Chapter 10: Calculated Risks

Chapter 10: Calculated Risks

The boy was mid-year primary school; the girl not even. They held close to the man before her. The dark blond ringlets topping a sunshine pinafore danced from behind his dark trouser leg, ruffles darting out with the intermittent breeze. Sea green irises hedged from just behind the chocolate cotton. More daring, wide blue eyes stared in wondrous awe through black fringe, near but not touching said trouser leg. And that trouser leg...

All right, so her mother wasn't exaggerating describing David. Dirty blond locks fell in boyish manner about a lean facial structure and lopsided smile. Introductions accomplished, crystal blue eyes squinted in humor as he took in Mrs. Granger's thinly veiled set-up, its thin veil a smattering of excuses and supposed mix-up of dates. Oh, was it next Sunday this historical home's Open House was scheduled? I'm so very sorry; I thought it was today. I had forgotten that you still had work to do on the Elizabethan gardens, David. Oh, do let me go find Mrs. Winston to confirm her home tour. Won't be but a moment...

No Guild actor need fear, however; her transparent performance rated laughable had Hermione been in a laughing mood. She wasn't. Out of a sense of guilt and contrition, she'd agreed to come with her mum on a round of historical homes, all supposedly open to the public this very day. She should have known.

Left to their own devices, the witch searched for something worthy to fill the silence of the damp summer morn.

"Sorry about that. Mum can be rather thick about things." Eyes cast about, seeking another half-intelligible word or two. Ooh, how she despised being thrown into this position. Unconsciously her face tightened in dark planning, determination directing her later course of action against her infuriating mother. A light chuckle distracted devious designs.

"Don't fret; happens more than I care to mention." No conceit laced his Devonshire words; they were simply statement of fact, reinforcement in reassuring the young lady her mother's meddling was nothing to worry over. He smiled graciously, lightheartedly.

Small talk ensued, awkward and uncomfortable as such scenes can be. The children remained bashful and silent as their uncle resumed his knees and his work within the half-walled planter. Eagerly he gardened, the jostling swinging a thin golden chain about his neck, catching the morning rays in winks of glisten. Conversation continued from his kneeling state, a lively play of expression gracing the interaction. Physical in his voice, his hands gestured throughout without consideration, the soil-caked trowel sending particles hither and dither. Eased by such dirty humor, Hermione relaxed. It was just chat, after all.

"Lacy, my sister, never understood Clapton or Page, so when her boyfriends gifted her albums, I'd nip into her room and nick 'em, play 'em all night while she was out, then slip'em back before curfew." Never breaking stride, David grasped a patch of offending weed and lightly tugged it free. He handed it cross-bodied to the boy, now digging about the soil with his own smaller trowel, his sister playing with the pebbles of the walk nearby. Obvious affection softened his voice. "Here, Poppet. Please dispose properly." Dutifully, the serious young boy transferred his payload to a canvas bag beside him.

"Never was the wiser, or so I thought," the self-assured man of nature continued. Self-deprecating was his half-grin, reminiscent his longing gaze. Momentarily his hands stilled. "Years later, after she married, she gave me the 33's. Knew I was in love with 'em, she did." Caressing movements returned to his fingers, their nimble flicks potting the new, unnamed stalked foliage in the recently abandoned tract. "There's just something so yearning about –

"Oh, damn it!" Following his scorched gaze, Hermione's attention flew to the man's hands. Their botanical charges lay broken in clean lines, a light grasp upon their severed limbs. The sharp-edged trowel must have sliced the delicate stalks in mid-gesture. "Sorry, Hermione," he threw over his shoulder, a quick glance about to ensure he hadn't scared the children with his swear. Both remained as before, intent to themselves. Sighing dejectedly, he rose, explaining. "It's just these are difficult to procure, and I don't believe I've any to spare." He bit his lip in thought. "But perhaps I miscalculated." An air of hope followed the two as they traipsed several meters down the line to his cache of burlap bundles. David's voice and face lowered as the estate manager passed slowly by with a hard stare, his uniform indicative of the position. No need to raise an alarm if all could be repaired without notice.

Diligently the pair searched the plants, comparing notes and examining every sift of exposed soil. Sadly, no additional matching item could be found. "Nothing for it, I suppose," the defeated prognosis came. "Mayhap I can locate a private greenhouse..." A weary slump to his long gait, Hermione hesitantly followed David back to the scene of the accidental botanical homicide. Along the way she debated whether or not to conjure a matching plant and 'amazingly' stumble across it, when a second exclamation fouled the air. She was sure the kids heard that one.

"I don't fu– flippin' believe it!" Wits recovered enough to narrowly censor language, David fell to his knees before the half-wall, head bent. Bewildered mumbling commenced. Her view obscured by his lean back, the young witch jogged to gain his side. Staring down, she blinked. Twice. Thrice. Oh, bloody hell...

Head bouncing up in apprehension, she cast around, about... where? Eyes alighted. There. Scarlet and black uniform, gold deplumes stately in place. Just down the path, staring. Swift turnabout, strong paces crunching gravel in his exit. A strong desire swept through Hermione to give chase, but no logical reasoning could she offer her companion. Calming breathing, her gaze returned down to David, his long fingers gently stroking the rare plant's stalks. The perfectly healed stalks.

Bloody hell...

