Chapter 2 of Scents and Sensuality
DONE! I am DONE! Thanks to underlucius for the Britpicking and proofreading.
Here's Chapter One by Underlucius.
***
Remus felt his heart clench in his chest at the sight of his old friend (and far more than a friend, were he to be honest with himself). He seemed a thousand times more real than anyone else in the room; the mocking amusement in his grey eyes dismissed the dancing and music as the sparkly toys of children barely out of the nursery. No dead man--or man who had been dead--should look so handsome or so vital.
Sirius made his way down the stairs with a languorous stride, rather like a panther on the prowl. Once he reached the bottom, he snapped his fingers; a second later, a house elf in a freshly starched, embroidered linen pillowcase scurried to his side, proffering a large glass of port. Sirius accepted it without a word and nodded a dismissal at the house elf.
Shacklebolt was the first to break the silence in the room. "We were not expecting you tonight, Black."
"And why not?" asked Sirius, far too agreeably. "This is my house, and I am, by rights, the host. It would be...ungentlemanly...of me not to attend, and be hospitable to my guests."
Shacklebolt glared fiercely as Sirius said "ungentlemanly." Remus couldn't remember why for a moment, but then recalled that Shacklebolt's father had been a grocer in West Ham.
Well, the grocer's boy had struggled to better himself. He'd been a sterling student, an ace prefect for Ravenclaw, an excellent (if uninspired) Auror.
And here was Sirius, with a smile and a single, cutting word, telling him that none of it mattered.
The Sirius Remus had known would never have said such a thing. He would never have cared if someone were a pureblood, a half-blood or a Muggleborn--not as a boy at Hogwarts, or as a young man during the dark time of the first war, or as a fugitive from Azkaban. Sirius had always esteemed kindness and cleverness and quiet courage, not blood purity.
It chilled Remus to think that somehow Sirius might have returned from beyond the Veil seemingly intact but somehow...less...than he had been before he had died. Yet, looking at the cold grey eyes and the stiletto smile on Sirius's face, he knew he could not discount this. Magic exacted a price, and the more fundamental the force involved was, the more terrible the price. Love, sex, death--no sane wizard would meddle with any of these, for the cost would surely be beyond bearing.
It was for this reason that he had held Harry back in the Department of Mysteries--not because Harry could not recall Sirius to life, but because he could. And Remus had had no wish to watch the boy's body or mind or soul being ravaged because Harry had dared to love the closest thing to a father that he could remember.
Well, Sirius had found his own way back. And, of his own free will, he had paid, or was still paying, the cost. It was merely the thought of what that cost might be that was making Remus sick.
Abruptly, Remus knew that he couldn't endure being in Sirius's presence one more instant. Bowing gracefully to those about him, he made his excuses and retired to the library where, he discovered, the house elves had, most considerately, left a decanter of brandy, as well as a snifter to pour the brandy in.
As he poured himself rather more brandy than was socially acceptable--fingers trembling and glass clinking as he did so--he thought of the other dead. Those who had not returned.
Many wizards and witches had died in the past two years, and not all had perished heroically in battle. Dumbledore, for example, had departed this life in Harry's sixth year, after being squashed underfoot by Hagrid's little brother, Grawp. Grawp hadn't done so maliciously, of course. Hermione swore that once Hagrid and she had explained to Grawp what he had done, the poor creature had sobbed, and had tried to pat Dumbledore's crushed corpse back into shape...as if that would help. But the Ministry, outraged that the great and powerful Albus Dumbledore should be killed by a non-human, immediately decided that Grawp had to be a servant of Voldemort's. Hit wizards, armed with enchanted arrows and charmed nets and wands primed for the Killing Curse, had been dispatched to Hogwarts to slay the vicious giant assassin.
It had been a farce. Grawp hadn't understood why he was being attacked, and, unwilling to hurt anyone else, had cringed back and flailed his arms like a frightened child. Hagrid, naturally, had come to his little brother's defence...and had been struck down. When Hagrid died, Grawp had stopped screaming and waving his arms and had stood stock-still, merely waiting for the Hit Wizards to kill him.
Others had died in an equally pointless manner. Charlie Weasley, the most fearless of the Weasley boys, had been cremated alive by a blast from a Chinese Fireball who wanted him to stay away from her clutch of eggs. Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle had fought side by side in the final battle; one carefully aimed Killing Curse had struck the left shoulder of one and the right shoulder of the other, and they had died within seconds of each other. Remus had heard that both were buried in the same grave, but he couldn't swear to that.
Walden Macnair had managed to die a perfectly ridiculous death. He'd been swinging his axe toward one of the students (Lavender Brown? Or had it been Marietta Edgecombe?) when he had been blinded by the flash of Colin Creevey's camera. Stumbling backward (and still swinging his axe), he had blundered directly into the path of a Killing Curse cast by his own master. A curse that Voldemort had meant for Harry. He'd fallen against a tree, the axe flying from his hands as he did so. He was already dead when he landed; the axe flying up in the air and landing with a sickening thud in his chest, nearly bisecting him, was completely superfluous. Remus knew this--indeed, all of the wizarding world did--because Colin's well publicised photographs of the final battle were a clear (and unwanted) testament to events and guilt few wished to acknowledge.
Even those who had survived the war had not always prospered. Cornelius Fudge was still alive, but he had been forced to resign in disgrace after being exposed as a quisling who had co-operated with Voldemort. For a price, of course. For a hefty price. Once caught, he'd been provided with a matched set of antique duelling wands (apple with unicorn hair cores), locked in a room and instructed to do the honourable thing for the sake of the nation. Naturally, he hadn't. The resultant scandal had brought down the entire wizarding government, and even though there was a new Minister and there were new members in charge, matters were still uncertain. Amelia Bones was doing a good job as Minister--so far, at least--but Remus wouldn't give two pins for her chances of staying Minister. Not with Dolores Jane Umbridge heading the loyal opposition.
The upshot was that the wizarding world was as flawed as it had ever been, possessing all the old problems and a few new ones as well. Voldemort might have died, but his ideas had survived. Many Death Eaters had lived through the final battle, and a good many of these had not been imprisoned after the war had ended. He would wager that more than a few former Death Eaters still harboured wild dreams of being the Dark Lord (or Dark Lady) who would succeed where Voldemort had failed.
