Ursa IX
It was true that Ursa disliked many of her mother’s “friends”, but she could admit that they had their uses. Good company, too, if one ignored the elephant in the room was the typical, societal expectations inflicted upon them all to reach for every and all opportunities to further their familial standing. At any and all costs.
It didn’t mean that she was any sort of common conversationalist if she were there at all. Her mother’s politicking actions took place behind the benevolent, flower screen or a daint, pastel tea garden; Ursa’s would take place on the Wizengamot floors and in the closed doors of silenced offices. She was there only when her mother took a fancy to it and was likely to try and familiarise her with the faces and names of those who would attend Bellatrix’s wedding, which would take place a week before Yule.
Sitting in on these parties gave Ursa a great deal of respect for her mother’s duties as the wife of a lord, even if it was a lowercase ‘L’. Both of their duties were equally important. Corralling the swathes of the pureblood populace and managing reputation was a key job of the spouse of a Lord or Lady; corralling the ministry and managing the more active side of the family business was for the Lord or Lady of a house.
“Your youngest will be going to Hogwarts next year, won’t she, Druella?” Gloria Yaxley, the grinning, pale-eyed wife of Corban Yaxley, sipped genially at her tea.
“She will.” Druella nodded sharply, placing on manicured hand on Ursa’s shoulder. It took great control not to spill scalding liquid over her fingers. “Of course, we expect great things from her. She’s already a little prodigy.”
Ophelie Nott, a craggy woman who would, in time, suit the idea of a craggy grandmother who nagged and nipped at any perceived flaw in her children’s sprog, took a drag of her cigarette. Smoking had, for a time in the fifties, been a trend that had long since faded. The addiction obviously hadn’t. Smoke billowed from her mouth like a chimney when she spoke. “I imagine she’ll be in a good house, then. Slytherin, most likely. Or perhaps Ravenclaw, as you Rosier’s are wont to be. She’s your father’s heiress, now, isn’t she? She ought to live up to their standards now.”
Gloria nodded along, a sympathetic frown on her face. “After that ordeal with your Andromeda - ah, I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy, Druella. We all know that sometimes, some just aren’t born right.”
If Walburga was here, Ursa thought drolly, she’d have already made a remark on how keeping the blood in the family keeps the family right or some nonsense. All were aware of the dangers of overlapping bloodlines too many times per generation, none more so than the Black’s. It did not, however, stop Walburga from crowing about it.
“We gave that girl every chance.” Druella sighed, nails dragging down her back as she pulled away to fake exasperated disappointment. “But, in the end, if she’d rather play in the muck and filth, well, who am I to stop her from sullying herself? She’s a woman now.”
“Still, it makes you wonder, if your Andromeda would lose herself to their wiles even after being raised correctly…” Yaxley toed the line of her mother’s anger. “Who’s to say that your sister-in-law’s son won’t? I mean, Andromeda was Sorted right, raised right, and knew all the right people and it only took one boy to convince her differently. Where he is now, I doubt that Sirius Black will be able to keep his convictions strong.”
“Whatever do you mean, Gloria?”
A wave of discomfiting silence held the group in an iron grip. Ursa felt her heartbeat in her chest, the thump-thump of the blood in her veins speeding until it matched the irregular rush of her internal monologue.
There was a letter under her bed - written not to Regulus, but instead to her, in shaky writing and tear-stained parchment - that spelled out the obvious elephant in the room. News of her cousin’s sorting had not yet reached Walburga, nor had it reached Druella, as seen by the continued lukewarm continuation of everybody’s day-to-day life. But Ursa would not betray the confidence that her cousin so gently placed in her palms, given away under the cover of a night that would leave him unobserved by peers and pretense alike. She had known, of course - she had always known - but there was a difference between knowing and letting others know.
She was not so foolish as to believe that she, and by extension, those who she cherished, would be entirely exempt front he consequences of news such as this. Nor did she believe that it would be a secret kept carefully between herself and her mother.
Walburga and Druella had been tentative friends, once upon a time. Now marriage had made them sisters, and Ursa knew the intricate nature of sisterhood so very well.
“Only that a Gryffindor heir is truly something to be worried about. Why, Callisto’s aunt, you remember, mousy girl, always sulking, she was a Gryffindor, and look at her now! Married to some muggle man, no better than a mudblood in squalor amongst all those… things.” Gloria nodded toward the Malfoy lady, who was staring dismally into the bottom of her teacup. Her cheeks were lightly flushed at the mention of her estranged aunt.
