Intrepid

Chapter One -- Of Potions and Premonitions
Tuesday, October 18, 1977

There was something distinctly ironic, Regulus decided, about one’s Arithmancy professor arbitrarily calling a club meeting during one’s free period.

As this was the case, he found himself standing with considerable annoyance in front of the door to Professor Amburn’s office, vaguely weighing the pros and cons of ditching the meeting for a game of Exploding Snap with Colleen Fletcher -- not that Exploding Snap itself had all that much appeal, but more for the fact that anything was looking better than an Arithmancy Club meeting at two o’clock, on an otherwise perfect Tuesday afternoon.

Before he could get very far with such considerations, though, the door swung swiftly open, framing the small form and tense face of Madeleine Bourdelet.

Bourdelet was a seventh year, two years ahead of Regulus, and a deeply disconcerting human being.

"You coming in?" she asked briskly.

"Maybe, if you’ll move out of the doorway."

Without the merest change of expression, she side-stepped him and pushed past into the hall.

Which left him with only one option, which was to stop staring at the door and resign himself to the dull misery of a wasted afternoon.

Professor Amburn’s office was a cramped chamber, even more so with half of the Arithmancy Club packed inside. There were only two officers for each year, but most of Amburn’s seventh-year class had abandoned their Trigomancy charts and were chattering loudly around Amburn’s desk.

Among them was Bellatrix Black, who was seated at the desk, twirling long strands of her hair with a finger and smiling boredly at Christie Thompson’s over-exuberant attempts at engaging her in conversation. Regulus caught her eye; her mouth widened in a grin and she motioned him over hastily.

"Where’ve you been?" she asked while he leaned against the edge of the desk, trying not to disturb the massive piles of ungraded assignments and open ink bottles left on Amburn’s cluttered desk.

"Owlery," he said, shifting a stack of textbooks and dropping them down to the floor, one by one. They landed with a series of soft thumps, a pile of twisted binding and paper. "Narcissa sent a letter home."

"Ah," said Bellatrix, examining her split ends. "I’m sure it beat Arithmancy class, by far. We’re working on Trigomancy; it’s sheer torture."

"What’s this meeting about, anyway?"

"Something Dumbledore has to say to us," said Bellatrix flatly, "But Amburn’s been in her classroom for the past fifteen minutes, debating advanced forms of the Calculatus spell with Ilian Neven. I’m sure his capacity for logical thought is much higher than hers, so none of us are worried."

"Neven -- not that bloke we met in Diagon Alley this summer?"

"Loud, obnoxious, and with a ridiculously low tolerance for alcohol? The very same," said Bellatrix with a smirk. "He’s been reading the textbook again, Merlin knows why."

"That’s dangerous," remarked Regulus, "Educating the ignorant. They might start to get ideas."

Bellatrix smiled at this, pulling the top drawer of Amburn’s desk open and running her fingers lightly over the contents, which were no more orderly than the items on the desktop. "I’m not so sure about that," she said, fingering the sweep of a large and gaudy quill, "A little re-education doesn’t always hurt."

The door shut with a soft thud. Regulus tried not to grin too broadly when Amburn herself tottered into the room, followed by a very smug-looking seventh year with floppy a fringe, recognisable as Ilian Neven. Neven threw himself down next to a Gryffindor sixth year that eyed him warily from the corner of her eye; he ignored her completely and sent an enthusiastic series of hand gestures and a mouthed explanation across the room to Rodolphus Lestrange, who evidently understood none of it.

Amburn was a squat woman, built with a certain roundness and excess of skin. A towering pile of frizzy, greying red hair perched on the top of her head; she had a habit of patting the mass thoughtfully, as though she were afraid it would scuttle away if she didn't keep a good eye on it. Her tiny, gold-rimmed glasses kept slipping down her slight nose and her hand constantly pushed them back up to peer at whatever she was reading.

She looked slightly lost, standing in a crowd of her students, but cleared her throat importantly to call order to the room.

"May I have your attention, please?" she called in her thin, reedy voice.

A reluctant silence fell, punctured by some unidentified sniggering and scattered whispering. Amburn looked down at the papers in her hand before abandoning them at the top of a pile of diagrams on her desk.

"I know there wasn't a good deal of prior notice," she began, turning back to face her students, "but I've called this meeting to give you all an important announcement from Professor Dumbledore."