But most witches and wizards were not interested in mending the conditions that had allowed Voldemort to rise to power, and Grindelwald before him. Voldemort was dead, and goodness--or the status quo--had prevailed, so let the celebration begin! It was easier to change partners in a pavane than it was to change one's mind. It was better to dance.
The library door opened behind him. Remus, brandy snifter still in hand, hesitantly turned around, fearing that it might be Harry, bubbling over with concerns for Sirius. Or--even more awkward--Sirius himself.
But instead, framed in the doorway of the library was Ginny.
"Remus," she said, "come back to the ballroom. Please. Everyone's wondering where you'd got to. And you can't hide here forever."
"I don't intend to hide here forever," Remus said evenly as he took a large swig of his brandy. "Just until the party is over and Sirius goes to bed. That should be more than sufficient." So saying, he turned his back on her, hoping she would accept the dismissal with good grace.
A few moments passed before Ginny spoke again. "He won't talk to Harry."
Putting down his goblet so quickly that he almost missed the table, Remus stared at her. "That's impossible. Sirius would never--"
"Before he died, he wouldn't have." Ginny was very definite. "Harry was so glad to see him, and Sirius was--well, it was as if he were talking to a person he only knew by reputation, but didn't think well of. It was awful."
Remus shut his eyes. He could just imagine how bad this had been. "So why do you want me to come back to the ballroom?"
She sighed. "Harry wants to leave--he says he got enough of awkward social situations with Cho--but he can't as long as his friend and guardian is here too. So would you please return to the ballroom and make your farewells so that we can get out of here?"
He nodded. It was the sensible thing to do.
And so he returned to the ballroom, and watched as Harry and Sirius were starchily polite to each other in a way that would make the Daily Prophet's gossip columnist salivate with joy. He murmured something about what a pleasure it was to see Sirius again, and how well he was looking, and--
"Yes," Sirius interrupted. "I can see how much pleasure you take in my presence, Moony."
Moony, Remus thought with a wince. Now that was a blow below the belt.
He continued to lie, gracefully and courteously. Sorry to rush off, not feeling altogether well, afraid I'll have to make this an early night.
He bowed to Sirius--how he hated that new convention of bowing to everyone!-- trying not to shudder in horror as the formerly dead man gave him a firm handshake.
With all eyes on him, however, he did not feel that he could leave at once; it would cause too much of a stir for Sirius's friend to leave at the same time as Sirius's godson. So he faded into the background as best he could, deliberately not listening to Sirius spinning wild tales for the benefit of the crowd. When he could bear it no longer, he fled down the servants' hallway, not daring to breathe till he was out of that accursed house and out in the fresh air.
His carriage and coachman were nowhere to be seen.
He shrugged, and began walking home. It would be safer to walk, rather than risk splinching himself because of the alcohol in his system.
When he got home, he decided, he was going to have a drink. Or perhaps a thousand of them.
***
"Oh, Mister Black," twittered a middle-aged witch who bore a strong resemblance to a Pomeranian, "do tell us about your escape from--from beyond the Veil. So many strange and divers rumours have been sounded about that, and I am breathless at the opportunity to hear the tale from your own lips."
My dear lady, thought Sirius with a mental sneer, were I to reveal the events I experienced beyond the Veil, your weak mind would be unseated and you would spend the rest of your useless days in a straitjacket in Bedlam.
Merlin, he had to stop thinking this way. He was beginning to sound like Snivellus.
"Of course," he said, forcing a smile. "I should be delighted. But of course, there are some tales that are a bit too…passionate for mixed company. I do hope you will forgive me for not relating them publicly."
Oh, he had them now. They'd listen forever on the odd chance that he might mention something inappropriately sexual.
He launched into a gaudy story about an owl woman and a mysterious bridge, human-headed small birds, a man bound in a wheel, and a snake-demon that lay coiled around the exit from which he had had to escape.
"You're making this up," Shacklebolt hissed in his ear as he reached the climax of the story.
"I am not," he whispered back, giving Shacklebolt the utterly offended look of a liar who is suspected of lying.
"The story of Ixion--that chap bound in the wheel--is Greek magical history! Greek myth, to Muggles."
Sirius, who was in the middle of a sentence, did his best to ignore Shacklebolt--while still emphatically making the point that Sirius was ignoring him--and finished the story to sighs and flirtatious glances from men and women alike.
"You seem to have attracted a fair bit of attention," Shacklebolt murmured, his lips barely moving. "Keep this up and we'll see your wedding announcement in the Prophet in a month."
Sirius gave a barking laugh; this was too ridiculous to ignore. "I'm not getting married. Unless, Kingsley darling, you're proposing?"
Shacklebolt smiled knowingly. "I'd be amazed if you did not wed one of the brides on the market soon. Have you not heard of the Marriage Act? Ah, no. That passed on through the Ministry while you were…passed on. It was revised--quite comprehensively."
Sirius frowned, bowed and made his excuses to the crowd--which did seem to be overpopulated by young debutantes and their mothers, handsome war widows, and women of a certain age--and swiftly drew Shacklebolt aside. "Now," he said grimly. "What are you on about?"
"Why, nothing," said Shacklebolt. He removed an elegant silver snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket, opened it, offered a pinch to Sirius and took some himself before continuing. "It is only that, thanks to Voldemort's two wars, and Grindelwald's before that, the wizarding world is somewhat depleted. Three generations have been culled. We need children. More than that, we need healthy children. I'm sure I don't need to tell you, a pureblood, about the hazards of inbreeding."
"Go on," Sirius growled.
"The Ministry, in its infinite insanity, has determined that the best way to promote the birth of children and to eliminate the defects that so often crop up in pureblood families--such as heart problems, clinical depression, a slight…shall we say, tendency toward mental imbalance..."
"Go on."
"...is to make marriage compulsory. Heterosexual marriage, that is. Can't waste any of that priceless wizarding fertility on a spouse of the same gender. Two women or two men equals, in the Ministry's eyes, two potential brides or grooms that wouldn't be producing children with people of the opposite sex. Oh, and we're not allowed to marry within the fourth degree of kindred. Trying to eliminate birth defects, you see."
Sirius stared at him. "This is madness. We just fought a whole war over blood purity and they're outlawing purebloods?"
"Oh, no," Shacklebolt corrected him. "They're not outlawing purebloods, they're outlawing incestuous pureblood marriages. There is a difference. A small one, I'll grant you."
"And this isn't upsetting people?"
