Chapter 9: Troublesome Discoveries

Chapter 9: Troublesome Discoveries

The realm of magic can blow the mind, its infinite possibilities crossing the perimeters of definition. But the phenomenon of the mind can thoroughly blow magic away.

It had returned. Again.

The dream.

Dense vapor hung in the crisp air, dampening tendrils against her icy cheeks, a biting breeze striking shivers through her. All about, the shore, the lake, the boat... all remained as she remembered. From without her body, she saw the hand reach toward her quivering chin, could feel its warmth near a clenched jaw. It was him. Again. His presence flooded all perception of awareness, of rationality. His scent carried upon the current, teasing. Breathing grew labored.

Physical nearness too intense overrode all other stimuli. This time as calloused fingers gently tugged, a voice accompanied the movement. Barely audible, the words called from behind, "All is well, milady."

Hermione woke with a violent start. Panting, air came quickly, harshly to her lungs. Her head swam, hyperventilation threatening a cold faint. Predawn illumination revealed in bluish hue the childhood room of Ginevra Molly Weasley Potter.

Deep sigh. Steady on, now. She was safe, in bed, in the care of the Weasley clan.

Stilling her tremors, she relaxed fatigued muscles, reviewing the imagery of but moments before. The voice was new. Never before had she heard aught save the laps of gentle loch kissing the sandy loam of shoreline. Repetitively the words sounded in her head. Timbre and quality meshed within memory... she knew the voice, but... but...

It was Raj.

-o-

Guilt washed reluctantly over the bedeviled witch. Time off both studies and work, and she had spent little of it with her parents. Her mum's call echoed up the stairway, reminding that reservations had been made, and to be tardy would forfeit them. Mrs. Granger had taken the Friday off work expressly to spend with her only child; the effort was not lost on the latter. But it took all her inner strength to push aside the pressing concerns within: an appointment had been made to chat up Colin, and the opportunity to locate Sirius – er, his look-alike, she mentally corrected – and grant herself peace of mind by proving the sham left her solely attentive on this one thing. But dinner reservations had been made, an itinerary of shopping and mother/daughter time immediately following. But she only wanted to hunt down this mysterious 'Sirius.' But her mum and dad rarely saw her nowadays, and she was their only child. But...

Thus, the guilt.

Forty minutes further into her life, Hermione stiffened her posture in answer to her mother's critiquing gaze. The roast lamb was dry, the vegetable mix tasteless. Picking listlessly at them was as much idle doodling as attempts at nourishment. Recollections plagued her mind, aborting all efforts at dinner conversation.

Raj. Just who the hell was he? She felt neither threatened by him, nor comforted. But he unnerved her. Hidden were his schemes, designs of a nature not apparent. Vague answers, incomplete explanations, carefully weighed words. Flirtatious in a medieval sort of way, his chivalrous manner both charming and disquieting. Handsome, yes, but supposedly so was the Devil himself. Yet... he did not exude evil; he simply personified some intangible force that must be respected – a force with which to be reckoned. To be leery of him was wise, she decided. He could be working for anyone... even himself. It was the last option that bore the most danger.

"David's awfully clever; he's designed numerous gardens, even for grand country estates in the North Country." Mrs. Granger's animation was bright with a tad too cheery façade. Another bite, and her roll on her old friend Darlene's nephew continued, much to Hermione's disconcertion.

"Right gentlemanly; handsome, too. Reminded me a bit of that American rock star, what's-his-name. Long hair – well, short now – band named after him... I think he was in a film or two, as well." She paused, waiting for input. When it did not come, "Right. Anyway, he loves children – got a young niece and nephew he adores. Dotes on them, he does. Even takes them on the job when he can. Mind you, they're only six or so, but he keeps them well occupied while he works. He'll make an excellent father someday." Nothing. Another bite, sip of soft drink. Another try.

"Saw your graduation picture, the one I took of course. Wouldn't do to have a moving photograph to scare him off." Light, forced chuckle. "He thought you were simply beautiful. Still single, you know. Man like that won't be long without fanfare. You might could meet him for a drink, as he's in London quite often. Perhaps after work. I wouldn't suggest telling him you're a witch right off, you know, but he's an open-minded sort, he is. And he did say you were quite a looker..."

