Chapter 8: Bring Forth the Past

Chapter 8: Bring Forth the Past

It was not the ill-fitting garments that made her breath catch. Her hand upon the front door's handle, Hermione's skin flushed with an icy chill. A shiver alone suggested motion and life, her form deathly still, her eyes glazed in sightless stare.

"All right, I've everything," came Ginny's breathless voice from behind. "When we get out the door, give me a moment to recast a few wards; then we'll Apparate to that alley next to Third Hand." When Hermione made no reply or move, "C'mon, let's go," she hissed. "That Silencing Spell on Mother Black from this morning won't hold much longer."

Trepidation brushed aside, Hermione broke from her unnamed trance of worry, released the catch and carefully opened the door.

There was nothing.

An odd sense of surprise ran through her, with it a tinge of disappointment. What was she anticipating? Order members did not use the old house anymore, its permanent occupants residing only part time now themselves. So then... Shaking off the indefinable, the threshold was crossed, and she waited momentarily for Ginny to step through as well and cast her new charms.

The street was nearly empty, her edgy glances about determined. Muffled baby cries escaped a bit further down the lane; across the street a domestic scuffle of swearing and grappling mixed in a dark blur. Lazily trotting down the walk, a scrawny wolfhound passed the witches without acknowledgement. Stop torturing yourself, Hermione. Events past are only a precursor to madness, you know. Mad-Eye is your next stop on the Paranoia Underground...

"All right, let's go." The voice from behind was impatient. Another surveillance revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Had she actually expected... well... for Sirius to show up? Heat flushing her cheeks answered the unspoken question. Yes... yes, she had.

As she spun with the three D's engrained, realization snapped: And she'd wanted him to do so.

-o-

Bloody hell, he was out of shape.

Heaving breaths strained his lungs, growing humidity suffocating his attempts for oxygen. Triceps burned in exertion, forcing their limp hanging at his sides. Sirius squinted through saltwater-blurred eyes. Pansy hoodlums graced the Muggle world just as predominantly as the Wizarding one, he decided. The prone figure before him groaned, a cracking voice sputtering epithets into the brittle grass. Nasty bastard thought he'd play tug-o-war with his girlfriend, a fourteen-month-old lass the rope de jour. Tell-tale sharp fumes absent, apparently another form of chemical imbalance had driven the gamey git torturously mad.

Fingers flexed, shoulders stretched, tenderly he touched bruised knuckles. Recapitulation of the past few minutes played visually about his head in sequence.

Only the girlfriend's screams had alerted Sirius to the insanity across the street. Harry wasn't the only one with a "Saving People Thing," as Sirius' hand had left the door handle, his long, lean legs in ground-eating stride before coherent thought broke through. Securing the wailing child's freedom to her mother, he had targeted the brute. Unending minutes had passed, bone splintering beneath focused strikes, innate desire for violence coursing through him, driving him –

Wait. Who the hell was Harry?

-o-

Toast and wild huckleberry jam settled uneasily as Hermione crossed the barrier into Diagon Alley. Her last trip here – only days prior – had resulted in numerous "sightings" that had set the stage for questioning her own sanity. Considering the episode last evening, her experience in Gringotts was even more unnerving.

Borrowed robes and shirt were shifted agitatedly, and Ginny took immediate notice with apologetic tones.

"Sorry, Hermione. My prenatal clothes are at Mum and Dad's, and most everything left at Grimmauld is from Hogwarts years. The rest of my clothes I set fire to one evening. Was in a right moody fit, I s'pose." Contriteness laced her words, a smattering of blush rose across her pale, freckled skin. The shorter, curvier woman laughed in spite of her friend's bizarre revelations.

"No, the dungarees are fine, Ginny. I appreciate the loan, really. It's just," she readjusted the left breast of the robe again. Her voice fell in decibel and timbre. "This poster's a bit much, and... heavy." Gravity per se was not an issue, and both knew. Intangible forces outside physics burdened the parchment's bearer. No more was said about the aging Wanted poster of Sirius that had remained hanging in a dark recess of the pub until Hermione nonchalantly requested it. A bit of memorabilia, she'd explained. Tom hadn't refused her.

