Blood and Silver

Brodick Black, 1859.

As with most grand exploits of our given world, lying too is very much a disputed art, with rules and traditions of its own to decree triumph or damnation. Of course, I had been instructed in them from quite the early age.

The first rule was simple enough, as are most theories: a skilled liar uses of the truth as much as he can. There is no greater tool than the circumstances put at their proper valor, and therefore, one would have to make as much use of the given conditions as possible.

The second was somewhat contradictory to the first- exaggeration, if adequately instilled, can and will be the grander master and the better lord. Weave your own tale, and swirl it so gracefully, so for at each fold one is to find the fruit of your doing, and that his will be overwhelmed by your fiction.

And the third - for there is always the third and the last- was the most demanding. Put in each and all thought and care, but never passion. Structure the pretense, tend to it closely; but do not let it overcome you, and do not fall in its web so much as to permit any an emotion. Give in to the last, and you are forever condemned.

It was with this brand of knowledge that I had been since a helpless youngling armed, and with their study that I had constantly been forced to endeavor. Aristocracy was, as one could imagine, a thin castle of appearances. Look beyond one, and you can see beyond them all, and the portrayed image is guaranteed to prove undesirable for the tender heart.

But why do even our closest principles leave us when a situation escapes our control? Why do we not heed the ancient credos we had once kept as little but sacred? And why did these little details of the game of lies that I had for so long played not echo in my mind those days...? One cannot tell.

But they did not - and so from predator I grew the pursued, and in the realm of lies I was the hunted. I did not return to these formidable doctrines when I was still in power to do so. I merely sank in the sea of ignorance and blind faith, and took not the time to read beyond the fine lines of the devil's ploy. So it was. Through my own lack of consideration for the rules of the Old, I embraced downfall.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Rhosyn!"

I was shouting like a madman. A thin layer of sweat had cornered my forehead. I could feel it cold, imbuing to the skin, and I wanted it to fade, but it wouldn't. I was angry for its presence as much as I was for my hellish weakness in forming it.

I was little but running through the corridors. One-two-breathe in. Each breath was a nightmare, as if sheer venom had tainted the air. I loathed it. Took the wrong turn, ended up in the closets, no, where were the kitchens? Gods, why was this house so dark? Despair was such an infinitely devouring emotion. It took full reign - I called out:

"Rhosyn, where in bloody Salazar's name are you?" More pain in my chest. I kept running. In the moments to follow, I would think of how I'd made din enough to awake an entire army, and how it was something short of a miracle that Mama failed to descend to check in to the reason of all this great alarm. But I didn't care then. All I cared about was the blood. So much blood...

"Rhosyn!"

I stopped in the middle of the passage. Both hands brushed the eyes, meeting the dire fluid. For a moment I wondered whether it too was blood, though logic said enough of the impossibility of it ever being so. Where was I? I looked around. More dusk, more silence. My wand still in the receiving room, where I'd dropped it so carelessly. Merlin. I drew in, straightened in my place and made to walk further towards my notion of where the kitchens might have been.

"Master called?" I winced. So good of the darkness to mask this frail gesture - it was only Aristotle. He'd somehow crept from behind.

"Yes, I called, Aristotle! Go to the receiving chamber, at once, tell me what you make of it! And where's Rhosyn?"

He made no attempt to hide his perplex. "I-I...a moment, sir..."

"Go! Rhosyn!" Dark, all around. Where was the accursed elf? I made for the other corridor. "RHOSYN!"

"Here, master..." The refreshing reward of my efforts was surprisingly feeble and mild.

"Where the ruddy hell have you been?" For a second time, big blue eyes greeted me in puzzlement. I had no more patience to stand for this sort of ordeal, and merely took her by her scrawny arm. "Come!"

Run, walk, leap, what was the difference? I dragged Rhosyn behind me up to the receiving hall; I wanted her to see, wanted them all to see, because if they saw it, then it was real, and I couldn't be mad. No, no, couldn't be mad. It was quite foolish of me to keep to this obsessive thought. Insanity was not hereditary, Father had told me as soon as I had grown of age enough as to inquire on the subject. And it was that insanity was not hereditary that I told myself just as I entered the hall, letting Rhosyn in front, to catch full sight.

But if it was gasps, or cries of amazements, or even a little alarm, this was not what I received. No, definitely not, and neither did the image presented in the very chamber meet my expectations.

"Sir...?" asked Rhosyn softly, walking further in the room.

I couldn't answer. All I could do was breathe in, and look forward, into the quarters. Gaze at the mirror, in front of me. And the blood which had disappeared from it.

"Did you erase it, Aristotle?" The elf shook his head and eyed me with open terror. Indeed, I must have seemed of no mental balance at all, and I truly was above such affairs, I knew I was...but he couldn't have. Elves, untrustworthy - or simply far too clumsy for such a privilege, as Aristotle- elves were prohibited the usage of their magic. Little bands of silver passed through wizardry fire were tied to each of their fingers. Magic grew unattainable for them, as higher spells than their own tied them to the rings. How heavenly ironic. On one side, the wizardry kin despised and denigrated all that knew not magic. The uproaring Squib revolts spoke of as much. And on the other hand, they found comfort and solace only in knowing others kept away from this very talent.

"You've not the power to, you've been ringed, you've not the power to - you wiped it! You fool, you wiped it!"

"'Totle didn't, master."

"Can't be, it was here, tell me the truth- did you wipe it, Aristotle?"

"'Totle didn't wipe it, sir, 'Totle saw nothing, 'Totle know nothing - Sir tired?"

"Aristotle, there was blood here! Here! Blood! It was blood, I tell you, it was here!" They both looked at me warily, and I thought, for a second, as just how I must have appeared to them. A madman with little sense and less reason - or perhaps they thought me drunk? I was pointing to a mirror and claiming it filled with blood, when the ensemble had never been clearer. And they most likely believed me off in the head, which I wasn't. I wasn't mad! Everyone was acquainted with the little tales of my family, with my great aunt's insanity, and the same with grand-grandsire, and a few before them - and true, the linking was too direct, but it was not hereditary! I was not mad! I was not mad!

"Go to your quarters- get out. Out! I don't want to catch sight of you innocents any longer!"

I had to think. Firstly, I decreed, it was best for the maintenance of my own mental sanity that a few allowances be made. Logic was the etiquette-deemed path to follow, and, therefore, the sole I was to favor. A fruitful analysis was one where all probabilities were checked, ergo, assumptions were permitted; and I had to consent that they did serve me better, at the time.

So, I might have, indeed, imagined the entire ordeal. The chances were very slim, yet I could not entirely ignore the possibility. But I was not mad. Fatigue and shock had amounted heavily, and I was human, for all my efforts to demonstrate superiority over this trifling rank. So I might have been influenced by these two factors.

I was not mad. Not mad. No. Merely tired. Yes, this was a more appealing prospect. We all tire, at one point. Even Father had been drained enough as to withdraw to the Order of Change's experiments rather than continue his more elaborate and requesting studies. Weakness was, in these extents, understandable.

