Blood and Silver

"Unhand us. This instant."

Of course, my remark was hardly complimented by the ominous tone to which it had been initially intended. It was quite the effort to both maintain one's composure - a devious attempt with Declan about - and sound particularly commanding when one was tucked in between masses. And while one might congratulate me for the determination, this someone was not to be the fair-haired woman. Her rags still threatening to reveal too much of her skin at any importer movement, she was now beseeching the crowd, arousing it; though they needed little more incense, after their eyes had been greeted by the perfect picture of pale faces at a current loss for words and, in Declan's case, wands.

Arms spread, she now called in the same pious tone: "Tell us, how many have suffered at your hand? So progenies as these can stroll down the streets with no mercy towards their brethren-"

"I shall have to ask for the evidence of any association to you, my dear, sweet lunatic." But she continued without faltering. Almost as if I'd not spoken at all, and surely this can't have been the proper way to treat a Black, of all things!

"-and how many have perished so for twits as these to never know repentance, and how many-"

"Oh, bloody count them if they're so many!" My sarcasm, however, helped little under the circumstances. And cornered, as we were, and so evidently apprehended, I wasn't easing things in the slightest. Though, Merlin have it, a woman, not even a Squib but merely a spokesperson on their part was threatening me. Me, a Black heir, and one of Hogwarts' finest. I wouldn't stand for it, and most certainly not for witticism on behalf of a - of an ignorant woman!

"You bastards, let me go!" Declan writhed in the hands of his assaulters a few instants more, before, with a laugh, they threw him in the center, near me, and near the witch. We hadn't a chance for an attack open handed, since they were still guarding us, and the woman as well. Their point was imaginable. Give the crowd an example. Humiliate the pureblooded of higher fortunes and make an appeal to both the mingled blooded and for those of poorer conditions. Jealousy was a great stimulator, after all, and why wouldn't the relatives of Squibs use it for their cause?

The witch had known not pause in her debate:

"-have met not the love of their family, or their own heritage, but humbleness, instead? And only to be repaid with constant contempt and spite!"

"It's only bloody decent of us. Thank yer gods we let ye taint our air." As in most occasions when control had left him, Declan's accent had grown horribly pronounced, making the frail "aye" no more than a tiny pester by comparison.

But he'd only fed her and a few others who nodded briefly - and some more even from the crowd- with reasons to carry on. Argument in the hand of the devil. "See how they treat us? How they despise their own flesh and blood?" More silence from the crowd.

"But Ulrich Grindelwald is affected." Oh, indeed? How and since when? "Ulrich Grindelwald will show us the light by his theories of wisdom. " How dense could one be? Of course Grindelwald hadn't the least reason nor intention to do as he had assured them. And I was quite certain such a feat wasn't even in his power.

"Ulrich Grindelwald-"

I couldn't help myself. "Is a fraud."

Well, whatever the qualities of my comment, one cannot deny the immense impact it had, and the silence it caused soon after. No more eyeing the woman, no more doubtful sneers - the swarm had turned in the judges and predators, as well. Ours were words to which they would listen, if only because they belonged to a fresh voice and a fresh mind.

The witch, however, was the most shocked of the lot. Her lips trembled, softly, almost in a ritual. I could discern each angle of her pale face, as she stood there, frozen. A statue, almost. How quaint, yet so lacking in amusement

Ho"What...?" She barely mouthed her dismay; Declan, ever the Slytherin at heart, hungered for her startle, her concern, nourished upon it. How delightful it would be to make her suffer still, I could read in the thin sparkle of his eyes, to mock her while she's down...

"Listen to one studying the field ye wench!"

"He can't save you. Any of you." I looked to the crowd, and I wished to tell, perhaps, this is meant for you as well, don't feed on illusions. "I've read his thesis - a Potency Potion cannot act upon the human being. It can't. The magic in you-"

The fair-haired woman laughed, though her mirth held still the bitter tinge of resent: "WHAT MAGIC?"

"-the magic in you that is oppressed would burst from within. Tear you down."

"No, it will not, liar!" Her thin, ravenous fingers pointed towards me accusingly: "Liar! But what can on expect with his father being who he is! Liar! Liar! " She was walking back towards listeners, making her pleads, arguing. Wouldn't they believe her? Wouldn't they suffer for her life and the life of her brethren?

I had anticipated some sort of loosening of the cronies' reactions, now. Rather, I had wished it. But they wouldn't attend to the people, along to the witch, and it was by now quite certain that whatever the tasks distributed between them, they would so remain. Their order was not to be broken no matter how dire the circumstances.

"Nice one, Brodick, can't very well have just told them introduced yourself then simply walked off?"

A sharp whisper from my right skillfully reminded me of Declan's presence at my side, much as an all too familiar weight did of that of my wand. How queer, that even the most trifling details appear so significant and new to one when danger or need is about. I had to think, had to think...my eyes swept about the immediate vicinities. Where we hadn't the crowds - still entertained by the witch- circling us, we had the participants of this cruel and misfortunate charade. All about were the shops of Diagon Alley, and not an Auror in sight - the classical approach whenever a Slytherin could make good use of their talents!

"Oh, do hush, and-" Along with my scrutiny, so were my words lost. "Declan..."

With a subtle wave of my head, I motioned for one of the opposing shops that we had passed and admired. Its window had earlier been the target of an immense crowd, which had probably dissolved to form our current audience.

His characteristic smirk stiffened visibly. "Brodick, no."

"Got anything else in mind other than sheer humiliation?"
His eyes flew, for a moment, onto the surrounding gentry. Much at ease as he looked, the tight hold of his lips and the swift arching of his brows spoke clearly of his giving the matter more than momentary consideration. This wasn't precisely a friendly wager, or even a jest that we could escape with not as much as a second glance. This was, for the first time, perhaps, something we had got ourselves into without preparing a subtle way out in advance. Not the Slytherin manner, true, but there was something to be said of Declan's impulsive nature and my own sadly inattentive one as decisive factors in worsening the situation.

"Not the done thing, would it be?" When he finally addressed me, a careful, malicious flicker had returned to his eyes.

"No. Which one's got your wand?"

"Right - scarlet hair. Russet robes."

I eyed the latter steadily, for a moment, measuring him and Declan both in a snapped glance. While clearly older, the wizard had the benefit of a build no more massive than my ally's. Which made, should the element of surprise be considered - a fair two seconds at best, if my calculations were not erroneous- for a reasonable tie.

"Quite. At three, knock him over. One..."

"Brodick, you certain?" He was wavering. His poor behavior, now, didn't surprise me. Inconsistency was the primary attribute of a negligent mind. And while always having the best interests at heart, Declan had never mastered the art of thoughts devoted to one purpose and one alone. Perhaps this was where his interest for Quidditch had best found its root. It pleased him to find himself amidst elements in constant change. But much for his disappointment, I held no affection for hesitation.

I, on my part, would not renounce the count:

"Two..."

"You know you can't-" I waved him off. His eyes widened with a certain wonder. Realization dawned on. Yes, I was going to conform to my role. Would he? There was a moment of loss, and yes, in that instant, I doubted him. I'd never actually dueled at his side - at anyone's side, for that matter. School competitions were all fine and well, but there were rules, there, rules to which the rest would conform and which I would busily attempt to defy by every gesture. I acknowledged him as one of the best that the House of the Serpent could have offered, the best Hogwarts still possessed amidst its ranks - but here, now, would that be enough? Would he fail me?

Something snapped in him. Apprehension, perhaps? I was never to find, since in a moment, he shouted:

"THREE!"

A small crash accompanied his abrupt leap towards to the keeper of his wand. He only offered me a last glance, rather cold, for a change. Almost...spiteful.

I'll never fail you...

Nodding, I set my wand towards the precise window panel, and then - "Accio broom!"