The Thursday noon crowd had not yet invaded the shops, a steady stream of patrons skirting the pair as they approached the magical realm of reference and narratives. Acrid scents denoting aged inks and richly oiled leathers both assaulted and caressed the senses upon entry. Eyes momentarily closed in pleasure, an old feeling reminiscent of early days in Hogwarts' library swept Hermione's concerns away. Floating, flowing, relaxing into the world of script and knowledge... fingers trailing upon the rows of ancient texts, a forest-leather tome edged in gold, Cebarando Dragònes –

"Shall we try upstairs?" Ginny's suggestion broke the vision's façade. Reluctantly the older witch returned to reality, drifting up the hardwood stairs in Mrs. Potter's wake.

Though hardly their alma mater's collection, the shelves oozed with volumes, each tempting perusing patrons, promising wealth through knowledge, intrigue, comfort and clarity. Candy was less a stronghold on a child than the written word on Ms. Granger. Unsure a starting point, the ladies split each shelving unit. Ginny procured several promising bindings from the back wall end and settled against the varnished bead board, fingering their talisman leafs. Hermione leveled her gaze upon the open end, top down, snagging anything resembling proper quarry.

Speaking only when relevancy was encountered, prolonged silence followed their search for the next two hours. Dogged focus was difficult for the elder witch; abundant facts, figures, concepts beckoned her with each passing page. Digression was her enemy, she reminded herself sternly. Another time, perhaps.

"Interesting bit here, I s'pose," Ginny remarked, her eyes lifting from a particularly hefty composition. Weariness elongated their blue irises, suggesting their time here should be curtailed in the near future.

Hermione re-shelved the pointless tome before her and joined her mate at the back, seating herself upon the lemon-oiled wood. A quick duck recovered the title: Reflections of the Past, by David Thyme.

"It's not much help, but listen to this:

Another favored form to return the Dead's presence to the here and now has been the magical portrait. Typically captured whilst the subject is still corporeal with a pulse, the essence of the being is blended into the paints, offering a shadow of the living being to promote their personality and knowledge when direct interaction is not feasible or possible, such as after death. Little more than an imprint, the magical portrait does offer a semblance of the departed, while offering a measure of comfort to those still of this world."

Sudden pause fell in the reciting, the reader's eyes hooded in their calculated watch of a passer-by at the balcony end of the row. Once assured of their complete departure, she continued, voice subdued.

"A master painter can ingrain enough of the subject to provide knowledge and understanding as would be offered by the living self. However, the degree of such is limited. Even the Master Portraiture Artist Agatha Pallet – whose works include The Soothsayer, The Ice Queen and Albus Dumbledore – admits to boundaries in preserving the soul via tints and shades."

Ginny broke off, a vaguely hopeful expression beseeching approval. Hermione tightened her facial muscles, resembling thoughtful consideration. It was interesting, and it was somewhat related to what they were seeking, but it really didn't help. Gray eyes and whisky-laced breath assaulted her last evening, not oil colors. Resignation escaped in a deep sigh, sadly daunting after the efforts thus far.

"Didn't figure it'd help," Ginny admitted. "But it was worth a try, anyway. Learned something at least, yeah?" No answer was granted time as she quickly rose, returned the text and resumed her search. Hermione ran her hands over her face and eyes, wishing the bleariness from them. How he'd returned was right now the only direction she had to go in. She had no proof of his existence. No one else who knew him had seen him; she now even questioned her own vision. Proof nil, a source proving possibility was her only hope.

Rising slowly to the muffled pops and cracks of arthritic-bound joints, she stiffly returned to her own section of the aisle, silently beseeching the powers that be. There had to be something of help. Somewhere.

