Chapter II.
     Fashionably Late

      Frances always thought the saying "you only live once" was stupid because, well, what if you don't? Cats had nine lives, didn't they? What if you'd drank a bit of some dodgy potion and became immortal? Reincarnation? General invincibility? There was really only one way to figure out the answer: fuck it! Thrust yourself into the face of danger and hope to Merlin it didn't kill you.

     At least that was Frances' philosophy. She wasn't too big a fan of that whole 'dying' thing; in fact, she dreaded it. She didn't like that death was an eternally dark thing. If she hated her job, she could've easily quit. If she started to get bored of a man she was seeing, she'd let the door hit him on the way out. But death? Completely permanent. And uncertainty was alright in moderation— exciting, even! — but not knowing what the afterlife had in store (or if it even existed) made Frances a little queasy.

     To reiterate: Frances Alexandre's livelihood depended on her thrusting herself into the face of danger and hoping to Merlin that it didn't kill her. There wasn't much she could do otherwise, it wasn't like she could say, "Actually mate, I'd prefer to sit this one out. Don't really feel like getting skewered today. Good luck to you though!"

     She had a feeling the Order of the Phoenix would be just as severe. Rebellions and secret societies always were, and she'd seen Star Wars enough to know how it'd end. Voldemort was like Emperor Palpatine and she. . . well, she wasn't exactly Luke Skywalker, was she? Frances always fancied herself as Han Solo— all rugged and hilarious, albeit hotheaded (and married to Leia, which was always a bonus).

     Frances even had her very own Chewbacca too, back in her school years. A tall, shaggy-haired, equally hilarious (well, maybe not equally) Charlie Weasley, also referred to as: Frances Alexandre's Shadow, Frances Alexandre's Enabler, and Frances Alexandre's Partner in Crime. They both preferred the last one; they may not have been equal in terms of humor, but they were one and the same when it came to chaos.

      (Although McGonagall definitely knew Frances was the true criminal mastermind. That's why she got more detentions, mind you.)

      Frances and Charlie were definitely viable candidates for the record of 'Most Detentions in Hogwarts History', unless they'd been dethroned in later years. She'd bet all her money on his little brothers, Fred and George— she'd heard all sorts of stories about their pranks. They were downright diabolical; she'd never attempted to play such tricks on her older siblings as they had.

     Charlie was horribly gullible, which made him the perfect victim. He fell for everything and would blame it on his lovely, sensitive nature ("I am a Sagittarius, you know. It's not my fault we're optimistic!") Frances still had a picture of Charlie with his head stuck in a tuba— classic.

     She often looked back at that picture when she missed him. Of course, there were other pictures (ones with his face in them, even!), but something about him running around the Gryffindor common room with an instrument lodged on his head was much more sentimental. Frances hadn't seen him since. . . since he'd left for Romania? It'd been almost five years since they'd finished their final year at Hogwarts and went their separate ways. How time flies when you're not sitting in a classroom bored out of your mind!

      She could admit that it was mostly her fault they barely spoke after that. Frances threw herself into her work after she'd finished school. Auror training took three bloody years, and it made her neglect her letter-writing duties a tad. In fact, she was almost completely off the grid; she was happily living among muggles, far, far away from her family. She wrote the occasional letter, though, on birthdays and holidays to both Charlie and their dear friend Aisha Hajjar. She did her best, and that's all that mattered, right?

     Frances had grown quite accustomed to being on her own. There wasn't anyone she spoke to regularly besides her cat and the wankers she worked for. It was quite liberating, really, and a much-needed change after living in that manky old prison her parents called home.

     Still, she couldn't say she never got lonely.

     That was why the Order of the Phoenix was another much-needed change. But there was no telling what sort of change it'd be. Frances packed a flask and two sugar quills for good measure.

     Dumbledore had left a note for her the night he visited—more like broke into—her flat. An address for headquarters, which wasn't too far from her own, but seemed unsettlingly familiar. . .

     Ten seconds and one loud crack! later, Frances was standing in front of a row of houses. The streetlamps across the houses were dim and flickering, threatening to leave her in total darkness at any second. She looked at the note in her palm, the messy writing was beginning to fade.

     12 Grimmauld Place.

     She could see 11 Grimmauld Place, and 13 Grimmauld Place right beside it. Oh bollocks. The place had been Fidelus'd, and she had no way of undoing it because— shocker! — not everyone had mastered that spell. So Frances stood out on the street, wind rustling the leaves of trees and making her face feel all cool and clammy.