A reaction to the situation was most certainly the done thing, so my weariness - I had now vehemently judged it as such- was in close calls to the Black code of conduit as well. It didn't do to show too much composure, at certain times. This was one of them.

~~~~~~~~~~

It was dreadfully hot in my room. Hot, hot, hot - so very hot. I couldn't stand it. I woke with a dry taste in my mouth. Soft folds of velvet crushed under my weight, as I threw the covers aside. It was still too hot. My chambers weren't precisely the fittest for winter arrangements, which comforted me greatly, as I had always preferred the cold. This was partly why, steadying my legs on the side of the bed, I bravely attempted to see just what it was to have caused the infernal atmosphere. To my surprise, I could find no blazes tangling to the nocturnal wind, providing the abominable heat. This didn't - wouldn't do. No flames meant no means to stop the heat.

Gods... I rose to my feet. Pit-pat, pit-pat, stepping on the dry flooring. Pit-pat, toes playing on and on in the dark. I made for the nearest window. Pit-pat. A smile crept slowly.

The view was magnificent, of course. Nothing less would be worthy of an August night and of Grimmauld. Darkness all around, and I loved it.

Black, I knew, was regarded with fright, or dread. All miseries accompany black, the word went, for black is the color of death. I didn't see black in that manner. Black was dominant, endless, true. But black, if anything, was also merciful. Black was the promise, the soothing voice. Black was redemption. When the dead were carried to the earth in their fine cloths and veils, it was black that they bore, and black that they took with them to eternity. Black was for the weeping ground. And white was for the remaining. White was the crueler of the two, for white lingered with the souls that had not met consolation. White engulfed, white enthralled. But white did not maintain. White was purity, was it not? Purity of the snow, that knew no such thing for more than a few days, before the earth or the rains tainted it? Or purity of the virgin bride, who went to sacrifice her most expensive gift on the bed of a matrimony that only convenience had brought upon? White was everlasting, and perhaps this in itself was why white was hypocrisy. White was the game. Black was the passing rule. White condemned. Black forgave. Such was the nature of things.

I loved the nights at Grimmauld. They couldn't be blacker.

But I had other worries on my mind, currently. The heat was startlingly intense for my tastes, and I wanted it gone. There were no flames in my fireplace, yes, but it was also to my understanding that the outsides of the walls, and even the insides, beneath the tapestries, were covered with marble. It had been a trifle of Bartholomew Black the Third -Father's grandsire- that such arrangements be made during his time at Grimmauld. Marble, commonly cold, induced heat easily from any other chambers that had the last in great excess. Since it normally increased the cold, I'd been most obliged in keeping it in this room. Pity that I now had to find its disadvantages, as well. Which could only mean that, somewhere, someone had seen to replicating one of the pits of hell in what heat was concerned. And that someone was bound to hear a few words from me. Lest it was Mama, naturally. Then I'd have to bow my head, think of the babe, and mutter some sort of pleas in the direction. But Mama's apartments were situated in the opposite wing, so I may just be spared this sort of humiliation.

Walking off in the corridors proved an undemanding task. I knew every corner, every step - just here, for instance, there was a screeching tug under the carpet. Step on it, and it'd make your presence known through the entire house. A few more steps towards the eastern side, and one neared the marble. Marble was slightly colder, commonly, though it was a tad warm, now. I didn't like the feel, but I acknowledged the surroundings with ease, through this fashion. Nearing the bathing chambers. It didn't do to light the place. First and foremost because of the paintings. Their control was quite the effort even under normal circumstances; the Black gentry, greeting us faintly from behind wooden frames, in spite of its previous status, was twice as eager to renounce all claims to a sensible demeanor if woken during nights.

Still, one had to explore the area. See for where the heat had grown to this abominable level. Break some furniture and curse a random house elf in the process. That sort of thing.

But what I had not expected - what I never could have expected - was the sight of light, carefully pouring from a cracked door. Like a little golden string, bending, twisting, on the flooring. A Serpent, much like the one we were so rightfully told to praise - and wasn't the serpent the purest of forms, in all truths? With the endless length, forming the circle. There was life in the serpent, so it only seemed fit for light, another form of life itself, to take this shape, on occasion.

What was not as suitable, however, was the source of this light. Father's study. Normally, I would have shown some mild courtesy and made a strategic retreat to my chambers before being taken in for a thorough interrogation as to my intentions. Father's eyes were, after all, legendary. But no such claim was made, as I passed by the door, none as I entered, and found the "intruder" clenched to the sofa.

Of course Father wasn't in. I had specifically heard him - well, perhaps "heard" was a tad too indulgent where my demeanor had been concerned- him mention his subsequent location to the idiotic house elves. My reward for asking the latter of his whereabouts would probably be a long, blank look, but I needed not their approval. It was suiting for Father to flee home, where his more elaborate studies laid, and attend to those less demanding yet still important ones of the Order of Change. After the events of the evening, he most likely required some sort of rest. Poor Father. Were he not a Slytherin, and therefore perfectly capable of twisting others to his will and putting a good a share of work on their shoulders, I would have rather felt pity for him.

But that was hardly the matter. Father was not in. Which could only make the figure occupying his quarter...

"Phineas."

He turned abruptly to me, mouth fully open in evident shock. From his small pale hands, with a thud, two heavy books fell to the flooring.

"B-Brodick." Two sets of mirrored eyes locked onto the two tomes at his feet. "You gave me a fright", he murmured, in the end. Silently, I kneeled beside him, near the books.

"Now why ever would that occur?" I didn't need to look up to know he was following my every gesture with the sort of troubling fear and curiosity animals show upon finding they've grown into nothing more than persecuted prey. I fingered on the book's title...ah..."Spells Throughout the Ages"...the bloody fool. Thought he that

he could get away with it? A blood summon or encrypting charm were elementary exercises, their presence in such a vast encyclopedia was imperious. A few little questions were spawn instantly: my dear little brother...had he been the one to account for the blood writing? His previously claimed hatred for the babe to come did grace this one theory with a particular note of credibility. But, surely, Phineas couldn't yet cast...Still...I'd heard of such cases, of very high potentials. Were he to put his mind to it...besides, we Blacks were quite known for starting young. Gave the root something to take pride in, if nothing else.

Curiosity sprinkled my thoughts. Phineas? I eyed him steadily, and should there have been any superior intelligence or magic hidden behind those darken bluish eyes, I, for one, could surely not tell it. I returned to the second book.

Well, well...if the predecessor had dazzled me, the second one brought upon my lips a bitter smile. Poor old Phineas. He'd probably meant to cover the "Spells Throughout the Ages" with this one, should anyone come in on him. Quite an admirably ploy, definitely Slytherin material. Pity he'd dropped them both, though.

"Bothering with a late lecture, I take it?"

"Merely a trifle," he mumbled, taking the two books and planting them on Father's desk. I retained the second one, however. His intentions with it had amused it enough as to casually remark on the impossibility of him ever truly reading it. Let this serve him as a lesson, at least - next time he picked a book to mask another, he ought be a tad more sensible on his choice:

"Great Alchemists of the Old. How very...tedious." I allowed myself a private smile. Oh, I could now consider it so. But this was a luxury so many tears had bought...

"Who first came about the Elixir of a Thousand Changes?" echoed Father's soft voice in my mind.

"Nicholas Flamel the Fourth, sir."

"Hardly." Snap went the silk whip - "It was the Third. One-Two-Three." Snap. Snap. Snap. The silken whip would brush my fingers. Learn the rules, was the conveyed message. There was no error for a Black, no failure. And hesitation brought upon dire consequences.

Father had carried a whip of wet silk, a meter long, that served, at various times, as an accessory, a means of attracting attention or, in this particular case, of enforcing the discipline. Snap. I could still feel the sting on my fingers.

It was to my understanding that that the whip had been disposed of upon the completion of my early education, and that it currently resided in the hand of the French governess, Elisse. Having dealt with his main priority, his heir, father had left the attendance of his junior son to a woman who felt the need to employ the same measures of intimidation. I wondered, silently, just how much of the whip Phineas had known already.

This brought his current circumstance to mind, and I tried to compensate for my abrupt silence by supporting on banality.

"Instructive, true. But tedious."

He extended a hand to reach for the book, eyeing me, dazzled: "I just wanted to-"

"Oh, I know just what you wanted," I muttered, tossing it to him. He didn't catch it, naturally. Silly little thing, maybe Declan did have half a sense in saying he had been born a feline's spawn, and deserved to be drawn as such. He was commonly all so very nice and fluffy, agreed, but his current uselessness pestered me immensely: "And let me tell you beforehand, you shan't prevail."

"W-what in, Brodick? I do not understand."

"The blood, Darius, a sudden interest in spells and Alchemy...all this. The babe shan't steal your place in Father and Mother's attentions. But ill behavior may and will."

"But Brodick, I-" He took a few steps back, staggered, then fell round on the carpet. His entire face bore a mild air of confusion, and I could tell, as he cupped both hands on the sides of his knee caps, then thighs, that the twit had managed to somehow fall on the very book of Alchemy. Dear Merlin. I hoped he wasn't bleeding; it would have meant sheer disaster for the carpet.

"You will let me finish," I noted wryly, helping him up. "I have said not a thing on the account, but everything, the writing, it had better cease. At once. I will not tolerate this sort of demeanor under this roof. Do you understand me?"

He didn't answer, at first, though his lower lip began to tremble furiously. Almost as if he readied to burst into tears yet aga-

He did it. A little freckle of water lingered on his smooth cheek, and his eyes had both turned invariably cloudy. He tried to lower his eyes, but I brought his chin up effortlessly, then produced one of the characteristically darken handkerchiefs. The initial waver at offering my own fed the urge to do so. There were only two types of persons who never carried a handkerchief on: women and Phineas. And even the former used this as a mean to gather male sympathy or at least attention.

"Do you understand me?"

His tears disappeared in the soft linen folds, and he only nodded, mechanically.

"Yes."

There were times, little, insignificant times, when Phineas had a great resemblance to a pup, bearing the last's innocence as well. No point in denying it, he could look absolutely adorable, on occasion. I bit my lips. The urge to renounce the other trifles of discipline was rapidly banished. He needed to learn to play the game by the given rules, to give respect where it was due.

"Yes...?"

"Yes, sir."

Ushering him out, I let go to yet another sigh, in finding the "Spells Throughout the Ages" still blocking the flooring. Whatever was I to do with Phineas? And where was that obnoxious heat coming from?! A newly-infesting migraine dismissed such thoughts. Tomorrow. I'd look into it, into everything, tomorrow.

