One. The Language of Girls

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                        She was hungry.

          Dinner was supposed to be at six. It was now seven-oh-five. She couldn't blame Kreacher this time, nor was it her cousin's dramatics, it was them. These days, Grimmauld Place was so suffocating and small, you tripped over people you hated every day. People who knew things about you. They had set up camp in the dining room three weeks ago and showed very little sign of leaving. A werewolf, a convict, a mother, some revolutionaries. It wasn't her dining room—she couldn't be angry—but it would be soon, then she could have them carried out, orchids placed in vases to mask the stench of the past, and she would be presented a steak pie with plenty of caramelised onions, potatoes, carrots ...

          There was more to power than infinite steak pies, she'd come to discover, otherwise kings would have little to complain about. Power had come to her as she slept in a cot, unaware that her grandmother had succumb to dragonpox. Circe Black was five then, fifteen now, and hardly anything had changed: Her uncle was still acting as regent, her cousins were sharpening their knives, and she was unwilling to wear the crown that'd been placed so unceremoniously upon her head. A gloomy kind of hopelessness had engulfed her that day. She'd seen what the House of Black had done to people, especially her father, who was nothing more than an emaciated mess. When she was around six, she had refused to step foot into Grimmauld Place after believing Nymphadora's stories about people being eaten by the walls and disappearing forever. Eleven and a half years later, she realised that it did, indeed, consume you. But then she thought, this happened sometimes, didn't it? Things you had a history with, they wouldn't let you go, and as hard as you tried, you couldn't disentangle yourself, couldn't set yourself free. Maybe after a while you just stopped trying.

          Her father had made that conscious decision to become less of a Black, but Grimmauld Place was once again his home. The Order of the Phoenix were happy to settle into the London terrace—the decorations were rather disconcerting but nevertheless—seeing as it had been going to waste for the last ten years. Walburga Black had bestowed the ancestral home to her eldest granddaughter rather than either of her sons. It had been around twenty years since Sirius found himself trapped within those four walls, Regulus seventeen, yet very little had changed. It still held the air of a dying person that engulfed you like a bad smell, Circe thought, despite all of Mrs. Weasley's chores.

          Seconds later, her mother appeared in the doorway.

          "The meeting's over, you can come down now."

          Circe followed Sara out of the room. Both of them were stealing apprehensive glances at one another, as though they feared the other would start shouting.

          "It's important that you make an effort," Sara began, but Circe shook her head and said quietly, "I'm not being friends with them."

          "When this is all over, you're going to need them on your side," said Sara, much to her daughter's irritation. "You inherit too much power to have enemies."

          Circe scoffed. "Because I'm Sirius Black's daughter?"

          "Because you're my daughter. You have more than one birthright, you know."

          Her mother was a rather marvellous woman, Circe liked to think. They shared the same nose, wit and wild temper. Her past, specifically how she contributed to the First Wizarding War, however, was something that was very rarely discussed, so Circe cast around for a topic that didn't involve the Order, because the very thought of it all made her insides burn with anger again.

          "Where's Enyo?" she asked.

          "Making friends."

          Sara led the way out of the door and on to the landing, but before they could descend the stairs, she flung out an arm to stop Circe walking any further and looked cautiously over the banisters. The gloomy hallway below was packed with witches and wizards. They were whispering excitedly together. In the very centre of the group she saw the dark, greasy-haired head of her detested Potions teacher, Professor Snape.

          "What in Merlin's name is he—?"

          "Quiet!" Sara whispered.

          They heard the front door open, then close.

          "You didn't say he was part of it," Circe said accusingly. "In fact, you haven't even told me who is part of it."

           As they passed the row of house-elf heads on the wall, they saw Nymphadora Tonks at the front door, magically sealing its many locks and bolts behind those who had just left.

           "Because it's not kiddies' business to know," said Tonks, meeting them at the bottom of the stairs. "It's all top, top secret, isn't it, Sara?"

           "You're even more childish than I am!"

          Tonks winked mischievously. "But I'm not the one still sleeping with my teddy, am I?"