"How is it I'm neither surprised nor troubled to find you here, researching during your holiday?"

Whiplash invited, Hermione's spin-about left her dizzy and unsteady. Wide eyes latched onto the surprisingly formidable figure so very close to her. Her breath quickened. A scowl of concern marred Raj MacGregor's features.

"Caught with your fingers in the biscuit tin, Ms. Granger?" His low tone more confused than accusatory, he studied her without rancor, patiently awaiting her defense. Her pose did not suggest a mere explanation. Silence followed.

"She was helping me, Mr., er..."

"MacGregor." A gentle smile graced his lips, his handsome features growing less intimidating in their suggestion of friendliness. His attention remained on Ginny long enough to bow slightly in respect, greeting her fully. "Raj MacGregor, ma'am. Hermione and I have shared several excursions into the boredom of diplomatic council sessions." Dark eyes returned to the first witch, piercing in their scrutiny. "I am afraid I have caught her off her guard. My humblest apologies." Another bow, this one deeper, slower.

That was not by chance, Hermione realized as he stood straight again. "Returning the Dead, Hermione?" Title dipped to nearly face the floor, the book was gripped tightly in her hands as though it would take flight on its own. His low bow allowed him to neatly catch the front cover words.

"Planning to recruit Inferi, are we?" Blanching told her story more acutely than words. It was apparent to Raj at that point that she neither intended such, nor had she even considered the inference her choice of books made. Relief swept him; she was hiding something, but he did not believe it was an evil secret. At least, not to him.

"We're doing a bit of personal research," Ginny offered to break the suffocating silence. "Simply having a run-in with a lack of available information." The cast glare Hermione sent her was ignored. In truth, what did they have to lose? No specifics would be offered; any general interest knowledge could be helpful, though. Unable to read Hermione's body language, Ginny knew enough to know she was not quite that leery or frightened of him. It was time to test the waters, if the other wouldn't.

"Mr. MacGregor, what do you know about returning to life after death?"

"Ginny!" That had startled the speechless back to the verbally capable. Mrs. Potter turned to her friend.

"What?" she asked innocently. The returning scowl triggered her reserved words into motion. "Well, it's not like we've had much luck on our own, no? Might could use a little help."

Raj quickly took in the exchanged dark looks. Important it may be, but Hermione's reluctance to share information piqued Raj's interest in several ways. He chanced it.

"It depends upon the method and manner of returning to life, Ms...."

Ginny turned with a polite smile, a furrow still on her brow for her mate. "Potter. Ginny Potter."

Interesting, Raj considered. The Lady Potter and the heir apparent, if his keen sight remained unerring.

"And it's an odd case, you see. A relative of mine was murdered a number of years ago in a rather odd manner. In fact, he just, well, disappeared. But under the circumstances, we knew the disappearance was death itself. However, recently I think I've seen him about. Not a look-alike, mind you, but he himself. It's complicated," she hastily added at his puzzled expression. He seemed prepared to question, then closed his mouth. Serious contemplation replaced confusion, and he rubbed his darkly shadowed jaw in thought.

Though hesitant, Hermione's stance suggested she was, indeed, interested in his answer. He weighed his options, feeling for gut instinct in how much to offer, how much to reveal. His colleague was a marvel, a fair lass with power, influence, intelligence. She seemed to trust him, but one could never be overly cautious, considering the state of things. He had his own agenda, and a hindrance would not be tolerated. Carefully he spoke, knowing he could at least offer something of value, even without an explanation.

"I may have a reference that could be of service to you." A breath held exhaled. "Mind you, it is not a guarantee, as you've not even specified what it is you seek." The quick catch of breath told him he'd caught Hermione unaware. He decided to relieve her tension, freeing her from concern he would pry.

"I assume you wish to know how your relative could have returned from the dead, though to my knowledge it is impossible in today's world. However, if you are interested, I could loan you the text." His eyes left one witch's for another's, visually enforcing his next words. "It is very old, and very valuable. I would wish not to part long from it, as it is irreplaceable." His meaning was clear. By the expressions on the ladies' faces, so was theirs.