~~~~~~~~~~~

"Oh, darling, isn't it ghastly how everyone sends such divine missives on these occasions?"

Mama's velvety voice soothed my senses entirely the next morning, when, after a particularly disastrous night - I could barely get an ounce of sleep, and I did believe the reason for this displeasure had as much to do with the overwhelming heat provided indoors as it most likely did with my previous sorrow- I managed to escape breakfast - and therefore encountering Phineas- and went to see her. She was quite cheerful, in her chambers, even though she was planted on the sofa crowning her private quarters, and she was covered tightly by a soft little blanket I thought to be the one Rhosyn had woven me as a toddler. Mother was so insufferably maudlin, at times, and this embarrassed me, since I could in no way share her absurd sentimentalism.

The image, while one of a flourishing youth of thirty, was indeed concerning. Mother had never been one to indulge in late sleeps or lingering in her chambers. She was Welsh, so she said their spirit: little words but more deeds, always action, always motion. I remembered her when carrying Phineas. She'd been a beaming spot of constant movement, even then.

Now, she had dedicated her time to an intense scrutiny of the missives

"Here's one from La Societe des Roses Noires... To our esteemed and most cherished member - did you hear that? Most cherished!- word of an ill predisposition on your behalf has reached us - oh, silly Merrick, he must have told everyone...- and we wish you..."

"Here's one from darling Moira. She was simply struck, since she was actually there...of course, she sends her best as well..."

"Now, Brodick, I know it's hardly what you expected...and I suspect Phineas isn't too pleased either - " That was putting it mildly, yes. " - oh, wait - does he know?" I nodded, feebly.

"Poor Brodick, it must have been ghastly for you, to have to sort things through, after all the fuss made for absolutely nothing. Why, it's perfectly natural, on some pregnancies, quite so..."

"So...there's no sign on there having been anything wrong?"

Puzzle tangled with alarm in her eyes: "Your pardon?"

"I...well, it was a very sudden affair, wasn't it? You'd not felt bad before, or the likes, and then-"

"Brodick, that's hardly something to discuss with a lady!" I opened my mouth to apologize, but she continued softly enough. "Darling, don't worry. No, there was nothing to hint towards it - and I'll admit to it being most bewildering - but it's honestly just a trifle..." I decided to voice none of my opinions on the respect, and she took advantage on the silence to inquire on the further demeanor of things:

"How did Phineas take to having a new sibling?"

"He...he wasn't entirely delighted."

"Well, I supposed as much. But it's good to know it's only that. Heavens, I'd thought - since he's so like your Father in every other manner- he'd have a fit!"

"He didn't." I shook my head, heeding again the three rules of the perfect liar. "But he didn't take pleasure in the news either. I reckon the perspective of being second best doesn't hold too much appeal to him."

"But I'd never hold him second to anyone, you know-"

I bravely took her a step forward : "Precisely. I know."

"Think you I ought to have a word with him?" Women. Such poor creatures, in all honestly. Not their fault the Creator bestowed not upon them any sort of sense - one was to have and show pity for them, whenever one could.

"As you see fit, madam."

"This entire heritage ordeal has always been such a gamble in numerous families. It's why your Father and I initially thought we oughtn't have any more children. And why the entire secrecy was then kept. But well, your Father abandoned his reserves entirely, and...you know I care for younglings, so of course I wanted the pregnancy as well, and-"

Her words died softly, as the door opened with a characteristic screech. This had to be the newest polished door of the lot of the house, and still Aristotle, his head beaming from above a silver platter, could make it spawn those horrid sounds.

"'Totle tea brought!"

"Tea?" Mother set aside her letters, turning to eye Aristotle with a note of puzzlement. "But I didn't ask for-" a small smile appeared in an instant "Your Father spoils me immensely. I so wish I didn't have to burden him further, with everything on his head, as of late... one lump, please."

Somehow, the dumb beast managed to complete his task without waging too much chaos while endeavoring in it. Rather a gigantic accomplishment for him, naturally, so Mother's smile - of relief, to my reasoning- , as she took her cup, was understandable. I didn't know why she insisted on keeping Aristotle. He meant well, of as much as I was certain, but there were particular standards to which a member of staff of the Black residence was to commit himself, and Aristotle was well beneath any of these expectations. He couldn't serve without wrecking tools, nor could he clean without half the precious adornments of the place meeting a swift demise. He'd also been ringed, so that we were spared his indubitably disastrous efforts of magical employ. So to what purpose he could actually still be of use, I couldn't decide. But it most likely had to do with either Father's sadism or Mother's sense for the abstract. Both of which always had chaotic results.

"Master want tea?" he inquired, smoothly.

"Yes, Aristotle, I think I'll have a cup."

"Master certain?" He blinked a few times, startle very much dawned in the stunning big blue eyes "Certain?"

"Honestly, Aristotle, it's merely tea, not like I'm taking a decision to mark my life for all eternity. No sugar nor cream, however,"

"Y-yes, master." Another formidable display of "talent" followed on his behalf, as the curiously light liquid was poured in a cup designated to me, and in it alone.

He did not prevail in an as graceful a departure, succeeding in colliding with one of Mother's jewelry boxes, and having the little shiny beads lose themselves between the soft folds of the carpet. Oh, well. Couldn't ask for too many miracles in one day.

Picking my cup, I attended to Mother, who was currently fidgeting with her wand - she rarely used it, save for ornamentation- and most likely fighting the inner battle of either Summoning the beads herself or calling Rhosyn to pick them up. It didn't do for a lady to do a servant's part, still, this was such a trifling matter that, surely, her little drive from etiquette would be excused...

I saved her the moral dilemma - pondering the done thing was always ever so draining- and picked them up myself.

"Declan told me about a new convention of Alchemists," I mentioned in the passing, as I returned her pieces to their place. "Or so he'd learned from his sire. He is to attend this sort of an intervention, these days. And since Hadrian Lestrange depends highly on Father - "

I took a first sip of my tea, and immediately revulsion little but won the better half of my control - I feared I would spit the wretched brew out then and there but, somehow managed to swallow in. Ye Gods, what had that idiotic elf made it of? The bits between his toes?

"Horrid taste!"

Mother, apparently accustomed to this sort of torture, merely shook her head. "Oh, that's because you didn't take a touch of sugar."

"Quite." Sugar to Salazar. This tea needed one more thing to be all fit and proper, and that was arsenic. Then it could safely compete for the most excruciating poison of the known Potion brewing. Hmm...per chance, Laurentius might be interested in the recipe? But I digressed, and that wouldn't do. "As I said before, there's a tiresome alchemy convention that would indeed require Father's attention-"

"You see?" said Mother, sympathetically.

