Fic Post: The Black Asphodel, Part 4 of 5
The Black Asphodel, Part 4 of 5

"I've got to explain," Harry said, trying to think where it had all gone wrong. He took a step but Lupin clasped his arm.

"I'd leave him alone, lad," he said, his voice gentle.

Harry stared over the empty expanse of grass and swallowed hard, unable to forget the harsh look on Severus's features as his gaze had bored into Harry's, pulling up memories that, while perfectly innocent to Harry, had not been revealed until under duress.

Nodding, Harry straightened up, fingers tugging idly at the loose strands of his cravat. Lupin looked like he wished to say something further but said instead, "Will you be all right?"

Harry nodded again and let Lupin Apparate away before he started back to the house. He walked, giving Severus time to collect himself, hoping it would be enough.

The house was quiet when he arrived. Harry felt for a moment that he should tiptoe about but as he had nothing to be guilty about, quickly shook off this impulse. The door to Severus's study was firmly closed.

Harry went up to his room but couldn't settle to any diversion. His mind kept playing over the scene in the maze's mouth and trying to think what he could have done differently. He saw no clearer path than the truth.

By evening the study door had not cracked. Harry, not wanting to give the appearance of guilt by hiding in his room, came down to supper. But he might not have bothered. Severus did not join him and Blakeney, when questioned, said that the master had refused all entreaties to eat, but had called instead for a quantity of elf-made wine.

Harry spent the rest of the evening pacing his room and, when he heard the quiet pop close by, he raced to the door between their rooms. Instead of turning easily in his hand, the knob held. Much as Harry stared at it in disbelief, the lock resisted him. Since he had moved into this room, the door to Severus's had never been locked, not even when Severus had been away in Paris. Harry slid his hand away slowly even though it felt as though his fingers had been singed. He welcomed the ache of it; it matched perfectly the ache in his heart.

For the first time since coming to England, Harry slept in the bed that had been assigned to him at the estate, though he did not remember sleeping at all, only staring up into the canopy unseeingly. Anger warred with disappointment and shame quarreled with self-pity as his thoughts chased each other round and round in his brain. He had done nothing--nothing!--to rouse such ire. Tomorrow he would make Severus see reason.

Harry felt no better the next day, groggy and miserable but renewed and determined not to be ignored. He dressed carefully, even making some effort with his hair which normally resisted all efforts at taming. He was tempted to leave his spectacles behind but feared making a fool of himself by stumbling without them. Listening at the connecting door, he heard no noises on the other side. So be it. He resolved to pound on the study door until Severus let him in, or Apparate directly in where Severus could not ignore him.

He called out a hearty good morning to Blakeney, who bowed over the morning salver of mail. "How is Sir Severus this morning?" he inquired, hoping the black mood had passed.

"Gone, sir," the elf intoned.

"Gone? Gone where?" Harry sat down hard on the stairs near the bottom.

"To Scotland, I believe, for the fishing."

"Fishing?" Harry echoed, feeling stupid, all his plans evaporating like smoke.

"Left early this morning, yes, sir," said Blakeney, bowing again without even a word about his lumbago before continuing into the breakfast room.

Harry had never felt so alone. He had never thought of this house as a prison before but now he longed to leave it, to force Severus to give chase. Only he was no longer certain Severus would come to find him. Briefly he even considered returning to Paris , to be with his godfather and his friends at the theater. To leave now would be to abandon all that he had found--or hoped he had found--with Severus. Nevertheless, after breakfast, he wrote Sirius a letter, filling it as full of news as he could, just to feel connected with his old life.

As the empty days dragged on, Harry went back and forth. More than once he sat down to write Sirius again and ask him to come to England and collect him, or to Regulus and ask his help to get Harry home to Paris. The letters remained unwritten. Every morning he hoped the morning mail would contain a letter from Severus, either in apology or simple contact. It did not feel right to flee to Paris when things between them were unresolved.

Then one night he awoke from a troubled sleep to find a great commotion going on outside. He raced to his window and saw something to make his heart leap--Sir Severus astride his big bay. Harry fumbled for his spectacles. Was that Lupin with him? Also astride one of the horses from the stables. Both men looked spattered and windblown by their journey. As soon as they dismounted, grooms, looking sleepy and hastily dressed, led the horses away.

