Chapter 7: Of Logic & Intuition

Chapter 7: Of Logic & Intuition

Apparated. They had Apparated. Hermione stared almost unseeingly at the sordid alleyway, at the glaringly empty positions from which they had departed. Departed... disappeared... vanished... Apparated.

Wizards.

They were wizards, damn it! Wizards who could have been Death Eaters. Wizards who could have been laying a trap for Harry. Wizards who could have Avada Kedavra'd her ass without anyone the wiser, with one who looked like –

No. She couldn't – wouldn't – think about that. Not right now. The accosting was enough to go on with at the moment. Silly girl. So careless of you; so stupid of you. Harshest critic unto herself, she berated and condemned, analyzing every possible scenario that could have happened. And no slack was cut this evening, momentarily stepping away from any implications the reminiscent identity of her stalker brought about. You know better, Hermione. It could have been Ginny. Your carelessness could have cost her the baby... even her own life. You were only lucky –

"Hermione!" Ginny skirted the awry dust bins, kneeling before the dazed witch. Quick words poured in a mass of questions, commands, explanations. Hermione could only decipher portions, her mind still reeling from the events of the past few minutes.

"What happened... all right?... must go now... thugs... nasty brawl... got your wand... at The Burrow... quickly now, stand up..." Jerked forward by her lapels, hands to wet, gritty concrete, tiny chunks biting into tender palms. She clambered to her feet, still only half-comprehending. Hands gripped her arm tightly. Then...

Blackness, squeezing, compressing, swirling...

-o-

Ghostly representation reflected against the glass pane in The Burrow's kitchen door, pitch night the mirroring backdrop. Hermione's image returned to her, and she stared through it without focus, her mind traveling a path different from that of her eyes. It had taken all of a minute to share her tale with Ginny, the latter now checking the kettle for the third time, its contents still lukewarm. She'd left out only one small detail.

"So this man – who's actually a wizard – told you he needed to talk to you, but never said about what. Then those cowardly mates of his came out and he just left with them, no explanation, right?"

"Yes." No emotion. Flickers of two low, stout ivory candles lapped gently at the cavernous room, casting her preoccupied features into a maze of crevice and relief. The following silence was broken only by a mildly curious 'huh' from Ginny as she trod about, acquiring the makings for tea. Hermione remained seated at the head of the worn, scrubbed oak table. Fatigue fought with adrenaline, emotional and physical weariness draining both strength and natural reserve. Conflict resounded between her instinctive need to say it and her logic refusing acceptance. Instinct triumphed.

"It was Sirius." Little more than a whisper, but her companion heard.

"What?" Ginny's response was one of an otherwise occupied mind. She was searching the dim cabinets for honey and something she was not quite certain she craved. "Of course it was serious, Hermione. Never said it wasn't. Could have been anyone, really. I'm just glad you're all right."

A long pause; a deep breath of courage. Eyes staring still, never leaving their vacant form. Louder this time, more force, more conviction. "No, Ginny. It was Sirius. Sirius Black." Whispering the last, the air changed in the otherwise cozy room. Ginny's scrimmaging in the upper cabinets ceased. All was still.

-o-

Drizzle nipped with tiny cold bites. Eyes half closed against the shivering breeze, Stubby Boardman shifted deeper into the recess of the brick wall, the damp wrought iron of the fire escape distinctly uncomfortable against his denim-clad bum. Well past midnight, his eyes sought solace from the inky night that lay beyond the overcast sky. All around, building lights and headlamps cast a glow against the clouds, reflecting in burnt orange and mottled pinks. Turning to his left, he could almost shut out the bright lamplight escaping the window of his flat; if only the same could be said for the endless chatter as well.

"So Kent here decides since the Muggle bird blew him off, he'd chat up one o' them slags." Nigel's debriefing to Blue flowed through the open glass, slightly muffled yet sharp in its resonance against the unadorned walls. Stubby's jaw tightened. If it wasn't for their blasted antics, he'd have educated himself a bit more tonight.

"She di'n't blow me off, Nige! Was just too taken with Stubbs, is all. An' who can compete with the likes o' 'im, eh?" Kent's retort both startled Stubby and irritated him further. She was interested in him? And Kent failed to tell him. Intentionally.

