn't look as if you owe him money.'

'Oh all right, all right, I'll go and get rid of this, this man of yours.'

'He's not my-'

'Did you say he was polite? I hate polite people, they always want something. And I can always tell that they're secretly insulting me inside their heads.'

Apparently unaware of the fact that most people insulted him inside their head, or indeed, out loud, after spending any amount of time with him, he stamped into the kitchen and eyed the intruder cautiously. His visitor looked perhaps a few years older than Bernard himself, with greying brown hair and nondescript clothing. It was evident from the pathetic 'like me, like me, kind stranger' expression on Manny's face that the man was nice, too. He had probably complimented Manny on his tea-making skills, for God's sake.

'You must be Mr Black,' he said, extending a hand. Bernard put the empty wine bottle into it. 'I'm Remus Lupin.' Manny took the bottle away in what Bernard considered to be an unnecessarily thoughtful manner and put it in the bin. 'I wonder if I might have a word in private? It's a matter of some importance.'

'What do you want?' Bernard started looking inside the various unwashed cups and bowls scattered across the draining board. 'Lighter, lighter, come on, lighter...'

'In private, please,' Lupin said firmly. Bernard stopped rummaging through the potatoes and looked at him with suspicion.

'And how do I know,' he asked with mock politeness, 'that you aren't here to take advantage of me and sell me fake timeshare flats in Milan? Or murder me in my bed?'

'You're awake,' said Manny helpfully.

'And you sleep at your desk most of the time anyway,' said Fran.

'Yes, yes, thank you so very much for the contribution, don't call us, we'll call you. No you can't have a word in private. I want these two here for protection, and to act as human shields if necessary.'

'Mr Black,' said Lupin, looking at him steadily, 'I assure you I have only your best interests at heart, and at the moment it is in your best interests for you to kindly ask your friends to step into the next room for a few minutes. Also,' he added, extracting a bottle from inside his jacket, 'please consider this a gesture of my goodwill.'

Bernard grabbed the bottle and looked at the label. His face went blank.

'Right,' he said, waving an arm in the direction of Fran and Manny, 'You heard the man. Shoo. Shoo!' They reluctantly shuffled out into the main part of the bookshop. Bernard had finally found a lighter in an open box of cereal and lit up a cigarette, glaring at it as if it had personally insulted his girlfriend, his pet kitten, his dear old grey-headed mother, and his entire extended family.

'Whatever you've come here for,' he muttered, 'the answer is no.'

*

Remus sighed. He hadn't expected this to be easy, exactly, but really, the man in front of him seemed totally impervious to nice, reasonable, grown-up discussion. It was definitely the right man, as he'd recognised wizard-brand Firewhisky, but it looked as though he'd been living as a Muggle for quite some time. That kind of isolation and secrecy could have an effect on people. (A few days later, Remus would privately come to the conclusion that avoiding all magical contact had in fact had absolutely no effect on Bernard whatsoever; his particular brand of misanthropy was one hundred percent home grown and all-natural.)

'So what you are saying,' Bernard said, planting his hands on the kitchen table in what was probably an attempt to look threatening, 'is that I may or may not have inherited a big pile of gold and a house, and if I have, you want me to give it all away to this facially-disfigured fifteen-year-old with a hero complex?'

'Harry Potter,' said Remus patiently, though rather less courteously than he had the previous five times. 'How long did you say you'd been living in the Muggle world, Mr Black?'

'I didn't, Mr Lupin. And I'm not sure I believe this little story, this convenient little fabrication of yours. I think there is no 'Harry Potter'. I think that you, you sir, are a fraudster. A conman! A Nigerian prince with internet access!'

'Harry Potter, for Merlin's sake! How can you not have heard of him? Saviour of the wizarding world? Ringing any bells? Responsible for the downfall of Voldemort- oh, I see you've heard of him, at least,' as the other man jumped at the name and knocked over a chair.

''For Merlin's sake'? What kind of pansy-arsed swearing is that?' Bernard demanded. Remus, who as both a former teacher and a werewolf, recognised a distraction technique when he saw one, looked down, took a deep breath and tried valiantly to steer the conversation back to something approaching relevance.

'Look. Mr Black. If you are at all familiar with what He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named stands for, surely you realise that everything that can be done to stop him, must be done.'

'A reasonable point, sir, but not, I think, one that fits in with me giving away lots of money.'

It was becoming apparent to Remus that on the universe's list of Top One Hundred Lost Causes, appealing to Bernard Black's sense of duty was probably, ooh, somewhere up in the top twenty? Below, for example, suggesting to Voldemort that he'd probably feel a lot better if he just sat down with a nice cup of tea and really talked about his feelings, but definitely above, say, finding the matching one of the inexplicable odd sock in the washing machine.

'Mr Black, we need you to formally relinquish all claims to the Black inheritance. We would prefer that you did this voluntarily.' Remus paused to let the implication sink in. 'If you would be kind enough to cooperate we would be very grateful. Possibly grateful enough to give you a monetary reward.' The Order's funds could stretch to that. What they couldn't afford was the security risk if this man somehow got hold of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place.

'Oh, fine. If only so you'll go away and stop talking at me.' Bernard watched warily as Remus got out a piece of parchment and a ballpoint pen.

'I'll need your name.'

'Bernard.'

'Your full name.'

'Bernard Black.'

'Your full name, please.'

'That is my full name. Bernard, then Black. Full of alliterative goodness.'

