Weft of Power, Warp of Blood: A Tapestry of Desire

Sitting in her workroom, Jasmine worked on another dress while listening to the WWN. The busy season before the Wizard’s Ball had slammed into her once again and the music was one of the only things that kept her sane. Late nights, early mornings and just a touch of crankiness pervaded her life. Every day, however, she took several hours away from her looms and hooks, needles, scissors and silk to spend time with Arielle. Every day, however, Arielle displayed her growing independence, unwillingness to do her chores, and frequent rudeness. Wherever had Arielle Snape learned to be rude, Jasmine asked herself with a tinge of sarcasm and vowed to discuss such matters with Severus. Currently, the little girl was upstairs picking up her room for the fourth day running, as the previous three days she’d spent playing instead of cleaning as requested.

“Maaaammaaaaaa!”

“Did I hear whining? I know you couldn’t have been whining. Who’s whining?” questioned Jasmine to herself with false curiosity. Arielle’s attitude had become old.

“MAMA!” Arielle banged something upstairs, in the vain attempt to get her mother’s attention.

Jasmine gritted her teeth and placed another few stitches in Mrs. Fudge’s formal gown. Golden thread that looked like spun sunlight glinted in the afternoon sun. It wasn’t from the Golden Spider – that was long gone, but Israeli wizards were doing wonders with spinning gold – and for less than it would cost to purchase a new spider. They had learned the art from the ancient Egyptians who had crafted cloth for their pharaohs made with thin threads of beaten gold. Some of the ancient garments had up to five hundred gold threads per one inch of cloth – the modern Israelis were doing even better with six hundred threads per inch. Jasmine had sewn a thin strip of the gold cloth on the bottom of the gown and used a single thread of gold to embroider the rest of the dress. The lime green silk in her hands glowed – the newest silkworm hybrid was wonderful. Jasmine was embroidering a subtle floral pattern into the dress in gold. The pattern was probably too subtle for the lady, but the color of the dress would ensure that she’d get the attention she wanted.

Jasmine had been shocked when the Fudges had approached her, once again, about making their formal wear for the Wizards’ Ball in June. Because the Minister of Magic had such a grudge against Dumbledore, Jasmine had been sure that she wouldn’t be getting the commission this year. Mrs. Fudge had trotted into the shop, as she did every year, and requested an appointment with Jasmine to discuss the “best dress ever!” Iris had glared at the woman, but had no compunction about taking her money – she’d immediately Floo’d Jasmine with instructions to make it with poly-ester and charge for unicorn hide. Jasmine laughed and agreed that the dress should make a statement about just where Mrs. Fudge’s loyalties lie but she wouldn’t compromise her reputation for it. The scented jasmine flowers being embroidered into the skirt and all over the bodice advertized that no matter what the Ministry said about Dumbledore, the Fudges were still supporting his family. Mrs. Fudge wasn’t nearly smart enough to see the message.

“MAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMA!”

Jasmine pointed her wand at her throat, murmured a single spell then roared loud enough for the neighbors to hear, “Arielle Snape, if you want something, you had best get your little bottom downstairs instead of shrieking like a banshee!”

As soon as she heard Ari clomp her way down the stairs, Jasmine murmured, “Quietus,” took a deep breath and picked up her needle again, ignoring the fact that she sounded suspiciously like said banshee.

Petulantly, the child stomped into the room and posed, hands hanging down and shoulders hunched forward. She was the very picture of a put-upon slave, but for her expression of irritated boredom. “Mama, can I pleeeezzzze take a break?”

“Is your room clean?” Jasmine asked without looking up.

“Yes, I worked really hard,” said Ari earnestly.

“Can I come up and see?”

Truculent, the child muttered, “No.”

“Why not?” Jasmine knew the answer, but asked anyway.

“’Cause it’s my room and you can’t come in it,” pronounced Ari after a moment’s hesitation.

“Little girl, this is my house and when I want to walk into your room, I shall. Do you understand me?” Without waiting for her answer, Jasmine plowed on. “Now, is your bedroom clean, or not?”

“But Mama, I’m hungry,” whined Ari, changing tactics.

“You had a banana and a glass of milk half an hour ago. If you’re still hungry, I shall immediately take you up to Madam Pomfrey to have you checked for worms. I do understand that the test for worms living in one’s tummy is rather disgusting.” They had had a discussion on worms living in one’s innards several months ago when Ari had complained of hunger before every chore, regardless of having just eaten or not. The threat of having her tummy poked at by a medi-witch and being forced to drink several nasty-tasting potions to kill the worms before expelling them usually cleared the hungries right up.