"-and I'm quite certain he'll have to join. They normally go together."

"Yes...of course..." Her eyes were lost in the lecture of yet another of her letters. Abrupt silence installed, broken only as she snapped up to glance at me, in the moments to follow: "Do you expect he'll be among us by four days?"

I frowned, subtly. Why precisely four? "Four days?"

"Yes. Four days," she replied calmly, with maybe just a touch of exasperation. Crossing her fingers on the handle, and carefully exposing a delicate wrist from under the soft tangle of her sleeves, she brought her cup up, took a small sip. A lady to the smallest details - yes, I could certainly understand what had dictated Father's choice in his marital pursuits. She was ornamental to the last extreme.

I decided not to formulate any further inquiries, as her expectant look told me as much that the day to follow these four others marked some special event I for whose disregarding I would not be easily pardoned. Or at all. Gradually, I made a short inventory. End of August...whatever could be occurring then? Was there some-

As realization dawned in, I attempted to mask my sudden flush by feigning a deep interest in consuming the very last of my tea, It was still formidably repulsive, but I imposed it upon myself as a small reprimand.

She offered me a smile, as I lowered the cup from my lips and uttered, somewhat apologetically:

"I am confident in that there is no way your anniversary might escape his attentions."

She nodded. "Good, because I intend to receive. A small ensemble, of course..."

Small ensemble. Really now. Whom exactly did she believe she was jesting to? Mother's reputation had been spawned on account of her balls, and I couldn't think of a time under her reign as lady of the Black when Grimmauld had received less than fifty on a formal occasion. However, one matter did delay my immediate approval.

"Madam...given the circumstances, would receiving at this time be ...wise?"

Her expression swiftly turned to sheer aristocratic indignation. "Surely you do not think I will spend my remaining delicate days in this chamber!"

Admitting error - how foolish of me to think a woman would rightfully understand and ponder aspects beyond social calls - I decided a little humoring would go a long way:

"No. Of course not. How horrible of me."

She nodded, a few times, strategically keeping back any comments she might have had on the respect. Her thin fingers slipped over the letters, stopping on a little note, bearing a most curious seal that invariably drew my attention...a perfect circle, sliced upwards by a snake...from where was this familiar? Think, think, think...

There was a method of recalling. An old Indian educator had instructed Grandsire in its dealings. And then Grandsire had passed the knowledge to Father. And Father to me. And I would most likely do so to Phineas, or any little heirs I might have, one day, however horrible the prospect now currently presented itself.

It was an undemanding process. Clean your mind of all thoughts, let the thoughts fill with nothing but the word, voice or image. Then think of your mind as nothing but void, and within it a sphere that this given information created. There was matter in void, for matter was void, as went the Alchemical theory of Erasmus or Rotterdam, in his fifth translation. So one was to compound the other information that the mind sheltered but that had escaped our current thought to form the new layers, being born from the void...

Well, no one expected it to work, any a how, but it had acceptable results, as far as our lineage was concerned. It had always had. And it functioned nicely for me at the current time, as recognition hit in. Father's newest desk adornment!

"Hmm...I think this one is for your Father," said Mama, examining it shortly "Yes, yes, most likely for him. Be a dear and do let it slip in his study, when you go down...people so oughtn't address them with "Black" pure and simple, we can all pick them from the owlery, then..."