"Oh, some," said Shacklebolt, with a grimace that dismissed such folk as so much steaming dragon dung. "But most of those who are upset are former Death Eaters. You can't expect people to care what they think. And the rest were scared by a report that was leaked to the press. Basically, it said that Hogwarts could hold a thousand students...and that by 2010, there would only be fifty-nine eleven-year-olds of pureblood or half-blood family who would qualify."
"Fifty-nine?" Sirius tried to wrap his mind around it, but it was impossible. "That's all? Fifty-nine?"
"That's all. There may be a few more of Muggleborn descent, but"--and Shacklebolt sounded almost sincere as he sighed--"those of known wizarding or mixed-blood family just aren't producing enough children. Too many of your godson's generation died at the hands of Voldemort, or were severely injured, or were driven mad. The survivors shrink from marriage, if at all possible. Add in the birth defects and large numbers of wizards with little to no fertility and you may begin to grasp the magnitude of the problem."
"Suppose I don't want to get married."
"Well? Do you suppose I do?" Shacklebolt glared at him. "We are dying out. If we don't reverse the trend, in a hundred years, there won't BE any wizards in England. They've even relaxed the Anti-Marriage and Reproduction of Lycanthropes Act, did you know that? That should tell you how desperate they are. It's giving Umbridge fits. Not that there have been any marriages of werewolves. Yet."
Sirius swallowed. Purebloods forbidden to marry their closest kin. Werewolves encouraged to marry anyone. He did not like one scrap of this. "You said that some people--mostly ex-Death Eaters--were upset. "What's Malfoy doing?"
"Draco?" Shacklebolt shrugged. "Drinking himself into oblivion, most likely. And gambling away what little patrimony he has left, now."
"Not Draco!" Merlin, how thick could the man be? "Lucius!"
Shacklebolt stared at Sirius, clearly perplexed. "Black," he said at last in a tone infinitely patient and kind, "Lucius Malfoy is dead. I would have thought someone would have told you by now."
"That's impossible," Sirius said, shaking his head. "I'd have remembered that miserable bugger dying. And once I knew, I'd have thrown a party that would echo from here to the Horsehead Nebula."
"It happened while you were...resting."
"In peace, you mean."
"Yes." Shacklebolt wrinkled his nose in a rabbit-like fashion, as if he disapproved of the chaos of resurrection. Life and death were ordered and measured events; anything that violated that order could not be good.
"So who killed him?" Sirius demanded, signalling a house elf for another large glass of port.
"Technically, I suppose I did," said Shacklebolt. "Though all I actually did--all any of my team did--was chase him. It was his decision to flee south to Dorset Heath. He managed to blunder into one of the valley mires--well, not so strange, really, though, the mires and the heath form a sort of lopsided chessboard--and never came out again. We searched for him for days, dragged the mire for his body..."
Sirius rolled his eyes. "Never found him, right?"
"Oh, yes," said Shacklebolt softly. "We found him. After a couple of months. Wasn't much left of him by then, of course. Even his clothes were rotting. His wife had to identify him, poor thing. Wasn't pretty. He'd drowned, after nearly starving to death. We ran some thaumic forensics tests to be sure. It was him."
"No chance at all that you lot mucked everything up, of course."
Shacklebolt scowled. "Now why would you say that?"
"Oh, no reason. After all," added Sirius with a glacial smile, "it's not as if the Aurors arrested me, failed to question me, and then assented to Bartemius Crouch throwing me in prison without so much as a hearing, now, is it?"
"That was in 1981! The world was in a panic over Voldemort! Things were different then."
"Oh, yes," said Sirius softly. "They were very different. In my time, an innocent man could be thrown in prison for a crime he didn't commit. Nowadays, even the guilty go free."
"His guilt hadn't been proven."
"I suppose he was running for the exercise?"
"I don't know why he was running. It was classified."
Sirius tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Wonder who he paid off to escape..."
"He paid off no one! No one!"
"No?" Sirius eyed him speculatively. "You seem to have done rather well for yourself since the war ended." His eyes flickered over the red frock coat and the elegant Hessian boots.
Shacklebolt seemed to be breathing heavily. "My people and I have always been strictly honest."
"Oh, of course," said Sirius in a tone that meant exactly the opposite. "I would not dream of suggesting otherwise."
"Good." Shacklebolt smiled…or at least bared his teeth. "Because I would hate to have to suggest in certain quarters that the isolation and depression you suffered in Azkaban, and the horror of your death, had led to the derangement of your mind and soul, and that it would be...unkind...to leave to you to struggle against your delusions...not to mention extremely dangerous to your poor, widowed cousin, and her ne'er-do-well son. Do I make myself clear?"
"You son-of-a-bitch," Sirius said bitterly.
"Only when I'm pushed. Don't spread lies and slander about me, and I won't spread lies and slander about you. Clear?"
Sirius didn't answer.
Shacklebolt turned to go back to the party, then glanced back over his shoulder. "Black. Malfoy is dead. I know you don't want to hear it, but that's the truth. He's as dead as...as Marley's ghost."
With that, Shacklebolt strode away. Sirius stared after him.
"Jacob Marley died," he whispered. "But he came back. He came back."
***
Castle Black in no way resembled a conventional castle. There were no towers, turrets, drawbridges or moats. No one would ever have mistaken it for a creation of Ludwig the Mad, or of the American wizard Walt Disney either. It was simply a very large Baroque mansion of hardy grey granite and white Carrera marble, all fluting columns and golden domes, set amidst North Yorkshire parklands, woodlands and formal gardens.
It had been designed for a huge family, for celebration, for revelry and royal splendour. There should have been dancing, and a mahogany dining table fairly groaning under the weight of food, and a few scandals under the stars that were just wicked enough to add a hint of spice. Candles should have been burning bright in the chandeliers, and young men sneaking through the Satyr's Gate into the garden for a kiss and a cuddle and courtship in corners.
It should not have been desolate, save for a few squib servants, the wretched lady of the demesne and her sister, once a wealthy society dame but now a poor relation, widowed and impoverished by the war.
At the moment, Bellatrix Black Lestrange and her sister, the Widow Malfoy, were seated at the end of the table in the dining hall.
"What," demanded Bellatrix, wrinkling her nose at the sight of the bowl of brown stuff before her, "is this?"
"Onion soup, I believe," said Narcissa Malfoy, sipping hers delicately. "Nutritious, plentiful, cheap and nourishing. Eat it up now."