With a sigh of an ill-trained slave, Arielle said, “I’ll go clean my room.”

“I thought you might want to do that,” Jasmine said, plying her needle on the last knot to finish the dress.

The fireplace roared to life and boot heels clicked on the wood floor. Once again, Jasmine heard Arielle clatter down the stairs, this time shouting, “Professor Grandpa!”

“Good afternoon, Arielle. What have you been up to this afternoon?’ Dumbledore asked.

“Nothin’. Can we play?” asked Ari, ignoring her chores for the distraction.

Mindful of it, Jasmine called, “She’s supposed to be cleaning her room.” She examined the gown, looking for flaws; she found a few missed stitches that she quickly repaired.

“Ah,” said Dumbledore. “Then perhaps it would be wise for you to clean up your room before the bundimun gets into it and starts eating all of your toys.”

The mention of toy-eating fungus was all the motivation Arielle needed, Jasmine heard her rush up the stairs calling from the top of the landing, “When I’m done, will you tell me a story, Professor Grandpa?”

“Of course, Arielle, but you must get it done to your mother’s satisfaction, first,” Dumbledore said.

“The story of how you got the London Underground on your knee?”

“Of course, little one.”

With a blink of wonder at her great-grandfather’s ability to handle recalcitrant children, Jasmine hung the gown on Mrs. Fudge’s dress form, next to her husband’s new puce and lime green suit. She hadn’t chosen the colors, but wasn’t going to argue if the Minister looked like a clown because of his wife’s color requirements. Needless to say, his suit was not covered with her trademark flowers.

Stretching, she contemplated the next project – Narcissa Malfoy’s order. She’d requested spun unicorn hair for herself and her husband. Jasmine was glad she’d set time aside over the summer to contract with a unicorn breeder to curry the animals so that she could spin the shed undercoat. The pair would be fabulous, even if the people wearing them were evil incarnate. Perhaps she should leave a few needles stuck in the fabric… Jasmine allowed herself a wicked giggle before fetching the fine thread from a cabinet. Suddenly, a thought struck – not about leaving pins in, but…

“Professor Grandpa?” she called, striding from the room. “I’m making dress robes for the Malfoys. Is there anything that you want done to the fabric that might help?”

Dumbledore was sitting in a sunny spot near the bookcases, reading. Thoughtfully he looked up and asked, “In their clothing? Do you have something in mind?”

“I don’t really know. I was thinking of putting a few of those pins in them, just to be uncomfortable, but something like a listening device or a way to follow them after the ball,” she offered, not really sure of what could be done or how it would be accomplished.

“Ah, yes, there are many possibilities. When are the robes due to be delivered?”

Jasmine flitted back into the workroom to check her order book. When she returned, she said, “They’ll be fitted on the thirty-first and finally delivered a week later.”

“I will look into the matter; thank you for the offer,” Dumbledore said. He stopped speaking to stare at the two phoenixes on their perches. Leaving the image of magic and majesty of the noble phoenix aside, the birds were playing chase-the- tail with Berri, the fluffy white cat. “One of you is going to get a pulled tail feather and Ramal Ollivander will have a new wand to sell,” Dumbledore warned. They ignored him to tease the cat once again.

Jasmine took that as her opportunity to get back to work – the fabric for the Malfoys’ robes had to be woven before she could do anything else.

**********************************

“… that’s what Marchbanks said. I don’t know anything else. Remus went to St. Mungo’s to check but he’s not back yet. There’s no sign of Hagrid.”

The conversation roused Jasmine from a thick haze of sleep. Only half hearing the words, she stretched her leg; it was bound by a heavy weight. Shoving the weight off, Jasmine shifted to a more comfortable position on the couch and wondered if she ought to be listening to her great-grandfather’s voice. Who was in St. Mungo’s? The men were speaking so quietly, she decided, that it would take far too much effort to effectively eavesdrop.

“Should I… come through?” one of the male voices asked.

“I do not think that would be a good idea, Sirius. This is her home. If she wanted you in it, she would invite you,” replied Dumbledore.

“Of course, I understand. It would only be for a moment, though.”

“Not this time. There will be a time, I’m sure, but this isn’t it. Similar to listening to the prophesy, I dare say.”

“If we went to the Ministry as a group, though…”

“I want to wait as long as possible, Sirius. The instant Harry hears that prophesy, his entire life will change, once again. Harry deserves the chance to have some kind of normal childhood. Would you begrudge him that?” The voice sounded reproachful.

“No,” the other man sighed. “Since we have to guard the thing – and do it under an invisibility cloak…”

“Sirius, we’ve discussed this. If you’re caught, you will be given the Dementor’s kiss without so much as an audience with the Minister, much less a trial.”

Jasmine, in a half sleep, fluttered her eyelashes, but the bright light from the Floo connection made her close them again. Both voices were so comfortable to listen to, even if she wasn’t listening to what they were actually saying. The one sounded so familiar, but she couldn’t place it. Jasmine tried to drag her eyelids open again, to see whose head was in the fireplace.

“She’s waking up,” said the familiar voice. She didn’t know whose voice it was, but she very much wanted to see.

“Sleep, little flower,” gently commanded the other.

Jasmine relaxed into her dreams. Beautiful dresses and suits that she hadn’t even imagined, much less made, swirled on invisible dancers as they danced a silent waltz down the side of a rainbow. Looking down, Jasmine saw herself standing on a cloud, wearing the new gown she’d made for herself. Forest green satin reflected the rainbow in shades of green as she strolled through the silent ballroom in the sky. The lone human in a sea of dancing gowns and robes, she searched for someone else, anyone else with a body.

It seemed like forever until she caught a glimpse of a man standing at a bar being served by a stiff white apron. Jasmine could only see his back, covered by long, black hair but felt drawn to him; he was somehow important. The invisible dancers crowded in front of her; she lost sight of him several times and forced herself to be polite to the gowns as she passed by them though she couldn’t hear her own voice as she made her excuses to each silk or linen outfit that stopped her. As she approached, the man turned around. He was heart-stoppingly beautiful. No, men were not beautiful, but this man was. It seemed odd that a thirty- five-year-old man was wearing a school Quidditch uniform in the middle of a ballroom but she dismissed it. Gryffindor red looked wonderful on him; it seemed to set his black hair off perfectly. The apron behind the bar stood to the side and the man tilted his head, as if to listen to something the invisible wearer said. She pushed forward, through the throng of dress robes, gowns and an odd Muggle tuxedo, trying to reach the man. He was speaking, trying to break free of the conversation. Finally, he managed to get away from the persistent apron and started toward her.

“You’re wearing my favorite color,” said a voice from behind her.

Jasmine whirled around to the voice – it was the only sound in the room.

Another man stood behind her. Though nothing was normal, she thought it odd that the forest green satin of her dress was the exact color of his eyes. Staring at them, she thought she saw that his pupils were vertical, like a cat’s, but couldn’t be sure. The moment he blinked, the effect was gone. The man was good-looking, but not as beautiful as the other – oh, where was he? She tried to turn around again, but the man with the odd eyes held out his hand.

“Would you do me the great honor of dancing with me?”

Not wanting to be rude, especially when he was actually human in a sea of dancing clothing, she accepted. The orchestra – all floating instruments and formal black robes - switched to a set dance. The man with the odd eyes held his hand up; automatically, she raised her own and pressed it to his. A static shock passed from his flesh to hers. She jerked her hand away, scowled, and replaced her hand. Again, she was shocked but left her hand there. The man had none but a pleasant expression on his face. Did he not feel the pain? Knowing she would switch partners soon, Jasmine pasted a smile on her face.

“Thank you for the offer to dance. I was getting a bit … lost,” she said.

She expected a pleasant baritone from such a handsome man; his voice was higher than she thought it would be. He had short black hair, odd for a wizard, but it was clean. Under the sunlight, highlights gleamed red as he danced.

“I could see that. I am so glad that I was here,” he said. “I did not see as you entered; did you come with your husband?”

“Oh, no. I’m not married,” she said, knowing that she was blushing but not fathoming why.

“Then surely a lady as lovely as you must have a lover?” he asked, his expression still curiously blank.

“I… er… no…” she stuttered just before changing partners. Holding up her hand to just above the sleeve of a blue velvet robe, Jasmine stared at the man. The gall! The… how odd. Who would ask such a question of a stranger? Smiling into the empty space above the robe, assuming it was the invisible dancer’s face; Jasmine let the colors whirl in front of her eyes until she got dizzy. Feeling faintly ill, Jasmine closed her eyes.

When she opened her eyes, she was standing in a midnight rose garden built of dreams and fancy. A strawberry- scented breeze stirred her dress and she had the tinkling of fairy laughter. Their little lights twinkled as the fairies bounded through the rosebushes. Cool satin brushed against her legs. When she looked down Jasmine was startled to see that she was no longer wearing the green ball gown; instead, ecru satin clung to every curve. Shivering, Jasmine realized that she wore nothing on her shoulders but the thin straps of the gown made of jet beads. Her bare toes curled into ermine-textured grass.

A jeweled butterfly flew by; amethysts and blue topaz gleamed in the moonlight as its wings moved. Enchanted, Jasmine watched it flutter through the garden until it landed on the shoulder of the man in the Quidditch uniform. He was standing in the bushes, watching her, holding a jeweled yellow snapdragon. Only half startled to see him, she gasped, “Oh!”

“I followed you,” he said. His voice was a deep and comforting; she knew it well, though didn’t know how. Without seeming to move, he appeared by her side, knelt on one knee and held the flower to her.

Not sure of what to think, she took the flower and murmured her thanks. Looking down, she saw that he was indeed wearing a Gryffindor Quidditch uniform.

“Were you in Gryffindor?” she asked, though the thought occurred that it might have been a stupid question. Where else would he get the uniform? Did they really make uniforms in his size? Who had made it? Who was he?

“Yes, I was. I was a beater,” he said, standing. He looked down at the uniform and said, “This isn’t right.” With a wave of his hand, his clothing changed. Now in formal black evening robes over trousers, he looked… Jasmine mouth watered. Grey eyes – he had grey eyes. They seemed perfect, though she still didn’t know him.

Slowly, he lifted his hands to cup her face. Sounding hurt but understanding, he leaned down to rest his forehead on hers. “Don’t you recognize me, Jasmine?”

“No. I’m sorry, I don’t. Should I?” Seeking, though not sure what she wanted, Jasmine turned her head, sliding her skin over his until their cheeks were pressed together. His skin felt wonderful rubbing over hers, rough and warm. Closing her eyes, Jasmine knew what she sought. Lips parted, she slid her cheek over his until their lips met.

Pleasure coursed through her, such joy that she thought she might giggle or cry or both at once. His lips moved over hers. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pressed closer to him and the flower she had been holding disappeared. He slid one hand into her hair and the other grasped her hip. Feeling protected, desired and loved, Jasmine let herself melt into him.

He seemed to vibrate with strong emotion. She pulled him closer to still the motion, her lush breasts flattening into his chest. Wanting more of the burning sweetness, Jasmine’s lips parted.

Instead of sliding his tongue into her mouth, the man lifted his head away from hers. “Your eyes are so expressive. I can see everything that you want, just by looking into your beautiful eyes.”

“Do you see that I want you?” she asked in a breathy whisper.

“I do. Will you still want me when you remember me?” asked the man.

“Remember you?”

“Close your eyes,” he murmured and brushed his lips over hers.

Enjoying his touch, her eyes drifted closed. His mouth moved; he pressed the softest of kisses to her cheeks, then eyelids, before stepping back.

Slowly, she opened her eyes. He still wore the stark black robes; she slowly stroked the superfine merino wool over his chest before looking up.

His face had aged… no, it wasn’t just age. Prison and running from the Ministry had struck hard marks on his face. He was too thin and careworn, but his rain-colored eyes were alive and filled with remorse, hope and love.

“You!”

He nodded, silent.

“You lied to me!”

“You know why I did it.”

“Yes, I do. It was an insult to my intelligence.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

“It was, and you well know it.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t apologize enough. It was the wrong decision not to tell you.”

“You did more than make that one wrong decision.” She hauled her arm back and slapped him. Her hand didn’t hurt, nor did she feel the pressure of his face, though she knew she’d made contact.

He stumbled but remained standing. Holding his cheek, he said, “I deserved that.”

She snarled, “You deserved that and more.”

“You’re right, and, after all, I did give you leave to do it.”

“Then isn’t it convenient that none of this is real.” She wildly gestured around. One by one, the fairy lighted popped out of existence, the rose bushes disintegrated into piles of ash, and the ermine grass melted away into hard cobblestones that hurt her feet. The strawberry scented breeze turned cold and fetid. Seemingly without noticing, Jasmine continued, her voice rising to an unladylike shriek, “Isn’t it lucky that it’s not real? I’ll have a chance to do it again, the next time I see you.”