-o-

The flat was sparse in furniture, but cluttered in artifacts. Below floors the Muggle antique shop's bell jingled at each collector's entrance or exit, breaking the solitude of the desolate sitting room.

Hermione walked about, an uneasy feeling returning. Raj was in another room, searching out the proffered tome of knowledge. She wasn't sure how much she could trust him – she could have strangled Ginny for speaking out of turn about their business to him – but in the long run, they'd told him little; he'd asked no further questions. Flooing to his flat unnerved her a bit, but she recalled she did have her wand, as well as Ginny with hers. Caution was simply required.

History buff would accurately describe Raj at first glance of his home. Trinkets not unlike those gracing the late Albus Dumbledore's Headmaster's office were strewn about, a certain order to their chaotic placement. However, little appeared to be anything less than aged. While Ginny paced about the other side of the room, lingering over the only two photos displayed, Hermione found fascinating the simple presentation upon a corner section of otherwise ignored wall.

Sconce candlelight reflected against the tartan plaid draped elegantly upon the Muggle-white sheetrock. Suspended against it, the gleam of Damascus folding endeared her attention. Yet the straight double-edge proclaimed not the Middle Eastern art, but the broadsword styling of Western Europe. Closer inspection revealed the nearly foot-long grip wrapped in black linen, the heavy brass-like hilt engraved in elegantly scripted foreign characters. Hermione murmured, attempting to make out the unfamiliar letters. Celtic, perhaps? She squinted, drew nearer, studied... turned – it could be upside-down, you know – tried to imagine a reversal, such as a mirror...

"Ond 'r enilla farchog i mewn 'r byd shall arlunia hon eginyn chan 'r carega."

Startled, she jumped back and around, clutching her wand nervously. Raj kept merely a meter between them, his face impassive as his eyes darted but once to the brandished vine wood. Her response and his lack thereof only disconcerted her further. Abashed, she lowered her wand. Peripherally, Ginny's appearance induced a bit more relaxation through her. Tension ebbed from her body as the moments of stillness continued to pass.

Raj remained unreadable.

Hermione found her voice, breaking the solitude. "W-what?" Self-disgust rode hand-in-hand with the quaver her voice submitted. She should have had a real drink last night, she considered. One now wouldn't be a poor judgment, either.

"Ond 'r enilla farchog i mewn 'r byd shall arlunia hon eginyn chan 'r carega," he repeated flatly. "Welsh."

"What does it mean?" Ginny questioned, nearing the sword with a comforting closeness to Hermione's left.

MacGregor paused, staring, considering his words. Hermione'd seen that look before from him; it reminded her why the fine hairs on her neck rose in his presence. "Simply a statement of ownership, nothing more." His tone suggested an end to that line of questioning, but Ginny either missed or ignored it.

"Who owned it?" Strangely, the elder witch found herself curious as well. She had a sneaking suspicion.

"A chyndad of mine, from many years ago." Glazed, faraway sight impressed the guests of their host's thoughts. Returning to himself, he elaborated minimally. "Daid held it for many years before passing it along to his unimaginable and widely unknown lineage... conceived mere hours before his death."

Hermione frowned. "Daid?"

"Grandfather. Yes," he added, taking in her thoughtful display, "the same whose journal I inherited." Raj cleared his throat. "Here, this may be of some use."

He thrust forth a faded work, heavy and loosely bound. In her fear and shock, Hermione had missed the book held closely to Raj's fit form. Accepting its weight, she peered inquisitively upon its calligraphic cover.

"Ancient Artes of Majik, by Shahi." Pages gently flipped, a brow raised. "It looks quite old. I've never seen a book look so... forlorn."

"Another family heirloom," Raj explained quietly. "From a time of great expectation, fallen to the reality of humanity's failures." Dark sadness cast briefly upon his face. Then, intense, forced gaiety.