Nobody dared to try and usurp the audacity of Druella Rosier, especially not in her own home. Let alone try and get away with it. Let alone in front of company. Dropping information like that on the unawares was raising a flag that Ursa knew Yaxley could not even attempt to defend. More than that, while it wasn’t a direct challenge, it was a question; if one could defect, why couldn’t another? Her mother’s nails clinked against the ceramic, raindrops on the still surface of water.
“And the Yaxley’s haven’t had a few run-aways, or the Rowle’s, for that matter?” Druella questioned, sickly-sweet syrup dripping off her every word. “How is your brother, Gloria?”
The woman’s composure cracked as fractures showing in the ice. “My brother is doing well.”
“Yes, in that muggle institution… ah, what is it called? Aimbridge? Damebridge?”
“Cambrid-”
Druella glared down the length of her nose. “Yes. I know, Yaxley, I’m not a fool.”
In other words: do not test me again.
The tea party concluded rather quietly, after that. Ophelie Nott hushed her compatriot rather quickly when she attempted to rouse the topic from it’s deep slumber, her damage control arousing in the form of quick-witted, pointed remarks. Neither woman stuck around for the deceptively gentle after-party conversation, making their quick excuses before escaping into the Floo. They’d be back again, of course, but Ursa doubted it would be with any warm reception.
As the final well-dressed witch disappeared into the flames, her mother waved her hand, rubbing her forehead as she slumped into her fine settee. “A drop of scotch, Beley. Parchment and ink, too.”
A crack echoed in the air as a glass, half-full, dropped onto the side-table alongside a pile of parchment and partnered quill set. No visible elf had appeared, but Ursa hadn’t seen one in at least two years; as she’d grown beyond needing assistance to dress and Bellatrix had grown further and further enraged by every slight, there had never been a need for one of the creatures to be visibly tangible. Everything can be solved by magic, little sister, her sister was wont to crow. The worst part was that she was right.
Ursa slid onto the opposite armchair, hands folding in her lap. It hid the neurotic picking at her nails well, disguising any sort of nervousness that she feared her mother might pick up on.
Easily, she might be rewarded for her loyalty to her cousins just as well as punished for it. A strange life, to never know which was right and which was wrong; but it treated the Black family well, to raise their children as they did. It bred a cunning, a constant awareness of the consequences that their actions might bring, an extra layer of security. Then again, it had resulted in people like Bellatrix and dear old Great-Aunt Cassopeia, so perhaps there might be room for improvement.
“Did you know?” Druella asked her first, before she had even wrapped her fingers around the cold shotglass. Then she sighed and shook her head. “No. It doesn’t matter. Even if you did, if you do, you wouldn’t tell me.”
“It…” Ursa paused, contemplative. “It was a surprise.”
“What, Yaxley and Nott or Sirius being in Gryffindor? Oh, what am I saying, it was obviously the former.” She pointed a finger, wagging, already drunk on the illusiveness of the situation. “Thick as thieves, you two have always been. It was what we wanted, after all, before… before - well, you don’t need to know about the before. Don’t answer. I don’t need to know. Nobody needs to know.”
Ursa had gotten away with it. Good.
“I need to owl Walburga.” She rested her head in her hands, fingers massaging the likely-burgeoning headache across her temples. “It’s good she didn’t come today. Better, even. She’d have murdered Yaxley on the spot and then you. Or me. Or Sirius. Poor boy doesn’t even know what he’s gotten into.”
“Should... I owl him?”
Druella’s lips pursed. “If you must. Make no mention of Yaxley or Nott. We don’t need people to know that the integrity of the house could be in question.”
So as her mother gladly downed a glass of scotch, Ursa made quick work of sketching out a warning to her cousin. It was barely more than a few sentences, a summary more than an explanation, but Sirius would understand the importance of it, even if none of his new friends would.
“Beley, please owl this to Sirius.” Ursa stopped, and then. “Not through the mailing system. Independently.”
The letter disappeared from her hands the moment the sentence finished, leaving her fingers to clench around air rather than thick parchment. Even now, ten years after death, the magic that surrounded her surprised her.