Harry wanted nothing more than to hurry downstairs and fling himself into Severus's arms. But for the presence of Lupin, he might have. What exactly was Lupin doing with him at this hour? Had they been fishing together? A harsh new emotion rose in his chest. Were the two men simply old school friends as Severus had explained, or something more?

Torn between dejection and anger Harry sank back onto his own bed. Despite himself he listened for sounds of Severus and Lupin coming up the stairs, torturing himself by imagining what would happen next and whether he could bear listening if he heard sounds of the two of them together coming from the other room.

After several anguished moments Harry realized he heard no one at all coming up the stairs, not even Severus alone. Nor even any telltale pops of Apparition. There were, of course, guest rooms along the next corridor but Harry, who understood drama very well, did not think Severus and Lupin would use one.

Stepping closer to his own door, he could definitely hear the low hum of voices, but they came no nearer. Harry cracked his bedroom door open, craning to hear what was going on. After a few seconds he heard boot steps along the tiled floor below and the determined shutting of the study door.

He lay awake a long time after that, but if Severus ever sought his own bed, alone or otherwise, Harry never heard it.

He expected to be alone at breakfast as he had been the last week but both Severus and Lupin, neither looking well-rested, looked up from their plates when Harry walked in.

"Good morning, Harry," Lupin said. Though the greeting was hearty, Harry did not miss the wary glance Lupin gave Severus.

"Good morning, Monsieur Lupin," he responded politely. "Good morning, Severus."

"Harry," Severus acknowledged, glancing up only briefly. It was the first word Harry had heard directed at himself for a week but it gave him no pleasure. If they'd been alone Harry felt certain Severus would have simply ignored him.

It was the most excruciatingly awkward meal Harry had ever eaten. Lupin tried to make small talk that neither Harry nor Severus was interested in. Harry barely tasted his food, feasting instead on the long-denied sight of Severus.

Severus, however politely turned out, had the appearance of a man bedeviled. There were hollows under his eyes that had not been there before. He seemed paler and gaunter, and his dark gaze, when it flickered however briefly over Harry, was haunted. Worried, no doubt, Harry thought bitterly, over his friends in prison, sentenced to death.

Harry felt immediate remorse at his uncharitable thought. He hadn't liked Draco d'Malfoy, but he did not want him to die on the guillotine.

He didn't get a chance to voice this opinion for directly after breakfast Severus and Lupin closeted themselves away in the study. Once, Harry though he heard raised voices but the walls were so thick he couldn't be certain.

Harry was in the library, though the book in his lap had not held his interest, when the study door opened at last. Springing to his feet Harry sped to the hall. He spotted Lupin and stopped, peering past him to see if Severus had surfaced.

Lupin stopped rolling up the parchment as he caught sight of Harry. "He isn't here, Harry," he said slowly. "He's gone. To London."

"London?" Harry slumped, the earlier hope he'd felt evaporating like morning mist.

"Urgent appointment with his tailor, I believe."

"I…I see," Harry said, groping for some sort of reason for this sudden need to gallivant around the country when Severus could avoid Harry just fine right here. He started to turn away.

Lupin's hand came down on his shoulder. "Don't be too hard on him," he said.

Harry gave a laugh that had been wrung dry of mirth. "On him?" The incongruity of this request was as bitter as cauldron ashes in his mouth.

"He's never been in…never had…anyone like you," Lupin said, giving his shoulder a squeeze before letting go.

"He does not trust me, monsieur," replied Harry bitterly.

"Severus trusts few people," Lupin said.

"He trusts you." Harry could not help sounding jealous.

Lupin's laughter was genuine, as if he'd been waiting to hear it again. "Only after many years of not trusting anyone." Glancing back into the study as if to make sure Severus wasn't lingering behind to eavesdrop, he went on, "Have you ever known what it's like to be poor?" he asked, which was not a question Harry had been expecting. "Really crushingly poor?"