It was all a matter of seconds, really. The scarlet haired man was delivered a blow he was not very likely to forget all too soon, since Declan's aim - much to his credit- had been incredible. Whether he had or hadn't recovered his wand was another matter entirely, and not one I could gamble the time to verify. Instead, my own move took motion: with a few cracks, the window smashed, and the broom shop's finest darted straight to its summoner.

In the back, the shop keeper was crying atop his lungs; but whatever forces to sustain peace had been about, the Squib parade had most likely taken out before their manifestation. He didn't even require unarming on our part, since, sighting him with his wand out before the broom's flight itself, Grindelwald's league had relieved us of the trouble!

A quick thud announced my last move, as one of the pouches that Weyr had produced landed at the man's feet.

"Your pardon, good sir - Declan, do tell your dear sire that the Blacks have just seen to it that that broom of yours be commissioned!" I shouted, but was offered not the chance of more, since by now the group had already noticed our massive movement - the last I recalled before inelegantly plastering the soil was the sound of a quick set of Stupefys as they were being launched, and then the splutter of reddish flickers half a meter above me. Damned be their speed!

The crowd was moving, dispersing at least; commotion was to no one's liking, and I could well wager the little interruption in their speech would not place us in the fanatics' graces. Declan was keeping his own ground - rather, broom. He'd mounted it, though hardly in the usual fashion. Feet balanced properly on its handle, he was shifting his weight whenever each cast was executed. And while this worked poorly on a speed level on his part - since not falling off the insufferable thing was also to be guarded- it was better on a defensive one. He could swish and turn and somehow avoid some of the jolts of sparkles as they came, and-

"Don't even consider it, we paid for that!" Rising to my feet, again with an uncharacteristic lack of grace, I had to unite all my remaining energy in a series of Lancranum meant to prevent one of the men whose wand was directed towards the broom. By the looks of his constant mutterings, a few escaped murmurs and his unwavering attention, he was intending to transfigure the broom into a tea cup!

"Brothers! Don't - don't leave! Listen, see and listen to our torment!" The woman was praying, tearing off the sleeves of onlookers as she clung to them, beckoning them to stay. Crying, almost, though I doubted those were tears from the heart. And if they were, well, so typical that a woman be the first to submit to the weakness of her nature.

I turned to my position. And was there at least one ruddy Squib at this thing?! Sadly, no time to ponder that either. What with us being their sole focus, now, our chances had diminished to a bare. Which meant extreme measures were to be taken. I braced myself for the true hell-

-and Declan, now seated properly on his broom, was opening hell's gates. Darting past me, he only as much as extended a hand, lowered himself a bit, and then shoved me at his side with not as much as a by your leave. I was much more grateful to him for this little gesture once the unmistakable crimson of a Stupefy passed directly through the place I had only a moment before inhabited.

And then dashing past, with a ravenous motion, Declan accelerated the thing correspondingly. We were now far too high and at too great a speed for my liking - and the latter was only increasing, now, as he clashed down, straightening his lead softly so as to keep the equilibrium. He was a Chaser, and an impressive Quidditch player, from what little of the game in which he had participated I had seen. For him, this would be a mere routine, no more, and this incredible twist amidst the exact crowd of onlookers we'd earlier frightened off, well, only a trifle! But then, why was I still praying to all forms of magic for some sort of aid of that horrible broom?! I blinked as he again neared the ground, indulging in a series of turnabouts to escape a few more Stupefys. His mirth was unmistakable then, as passing the fair-haired witch before ascending a second time, he called out:

"So sorry not to linger for tea and biscuits, love!"

I hadn't a chance to bid my farewells. I was too preoccupied with clinging to my end of the stick and banishing all possible thought of the lengthening pits beneath me, and the height, and the people, and... it was going to be a very long journey.

We'd left London well behind, by my estimations; though I can't have been too certain. I'd only once flown in the nearby, and even then regretted the dreadful experience to no end. Declan was wondrously content, and this I could tell by the strange demonic look on his face, and the cackles he wouldn't restrain. I reflected on my words. Yes, so very much the demon, with his blazing hair, and his lighted eyes...

"This thing as gracious as they say?" I inquired, in an effort of sounding matter-of-factly.

"Oh, Merlin, Brodick, I forgot!" He choked on his laugh, panic overwhelming his fair features. "Listen, just close your eyes, and you won't-"

Merlin, I wasn't- I wasn't-

"I'm not disabled, in all honesty!" I'd not intended as forceful an inflection on that queer outburst, and the result had been a hurt look on Declan's behalf that I was not as easy with ignoring. I lowered my eyes, and I expected he would have to comprehend this was the closest to an apology he would be delivered:

"I just don't enjoy flight, that is all."

"Hold on, then," he murmured, with an ill-mannered wink, and I told myself, again and again, of course it will be all right, it has to be, has to be. But I privately knew, much as I suspected Declan to know, that my intolerable flight panic wasn't as much a matter of jest as I would make it. I didn't fancy transportation by broom for a reason, just as I had barely passed this subject in my first year at Hogwarts for a reason. If anything, I was the most thankful being in existence for the abandon of Flying classes after that, and for Apparating once one was of Age.

I couldn't fly, just as Father couldn't bring himself to do so. I hadn't inquired on his own symptoms, since he'd carefully decreed it as taboo. Father loathed being reminded of his failures, much as I did, and so we had never discussed my inexcusable freeze as soon as the broom was beneath me. My eyes would grow inexplicably lost, and I knew as a fact that most of the times I would just think of how unsteady the thing was, how one couldn't support oneself accurately on it. And how wrong it was to rely on such a tool, and weren't all those Quidditch players round the bend, aside for lacking any intellectual merits whatsoever? Because they were all quite the crude brutes, after all!

Perhaps, well, I had so heard from my Muggle Studies Lessons that the latter category did have a more unique mean of transport in the form of the bi-sickle. I couldn't be all that certain one the appellative, naturally. It was inbred tradition amidst Slytherin ranks that most classes revolving on Muggles be skipped periodically, lest the impression of one being a Muggle lover be generated. And that wasn't the done thing at all. Though as a prefect, I could attend and claim my curiosity feigned - but I wasn't a prefect yet, which meant all plans for a bi-sickle that could fly would have to be postponed until such letter would be produced.