Bellatrix gave a clearly audible sigh and sank lower over Amburn's mess. Typical. Dumbledore, patron saint of Gryffindors, was highly overrated by most of Regulus’ housemates. Bellatrix was one of the few who had both her own ideas and absolutely no qualms about sharing them.

"Now," Amburn was saying matter-of-factly, "Hogwarts' exact age has never been recorded in reliable sources, as I'm sure you know -- there've been plenty of approximations as to how long it has stood. In honour of our new Minister of Magic, Octavian Earnshaw, the school governors have agreed to celebrate this year as Hogwarts' twelve-hundredth year in existence."

Bellatrix made a derisive sound in her throat, evidently in severe doubt. Diana McKinnon, a seventh year Ravenclaw, was distracting Amburn with a wave of questions; Bella took the opportunity to lean towards Regulus with her own commentary.

"Everyone knows that's not true," she said quietly. "The governors are obsessed with pleasing the new Minister, that's all -- and anything traditional will look wonderful to the Ministry."

"And terrible to most everyone else," said Regulus dutifully. "The governors..."

"Need to be replaced," Bella finished, with relish.

"No, Miss McKinnon," Amburn was saying, "We can't verify these facts..."

"But, Professor--!" protested McKinnon loudly.

Ilian Neven reached around two people to thwap her on the head with his palm.

"Now," Amburn continued, as though she had seen nothing, "Hallowe'en falls on a Monday this year, and as a special treat, Professor Dumbledore has decided to cut it down to a half-day for classes."

This announcement in particular was met with scattered cheering.

"You aren't getting off that easily!" said Amburn with an obnoxious little laugh, "The rest of the day will be used for the 'Founder's Day Festival', an exhibition, if you like, of the curriculum and activities found at the school. It'll be held in the Great Hall for Hogwarts students and special representatives from the Ministry of Magic."

Regulus groaned. "So we're spending Hallowe'en entertaining a bunch of adults with nothing better to do?"

"Right," said Bellatrix sardonically. "If Rodolphus and I find a way out of it, you'll skive off with us?"

"In a heartbeat."

Diana McKinnon’s hand was up again. "The Arithmancy Club is going to have our own demonstration table, aren't we?"

Honestly, some of these Ravenclaws were entirely over-excitable.

Professor Amburn, however, beamed. "Yes. Our seventh year representatives are organising it all."

Regulus swivelled around to look at Bellatrix, whose smile had suddenly gone sickly. Her poise held, though; with just the slightest bit more force than necessary, she said, "Oh, are we?"

"Of course!" said Amburn happily, "You and Madeleine will be in charge of all of the preparations."

Madeleine Bourdelet snapped upright as quickly as though the filing cabinet she was sitting on had been struck by lightning. She must've returned to the room sometime before Amburn did, Regulus noted. Her eyes darted from Bellatrix's smile, which was quickly turning into a sneer, and Amburn, who was still smiling benevolently without a clue of what was going on.

Bourdelet was the outcast of the seventh year students, and with good reason; as far as Regulus had experienced, she had a personality like acid. Presently, she was sitting bolt upright with a facial expression faintly akin to that of a cornered rabbit, something that Regulus found distinctly amusing.

"It's really okay, Professor -- I mean, she can do it herself if she wants to--" said Bourdelet very quickly.

"Nonsense, Madeleine! I chose two seventh-year officers for a reason. You two will make an excellent team, I can tell. I'm sure things will just turn out beautifully!"

Regulus was sure that he heard Rodolphus Lestrange mutter, very clearly, "There's optimism in its purest form: ignorance."

Bellatrix shot Rodolphus a frantic look. "What if Rodolphus and I worked together? He's a seventh-year, too--"

"But I'm not an officer," said Rodolphus innocently. Bellatrix narrowed her eyes, which Rodolphus seemed to completely miss, as busy as he was trying to keep that wide-eyed look in place.

"We'll go ahead and leave things the way they are," said Amburn, turning back to her paperwork, completely oblivious to Bella's protesting sputters. "As for the rest of you, we'll need volunteers to man the booth..."

Most of the other students were beginning to shift around restlessly, whispering as it became obvious that the meeting was almost over. Bellatrix sank lower behind Amburn's desk, looking mutinous.

"Erm," said Regulus, hoping to come up with something reassuring to say, "What's so wrong with Bourdelet? She'd probably do whatever you tell her to--"

"No, she won't," said Bellatrix suddenly, pulling out her bag from beneath the desk. "She's impossible. I might as well be working with a talking parrot, for all the good it will do me."