         CRASH!

          "Oh, Tonks, are you all right?" cried Sara in exasperation, turning to look behind her.

           "Ow!" wailed Tonks, who was lying flat on the floor, having been shoved by Circe. "It's that stupid umbrella stand—"

           But the rest of her words were drowned by a horrible, ear-splitting, blood-curdling screech: The velvet curtains shielding Walburga Black's life-sized portrait had flown apart. The old woman was drooling, her eyes were rolling, the yellowing skin of her face stretched taut as she screamed. Tonks apologised over and over again, dragging the huge, heavy troll's leg back off the floor; and a man with black hair came charging from the basement. With a stupendous effort, he managed to force the curtains closed again.

          Walburga's screeches died and at last an echoing silence fell. Sirius clutched onto the curtains for a moment longer, his knuckles white, until he was certain his mother would not open her mouth again. He was a grown man now—wasted, with an unkempt stubble and trembling hands—but the familiar screams shrank him into a little boy who did nothing right.

            "What the bloody hell was that?" asked a voice from the staircase.

            Panting slightly, Sirius turned to face his godson.

          "Hello, Harry," he said grimly, "I see you've met my mother."

          He was much taller than the last time Circe saw him: not healthily, like a teenage boy should look, but as if he'd been stretched on a rack. His clothes were baggy, his dark hair unkempt, and his circular glasses skewed on the bridge of his nose. She thought that his skin was oddly pale (though perhaps it was the poor lighting) save for the rosy humiliation that had spread across his cheeks as he was swept up into Sara's bone-crushing hug without much warning.

          "Oh, Harry, it's so lovely to see you!" she cried. "How you've grown!"

          Harry smiled warmly at her embrace, then peered over Sara's shoulder to catch Sirius' eye once more.

           "Your mother?" he asked curiously.

          "My dear old mum, yeah," said Sirius. Something passed across his face, like sadness and nostalgia combined. "Let's get downstairs, quick, before she wakes up again."

          Sirius led the way through the door from the hall and led the way down a flight of narrow stone steps. Circe skulked behind them, eager to put as much distance between her and her fellow Gryffindors as possible. It was only when Harry turned his head to look at her and asked what she, too, was doing here that she spoke:

           "Hasn't anyone told you? This is technically my house you're in."

            Harry, who had expected somewhat of a better welcome from his classmate, noted how hard and bitter her voice sounded.

           The basement kitchen was scarcely less gloomy than the hall above, a cavernous room with rough stone walls. Most of the light was coming from a large fire at the far end of the room. A haze of pipe smoke hung in the air like battle fumes, through which loomed the menacing shapes of heavy iron pots and pans hanging from the dark ceiling. Many chairs had been crammed into the room for the meeting and a long wooden table stood in the middle of them, littered with rolls of parchment, goblets, and empty wine bottles. Regulus Black and his only child, Enyo, were talking quietly with their heads together at the end of the table.

          Sara cleared her throat. Her niece, a wispy, silver-haired girl who appeared like an angel among men, looked around and jumped to her feet. She was fifteen but held a very adult kind of elegance, reminiscent of the Renaissance courts of Venice or Milan, perhaps inherited from her mother, who hailed from an ancient French family and had been raised with a silver spoon in her mouth. But both the French and the rich often rubbed people the wrong way, and Enyo was not exempt from tradition: As soon as she locked eyes with Harry, she sank back down into her chair and resumed the conversation with her father.

          Regulus spoke very little around anyone who wasn't related to him. He had a habit of being woefully misunderstood with his harsh tongue and cold eyes, and yet his daughter cherished him dearly, her only parent. Side by side, he and Enyo were not very much alike: She had her mother's face—a belladonna of sorrow—and virgin blonde hair, with her father's nose and mouth polluting the otherwise angelic features. But they still shared a certain coolness, a mannered charm which was not modern in the least but had the strange cold breath of the ancient world. In the blur of grief, he moulded a fragile, motherless girl into something bright, tender and unattainable apparition, all slender wrists and shadows.