I chanced opening my eyes, and looking about, even down a little, just to see how much we had until home, and - ye gods. Brodick: 0. Nature: 1. I was going to be sick.

~~~~~~~

"Tea's served," Mother welcomed, with a fantastic smile on her part and quite evidently both surprised and enchanted by our making it on good time. But then, of course, pinning her wand in the direction of the grand clock she still - pointlessly- used to adorn the main corridor, she chirped a benign, "You're late."

True. Two minutes past the decided timing. Luckily, she'd had her letters - a devious glance to the pack still oppressed by her delicate fingers- to entertain herself with.

"Last moment acquiring," I explained, and near me, a smug smirk on his face, Declan bowed accordingly and displayed his new piece of equipment. Mama, by now, was twittering with delight.

"But what have you been doing, dears? And what a mess you've both done of your robes, and what was it you got yourself into?"

Silently, I made for the first chair towards which my poor frail feet would carry me. My stomach was an intolerable mess, and a mite too insufferable one so as not to be taken into account. I hadn't yet spilled the little of the meal in which I had partaken that day, and somehow I wasn't in the least grateful for this particular aspect. At least that would have spared me the periodic spasms assaulting my insides, and the ghastly headache that kept plunging in the back of my mind.

Almost like a band of Dementors knocking at the gates behind which laid their entire rival body.

"We were accosted by a crowd of protestors. We were forced to viciously Stupefy and then consequently fly our way out."

Mama, taken aback for a moment, didn't hesitate to burst into laughter:

"Haha, what a tale you weave, Broderick, but won't you tell me what truly came about?"

Declan was flabbergasted. Apparently, it had never crossed his mind that the female mind could be so abominably small and undependable as to never even consider the confessed truth. Not too much rational thought was to be expected. She was a woman, after all, and-

I twisted in my place, and vaguely considered requesting one of Mama's concoctions. I didn't, naturally, since only a complete ignorant of any sort of etiquette would lower as much as to both show weakness and depend on one's own mother. But the tumult was increasing. Cold sweat had overcome my face, and the panting I was doing -much to my shame, since it reminded one of the horrendous animal instincts that would not be stilled- had severed.

I rose, meaning to excuse myself and take my leave to somewhere private, where my saving option could be less appallingly undertaken. But just then Mama decided to part with a newly opened missive and bestow upon me the full of her attentions-

"Pet, do go fetch Kant, we'll owl Moira and tell her Declan shall be staying the eve - won't you, darling?"

"I am-" Declan gulped, for an instant. Much more a master of the wand than words, that one, and no wonder Hasek had such a delightful time at his expense. He appeared to invite ridicule, on occasion, and losing any touch to polite pleasantries was such a circumstance. I was in no mood to comment on it, however, and merely whispered, as Mother had turned again to the windows:

"An absolute idiot." He frowned. "No good? Oh, well. Greatly indebted to the graces for the mere invitation..."

Loudly, he recited: "-greatly indebted to the graces for the mere invitation, madam..."

"And I've not enough praises for your laudable initiative." I sighed. I did believe he did so as well. He wasn't precisely keen on big words.

"And I've not enough praises for your..." He rolled his eyes. "...laudable initiative."

Enticed by her thoughts, Mother took a few seconds to reply. Though her right ones be trapped in clutching a letter she'd been inspecting, the fingers of her left hand now brushed a small medallion I'd known Father to have honored her with. While a beautiful asset indeed, it also made for the object of much fidgeting, and therefore display of one's either distraction or anxiety Which were both unsuitable, since they reflected too much of the bearer's emotion; I had always encouraged her against wearing it. Not very graceful of her... but again, this was not the time for such things.

"Oh. How fetching of you, Declan," she finally interjected, with a studiedly neutral voice that she had taken long years to perfect. "Would that some of it rubbed on Broderick as well, but no such fortune, I fear."

Declan's laugh echoed shallow. "No such fortune indeed."

As again Mother lectured that particular note, I leaned towards the pest, muttering helplessly," Out."

We both, this time, prepared to depart. We'd neared the door - well, Declan'd actually prevailed in passing it- when Mother's hand snapped back up in a disconcerting sign.

"Brodick, a word with you, if you can spare me the moment."

Reluctance would have been a gravely misused term to describe my current lack of any sort of enthusiasm. Not only was I lamenting the opportunity of seeing Declan perform on his new broom, which was bound to be a unique show due to his talent for the thing, but there was also my ailment to take into account. There'd been one too many delays already, and I was indeed growing a mite anxious to be ridded of company...

But I mentioned none of this, and merely seated myself again, wincing inwardly as the door closed behind Declan. And with it, my sole salvation. The sensation provided by the sudden contact of her sofas was curious, but beneficial, all the same. The silk felt more accurately fine, and enchanting; her chairs weren't as comfortable, I acknowledged. A common and damnable trait of all the chairs at Grimmauld, it would seem.

"I've not the slightest knowledge on how to tell you this," Mother began. She was pacing smoothly along the light carpet, her feet staggering, almost as if part of her willed them to stay. It had grown obvious, for me at least, that whatever had caused her ill disposition was somehow related to the letter she still kept at her side with frightful vigilance. "Brodick...your father..."

My pallor must have increased. "He is unwell?"

"No, pet. Hardly as..." Her hand reached for her womb, rounding it protectively. Her palm appeared lost in the waves of a velvet whose voluptuous nature her fingers seemed eager to discover and protect. "Hardly as dramatic," she finished. "But your father, well, he is a man, you see."

I nodded, patiently. Much a woman as Mother be, she was scarcely unwise to the bone. She was also too startled, at the moment, for any true silliness to be the root of her troubles. So I said nothing on the idiocy of her remark.

"And men often engage in the understandable satisfaction of their needs... " I looked from her, for a moment, closed my eyes. Nausea threatened to take full siege; there was even the vague sensation of a faint nearing by, and I loathed every minute of it. The darkness was somehow more stilling. "And of course I understand this, it is my place to understand, after all, since men will be men, and he has always been so discrete..."

That word, and it alone brought all thoughts of the war waged within me to an end, and had me refocus on her tale. This was indeed a truth I had long suspected, perhaps because it would have been so unfitting, so much not the done thing for Father to bother Mama with this sort of thing periodically, and, well...

I inhaled. "Father keeps a mistress. Is that what you mean to tell me?"

I could discern her gasp long before actually hearing it. She nodded; yes. "You mustn't pass false assessments of his character because of this." She shrugged faintly, directing most her powers in that saving - or perhaps damning?- piece, the letter. She clung to it as a Dementor in the dark clings to the first fragment of a soul it encounters.

"Your father is a very considerate man, and I do appreciate his wish not to weary me, and, well... it was harder at first, I expect, when I was younger - since I did marry so terribly young, you see, I was the starlet of my season- I actually pestered him with fits of jealousy, then, but I'm all right with it, now, truly I am, truly..." I hadn't the faintest notion of how I was supposed to react to such an ordeal. Her knuckles on the letter had whitened; her arms had tensed, were trembling. Chancing a look upwards, I could see she was on the verge of tears.

What did she wish me to do? Oh, it might have done for me to embrace her, and say kind words, but why, when she was so incredibly selfish? She was well aware of how uncomfortable these sort of scenes made me feel, and was still putting on theatrics for Merlin knew why. After all, had she any reproaches to make, then surely Father would be a more advisable interlocutor, and not I. And wouldn't she please cease weeping at once?

This was not my cup of tea in the slightest. Emotional rebukes, all that, horrible, the lot of it! Completely against all etiquette! Hadn't she a clue she was utterly humiliating herself in front of her own son? What need had I of her sorrows? Gods, she was submitting me to this since she believed my composure too would break - well, haha, Mother, it hasn't, it won't, I'm the perfect heir, and nothing you or anyone else can do will have an effect that, I shan't disappoint Father or the Black lineage like that, I shan't.

But then, a certain thought cornered me. The letter. Her confession. Of course. Father's mistress must have offended her; Mama must be craving retribution, and who else to come to her aid but her elder child? Vengeance made for better incense. I could savor the smell of it.

I inhaled deeply, a second time. The queer sensation had not abandoned me entirely.

"Mother...has she written?"

Her eyes widened with more than tears; awe had instilled itself with painful clarity. She regarded the missive in her hand with a curious indifference. Almost as if she had never laid eyes upon it, and was too appalled to do so. Her lips parted thinly.

"No." A pause here, sheltering my wonder, amongst other things. Such as her dignity. Why tell me this now, then? Because of the child she bore? Was her delicate condition the cause of such impertinence and lack of manners? I couldn't imagine even that as acceptable enough a motive, but it was my only alternative.

"But her sire has. To accept the invitation Cassius has issued their family. To the receiving...on my anniversary." Her voice trembled no longer. In fact, it hid quite the inbred determination, there, and one I wasn't too certain on how to treat. A slight issue stirred my thoughts - Father's mistress was as young as to still require chaperoning on behalf of her sire? Was Father thick? No one ought meddle with virgins, wedding rings or scandals only came out of that! Merlin, he'd been the one to inform me of that.

I stifled any groans. You mustn't pass false assessments of his character because of this. Mama's one moment of glory.

She hadn't finished her discourse. "Since you're in charge of the organization " - and how clear it all was, now! Father's reasons for not wishing to handle this on his own! He hadn't wanted to deal with his mistress either! Oh, what a deck of cards I'd been dealt...rather the Fool in all this mess, they'd made of me- "I had wished to ask of you that you see to her convenient seating...and that she cause no motion. She is young, you see..." her eyes lowered, yet again. She must have recalled the times of her own early youth, and how she too had ensnared so many with the gift of a batter of a lash.

I gazed upon her, for a moment. And just for that moment, I sensed a certain loathing for all that I was, for my entire gender. I saw her as she was - a woman still young at mid thirty, who failed to either comprehend or reach her husband. A woman with the soul of a child, forced to live in a world containing that same sparkle she adored, but at the same time, lacking it per whole. And I - a man as I- was responsible for this.

I rose from my place.

"Of course, madam. I will see to all that you have requested. Fair evening."

Perhaps she had expected an embrace as I fled, a kiss, or at least a caress to placate the tears perusing on her cheeks. A light sparkle died in her eyes; I walked away without any of these.

