BORN TO DIE | R. Arcturus Black

|23|

Chapter Twenty-Three: Rules of Engagement

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Janet was curled up on the couch in the Potters' living room, a large, worn book in her lap. The sun streamed in through the window, casting a warm, golden glow across the room. She had been engrossed in her reading for what felt like hours, and her mind was just beginning to wander when she sensed someone watching her.

Looking up, she met Sirius' gaze. He was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, his eyes sharp and unreadable. There was a beat of silence before he spoke. "Euphemia has asked me to help you in preparing."

She blinked, taken aback. "Preparing? Preparing for what?"

"The dinner," he replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Surely you know there are certain expectations to uphold in these events. Formal dinners aren't exactly casual affairs. There's a whole bloody set of rules you've got to follow. You think you can just waltz in there and 'wing it'?"

Janet resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "And what expectations would those be, exactly?"

A sly smile tugged at his lips, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Well, for one, there's a whole set of rules about where you sit. It's not just about finding an empty chair. There's a hierarchy. You don't want to sit too close to someone like my mother, for instance. That's a mistake you'd only make once."

Janet gave him a wary look, unsure if he was being serious or just trying to scare her. "And where exactly should one sit, then?"

He took a step closer, as if he were a teacher delivering a lesson. "Somewhere in the middle of the table. Close enough to the host to be seen as respectful, but not so close that you look like you're vying for attention. You don't want to be at the end either—that's practically Siberia."

She couldn't help but smile at that. "Siberia, huh? You sound like you've got this all figured out."

"Trust me," he said dryly. "Growing up in Grimmauld Place, you learn the ins and outs of these things. And believe me, the Blacks are big on rules."

Janet leaned back against the cushions, watching him with amusement and curiosity. She hadn't expected this from him, not today, and definitely not in this manner. "Okay, Mr. Etiquette. What else do I need to know?"

Sirius's expression grew more serious. He clearly took some perverse pleasure in listing off the rules. "For starters, when you enter the dining room, never, ever start speaking until the host does. It's a sign of respect. If the host is my mother or someone of her ilk, don't smile too much. She hates that. Think she once said that smiling too much is a sign of an empty mind."

Janet chuckled softly. "I suppose that's why you always look so broody."

"Very funny," he muttered, though there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Take napkins, for instance. They go on your lap, not tucked into your shirt like some Muggle diner. Always use the cutlery from the outside in. Don't reach across the table for anything, ever—ask for it to be passed to you. And make sure to keep your elbows off the table. And when you're done eating, don't just toss it on the plate. You fold it neatly to the side. But not too neatly—don't want to look like you're trying too hard."

"What a delicate balance." She said sarcastically.

"It is," Sirius said, a little more relaxed now. "Another example: colors. You don't just wear anything. There's a whole language to what you wear at these events. Blacks and deep greens are always safe—elegant, shows status, especially in pure-blood circles. But if you're aiming for subtle rebellion, you might go for something like deep blue. Still respectable, but just enough to suggest you're not one to follow every tradition blindly."