“I’ll have to get somebody to deal with Yaxley. Ever since Cobran’s got that promotion… well, it’s no matter. But did you see Callisto’s face? Oh, yes… of course. We made sure to blot out all the insignificant families during your education, but don’t worry, your Grandfather will cover it. She was right, after all.” Druella directed her a wan smile. “You are the new Rosier heiress. You know that, right?”
“Yes, mother.”
“You understand what that entails?”
“Yes, mother.” Ursa restrained a sigh under the questioning, raised an eyebrow. “It means that I’ll marry a pureblood boy of high standing, preferably second-in-line, and lose the name Black when I take the official mantle of heiress at seventeen.”
Druella slumped - or what was classified as a slump, for someone such as her - over her shot glass. “Good. Andromeda never did, but you - well, you remind me of my sister sometimes. My dear Rosetta… but then, it’s your father’s cunning shining through. Like a light in the dark.”
“Make sure you are a Slytherin, my dear.” Druella imparted on her sagely. “It’s true that being a Ravenclaw is a family trait, but you can find greatness in Slytherin. Do not wait for greatness to find you.”
Sirius,
Mother knows. Expect a letter from your own in due time. I told them nothing; people must have been writing home about it.
Ursa.
The giant grandfather clock in her grandfather’s house had been there as long as Ursa could remember. She’d spent most of her youth in the walls of the Manor’s nursery, absent from any sort of house that did not strictly belong to either of her parents. One summer, they had spent a darling summer month in a French cottage; it had been an attempt to restitch their fraying family unit, but in truth, the only good it had done was teach Ursa French.
French. Really? She hated French, always had, and now she spoke it.
In any sort of fashion, most of her grandfather’s house had remained the same since she was six. The only changes that would ever be made was the family tapestry, sent away to a mermaid weaver to be added and removed depending on what happened to the family members in question. Andromeda was now suspiciously absent of the twisting, twining blackthorn tree that had every family member stretching back to the fifteen hundred.
She was also absent from the Black family tapestry, but that was by the by.
Now that Evan had moved in, the house had lost much of its cold, distant demeanor. Paper and plates would be scattered around the house, little houseplants sprouting up on the window sills, language textbooks set wide open on tables that were clearly abandoned in favor of something better. One house-elf was enough to keep the house clean, which meant that the mess was recent and pointed.
“Ursa!” Evan bellowed, bounding down the stairs in a blur of blue-green fabric. “Did you hear?”
Many things had been happening, lately; Callisto’s aunt’s son had popped up, apparently, meaning that Lucius now had a half-blood, muggle-raised cousin to look after, Sirius had been sorted in Gryffindor and then proceeded to send only a note on the sly, to her, who had not said anything, but not to anybody in his family, Lucius and Narcissa had a fight over something, leaving their relationship tenuous at best and Aries had yet to show signs of accidental magic. Which wasn’t bad; in fact, it was common in their families for children’s first magic to go unnoticed by everyone but themselves. But for Walburga, who had crowed more about her third son rather than her first, it was quite the blow and she’d spent the last months of summer holed up with her boy trying to get him to cast even a basic lumos.
Unfortunately, he was five. Ursa had only started casting basic spells at that age, never mind lumos, which, while basic, required a strong starting base with spells reminiscent of the first-year curriculum to get to grips with the theory.
“Hear what?”
“About Sirius!” Oh, so that then. Great. Love it. “And how Walburga completely freaked out and started on Reg. Oh, man, hasn’t he written to you?”
Ursa shrugged. “Why do I need a letter? Of course, I know.”
Regulus had gotten the aftermath of Walburga’s rage, in the end. Orion, had, apparently, been the first in her firing range; Druella had recounted the whole affair at dinner a few nights previous, gleeful to be dragging her life-long rival’s family reputation through the mud. For the sixteenth time. Then the poor house-elf, Irri, had gotten the rest. That is to say that Grimmauld Place was now running with only two house elves in active service.
A rant was the best you could ask for, really.
Evan’s smile became strained. “Hah… you know, sometimes I worry about you two. I mean, Father wasn’t nice but he didn’t… you know what, never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
“I understand,” Ursa told him. “I know.”
“But doesn’t it… hurt? To know that…”
“Sometimes. Not all the time.”
“Why don’t you live here?”
“I live with my mother.” She tells Evan, but it sounds a bit like a lie. Even he sees it, somehow, so she switches tactics. “And my sister. When she leaves… maybe I’ll go to.”