Bastard.

"Kent, mate, you're such a nancy. Anyway, Blue, out the front door she goes on one o' them Muggle communicatin' gadgets, and her girlfriend – whom, I might add, was quite taken with me," Stubby could hear the smirk in Nigel's voice, "heads off to the loo. Stubbs takes off after the chit out the door, and that's when dear ole Kent gets it in his head to play for these pub crawlers, not even noticin' the three great blokes comin' in, headin' straight for them girls."

"How's I to know they was their boyfriends? I jus' thought they's intrest'd as well, an' I wasn't jus' handin' 'em over, if you please." Nigel's incredulous laugh said it all.

"Oh no, Kent wouldn't think of it. So fists get involved – one o' them Muggle duels – and I was ready to leave him on his tod. He'd right earned it. But a couple old wankers got into it, an' chairs were flyin' – without magic, mind you. Couldn't risk using wands 'cause then we'd have to Memory Charm 'em all, so I yanked Kent out, and we grabbed Stubbs out in the alley and App'd out."

Words blended as all three spoke at once, each trying to be heard over the other. Stubby's head stifled in frustration, alcohol, stress. No more, his whole self pleaded. The Black Market wand twitched in his hand, but he stilled it.

No, he wasn't going to use a Silencing Spell to grant his solitude. For the time being, he wanted nothing to do with magic. He wanted nothing to do with a lot of things, actually. He wanted peace... inner peace. That was simply not to be. Not tonight, in any case. Tension ached his very thoughts, the struggle for association and answers prodding his intellect, toying with it, sticking its proverbial tongue out to him, crying, "Hah! You can't catch me!" Nimbly would his near-memory take flight, a wood sprite darting to and fro in the dark forest of his mind. He simply could not capture it.

But at least he had something.

That witch knew him. Of that he was sure.

Idly the polished wood swung in his limp hand, its handle bumping upon the raised knee on which the wrist lay. Line of sight traveled from the tip down to the terra cotta slab before him, its potted plant absent from neglect. Remains took the form of potting soil splayed in great doses upon the slab, a few tendrils of what must have once been vine shriveled across one end. Former girlfriends did not return for flora, he absently considered.

Drawn by its handler's boredom, the wand tip found the damp texture of the decaying matter, etching meaningless lines, circles, squiggles. As he thought vaguely upon the evening's events, the random marks became letters. s...e...r...i...o...u...s. He paused, studying his work. It lay flat against the dull reflections of the environment. She had said several things to him: no; impossible; it can't be; they saw you fall. But her most revered speech lay in her last word to him: Serious.

A critical eye considered the letters. They meant nothing. In truth, they didn't look quite... right. They were, however, close to something. Odd tingling darted up his spine, and without awareness of just what he was going to write, his fingers transferred the implement to unspoiled dirt below the word. Like an artist realizing brush strokes individually, he compared the previous word to what intuition urged him to create. Staring, shifting angle, focusing, correcting... s... That was absolute. But as his movements began an 'e', an unknown sense nudged his hand straight. i... Yes, yes that was it. Irrepressible anticipation grew within him, fear shadowing just behind.

...r...i... The 'o' became a blotch, matting as errant leaf matter embedded itself in the mark. Agitated, he roughly finished the word, intent to go back and correct whatever was not right with it. Quickly...u...s... Frustrated huff and readjustment of position. A searing side scowl to the open window and the disrupting voices beyond. He turned back, ready to disseminate.

sirius

Frozen. He was frozen in a curious enlightenment. The anger bled from him in a rush; fascination took its place. He knew that word – it was familiar to him. Very familiar.

The Dog Star, something whispered within. Yes, the Dog Star. Canis Major.

Flashes strobed before his mind's eye, too quick to properly catch, but enough to give credibility to his intuition: Viewing the constellation above in a rush, loping through underbrush; studying its position against other stars through a brass telescope atop a great tower; glimpses of it through high-placed barred windows, cold and dismal; evading its light within mountain caverns; watching its movements as time passed from an old attic, musty and dull. These were more than simple images; they were memories.