Remus put his pen down on the table and looked Bernard straight in the eye, which was not for the faint of heart.

'Mr Black,' he began, in the same tone of voice that had caused his whole Gryffindor-Slytherin fifth year class to meekly sit down and write an essay on salamanders, instead of hexing each other under the desks, 'are you seriously trying to tell me that your parents- your father, Mesarthim, and your mother, Céibhfhionn- would name their children Vindemiatrix, Pulcherrima, Denebola...and Bernard?'

Bernard mumbled something sullenly under his breath.

'I beg your pardon?'

'I said Betelgeuse, all right?'

'Betelgeuse what?'

'Betelgeuse. Ludwig. Terebellum. Polaris. Beauregard. Black.' There was deep, deep, resentfulness in every word.

'Thank you.' Remus wrote the names down, while Bernard watched him sulkily.

'Seeing as you know so much about my family,' he said, 'why aren't you off bothering them instead? Why has Lady Luck expectorated on my head and my head alone?'

'You're the only pure-blood left with the name of Black. All the others are either married or dead,' said Remus shortly, folding the parchment up neatly and putting it in his pocket. 'Now, I've got a Portkey set up, so if you'll just-'

'Whoa whoa whoa, hold on a minute there Mr Speedy,' Bernard said in horrified tones, waving his cigarette wildly, 'I'm not going anywhere with you!'

'You just said you'd-'

'You didn't say I'd have to go anywhere! Why can't you just do whatever it is here?'

'Because I'm not qualified to oversee or witness formal legal procedures, and I need to take you to see someone.'

'Tell them to come here. I'm not going. The servants would gossip, the children would pine. I'd have to cancel the milk.'

'The person I am taking you to see is Albus Dumbledore. I do not care,' Remus said, holding up a hand to stop Bernard from interrupting, 'whether you've never heard of him, read an in-depth biography of him, or experienced a brief but passionate love affair with him back in eighty-two, but he cannot come here. I don't know why you've chosen to live apart from the magical world, but believe me, if Albus Dumbledore is seen wandering into a Muggle bookshop for no good reason when he is supposed to be running a school, as well as helping to lead the battle against the Dark, the magical world will come to you soon enough. And we are just as anxious as you to have no questions asked.'

Bernard looked very mutinous, and Remus could tell he was trying to decide out of all the things he could be awkward about, which one would irritate Remus most. He came to a decision.

'I want to bring my two friends along.'

'You mean the ones I just met? You can't. They're Muggles.'

'This is a very traumatic experience for me. I need moral support. If I leave them here alone in the shop they'll burn it or sell it or bring in a delightful range of aromatherapy books or something. If I can't take them, I'm not coming. Besides, they know about all this already.'

'You've told them you're a wizard? You do know that's against the Statute of Secrecy?'

'I didn't tell them.'

'Then how-' Remus stopped as Bernard picked up a saucepan, and without turning around, threw it over his shoulder at the curtain separating the kitchen from the bookshop. It hit something solid with a muffled thump, and there was an anguished cry of pain. Still looking at Remus, Bernard stuck out an arm and pulled back the curtain to reveal Fran and Manny, clearly eavesdropping.

'They didn't know before,' he said, relishing every word, 'but they do now. Manny, lay out my travelling waistcoat and my best spats. Fran! Fags. Booze. We're going on a minibreak.'

*

The rest was really just yet another odd occurrence in the events of the Second War, and as it was one that very few people got to know about, never made it into the history books. Everything was signed in triplicate, Sirius's possessions were inherited with as few problems as could be expected seeing as Harry 'If it's June, it must be time to fight the forces of evil!' Potter was involved, and Bernard was given enough Galleons to keep him in cheap wine for at least the next fortnight.

Fran and Manny were initially nervous when they were told they would probably have to be Memory Charmed as soon as their trip was over, but as it turned out they both ended up begging to be allowed to magically forget everything; Manny because he felt that the knowledge of a section of society where he truly belonged but could never stay with ('It's my spiritual home, Bernard! I have found my people!') was ultimately both too beautiful and too painful to live with, and Fran because she had been traumatised by the sight of Manny in a regulation Hogwarts tea-towel toga. The house-elves of Hogwarts remembered fondly for many years the brief visit of what was clearly, they reasoned, a house-elf who had somehow got stuck in a human body, and still told stories around the fireside about his prowess with a mop.

When, a few years later, a young man turned up at the shop with hair that was only slightly less messy than the owner's, and as Fran mentioned several times after he had gone, 'eyes like limpid pools of liquid emerald', Bernard was at first inclined to turn him away with a kick and a callous laugh. But then the man said hopefully, 'Remus told me about you, and I thought as I certainly don't want the bloody thing, and it seems to be indestructible, you might like to keep it. As a family memento. Or something.' Bernard was slightly disappointed when this turned out to be not a London townhouse, but a portrait of some awful old harpy, her face frozen in an expression of rage and shock.

'When we happened to mention,' the man explained, 'that the real last son of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black had given up magic and was working in a Muggle bookshop, she just sort of...stuck like that. She doesn't move anymore, so if any Muggles see it they won't notice anything unusual.'

They both looked at the terrifying face in the portrait.

'Oh, I suppose it might put your customers off a bit, though...' the man murmured worriedly. 'Never mind, I'm sure I'll find somewhere to keep it eventually...'

'I'll take it,' said Bernard.