Hermione scowled at her potatoes. She honestly did not need this now. Still scrutinizing the tubers, less-than-congenial retorts issued from her set mouth.

"Mum, I already have a boyfriend, as you well know. I'd appreciate it if you would cease trying to match-make me as though I was a dried-up spinster." Her free hand shot up, halting Mother Granger's response. This time the scowl met the matron's eyes in direct defense. "For whatever reason you have against Ron, you've made like he doesn't even exist. Well, he does. And he's my boyfriend of several years, eventually to be my husband."

"You think so?" her mother challenged.

The scowl deepened, eyes narrowed. Rising with a ringing toss of her fork, Hermione gathered her bag without losing eye contact. "Yes. I've no doubt. Now, if you'll excuse me, I promised to meet Ginny and help her with baby preparations. Thanks for the lunch," she added coolly.

Clonking echoed against stucco walls and tiled floor into the airy, high-ceilinged room, announcing to one and all the determined departure of a young woman in khakis and dress flats, her bushy brown tresses caught up in a French braid. Any onlooker would have thought her a budding professional ending a poor business luncheon. None would have ever guessed the truth: a brilliant witch who'd just glaringly lied to her own mother. About everything.

-o-

Her tears had abated by the time she reached the Leaky Cauldron. Hours walking the streets of London had allowed ample time to purge body and soul of turbulent emotions, and expunge the evidence in turn. The lie insinuating her and Ginny's plans for that afternoon had rolled easily off Hermione's tongue, but had done nil in actually keeping the woman busy throughout the empty hours following her lash-out. In reality, Ginny had had a medical appointment for the afternoon. The women were not supposed to meet until five, nearly an hour hence. Colin had cleared his schedule for a half-five appointment as a personal favor. Thirty minutes. Enough time to formulate a plan of action should the evidence prove damning.

Maudlin thoughts plagued alongside firewhisky and butterbeer. The other bald-faced lie of the day gnawed in terrier fashion, unwilling to be dispelled by either anxiety for the approaching interview, or the liquid courage present to face said meeting. Contrary to bravado words, she was not without doubt of future matrimony to the youngest Weasley son. More than kilometers, waters and national borders created distance between them. As of late, the steady banked fire had flickered to little more than embers, lapping occasionally only with strong efforts to fan their flames. It was disheartening, even more so in light of all else threatening her life's plan.

Was nothing in fruition as it was intended to be?

"Aggie! How wonderful to see you this afternoon." Tom's exuberant salutation woke Hermione from her self-obsession. Just approaching the bar, a stout, weathered witch let slip a half-smile in return, requesting a gillywater. "How goes the new shop?"

"Gave a right tear in me knickers hanging those molting monstrosities you call artwork, Tom," she replied with mock gruff. "Knew I should have used a Levitating Charm, but they're so difficult to align properly, particularly without assistance. Seems I recall someone offering to help set up, but he must not could've been fagged."

Blushes crept up from Tom's collar, averted eyes and boyish grin admitting his guilt. Peeking back at the object of his affection, he countered, "Was just going to stop by tomorrow afternoon, once business died down. That way I could offer my services wholly and without interruption."

The hopeful look pacified Aggie, a smirk and eyebrow suggesting he wasn't getting off quite that easily, though. Tagging her order, she turned to leave, tossing back a cheeky, "You should stand for election, Tom. Talk enough cobblers to flog anything." Her retort earned a besotted sigh. Hermione grimaced. Even old Tom had an encouraging love life. All she had was an almost-but-not-quite.

Wait. Hold up there, lassie, she chastised herself. Just when had she decided it was a complete no-go? When did Ron suddenly become not enough? For what purpose was she already emotionally turning from a pleasant, established affair? What more than she had with Ron could she want out of a relationship?

That feeling you get with him.

Damned know-it-all conscience.

-o-

Trinkets and contraptions whirled, buzzed, beeped and clicked. A cracker tin held more room than this ill-fitted closet of sundry, Hermione mused silently. Shifting uncomfortably in the wicker-back, a quick glance was tossed to Ginny, seated similarly just two inches away.

"Almost as cramped as Dad's old office," she muttered, eyes dancing about the brightly lit box.

Hermione held back a snort. It was difficult to imagine a working office more compact than Colin Creevey's, but she herself had never beheld the broom cupboard Arthur Weasley had shared in those days gone by of Muggle Artifacts. Still, reconsidering, the drying photographs hanging on clothespins throughout made for limited headroom, even for one as petite as herself. Glimpses revealed vague formations in growling poses; subterfuge enacted in shadowy cloaks, Galleons changing hands; blue flames circling a black foyer curved in non-descript doors –

"Ah, now. Here we are." Cheery words escaped from behind the stack of photographic material entering through the paneled passageway, Colin's hands balancing the precious darkroom discoveries with unprecedented expertise. A step to clear the already-closing door, and the orderly pile fell to rest upon... more piles.

"Right, then. This is the full batch of all the photographs I took at the Gala Saturday evening. Do you know exactly what you're looking for? I can help you, if you do." Eager anticipation drew his kind eyes wide, a look reminiscent of his early Hogwarts years. He had yet to lose his adoration of Harry Potter.

He'd do anything to assist the legendary hero's young wife and mother-to-be.

"I still can't believe Harry's going to be a father," he added, before either woman could speak. Gazing upon Ginny with reverence, an almost wistful sound came forth. "The Boy Who Lived will be the Dad Who, er, well..." His smile faltered in embarrassment, his lack of wit troubling him.

"Er, Colin," Hermione interrupted, hesitant to reveal too much. "We're searching for photos taken early in the evening, preferably before the Gala actually began. Do you think you could help us?"

The opportunity to aid the Woman Who Married the Boy Who Lived and friend overcame Colin's self-consciousness. Rightly he perked up at this invitation, setting forth to distribute animated glossies and flip through a packet himself. Amidst timing alarms dinging and interoffice memorandum owls swooping, the trio set forth their search. Colin would separate the preparation photos from the evening, allowing the women to sort the prior first. With luck, pre-party captures would exist, allowing free view of unadulterated faces.

But it was not to be. Painted minstrels graced what few collages included the entertainment. Twenty agonizing minutes later, the best close-up of the band was an intoxicated spree during a scheduled break. Unfortunately, Sid Vicious – a.k.a. Sirius-look-alike – kept ducking over from repeated shoves by the blue-haired drummer. Hermione displayed this view to Ginny with a half-heart.

"Bit pissed, I do believe, but that's him with the short black hair." She pointed distinctly to gelled locks dripping in sweat. Little could be identified on the leather-clad performer, but dutifully Ginny peered in consideration, attempting to notice something of Sirius-like nature. A moment later she sighed.

"Sorry, Hermione. I just don't see it. I mean, he's lithe and about the right height, but he won't stay put for me to get a proper look. He keeps turning to those blokes in the background, arguing."

Following the redhead's finger of reference, Hermione swore under her breath. "Honestly. If Chamberlain and Sir McCaine could for once leave their office politics at the office, we'd all be better off." To herself she wondered if their continuing bicker was the source for Raj's unpredictable temper. His work with Chamberlain left him exposed once too often to hostile feelings over trade agreements between England and Northern Ireland.

"Well, there's nothing for it, I suppose." Turning to the eager photographer, she politely inquired if she could keep the photograph, just in case.

"Certainly," his bright answer came. "Anything for you, Ms. Granger." As she stowed the paper image, Creevey added inquisitively, "If you're looking for views of the band in particular, we've better shots from the interview yesterday, taken at their flat."

Even tedious tick-tocks ceased for but a moment.

"Sorry?" Little more than a whisper it came, crossed between vexation for the wasted time and anxiety for the moment of truth. Hermione's bowed head slowly drew up from her leather case, eyes wide, throat suddenly dry. Half swallow. Blink. Half effort throat clearing.