"What do you mean by that?" Regulus asked, watching Bella walk around the desk and following her to the door, "It can't be that bad--"

Bellatrix looked sceptical, but said nothing as Bourdelet slid off of the filing cabinet and looked their way, suddenly seeming very small and nervous.

"Well?" said Bourdelet.

"The library, after class tomorrow," said Bellatrix snidely. "Don't be late."

-----

Bellatrix wasn't the only one who seemed tetchy today. Regulus knew there was something wrong without a word when Narcissa arrived precisely ten minutes late to dinner and flopped into her seat with an uncharacteristic slouch.

"Great Aunt Elladora's dying," she said dramatically, dropping a folded letter onto her plate.

"Great Aunt Elladora's been dying for years," said Regulus. "Why should we start worrying about it now?"

Narcissa snorted and filled her goblet with movements somewhat more forceful than one usually required when pouring pumpkin juice. "Evidently it's for real this time."

"According to whom?" asked Regulus indifferently.

Narcissa's eyes flashed back to her plate. "My mother. She owled to say that she and Father have a marvellous holiday planned in Vienna, for two. It seems we'll be left at your house again for Christmas."

"Well, I'd be lonely by myself," said Regulus.

He immediately wished he hadn't.

As it was, there were certain realities attached to such a statement that remained strictly undiscussed. Mentioning anything like loneliness was bound to lead to the question of why he would be lonely--and actually, it was much easier to avoid that conversation altogether.

Narcissa had apparently picked up on this. Her cheeks the slightest pink, she cleared her throat lightly.

"Maybe by that time, Aunt Elladora will be dead and Bellatrix will finally get that ruby carcanet she's been eyeing since the day she turned eight," she said, trying to busy her hands with the task of pushing chicken Kiev onto her plate.

"You seem happy enough that she's leaving," said Regulus, abandoning all tact.

"The woman is evil," said Narcissa darkly, leaning towards him across the table. "I'm tired of waiting for it. Remember how she used to 'inspect' us? How many times did she check for dirt beneath Andromeda's fingernails?"

"Indeterminate," said Regulus, "But I don't see where you have the right to be tired of waiting for it. She's living in my house, you know. I've been traumatised by all of the times I've woken up in the middle of the night to the sound of her coughing up decayed bits of her lungs. She's decomposing in that upstairs bedroom."

Narcissa cocked a sceptical eyebrow. "I'm sorry, then. There are worse things in life than decaying Great Aunts."

As if to punctuate this statement, a diversion came in the form of a Hufflepuff who had been previously sitting directly behind Regulus. In an effort to lean his chair backward he had somehow managed to push it over entirely, slamming into the Slytherin table with a loud crack! and several obscenities.

"Finkley," said Regulus mildly amid the onslaught of jeers and laughter from down the table, "What are you doing, exactly?"

Eugene Finkley was a woefully underappreciated fifth-year, currently sitting beneath the Slytherin table with a pained expression on his face. Shaking his head ruefully, he struggled upright and looked around the Hall with a sheepish grin.

"Phoebus Ahlman was looking for both of you," said Finkley distractedly, and began brushing off his robes. "I think, anyway. He told me, to tell you, to tell Narcissa, that he'll wait for you in Classroom Eleven. Or something like that."

Narcissa rolled her eyes doubtfully and reached for her goblet. Regulus smirked and said, "Can Ahlman not come find us himself?"

Finkley's face screwed up in frustration. "Nah," he said finally, "He saw me copying Jennifer Click's Charms homework the other day and now I've got to be his personal servant through the end of the week."

"That's steep," said Regulus. To his credit, he refrained from mentioning that Phoebus Ahlman usually reserved his harsher punishments for those too stupid to argue, and focused on looking generically sympathetic.

"He's blackmailing you again?" asked Narcissa, looking much more amused than she should have.

"Yeah," said Finkley balefully. "I'm not sure this Prefect thing is good for him. Phoebus has a lot of rage."

Regulus ignored Narcissa's delighted smile. "Did he say what he wanted to talk to us about?" he asked. Hopefully not blackmail. There was already too much blackmail in the Slytherin Prefecture.

"Nah," said Finkley, "You'll have to ask him yourself. But I'd definitely go, if I were you. He looked dangerous," he added ominously.

"Phoebus always looks dangerous," said Narcissa dismissively, after Finkley had righted his chair and was sitting safely at the Hufflepuff table again. "He's a perpetually frustrated human being."