Harry shook his head. He had heard the story often of how Sirius had brought baby Harry to Paris and had to do magic in the streets to support them after he'd been disinherited from the Black fortune. But they'd always had a roof over their heads--Sirius's brother Regulus had given them the second best Black house and Harry could not remember wanting for anything growing up.

"Severus has. Before he inherited the title he had nothing," Lupin explained, "Only his wits and his learning. Hardly even a chamber pot." He shook his head ruefully. "Though his cousin was rich, Severus had no expectations. Clyde was fully expected to marry and produce heirs and only the fact that he loved drink and reckless horses brings us both here now."

Harry tried to imagine the vagaries of chance that had brought Severus here and the no doubt pressing fear that chance might take it all away again. "I think I understand," he said slowly.

"When he found me," Lupin went on, "And I realized at once that his circumstances had changed, I thought he was seeking revenge."

Harry could easily imagine that. Sirius had told him countless stories of his and the other Marauders schoolboy pranks, the predominant victim usually Severus.

"I wouldn't have blamed him." Lupin smiled. "He's a good man--a better man than he was--but I think we all are. Even Sirius." He reached his hand out, looking so much like Harry's godfather when he was about to ruffle Harry's hair that unconsciously Harry leaned forward. Lupin carried through with it this time. "Maybe especially Sirius now that they both have you in common."

The conversation with Lupin had given Harry a great deal to think about. However, while he was at lunch the next day--alone, for apparently tailors in London required several days of consultation--Blakeney announced a visitor.

"What?" Harry asked around his peach slice. "Did you inform this visitor that Sir Severus is not at home?" Not at home, of course, was the traditional excuse for everything from lying on one's deathbed to a social cut, though sometimes, like now, it was actually true.

"It is not Sir Severus he wishes to see," Blakeney said, sniffing with the sort of disapproval only butlers ever achieved.

"Me?" Harry dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. The only person he knew in England beside Severus was Lupin, who would have simply joined him in the dining room. At Blakeney's nod, Harry said, "Show him into the blue drawing room."

"Very good, sir."

Harry waited several minutes, checking his appearance in the glass before following. He entered and closed the drawing room door behind him. His visitor was unfamiliar, older than Harry and even than Severus. He was thin and quite unfashionably bald.

"Monsieur Potter?"

And not English, for his accent was flawless.

"I'm afraid you have the advantage of me, Monsieur--?"

"DeCharne," the man supplied. He bowed slightly in his unfashionably dark suit and Harry noticed a Revolutionary rosette on his lapel. "I have the honor to be the Revolutionary Liaison between Wizards and Muggles," he continued with the air of pronouncement.

"You work for the Committee?" Harry asked, feeling his palms go a bit damp as though he was about to stride onto the stage without knowing his lines. Even here, out of the country he had called home for most of his life, a visit from a Committee member was seldom good news.

"Indeed."

Harry gestured politely to the settee, taking the opposite one. He wished he'd thought to tell Blakeney to bring in tea but the idea of a visitor had startled him so much he'd forgot how to be a proper host.

"I'm very sorry Sir Severus is not at home," said Harry, for it was the literal truth. There was something about his visitor that made him wish they were not alone.

"It is not, as I explained to your elf, Sir Severus I wish to speak to," DeCharne said, his nose wrinkling slightly at the mention of Blakeney. "I find myself on an urgent mission that I believe you can help me fulfill."

So much for the possibility that his visitor was simply a determined theater fan. "A mission, sir?" he replied, deliberately dropping the French honorifics in favor of the English.

DeCharne's eyes were very cold, though he tried to smile as if he'd been told so and wished to divert attention from them. "Oui. I have been charged to find the identity of the Black Asphodel."

Harry nearly laughed. "You and all the ladies of Paris," he replied.

DeCharne smiled again, as if he knew a secret. "Fortunately for the Revolutionary Committee, the Asphodel is not so clever as he believes and has left clues for others not so blinded by his heroics to see."

"You know who it is?" asked Harry, the certainty of DeCharne's words chilling him.

"I believe so, yes."

"Then you know it isn't me," Harry said, resisting the urge to sigh in relief. "So I fail to see how I can be of any service to the Committee." As if he would.