~~~~~~~

"You fine, mate?"

How Declan had spotted me instantly was not a matter for my current concern. The nausea was still victorious in the battle over my senses, and I barely kept to my feet. Sliding a hand over my shoulders for some sort of meager support, Declan intervened at a proper time to attend to me, and do so rapidly:

"Awful flight sickness, what can one say... " He shrugged, causing me to level off slightly; I cursed myself for accepting this sort of dependency upon him; it wasn't the gentlemanly thing to do in the least, and I truly ought to have controlled myself better. But this wasn't advice for my stomach to willingly heed. A bright flicker crossed my eyes from Declan's nearest pocket - and downing a tad, I managed to snatch the recipient of what I believed to be Father's most prodigious wine.

I examined the label.

"Tsk-tsk, Declan..."

Much as Phineas would have done when caught with an additional chocolate in his share, he gave me his most angelic smile. "I was just taking a look at those divine cabinets in the receiving hall, you see, and it just beckoned to me..."

This precise phrasing brought startling memories of that damned eve, and the Firewhiskey...and then the blood writing on the mirror...My stomach spoke its disagreement.

I glanced at the wine bottle. "Forget that! Weren't you going to share?" Though still decidedly queasy, I had to admit to urges in this respect as well.

But a search for formality was something of which Declan was deprived; thundering and thudding the door, Phineas made a remarkable entrance to the corridors.

"Je la deteste, je la deteste ! " There was no mistaking the target of his slurs, and aiming a glance towards the back of end of the salon, I could still distinguish the vague flutter of azure lace. The French must have been delighting in yet another victory, one could say, since it took no skills in Divination to see that a severe argument had taken place between Phineas and his governess. But who exactly had triumphed I couldn't tell; Phineas' fury had banished all signs of either shame or exhilaration, and the manner in which he now frowned upon us spoke little of civility and tolerance of any sort.

Declan, by no way grieved or affected, welcomed him with a nod. "Why Brodick, never knew you'd engaged yet another house elf..."

"You blind, Declan Lestrange?" Phineas spat, most likely in the worst humor my faithful Slytherin peer had yet to see him. "I'm no elf! Maybe your vision would improve if you left more bottles unopened-"

Declan raised the wine a slight up, measuring it skeptically. "Want a dip, little elf? Perhaps growing a backbone would suit your height affair as well!"

I waved him off. "Don't even consider it, either of you." Warily inhaling for the thousandth time in a short number of hours, I valiantly attempted a few steps. "He's too young," I coughed, in an end, then recalling a slight matter, forced myself to intone:

"Declan, you sent Kant with a note?" It took him a moment to understand I was still referring to Mother's petition. Moira Lestrange, much preoccupied with her younger and disgustingly difficult spawn, Aidain, was constantly hindered by her motherly instincts. Declan's absence would surely not escape her attention, and there was much to tell on just how far a Lestrange would consider going when his or her blood was in presumable danger.

"Yes," he said, his fingers still toying with the bottle. Sighing dramatically - much too so, for that matter, and I made a mental note to comment on this demeanor as completely intolerable tomorrow- Phineas fled, with what I distinctly believed to be a "Merde!" parting his lips. How obnoxious of him! His accent was fairly acceptable, though, and-

Oh Merlin, I truly was going to be sick. I could scarcely make out Declan's snapped whisper, something about us having post, and then the entire room was so ghastly blurry and shaky.

Declan was still talking. Which one was my chamber? I couldn't reply instantly, no, not at all. Why hadn't I agreed to getting off the broom when Diagon Alley hadn't been in sight? Well, that I could answer, my bloody vanity, little good as it was now doing me. Had I eaten anything that day? I couldn't tell. Had I? I truly couldn't tell.

And what a mess I was most likely doing of myself, hardly the done thing at all! Yes, that was what I pondered, while my feet slipped under me still; my stomach was twitching unbearably, and, well, it hadn't occurred to me until then, that perhaps it wasn't the flight sickness entirely. I hadn't reacted nearly as badly last time, though the trip hadn't lasted as long then, and I had at least held the advantage of handling a broom of my own. Still...this wasn't natural, wasn't natural in the least.

The most sensible thing now - and I did think I mentioned this to Declan as he was doing his best to drag me past the corridors - was for me to undergo the fortune of a few good hours of sleep.

As beneath me winced the fine crafted sheets, I embraced all the benefits of the few hours of rest for which I could hope. And with them, the darkness...

"I can't teach you sarcasm, you puny blood-of-my-blood," I was quick to inform Phineas, the following day, as I fought off the numbness in my eyes, and that in my every limb, still under the reign of a sleepy stupor and the nausea of the night before. My head pulsed that wonderful sequence of painshots that normally come with the blessing of weakening well before one's allotted time, and under circumstances as dire as Phineas' wails.

Already, as soon as dawn had crept in, he'd posted himself by the side of my bed, having me raise him, effortlessly, and place him on one of my many spread cushions. He was light, very light, and this didn't do much to encourage me. True, I had been a very, well, skinny, child, myself, and was making an equally wraith-like adolescent - but somehow, Phineas had always been a slight more on the normal side, so I was forced to wonder whether part of his sudden loss of weight had any to do with his worries concerning the child to come.

"And I'm willing to wager you would make for a poor disciple, even if I could." Despite my fiery reply, I was by no mean in a foul mood, but rather, if anything, savoring my last days of rest with an unusual passion. I was jesting, and his understanding of the matter - of perhaps his mere determination?- was made very much clear as he gave me his finest pout, in a valiant attempt to reconsider. I decided to tease further:

"So why, pray tell, ought I make such a perfect waste of my time?" I could easily divine why, after the little séance with Declan and his absurd teases, but that was another matter entirely. I would rather he tell me; he didn't disappoint:

"Declan Lestrange. Is. Horrid." He was saying all this as he pounced on my covers, throwing cushions around, and making me wish I could jinx him a bit and show him some manners. I was just considering some sort of idle threat, when he concluded his efforts at turning my nicely arranged dormitory into the complete chaos I knew his to be. He started pulling off my cover, instead, and then, with a gasp:

"Only privates on?" I nodded, vaguely aware of the faint brush of cool air on my sweating skin. Of course I wasn't wearing anything else but for the privates, what with the entire vault affair, the other day, it'd been only sensible that I'd forgotten to check in on the source of the mysterious heat. Having pestered me the entire night, I had gone for the second best solution. Tucking his lips in dissatisfaction, Phineas didn't seem to grasp the whole of it:

"Mama doesn't let me sleep only with privates on. Mama says 'tisn't decent, and that I ought use my sleeping robes. But I know she doesn't, at times, neither does Papa, when she doesn't." I groaned. It took no Seer to catch sight of his following words, and pulling a cushion over my face, barely stifling a second growl as well, I braced myself for hell. It came under the form of polite, but definitely curious inquiries:

"I caught them a few times, making noise, loud - why wasn't he wearing any sleeping robes, Brodick?"

"He was," I muttered, fighting his fingers off, as he viciously tried to relieve me of the pillow. "you just didn't see them."

His indignation was beyond efficient confining of any manner. I rather thought he meant to make a point by his extravagant passion, if anything: "I did too, I saw the whole of him!"

"The whole?" Gulp. This conversation had the potential of carefully perverse imagery that I couldn't possibly explain to the innocent mind of a six-year old, and most positively not at - a look at my right, where a subtle timely beat bore still its life - five in the morning!

"As in- the entire whole?" Oy. The word...