Excitement bubbled within. Memories. Real memories.

The drizzle turned to droplets, smearing the letters of realization. He tested the word upon his lips, tasting, savoring its easy casting, its smooth form. "Sirius." Slowly it fell in breathless whisper. "Sirius..." Drawn out, louder, stronger. "Sirius –"

"Black."

Stubby jumped, reeling about toward the window, wand aloft. Through the pounding in his ears, the adrenaline-driven breaths, he strained to make out the words uttered in the sitting room beyond.

"With golden studs, charmed to light up in varying shades of blue according to the speed and rhythm at which I play." Blue. Discussing his new kit.

Tension slowly drained in acceptance of the new dialogue. Stubby's grip relaxed, shoulders slumped, breath released. But what had brought about his immediate reaction? What had they been discussing just moments before? Shutting his eyes to the outside world, Stubby thought back. Nothing came to mind. After their resurrection of the pub brawl, the first words he could recall noticing were Blue's. He himself had been repeating the star's name, Sirius, when Blue's voice broke his thoughts. Black. Just Sirius, then Black. Sirius... Black. Sirius –

"– Black." Cracked, quiet, unbelieving. His own voice sounded foreign as he finished the thought in hushed realization. Sirius Black.

His real name.

-o-0-o-

The nausea had subsided. In truth, there was little left to throw up. The inconceivability of it all had left Hermione praying to the porcelain god half the night at The Burrow, Ginny attempting vigilantly to calm her, offering cool wash cloths and soothing, gentle pats. She had already become maternal.

Now Hermione stared uneasily at the serpentine-graced door before her. When in doubt, consult text information, her motto had always been. Ironically, the ideal first choice of libraries was also the least desirable, considering.

"We've not done more than a clean to the library," Ginny stated as she swished her wand across the massive oak, muttering a password. "There was always too much else to be going on with, and while Harry's off, he didn't want me alone." Another snapping flick and the latch released, giving way to the younger woman's nudge.

Trepidation roiled her stomach further, threatening a repeat performance of only hours before. She'd not returned to this place since... since he'd fallen. Bile rose acidly, burning her throat; she forced it down. Deep breath of fortification, mind over matter forced leg muscles to respond, carrying her across the threshold and back into the entrance hall of the one place she never meant to return: number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

-o-

"Still nothing, eh?" Ginny settled the silver tea service upon the lamp table, the Black Family crest rattling upon the tray.

Hermione sat straight, a deep sigh escaping in weary frustration, thumb and forefinger pinching at her nose bridge, rubbing her eyes. Bleary though they were, in focus before her lay numerous volumes of aged writing and questionable content. Hours of research had revealed nothing of interest.

"No. Not a bloody thing." Pulling her attention from the Dark Arts book club, she turned to watch Ginny pour tea for them, a tin of biscuits appearing from between the containers.

"Are you sure it was actually Sirius?" Not for the first time had Ginny asked this. But Hermione could not blame her; it was insane, impossible. And yet, she found no other answer.

"Yes. Positive. His hair was short, his face a bit fuller, but it was him." An amazing thing, her calmness at this statement. Somewhere in the past three hours of sorting and study, she had come to terms with the fact that she had seen him, that he was real, and that he was flesh and blood alive. She just couldn't understand how.

Handing her best friend a steaming cup of Irish Breakfast, Ginny broached the nagging question of her morning.

"Is it possible..." she began, unsure of the older witch's emotional balance. The latter waited quietly, sight seeking a random wood grain, a smudge upon an aged parchment. "Well... is it possible someone could have used Polyjuice Potion? Found old hairs of his, perhaps from his time in Azkaban. No one but an Order member could have gotten into here, but... Well, except for Kreacher, you know..."

Hesitation, then coffee to lake water, brown to blue, their eyes connected. "No." Little more than a whisper, but conviction lay behind the statement. "Please don't ask how I know; I don't... but I do."

Accepting the Taoist mantra, Ginny nodded slightly and continued being mother, offering condiments and biscuits. Peacefully they sat, breaking their fast with the hot, soothing liquid and Scottish shortbread, each in her own thoughts. Several full minutes passed in this manner, the only sound the rhythmic tick of the grandfather clock Harry and Ginny had received as a wedding present more than a year past. Unexpectedly, Hermione's thoughts broke into speech.