His hope that the interview would be that simple withered quickly. DeCharne sighed expressively. "Unfortunately my belief is not enough to send the man to the arms of Madame Guillotine and I must request your assistance to obtain proof."

Harry stood up in protest. "I will not aid such a detestable quest. Whoever this man is, he is a hero on both sides of the Channel."

The cold eyes did not change at Harry's outburst. "He is an outlaw and an enemy of the French people. His…disruptions to the duly proclaimed judicial process cannot be tolerated." Something like a genuine emotion flickered through the dark eyes but its presence gave Harry no comfort.

"His 'disruptions' are quite well tolerated by those he saves from death," argued Harry, pacing several steps in front of the settee.

"My mission--"

"I don't care about your mission!" Harry said in agitation.

DeCharne blinked and Harry nearly gave into a shudder. "I must…insist," the man said without raising his voice to Harry's level.

"I am not a French citizen, nor am I on French soil," Harry reasoned.

"Unfortunately your godfather chose to remain in French care when you departed our land," DeCharne replied, the force of his words so powerful that he spoke much more quietly, hardly louder than a hiss.

Harry's legs seemed to buckle as he sat down hard on the settee. "You have…you have…"

DeCharne reached into his waistcoat and pulled out a letter. Harry recognized the handwriting on the outside as his own. It was the one he'd sent to Sirius a few days ago. DeCharne allowed him to take it and turn it over and over in his fingers. "It was your name on that warrant that condemned the Malfoys," Harry said, in sudden sickening realization.

"I had that honor, yes."

Harry gave the letter back to the outstretched hand. "Why are you doing this?"

DeCharne's mouth twitched. "We believe you are not only in a position to provide proof of this villain's identity but possess the acting skills to manipulate this position to the ends we in the Committee, desire."

Harry thought of Sirius languishing in a filthy prison cell. "I do not even know who this person is."

DeCharne adjusted the tiny ruff of lace around his wrists. "Ah, you know more than you think, monsieur, for the name of the notorious outlaw, the Black Asphodel, is none other than--" His reptilian eyes fixed on Harry. "Regulus Black."

~~**~~

Harry dragged his fingertips along the heavy boxwoods of the maze. After M. DeCharne's pronouncement, the rest of the interview had been very short, and, for Harry, quite forcefully aware that he had no choice but to cooperate with the Committee in order to save his godfather, very bitter.

"You will attend the upcoming Ministry Ball and make yourself known to Monsieur Black and attempt to obtain the proof we need to prosecute him in France," DeCharne had said with the heavy air of having the upper hand in all things.

"And if I cannot?" Harry had protested, though the image of Sirius's once laughing face transformed by prison conditions swam into his vision.

"Madame Guillotine cares little enough if the blood she spills is aristo or…" DeCharne's smile had been thin but as full of actual mirth as Harry had yet seen him, "theatrical."

If only he had Severus to turn to in his time of trouble, Harry thought with deep bitterness. But Severus would not lift a finger to help Sirius under the best of circumstances. Harry knew no one else in England save Remus Lupin who, though kind, would do nothing without Severus's leave. Besides, what could a mere steward do for a foreign prisoner?

Briefly he considered writing to Regulus. But what would he say? Rescue your brother though the French will be lying in wait to bring you to justice?

Harry's restless thoughts had led his steps once around the outer perimeter of the maze. He had no desire to go inside again--it was the last place he had been happy and he could not bear to relive those particular memories.

He was distracted from his unproductive thoughts by the appearance, across the meadow, of a horse and rider. For a breathless moment he thought it might be Severus, returned from the ministrations of his tailor in answer to Harry's prayers. He realized at once that the height and bearing of the rider were different than that of Sir Severus and when the horse and rider drew closer, Harry could see that the man was dressed as a groom or perhaps a footman on holiday.

"Good day, milord," the man called out as he drew nearer to Harry's position near the maze.

Harry smiled for what felt like the first time in days. "I'm no lord, just a guest at the house."

The man wore simple homespun and leather, well-kept and hardly patched, though his shoes were dusty and his hems were frayed. He was older than Harry though not as old as Severus he guessed. He had a pleasing, if plain, face and thick honey-colored brown hair.