Frowning, a little, he admitted to part of it. Apparently, Father'd had the time to draw his covers to the middle, but even a revealed torso had convinced Phineas that no sleeping robes had been involved. And much a cause for his frustration - and couldn't he please dismiss his own robes and flaunt his little pale skin?- as this currently was, I could only imagine the devastating effect that seeing the true happenings in my sires' bed would have had upon him.

Poor child. So young, so naïve. So irrevocably easy to deceive.

"They were invisible, Phineas, Merlin, don't you read any? It's a very common spell." Apparently, whatever Creator had tried His hand on making my junior hadn't left out some rational thought. He countered:

"Still, why would Papa make them invisible?"

Putting on my best mock indignation look - by now the cushion had already been removed- I tried my best at a reply of sheer and utter pretended indifference: "Do go ask him, next time you run eyes upon him. Tell him you're in the habit of following the "noise" in his bedchamber as well. "

He let go of the matter, much to my satisfaction, but then quickly added: "But is it the done thing, then? Even if they are invisible, he doesn't appear to be wearing them, and didn't you say the done thing is all about appearances?"

"Bloody hell, Phineas, it's much too frightfully early for this conversation!"

"All right. All right. I shan't be queer anymore." But had I expected clemency of any sort, I was gravely mistaken. Pawing my chest for just a moment, he declared in a bored tone: "Hmmm... You've no hair. Papa does, and Darius says it's the manly thing to have-"

Oh no. Not Darius and Phineas' fantasies, at this hour! One would think even his imagination and his "amities" would find it essential to keep to some clear points of etiquette and not displease until noon. Apparently, however, someone had failed to inform my dear sibling of this crucial fact, and as a result, he was still pestering, and including the little characters of his mind in his ploys shamelessly. With a resigned sigh, I shifted on my tummy, causing him to swiftly descend on his own posterior and off me.

"I'm so very certain Darius' low opinion of me shall traumatize me eternally. Do excuse me while I go off and weep." Or go to sleep while trying was the untold truth, but I restrained such words fearing that they might encourage him to further conversation. I truly was enamored with the prospect - just an hour of sleep, just one more, come Phineas, be a darling, shut up, let me sleep - I could almost feel my eyes closing, dreams approaching - blessed sleep- and then-

"Brodick?"

Miraculously, I managed to neither growl nor hit. Too hard. The covers under me were most likely enduring excruciating yet blissfully silent pains:

"Oh, for the love of Merlin, what! I ought to teach you sarcasm, one day, it'd only match your natural sadism! Can't you tell it's a trifle past five? What?!" My sudden outburst appeared to have caught him aback enough as to win me a few well cherished moments of silence at its finest. I could have well gambled my last Galleon that he had gone as far as to keep his breath.

Generously, I tried to put in words my annoyance, still praising my linguistic - and therefore Slytherin- gift for diplomacy. Where affection and manners had evidently not prevailed, could, perhaps, reasoning with the little beast be a better course of action?

"I am a man in growth, I've needs and desires, and one of them , Merlin have it, one of them is sleep!"

He eyed me dumbfounded. "But Brodick...?"

Oh, that was it. I renounced my title, Slytherin heritage, Black one too, whatnot, even my sleep. To Salazar, I felt like bloody cursing my own lineage just to know Phineas would somehow suffer! But, of course, no notes of this private war of mine were made by my dear vicious tormentor. Instead, arms crossed on his chest, the very image of the triumphant slayer guarding its prey, he kept me in a long, cold glance, then solemnly announced:

"I'm hungry."

"Phineas?"

We'd adjoined into the kitchen. The beast had spread its robes upon the grand chair destined for the head of the home - Father- or in his absence, the heir. I mentioned not this aspect, and instead I, the wraith, took my stance, at the other end of the table. An honorable position, still, should one admit that he was indeed standing at the head.

I'd managed to scrape up a soft, unidentifiable cream from bits and pieces of useful Charms I had collected throughout my diminished attendance of the classes. I hadn't an affinity for them. Transfiguration was so much more delightful. Alchemy was beyond praises.

But Charms did redeem themselves by being thoroughly accessible. And even now I gave them merit for ending Phineas' complaints and coming to my aid in feeding him. Well, perhaps the latter act was not completely implied. I'd had a taste of the cream, merely so not to poison him, but where it ought to have been an immense failure - much to my satisfaction, the product had turned out beautifully. Which meant Phineas' lack of interest towards it had a different cause entirely...

"Weren't you the same crow ravaging my bed and drooling at the mouth at how poorly you're being kept?" Weary eyes met my own for an instant, before, slowly, he refocused on his plate.

"I was. Am." Grudgingly, he took a spoon of the cream, then fidgeted it all the way through the bowl, as if the eating process had suddenly turned into some sort of a crucial dilemma.

"Isn't Darius famished?" He shrugged. "Well, listen, you called on me here, woke me up at a bloody early time, on top of it, so won't you please at least tell me why?"

"I want Papa back."

"Well, I'm sure Mother agrees. Have you...talked to her, by the way?"

"No. She called aunt Mo - Moira Lestrange. Again." Hid spoon reclined in the sides of the bowl with a small dump. "Ordered a cradle. For the babe. I just hate it, Brodick, hate it, and is that so very wrong?"

"It's only natural, Phineas. Come now, be a sport. A gentleman, at least. I... what if I had said the same things or believed them any when you were a babe to come?"

"Didn't you?"

"I expect I must have thought them, at some point. But no, not too long," I chided. I needn't have shown sympathy, then, not if I wished to impose a sense of discipline upon him. But the fact of the matter was, that while the Brodick now facing his sibling with a very amused glance could afford to jest on the affair, the Broderick Black of six years ago hadn't been as wise.

I clutched the memories to my awareness fondly. No, not as generous, then, never that. Of course, I hadn't had the preposterous outbursts in which Phineas had indulged. If anything, I had behaved myself as the Slytherin apogee of propriety; a faint smile to Father, felicitations to Mama. I had even drank in Phineas' name. My first toast. All the while burning inside with a passion that could never truly be either denied or acknowledged.

I had meant to take his life, then.

"Are you certain?" echoed the low, gentle voice of Laurentius Hasek, a mere nine too, at the time. But still on his way as to be a disciple of the Brewing Arts, and therefore more knowledgeable in the likeliest potion that would satisfy my needs.

Shakily, I had made a gesture of acceptance. Forcing my hands, I had extended my spread hand to accept his gift of death.

"Give your mother this. Half a spoon, no more, and your troubles shall be solved. So long as she hasn't more three full moonrises."

How cold it had sounded! How queer. That a life could be ended, as easily, it was unthinkable. And to the child then, it had seemed too much to ask, too horrid. For two months I had waged this war with myself, urged my sensible side to it. I would awake during nights of no initial startle, and walk to the little case adorning my chamber, my fingers hungering, seeking. I'd locked it with my journals, then. With the little Alchemy volumes of which I would relieve Father. Death and knowledge, all in one. How ironic, then, that the knowledge of Phineas' life had nearly brought about his death.

But I hadn't had the power to slip it in her medicine or her meals. Then the three full moonrises had passed, and it had been all over. By the time Phineas was born, I had thoughts of Hogwarts to haunt my mind; as we both grew, there were ideals of being the perfect heir to cloud my senses.

Phineas shifted in his place, the sound of crushed velvet awakening me from my reverie. He eyed me warily. "Declan Lestrange said-"

"Phineas, you can't deny Aidan is an absolute pest."

"No..." He blushed thinly, most likely recalling the same occasion as I, when Aidan had been his obnoxious self at its best, transfiguring the ends of his robes into serpents and letting them writhe. I'd come in just the time to see Phineas keep his composure with Black dignity - then burst into tears for two days, at home, wondering why, oh why, such people existed, and wouldn't there please be someone to end their miserable lives?

I had then failed to mention that this was precisely what I was intended for. I hadn't had the heart to have my first duel for the family's honor with an absolute git.