         Circe started as she felt something brush against his knees and started, but it was only Crookshanks, Hermione's ginger cat, who wound himself once around her legs, purring, then jumped on to Sirius's lap and curled up. Sirius scratched him absent-mindedly behind the ears as he turned, still grim-faced, to his godson:

          "Had a good summer so far?"

           "No, it's been lousy," said Harry.

          For the first time, something like a grin flitted across Sirius's free. "Don't know what you're complaining about, myself," he muttered. "Personally, I'd have welcomed a dementor attack. You think you've had it bad, at least you've been able to get out and about, stretch your legs, get into a few fights ... I've been stuck inside for a month with this cheery lot."

          Regulus scowled before disappearing behind his goblet of elf-made wine.

          "How come?" asked Harry, frowning.

          "Because the Ministry of Magic's still after me, and Voldemort will know all about me being an Animagus by now, Wormtail will have told him, so my big disguise is useless. There's not much I can do for the Order of the Phoenix ... or so Dumbledore feels."

          There was silence but for the chink of plates and cutlery and the scraping of chairs as everyone settled down to their food. Three helpings of stew later, Circe laid down her spoon and let out a great sigh. Mr. Weasley was leaning back in his chair, looking replete and relaxed, Tonks was yawning widely, Regulus was on his third goblet of wine, and Ginny, who had lured Crookshanks out from under the dresser, was sitting cross-legged on the floor, rolling Butterbeer corks for him to chase.

          "Nearly time for bed, I think," said Mrs. Weasley with a yawn.

          "Not just yet, Molly," said Sirius, pushing away his empty plate and turning to look at Harry. "You know, I'm surprised at you. I thought the first thing you'd do when you got here would be to start asking questions about Voldemort."

          The atmosphere in the room grew chilly. Where seconds before it had been sleepily relaxed, it was now alert, even tense. A frisson had gone around the table at the mention of Voldemort's name. Regulus, who had been about to take a sip of wine, lowered his goblet slowly, looking wary. The urge to itch at his Dark Mark reared its ugly head once more.

          "I did!" said Harry indignantly. "I asked Ron and Hermione but they said we're not allowed in the Order."

          "Since when did someone have to be in the Order of the Phoenix to ask questions?" asked Sirius. "Harry's been trapped in that Muggle house for a month. He's got the right to know what's been happen—"

          "How come Harry gets his questions answered?" interrupted Circe angrily. She was sat bolt-upright now, all traces of drowsiness gone. "I've been trying to get stuff out of you for a month"—she turned to her mother—"and you haven't told me a single thing!"

          "You're too young, you're not in the Order," said Fred, in a high-pitched voice that sounded uncannily like his mother's. "Harry's not even of age!"

          "It's not my fault you haven't been told what the Order's doing," said Sirius calmly, "that's your parents' decision. Sara would prefer if Circe didn't know, so I will honour that. Harry, on the other hand—"

Circe's head whipped around and she shot her mother a fleeting glare, which she did not shrink under.

"It's not down to you to decide what's good for Harry!" said Mrs. Weasley sharply. The expression on her normally kind face looked dangerous. "You haven't forgotten what Dumbledore said, I suppose, about not telling Harry more than he needs to know?"

"I don't intend to tell him more than he needs to know, Molly,' said Sirius. "But as he was the one who saw Voldemort come back" (again, there was a collective shudder around the table at the name), "he has more right than most to—"

"He's not a member of the Order of the Phoenix! He's only fifteen! He's not James, Sirius!"

          "Personally," said Lupin quietly as Mrs. Weasley turned quickly to him, hopeful that finally she was about to get an ally, "I think it better that Harry gets the facts—not all the facts, Molly, but the general picture—from us, rather than a garbled version from others."

          "Well," said Mrs Weasley, breathing deeply, "I can see I'm going to be overruled. I'll just say this: Dumbledore must have had his reasons for not wanting Harry to know too much, and speaking as someone who has Harry's best interests at heart—"

          "He's not your son," said Sirius quietly.

          "Who else has he got? It's been rather difficult for you to look after him while you've been locked up in Azkaban, hasn't it?"