-o-

"Maybe he heard you, saw the broken plants and wasn't too chuffed their highly-paid gardener botched it up on something so rare. He was, after all, the estate manager. It's his job's worth to be upset." A tug on the blend fabric, ginger head cocking to the side in study. "And they couldn't afford to wait for a Muggle to find a new plant, if they really were setting for public viewing. I don't believe he was there stalking you.

"What I don't understand is why a wizard would be acting as estate manager to a Muggle family, regardless their lineage or prestige. There had to be another wizard there; you just didn't see them." Though disturbing, Ginny's logic was sound, as opposed to her deftly moving fingers. Hermione winced as the errant needle pricked thigh flesh for the seventh time in as many minutes.

"Couldn't you charm the needle, rather than do it by hand?" the elder witch suggested, trying to withhold pleading from her voice. The bent coppery head shook negatively three feet below, randomly obscuring the world labels of the battered travel trunk on which Hermione stood.

"You wouldn't want me to do that. I'm no better than you at domestics; we'd need a Medi-witch before I was done." Wince. Score another. Sharp, pointy steel – 8; young witch flesh – 0.

"Why don't we have your mum do it, then? She's aces at hemming skirts." Hope fled again as Ginny's movements again said 'no.'

"It's Sunday, Hermione. She's her hands full with Percy."

"Oh," her reply came softly. She'd forgotten it was Sunday. But she had never forgotten Mrs. Weasley's Sunday duty, every Sunday, since two years before. Sobering the remembrance was. Right in the thick of things, and she'd walked out well enough, physically at least. But Percy...

Stop dwelling, Hermione. Over again we've gone; everything must play out now of its own time. You did all you could. She gave a mental shake and grasped onto the first inane topic to flash its notice. "Why are we even bothering with this skirt? I've something a bit more befitting me tucked away in my overnight bag."

"Befitting you, maybe, but not befitting a Muggle rock concert. I did some study on them – yes, Hermione, I can do research just the same as you," her interruption came, forestalling any speculative words. A flashing glance up to the brunet, then back to the ever-shrinking hemline. "And anyway, what you'd wear wouldn't fit in. And you have to fit in like a Muggle fan. Remember what Colin said: there will be Aurors everywhere, and at the first hint of magic, you'll be arrested. Not even so much as an Alohamora, mind you. So leave the wand with me. It'd be less tempting if you'd have to go for wandless magic."

Bitten lip forced her to withhold comment. Now was not the time to fuss with the What do you mean what I'd wear? retort building in her throat. A long, sure-to-be-stressful night lay ahead; best to keep all her wits about her. Nary a full-fledged plan had she formed for the evening before her. Bits and pieces were settled between Ginny and herself, but many how-to's were left to play out by ear. Laminate Press Pass, a groupie look, and a thorough Muggle upbringing background. The rest... wait and see.

"I do wish I was going with you," Ginny sighed, straightening. She pulled taut the black material to critique its lines. "Something seems off about the whole thing; I just don't trust it all. But I can't afford to be around so many pushing, scatty people." A protective hand settled on her abdomen. She stepped back, dropping the skirt and catching Hermione's eye with a steady look. "Just... be careful. Mind your back. And don't... don't do anything rash."

A half-chuckle of incredibility broke. "Rash? Honestly... What would I, Hermione Granger, possibly do that could be considered rash?"

Famous last words.

-o-

Fingers long, slender, pink-tipped. Graceful. Manicured nails, clear, clean, smooth. But the reverse... Calloused palms showing wear, rough patches denoting a hardness that seeped deeper than three layers of skin. Were these the hands of a killer? Knuckles bruised a fading, sickly yellow-gray, marred from their violent venture days before. Was this an indication of his true nature? Dismissing the circumstances of saving the innocent, the destructive actions... they came too easily, without thought. There must be cause for such instinct.

Sirius Black studied his hands lain before him, detailing each crease and shadow. Digits capable of rendering an Unforgivable, perhaps? When that the wretched cried for mercy, was he merciful? Calculatingly cold might his response have been, instead? Or perhaps... indifferent? Now there. There was the cruelest of them all: to feel nothing. Vivid recollection of the witch in the London alley assured him his fate was not one of indifference. Unless what tragedy robbed his memory just as well reshaped him from within, he was not indifferent. Pity he felt for her, concern his presence had caused such anguish. Did this too mean he was not without compassion?

Sirius flexed stiff tendons, envisioning the grip of yew or holly, avarice green blinding in its absolute destruction. Every new clue suggested this dark self, his past returning in jagged portions. He was not a saint; that much he knew beyond question. Sinner was he, but the question remained: just how much so?

"The Ministry's so tight tonight, you couldn't tug a needle out of their bum with a lorry." Heralding Nigel's return, his words drew snickers before the dressing room door fully closed. With Muggle security just outside, they would have to watch their words; the Statute of Secrecy was a nasty rule to break. "So much as an Alohamora out of anyone, and it's off to Azkaban with ya." A tongue-teeth click and wink accompanied the declaration.

Though no movement betrayed him, Sirius' attention had immediately snapped back to the here and now with Nigel's comment. Luck must have blessed him last week, a Ministry-sponsored gala and all, but now that he knew his identity, edginess crept in on the coattails of concern. High security meant talented undercover Aurors. