He knew Sirius was dead in Draco's time, and so presumably in Harry's. He knew it, and had known it for almost two years at this point - and yet, in those two years, he must have allowed himself to forget it, because hearing the last of it, knowing what it means, still feels like a kick in the chest. He flinches slightly, and the edges of his ink-dark cloak tremble like smoke.

With an effort, he manages to school his features back into steadiness, and even twitches the corners of his mouth up in a tiny smile. "I suppose it could have been left in worse hands." Mine, for example. The thought isn't a new one, but the bitterness of it never fails to sting: the knowledge that the death of the Black line is on him, after all those centuries. "You don't mind cats, do you?"

They're getting close enough to Bavan, and to his café, for him to realise he hasn't actually asked.