          Sirius began to rise from his chair.

          "I've had quite enough of this," said Regulus sharply. "Sirius, sit down!"

           Mrs. Weasley's lower lip was trembling. Sirius sank slowly back into his chair, his face white like a child who'd been scolded.

          "I think Potter ought to be allowed a say in this," Regulus continued. "I was sixteen when I joined the Death Eaters. Fifteen's old enough to decide whether he wants to fight them."

          "You are the last one who should be talking!" Mrs. Weasley spat. "The Ministry will catch up with you soon enough, mark my words─"

            "Molly," warned Sara. The look on her face was one of mingled fury and horror. "Leave it."

           Regulus checked his watch, sitting atop a quivering Dark Mark. "Taking their time, aren't they?"

           He was heading right into a flare but he didn't flinch. Silence fell as Regulus peered around the table for a contradiction that did not come. Even for Mrs. Weasley, it was very difficult to disagree with somebody who almost gave their life to see Voldemort fall.

          "I want to know what's been going on," Harry said at once.

          "Very well," said Mrs. Weasley, her voice cracking. "Ginny—Ron—Hermione—Fred—George—I want you out of this kitchen, now."

          There was instant uproar. Circe looked to her mother, while Enyo looked to Regulus. It was clear that Sara preferred her daughter to be sent to bed. Enyo, ever obedient, waited for her father's word: When he rubbed his eyes, sighed, and gestured towards the staircase with a jerk of his head, she swallowed the tantrum that threatened to rise and walked straight upstairs without another word.

          Regulus and Sara caught eyes, as Sirius watched.

          "You should go upstairs, too," said Sara eventually.

          "No!" shouted Circe, standing up, her eyes overbright. "This is my house—!"

          "Not until you're seventeen," said Regulus wearily. "Until then, it's mine and you will do as I say."

          "I don't care!"

          "You should," he said, in the same tired voice, "because that is the order of things."

          Circe was now scarlet in the face. "Well, when I'm older, I'll create a new order."

          "How I wish that could be. But the family already had their opportunity and they denied it."

          "They denied you. Both of you," she added, meeting Sirius' eyes. "But my grandmother named me for a reason, and if I must do it, then I'll do it my way."

          For a split second, she considered taunting her uncle about the misfortune of Enyo's gender, for if she had been a boy, Circe wouldn't have even been considered as heir and things would have been much easier. But the nasty impulse vanished as they looked at each other.

          "I'm no less than him." She pointed at Harry, who glowered. "Even though you all treat me like I am."

          "That's quite enough!" shouted Sara. "BED!"

           Sirius took Circe by the arm and yanked her upstairs, but she did not go quietly. They could hear her raging and storming at her father all the way up the stairs, and when they reached the hall Walburga Black's ear-splitting shrieks were added to the din. By the time they reached the second landing, where she and Enyo were temporarily sleeping, Circe was muttering various swearwords under her breath and dragging her feet.

           "Say what you like," said Sirius.

           "Don't worry," she hissed, "I will."

           He stopped and turned to face her with a face like thunder. "I want you in bed, now," he said.

          "You can't boss me—"

          "I'm your father."

          "Really?" Circe was trembling slightly as she looked at Sirius. "I must've gotten confused. You've been giving Harry so much attention, I thought you'd forgotten all about me."

           Sirius looked as outraged as if she had just uttered a disgusting swearword.

          "Be as angry with me as you want," he said. "I deserve it. But you need to participate."

          "I'm not sure why I should."

          "Because you have duties. And though they might be different from others', you still have duties."

          Circe scoffed. "As I'm ceaselessly reminded."

          Once she had loved her father with all her heart, and admired and trusted him. He had repaid that love and trust with twelve years of radio silence. For as long as she lived, she would never make that mistake again.

           "You can think of me however you like, Cece," said Sirius gloomily. "I had the last twelve years stolen from me—twelve years away from you and your mother. I just want to keep you safe."

          "No, you want to keep me naive."