"I detest onion soup."
"Yes, Bella," said Narcissa patiently. "You've told me this before. However, despite numerous explanations of the expense it takes to maintain the family estate and the fact that I cannot support you financially any longer--"
Bellatrix grinned mockingly. "So Lucius has ceased to be generous with you?"
"No," replied Narcissa, without a quiver of emotion disturbing her calm expression. "Lucius has ceased to be."
Bella's face crumpled. "I keep forgetting."
"I know, dear," Narcissa answered in a soothing tone. I blame the Aurors for over-Obliviating you before both your trials, actually. Though your loss of short-term memory did convince them that you had truly been under Imperio for years, rather than a willing servant of the Dark Lord. They'd far rather blame him than their own ineptitude.
She waited for a few moments to see if Bellatrix would say anything else, but her sister appeared to be quite thoroughly engrossed in glaring at her onion soup. Normally she would have reprimanded her sister for not eating, as food was an expensive necessity, but now she was only grateful that the soup was proving so complete a distraction. She didn't know how she could possibly explain to Bella that Lucius was only officially dead. Unofficially...well, that was a bit harder to determine.
Lucius had been lost in Morden Bog, a large and treacherous mire in Dorset Heath. The land was thick with mud, and there were numerous patches of deep quicksand, most thickly covered by sedge and looking deceptively solid. It was a cruel, inhospitable place--even more so for wizards than for Muggles, for the bog was so unstable that no one could Apparate away from it with any degree of safety. Moreover, the Ministry kept a very close eye on such areas, because there was always going to be one person who decided that he could Apparate away from there, even if no one else could. For those who made the attempt, it was a six-week sentence to Azkaban.
Narcissa shook her head. No. There was no way that Lucius would deliberately risk exactly what he wanted to escape.
And of course there was no Floo Network out there on the heath. And Lucius's broom had been found and confiscated by the thrice-accursed Aurors. If Lucius were alive, he would be unable to do so much as signal the Knight Bus, for he had lost his wand. The Aurors had found it beside the body of the man whom Narcissa had identified as Lucius.
If he had crossed Morden Bog--long and hazardous journey though that was--he might have made his way to the bog woodland on the heath. There would be fresh water, and small game birds.
But Lucius was not an outdoorsman, nor was he accustomed to living rough. He might have died of exposure, of illness, of thirst, of starvation. He might well have drowned and been buried in quicksand, and his body not be found for another thousand years.
And it was all Pettigrew's fault.
Pettigrew, the traitor's traitor.
It wasn't enough for him to betray the Order. It wasn't enough that he should betray the Dark Lord by leading him to that wretched boy at Godric's Hollow. It wasn't even enough that he should return to the Dark Lord and bless and curse him by restoring him to life and rendering him no more than mortal with the same potion. No. At the last battle, he must choose the werewolf's life over the Dark Lord's. A werewolf! A mere animal!
She had heard the story, of course. The whole wizarding world had--how the Dark Lord had commanded Pettigrew to use his silver hand to cripple his enemy, so that the Boy Who Lived might enjoy the sight. And how Pettigrew, smiling, had agreed joyfully--and then tore off the Dark Lord's right hand, snapping his yew wand in the process.
He had done no more. He hadn't needed to. With one stroke, he had saved the werewolf, bereft the Dark Lord of much of his magic, and evened the odds on the Potter boy. It was intolerable.
The werewolf had had Pettigrew arrested, of course. Really, one would have thought that the creature was offended that the traitor was so weak as to spare him. Narcissa had laughed at this, certain that the Dementor's Kiss would follow arrest, sure as eggs were eggs.
Except...
Except Pettigrew agreed to supply the Wizengamot with evidence. Names. Dates. Places. Aliases. In a thin, hesitant stammer, he exposed the Death Eaters' crimes--most particularly, his own.
And he told why he had joined the Death Eaters. In graphic, gruesome detail.
Lucius had been too prominent among the Death Eaters not to have his crimes mentioned by the arch-traitor. His participation in the physical and mental torture that had been designed to break the mind and body of a nineteen-year-old boy...well, that was just so much velvet.
And the Aurors had come to Malfoy Mansion, and put her and her son out of their own home, and froze their Gringotts accounts, and locked the doors.
And Lucius had fled, and might well be dead now.
Bellatrix, too, had been prominently mentioned in Pettigrew's tale. By a lucky chance--Bella's damaged memory and mind--Narcissa had managed to save her sister from the Kiss. But she did not deceive herself that she or Bella could be that fortunate a second time…if virtual incarceration in an impoverished and isolated house for months could be considered 'fortunate.'
Maddeningly, the traitor had vanished like smoke immediately after the trial. Clearly, the man had absolutely no sense of quid pro quo.
Well. She could wait. Her revenge would be all the richer for waiting, no doubt.
And if she could not revenge herself on the traitor, the werewolf would do just as well. After all, it wouldn't be the first time that Pettigrew's friends suffered because of him.
Perhaps she should write some letters to some of her old contacts. Her brothers-in-law, Rodolphus and Rastaban Lestrange, perhaps. Though she would have to conceal the writing and sending of that letter, as one of the things that was supposed to have unsettled Bellatrix's mind was the incestuous passion between the brothers. A passion that they neither hid nor attempted to disguise. Bella actually found their relationship and their willingness to please her in every way to be absolutely delicious, but of course she couldn't admit that. It wouldn't be respectable. And if there was anything that Bellatrix needed after her fanatic service to the Dark Lord and her years in Azkaban, it was respectability.
Society officially found the brothers' illicit passion to be deplorable...while savouring every last scandalous drop. It was all the more delightful because they had been Death Eaters, though supposedly they had been placed under the Imperius Curse and forced to join. The brothers had been dining out for months on their salacious tales of Death Eater orgies. They got invited everywhere; doubtless, they could be relied on to pick up some useful titbit which might be used against Pettigrew or Lupin.
Or, perhaps, her dear resurrected cousin.
Oh, yes, yes. This would do very nicely.
Slowly, she became aware that Bellatrix was staring at her. "Sister," she said in her harsh voice, "what's wrong? You were staring into space for five minutes, and then you put your fist down in the butter dish."
Narcissa glanced at her sister. She felt as effervescent as the bubbles in champagne. "Oh, nothing much," she said, her voice lilting. "I was merely thinking of useful ways to exterminate rats."