"He wasn't trying to harm me. He was..." Ginny looked up quickly, expectantly. Hermione remained in her own plane of existence. "He was... frightened." She glanced up at Ginny. "He was frightened, Ginny. And confused. I could see it in his eyes... Sirius' eyes."

A moment passed, Ginny unsure of her suggestion. Finally, she relented. "Are you sure you won't go to McGonagall, or perhaps Lupin, with this?"

Shaking her head assuredly, Hermione declined. "No. I won't put this on them, especially as I've no idea what I'd even say. Honestly Ginny, they'd think I'd gone quite mad. Can you just see their faces when I'd say, 'Oh, by the way, I was out pubbing with Ginny last evening in Muggle London when I was assaulted by our dear, dead friend, Sirius Black. He's looking quite well these days, you know.'"

"I can see your point. Sorry."

"'Oh, and I've been obsessing over him for over a fortnight, and even saw him in Gringotts the other day, as well.' Yes, I'm sure that'd go over quite well." Sarcasm tainted her words, and immediately she felt contrite for taking out her difficulty on another. "Sorry, Ginny. I just don't –"

"Hold it." Piqued interest displayed on the redhead's face. "What do you mean you saw him in Gringotts the other day?"

A quarter of an hour later, the tea was chilled and the story was told.

"All right," Ginny hypothesized, "let's say it was Sirius. Well then, who were the two blokes with him? What were they doing in a Muggle pub? Following us? No, they couldn't have done. They were there before we were."

"Dunno. The one who tried to chat me up, I've seen him before. Don't recall where, though." Concentrating on the elusive connection, she toyed with the silver teaspoon, forcing its face through the lukewarm tea still halfway up the silver-lined bone china cup. "Maybe if we can corner them, we can figure out what's what. Until then, I suppose I can keep searching through these," her hand encompassed the library's well-stocked shelves, "but at present nothing seems to be recorded on how to bring the dead back to life, or retrieve a soul from beyond the Veil."

"Too bad Hogwarts doesn't keep Dark Arts literature. And I've little idea beyond Durmstrang or a Dark Wizard's personal library where else we could find anything. Except, perhaps..." Enlightenment crossed her features as she stared wide-eyed at Hermione. "Flourish and Blotts?"

A rare smile grew, accompanied by the first glimmer of real hope. "Brilliant."

"Excellent," Mrs. Potter concluded. Gathering the dishes, she made a quick tidy of the table as Hermione glanced once more through the tomes littering the area before returning the uninformative ones to their rightful shelves. "What say we pop in the Leaky Cauldron for a spot of brunch, then make our way through the bookstore's offerings?"

"All for it," the weary witch agreed, "but I've got to clean up a bit first. I hate to return to Mum and Dad's, as Mum's friend's most likely still there. I'm not much in the mood for matchmaking this morning."

Ginny snorted, causing a grin from Hermione. "What I don't understand is why your mum insists on trying and setting you up with someone. She knows you're with Ron, right?"

"Oh yes," came the reply over the four-volume stack in her arms. "She knows, all right. But she doesn't think it's going to work."

"Why, because he's gone?"

"No; because he's Ron."

-o-

Dampness hung in the air, bathing his skin in a coat of chilled sheen. Not yet full dawn, the ethereal bluish-white gave only indistinct shape to his surroundings. Stubby pulled himself up from the park bench, joints protesting each elongated move.

No, not Stubby. Sirius, he corrected himself. Sirius Black. That is who he was, is. Though just who the hell Sirius Black was remained as vague and formless as the mist-veiled skyline. That witch had been petrified with fear when she saw his face the previous night. She was angry, fighting, until she peered upon his face. Then she broke.

Was he some raving, murderous lunatic? Could he be a hit-wizard, working for a Dark Arts organization, with her as his intended target? Unlikely, perhaps, but he did know her, and she had been truly haunted by his presence. A former lover, abandoned and heartbroken? He shook his head; intuitively he knew she wasn't his type. Hell, she didn't appear to be old enough to be his type.

