Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter. Wish I did. I'd be a lot richer then.

Author's Note: A huge thank you as always to Dancing-Souls, Good Idea, I-want-a-shrubbery, Ice Night, Jenkt5, Mel72000, Mentathial, Nathair, Naughty Nylon, Shadowsfading, The Witch-Queen Azaereth, , darinmeg, divinesapphic, jql78, kathyhotlove, melisse, nightworldangel, satannottoday, summer164, and temerey for favouriting this story.

A huge thank you to FARK2005, GHOSTofDVDs, Grynelle, I-want-a-shrubbery, Ice Night, Jenkt5, KITTY Nicki, Kageriah, L13LH, Mentathial, Miray666, Nathair, Naughty Nylon, Purplemusicstar13, QueenDromeda, , Shadowsfading, She-wolf Shadow, The Fluffy Ball, The Witch-Queen Azaereth, Untrust Us, crayontesla, jql78, kunoichi, lilleil, melisse, nightworldangel, satannottoday, slytherin84, sp8cefluff, .shattered, summer164, tegfhorn, and wildFlo for following this story.

Needless to say, I'm sure you've realised I've been absent for a while. This story is most definitely not abandoned, however I was busy trying my hand at original fiction. Verdict is still out on that but... to be honest, I will be continuing with my original fiction. It just means that my focus, in fanfiction, will be on this story and Birds Flying High. There will be delays in the NaNoWriMo months, but otherwise, hopefully it won't be as long as this one has been (which has included reasons such as my wedding and that of my brother-in-law). Hope you guys stick around for this story, and as always, tell me what you've loved about this chapter or hated.

Peace.

Shadows of Stars

Just living is not enough… One must have sunshine, freedom and a little flower.

Hans Christian Anderson

There is tension in the air, the sort of tension that's palpable and writhing and smothering and enticing. Sirius has only ever been in such a heady, noxious atmosphere, when they have centred on a forever infuriating Severus Snape. Snape, however, is nowhere in sight; this atmosphere has been artfully (or at least intentionally) created by Narcissa Malfoy, as she's known now, as comfortable in her birth home as ever. The object of his ire glares back at him with equal ferocity, the kind of spite and fury that he's only ever received from Snape. (His mother was far more damaging in her neglect, before his friendship with Padfoot became cause for her very loud and vociferous displeasure).

Evan (no, Rosier, Rosier the DeathEater), lounges in a very beguiling, carefully emulated careless grace, his vacuous gaze seemingly oblivious to the tension. It's fake. Sirius knows this, though nobody ever believes him when he says his cousins are far, far more dangerous than his baby brother. They call it bias, he calls it unerring intuition based on deep analysis. And the devil on his shoulder that sounds just like James when he's bored is telling him to test these theories.

As tempted as Sirius is, he isn't that stupid either, no matter what McGonagall claims. There's death-defying antics and then there's antics that guarantee death. In the house that Narcissa grew up in, surrounded by Evan – Rosier, the DeathEater - and the various dark artefacts lying around (even though he can't sniff the faintest whiff of dark magic within this room), it almost certainly guarantees death; no matter how prissy Cissy pretends she is or how absent-mindedly Rosier behaves, these are all acts. And he isn't that stupid – he just isn't. He won't die, not while his brother might.

In spite of common sense that sometimes rears its very dull head, he is still profoundly tempted to call Narcissa out – Merlin's beard, how in the world is he responsible for his brother's stupidity, blindly following evil people? Narcissa was in his school house, and even if she couldn't sneak into his dorms, they shared a common room, didn't they? Why didn't she do anything to protect him? He ignores that feeling of betrayal and misplaced trust. He thought they had an understanding but this just proves James right, doesn't it? You can't trust Snakes, not even when they are your family members and pretend to care about your baby brother. He carefully doesn't dwell on her red rimmed eyes or the 'could be' sobs from earlier.

It burns within him – her tight hug, Rosier seeking him out, Severus pounding at Reggie's chest… It blisters his thoughts with a 'blood and pus' filled fury because this should have never happened. He should have never seen the human sides of his enemies (again) and his brother shouldn't be dying. And admitting to it with a chilling, frozen sang-froid.

It's enough to counter any nous he has ever regrettably possessed in his life. Narcissa is baiting him, awaiting the teeniest opening. He decides to offer it to her, free of charge, though she might pay in pain. He opens his lips for the accusations to slip out…

And Rosier proves his hunches correct. Adroit as an incensed wasp, he opens his lips and resolves a situation that never arose, and with nonviolence too (will wonders never cease – the fop probably wanted to protect the Byronic curl that fell pleasingly across his marbled brow). The bastard is as cunning a Serpent as ever existed; with enough smarts to hide it behind a lethargic manner (which, actually, was probably genuine, the lazy twat) and daydreaming eyes (that probably owed their deception more to their appearance of sunshine glinting of a scenic lake than intention).

'So, what's Reggie been doing with you? I haven't seen feather nor talon of him,' he drawls his drawliest drawl, elongating his last word until both Sirius and Narcissa twitch.

'Reggie? Nothing,' she tells him succinctly, continuing her glare at her other brat of a cousin.

'Nothing,' Evan triples each syllable just because he can. 'So he's been spending months with you, doing nothing?' Nobody does sarcasm justice the way a Slytherin can, Sirius admits begrudgingly.

'No, I haven't seen him in ages,' she says crossly, crossing her ankles in a manner that is simultaneously dainty and deadly. It's probably the six inch stilettos that glinted with wicked hexes in the candlelight.

'Uh huh,' Evan says in a way that very clearly says he doesn't believe her, and 'shouldn't she lie better'? All told, it is an extremely expressive 'uh huh'. 'Wait, does it have something to do with your… Oh god, were you and Malf… With Reg…'

Sirius guffaws at Evan's horror-struck face, until the meaning sinks in, and it turns ever so swiftly into gagging.

'Wha… No… Wh- Ew…' Narcissa splutters, shocked out of her elegance and she looks green as well. Green suits her, Sirius thinks, mostly because REGGIE IS FOUR YEARS YOUNGER THAN HER AND SHE SHOULD NOT BE DOING THAT WITH HIM AND MALFOY, and her blatant nausea almost reassures him.

Once Evan has his snorts, somehow still sensual, under control, he turns an exquisite puzzled façade towards her again. 'But seriously, what's he been doing?'

'I keep telling you,' she retorts with some thick swallowing, looking a little haunted and a lot horrified. 'I haven't seen him at all. I thought he was with you or Sev. You still live together, don't you?'

The puzzled brow deepens, darkens, changes through puzzled, concerned, troubled and settle on alarmed. Evan showcases these emotions in all their distinct beauty, and Sirius finds his stomach churning with these same emotions. 'I haven't seen him, Cissa,' he tells her slowly, emphatically, eyes crinkling with the effort it takes him to not widen them. 'Sev hasn't either, because we've been together most of the time.'

'None of you have seen him?' And there's his volcanic anger again, sweeping Sirius in its hot lava flood. 'None of you have seen him or know what he's been doing.'

'And you have?' Narcissa asks, her eyes hard as a diamond.

'Enough fighting,' Evan snaps and he's all angles again, turning from Evan the Cousin who Sleepily Smiles into Rosier the DeathEater who will Cut Skin Off You If You Piss Him Off. Bold and underlined and written in red. Utterly not meaning to, Sirius' eyes find Narcissa's in a moment of kinship, their frustration with Evan's secrecy and concern over Reggie briefly uniting them. Evan's fingers remain in a furious fist as he stares cold murder at something (someone) he won't share with them.

'What's going on, Ev?' Narcissa whispers softly, enticingly. The use of his nickname, the whisper that forces a subconscious impression of connection… She's wasted as a socialite.

It doesn't work. Evan blinks and blinks and finally comes out of his stupor, looks at her as if he's seeing her and not somebody he wants to torture. 'Nothing, I don't know,' he says unconvincingly.

Sirius opens his mouth but pauses when he sees Cissa's miniscule shake of her head. He should distrust her, James would be screaming at him for being so stupid, but… But they seem to care for Reggie, even if they lead him astray quite regularly. And, well, truthfully, he'd much rather know who he has to torture to death, without mercy and without guilt, than sit on his high Thestral.