"Right away, madam." Leaving a half filled cup on her dressing table, and also removing the missive from her little pack, I took this as my cue to make a graceful departure.

~~~~~~~~~~

"Mother deems this was not for her."

I closed the door behind me upon entering Father's study. He eyed me questioningly, in the first instants, but recognition then settled in with curious haste in sighting the letter.

To my understanding, or, rather, to the understanding provided by his current packing, he was making last preparations to attend that presumably secret assembly of the Order of Change. Currently, he was undergoing the lenient procedure of gathering a series of books and scrolls nearside him, or summoning those further towards him by a skillfully cast "Accio". The ones suitable for the purpose of his study were idly positioned in a little pouch he'd either conjured or encountered, while the rest were simply thrown on the desk or the carpet, for Rhosyn to dispose of later.

I attempted to avoid stepping on any encouraging reading material while covering the distance between us.

"Oh, yes, of course...," he murmured, taking hold of the piece of parchment, and breaking the seal silently, only to scrutinize it with indifference. Would that I could emulate his apathy in the letter's regard, but I was quite forced to admit in that its content had managed to pique my interest.

Alas, though, whatever hopes I might have had in that he would shed any light on the account for his preferred heir, were immediately shattered as he absent-mindedly rolled the scroll then shoved it in one drawer of his desk.

"How very quaint." A smooth thud as another book landed on the floor announced the resumption of his previous activity. I decided to give the subject more ample directions.

"Do you intend to depart?"

He measured a large tome with a cover of cobalt velvet; as he turned to it, I could distinguish the marks of the "Great Alchemists of the Old", which immediately brought to mind Phineas and his wonderings. Presenting me a benign smile, he carelessly threw it on the flooring. "A few fortnights."

"An assembly of the entire Order of Change..." I tested softly. His questioning glance forced a few more words:

"Declan Lestrange."

"Ah." He sported a thin smile. "Hadrian ought to keep better clutch of his tongue." Another tome met his silent scrutiny. With a small waver, that too took the path of its precedent.

"I doubt he had too much a say in this."

Both hands froze on the pouch, for a moment. Then he hurriedly threw two ink containers in, to make amends for the delay. "Is he still getting the owls drunk to check on the mail?"

It was my turn to sample sheer surprise. It was to my knowledge that this was indeed his fancied method. A small dip in absinthe and then one in cinnamon powder to mask the smell, and then the owl treats were more than acceptable to be handed out to the otherwise fierce fiends inhabiting the residence's owlery. They fell down in an instant. One could subsequently then extract the desired missive, lecture to one's liking, and even retrieve it as if untouched. Not like the owl could ever tell the tale, or the likes, even if it did belatedly acknowledge any of the happenings.

Yes, he commonly made use of this little jest, and I had only slightly hinted to the little rows and arrangements for accommodations - I questioned, momentarily, just where dear old Declan had lingered the past eve...- at the Lestrange manor. Still, Father's conclusion was indubitably startling. How had he known? For how long had this particular intelligence been with him? And, more importantly, however could I mask any intrusion on his and Hadrian Lestrange's privacy in their written exchanges, from now on?

"He's a menace, that lad," said Father, sparing me the effort of further reflections and, implicitly, removing me from my sufferance. He tied the knot to his heavy pouch by a short flick of his wand, and the appropriate charm. Absently, I wondered just what hex he might have imbued so to "repay" any disturbing hands...

"Nonsense." My eyes swept over the copper satin, taking note of how its opulence, just like that of everything else of the chamber, marked a fascinating elegance.

"He's not a menace." I flashed a faint grin. "He's a Slytherin."

"Oh, indeed, Slytherin. I wonder, Brodick, whether it was not quite the misfortune, your attendance in the House of the Serpent..."

This had the gift of startling me. "How so?"

"Mayhap this will lead to a most tiresome tradition. Your grandsire, a Slytherin. So his sire before him. One myself. And now you. How many to follow?"

Somehow, the fluid touch of his words granted them an air of treachery, more so than grace. It was hardly unexpected; he was in the habit of testing my reflexes or manner of thought at each given occasion. Still, that he would do so even presently was distracting, to say the least.

And then my eyes fell on the book, "Great Alchemists of the Old", and I thought of his smile, then of Phineas, of course. And how much did Father know of that particular loose end, any a how? More than he cared to show, perhaps? If so, why had he not taken measures of his own wherre my younger sibling was concerned...then a one reflection reached me, and this was not in the least soothing. What was to say he had not taken matters into own hands, already?

"I highly doubt any of our lineage would be as dense as to think this House an addition to our heritage. But to humor etiquette and provide an answer...As many as it takes. "

"To what?"

"To get the point across. We're Blacks, sir. A Black's is the gift of endurance, even in the most treacherous of pits."

"A snake's pit. Remarkable choice of words." He tittered softly. "Your mother would be so very proud. It is from she that you have this touch of diplomacy. I myself am a man of little words. Yes, she would be proud."

I was relieved at him having offered me the occasion of mentioning a further issue to whose resolving he might have wanted to attend. The dreaded festivity.

"And while we're touching the subject - Mama's anniversary is approaching. She plans to receive in four nights."

He rose his head lightly. "I shall return by then."

"No, sir, I had meant to point-"

His thin smile accompanied my every dreaded anticipation as, picking a piece of scroll and inking a quill, he idly began scribbling. "After all, a Black's is the gift of endurance...was it not how it went?" His fingers and quill ran on the sheet, tainting it fiercely, in the darken gray characteristic to our lineage. Soon enough a little sum was visible. And then the name of the token...Broderick Black...He was writing me a Gringotts letter for Galleons. Which could only mean one thing. Dear Merlin. He wanted me to see to the preparations behind Mother's festivity. Me. The one who loathed these sort of issues with all the heart expected from one of my status. ME. Should a roar had accordingly expressed my current frustration, I would have obliged in one; but I currently felt there was not enough animal passion even in that.

"I'm certain you'll manage with whatever issues might arise," he murmured, passing me the note. I sighed.

"Certainly, sir." Trust a Slytherin to skillfully web in another. Oh, but he'd have his, I pledged. The organizer of such a festivity also had a grand say in what seating arrangements were concerned. And I was willing to wager my intolerably inexistent Hogwarts prefect letter on that he would not fancy the dull company of some newly-turned widow or illiterate maiden. Haha, the perfect match - surround Father with absolute idiots. That would surely "please" him to no ends!

Seemingly taking no notice of my abrupt change of heart, he bestowed upon me a triumphant smile and a swift nod, and then rose. He took hold of his pouch then swiftly made his leave in a satisfactory illustration of proper Apparating. Halfheartedly, I made my way towards the registers.

Going through Father's notes was a considerable effort on anyone's behalf, given how half of them at least required that one enlist the aid of a translator. His handwriting, if anything, was murderous for the untrained eye, and the shape and manner he utilized had nothing to do with the matter. He indulged in a series of symbols and forms to with which most were not even acquainted, let alone accustomed to in such demanding usage. Not to mention how his method of calculus had been compounded on a rather crude foundation. Father was hardly a man of education where administration was concerned, as it was said that, by the time he had committed to his responsibility to the Black lineage and produced an heir, Grandsire was already on that damnable and much feared - on my behalf- path of insanity. He had not taken to instructing his successors in the essentials, he'd let them wander off. Which was why Father's writing, even now, after he'd been forced to conform, bore the signs of late development. There were Alchemical equations where the simplest brand of arithmetic would have easily sufficed, and even - of all things!- sketches of the allegorical numbers changing place, in the accounting of the estate's profit during the month of the Equinox.

In short, it was all too chaotic, and I had to level the monthly requirements and subtract an estimated value as to what Mother's expenses for the receiving would be. It was to Mother's liking that everything be to the expected Black elegance, so she would surely choose to make use of all her decorating talents on this "blessed" occasion. Or so she'd told me - and as I knew her, this could only have one translation - more Galleons than either Father or I would have cared to discard. A half frown to the sum presented on Father's note told of this illicit expense. And to such a futile aim...oh, women were quite the burden, in all honesty. It was still to my wonder that they were permitted to carry a wand; after all, they were only so gifted on an intellectual level, so what was to say their magical performance did not have to suffer as well? Hmm, definitely a theory worth the pursuit.

Calmly, I made my way through the registers. The banking accounts seemed all fit. There was the loan to McAlister - and vault 709 that contained Grimmauld's documents...yes, all in place...glistening in scarlet inking was the signature of Father's accountant, Kayr, on the newest transactions...no new funds, no old - must put them chronologically - dear Merlin, what was Epsilon doing between the sums? And then Rousseau's Alchemic theory between the monthly additions - Gah, Father! Hm, one thing clear, at least, again Kayr's signature on the paper - that new deposit in our vault 711...

I froze in my place. Vault...711? But we didn't have a vault 711. I knew all the numbers, of course - 708-709-710 and 679, which had been an account created the century before by a thrice - denied cousin who'd meant to get more than his share of the fortune...no, there had certainly not been a vault 711 at my last check, and that had been...when I had just returned from Hogwarts. No, no, no 711, most definitely - then what was it doing there? Had Kayr meant to spell 710? I took a closer look - no, couldn't have. The money to pay for the deposit in 711 had come from 710. No misunderstanding. And here - here, a document on the creation of vault 711...no more than two weeks before! What an Earth - and why hadn't Father informed me of this?

I offered the registers the entirety of my puzzlement but, unsurprisingly, no all-knowing entity enlightened me with the worthy explanations. I'd have to check on this vault 711 as soon as I reached Gringotts to pick up Mother's money.

With Father's note grasped tightly in my left hand, I scribbled a few words on a new parchment, handing it directly to the Owlery. From there on, it would most likely reach Declan, urging him to Floo his lazy arse to Diagon Alley in an instant, before I'd hex the daylights out of his pretty eyes to the place. Granted, on a much less commanding tone and in a more elegant manner of speech. Not that Declan wouldn't read between the fine lines - but there were certain rules to etiquette, after all, and it wasn't the done thing at all to disobey them.

Presenting Mother with my farewells - several pleas and promises on returning in time for tea were cordially made from both sides- and escaping Phineas' tired looks in the corridors, I managed to Floo soon enough. So we had a new vault... How ...interesting...

~~~~~~~~~

"Much obliged to you for offering your company, Declan," I said with a grin, all too aware that the nature of my "invitation" had been a much more likely reason for such a gesture on his behalf:

"Yes, well, it seemed only fit, given the circumstances." He'd taken my narration of the past eve's events remarkably well, and had merely nodded cryptically in hearing of my assumptions regarding Phineas.

"Told you he was a poor little sod," he'd commented, wryly, but he'd had the decency of keeping the rest of his remarks to himself, and we'd bravely indulged in a discussion of the controversial results of the last games played for the international Quidditch Cup. Throwing the topic in his more common range of conversation, I found him a far more enthusiastic interlocutor. After a quarter of a clock, he'd decreed that Spain's team was miserable, that Duglosz was about the most unfortunate Keeper Poland could have hoped for and that, all in all, we had high hopes for at least a second position in the finals.

Privately, I wandered just when my torment would end. After sampling myself as a great martyr, I'd brought the tedious ordeal to an end through this horrid courtesy.

"So...what's it we're after?"

"A great many things. However, a small trip to Gringotts would be advisable as a first step."

"Gringotts? But why- oh...Twenty-third of August...quite..." It was rather discreditable for Declan Lestrange to have kept such a fine accounting of Mama's anniversary, when I'd so scandalously failed in the same. Then again, I did believe Moira Lestrange obsessed enough as to insist on this being the done thing, and on her son -whose excellent memory had earned itself quite the reputation in keeping grudges- to recall each event, even if only to silence her. Awful brand, these Irish females - let them scream, and they'll do so until you regret the very day in which any of your ancestry stepped foot into the realm of the living.

We turned left to the corner.

"The old hag planning to receive?"

"She always does, on such crucially valid occasion."

"Make that on any valid occasion."

Saddening, but all too true. I nodded, and then we both slid past to the very nearest edifice. Opulence was no fair word to Gringott's newest setting. Gold, silver, magic - they had it all in rich layers. Livened statues of their illustrious ilk who had sacrificed themselves in one great war or the other - a most fruitless effort, in my own view, as it was a fair and known fact that the wizard kin had triumphed over each said battle- greeted one near the doors, and a few silver doves passed our front. One neared me, and, throwing it an even glance, I aimed for the quill delicately concealed through the ornamental feathers compounding the tail, and for the little piece of scroll it kept valiantly tucked in its beak. Scribbling down rapidly was a trait all of Slytherin had learned to value after we had all, invariably, taken on Muggle Studies.