     "Bugger, bugger, bugger," she muttered to herself as she paced. "How long is it gonna take for this sodding—"

     "Miss Alexandre."

     She turned quickly, "Alright, Al? Fancy seeing you here!"

     "You haven't been waiting too long, I hope," he said, chuckling under his silvery-white beard.

     "Nah," Frances scoffed. "Just got here. Very fashionably late."

     "So I see," he said. "Shall we?"

     She stood beside him as he tapped his cane rhythmically against the asphalt. Once, then twice, then the ground began to shake, and the houses along with it. They drew farther from each other until they revealed the oh-so sought-after 12 Grimmauld Place. Finally.

     Frances followed closely behind Dumbledore like a shadow. He tapped his wand against the large black door, and it flew open, revealing a long, grey corridor lit by old, flickering gas lamps. Everything was covered in cobwebs, including the gas lamps themselves, and every corner where the wall met the floor and ceiling. And the smell— oh, Merlin, the smell! Mildew and mould and rust, and something even more rotten. . .

     The end of the hallway was infinitely brighter, the light was cast from a gigantic, cobweb-covered chandelier, squeaking as it swayed. The gas lamps on the walls were accompanied by a plethora of crooked old portraits. There were so many of them, frames of all shapes and sizes were plastered at random, all surrounding a giant portrait of an unpleasant looking witch. She was looking down at Frances with yellow, squinted eyes and pursed lips.

     "What's with the hag?" Frances whispered in Dumbledore's ear.

     "Oh, not even the purest of families are safe from the stains of dishonour!" she screamed. "Filthy, filthy half-breeds! Blood traitors, children of filth!"

      Ah, the sweet, dulcet tones of home. Frances raised a brow at Dumbledore, who merely shrugged.

     "Shut up, you miserable old bat!" shouted a man as he came into the room and threw a sheet over the woman's portrait. "Sorry about that. Been screaming her head off all night, that one."

     Frances eyed him up and down. His hair was dark and fell to his shoulders; it matched his eyes, which were even darker. He had a tired face, his cheekbones and eye sockets seemed hollowed, and his complexion pallid. He looked perfectly groomed, though, like the type of person who got eight hours of sleep every night and ate fancy salad and had a book club.

     Only when he looked into her eyes did Frances realise who he was.

     She moved back quickly, pulling her wand out, "The fuck is he doing here?"

     She knew it, oh, she fucking knew it! She knew the place was familiar. Frances found herself feeling like a child again, being forced to go to those stupid pureblood parties with her stupid relatives in their stupid houses— oh, Merlin, this was a nightmare.

     Sirius Black put his hands up in surrender, "Oh, come on, not this again!" He looked at Dumbledore pleadingly.

     "Why's he here?" Frances asked again. "Are you going to turn him in?"

     "Turn me in?"

     "Now, Miss Alexandre, if you'd give me a moment to explain—"

     "Explain? Explain?" Frances interrupted. "This man is a murderer! There's not an excuse on this whole earth good enough to justify this!"

     "Lower your wand, you bloody lunatic!"

     Of course, that only made Frances hold it closer to Sirius.

    "Oh, for fuck's sake!" Sirius groaned. "You can't do this to a man in his own home. It's too undignified."

    "Funny," Frances scoffed, "I would've thought you past the point of undignified."

    "Miss Alexandre, if you would please lower your wand," said Dumbledore.

    "Are you mad?" Frances screamed. "Do you know what'd happen to me if I get caught?"

    "Watch where you're pointing that thing," Sirius hissed.

    Her grip on her wand tightened, "I'd get sacked, that's what!" Her thoughts were moving more rapidly than she could bear to articulate.

     "You are free to leave if that is what you wish," said Dumbledore, "but I would like to make one last request."

    "Oh, yeah? What's that?"

     "Trust me," Dumbledore said. "And trust me when I tell you that Sirius Black is an innocent man."

     Frances looked at both the men in bewilderment. She couldn't believe what Dumbledore was asking her to do— going against the ministry was one thing, but going against her own morals? Working alongside someone who murdered innocent muggles? She couldn't fathom there'd be an explanation, nevermind an excuse.

      She lowered her wand and watched Sirius' face relax. Frances' faith in Dumbledore had faltered, and her respect for him was on the decline. Still, she pretended to let it all go.