Regulus shrugged. "That's his excuse for walking over anyone who gets in his way, and stepping on people who don't, just for fun."

"Well, let's go find him," said Narcissa, throwing her napkin down. "I don't feel like eating anything else."

"Finkley spoiled your appetite?" laughed Regulus. "You've hardly touched your plate."

"I'm not hungry," she said shortly, standing up and folding her arms like a cross child.

Regulus stared at her for a moment, sighed, and stood up reluctantly. "Fine," he said, "we'll go find Phoebus."

Phoebus Ahlman was the nightmare of the fifth-year Slytherins and the only one of them to have successfully eliminated the chain of authority above him. Becoming a Prefect should have done something to put a damper on his rampant blackmailing, but it only seemed to perpetuate it. For people like Regulus, it was a favour -- why go to detention if Ahlman's punishments were more lenient? -- but for people like Finkley, a horror.

Phoebus got away with most things because no one important could be bothered with paying attention to him. The Head of House had seen too many terms and could hardly keep track of any of the Prefects, the Gryffindor Head Boy and Girl would have avoided him even if they knew what was going on, and Bellatrix -- who ruled the seventh years -- had never had any provocation from him.

The only real problem with Phoebus was that he had always been deeply unconcerned with the wellbeing of other people, in general.

Frankly, he didn't have the concentration span for all of the politicking he did. In fact, only one thing had ever held his interest for long, and she was sitting at the desk next to him when Regulus and Narcissa walked into the otherwise empty Classroom Eleven.

Grace Cohen was a thin black girl with narrow brown eyes and an jaunty posture. At the moment, she was explaining the utterly dull details of her Transfiguration essay as Phoebus watched her mouth moving with disturbingly rapt attention.

Popular opinion of Grace credited her with the typical pristine mindset of Ravenclaw Prefects and a personality about as interesting as that Transfiguration essay.

Before Regulus could get the chance to make any snide remark about the situation, Narcissa stepped forward with her arms folded over her chest and a facial expression that looked far from amused.

"Well?" she asked, "Finkley said--"

"Oh, Merlin," said Phoebus, cutting her off impatiently. "That sodding idiot managed to get you here, at least, but I didn't ask for Regulus. I might have to release him from my service out of sheer frustration."

At this, Grace's small smile flattened. "Phoebus," she said in a patronising manner, "I'm not sure it's within your rights as a Prefect to blackmail Eugene Finkley into acting like your house-elf."

Phoebus made noncommittal sounds of acknowledgement and turned to rifle through his bag, sitting open on the next desk. "Mmm. You're right, Grace. It isn't fair. Equality, and such. I'll have to treat everyone that way now, won't I?"

"You already do," said Regulus.

"Oh, that's right," said Phoebus vaguely, pulling a thick brown tome out of his bag and turning back to them.

Narcissa pursed her lips and watched his fingers skitter nimbly through the pages of the book. "If you've got something to say, Ahlman, I suggest you say it. We haven't got all day."

"All right," said Phoebus, drawing himself up, which was now quite a way -- Phoebus had spent his summer vacation getting even taller, even lankier, and much smarmier. "I’ve gathered you here -- well, not you, Regulus, but we're improvising -- to share with you one of my more brilliant plans, which is really quite saying something, and invite you to participate in it. Well, not invite, exactly. You really are going to have to."

"Get to the point, Ahlman," said Narcissa through her teeth.

"Upon becoming a Prefect," said Phoebus in a long-suffering voice, "it has occurred to me that this justice system is in shambles."

"Since when is that bad for you?" cut in Regulus, who was thinking of nothing but the long list of Phoebus' excursions from last year -- it was a wonder that he had managed to become a Prefect at all.

"Shut up," said Phoebus, "I didn't invite you."

"What does this have to do with us?" said Narcissa impatiently.

"You get to help me with some renovations. Sound nice?"

"Not really," said Regulus.

"Oh, be quiet," snapped Grace, surprising everyone. She didn't seem distracted by this in the least. "Go on, Phoebus, tell them."

"I'm making a potion," he said, handing the old book to Grace and regaining his composure somewhat. "Rather, you're making it for me."

"No we're not," said Regulus immediately.

Narcissa, on the other hand, quirked her eyebrows and surveyed them with a mildly interested expression. "What kind of potion?"

"Read it, Grace."

She did, peering carefully over the words with the old tome propped up on her knees.