"Aye," the man said, peering down at him from astride the horse. "I've seen you at the stables."

A groom then, Harry supposed. The man's accent was softer, with more rolling of consonants than Severus's. "Be you needing a ride back to the house?" asked the groom, jerking his head toward the expanse of park that sloped upward to the house.

Harry, whose brain kept conjuring thoughts to chase each other round and round in his skull, shook his head. He was not fit company for anyone, not even a groom. He watched the horse trot away, wishing he could live a simple life like the groom. How wonderful it would be to rise each day with nothing more complicated to do than care for a stable full of horses.

When he felt no nearer to the solution from his woes, he started walking back to the house, preferring the distraction of exercise to magical means. As he approached, however, he realized the flurry of servants could mean only one thing--the lord of the manor had returned home.

Sure enough the study door was closed. Harry, full of dread at the mission DeCharne had given him, summoned his courage and knocked.

There was a moment's pause before the achingly familiar voice called out, "Come in."

Severus, here in the privacy of his study, had removed his coat. He was seated behind the broad desk surrounded by parchment and quills and pots of ink. Plans from his tailor, no doubt, Harry thought bitterly.

"Good day, Sir Severus," he said, unwilling to chance the seriousness of his request by offending Severus with unwanted familiarity. That locked door had spoken volumes to him and dispelled any notions he'd had of confiding his troubles to a sympathetic ear.

Severus's expression gave nothing away as he replied., "Good day, Harry." He gestured toward the armchair in front of the desk.

Harry sank into it gratefully but kept his posture correct, hands neatly folded on his lap. He knew he should make small talk, inquire about the trip and everyone's health, but the confused state of his thoughts made this impossible.

"I would like to ask you something," he managed, ignoring the wariness that stole into Severus's face.

"Yes?" asked Severus, "What is it?"

"There is a ball, at the Ministry, in a week."

"Yes, yes," Severus said, his quill bobbing with obvious impatience.

"I should like leave to attend," Harry said, ignoring the impatient gesture. He'd thought this through and would attempt to go alone without an invitation if Severus refused.

"Whatever for?" Severus asked, frowning now.

Harry had his rehearsed line ready. "Sirius's brother, Regulus, will be there and I should like to make his acquaintance."

Severus's expression hardened and the quill quavered as if his fingers had spasmed. "I see," he said. "Do you even own any dress robes?"

Trust that Severus's first thought would be for his appearance. "No, I--I've never owned any," The state of his robes had been the very last thing on his mind this afternoon.

"Nonsense, I'll transfigure some of mine. They'll do until some can be procured from town for the season," replied Severus, still frowning at him. Harry kept his face expressionless lest Severus try to probe deeper. "Very well," he said with an air of decision. "I will escort you. As it happens, your old friends the Malfoys will be in attendance."

Something fluttered in Harry's belly. "They escaped?" he asked in amazement. "The Black Asphodel rescued them?"

Severus's look was dismissive as he bent to his paperwork. "I do believe he did."

~~**~~

There was an account of the rescue in the Daily Prophet the next morning. Harry had not slept well. He had not expected Severus to come to his bed so he had not been disappointed. However, the precariousness of his mission for DeCharne generated nerves far worse than any missed cue could have.

"The Marquis and his family," the article read, "considered a high risk for rescue by England's dashing hero, the Black Asphodel, were awarded extra security measures, including, our sources tell us, a magic dampening field. It is believed that this caused the Muggle jailers to be overly confident, thus allowing the Asphodel and an accomplice, dressed as priests, to gain entry into the prison.

"Though what followed is not clear, some sort of collapsible device--possibly Muggle-built--was found outside the city gates as well as a wig believed to have been worn by yet another confederate posing as a serving woman. There was the usual standard of a note left with these devices bearing the humble imprint of the asphodel flower.

"However the selfless Asphodel accomplished this magic-less miracle, this paper is certain that all Britain will join in saluting him."

Harry put the paper down. Was Sirius's brother really clever enough to have pulled this off? "I still don't understand--" he began, earning a sharp look from Severus, who had buried himself in another section of the paper as soon as Harry had come down. For just a moment, he'd forgotten that they were barely speaking.