It was rule amongst us to skip once every two classes - too high an attendance to this one subject dragged on an undesirable reputation of Muggle leman, and this would certainly not do- so, in order to compensate, the "esteemed" professor Gens would have us note down entire parchments in an hour, whenever he caught us present. Therefore, fast scripting had grown one of my talents. I prevailed in exhibiting it then and there, while marking up a few notes:

To Maestro Werelyn Kayr, from Lord Broderick Black, salvete. May Fortune and the Serpent have you in their favors. Per chance, could one intrude on your precious time?

Rolling the scroll up, I handed it back to the dove, bravely attempting to take no notice of Declan's jests about my written appellative. Indeed, "Broderick" was such a horrid issue, and it was to my misfortune that formality demanded its usage. The dove took off rather lightly, and we followed it... Of course, Gringotts could have easily utilized owls for taking over late requests for appointments, but, then again, they would not have quite been Gringotts had all their mannerisms not sported a touch of flamboyance...

It took something short of the greatest efforts of diplomacy on my behalf to keep Declan from hexing off a good dozen goblin guards who casually warned that wand usage within the marble altar to the Galleon deity was prohibited. "marble alter to the Galleon deity"... That's a great line! Apparently, even the slightest sensation of helplessness did not suit a Lestrange in any a fashion, and their newest successor was no exception indeed. Personally, I found the sentiment perversely delightful. Control was not an affair of the body as it was one of the mind - and much more one proved to be above their stations, should he or she accept their regulations with superb dignity and proof of being in no way affected by their childish demands. This was a lesson thought well enough in the House of the Serpent, and I did believe it was one with which Declan himself was vaguely acquainted, but towards which he could not lean on account of his endlessly impulsive nature.

The dove returned to us just as we reached the great hallway, and the content of its current missive was obnoxiously short - 25. Just that. Logic dictated it was the number of the office in which Kayr most likely now resided so we decided to treat this piece of intelligence as a hint to as much. Given his previous quarrel with their kin, Declan remained wondrously silent as we were led through the corridors by one of the guards who kept commenting bitterly on the foul traits of the human character. It seemed that the fact that we, unlike them, did not benefit for more than four centuries of life, was not motivation enough, in their view, for our short temper. I said nothing on the account, as it was to my understanding that a sheer lack of patience and aversion towards eternal contemplation were the flaws all goblins commonly attributed to wizards and partly the reason why our kinds had never truly got along.

But finally we reached number 25. We slipped past the door, and its silver replica of the chant carved in the gates to the grand hall: Enter stranger but take heed / Of what awaits the sin of greed...I couldn't be bothered with the entire lecture, so I merely paced forward. A great desk - dear memento to Father's- occupied the most of the chamber, and book shelves all around, with dusty old tomes that I did not waver in classifying as Gringotts' registers. It would only fit that Kayr, being their accounting chieftain and Father's devil of the numbers, see to their attendance as well.

Kayr himself was no pleasure to the eye - an elder goblin, skin wrinkled, nose fairly upturned, and two playful eyes with just a touch of malice. He looked his best in Gringotts' choice of garb for its finest ranking; the scarlet and gold, rouge-et-d'or just as those of the Gryffindor badge, diminished his air of cold calculation and utter control, and normally made the client feel on an equal level with his dealer, therefore entrusting more in his hands and underestimating him. Lethal error, naturally, but so flawed the human spirit is, at times...

He was taking down notes of some affair or the other, and paying little if any direct attention to us. Rather, holding this pretence. I had no doubts he was studying our every move and amusing himself greatly with the thought of the foolish little lads strolling through his quarters.

"Yes...?" He still didn't look up from his papers. This displeased me, to an extent, but, recognizing the game, I did not let anger play its part. Did he think he could address a Black as he would a commoner? Well, surely not! I was heir to the greatest lineage - mayhap, save for Salazar's himself- to haunt the grounds of England, spawn of one of the grandest Alchemists of this time and the one to have passed, Slytherin apogee myself. I would not have it! I would not have it!

I refused to answer. Declan, however, fell prey to his little flaw of short temper, and murmured to my ear: "What are we waiting for?"

"Silence." I brought a hand slightly up, motioning for quiet as well. Kayr vaguely graced us with a glimpse, before returning to his calculus:.

"Well...?" I would still not answer. Ruddy goblin. Who exactly did he think he was dealing with? Silently, I vowed to apologize to Declan as soon as we departed. The usage of wands should, indeed, have been permitted within Gringotts. I could think of someone worthy a good hex just then...

"Good day to you, milord Black," noted Kayr, moments after, and his smile told that, had this been some sort of test of will, I'd handled myself rather suitably. "I live to serve, like a toothy house elf."

We both smiled. "Good day to you in turn, Werelyn Kayr."

He rose from his place with speedy motions, surprising both Declan and I through a great sample of dexterity, given his age. Then again, mayhap this oughtn't have so bewildered me. "Is that a Lestrange?"

"Your pardon. Maestro Werelyn Kayr, this is Declan Lestrange, heir of said lineage, descendant of the Weasleys, and fine amity of the "most noble House of Black."

"It is most noble indeed. " He bent slightly forward and extended a cripple hand to reach for Declan's mane. The last merely took a step back, somewhat bewildered. The comedy of his __expression was renewed in my mind, as I recalled his comment, the day before, on house elves and being so ghastly "kinky".

Kayr silently retreated to his customary position, although a certain fascination lingered on. "I say, such fine crimson hair..."

I decided to put an end to the jests and, removing the scroll, passed Father's note upon the desk.

"Indeed. I come for the following sum. It has been placed to my disposition under signature - see here, Cassius Black." Wand poised slightly above it, I beckoned his attention towards the signature. True enough, in his discrete inking, the Father's name shone beautifully on the untainted sheet.

"Oh, herein I require no proof, young man...you've my confidence." Actually, it was Father's money to hold this grand privilege, not I, but I did appreciate his discretion in studying it through short glimpses, and therefore at least feeding the illusion of confidence in me.

"Very well...come on, off to the vaults!" he said, quite abruptly. Before we could actually get grip of him, he was out of his chair, and near the door, pacing madly.

"Vaults?" mouthed Declan silently, as he walked off after Kayr, head slightly bowed so as not to hit the ceiling. I shrugged. We were Blacks, after all...what others craved even in the smallest fraction, we had in a lively abundance. Galleons were simply just part of this last canon.

The corridors were darken. Dark, and cold, and so very much pleasant. It was certainly a welcome change from the hellishly warm conditions in which I'd spent my previous night, and I enjoyed the sensation to its fullest.

Which, of course, could not be said of Declan. Throughout our little journey in the insides of Gringotts, he'd maintained an austere air, mainly swayed only on the few occasions when Maestro Kayr's glances would divert from us. He'd then break into little but fits on how the ruddy goblin was flirting with him. This paranoia of his extended far enough so that, when we'd reached areas of the underground passages where light was a luxury, he'd keep whispering in my ears that he was being ...touched.

What could one say? Such a "fine" example of Slytherin composure.

I was mildly surprised in finding Kayr taking us truly down. Not being one in the habit to point to a lack of pieces of intelligence, I didn't voice any questions in this respect, but it had been to my understanding that the Black fortune was kept in the areas above. To my knowledge, the lower cases were assigned to the most secretive areas, and I couldn't think of why precisely Father would want this sort of an ordeal. Unless this vault 711 truly did have more value than one would normally care to attribute to it...

In reaching the first line of vaults, Kayr came to a halt. So did Declan, a good two feet behind him. Kayr gave him a half-amused look, then started plunging his hands in his pockets for the scroll he'd hung on to, despite his insistence that he believed my every word, of course.

"Quite. Here it is..." A faint smile touched his lips as he ran over it, between the one too many items his robes also contained. "Hold the keys, will you?"

Declan's Keeper talents were again tested, this time not as much on the Quidditch field, but in retrieving the keys Kayr tossed him. The last returned to attending to the vault - his right hand slid over it with care, and immediately, recognition of his status as goblin functionary was issued as the cover began to melt over. All impish flickers on his behalf had faded, and we had in front of us concentration materialized under a trifling form. Above all else, Werelyn Kayr was - for all of Declan's bickering- a professional.