"Ladies, it has been a pleasure, but I've a meeting in ten minutes with the Minister of Finance..."

Apologies fell profusely from feminine lips; their masculine counterpart assuring all was well, he just had to be conscious of the time. Gratitude profound, humble acceptance, respectful goodbyes. Quarter of an hour spent wisely, perhaps, then the young witches again found their placement in the Leaky Cauldron.

"Fancy an ice cream?" Leave it to the pregnant one for an immediate return to food for thought.

Fortescue's had reopened, a young cousin of the defunct proprietor reviving its services. Outside the shop the wrought iron dinettes offered touristic views of the Alley, granting shade from the midsummer sun yet welcoming gentle tickles of intermittent breezes.

"Sorry; loo call," Ginny announced halfway through their twin hot fudge sundaes. Abstaining comment, Hermione acknowledged her notice and departure with a brief nod, occupying her mouth with another spoonful and continuing her scrutiny of the borrowed treatise.

Purity remains the greatest source of Level One love, within which intent and malice share not a breath. It is only through this that true Life Returned may be granted, and only in phases allowing both body and soul to return as one. If separation or deterioration has rendered either without the parameters of functionality, Life cannot be restored. Will without greed, heart without defense, love without malice – such a rare mixture is necessary. Need and focus must be complete.

Should all combine in a tranquil state, the ancient steps may be followed –

Damn it! Missed her mouth, it did, and decorated her robes. Hermione shot back, swearing beneath her breath as linen cloth attempted recovery of the stray cream and topping from her left breast. Crinkling beneath her cleaning hand momentarily confused her, and she delved into her inside pocket to remind herself what she had stowed.

Sirius. In the hullabaloo of the day, she'd forgotten his poster. Folded such that only the barest of his full, animated face showed, she stared in fascination. Had she really seen him? she questioned herself for not the first time. Had it only been her obsessive, overworked mind playing mental tricks? Sooth, no one else had noticed him. If it was really him, wouldn't there have been some sort of uprising by this point, someone to call out they'd seen the Sirius Black – an innocent man, the only man to have escaped Azkaban while still under Dementor guard? Surely so. Besides, even Dumbledore, Harry had once said, explained that no amount of magic could bring the dead back to life. And wasn't that reinforced by their lack of information found today? This reference from ages gone by, even if accurate, even if conceivable, suggested a nearly impossible scenario required to bring forth into light the deceased.

Visually she followed the lines, the contours of the late Marauder's face. Young, little more than her own years, but so aged through horrendous experience. Insane, they'd said. Perhaps he was. But would she not be as well, had it been Harry and Ginny, betrayed to Voldemort by Ron or... She shook her head, unable to further envision. Under no degree could she place herself in his mind; only could she accept that she understood his madness, its validity, its depth.

Returning to the image before her, aristocratic cheekbones shone through smudges of dirt, asphalt, results of the traitor Pettigrew's demonstrative exit into exile. His eyes... anguished, crazed, numbly beseeching anyone to claim it all merely a nightmare, haunted by knowledge proclaiming –

"I think I like the short fringe better, but that crazed look's dead sexy, too."

All that is holy, if people don't stop sneaking up on her... Hermione's only rational thought after her startled seated-jump back was one of basic agitation. Chelsea Chamberlain's lively eyes followed the photograph as Hermione pulled it toward herself in an effort of obscurity. Futile it was, however, as the teen smiled knowingly and stepped around from behind the annoyed witch, seating herself with a pulled chair from the next table. No mannered greeting evidently was required.

"Don't blame ya there, mate. I'd hide it, too, 'twas mine. Got it autographed, too, didn't ya?" Eyes sparkled in anticipation, and Chelsea beamed as she made to lean over the table for a closer examination of the poster. Hermione's brows furrowed; was this girl mental? The fact that she recognized the poster from four years back... she hadn't even started Hogwarts when Sirius was killed. Movement caught her eye to her right – Ginny had just returned and was standing beside her chair, intent on the teen's words. A quick glance to each other confirmed each questioned the delusional aspects of the girl's mind.

"Autographed?" Hermione countered in what she hoped was an innocent, casual voice.

"Oh, come off it. I saw you starin' at him the other night. Don't blame ya, neither." Chelsea's grin broadened. "Mind you, he's a bit old for my taste – must be in his thirties – but you just can't forget thighs like that. I mean, bad boy black, leather... Mmmm, tasty."

Amazed horror shot between the elder women. Hermione mouthed, "Bad boy Black?" to Ginny, unsure she could find her voice even if the girl had not been present. An obsession for Sirius was one thing for Hermione – she'd known him, and it wasn't that kind of obsession. But Chelsea's fanatic lust over an accused dark wizard / murderer, long since dead... Ms. Granger was feeling the dessert return in bile-trade. Lightheaded, dizzy...

"Always had a weakness for the musician type, I did," the teenager continued, unaware her words caused such havoc upon her audience. "Could've done without the face paint, but Mum says it wouldn't have been the 'goblins without it. She was a right fan back when they first got set, but that was ages ago. Now she just listens to that ole Celestina What's-Her-Face." A glance to her watch, then, "Bollocks! Got to fly; Dad's waitin' at Madam Malkin's. Mum's makin' him buy me new dress robes for the Samhein Festival in Dublin and Yule Ball the Ministry's puttin' on.

"Nice seein' ya again, Ms. Granger," she added in quick pace with her rise. "Maybe we'll spot ya at the Ball, eh? Ya must go; that hot bloke Raj'll be there, Dad assures me." With that, she departed in a flurry of giggles.

Left gawking unseemingly, Hermione's brows shot up in question at her friend, the latter slowly taking her chair. "Musician type?" Ginny finally broke.

Sirius' image continued his spastic movements, Hermione staring critically at his form. "Yes, she seemed to think he's some musician we've seen together, face painted and –" Realization smacked her dead on. The forthcoming gasp revealed in mere whispering squeak. Connection made, credulous expressions crossed her face as she shared newfound knowledge just above fainted whispers. "I know where I've seen him – and his mates – before."

"Where?" Ginny's question was hard, direct. Too much made too little sense here.

"The Gala Saturday night. They were the band. Everybody saw them. They talked to fans and played and..." Voice trailing off, a last understanding jerked the light switch within. A sly, genuine smile grew as she stared for Ginny's reaction.

"And Colin Creevey shot the pictures."

-o-

Earl Grey, tasteless, burned his throat. At least it was hot and wet, he considered, finishing the last of his scones. The flat was deserted, and Sirius found solitude desirable after his only semi-productive morning, and cold, damp night. Though he'd learned his name and had released weeks of tension through abrasive physical combat, locating an important, unplottable domestic was a source of further aggravation. Try as he might, the wards would not drop. An hour of loitering before the unseen building grew suspicious to the few Muggles milling about; giving it up as a bad job was his only choice for the day.

Aches crept into his head and neck. Knotted muscles sought his free hand's massaging grip, the effort of simply remembering monumental. All he wished now was a soft bed and continued silence – something he found as a rock star almost fairytale. No more screaming fans, nosy reporters, greedy industry execs, or paparazzi. Please.

The door banged open just as he was depositing his crumbs in the bin, his cup in the sink.

"Stubbs, mate!" called Kent, winded in excitement. Blue and Nigel followed, ecstatic grins plastered. "Wait'll you hear! Our last gig did the trick, it did."

Sighing deeply, Sirius kept his mouth shut, not particularly interested, but knowing he'd have no peace until Kent said his own piece.

"Get changed," Nigel took up. "Bloke's on his way over. Goin' to do a story on us, mate; front page. The Quibbler's telling the world: the Hobgoblins are back!"

Damn it.