"Would you mind..." The request could not be completed, stuck somewhere in her throat as it was. Colin, however, needed no further words.

"Right-so," he called, dislodging himself from the tangle of notes, drying lines and clumsy swivel chair. Out the paneled door once more, and Hermione froze in thought and body, refusing to face a silent Ginny. Butterbeer and firewhisky soured in her stomach; the time had come to discern her level of sanity, her level of paranoia, or simply her level of eyesight deterioration.

If she had breathed once while Colin was gone, it was misjudged, for exhalation upon his return brought with it a bout of whirling lightheadedness. Familiar hands steadied her threatening sway. Ginny's concern was tangible.

"Here we are." A bundle was passed forth to the pale witch. Unable to release the desk's edge to which she clung, Mrs. Potter's free hand accepted the write-up. In moments the steadying hand dropped to share the burden of the Quibbler article, mere pages though it may be. Again only employed mutterings could be heard in the cupboard-sized room. Hermione could not bring herself to look anyplace but forward, an unseeing line of vision blurring the patterns of oak tongue and groove. Jaw tightened, breathing shallow, she awaited the verdict.

Slowly, softly, nervously the phrase slipped from Ginny Potter's lips.

"You're... you're right." Hermione's head turned to face her companion, a fit of flush draining her face of color. Eyes meeting, inquiring brows to frighteningly furrowed ones, the unspoken question was confirmed. Little more than on a hair's breath Fate but did seal her Soul. "It's him. It's Sirius."

-o-

Sirius Black ran calloused palms down his whiskery face, separating at his chin and diverting to his neck where they remained in settle. Deep breath, released. Pissed off would be the polite interpretation of his current mood, a side order of weary agitation to round it off. Knackered from too little sleep – fitful dreams gracing his eyes with more streetlamp time than eyelid – his humor was not such to appreciate the early copy of the Quibbler left on the kitchen bar for his benefit. Front page, lower half. Gracing the mass newsprint just below the headlined lead on powerfully magical items being hidden as Muggle Artifacts in the Ministry, spread the lengthy article, The Hobgoblins: Resurrected from the Dead.

An article he hadn't wanted written, a large photograph of which he'd adamantly refused to be a part, and damn it but if the nosy reporter hadn't cornered a few words from his mouth as he'd attempted inconspicuousness. It had failed. Miserably. And that photographer... Conner? Cole? Colin? He'd looked oddly at Sirius his first meeting, then shrugged it off and managed to roam about the sitting room during the chat, taking candid shots Sirius couldn't manage to duck completely out of. Though mostly only profile clips, his photographic self occasionally turned three-quarters, enough to establish a right decent view.

Exactly what he'd wished to avoid.

Until he was sure of just who and what he was, and what life he'd led before waking in this flat, the wizard did not want his likeness plastered about the Wizarding world. Gut instinct demanded with speculative cause a low profile. That was just his intention. Glancing back at the paper, a low growl emitted from deep inside. However, that, apparently, wasn't everyone else's intention.

Sirius Black gritted his teeth. And now there was Sunday night to contend with.

Shit.

-o-

The 'goblins had regrouped, returned to their power with a fresh energy lacking their final year of performing, when last they took the stage nearly twenty years prior. Or so the article had said. It also had claimed the chemistry between the artists was renewed. Even more impressive were the lead vocals, revitalized in range and emotion, better than ever before. A show revamped, worthy of notice by old fans, new fans and critics alike. They were even going to attempt the unthinkable: two evenings hence they were going undercover, opening for a Muggle rock band in Wimbledon Stadium.

Clean performance, clean cut, clean record. The Hobgoblins were reclaiming their title of legends, the print stated. Their photo of make-up free faces dispelled rumors they'd relied upon the paint last week to hide aging lines that'd turn away the young 'goblin newbies. On the contrary, the boys had aged well, particularly the raven-haired aristo in gray knit pullover, bashfully ducking out of sight. The lasses would fall for him in groves, more so now than ever.

Bloody wanker.

Stubby Boardman crumpled the paper with vengeance, hurling it violently across the room.