" All right... Here's your sum, take it like a good boy, Bro-" I frowned. He hastily redressed, "young Master Black."

I nodded and handed the pouch to Declan who - now forced to cling to both it and the set of keys- kept complaining on about how, was if he was expected to play the part of a hallstand, he might at least be offered some sort of payment. It was on the tip of my tongue to mention to him just how imaginative Kayr might be in rewarding him in a more "special" way... my sudden look must have conveyed something of the sort, because he grew immediately silent.

"Yes...Maestro Kayr, could you possibly hand me the content of vault 711*?"

"711? I...well..." He turned to Declan, motioning lazily to the vaults, "boy, you want to take a peak?"

"It's only Galleons. I've seen more than my share." The words "and drunk" hung between us. We both gave a faint smile. Declan seemed mildly unimpressed, and for a good reason. The Lestranges were hardly gentry of little money. Their tastes and expenses were dictated by a healthy Gringotts fund, so Galleons could hardly present any further interest to their heir, of all things. This, however, managed to remind me of a more intriguing detail of the Lestrange household. As word had it, they'd run into their fortune quite recently. Which is to say, they were hardly of the nouveau-riche, since their blood was old, and fair, and there had always been a Lestrange at power. Ah, inde ed, always a Lestrange. But then, in the prime of Hadrian Lestrange, something had gone amiss. The lineage's heritage had met an early demise, and apart for from their fancy name, nothing had kept them from disaster or, worse, social disgrace.

So a convenience marriage had been arranged. Moira Weasley, of a dynasty known for its pure blood and fairly wealthy, as a side bonus, had been enamored and then quickly wed by a much more versatile Hadrian Lestrange. The Weasleys, confrontedwith a pregnant heiress, had been given no chance to object to the union. But rumors had it that up to this very day they had never quite forgotten the incident. Their younger son, with no claims to the fortune in which Hadrian Lestrange now played his game, had taken to assuring that something come, at least, to the benefit of his sister. The spawns, therefore, would be brought up in the Irish ways, and this early education would be granted by the grandsires. Along with this, it would seem, had also been transported the seed of resent towards Hadrian that Declan appeared to sport, and his constant reproaches. Though while the Weasleys might have seen in this emotional display some sort of vengeance, Hadrian Lestrange rested most untouched. Let his son bicker, and his in-laws complain. He had an heir to his name, and the money to his legacy - there was nothing more he could quite desire.

I absently returned to Declan and Kayr. The last was currently attempting to convince my Slytherin companion of the beauties within the vaults, no doubt so that the two of us could enjoy some intimacy as he told the little secret of vault 711. Because I was, by now, rather sure there was more to that one Black possession than I had initially been led to believe. There were too many security measures taken in its favor, for one thing. Still, he needn't have sought to keep Declan back by tricks and deceit. The Lestrange heir could perfectly well understand the need of for privacy, and would gracefully walk out on his own, should one so request of him. Be sides, I was going to tell him all about my less official pursuits upon leaving. As Slytherins, we had to keep together.

"Yes...but have you ever seen the Black family collection of ancient possessions?"

"Does it involve Alchemy?"

"Nothing as intriguing, I fear. The earlier masters were more enthralled by...Quidditch. Such interesting little brooms they have up there, from their ages...I think they even have a Pensieve holding the memories of one to have witnessed the great Wronski as he first executed his trick!"

"W-W-Wronski! Y-your pardon, Brodick, but I'd even lay a house elf to see that- excuse me a bit-"

Blinking a tad, I nodded. First vague intelligence on house elves as "kinky". Then curious mannerisms in encountering one slightly resembling former species. Now subtle claims to lay an elf. Yes, there was something very peculiar about Declan's demeanor, these days...

"First vault on the right," murmured Kayr, motioning towards the mentioned direction. A thin sardonic smile lingered on his face until we rested alone. Reluctantly, I had to admit the technique had functioned remarkably.

"How did you know?"

"About the youngling's love for the sport? You did claim him a Weasley..." He shrugged, then carefully walked by me. "Now, about your request..."

"Yes. Vault 711."

"Come on."

It took Kayr a bit of bickering and idle curses to either fate or his own memory before settling on which of the vaults placed in the immediate set of cells was the much hunted 711. They ought to have them numbered, I thought, then dismissed the idea completely. Of course they were right in leaving them unnumbered. One could never be too sure, after all.

"Hmm..." Tracing a surprisingly elegant - either that or I had been infected with Declan's love for the grotesque- finger on his chin, he examined one vault with care.

" Enemies of the heir. Beware." He turned to me with a half-mocking smirk. "For writhing upon you - "

"Is the shadow of his wrath," I finished, quite pleased with his choice of lyrics. ""Blood and Silver", verses 71 to 75."

His eyes lit with mildly feigned glee. "Very well, young Black...Didn't reckon they still taught it at Hogwarts."

"They don't."

A thin grin to the both of us. We knew what "Blood and Silver" referred to, there was no question of it. And as Kayr's previous comment had subtly noted, we were also aware of the prohibition of its further mention. An epic poem composed well in the Medieval times - some claimed it had been brought together by Salazar's Seer of a mistress herself- "Blood and Silver" centered mainly on the Slytherin lineage and on the accursed heritage it was likely to pass. It also contained accurate accusations against the traitors of blood, and it had been formulated as a veiled threat for those of tainted blood. The last verses - the very ones Kayr had cited, were clear evidence in that direction.

"Well?" He stepped aside from the vault, giving me full view. "Insert your password, little master. Kayr doesn't look."

"Password...but neither vaults nor their contents have additional passwords."

A dry chuckle here. "Heh. These ones do. 'Twas changed this very dawn."

"Most peculiar..." He eyed me warily, and then the crisped surface serving as a barrier. And I knew what it was that he expected me to do; I knew not how, or why, but instincts were a great part of an Alchemist's nature, and I trusted my own greatly.

I steadily extended a hand, flexing all fingers onto the platform. Thin, so very thin...like a membrane whose life pulsed underneath it. It was surprisingly smooth - rather cold, as well. And I could feel its heartbeat - if ever there had been one. We, the wizardry kin, did not interfere in the goblin doings. We did not ask questions to which they would rather not answer, and I had something of an impression that any inquiries formulated on the nature of the little lively "door" would not be appreciated.

"Indeed," noted Kayr wryly, carefully awakening me from my contemplations, and also coming as a reminder that I had not, so far, provided any "password". Ruddy goblin, always thought himself ever so bright. "So I take it you don't know it?"

"Quiet..." The thin materials upon the doorway little but wrapped themselves upon my fingers. Soft, again, the texture surprised me, at least in this one account. I loved its touch, could feel it tie. As if the little jade link plastered on a possession document had, somehow, connected me eternally to this one piece as well. As if it were more than just an object - and a rather bulky and hardly elegant vault, at that- and I more than its master enthralled by the wonderful riddle it proposed.

Open, I wished to tell it, open at once. I am a Black, and you belong to a Black, so open. But I didn't. My mind was still tormented by questions about what precisely the damnable password could have been.

"No point, dear boy. No point."

"Carry off."

Kayr made no effort to conceal his amusement at my evident irritation:. "Shall you linger on?"

Open...open...

No point. There were better chances of the wall beside it shattering under the power of my unvoiced will. At least that would have the decency to respect a Black, and - was that Declan I could hear whistling so crudely, when silence was a crucial requirement in all goblin edifices?

Kayr's suddenly exasperated smirk assured me of as much and, sporting an own ironic smile, I pushed him in front of me:.

"Carry off."

"Such awful temper, we have."

