COMFORT ZONE | Sirius Black [REWRITING]

50. An Expedition and Newspapers

Thursday, 20th February 1975

The man and woman sat silently at the breakfast table of their London townhouse. Wealthy, but clearly not as much as they wished to be.

The woman wore elaborate dark curls, her hair thick and almost too black, as if she had spent far too much time charming away the numerous grey strands that would otherwise have been natural at her age. She glanced expectantly at the man every few seconds, clearly in hopes of hearing something from him.

A few words? A compliment perhaps?

His slightly less black hair trimmed neatly like the perfect image of respectability, the tall man leaned back in his chair and folded up his newspaper idly, the flicker of a contented smile passing over his shaven face as he caught sight of the headlines for the third time that morning.

SEVEN MUGGLEBORNS DEAD: CAN THE MINISTER GO ON ANY LONGER?

Without even the slightest acknowledgement towards the woman, he began to carelessly shuffle through a few letters delivered earlier by owl post, grunting in displeasure when he caught sight of an envelope stamped with the seal of the Department of Wizarding Taxes and another one from Gringotts Bank.

Taking a sip of his tea and still not looking at the woman, he finally spoke.

"Shafiq still refuses to clear the issue with the tax collectors."

The woman appeared mildly disappointed at his words, but quickly sat up straighter and masked her emotion.

"He's been refusing for years now."

"Thinks he's untouchable because he's Head of Gringotts. And his wife, what's her name again?"

The woman blinked a few times. "Zarah."

"Ah, yes... Head Curse Breaker, eh?" he mused. "What do you say are the chances he got her the job?"

Merida Mulciber had known Zarah too well to ever believe she would accept any role that was granted by preferential treatment.

"It is unlikely."

"Earnt it by merit, did she?" he scoffed. "Well, there are things to corrupt even the purest of people." Damian Mulciber took another long sip of his tea. "Adrian's made little progress with their girl."

Merida pursed her painted lips. "Very little."

He waved a dismissive hand.

"Our boy will manage it. He's got quite the charm. She'll be falling at his feet sooner or later."

"The girl is too strong-minded." The wife hinted at her low faith in the endeavour.

Though she immediately suppressed a wince as Mr Mulciber slammed a hand on the table.