"The Televoyance Draught," she read, her voice quavering slightly, "is a rarely employed potion that derives its power from the venom..." She skipped a bit, frowning, "Erm -- When properly administered, the Draught allows the maker of the potion full access to the mental and physical status of the drinker..."

Everyone stared at her expectantly.

"It pretty much lets you completely monitor the actions of whoever you can get that's dumb enough to drink it," she said finally, closing the book with a satisfied snap.

"How?" said Narcissa, her eyes narrowing.

"Blood," said Grace, running her finger along the outside cover of the book. "Phoebus’, not yours. We put it in, and sit back and watch when we manage to get anyone to drink it. From there it’s like watching visions, in a Pensieve."

"Well," said Narcissa blandly, "that's illegal."

"And you have a problem with that?" asked Regulus, smiling faintly.

"I'm not going to break the law so that Phoebus Ahlman can blackmail people!" she protested, looking appalled.

Grace sighed, her hand at her forehead. "We aren't going to blackmail anyone, are we, Phoebus!?"

"Probably not," said Phoebus promptly.

Regulus shook his head. "You're really not all that convincing."

"If it isn't blackmail," said Narcissa steadily, "what are you doing?"

"We're stopping crime!" said Phoebus with a surprising conviction. "How else are we going to know who's breaking the rules, if we can't get our eyes and ears among the miscreants?"

"Well, they're the ones making the illegal potions," said Narcissa sweetly.

Grace adjusted her posture, looking disgruntled. "Except that we're doing our jobs. We're Prefects, Narcissa. It's our duty to catch those who are misbehaving."

"So that Phoebus can blackmail them?" said Regulus.

Grace pointedly ignored him. Crossing her legs daintily at the ankles, she turned to Narcissa in utter composure. "Don't you have anything to say about this?"

Narcissa's eyes gleamed. "Yes, actually. What do we get out of it? Say that Regulus and I do make your potion--"

"You make my potion," corrected Phoebus hastily, "Don't let Regulus near it, I've seen his Potions marks--"

"Are you blackmailing the teachers?"

"--then what do I get out of it?" continued Narcissa, completely unfazed.

Phoebus smirked. "You'll be properly compensated."

"With what?"

"You want money?"

"I don't really need it."

Phoebus hardly looked discouraged. "Mmm," he said, "But there are other things you need. For instance, your reputation."

"That's the best you could come up with?" drawled Narcissa, without a trace of intimidation. "No sinister, evil Prefect speech this time?"

Phoebus frowned slightly. "Yeah. But hang on with the speech, it'll come to me."

Regulus had never held anything in particular against Phoebus Ahlman; that had quite a bit to do with the entertainment Ahlman had never ceased to provide his classmates in the past. At the moment, however, the look of unadulterated triumph on Ahlman's face was discouraging enough to make him scoot a bit farther away.

"There are a lot of bad things that could happen to you, Narcissa," Phoebus was saying. "I'm just thoughtful enough to make sure that none of them do happen, but for some reason you go about with the idea that I'm blackmailing you. Do you have any idea how much that hurts?

"Not at all?" she guessed, shifting slightly on her feet.

"Be quiet," said Phoebus sourly, "That was part of my speech."

"Get on with it, Ahlman," sighed Regulus, who had come to the conclusion that they would be around for a while and had therefore taken a seat on one of the desks along the wall, resigned to stay as far out of the proceedings as possible.

Phoebus was apparently too deep in thought to object. "Bad things that could happen to you..." he mused. "I could arrange to have you bound and delivered to Malcolm Hodges--you know, that slobbery seventh year that's always staring at you? I could get someone who's not as good to make the potion, and then use it against you... I could tell your sister Bellatrix what really happened to that pair of sapphire earrings she lent you -- she could find out that you dropped one down the sink by accident and Judith Whitley threw the other one down so it wouldn't get lonely--"

"And then she flushed them down, when I went for my wand to accio them back," said Narcissa, looking, for the first time that evening, somewhat abashed. "You know about that?"

"Elizabeth Blakeney is spying for you, isn't she?" said Regulus, who had taken to resting his head against the wall behind him and looked very much like he would rather have been asleep.

"Eh," said Phoebus, "You're not allowed to guess."

Grace sighed dramatically. "Will you make the potion, or won't you?"

Narcissa spent a moment in silence and obvious consideration. "Fine," she conceded, at length, "But if I get caught with the potion..."