Severus's gaze flicked over the banner headline on the front page. "Don't understand how the paper can write such twaddle over a fairly simple bit of magic?"

Harry frowned. "But there wasn't any magic--the paper said there was a magic dampening field." He ran his finger down the column searching for the reference.

Severus, however, snorted. "There wasn't any wand magic, I'm sure," he said loftily. "Wizards tend to forget that even Muggles can build things that fool the eye."

Harry looked up from his paper. "Then how did three Malfoys get out when the jailers were expecting only two priests?" He scanned the article again. "And a serving woman?"

"I imagine one of the priests was not really a priest," Severus said offhandedly, rustling his paper.

"Well, of course he wasn't, he was just posing--"

Really, Severus had eye rolling down to nearly French perfection. "I mean, one of the priests wasn't even a person, but a propped up structure, carried by the other priest and the serving woman. And I imagine the serving woman's skirts were tailored--built, really, to hold a slender young man curled around them. The Marquis and his wife assumed the roles of the two priests while the Asphodel himself carried the young man out under his skirts. The second accomplice would only have to disguise himself in the prison long enough for the discovery to be made and the magic dampening field to be lifted before making his own escape in the hue and cry."

It sounded so--well, not simple when Severus explained it--but well-planned and no doubt flawlessly executed. Harry looked down at the newspaper, wondering how he'd missed all those details. If Regulus was really as clever as that perhaps Harry could be clever enough to figure out a way to warn him that the French authorities were closing in. Surely someone who could come up with a plan like that could outsmart DeCharne.

For a moment he looked up at Severus admiringly, then remembered with a suddenness that left him breathless that they were on the outs. Severus seemed to remember at the same moment for he excused himself without finishing his breakfast.

They did not cross paths the rest of that day, nor did Harry see him over breakfast the next day. The articles in the paper today were full of interviews with each Malfoy, each of whom claimed they had no idea who their rescuer had been, only that they were glad to have been the target of one of his spectacular rescues, the details of which were revealed, just as Severus had predicted. Narcissa had seemed to enjoy dressing as a priest. Lucius, while sounding much less intrigued by the manner of their escape, had mentioned his gratitude that the Asphodel's plan had included a heavily laden carriage to take as much wealth as they could out of the country for their new start in England.

Blakeney found him curled up in the library, mostly staring out the long-paned window, and informed him that Sir Severus wished to see him upstairs.

"How's your lumbago?" Harry asked politely as they trod up the stairs.

"Better than it will be once winter sets in," the elf reported with a long-suffering sigh.

Harry was ushered into Severus's bedchamber, though from the very business-like expression on his face, Harry held no hope that it might be desire to resume passionate relations with him. He had no time to even look around, though it was absurd to think anything much had changed in the few weeks he had been barred from this room. Severus handed him a set of robes.

"Slip these on over yours," he commanded softly and Harry obliged. They were quite long but still, to Harry's eye, quite fashionable. He would, of course, have gone to the ball in rags if he had to, if it meant Sirius's life.

Severus, wand in hand, circled him while Blakeney stood to one side. "Of course, I'm not a tailor," he said, shortening the sleeves with a tap of his wand before stepping back to assess the effect. Harry tried not to drink in the sight of him, looking more relaxed than he had in weeks.

The doors of one of the armoires stood open and there were several boxes in front of it, bearing the name of a no-doubt fashionable London tailor. The other armoire remained closed. Harry supposed it held other slightly less fashionable discards such as the robe he was now wearing.

Severus had crouched to modify the hem, twirling his finger to indicate Harry should turn around. A few more tucking spells and the dress robes fit tolerably well. "There now," Severus said, and the studied lightness in his voice made Harry look up warily. "Regulus Black cannot fail to want to take you home looking like that."

Harry felt as though he'd been kicked by a horse. Did Severus think he wanted to whore himself out to his godfather's brother? Angrily he jerked off the robes and tossed them on the bed he would most likely never share again and stormed out of the room.

It was Harry who avoided Severus in the days that followed. His pride was so wounded that he nearly cast Incendio on the altered robes when they turned up, neatly folded on his bed the next day. He would need them, he supposed, to blend in with the crowd of English aristos, he thought with rancor.