'Ev…' Cissa pleads with him, doesn't pout because that wouldn't work. She looks at him dead straight into his face, doesn't blink. He does, he blinks and looks away, tortured expression making a momentary appearance before disappearing with another blink.

She looks frustrated and turns towards him. He takes his cue, and with a mental curtsey, he takes his stage directions. 'Rosier,' he growls at him, hamming it up only a little because worry for his brother is still sifting within him. 'Tell. Us. Now.'

'No,' Evan says blankly, his face the opposite. 'Not my place to share...' Evan doesn't seem particularly happy about it and the worry worsens, rises up his throat and through his nose and colours everything a very angry red. Red for blood…

'It's fine,' Evan says again, just as unconvincing as the previous time. 'I'm going to kill him. Sev and I are going to kill him. After torturing him,' he corrects himself. And this time, it sounds authentic. There's no inflection that suggests it's an exaggeration and there's something within it that sounds like an oath.

It makes Sirius inordinately fond of his cousin, though it shouldn't.

Rosier tenses suddenly, eyes slanting towards the door, before it opens. His face shutters as Aunt Dru comes out of her lab. Her smile is just as stiff and stilted as the rest of her, and something implacable passes across Rosier's face. It's enough to silence Sirius' histrionics and halt Cissa's fledgling pout. Their eyes meet again, before both pairs settle on Aunt Dru, Evan having returned to his role of Flippant Fop with a forced gusto, exuding paralysing anodyne charm. They could both recognise a lost cause at a glance.

'Mum…' Narcissa says as Sirius charms with an 'Aunt Dru' spoken in a vibrating tenor.

'Mrs Hudson,' Aunt Dru says instead. A rabbitty house-elf materialises, equipped with spectacles, before Sirius can raise his eyebrows. 'Tea and biscuits, please.'

'Oh, dear, you're looking a little peaky. Is it work? You know, it's very morbid, the work you do. Might not be good for your health,' Mrs Hudson clucks and pets and disappears after she ruffles Aunt Dru's feathers completely.

'Mrs Husdon?' Sirius asks, diverted and thoroughly amused.

'She was married,' Aunt Dru confirms with a nod, still looking upset underneath her wooden smile.

'To a house-elf?'

'Mr Hudson,' Aunt Dru replies, as Narcissa and Evan both roll their eyes. They must practice that, for it to be synchronised.

'Was?' Sirius wants complete clarification.

'He's dead,' Aunt Dru tells him with total disinterest.

'You killed him?' His voice squeaks and he cringes. Yup, definitely not Auror material.

'What? Me?' Aunt Dru squeaks just as much, and it marginally helps. He can still see his blasted cousins sniggering at him. 'No, she killed him. Well, asked for help, but she did get him killed.' She lowers her voice and conspiratorially whispers. 'He was not a good 'un, you know?'

'Not a good house-elf?' Sirius stares.

'Yup, no, not a good 'un at all,' Aunt Dru nods and she'd seemed so sane, almost nice. Sirius laments the loss. 'He was the head of a cartel you know, did a lot of drug trafficking, murders, that sort of thing.'

Oh. 'Oh,' he tells her blankly. That didn't, to be fair, sound like a very nice house-elf. And if she wanted out…

'It's why she likes daddy so much,' Cissa chimes in, sniggering finally under control. 'He helped her get him convicted. American laws are brutal.'

The teapot and teacups appear with a crack. Mrs Hudson herds Aunt Dru into a chair, patting her hand regularly. Aunt Dru is quick to dismiss her, having to only repeat her reassurance that she can pour the tea herself five times. Before long, Narcissa has a cup within her hands, and so does Evan, having to finally sit up to sip his. A cup finds its way into Sirius' hands; before he can scathingly tell her that he only drinks black tea, sans sugar, he looks down to find a cup of black tea – sans sugar. He just sighs and takes a sip. He doesn't want to know how she knew his preferences.

As the three youngest in the room sip their cups slowly, Sirius purposely slurping his to irritate Cissa, their brief affiliation dispersing with the noise, Aunt Dru drinks hers in one, large gulp. Pouring herself another, with an amount of sugar that makes Sirius shudder, she downs it again, before swallowing a third just as quickly.

She is staring at her cup, filled for the fourth time, as she speaks. 'What have you gotten yourselves into?' It's not the endearing, youthful consistency she spoke with earlier, nor is it the dominating, exquisitely particular diction that he remembers from childhood. Nevertheless, he notices who Cissa sits a little straighter and Evan's gaze sharpens.

'Don't bother dissembling,' she says as Evan opens his mouth. He does nothing but closes it, a peculiar expression skirting his façade. 'And don't bother redressing it,' she snaps at Cissa, her eyes cutting as her daughter seems to wilt, the first time that Sirius can ever recall it happening.

'They've fallen into a cult,' Sirius tells her bluntly, watching closely for any signs that would be suggestive of evil. He's not surprised and, difficult to admit it, not completely disappointed to find no such evidence.

'Dumbledore's?' There's a tremble of fury underling her words, and Sirius merely raises his eyebrows at the notion that The Purple Sparkly Hat could ever be associated with such things.

'No, the Dark Lord that's currently, insidiously trying to take over the Wizarding World,' he bites back on the of course just in time, feeling that this Aunt Dru might not be so forgiving or caring as she might have previously. And both wanting and not wanting to know why.

'What's his name?'

'Lord Voldemort,' he feels more than sees his cousins flinching. His aunt, on the other wing, looks merely irritated.

'Okay, and what's his real name?'

There's a long pause. 'Real name?' Sirius finally dares ask, seeing as his cowardly cousins remain mute.

'Do you know of any Pure Blooded families entitled Voldemort? In these lands or Ireland? Or Europe, for that matter?' How she can make her gaze so piercing, whilst staring at her unicorn-cantering teacups, is a thought for another time. 'And if Dumbledore is opposed to him, no doubt he's a Traditionalist, rather than a Reformer, or an As You Were.'

'Tom Riddle…' The voice croaks, as if the throat had been screaming for hours past. Sirius even more wants to know and most definitely doesn't want to know what happened to Reg, but he stands there, paler than even earlier, looking weedier and Godric-awful and… But he was standing there, and speaking, and the significance of his words escaped him. But not Aunt Dru, whose teacup smashed mercilessly as they fell from her limp, nerveless fingers.

Regulus had stared at his aunt, mostly to avoid looking at his cousins; his still abominably childish but horribly persistent pig-headed brother meant that Regulus would only acknowledge his existence under duress. It's how he saw the horror awash her face, the blanching, the slack fingers, the tremble… He didn't have time to think more, as suddenly, she was Aunt Dru again, sprightly on her feet and beside him within seconds.

Regulus wasn't completely surprised to find her dragging him back into her office, but he was a little surprised by her pinched face. In all the years he'd known her, he'd never faced her and not received a smile. He forced away a shudder, pushed away the questions and guilt – always his fault – but not quickly enough. His aunt's eyes, a warm, gooey brown, pierced through him, discerning and shrewd.

'Sit,' she told him, her voice with its youthful lilt fixed and solid. He sat on a tall, functional chair, the force of it sending him spinning around on it.

'Who cursed your back?' Her eyes reminded him, jarringly, of Sirius' – obdurate and unyielding.

'No lies,' she snapped at him as he opened his mouth for precisely that purpose. He clamped it shut again. 'I'm an expert. And I'm speaking to you as an expert, not your aunt,' she told him grimly. It was soothing. It wasn't his family's involvement he wanted, nor needed.

'My mum,' his voice was glum, stomach twisting itself into a churning nausea. 'It wasn't her fault…'

She interrupted him again, ruthlessly. 'Of course, it wasn't. It looks completely jagged and juvenile. Accidental magic?' He nodded.

'Shit,' he looked at her, startled by her lapse, but she was professional again. 'Okay,' she breathed in deeply through her nose. 'Okay. Has this happened since?

Her investigation continued. It had? How often? And was it increasing in frequency? Does she recognise you?

That was a jagged, brutal pain he hadn't expected, not from his favourite aunt with the warmest eyes, not in a cold, impartial, professional voice. She'd recognised it too; she'd looked taken aback herself, her colour rising before she muttered a sorry. Sorry. Sorry, but I do need to know.