"What do you want?" said Phoebus, with the kind of boredom that made it quite apparent he had expected this.

"If I get caught making it, I want everything you know about Judith Whitley."

Phoebus gave her an appraising look, and nodded with approval. "Indulging in a little blackmail yourself?"

"That's none of your business," said Narcissa, smiling.

His wicked grin broadened. "Agreed."

"Agreed!"

"Agreed," echoed Grace.

Regulus opened his eyes slightly, squinting at them. "Why are you looking at me?"

"He agrees," said Narcissa.

And without further ado, she gently but firmly latched herself onto Regulus' arm and steered him out of the classroom.

The abruptness of it was confusing, to say the least, but Narcissa’s face was drawn as she led a bemused Regulus down the corridor toward the stairs.

"What made you change your mind at the last?" he asked once they were a good distance from the doorway.

They stopped in the middle of the dim hallway, Narcissa’s eyes studying some indeterminate point down further off. It was funny, Regulus thought, that her silhouette looked so much like Bella's, when their usual appearances were so different.

She smiled faintly.

"Judith Whitley," she said delicately, "owes me a pair of sapphire earrings."

-----

A good deal of the night was wasted in the Slytherin common room. Regulus reflected later, as he was sitting on his bed in the fifth-year dormitories, that blackened fingertips and a lost deck of Exploding Snap cards into Colleen Fletcher's triumphant hands was not the most productive way to spend the evening.

As it was, it had at least served as a diversion. With that gone, he remained seated upright on his bed for the better part of an hour, trying to remember the homework assignments that would have to be left unfinished and trying to ignore everything that was bothering him.

Now there was Phoebus Ahlman to contend with, and how could Regulus look forward to that? Making the potion was completely foolhardy. Then again, he wouldn't be the one on the chopping block when Ahlman was caught with it.

No, no, there was something else that was bothering him.

Regulus rolled over on his side, staring at the long dark curtains that surrounded his bed.

It's him, isn't it?

A last, valiant attempt at banishing these thoughts from his mind, and he buried his face in the pillow.

Him, in the courtyard between classes, toying with the end of his tie as he lounged against the fountain. At dinner, telling some fantastic story to a very attentive Meredith Lavelle, who kept giggling and missing her mouth with her fork. Hanging off of James Potter's shoulder as he told a joke, laughing like an idiot even before all of the words were out of his mouth.

As if nothing in the world was wrong.

But everything was wrong, Regulus knew, or else it wouldn't have made him feel so wretched to have to see Sirius Black's face at intermittent points during the day.

Within the hour directly after Sirius' name had been blasted off of the Black family tapestry, Regulus had carefully pinned the same name on his mental list of things that he would forevermore refuse to think about, if at all possible.

That was over three months ago, but it had felt like three years.

Before then, Regulus had been fairly comfortable never having encountered a person who was impossible to ignore. Now, it seemed impossible not to find such people -- they had a tendency of finding him.

He rolled over again, closed his eyes with a renewed conviction, and desperately tried to clear his thoughts.

This was impossible. At this rate, he would never get to sleep.

His bag was still at the foot of his bed.

He could try doing a bit of Charms homework -- dreary as it was -- couldn't he? It wouldn't hurt.

Regulus reached for his bag and dragged it into his lap, pulling drooping wrinkles over the bedclothes. His hands fumbled with the clasp until he got it open finally, feeling blindly around inside for some parchment and a quill.

Wait, parchment? Here was a piece. And a quill here, he could feel the floaty tendrils swaying along the feather, and some ink here, a cold glass bottle with a rubbery top.

Out of the bag and into his lap.

The parchment was already covered with bright purple scratches, so he reached again for another--

And stopped.

That wasn't his handwriting.

Definitely not. Much too loopy and elegant. He didn't even own purple ink. Putrid colour.

It wasn't Narcissa's, either – hers he could recognise.

Printed (with much pretension) at the top of the page were the bold words, "For Regulus Black".

Following such a formal heading was this:

"I never suspected that it would be this difficult to write a letter to a stranger. To put it shortly: you don't know me. My name and face, perhaps, but assumptions are less than accurate.

This is a turbulent time for our World, but for some of us in particular. Things are happening, and I know that you will have access to information about them soon. I need that information from you.

What I propose is a trade. You will be properly compensated.

There is little time to write, and I won't waste details here.

Look under Callaghan the Curious' foot, in the statue of the Brethren of Rhyfeddon on the seventh floor.

Yours,

A friend."