“Jasmine, I…”

Looking around, Jasmine finally noticed the change. Still in the ecru gown, she shivered. “You’ve ruined my dream,” she mourned, even knowing that her reaction was extreme.

Whispering, “I’m sorry; I never meant to,” he dissolved in a cloud of mist like a genie in a bottle.

“I know,” she whispered and closed her eyes, hoping for an escape from the dream, even if it was to wake.

Something brushed against her legs – and it wasn’t the satin of the gown- she was no longer wearing it. Opening her eyes, Jasmine saw nothing. It was dark. The garden was gone; only darkness took its place. Once again, something brushed her bare legs. Supple muscle in cool skin glided over her feet. She jumped back but it seemed to follow, stalking her. The thing nudged her back. Shrieking in surprise, she leapt forward, but it was there, too, sliding against her shoulder.

“Lumos!”

Nothing happened, she didn’t have her wand; the tip wouldn’t light up.

She tried to conjure a small flame in the palm of her hand – but the black remained. Shocked that a basic spell didn’t work, she tried to apparate to Dumbledore’s Garden. Nothing.

Then she heard it – hissing. The thing – the snake - slid by again, brushing behind her knees, then in front of them. Trapped.

“Go. Leave the woman alone.” The voice was male, she’d heard it before.

Heasssssssss haaaaaaaathhhhhhaaaaaaa The snake hissed and retreated into the void.

Whirling around, Jasmine was struck almost blind by a bright light surrounding the man from the ball. The handsome man with the odd eyes. The man who’d asked such rude questions.

“It won’t bother you again,” he said.

Shielding her eyes from the light, Jasmine murmured her thanks.

“No thanks are needed. It is a gentleman’s duty to rescue a damsel in distress,” he said and walked forward.

The light moved with him, toward her. She felt it warming her skin and looked down. As he moved, the light revealed more bare skin. Running her hands over her stomach and hips, Jasmine realized that she was completely naked. She jumped back from the light, and used her hands to cover what she could of her body. Confused and embarrassed, she swung her hair to cover her breasts and stomach, thankful that long hair was tradition for witches.

“Who are you?”

Stepping closer, he enveloped her in light. He shushed her protests and said, “The only reward that your hero requests…”

“Look, thanks, but what do you want? Who are you?” she demanded, the light blinding her to everything but his green eyes.

“I want only to revel in your beauty,” he said, moving even closer. His vertical pupils contracted when he blinked.

Discomfited, she tried to step back but found herself immobilized. “No! Look, thank you for your help, but I don’t’ think…”

“Don’t think, lovely lady.”

“Look, I’ve about had it. Answer my question, please. Who are you?”

“My name…”

From outside of the void, Jasmine heard a commanding voice. “Jasmine, wake up. It is time for you to go to bed.”

Jolted awake, Jasmine opened her eyes wide and stared at her great-grandfather’s face above her. “It was a dream,” she said dumbly.

“Indeed it was. It would be best if you crawled into your bed,” Dumbledore said kindly, though his blue eyes weren’t twinkling behind the crescent moon glasses.

“It was weird,” she muttered but didn’t elaborate on the details.

“I understand, little flower. Dreams frequently are.”

“Right,” she said, struggling to sit up. Managing to avoid kicking the fabric she’d woven from unicorn hair that morning, she sat up and crumpled it into a large ball before tossing it into the corner of the couch, promising that she’d straighten it out in the morning. Standing, she looked at Dumbledore and asked, “Are you sure you don’t want to sleep in that bedroom? It was yours for so long.”

“And now the Garden is yours. You are the rightful lady of the house now. I am quite comfortable in the guest room, thank you.” He kissed her on the forehead.

“If you’re sure,” she offered once again, though she knew the answer. They had the same conversation almost every night. Every night, he sent her off to bed with a kiss of the forehead and a refusal to change rooms.

“Little flower, I thank you for the offer, but you needn’t feel guilty. Without Ivy, it is no longer my bedroom.”

Still confused by the dream and shocked because Dumbledore rarely spoke of his late wife, Jasmine’s great-grandmother, she stayed silent.

“Though it bears my name, without Ivy, this house is simply not home,” he said gently, his voice grave. “Fawkes and I are guests here.”

“All right, Professor Grandpa,” she said and kissed his cheek. “I shan’t bother you about it anymore.” When he bowed, she smiled and said, “But you’ll tell me when you want something?”