          "The burden of knowledge can be a heavy one to bear."

          Circe arched her brow. "But not for the Boy-Who-Lived? If I was a boy, you'd be handing me a knife and telling me to kill Voldemort," she said. "It wouldn't matter if I was Merlin reborn, you'd keep me locked away so that I can carry on the Black line just like—"

          Sirius glared at her. "You think I care about what my witch of a mother wanted? I want you safe!"

          "I'm not living if I'm wrapped in cotton wool!" She wondered where this courage had come from, to speak to him so frankly. "If this is because of my mother—because she thinks I need to take over—then swap me with Enyo. Make me the spare and let me be a hero with Potter, I'd prefer it!"

          He didn't respond straight away. The silence went on and on, so long that Circe began to grow afraid that she'd overstepped. It was only when Sirius reached past her and turned the bedroom doorknob on the right, which was shaped like a serpent's head, and opened the door that he spoke:

          "There are no heroes ... in life, the monsters win."

          He closed the door behind her with a sharp snap. The high-ceilinged, twin-bedded room looked, if anything, even danker and gloomier than ever. The blank portrait on the wall was breathing very slowly and deeply, as though its invisible occupant was asleep. Enyo had already settled herself in bed and didn't speak as Circe put on her pyjamas, brushed her hair, and climbed into her chilly bed. She was sure she would not be able to fall asleep; the evening had been so packed with things to think about.

          "You know, I like this about as little as you do," Enyo explained, voice muffled slightly by her pillow, "but you shouldn't pick a fight with Sirius."

          "Since when were you on his side?"

           "I feel sorry for him, I suppose." Enyo turned to look at her cousin in the darkness, her outline by the moonlight filtering in through the grimy window. "I know what it's like ... to feel spurned ..."

          Circe didn't need to ask what she meant. "Well, then he should stop giving me reasons to spurn him," she said, thinking of all that had been said. "We all want to stop Vol—"

          There was a sharp intake of breath.

          "—demort. When are you going to start using his name? I haven't burst into flames yet."

          Enyo ignored this last comment. There was a groan of bedsprings as she sat up, flicking her almost-white hair over her shoulder.

          "What is this really about?" she asked.

          As her emotions settled and weighed upon her shoulders, Circe could feel the winter shaking her bones and banging her teeth together, and the pillow sat against her back, numb as a snowdrift. It didn't seem to be summer any more.

           "I'm sad," she admitted. It sounded artificial, like a beauty pageant contestant pledging world peace. She did feel sad, but articulating it seemed cheap. "It's been less than two years since he came back and already he tries to replace me. I know how they plot in their secret meetings when I've been sent away. Harry is the son he's always wanted."

          "You can't worry at the matters of adults," whispered Enyo. "Your father loves you. Grandmother chose you."

          "She didn't choose me. She spurned her sons."

          Circe felt her mattress descend a few inches as Enyo sat down.

           "You're not made to be sad like this," said Enyo quietly. "There's too much fire in you. My mother always said that some people are born from fire, some from a dense fog ...I knew you weren't like that."

          "Like what?"

          "Like those awful dead people I saw whenever I visited her in St. Mungo's."

          Circe wanted to tell her cousin that if only something were wrong with her body it would be fine; she would rather have anything wrong with her body than something wrong with her head. But Enyo had already crawled beneath the sheets and curled up next to her, the scent of her lavender shampoo tickling Circe's nostrils.

          "I find this is a way to be with my mother," whispered Enyo. "Here in the dark, I feel close to her. I know it sounds silly."

           "I don't think it's foolish," Circe uttered sincerely. "I don't," she repeated when her cousin let out a quiet scoff of disbelief.

          Her body sank deeper into the mattress. Usually a battle would erupt in her head by this point, but Enyo had taken her hand and interlocked their fingers in a knot of sisterhood. It was all still, so still that even the grief couldn't bear to disturb it. The internal silence depressed her.

          "I want him to see me as more than his little girl," was all Circe could say.

          "My own father doesn't know the language of girls, either. When I wish to talk with him, I know that I have to make the effort."