"You have to be patient. Think of good and noble affairs, pray for the babe's soul, should you believe in such things." I didn't, but this wasn't a Black attribute in the least, and I knew Mother had always embraced religion. Most likely due to it being the newest trend, at first, but this little connection of hers to the Muggle world had somehow strengthened, not faded, with time. "You'll be good to it."

"I'll be good to Mama," he amended, which was hardly the same thing. But it was also the most I would get out of him, at the time, so I knew to keep myself quiet on the matter.

"You lot here?" an obnoxiously vivid Declan exclaimed, dashing into the kitchen. He bore the same bright smile as per habit, and for a moment I loathed this impediment against my seeing through his behavior. Though inexplicable my reasons, I could not accept that he was as jovial as he appeared to be, even though he had most likely been giving his new toy a round; flying commonly performed miracles on his temper.

"Hullo, midget. Brodick. Checked on your post?" My startled gaze must have convinced him of my complete distraction, for soon he remarked: "Still off in the head a slight? You oughtn't get on a broom, too soon!" I groaned as he twiddled his own in his fingers, his eyes lit with that possessive expression one would normally attribute to the victor of some celestial battle entering his kingdom.

I frowned, though more due to concentration than true anger. Flying...my illness...the post...oh yes! As if a daze had risen from my mind, I grew alert, conscious. And then proceeded to feel inexplicably lost, almost as if the night before I had been another man completely. And the memories that I now cherished were mere visions of this man behaving in a fashion I would never pursue.

Declan had mentioned our having mail the past eve; he'd seen it when he had sent Kant to bear the missive to his dear Mama.

"It escaped my current attention, no more," I informed him, l as coldly as one could so as to convey the message without causing offense. The meaning of it all was simple: don't talk about the events of the past night, I'm in no mood for them. He caught on it with remarkable subtlety.

"Quite."

I nodded, then rose from my place. "Come, then. Let's see to what it's all about."

With a smile, Declan took off, a short inquiry stirring my own mirth - could he possibly fly to the owlery, since the salons were all so very big? I could hear Phineas, still pinned atop his bowl of paste, snorting lowly. Poor youngling and his version. I was under the vague impression that he was trying helplessly to stifle his own laughter.

~~~~~~

"I say, old boy," Declan began, idly perusing his sharp gaze over the owlery. "I think the grey one had it."

Gently pushing him away from the entrance, I stepped within as well. I had never ceased to marvel at the owlery's exquisite beauty, much a futile chamber as Mother often called it. Marble flirted with golden plates, the result birthing an opulence that only seemed fitting. The dusk of the floors contrasted with the indescribable purity of white as it tainted the ceilings and the supporting piles. But the windows - rather, only their openings- were the true polish, the novelty. They made the chamber resemble a tower, offering it that fine fairytale quality that only objects of beauty can generate.

The Blacks had never been a lineage feeding on modesty. And therefore, I had my doubts that Declan was not too surprised at sighting five owls at our service. Most households kept two, at best; but again, we were not the plebe.

There was Mother's pet, a fair, white thing resembling her mistress. She had birthed one of Father's beasts, Varvaro, of which he made good use in his dealings with the Ministry. There was also Papa's directly personal owl, Hague, the one by which missives to the Order of Change or of personal nature were delivered. From a corner chirped Kant, the one to be assigned to Phineas as soon as he could make proper use of it. Formality had deemed that the boy acquire an owl as soon as he had appropriated the skill of writing - but since he never did have need of it, Mother had taken to its care.

My own beauty was absent, currently. Most likely now pecking Laurentius Hasek's fingers off, demanding that he reply to my invitation that he join me immediately. Which left only one grey owl. And as our eyes crossed with a certain note of satisfaction, both Declan and I neared Hague.

She was Father's image, or at least his devoted shadow. A light greyish sparkle had flourished on her feathers, and for years in a row, she had provided me with full gasps. Grey owls of this brand and majestic dimensions were seldom born; and never did they look for human company when they were.

She twittered at first, her sympathy for us quite evident. She'd been issued a reply, or else the author's owl would have come by.

"The missive," I murmured, my hand settling near her foot. The scroll had been linked to her limb too tightly. Small wounds caused by the excessive pressure burnt her displeasingly. Deciding to spare her further suffering, I placed a few fingers to relieve her of the weight, and-

"Ouch! That crude brute!" This from Declan, at my left. For a few seconds, I could not fully comprehend any of it, the sting in my hand. And then blood poured out, in a thick, crimson layer. She'd pecked me. The thing had pecked me! Gritting my teeth, I voiced no complaint; all the time, inwardly, I was wishing upon her the entire maelstrom that those hexes to which I was familiar could provoke. True, loyalty to the master alone was expected. But, to Hades, I was the heir, the respect she was to present me with was part of my legacy.

"I am a Black, " I gambled. Mother's words had returned to me - 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...

"This note is for a Black," I continued, while her gracious eyes fixed me sternly. And damn her, Hague couldn't understand the entirety of it, but she had just - I looked at Declan, only to find no sympathy there- but the owl- "and the blood you have spilled is the blood of a Black. The missive, " I hissed. "Now."

A moment passed, and then another. With the light echo of air brushed, the letter fell into my hand.

"My thanks to you, Hague," I called. But the owl was paying me no attention. Instead, her eyes glinted in one sole direction, fixed upon the blood still parting with my hand.

"You did well," I said, in an attempt to make amends. It discomforted me to see her so lifeless, caught in her guilt. Lost in the blood. "You did well in giving the note."

Still no merry chirp. Not even the raising of her head.

Wrapping a hand over my shoulders, Declan pushed me towards the corridor. "To your father's study!" He was chanting, in a decidedly queer interpretation of the Slytherin Quidditch hymns.

I laughed with him. What else could I do? I even permitted him to produce a small plaster, to protect my hand from further blood deprivation. I laughed on and on. But my heart wasn't with it. My heart was with Hague, and that absurd moment, and what I could only think of as an ill omen. Something magical had just occurred; and this something was beyond my reasoning.

~~~~~

"Declan, your pardon," I called, belatedly, stopping in mid descent on the stairs. Already down, and heading for the great oak doors of Father's private study, the Lestrange heir merely offered me a questioning glance. "I'll linger for a moment."

He did not inquire on my abrupt decision but did as told. I took a small moment to thank all graces for him not being as difficult and obstinate as always, that day. Perhaps his new broom had work its wonders; Hadrian Lestrange ought have acquired it for his son many, many days ago. As soon as he'd solicited it, in all truth. It made Declan so much more malleable.

I could hear laughter, somewhere. The time was a tolerable enough for wakening. A mite past nine. I ought have enjoyed such privileges myself. But then again, Phineas hadn't left me much room for choice. And Mother might have had need of me...

Thoughts of Mama immediately brought my attention onto the weight in my hand; it was crisped, and folded at the ends. Which could only make it a note of parchment of true quality, as poorer scrolls would have torn in my hand, broken. I had made no effort to show any clemency to it.

Perilous reflections had haunted my mind ever since I had left Hague's starving gazes. The deliverer had been Father's owl of personal relations. The writer had been held in as great a regard by Father as to be waited on for a response by his favored pet. And then Mother's accusations of Father having a mistress...

It might have been from her. Billets-doux exchanged... and even if they were, wished I truly to know?

I rested there, on the staircase, for a few moments. Memory was generous with me a second time. What came to mind was my remaining aside it, a few nights before, whilst Merrick had seen to Mama. Occasionally, my eyes would fall upon the note, and its rigid seal; a phoenix's eye, and therefore not one with which I was excessively familiar. The phoenix bird had never been a popular fiend amidst wizardry gentry. Muggle-born considered ravens their bearers of doom; to us, phoenixes were none the better.

But would I do it? Had I any interest in this? I deemed my part here unfair, unpractical. And again I saw blame only in Mama, and her moments of doubt, and putting her burden upon me, as only women can.