Understanding lit Bella's eyes. Across her face skittered a joyous, half-mad smile.
***
Here's Chapter One by Underlucius.
***
Remus felt his heart clench in his chest at the sight of his old friend (and far more than a friend, were he to be honest with himself). He seemed a thousand times more real than anyone else in the room; the mocking amusement in his grey eyes dismissed the dancing and music as the sparkly toys of children barely out of the nursery. No dead man--or man who had been dead--should look so handsome or so vital.
Sirius made his way down the stairs with a languorous stride, rather like a panther on the prowl. Once he reached the bottom, he snapped his fingers; a second later, a house elf in a freshly starched, embroidered linen pillowcase scurried to his side, proffering a large glass of port. Sirius accepted it without a word and nodded a dismissal at the house elf.
Shacklebolt was the first to break the silence in the room. "We were not expecting you tonight, Black."
"And why not?" asked Sirius, far too agreeably. "This is my house, and I am, by rights, the host. It would be...ungentlemanly...of me not to attend, and be hospitable to my guests."
Shacklebolt glared fiercely as Sirius said "ungentlemanly." Remus couldn't remember why for a moment, but then recalled that Shacklebolt's father had been a grocer in West Ham.
Well, the grocer's boy had struggled to better himself. He'd been a sterling student, an ace prefect for Ravenclaw, an excellent (if uninspired) Auror.
And here was Sirius, with a smile and a single, cutting word, telling him that none of it mattered.
The Sirius Remus had known would never have said such a thing. He would never have cared if someone were a pureblood, a half-blood or a Muggleborn--not as a boy at Hogwarts, or as a young man during the dark time of the first war, or as a fugitive from Azkaban. Sirius had always esteemed kindness and cleverness and quiet courage, not blood purity.
It chilled Remus to think that somehow Sirius might have returned from beyond the Veil seemingly intact but somehow...less...than he had been before he had died. Yet, looking at the cold grey eyes and the stiletto smile on Sirius's face, he knew he could not discount this. Magic exacted a price, and the more fundamental the force involved was, the more terrible the price. Love, sex, death--no sane wizard would meddle with any of these, for the cost would surely be beyond bearing.
It was for this reason that he had held Harry back in the Department of Mysteries--not because Harry could not recall Sirius to life, but because he could. And Remus had had no wish to watch the boy's body or mind or soul being ravaged because Harry had dared to love the closest thing to a father that he could remember.
Well, Sirius had found his own way back. And, of his own free will, he had paid, or was still paying, the cost. It was merely the thought of what that cost might be that was making Remus sick.
Abruptly, Remus knew that he couldn't endure being in Sirius's presence one more instant. Bowing gracefully to those about him, he made his excuses and retired to the library where, he discovered, the house elves had, most considerately, left a decanter of brandy, as well as a snifter to pour the brandy in.
As he poured himself rather more brandy than was socially acceptable--fingers trembling and glass clinking as he did so--he thought of the other dead. Those who had not returned.
Many wizards and witches had died in the past two years, and not all had perished heroically in battle. Dumbledore, for example, had departed this life in Harry's sixth year, after being squashed underfoot by Hagrid's little brother, Grawp. Grawp hadn't done so maliciously, of course. Hermione swore that once Hagrid and she had explained to Grawp what he had done, the poor creature had sobbed, and had tried to pat Dumbledore's crushed corpse back into shape...as if that would help. But the Ministry, outraged that the great and powerful Albus Dumbledore should be killed by a non-human, immediately decided that Grawp had to be a servant of Voldemort's. Hit wizards, armed with enchanted arrows and charmed nets and wands primed for the Killing Curse, had been dispatched to Hogwarts to slay the vicious giant assassin.
It had been a farce. Grawp hadn't understood why he was being attacked, and, unwilling to hurt anyone else, had cringed back and flailed his arms like a frightened child. Hagrid, naturally, had come to his little brother's defence...and had been struck down. When Hagrid died, Grawp had stopped screaming and waving his arms and had stood stock-still, merely waiting for the Hit Wizards to kill him.
Others had died in an equally pointless manner. Charlie Weasley, the most fearless of the Weasley boys, had been cremated alive by a blast from a Chinese Fireball who wanted him to stay away from her clutch of eggs. Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle had fought side by side in the final battle; one carefully aimed Killing Curse had struck the left shoulder of one and the right shoulder of the other, and they had died within seconds of each other. Remus had heard that both were buried in the same grave, but he couldn't swear to that.
Walden Macnair had managed to die a perfectly ridiculous death. He'd been swinging his axe toward one of the students (Lavender Brown? Or had it been Marietta Edgecombe?) when he had been blinded by the flash of Colin Creevey's camera. Stumbling backward (and still swinging his axe), he had blundered directly into the path of a Killing Curse cast by his own master. A curse that Voldemort had meant for Harry. He'd fallen against a tree, the axe flying from his hands as he did so. He was already dead when he landed; the axe flying up in the air and landing with a sickening thud in his chest, nearly bisecting him, was completely superfluous. Remus knew this--indeed, all of the wizarding world did--because Colin's well publicised photographs of the final battle were a clear (and unwanted) testament to events and guilt few wished to acknowledge.
Even those who had survived the war had not always prospered. Cornelius Fudge was still alive, but he had been forced to resign in disgrace after being exposed as a quisling who had co-operated with Voldemort. For a price, of course. For a hefty price. Once caught, he'd been provided with a matched set of antique duelling wands (apple with unicorn hair cores), locked in a room and instructed to do the honourable thing for the sake of the nation. Naturally, he hadn't. The resultant scandal had brought down the entire wizarding government, and even though there was a new Minister and there were new members in charge, matters were still uncertain. Amelia Bones was doing a good job as Minister--so far, at least--but Remus wouldn't give two pins for her chances of staying Minister. Not with Dolores Jane Umbridge heading the loyal opposition.
The upshot was that the wizarding world was as flawed as it had ever been, possessing all the old problems and a few new ones as well. Voldemort might have died, but his ideas had survived. Many Death Eaters had lived through the final battle, and a good many of these had not been imprisoned after the war had ended. He would wager that more than a few former Death Eaters still harboured wild dreams of being the Dark Lord (or Dark Lady) who would succeed where Voldemort had failed.
But most witches and wizards were not interested in mending the conditions that had allowed Voldemort to rise to power, and Grindelwald before him. Voldemort was dead, and goodness--or the status quo--had prevailed, so let the celebration begin! It was easier to change partners in a pavane than it was to change one's mind. It was better to dance.