“You are a wonderful hostess and a delightful great-granddaughter, Jasmine. I think I should give your family kudos on raising such a nice young woman.”

She giggled.

“Alas as I am the only member of your family present, I shall pat myself on the back and reward myself with a nice, long bubble bath. Goodnight!” he said and swept upstairs into the guest bedroom.


Sirius trudged into the kitchen Thursday night, long after supper had been cleaned up. Remus, recently back from making deliveries, sat at the kitchen table, munching on a sandwich and reading a letter.

“Sturgis Podmore is out of Azkaban. He got in touch with Dung,” Remus waved the letter. “Seems that Sturgis won a set of goblets that look exactly like the one that went missing from the closed salon. Never told anyone about them before he was sent away.”

“Interesting,” said Sirius, taking a drink of tea. “How could he have gotten it though, unless someone’s been digging through the rubbish once it’s taken out to be destroyed?”

“Padfoot, we never cleaned the room out. It didn’t go in the bin. Remember, Dumbledore saw that it was gone when he brought in the Mirror of Erised?”

Nodding, Sirius said, “I didn’t see it in the attic – was just up there, poking about,” Sirius said, shuddering.

“What?”

“Oh, you don’t want to know. Hell, I wish I didn’t know,” he said, and collapsed into a chair.

Remus waited, having learned patience long ago.

“You’d never believe what I just saw. I found another stash of things Kreacher nicked, up in the attic.”

“We find those all the time.”

“No, not like this. He was using some of them,” Sirius said, disgusted amusement lighting his eyes.

“Using them? He’s a house elf, he can’t use human magical items, dark or not. It’s forbidden.”

“He wasn’t using them in their intended function,” Though his expression was grim, clearly Sirius enjoyed drawing the suspense out.

Remus, amused by the game and glad of the distraction – and Sirius’s mood – played along. “Well then, are you going to make me beg?”

“Remember my dad’s walking stick? The one he used to cane me with?”

Schooling his face into a blank mask, Remus nodded. His own family had never been wealthy, but they had never abused him. The Black family had disgusted him since he’d learned of the way they’d treated their black sheep son.

“Up in the attic, I just saw that foul, little, sniveling fuck humping me’ dad’s favorite trousers and -” he waited, snickering, until Remus stopped coughing. “He was licking that old walking stick like he was a prostitute earning a sickle!”

Once Remus was able to stop laughing long enough to breathe, he said, “Let me clarify. The house elf was giving your father’s walking stick a blow job and trying to make little elves with a pair of twenty- year- old trousers?”

“Oh yeah. I’ve never seen the like. I thought snogging the shoes was bad…this was beyond it by a mile!”

“I can’t even imagine what to do with him,” said Remus.

“I say we just put him out of his fucking misery.”

“His misery or yours?” Though he was still grinning, Remus’s question was serious.

“Mine – the disgusting little wank,” Sirius snarled, all amusement gone. “I think we should kill him before he kills us – I know he’d love the chance.”

“He can’t kill you. He’s a house elf. He’s bound to you.”

“No, he can’t kill me but I’m sure he’d love to bring it about, just to please my mother’s sodding portrait.”

Knowing it was true, Remus could only nod.

Sirius shoved back from the table with a sigh. “I’m going to get that mess in the attic cleaned up. Need to get an accounting of everything up there, to see what else he’s nicked.”

“Good idea.”

“Want to give me a hand?”

“Sure – as long as Romeo isn’t still up there,” Remus said, standing.

“I chased him out. He should be in his cupboard by now,” Sirius called, starting up the stairs.

Remus followed behind. Quite casually, he mentioned, “I delivered for Three Flowers today.”

Sirius’s back stiffened as he climbed the stairs. He muttered, “That’s good.”

“Aren’t you interested?”

“No, not really.”

Stopping his climb, Remus asked, “Why not? You normally gobble it up.”

Sirius didn’t look down. “Look, she doesn’t want me, alright? I had the perfect chance last night and couldn’t take it. She doesn’t want me. She said so. Dumbledore said so. It’s bloody well time to drop the fantasy.”

“You sure?”

Sirius nodded and said so quietly that only Remus’s sensitive ears could hear, “Yeah, I’m sure. I’ve given up.”

Speechless, but knowing he had to say something, Remus said, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, me, too. Er… let’s get this crap cleaned out so we can get some kind of beauty sleep.” His barking laugh was bitter as he started up the stairs again.