And it continued. She did? All the time? Ah, not all the time. Sometimes she didn't recognise you, but she'd normally remember again a few minutes later? And is she feeding well? Is she walking well? She's not falling over? Any trembles in her hands? Any difficulty in getting up from chairs? Any odd movements of her arms? Any difficulty in stopping when she's walking? And your father – how is he coping? He's in Germany with Professor Parkinson? Something had shifted in her face but it was gone by the time he tried to analyse it. And are your house-elves helping to look after her? She only recognises Kreacher? I see, and are you helping to look after her? Oh, yes, of course you are, silly me. Anyone else in the house behaving oddly? Forgetting people or things?

Regulus didn't understand the questions. More correctly, he understood that she was collating data to help his mother – he'd seen them unobserved enough times to recognise authentic friendship – but he didn't understand how this would help. Mediwitches and Mediwizards had been worse than useless. Maybe it was to do with the hush hush Muggle links they carefully fostered within secrecy?

And suddenly, Aunt Dru was back with rueful eyes and radiating warmth.

'Okay, Radish,' she used one of the numerous odd nicknames she'd had for him. 'I need to ask you some questions. And I need you to answer me honestly, just like you have been. They'll be personal, but I need to know. Not as your aunt, as a professional. Okay?'

The ice froze his muscles, but he managed a disjointed nod.

'Are you gay?' There was no judgment in her face. Aunt Dru was gone. Professional pathos- thingy – whatever he job was, she was here instead.

It took him a moment to think. Gender could be so fluid, and Georgie had had some fun with it…

'Have you had sex with a male body? Or has a male body had sex with you? Recently?' Her prosaic voice interrupted his meandering thoughts, and this time, rather than a forgiving blush, he wore cold, brutal pallor.

'With your knowledge?' She probed, albeit her voice gentle and always neutral. Not that his aunt was the judgmental sort – she was friends with his mum – and real friends, not the bitchy, superficial, 'as a result of their rank' type.

'Against your will?'

This was such an awkward, awful conversation. This was infinitely worse than the time his mum tried to have 'The Talk' with him, full of an abysmal lack of euphemisms.

'Regulus, I am a forensic pathologist. I need you to be honest with me. Otherwise I'll have to use alternative means to investigate my findings further. Trust me, it's far less embarrassing to open up to me.'

He looked up to find her face, so open and honest that he still can't understand how his mum actually liked her, for real, such a non-Black that she was. Her eyes were forever warm, like caramel, but there wasn't a hint of a smile, just a mulish set to her thin lips. Well, one of the earliest lessons he'd learnt was to recognise futility (something Sirius had never accepted). And with a soft inhale, his shoulders stiff and tense and unaccustomedly hunched, he opened his mouth and the words gushed out – not filtered, not smooth, serrated with pitiless honesty, a flood that had been held back for far too long. He unleashed it all onto his poor, sweet, slightly crazy aunt, who only confuted her professionalism with a raising of her eyebrows and the swift nervous blinking of her kindly eyes.

There was a ringing silence that swallowed them whole, when he'd finished. His eyes had drifted all across her top tier laboratory – the glistening work surface (with the occasional stain that Regulus Would Not look too closely at), the array of beakers – every shape and size imaginable, the costly tools that were kept in the priciest of containers – one could always tell how extortionate a case was by the absence of any notable brand.

Now, his eyes found hers, his involuntary anxiety appeased by the constancy of her caring eyes. Not that he'd ever seen her aunt close to judgmental or even angry. Annoyed, frequently; frustrated, constantly, with daughters like Bella and Meddie. Still, whilst the surface of her eyes held the warmth of sun-blistered white sand on the beaches of the Maldives, something lay beneath it. It wasn't directed at him, so, well, he couldn't be bothered, not when he wanted nothing more than hug and Mrs Hudson's tea and biscuits, and a warm blanket, complete with heating charms to keep the phantom cold water at bay… Not when his magic was still out of reach…

'Let's step out for tea and biscuits, shall we?' Aunt Dru was smiling again, although it was a brittle thing. He followed behind her, to be greeted by the sight of a bristling Cygnus staring cursed daggers at an offensively urbane Arcturus.