     When Dumbledore made his way out of the corridor and into one of the rooms, Frances balled up the collar of Sirius' shirt with her fist and held her wand up beneath his chin.

    "What the hell—"

    "I don't trust you," Frances hissed. "I haven't a clue why Dumbledore does. Maybe it's just because he's getting old, but I know there's something off about you."

     "And this is coming from the woman that's got a wand to my throat?"

      "You're lucky I haven't used it," Frances said distastefully. She could smell the guilt emanating off him; it was repulsive. 

     "You Alexandres are all so arrogant," Sirius spat, uttering her family's name out like a curse.

    "You forget I can have you back in Azkaban in seconds," she said, and watched him stiffen. His body went rigid, his knuckles turned white, and his mouth was sewn shut. He had nothing left to say, no more courage to argue.

     Frances let go of his shirt and lowered her wand for the last time. The air was thick between them, and neither one looked the other in the eye. The house was making Frances feel ill; the gas lamps, the dark wallpaper, and the fleeting smell of absinthe. . . It seemed like her mother would pop out of the drawing-room any minute.

     And just when she thought she was free!

♱ 

     Frances' entrance should've been grander. She should've walked down a flower petal-covered red carpet with glitter falling from the ceiling. It would've been fitting, she thought, and something well-needed to lighten the gloom of Sirius Black's dingy old house. But she digressed and resorted to walking in Dumbledore's shadow once again.

     Inside the dining room, there was a giant chandelier, swaying all wonky as if it were about to fall down. There were candles lit on the walls, illuminating the antiquated (and ugly) navy blue and deep purple wallpaper surrounding them. And in front of the giant bronze alcohol cabinet, there was an extremely long, mahogany table that sat five people. 

     Was that really it?

     "I'd like to formally introduce you all to Francesca Alexandre," Dumbledore announced, standing at the head of the table. A face turned sour at the mention of her name.

     "Frances," she corrected him, and he nodded apologetically.

     "Very well. You already know Sirius," Dumbledore said. Sirius refused to meet her eye.

    "This is Severus Snape," Dumbledore motioned towards a man with long, greasy hair and a giant nose. His sneer didn't abandon him for a moment; Frances admired his commitment to perpetual bitterness. He reminded her of her father— both grimacing and proud creatures.

     "—Molly and Arthur Weasley—" Dumbledore continued. They flashed her identical smiles, and Molly practically ran up to Frances to smother her in a hug.

    "Lovely to finally meet you, dear!" she said, holding Frances tight. Her face was as bright as her hair when she pulled away. "Charlie could never stop talking about you."

     "Charlie's told me loads about you guys too!" Frances exclaimed. 

     "Good things, I hope," mused Arthur as he shook Frances' hand with a grin.

     Er— depends on what you personally construe as 'good'. "Totally," Frances laughed awkwardly. "Is he here? I haven't seen him in ages."

     Molly shook her head, "No, sadly, he's still in Romania. Oh, but he'd love to know you're here! I will most definitely mention you in my next letter." Frances nodded. "You've met my other son Bill, haven't you? I'd assume you two knew each other from your time at Hogwarts."

     Had she completely walked past him without realising? Frances' face morphed into something between nauseousness and embarrassment. In a desperate attempt to put on a nonchalant facade, her cheeks burned bright red.

      "He's not here tonight, dear," Molly said, squeezing her shoulder.

       "Oh, I wasn't—"

       "Said he's going to be working late this evening, what a shame!" Molly shook her head. "But don't worry, he'll be here sometime in the next couple of days."

      Frances could do nothing but force a smile. Of course, she met Bill, thanks to her unfortunate drunken incident that brought them together. . . She wondered if he even remembered it. Maybe she should act like she'd never met him before? A clean slate would certainly save her the severe mortification, and it wasn't like he was paying much attention to her anyway.

     But Frances rummaged through that genius brain of hers for an excuse, and couldn't find one. She nodded at Molly, whose face then gleamed with pure, unadulterated joy.

     Molly and Arthur took their seats as Dumbledore introduced Mundungus Fletcher, a bald man who kept flashing her quasi-seductive looks (which really weren't working for him). Frances was full-on nauseous now. 

     "Have a seat, Miss Alexandre, we'll begin shortly," Dumbledore said. Frances took a seat towards the end of the table, away from everyone else. She fiddled with a strand of her hair as she watched Molly, Arthur, and Sirius talk about Merlin knows what, while Mundungus eagerly attempted to insert himself into the conversation (and failed).