The library door opened behind him. Remus, brandy snifter still in hand, hesitantly turned around, fearing that it might be Harry, bubbling over with concerns for Sirius. Or--even more awkward--Sirius himself.
But instead, framed in the doorway of the library was Ginny.
"Remus," she said, "come back to the ballroom. Please. Everyone's wondering where you'd got to. And you can't hide here forever."
"I don't intend to hide here forever," Remus said evenly as he took a large swig of his brandy. "Just until the party is over and Sirius goes to bed. That should be more than sufficient." So saying, he turned his back on her, hoping she would accept the dismissal with good grace.
A few moments passed before Ginny spoke again. "He won't talk to Harry."
Putting down his goblet so quickly that he almost missed the table, Remus stared at her. "That's impossible. Sirius would never--"
"Before he died, he wouldn't have." Ginny was very definite. "Harry was so glad to see him, and Sirius was--well, it was as if he were talking to a person he only knew by reputation, but didn't think well of. It was awful."
Remus shut his eyes. He could just imagine how bad this had been. "So why do you want me to come back to the ballroom?"
She sighed. "Harry wants to leave--he says he got enough of awkward social situations with Cho--but he can't as long as his friend and guardian is here too. So would you please return to the ballroom and make your farewells so that we can get out of here?"
He nodded. It was the sensible thing to do.
And so he returned to the ballroom, and watched as Harry and Sirius were starchily polite to each other in a way that would make the Daily Prophet's gossip columnist salivate with joy. He murmured something about what a pleasure it was to see Sirius again, and how well he was looking, and--
"Yes," Sirius interrupted. "I can see how much pleasure you take in my presence, Moony."
Moony, Remus thought with a wince. Now that was a blow below the belt.
He continued to lie, gracefully and courteously. Sorry to rush off, not feeling altogether well, afraid I'll have to make this an early night.
He bowed to Sirius--how he hated that new convention of bowing to everyone!-- trying not to shudder in horror as the formerly dead man gave him a firm handshake.
With all eyes on him, however, he did not feel that he could leave at once; it would cause too much of a stir for Sirius's friend to leave at the same time as Sirius's godson. So he faded into the background as best he could, deliberately not listening to Sirius spinning wild tales for the benefit of the crowd. When he could bear it no longer, he fled down the servants' hallway, not daring to breathe till he was out of that accursed house and out in the fresh air.
His carriage and coachman were nowhere to be seen.
He shrugged, and began walking home. It would be safer to walk, rather than risk splinching himself because of the alcohol in his system.
When he got home, he decided, he was going to have a drink. Or perhaps a thousand of them.
***
"Oh, Mister Black," twittered a middle-aged witch who bore a strong resemblance to a Pomeranian, "do tell us about your escape from--from beyond the Veil. So many strange and divers rumours have been sounded about that, and I am breathless at the opportunity to hear the tale from your own lips."
My dear lady, thought Sirius with a mental sneer, were I to reveal the events I experienced beyond the Veil, your weak mind would be unseated and you would spend the rest of your useless days in a straitjacket in Bedlam.
Merlin, he had to stop thinking this way. He was beginning to sound like Snivellus.
"Of course," he said, forcing a smile. "I should be delighted. But of course, there are some tales that are a bit too…passionate for mixed company. I do hope you will forgive me for not relating them publicly."
Oh, he had them now. They'd listen forever on the odd chance that he might mention something inappropriately sexual.
He launched into a gaudy story about an owl woman and a mysterious bridge, human-headed small birds, a man bound in a wheel, and a snake-demon that lay coiled around the exit from which he had had to escape.
"You're making this up," Shacklebolt hissed in his ear as he reached the climax of the story.
"I am not," he whispered back, giving Shacklebolt the utterly offended look of a liar who is suspected of lying.
"The story of Ixion--that chap bound in the wheel--is Greek magical history! Greek myth, to Muggles."
Sirius, who was in the middle of a sentence, did his best to ignore Shacklebolt--while still emphatically making the point that Sirius was ignoring him--and finished the story to sighs and flirtatious glances from men and women alike.
"You seem to have attracted a fair bit of attention," Shacklebolt murmured, his lips barely moving. "Keep this up and we'll see your wedding announcement in the Prophet in a month."
Sirius gave a barking laugh; this was too ridiculous to ignore. "I'm not getting married. Unless, Kingsley darling, you're proposing?"
Shacklebolt smiled knowingly. "I'd be amazed if you did not wed one of the brides on the market soon. Have you not heard of the Marriage Act? Ah, no. That passed on through the Ministry while you were…passed on. It was revised--quite comprehensively."
Sirius frowned, bowed and made his excuses to the crowd--which did seem to be overpopulated by young debutantes and their mothers, handsome war widows, and women of a certain age--and swiftly drew Shacklebolt aside. "Now," he said grimly. "What are you on about?"
"Why, nothing," said Shacklebolt. He removed an elegant silver snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket, opened it, offered a pinch to Sirius and took some himself before continuing. "It is only that, thanks to Voldemort's two wars, and Grindelwald's before that, the wizarding world is somewhat depleted. Three generations have been culled. We need children. More than that, we need healthy children. I'm sure I don't need to tell you, a pureblood, about the hazards of inbreeding."
"Go on," Sirius growled.
"The Ministry, in its infinite insanity, has determined that the best way to promote the birth of children and to eliminate the defects that so often crop up in pureblood families--such as heart problems, clinical depression, a slight…shall we say, tendency toward mental imbalance..."
"Go on."
"...is to make marriage compulsory. Heterosexual marriage, that is. Can't waste any of that priceless wizarding fertility on a spouse of the same gender. Two women or two men equals, in the Ministry's eyes, two potential brides or grooms that wouldn't be producing children with people of the opposite sex. Oh, and we're not allowed to marry within the fourth degree of kindred. Trying to eliminate birth defects, you see."
Sirius stared at him. "This is madness. We just fought a whole war over blood purity and they're outlawing purebloods?"
"Oh, no," Shacklebolt corrected him. "They're not outlawing purebloods, they're outlawing incestuous pureblood marriages. There is a difference. A small one, I'll grant you."
"And this isn't upsetting people?"