“You can come with me. To my wife’s house. I’ll make her let you stay.” Evan grinned, wide and beaming, solving a problem that didn’t need to be solved.
“Oh, Evan.” She didn’t have the heart to tell him that, despite everything, she’d never really leave. There was something fundamental about being a child, even twice over, that could meld you into something other, change the very core of your being; Ursa was a Black, now. She could only try to be better.
Ursa
Thank you for the warning. Mother sent me a Howler - and since you’re so informed, I assume you already know - and if we didn’t have Bellatrix’s wedding, I’d not be coming home for the Christmas Rites. Well, I wouldn’t be going to Grimmauld Place. Grandfather would never let a Black skip out on the rites, especially not me. But I doubt I’ll be anywhere but in the four walls of my room, eating scraps for dinner.
Haha, you and Reg need to send me food. Can’t lose this impressive physique over two weeks. What will the ladies say?
Anyway, I’m paving the way for you and Reg. I’ve made friends - and I don’t think you know about these, so don’t be telling. Mother wouldn’t approve, so keep it from Aunt Druella too. One of them, you know - James Potter, Dorea’s nephew, pureblood blood traitor. The rest, well, I don’t think you’ve heard of Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew, but I guess you could try and figure them out. They’ll be nice to you when you come on the train next year, or they’ll have me to worry about, so you definitely don’t have to worry about making friends!
Narcissa hasn’t said anything all year. I think she and Lucius are fighting. They sit separately at Slytherin. Lucius has a new little duckling; a greasy, big-nosed bigot who likes to trail after this muggle-born in Gryffindor when Lucius gives him the boot. He’s Slytherin, obviously, and painfully uneducated in current affairs. More than me! More than James! That’s nearly impossible, Ursa.
I have so much to tell you! I’m so excited about Bellatrix’s wedding! Which… is something I never thought I’d say.
Your best cousin,
Sirius Black
When Ursa’s eleventh birthday rolled around, all of them were sat around the dinner table. November 1st had never been a special date in her mind; it had been, of course, a day of moderate celebration, and as always she had a pile of gifts already waiting for her fingers to pry open, but none of the grandeur and pomp that had been granted upon her during her muggle birthdays was shared here. If she was lucky, she might see her father for more than the twenty minutes it took for him to scoff his food and run away, tail tucked between his legs, and her mother might deign to spare her the ear-thrashing for slouching at the table; yet now her Father sat with an empty plate and a half-drunk cup of black tea though the clock had long since passed ten o’clock and her mother’s lips only opened to snarl a response to his idle quips.
That morning had been just as queer as the afternoon she’d spent prancing around Diagon Alley, both parents solemn and scowling. It remained the sole pseudo-happy memory she shared with both her parents in one room, though she began to detest that line of thought as the hours dragged on and the bickering failed to cease.
“It’s late.” Druella had scowled. It had been an hour past the normal conclusion of breakfast, when they’d all be about to begin or already participating in their usual morning activities. Even over the smell of bacon and tomato sauce, Ursa had smelt that thick, sour smell of magic-infused ink pungent in it’s invisible inkpot.
Cygnus had just sighed heavily, flicking through the Daily Prophet, equally as bemused as distantly irritated at his wife’s presence. “It’s hardly late. It’s twenty-minutes past. Ursa was born at half-past.”
“Oh, so you know what time the child I birthed was born? Next you’ll say you were there and not… oh, drowning your sorrows or whatever it was.”
“I can read medical charts.” The he had pasued. “You were in there for a quite a few days. Did you think I would simply remain ignorant?”
“Does it matter? Those nurses were on something, Cygnus.” Druella had tutted. “Nothing good, at any rate.”
The owl had swooped in at thirty-one minutes past, rendering both their opinions on the time of her birth moot, the letter in it’s talons a more precious cargo than any diamond or jewel-studded piece of jewelry that Ursa had received that same morning. It had seemed almost surreal when it landed on her empty porcelain plate that the thought of pinching herself arose before she’d even read the envelope.
U. E. Black,
United Kingdom, England
Black Manor,
Bedroom on the Second Floor, Mahogany Wing
In the end, it hadn’t been all that exciting after she’d pried the letter out of its fancy casing. The list of books had been not too dissimilar to what her tutors had recommended her - some of she had already read - and she’d seen her sister’s own letters enough times to know what was on the uniform checklist without looking. Even the Defense Against the Dark Arts book was rather standard, disappointingly; there’d be no odd professors in Ursa’s first year, it seemed.