Where my mind wavered, my body did not lack determination. Before second thought be given, I held in my possession the writing as it laid bare. Well, done it had been.

I consolidated this belief with a few assurances. It was the done thing. I was the heir; should any matters concerning the family be involved, then they should be to my awareness. For the future, if nothing else.

The first words that attracted my attention were understandably fascinating: vault. 711. I let my famished eyes know satisfaction. I read it all.

To Cassius Black, fair fortune.

Vault 711 has undergone the procedures you have recommended. Where the rest is concerned, the same as before. Let the year reflect old wisdom, reflect it evermore. From the heart to all extents, through the old tongue, or the new. Arithmancy and has always been to your liking, after all. A par see'um to you.

I retook the lecture a few more times. This note spoke of so much, and yet...so little. What did it all mean? And what on earth had it to do with vault 711, the only password protected one of its kind that I could think of?

Steadily, I made for Father's study. Much was amiss, here. Much indeed.

It took a commendable effort on Declan's part not to hex the life out of Aristotle, as the last couldn't find the keys to Father's private quarters. Warred against magical intentions, Father had seen to it that the keys permit none but himself and his twisted thoughts entrance to his study. And since one could always rely on Aristotle to make an absolute mess of even the triflest assignment, one oughtn't have been in the least dazed by the result. He'd lost the keys. Declan had suggested a good Diffindo about his ears to see whether it did anything for his memory.

But, finally, we'd come inside. Leaving Declan to the appropriate polite words on Father's good tastes in elegant furniture, I went directly for the bureau. One too many tomes had overwhelmed the wooden plate, and I myself wondered at Father's great gift of doing away under such poor conditions.

I had only his drawer to find, the one I knew he had utilized as shelter for such things, when he had last received a missive - but then it occurred to me that Father would not then happen upon it there; he might believe he had gone over it, were I to simply let it lose itself amongst his other papers.

"Took you long to read it..." Declan remarked, and his comment somehow stirred in me forceful demons. He was not humoring, now, not when I had so much upon which to reflect.

"Though I expect it must have been intriguing. " There was no mistaking the note of curiosity in his words. He was irritating me, now, irritating because he knew me so well, and of because I had certainly not done the done thing by checking on Father like that, and I was growing so much like Declan, and it was horrendous, since I was to be the perfect heir, and Declan was anything but that, and - did he have to be so bloody crude?

I thrust the letter on the bureau, turning to face him. "Enough of that!" I spat. A light look of concern crossed his features, and I could sense he had admitted his error before he muttered, uncomfortably:

"Your pardon, Brodick." I waved him off. I oughtn't have shouted as unfashionably as that, no matter my annoyance. I was fifteen years of age, after all, and an heir. Above all things, an heir.

"That fell off," he added, and pairs of eyes locked onto a whitish spot on the heavy carpentry. That thing... the circle picture of the orchid weed, and the serpent slashing it...I kneed to retrieve it. Declan did so as well.

"Roman numbers..." his long finger traced the side of the circle, where, curiously enough, the X, L, V, C and I had been carved subtly. I hadn't taken notice of them the first time I had laid eyes upon the object, a few days ago - when Merrick had come, and then that other letter, and then vault 711 had begun to be involved in the accounts...

Ye gods. Could it have had some sort of meaning...? And what were those fifteen little squares at its base, aligned so wondrously? Playing with it, Declan brought it up, on the bureau. With a trembling hand, I stretched the letter's scroll yet again.

"I think..." I began, "I think this may bear some relation." I gave him the letter to read. He did so without the slightest hesitation.

"Roman is the old tongue of wisdom, Brodick.." Certainly. It was the foundation of our every spell, and the language preferred by all our ancient chronicle writers. "There's no doubt the year aspect concerns the Roman numbers. Perhaps a sum?" I nodded. That would definitely include Arithmancy, as well - though more often it was the science of more complex procedures than this. Still...

"The reflected year..." Scrupulously, his eyes scrutinized the item. "Only fifteen spaces to be filled in here, not much of a reflection."

"But there's a heart. From the heart to the extent," I cited. "The thing reflects from the center - space number eight?- to the ends..."

He laughed. "Numbers reflected to from the middle to the end? Making up a sum...? Merlin, Brodick...that's a bloody riddle!"

I had to agree. But nonetheless, I picked the end of a scroll and together we started on a possible combination. The solution continued to evade us for a good while, until, with a triumphant expression lighting Declan's features, we encountered our savior!

" CLXXXIIIIIXXXLC!" Add them up and one got three hundred sixty five. They all also reflected on the I. And much as I raised the problem of the year bearing the additional day, there was no persuading Declan - no matter how much Slytherin factor of determination was introduced- that this was not what we had been looking for.

"Now, to get it there," I pointed, the wand I had projected smoothly upon the spaces caressing the spots with generous flickers of light. A curious look encompassed both our faces. Surprise tangled to despair - whatever was one to use? We attempted Summon charms, then even a set of Encryptings. All failed with an undesirable passion.

I was weary, at one point, weary to the bone, since nothing worked, and I was tired, and what was this all about, letters and vaults and ivory objects and Father's mistress, and-

"Accio! Diffindo! Impedimento! Wingardium!" A quick series of spells were quickly summoned - I didn't know which, and I didn't care - though one too many Imperas ought to have been involved, because so many of the smaller decorations came in a swift ascent, rotating, twisting, madly - Merlin, this was magic. And it felt so good to be like that, a hurricane, a transmitter - yes, let it flow through you, out of you, let magic take all your troubles away!

I was relapsing, and I was fully aware of it. A breakdown, most likely, and I also acknowledged this sort of magical display as something common to most of my amities. This was the theory behind Declan's dueling, since he so needed to let out the entire magic in him. And Laurentius took to Potion meddling, and well, I had Alchemy, true, but that wasn't enough, and my head hurt, and everything was floating all around, the room, the sparkles, and I couldn't think. Couldn't think.

"Well, A par see'um to you too!" Declan burst out, throwing the letter off in the middle of the room, and maintaining it locked up by the use of either a Wingardium Leviosa or an Impera.

All too suddenly, I froze in my place. Silently, the papers and tome fell nearside me, in a wave of oppressed motion containing so much thought, so much...life.

"Say that again, Declan, " I beckoned. His suspicion was easily stirred as a devilish smile flared upon my pale lips. "Say it faster."

"A par see'um, says right here!" I'd pointed my wand at him, now, laughing heartily.

"And again! Faster"

"A par see'um! A par see'um! A par see'um ! What are you doing, Brodick, I-"

But I offered him not the chance for complaints. Merely flicking my wand towards the spaces on the object, the little squares, I recited:

"C! L! X! X! X! I! I! I! I! I! X! X! X! L! C!" and then with a dramatic slash. "APARAECIUM!"

Nothing occurred, at first. I almost assaulted the thing with an Incendio. A small illusion I had mentally portrayed chanted on my lips, and then in the squares... slow, short, the wave prolonged, drying the end of my forces and nature's, but this time under my very control...

The letters appeared.

And then, as Declan too gave in to mirth, a thin cap fell off the circle, parting it in a U. And from it, a silver dust plummeted down, covering the bureau, which succumbed to its material presence.

Our amazement was the food of dreams hunted down by those who wish to remember. There was even the distinct note of queer satisfaction, at never meeting the ideal, never touching it.

"What is it...?" Declan's words resumed that dream that I had so many a reason to pursue. I couldn't tell, much as I left my fingers wander onto the silver dust with enthrallment.

"I don't-"

A thud interrupted all possible thought, as in darted Aristotle, a tray of tea - how delightfully and frighteningly obsessed of him!- in his hands. His voice was quivering, but his announcement lost all depth as in also strode my own, my loyal pawn, Dante.

"Someone to see you, sir..."