     Shortly after, a tall man stepped into the room and took a seat beside Frances. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him slumped over the table, his head in his hands. The smell of alcohol filled her nose, and she sniffed the inside of her shirt, relieved the smell was not her, but him.

     "At this very moment," Dumbledore said, commanding Frances' attention, "Harry Potter is being relocated from his aunt and uncle's home by the Advanced Guard—"

     The man sighed and looked at Frances, "It's because of the dementors."

     "Dementors?"

     "They attacked Harry— well, his muggle cousin," he responded, rubbing his temples.

     "—With that being said, he will remain here until the school year begins," Dumbledore continued. "It is imperative that we continue with the utmost caution, especially while he is here."

    "What's this about dementors?" Frances asked him. "How'd they get so far from Azkaban?"

    "I was hoping you would of some help in figuring that out," Dumbledore said.

     "Yeah, no problem, I'll invite them 'round for a cup of tea and we'll have a quick chat," Frances scoffed. "I haven't heard anything about it at the Ministry, if that's what you mean."

     "Of course not," said Dumbledore. "But you can find a way to gather information, yes? Think of. . ." —he thought for a moment— "James Bond."

     The man sitting beside Frances let out a snort as she nodded. "Think of James Bond" wasn't a sentence she ever thought she'd hear out of her former headmaster's mouth, but it was quite encouraging.

      Agent 008. Alexandre, Frances Alexandre. It had a nice ring to it.

     Anyway, Dumbledore went on and on about safety measures for when Harry arrived, and about the Advanced Guard— who Frances found out was comprised of the remaining members of the order, including the absolute legend himself, Mad-Eye Moody, and her old schoolmate, Nymphadora Tonks. And he spoke more about some other things that Frances didn't care too much about and failed to listen to. She thought the whole point of this thing was to get some action, not be lectured on how to keep secrets.

     She noticed Sirius wasn't paying attention either. Instead, he was staring down at his lap with a depressing look on his face. His brows were furrowed and his lips pursed in a frown. Was this how he gained Dumbledore's sympathy? Nobody seemed uncomfortable in his presence, minus Snape, but he seemed to hate everyone. Frances, however, grew more uncomfortable by the second.

   "Remus Lupin," mumbled the man beside her.

    "Gesundheit."

    "Funny," Remus snorted.

    "I get that a lot," Frances smiled. "Rough night?"

     "You have no idea," Remus cringed, looking awfully green.

     Frances leaned forward and pulled her flask out of her back pocket, handing it to the green-faced man beside her, "Hair of the dog."

     "Cheers," Remus shrugged and took a swig. He swished the alcohol around in his mouth for a bit before taking a large, cartoonish gulp. He looked as though he might hurl for a moment, then smiled. Then his face fell again. "Oh, fuck me, am I hallucinating?"

      "Huh?"

      Remus pointed a long, thin finger at the hall beside the staircase. Frances squinted— she could vaguely make out a small, blue, four-legged animal, chasing itself in circles. She stood abruptly and squinted harder.

     Oh fuck.

       "Miss Alexandre?" asked Dumbledore.

        "Er— yeah," Frances said absentmindedly, still watching the small animal. "I'll be right back."

        "Miss Alexandre!" he repeated as she left the table.

         "Don't stop on my account! Carry on!" she exclaimed, not bothering to turn around. She walked up to the small creature. It was exactly what she thought, a patronus. And its small, energetic meerkat form meant it could only belong to one person: Bernie fucking Baggs.

     The bloody rodent found her regardless of the Fidelus charm, which, she had to admit, alarmed her a bit. Was Bernie tracking her? Could the old man really need her again so soon? Merlin, he was clingy.

     She apparated alongside the meerkat, and found herself in the middle of a dark, damp forest. The ground squished beneath her feet, insects hummed in her ears, and she could smell something absolutely vile wafting towards her. 

     Frances was so going to kill him.

A/N: IM SO SORRY IT TOOK ME 70000 YEARS TO WRITE THIS honestly i thought i was never going to write this fic ever again but then i opened this chapter and uuughhh i missed frances and sirius and everyone </3 

also plz ignore any errors/general suckage bc i just want to get past this and write bill <3 and more sirius and remus<3 and harry<3 and ginny<3  hopefully the next chapters will be up faster bc i have an idea of what i wanna doooo hehe