"Oh, some," said Shacklebolt, with a grimace that dismissed such folk as so much steaming dragon dung. "But most of those who are upset are former Death Eaters. You can't expect people to care what they think. And the rest were scared by a report that was leaked to the press. Basically, it said that Hogwarts could hold a thousand students...and that by 2010, there would only be fifty-nine eleven-year-olds of pureblood or half-blood family who would qualify."
"Fifty-nine?" Sirius tried to wrap his mind around it, but it was impossible. "That's all? Fifty-nine?"
"That's all. There may be a few more of Muggleborn descent, but"--and Shacklebolt sounded almost sincere as he sighed--"those of known wizarding or mixed-blood family just aren't producing enough children. Too many of your godson's generation died at the hands of Voldemort, or were severely injured, or were driven mad. The survivors shrink from marriage, if at all possible. Add in the birth defects and large numbers of wizards with little to no fertility and you may begin to grasp the magnitude of the problem."
"Suppose I don't want to get married."
"Well? Do you suppose I do?" Shacklebolt glared at him. "We are dying out. If we don't reverse the trend, in a hundred years, there won't BE any wizards in England. They've even relaxed the Anti-Marriage and Reproduction of Lycanthropes Act, did you know that? That should tell you how desperate they are. It's giving Umbridge fits. Not that there have been any marriages of werewolves. Yet."
Sirius swallowed. Purebloods forbidden to marry their closest kin. Werewolves encouraged to marry anyone. He did not like one scrap of this. "You said that some people--mostly ex-Death Eaters--were upset. "What's Malfoy doing?"
"Draco?" Shacklebolt shrugged. "Drinking himself into oblivion, most likely. And gambling away what little patrimony he has left, now."
"Not Draco!" Merlin, how thick could the man be? "Lucius!"
Shacklebolt stared at Sirius, clearly perplexed. "Black," he said at last in a tone infinitely patient and kind, "Lucius Malfoy is dead. I would have thought someone would have told you by now."
"That's impossible," Sirius said, shaking his head. "I'd have remembered that miserable bugger dying. And once I knew, I'd have thrown a party that would echo from here to the Horsehead Nebula."
"It happened while you were...resting."
"In peace, you mean."
"Yes." Shacklebolt wrinkled his nose in a rabbit-like fashion, as if he disapproved of the chaos of resurrection. Life and death were ordered and measured events; anything that violated that order could not be good.
"So who killed him?" Sirius demanded, signalling a house elf for another large glass of port.
"Technically, I suppose I did," said Shacklebolt. "Though all I actually did--all any of my team did--was chase him. It was his decision to flee south to Dorset Heath. He managed to blunder into one of the valley mires--well, not so strange, really, though, the mires and the heath form a sort of lopsided chessboard--and never came out again. We searched for him for days, dragged the mire for his body..."
Sirius rolled his eyes. "Never found him, right?"
"Oh, yes," said Shacklebolt softly. "We found him. After a couple of months. Wasn't much left of him by then, of course. Even his clothes were rotting. His wife had to identify him, poor thing. Wasn't pretty. He'd drowned, after nearly starving to death. We ran some thaumic forensics tests to be sure. It was him."
"No chance at all that you lot mucked everything up, of course."
Shacklebolt scowled. "Now why would you say that?"
"Oh, no reason. After all," added Sirius with a glacial smile, "it's not as if the Aurors arrested me, failed to question me, and then assented to Bartemius Crouch throwing me in prison without so much as a hearing, now, is it?"
"That was in 1981! The world was in a panic over Voldemort! Things were different then."
"Oh, yes," said Sirius softly. "They were very different. In my time, an innocent man could be thrown in prison for a crime he didn't commit. Nowadays, even the guilty go free."
"His guilt hadn't been proven."
"I suppose he was running for the exercise?"
"I don't know why he was running. It was classified."
Sirius tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Wonder who he paid off to escape..."
"He paid off no one! No one!"
"No?" Sirius eyed him speculatively. "You seem to have done rather well for yourself since the war ended." His eyes flickered over the red frock coat and the elegant Hessian boots.
Shacklebolt seemed to be breathing heavily. "My people and I have always been strictly honest."
"Oh, of course," said Sirius in a tone that meant exactly the opposite. "I would not dream of suggesting otherwise."
"Good." Shacklebolt smiled…or at least bared his teeth. "Because I would hate to have to suggest in certain quarters that the isolation and depression you suffered in Azkaban, and the horror of your death, had led to the derangement of your mind and soul, and that it would be...unkind...to leave to you to struggle against your delusions...not to mention extremely dangerous to your poor, widowed cousin, and her ne'er-do-well son. Do I make myself clear?"
"You son-of-a-bitch," Sirius said bitterly.
"Only when I'm pushed. Don't spread lies and slander about me, and I won't spread lies and slander about you. Clear?"
Sirius didn't answer.
Shacklebolt turned to go back to the party, then glanced back over his shoulder. "Black. Malfoy is dead. I know you don't want to hear it, but that's the truth. He's as dead as...as Marley's ghost."
With that, Shacklebolt strode away. Sirius stared after him.
"Jacob Marley died," he whispered. "But he came back. He came back."
***
Castle Black in no way resembled a conventional castle. There were no towers, turrets, drawbridges or moats. No one would ever have mistaken it for a creation of Ludwig the Mad, or of the American wizard Walt Disney either. It was simply a very large Baroque mansion of hardy grey granite and white Carrera marble, all fluting columns and golden domes, set amidst North Yorkshire parklands, woodlands and formal gardens.
It had been designed for a huge family, for celebration, for revelry and royal splendour. There should have been dancing, and a mahogany dining table fairly groaning under the weight of food, and a few scandals under the stars that were just wicked enough to add a hint of spice. Candles should have been burning bright in the chandeliers, and young men sneaking through the Satyr's Gate into the garden for a kiss and a cuddle and courtship in corners.
It should not have been desolate, save for a few squib servants, the wretched lady of the demesne and her sister, once a wealthy society dame but now a poor relation, widowed and impoverished by the war.
At the moment, Bellatrix Black Lestrange and her sister, the Widow Malfoy, were seated at the end of the table in the dining hall.
"What," demanded Bellatrix, wrinkling her nose at the sight of the bowl of brown stuff before her, "is this?"
"Onion soup, I believe," said Narcissa Malfoy, sipping hers delicately. "Nutritious, plentiful, cheap and nourishing. Eat it up now."
"I detest onion soup."