A rough, cold hand passed over his unshaven face, threading through his trim locks. The gnawing in his midsection reminded him he'd not eaten since early evening, before they'd graced the Rose and Guild with their presence. After his revelation of identity, he had left the flat and his mates in a mad dash, desperate to locate something – anything – of who he was. Gut feeling drove him to transverse the streets of London, searching for a place, a reminder, of his former self. Sometime in the wee hours his feet brought him to King's Cross, and he stood just outside the gates, allowing the structure to speak to him. Only the image of scarlet steel and white vapor brushed past, and after twenty minutes, he knew that was all he'd glean from the place. And so he'd wandered until fatigue robbed his newfound calling. Green painted slats became his perch for a few hours, their un-giving charity welcomed by his exhaustion.

Foraging in his denim pockets, several British notes appeared. A light breakfast now plausible, Sirius ventured out of the park, testing various limbs as he went. Locating a vendor, he purchased a coffee and several scones, wolfing down one while his boots scuffed along the pavement. An inexplicable need coursed through him now, energy refreshed from a short kip, caffeine and sustenance. He was going somewhere. Not just anywhere, but somewhere particular to him. It lay nearby, he was sure.

Turns that made no sense, backtracking, circles, alleyways, reversals, indecision... they all plagued him, like the scent of a trail gone tepid in the night. But each crossroad that delayed him would eventually give up its answer, and direction would once again be afforded him. And so he drove on, negligent of his actual position, indifferent of his crowding workforce neighbors, off to their day's employment. Hours passed, yet he felt only more encouraged. Significance was near, and like a dog nearing home from a wayward holiday, his excitement grew.

Residential now. Still London, but gritty, filthy even. The hit-wizard theory was gaining credibility with each step deeper into the neighborhood. Uneasy, yet... Rubbish bins littered the walk; unkempt gardens guarded by indifferent hounds on cheap chains reeked of fetid scraps. A wailing baby was quickly muffled further down the lane. No other evidence of human life. It was no longer early, the late morning suggestive of some activity. It was summer break; children would not yet be at school. Yet they were not here, either.

His steps slowed. Pausing, he turned to his right, studying a dilapidated two-story with a broken gate. Beneath the grime a faint "13" emerged. He looked about. Yes. Yes, this was his destination. This abomination of a neighborhood was connected to him. He wasn't pleased about it.

Looking to his left, he critiqued the house – number eleven, he noted – with its rancid cabbages upon the stoop, the paint peeling from its shutters, the front grass dry and patchy. There was something missing, he realized. Glancing betwixt the houses, he saw that a number had been skipped. Glancing across the street, the houses numbered much higher up, both odd and even. He turned back and stared. Twelve was missing. And twelve was something he thought he knew.

Eyes closed in concentration, he attempted to visualize what connection he could possibly have with this place, and why number twelve was more important than eleven or thirteen. What street was he on? he questioned himself. That's right; Grimmauld. What a horrendous, depressing name. The Grim. Death.

He shook off the imagery, opening his eyes to again survey the sight before him. Thirteen Grimmauld meant little to him, but for a compass point. The same for Eleven Grimmauld. So what was calling for him? What was he searching for? A place that did not exist? Twelve Grimmauld Place seemed to have been forgo –

No more than he had thought it, he saw it. Emerging from between the abodes before him, shoving aside their rickety structures, number twelve, Grimmauld Place formed. Niggling the back of his mind, unplottable repeated softly. There. That's where answers lay. Swift glance about revealed the uninhabited grounds still barren. Cautious yet quickly, he crossed the walk and ascended the newly repaired stone steps.

The black door showed signs of previous neglect, its fresh paint masking grooves and scratches. The silver knocker, however, gleamed its serpentine figure. Adrenaline swept through him with a force of painful anticipation. All else faded to the background. The door before him, and what lay beyond, would tell the tale he'd paid the story master dearly for.

Reverently, forgetting his wand, he reached out. Not to the knocker, but to the handle. Mouth dry, breath shallow, he gripped the silver apparatus, and turned.

That's when he heard the scream.