But he advanced, anyhow, and soon we were both lost to one black none could deny...but at least there would always be light at the end of the tunnel, wouldn't it?

~~~~~~~~~

"Blimey, Brodick, it was hardly worth your trouble! What was your share with that vault any a how?"

It had been foolish of me to think Declan would forgive me even the slightest of delays in his company to Kayr. Truthfully, I felt he had rather exaggerated the entire happening, and that, even should the elder goblin master have sampled some sort of interest in his direction, he would have done far better with a more neutral reaction than the open contempt he had sported. After all, the Lestranges were known for far worst worse liaisons. "Supplementary vaults are as much a reason for worry as deficient ones. Its presence, especially for something that small, was not accounted for."

Explaining anything concerning numbers to Declan would prove a task worthy of Merlin's might, a Veela's charm, and a dragon's temper. It was fairly well known that, of all the subjects Hogwarts' curriculum array offered, his greatest battle was waged with the fully rational ones.

Laurentius Hasek - this short mental reference to him immediately drew the question of why exactly he hadn't bothered with a new missive, these last days...- had found fit to expand on this particular trait, at one point. After a speech and a historical analysis that lengthened to five scrolls of parchment - and he had such small handwriting, the beast!- he had carefully and, as far as the utilized theories and solidity of the claimed facts went, reasonably demonstrated that the gene for rational thought did not run in the Lestrange lineage. His next aim was, by his own wor d, pointing how brain cells did not run in that same family - pity for Declan. Hasek, making use of the Slytherin character, always got where he wanted to go.

'Ye Gods, must everything be accounted for, in that blond head of yours?"

"Mayhap."

I shrugged, then stopped to get a better look frontward. Diagon Alley had never been all that much to my liking. Swarming like a nest of ants, always in the movement. People, here and there, running about, jesting in the streets, or selling their merchandise.

The little square colliding to Knockturn was the worst. My impression was currently proven accurate just then and there - a crowd had formed, centered on something, blocking the road. Pity we had to reach beyond it to the nearest open fireplace. As a poor flier, covering the distance back home on broom did not please me in the least, so Declan had had to conform to my wish and join me in a little Floo.

"What do you think it's all about?" He had slid between the outer ranks of people then returned upon finding no way to get closer through.

More shrugging on my part. "Can't tell. But we'll see soon enough, it's the shortest way through."

And it was. That little Floo square, where all who spoke the right incantation appeared by this method, was straight behind the crowd, and for all it was worth, I still had Mother's request vivid in my mind. Return by tea - besides, there was also the little matter of vault 711 to solve - and I was certain Phineas and I needed a word as well...and one oughtn't forget the blood affair...so much blood. Ye Gods.

"Maybe they were your mother's jewels, there for safe keeping?" said Declan, as we both slid past the ranks of murmuring wizards, who kept gasping and chattering about Merlin knew what! I tried to hear just what it was which had attracted everyone's interest, but a bit of elbow shoving to my ribcage kindly reminded me that one must never actually stop in the middle of a crowd. Privately wondering just how in blazes Declan could afford the inquiry when breathing was a virtual problem for me, at the time, I attempted a response:.

"In the eve of a receiving? I highly doubt it."

Most likely catching on to my unease, he only revived the conversation once we'd reached a surprisingly free space in the form of a circle. But there were still people all around, so that could only mean - I looked to all sides. Whatever attraction the crowd had found, it was most likely in our immediate vicinity...and, yes, I could see it, was it that fair-haired witch with the-

An oblivious Declan took no note to this. "Well, I've no other thou- hey, you! Watch it!"

Yes. It had been her. And behind her, a trail of men, all with wands still, now forming another circle, this time against Declan and myself. But the witch held command. Her poise spoke of as much. Dashing forward, and in full control over the limited space, feeding on the attention and addressing the crowd.

"Freedom for our people! We demand our rights! Release us from this hell!"

She approached Declan who, a tad alarmed, did not look all that pleased with her interest. I rather suspected that he, much like myself, wished out of this mess, and that we had not chosen this path, to begin with it. Squib and poor blood protests! Dear Merlin - these sort of things always had a knack for feeding on violence!

"What in blazes-"

"You who hold power! How can you keep us at bay?" She clung to his arms, imploring and demanding all the same for the minimum of his interest to her trifling cause. "My good sir, we are your brothers and sisters, blood of your blood-"

Declan's incense slowly began to rise, with a sudden flush as the sole pointer to this. Unlike most scarlet heads, he did not blush, or burn as easily. Instead, he kept to his dignified pallor as much as his Slytherin composure would deem suitable. Apparently, Salazar's root wasn't deep enough in him to currently shelter his outrage. His fingers had already clutched his wand.

"No, you're not, get off me-"

Neither he nor I had the time for this, and our current objective was finding some sort of way out, away from the crowd, from the hustle, and the bastardly lot who wanted to chitchat on Squibs' rights, of all things!

The witch and her little group narrowed towards us. A warm hand was placed on my shoulder, and then dragged a few steps back, as I was, I could see that the "stage light" had been again presented to the female and, to my dread, Declan. She appeared to have taken to pointing her truth to the mass by converting one of them - my own little Serpent, of all things- to her beliefs, then and there.

Looking nearby, I could catch sight of our captors. How many were they? I could safely assume a dozen, all busily entertaining the crowd with their loud demonstrations. But would they lower to bloodshed when faced with the sort of skepticism Declan seemed to have in concern to their beliefs? Would they impose their education?

"We have been wronged by a cruel fortune, but we have found our savior!" the witch kept telling Declan. She only shook him further - as if reason were palpable, and it was within her powers to induce it by such a physical means.

"I warn you, I hex at three!"

"He is Ulrich Grindelwald, and his is the doctrine of the sacred! Support his cause, help redeem our souls!" The audience, for there was now no other appellative worthy of the prodigal crowd, simply eyed the affair blandly. "Bring forth our rewarding!"

But all her efforts were futile. None seemed touched by her little speech, and even if they, in truth, were, they had made a mantra out of simple muttering and nothing more. Declan, however, sported a less tolerant air:.

"Lacranum!"

A few flames heeded the command, but the woman slid past, and avoided the burn in good time. Extending my own wand - how strange, it felt to feel its weight but also the inability to put it in use- I assessed that, whatever the cost, it was high time a touch of the Slytherin loyalty was exhibited.

A snapped whisper to my right - "Take care of him"- and already three of the lot had targeted Declan:

"Expelliarmus!"

"Damn you! " And then the flash of light. "My wand! Brodick, they took my-"

As Declan's wand flew in into their hands - after all, there was only so much a fight one could put on when confronted with three disarming spells - I found myself faced by two in return. Apparently, the two chaps in my vicinity were not all that pleased by initiatives.

Silently, I lowered my wand. Declan himself, as a dueler, nodded in understanding. The loss of one's wand, no matter the circumstances, was ever the dreadful ordeal. Deprived of our knowledge, of our power, where did we stand, but on the same level with Muggles? No, no, I would not let my wand be taken. Better accused of cowardice than wandless.

Still trapped in the circle, very much prey to everyone's attention, we both seemed to weigh the chances of a quick departure. Futile a scrutiny as it might have been, however. The witch's men still guarded their respective toys - how ghastly to think of two Slytherins of noble blood as ourselves, in that manner- and appeared unwilling to let us pass and be done with it. The show, as one could put it, was hardly over.

And the little blonde witch best pointed to as much.

"Heed our words! Help those ill fated that you love to know again their heritage!" She stopped to let the crowd ponder her words. Pity on her bother. The only thing the ignorant masses could respond to was blood, and, to our growing misfortune, they knew just whose blood to spill, now, didn't they? "We are the wretched, but we too can be brought to light!

"Help us, support Grindelwald!" She she urged, then turned from the crowd, and to me, she said with an ominous grin, "Support Grindelwald, brother! Support Grindelwald." And with her the men, and then...and then like the plague, as deadly and swift, the word passed through the crowd, and took life in it.

"Support Grindelwald!" they now chanted, on the sides, and some even clapped. But then they all placed their eyes upon the two boys in the center, the two boys near the witch, who - oh, look, we hadn't lowered ourselves to accepting their credos, now had we? Declan's wand in a bloke's hand spoke quite of the opposite, in fact.

"Support Grindelwald, " said the witch, her smile still poisonous and present. "Or know his justice."

A threat. Lovely. Absolutely lovely.

Declan groaned. I privately wished to do the same, as one thought passed through my mind swiftly - we weren't going to make it for tea.