"Yes, Bella," said Narcissa patiently. "You've told me this before. However, despite numerous explanations of the expense it takes to maintain the family estate and the fact that I cannot support you financially any longer--"
Bellatrix grinned mockingly. "So Lucius has ceased to be generous with you?"
"No," replied Narcissa, without a quiver of emotion disturbing her calm expression. "Lucius has ceased to be."
Bella's face crumpled. "I keep forgetting."
"I know, dear," Narcissa answered in a soothing tone. I blame the Aurors for over-Obliviating you before both your trials, actually. Though your loss of short-term memory did convince them that you had truly been under Imperio for years, rather than a willing servant of the Dark Lord. They'd far rather blame him than their own ineptitude.
She waited for a few moments to see if Bellatrix would say anything else, but her sister appeared to be quite thoroughly engrossed in glaring at her onion soup. Normally she would have reprimanded her sister for not eating, as food was an expensive necessity, but now she was only grateful that the soup was proving so complete a distraction. She didn't know how she could possibly explain to Bella that Lucius was only officially dead. Unofficially...well, that was a bit harder to determine.
Lucius had been lost in Morden Bog, a large and treacherous mire in Dorset Heath. The land was thick with mud, and there were numerous patches of deep quicksand, most thickly covered by sedge and looking deceptively solid. It was a cruel, inhospitable place--even more so for wizards than for Muggles, for the bog was so unstable that no one could Apparate away from it with any degree of safety. Moreover, the Ministry kept a very close eye on such areas, because there was always going to be one person who decided that he could Apparate away from there, even if no one else could. For those who made the attempt, it was a six-week sentence to Azkaban.
Narcissa shook her head. No. There was no way that Lucius would deliberately risk exactly what he wanted to escape.
And of course there was no Floo Network out there on the heath. And Lucius's broom had been found and confiscated by the thrice-accursed Aurors. If Lucius were alive, he would be unable to do so much as signal the Knight Bus, for he had lost his wand. The Aurors had found it beside the body of the man whom Narcissa had identified as Lucius.
If he had crossed Morden Bog--long and hazardous journey though that was--he might have made his way to the bog woodland on the heath. There would be fresh water, and small game birds.
But Lucius was not an outdoorsman, nor was he accustomed to living rough. He might have died of exposure, of illness, of thirst, of starvation. He might well have drowned and been buried in quicksand, and his body not be found for another thousand years.
And it was all Pettigrew's fault.
Pettigrew, the traitor's traitor.
It wasn't enough for him to betray the Order. It wasn't enough that he should betray the Dark Lord by leading him to that wretched boy at Godric's Hollow. It wasn't even enough that he should return to the Dark Lord and bless and curse him by restoring him to life and rendering him no more than mortal with the same potion. No. At the last battle, he must choose the werewolf's life over the Dark Lord's. A werewolf! A mere animal!
She had heard the story, of course. The whole wizarding world had--how the Dark Lord had commanded Pettigrew to use his silver hand to cripple his enemy, so that the Boy Who Lived might enjoy the sight. And how Pettigrew, smiling, had agreed joyfully--and then tore off the Dark Lord's right hand, snapping his yew wand in the process.
He had done no more. He hadn't needed to. With one stroke, he had saved the werewolf, bereft the Dark Lord of much of his magic, and evened the odds on the Potter boy. It was intolerable.
The werewolf had had Pettigrew arrested, of course. Really, one would have thought that the creature was offended that the traitor was so weak as to spare him. Narcissa had laughed at this, certain that the Dementor's Kiss would follow arrest, sure as eggs were eggs.
Except...
Except Pettigrew agreed to supply the Wizengamot with evidence. Names. Dates. Places. Aliases. In a thin, hesitant stammer, he exposed the Death Eaters' crimes--most particularly, his own.
And he told why he had joined the Death Eaters. In graphic, gruesome detail.
Lucius had been too prominent among the Death Eaters not to have his crimes mentioned by the arch-traitor. His participation in the physical and mental torture that had been designed to break the mind and body of a nineteen-year-old boy...well, that was just so much velvet.
And the Aurors had come to Malfoy Mansion, and put her and her son out of their own home, and froze their Gringotts accounts, and locked the doors.
And Lucius had fled, and might well be dead now.
Bellatrix, too, had been prominently mentioned in Pettigrew's tale. By a lucky chance--Bella's damaged memory and mind--Narcissa had managed to save her sister from the Kiss. But she did not deceive herself that she or Bella could be that fortunate a second time…if virtual incarceration in an impoverished and isolated house for months could be considered 'fortunate.'
Maddeningly, the traitor had vanished like smoke immediately after the trial. Clearly, the man had absolutely no sense of quid pro quo.
Well. She could wait. Her revenge would be all the richer for waiting, no doubt.
And if she could not revenge herself on the traitor, the werewolf would do just as well. After all, it wouldn't be the first time that Pettigrew's friends suffered because of him.
Perhaps she should write some letters to some of her old contacts. Her brothers-in-law, Rodolphus and Rastaban Lestrange, perhaps. Though she would have to conceal the writing and sending of that letter, as one of the things that was supposed to have unsettled Bellatrix's mind was the incestuous passion between the brothers. A passion that they neither hid nor attempted to disguise. Bella actually found their relationship and their willingness to please her in every way to be absolutely delicious, but of course she couldn't admit that. It wouldn't be respectable. And if there was anything that Bellatrix needed after her fanatic service to the Dark Lord and her years in Azkaban, it was respectability.
Society officially found the brothers' illicit passion to be deplorable...while savouring every last scandalous drop. It was all the more delightful because they had been Death Eaters, though supposedly they had been placed under the Imperius Curse and forced to join. The brothers had been dining out for months on their salacious tales of Death Eater orgies. They got invited everywhere; doubtless, they could be relied on to pick up some useful titbit which might be used against Pettigrew or Lupin.
Or, perhaps, her dear resurrected cousin.
Oh, yes, yes. This would do very nicely.
Slowly, she became aware that Bellatrix was staring at her. "Sister," she said in her harsh voice, "what's wrong? You were staring into space for five minutes, and then you put your fist down in the butter dish."
Narcissa glanced at her sister. She felt as effervescent as the bubbles in champagne. "Oh, nothing much," she said, her voice lilting. "I was merely thinking of useful ways to exterminate rats."
Understanding lit Bella's eyes. Across her face skittered a joyous, half-mad smile.
***