Most interestingly, she didn’t go to Madam Malkins as seemed to be the pride of all Hogwarts students first year. “That, for us?” Her mother had snorted. “I know that girl, and if her sewing is anything like her blood, we’d best stay clear. Come now, I know a perfectly fine establishment this way of Knockturn.”
It made her wonder about Draco Malfoy’s first appearance in the place. Narcissa hardly let her go anywhere that was not in her high standards, and so surely, she wouldn’t let her son do the same. Then again, there could be a myriad of reasons for it; to seem more approachable to the public, soften their image and allow their son to fit the mold of a reformed pureblood heir rather than a stereotypical, brutish boy or, perhaps, Lucius’ merely found it a quaint rite of passage. Ursa knew the man too little to pass judgment on that front.
Either way, by the time they rolled around to the event that Ursa had most been waiting for, she was set to be dressed in the finest silks money could buy, the highest quality brewing material and equipment that would make Snape jealous and lengthy theoretical (yuck) books on every subject she was to study. Even a handful of rune-based books had been pressed into her hand by her father, though she wasn’t to study it as a subject for a number of years - she doubted he cared about that, though. Blacks had a tendency to interrupt the normal curriculum without shame.
“Ollivander’s has served the Black family for numerous generations.” Cygnus lectured her, reciting everything as though from a textbook. He had a remarkable memory, her father, though she’d never seen him do more than use it for pretension. “The last wand bought from a non-Ollivander was by Actine Black-Ulpe, who was raised in Germany and therefore bought his from a Gregovitch. It matters little, of course, because his line began and ended with him, but it’s important to know the history of your family. Why, I believe that the Rosiers are rather the same, as far as the British Branch is concerned.”
“You might have a penchant for materials not natural to Great Britain, is what your father means.” Druella chimed in, pushing the aging wooden door open. It neither creaked nor croaked; with a smooth, soundless moment, the interior of Ollivanders was revealed to Ursa.
It was not quite large, but she thought that if you removed the wand boxes and the shelving, you might have a generous amount of space. A thick layer of dust crusted the higher shelves, floating down when its lower compatriots were unkindly disturbed like vicious, blinding stars. Her view was cut off by the countertop, obscuring any too-curious visitor trying to sleuth through the back and spy on their wand-making techniques, but she could spy a handful of spindles crumpled and lie abandoned by the back-room door. Tall ladders stretched beyond the height of mountains, disappearing into unending darkness, though the room had been barely lit by the filtered, dim daylight to begin with.
Ursa had oft wondered what wand-making included. It was easy to place the theory on paper, of course, but so few decided to traverse the path that logical deduction said it was more than just deciding which wood went with which core. Even as she stood wandless, the live-wire energy sent thrums of electricity through her veins.
Perhaps there had been a reason to keep wand lore within a singular family or passed down as these techniques are wont to be, master-to-apprentice. A particular brand of magic suited to a bloodline or a tricky technique was more easily taught one-on-one over the years rather than broadly remarked upon to the many. Whatever it was, the system that was in place obviously worked, if no witch nor wizard had yet to complain about a faulty wand. Though, in everybody’s opinion, every wand worked; not every wand matched the wizard, or so the saying went.
The screech of wood interrupted her thoughts. “Druella Rosier…” a scratchy, aging voice murmured. An audible inhale of breath preceded its next sentence. “Oh, yes. Black, now.”
“Good afternoon, Ollivander.” Her mother greeted primly. “Let’s spare us the recitations, shall we? We’re here for my daughter-”
“Ursa Black, yes.” The man murmured, pale-blonde hair just shy of grey. Wide eyes peered through her own, pausing from their inspection only to blink. “Your sister… she was very fond of you, though you yourself were absent. No longer, the last of you come to be equipped with a wand; unless, perhaps, you have your own follower?”
Follower while insulting, probably best described her childhood tugging on her elder sister’s skirts. But yet, she doubted her sister spent much time lingering on Ursa during the conversation. She tried to disguise her disquiet behind improvised haughtiness.
A skeletal grin spread across his lips. “Regulus Black is the last to come and visit me. I await him eagerly, then, Miss Black.”
Aries still has to come, she thought, but neither her parents nor the old wandmaker made a move to mention him, so she tightly pursed her lips and turned to the true topic of conversation.