Since he had barely seen Severus as the evening of the ball drew near, Harry determined that he would make his own way there if Severus did not honor his promise to escort him. He was therefore ashamed of his relief when Dewhurst appeared to help him dress and announce that Sir Severus would be waiting downstairs at half past the hour.

Harry walked down the stairs slowly at the appointed time. He could not resist looking at Severus while unobserved. His dress robes were in the first water of fashion, of such a dark green they appeared black when he moved, flicking out his snuff box to take a pinch while waiting for Harry. Then he turned, and caught sight of Harry, still halfway down the stairs.

For a moment he felt as if he was back on the stage, a solo spotlight turned upon him. Unlike being on stage, however, Harry had no lines to speak.

Severus too seemed to have been struck speechless. He extended one hand when Harry was a mere two steps above him. When Harry hesitated, he said, with more kindness than Harry had heard in his voice in a long time, "To Apparate us together."

Harry nodded trying to ignore the traitorous flutter of his heart as he took Severus's hand. Once they arrived, he resisted the urge to hang on. They'd Apparated just inside the receiving foyer of the ballroom. Beyond, Harry could see the dancing lights of hundreds of candles suspended over the ballroom itself and hear music filling the huge hall.

Severus pulled him aside as a gaily dressed witch and her beau headed toward the dance floor. "I shall call for you at one a.m., agreed?" he said, over the din of introductions being made by a harried looking official using Sonorous to be heard over the orchestra. "We will speak later."

Harry nodded distractedly. He thought he already knew what Severus wished to speak to him about. Harry, who had plans of his own that evening, had no intention of being in the position to be asked to leave Severus's house, now that he was no longer wanted.

They separated and Harry did not look back. He could only think of discharging his mission tonight and of finding a way to warn Regulus if he could. From his life on the stage, he knew that the best way to begin was to learn the script--or in this case, to learn the stage. He prowled around the throngs of dancers, learning where the gaming rooms were and where the refreshment tables had been set up; with punch for the ladies and something stronger for the gentlemen.

It wasn't long before he caught sight of a trio of blond heads surrounded by a rapt audience begging for details of their thrilling escape. The Malfoys, Harry noted, looked none the worse for their imprisonment. Harry turned away; he needed to find Regulus Black.

Regulus, as it turned out, was not difficult to find.

"Harry!"

Harry turned as the effusive greeting rang across the drawing room. "Monsieur Black?" he asked, for this man could be no other. He was not as tall as Sirius and there was more gray in his dark hair than the portrait in their house in Paris, but Harry recognized him at once. Harry realized too that Regulus was just as boisterously loud as his brother.

"The very same," Regulus said, clapping Harry on the back. "Heard you were in the country of course." He led them over to one of the punch bowls. "Set up with my old housemate, Snape."

"I was, sir," Harry replied, taking the punch so he could swallow past the lump in his throat, "though I shall be returning to Paris shortly."

"Good spot for you," boomed Regulus as if he hadn't heard a word Harry had said. "Take care of you."

"I don't need taking care of, sir," Harry said, gulping down his punch before he realized it was not watered wine with sugar for the ladies. His eyes started to stream as he caught sight of a figure in black, who stood out amongst the brighter peacocks of the British wizarding aristocracy. DeCharne looked pleased to see him with Regulus.

"Course you don't," Regulus said, though it was clear from his tone that he didn't actually believe anything of the sort.

"I need--" Harry set the punch cup down on the table. "I need to speak to him."

"Who, my boy?" asked Regulus, nonplussed.

Harry leaned closer so as not to be overheard. "The Black Asphodel."

Regulus's laugh boomed over the crowd and Harry shrank back in alarm. "Better get yourself arrested when you go back to Paris, hadn't you, so you can get rescued!" Regulus replied, clapping what was no doubt a friendly hand on Harry's shoulder.

Harry felt so ill he forgot and reached for the punch cup and took another swig of the whiskey punch. Either Regulus Black was the best actor Harry had ever seen--

Or he was not the Black Asphodel.

On to Part 5, the Conclusion