Abandoning the dust, both Declan and I walked down to the main corridor.

~~~~~

"Lau-Laurentius!"

The excitement on Declan's face as he overwhelmed the darken figure at my door in a fierce embrace was too powerful for even a Vanishing spell to dissolve.

But Laurentius' sarcasm was not broken by any of this. Salazar might have exercised his magnificent return to life in front of him - and Laurentius would have first commented on the delay before rejoicing.

"Paws off, Declan, my ribs are about as sensitive as your vanity!"

"Brodick." Coughing mildly, and stepping back a slight, he measured me a bit, before declaring in an amused tone: "Hail the Prefect!"

Of course, I wished I could have found in me the power to smile, but I didn't. The same little sting that had overcome me at the owlery was doubtlessly present, even now, as I had scratched yet another day off the count. Slowly, my hopes began to contrast my expectations. No Prefect letter yet. How decisively dull.

But I wouldn't spoil the enthusiasm in those bright, grayish eyes.

"Not quite. Do come in! How did you-"

"Come by?" A quick snort on his part announced that the journey hadn't been to his liking. "Let's just say that the post isn't the only thing that can come by owl."

"You didn't!" This from Declan, who'd already endeavored in removing Laurentiust cloak, and was now giving him a hand with the packages. Or looking for one addressed to him, I couldn't quite tell. "Rode an owl, did you?"

"Not by owl in the literary sense, you pervert." Declan's swift "tsk-tskl" made it obvious he would have truly delighted in the tale. Hasek, however, was unwilling to say more on the matter, and merely started walking off, with no regard in the slightest for the house elves or manners as a whole. His impertinence was striking. I loved every minute of it. "It was just something I'd rather not discuss, and - Gods!- Brodick, if you'll be so kind as to direct me to my chambers, I'd much enjoy a bath."

Barely containing a laugh, I nodded. "Yes...of course."

It wasn't the prospect of preparing him a room on such short notice that I found amusing, but Hasek's own continuous fear concerning his personal hygiene. It was no news to any of those even relatively familiar with the art of Potions that several on the enchantments and potions were offered to the brewer for protection against the more corrosive elixirs. A less prestigious detail, however, was that these last potions had curious additional effects, most often giving the skin a sleek, inhuman pallor, reddening the eyes and greasing the hair and nails.

As I had once pointed out to him, the more hours one spent brewing, the more underlined these consequences would be, and with time, they might just grow permanent. But Hasek, wanting to both hide his activity and maintain the perfect Slytherin image, hadn't merely conformed and hoped for the best. No, instead, he'd developed a ritual of baths, three, a day, sometimes even four. So excessive was his cleaning, that often the odor of fresh soap and oils was intoxicating. But informing Hasek of that...

Well, I'd had my own little experiences with the last, and had learned my lesson. Therefore, with Declan on hand, and Aristotle bravely picking on all of his suitcases, I made to see for his accommodation.

"So, any notion of what it may be?"

We had now parted with the halls and Hasek's chamber - I had assigned him a nice bedroom quite close to Declan's, but, most importantly, as he had insisted, to the bathtub - and even undergone the difficult task of exchanging pleasantries with Mama and of making the arrangements that Laurentius have his bath. Now, with a silent yet grudging consent, Aristotle had disclosed Father's bureau, and a few moments after my inserting that ghastly code, we were scrutinizing the content of the queer circle.

Declan, spread nonchalantly onto the same little sofa I privately detested appeared to be quite at his ease. I was still busying myself with the constant slurring of the damnable chairs, the same ones whose intolerably hard backs were shoving my own with hateful ardency.

"Not the faintest," Hasek assessed, throwing the thin silvery dust a last malicious glare, that spoke well enough of his discontent at being unable to identify the matter. I had believed he would show a bit of reluctance in introducing himself to Father's less public belongings - I wouldn't admit to the word "secret" since this would not only imply Father actually having a life inaccessible to me, but also that I hadn't a right to intrude into it, too. Well, he behaved himself with surprising cold blood, and required none of the convincing I had initially deemed worth putting together mentally.

Ever the professional where some things are concerned, I thought wryly. His next inquiry wasn't as vexing:

"Given it the three-four by now?"

I shrugged. "No, we were rather expecting some sort of an accurate analysis before proceeding."

"Well, you'll just have to do without one."

"Any hexing involved?" Declan's sole intervention, for all it was worth, appeared to have woken him from his stupor of boredom. If anything, he was quite eager, and I was almost disappointed myself in having to deny him this chance to display his numerous talents in the field:

"Afraid not. " I turned to Hasek. "Ought I do it?"

It was his turn to sample that sort of mild disinterest only a bit of tension can bring about. "Why ever not?"

Nodding, I picked four sheets of parchment, grateful to Father for his having taken this asset to a location were such tests could be waged without too much evidence left about. We needn't do too much or too little, lest we risk both wasting the substance pointlessly - a fair gamble in itself, since, knowing Father, he would have surely weighed the whole of it- or pointing to our activity.

Now, the three-four wasn't an essentially Potions related process. It was also present in Transfiguration, as well, to an extent, so it was logical to have found it in the many Alchemical studies as well. Given Father's interests, it was more probable for the powder in itself to have been Alchemical by nature - whatever their twisted, irritating nature- than Potions, so I would be more efficient on the whole.

Asking Hasek's opinion on it had been a polite compromise I was making with him, and nothing more; and I did believe - or so his immediate moodiness would say - that he was aware of it.

But returning to the three-four, I accepted a few of the tools he presented, and mainly the two recipients for weighing, a little spoon and a separating ket. The three-fours, the poisons which also gave the test its name, I produced on my own part, still praising my own instinct of Alchemical self preservation by always carrying small samples of them around.

Piling very small equal quantities of the dust in four - even though I was fairly certain, by the color of it, that there wouldn't be need for more than the conventional three- I began assorting the poisons. The test in itself wasn't all that demanding. Pour the right quantities in, heat properly, and then leave nature to play its own role.

Legal as they were and much for their extended usage, the poisons weren't easily found. Each belonged to and worked with an area of magic. Its annihilators, the ones with which the powder would combine would dictate the nature of the dust. Four, they were - magic of element, magic of transition, magic of stance and magic of presence. The fourth, that of thought, was rare, and little but extinct what with time and its influence on the history of magic. When Transfiguration had flourished, so had the magic of transition, and so on.

At any a rate, they were vague, as fields, but they each had a set of subsequent rules, and they would help determine, if not the substance in its own right, then the manner in which to further treat it. So I was quite looking forward to it. Or so I willed myself to believe, with a last sigh, before adding the first of the venoms.

The sweet smell of cherry wood invaded my senses far before I could see the white dust incorporating it smoothly. The scarlet it obtained from the poison lingered in the air, almost as if a light source had been created. But it died off soon enough, in its place snapping a husky darken powder.

"Not element, " Laurentius stated; in my concentration to toy with the tools, I hadn't taken note of his presence so very close to me.

The second poison followed. A jade flicker there, and it lasted so long, that I had accumulated high hopes that the powder was related to the magic of transition. But it, too, faded.

My certainty was on the magic of stance, now. Which made the entire thing a slight tedious, truly, since dusts regarding the magic of stance were simply common, and not worth that much interest. The magic of stance was crude in its own right, any a how.

But for the sake of Merlin and not wasting the third poison by too much air exposure, I inserted it - a bluish root, there...burning...burning...then fading.

It took me a long time to acknowledge one of the three gasps entertaining the room as my own. No. Can't have been. I must have miscalculated the quantities for the other samples, been in error in one of the tests. Yes, that must have been it. And the jade light of transition had taken so long, so...

"The last one, " Laurentius said. The fourth vial left his hands, felt cold in my own. I poured it. Then I, too, waited.

"The dust..." I couldn't say it. Though confronted to the combinations' characteristic silver sparkle that wouldn't damnably weaken, I couldn't say it. "It's intended for magic of presence, magic altering the mind, " I noted, the neutrality in my voice perfected throughout years and years of pretense. Merlin...amidst Father's belongings, this thing was...I barely forced myself to add, "Which also makes it rather illegal."