“Your wand hand, now, child.” And with a presentation of her right hand, a short, snappy little measuring tape began to quickly take note of every inch of her body right down to the space between her nostrils. He ran wrinkling fingers down the grooves in her palm. “Already tried wielding one, eh? Yes, pine… perhaps we better-”
He snapped his fingers. The tape measure rolled up and flew away to the depths unknown, yet he remained muttering and murmuring as he paced the length of the shelves twice over. A good dozen boxes were yanked from their sleeping place, disrupting the previously peaceful energy of the room, but he neither noticed nor cared. In the chaos, he looked more alike to his book counterpart; a crazy, undecipherable old man with a penchant for mystery.
“Come, come. Let us try, this one…” the wand was placed swiftly in her hand, a dark-colored wand of some description that Ursa did not quite pick up on. It was evident by her mother’s short, displeased huff that she had, however; and like prophecy, the wood of the counter cracked straight down the middle.
His brow furrowed, and a handful of boxes settled back in their allocated slots. Another was placed in her hand. “Try, go one, give it a wave-”
Numerous failings occurred before they even began to get close. Time passed much faster when one was continuously exploding, destroying or imploding shop floors, shelves, and windows, it seemed, and by the fourth hour, the entire expedition had started to lose its charm. Luck would have it that no other customers wandered in; but equally, Ursa knew, that her parents may have simply warded it so that none would. They were not great fans of public spectacle.
Unicorn hair, hornbeam, 15 inches and slightly springy…
And when the shelves only rattled instead of splintering, the entire room sagged with exhausted relief. “Oh, thank Merlin,” Ursa muttered as the old man toddled off with significantly more spring in his step than he had earlier. It was a credit to her parent’s own exhausted boredom that she was only mildly chastised.
“Here, here.” Ollivander pressed another, similar wand into her hand. It was hornbeam, too. “Dragon heartstring, 12 inches and a half, very flexible.”
The wand had barely settled in her hand when the room erupted in a shower of silver and blue sparks. Ursa hadn’t seen fireworks for nearly eleven years, such was the droll nature of pureblood children’s parties, but it was the only comparison that might make sense. Even still, it was so much more; like tiny shards of herself poured into visible form, splintering as she made way for the something that had slotted into place the moment the wand had landed in her hand.
“Mother, mother, look!” She stepped back to admire from afar, twinkling stars burning up before they might scorch the wooden floor of Ollivander’s wand shop.
If she looked close enough, she might catch her reflection in these pieces of self, so pale and transcendent they were. Brown hair, nearly black as it grew wet with rain, blue eyes blackened and bloodshot, pale, blemished skin dotted as tarmac dug painfully into pale skin and left long scratches from lip to eyelid-
“Excellent!” Ollivander cheered. “Why, I might say, your daughter will grow to be a great witch, Miss Rosier.”
“It’s Black, now, Ollivander.”
He grinned, just a tad too wide, as he accepted the pouch of galleons. “I know.”
Sirius,
This is the sixth letter you've sent me now about Regulus. I cannot, and will not, force him to write to you. If the roles were reversed, I wouldn't do it to you either. Please, stop asking. I understand that you're upset, but you must understand, Aunt Walburga is fuming. I don't mean like before when we got caught doing something stupid; I mean, genuinely ready-to-curse raging. Regulus doesn't say anything, of course, and I know Orion would never let anything pass, but you know what Reg is like. He's a gentle soul; me and you, we know what we're getting into when we do what we do, right? It's expected. But for Reg, well, you know. He's your brother. If you don't understand, I can't make you.
Look, I can try and get Grandfather to let you stay with us at Black Manor. I assure you, not everybody has turned their back on you. Especially not me. Bellatrix isn't even here - well, she is but seeing her is pretty unlikely. Even for you. I can't say you might see Reg before her wedding, because the witch might have a hernia if she knows he's interacting with you. Then again, she seems to have this fits in between locking herself in Aries' nursery room. Do you know anything about that? I'm not very close to him - he's five, for Merlin's sake - but you have lived with him for five years. Anyway, what I mean to say is that if it's timed correctly then Reg might be able to come over, anyway. Orion certainly doesn't care what you get up to as long as you do your duty.
I'll see you at the holidays anyway, Sirius. Don't start doubting me now.
Ursa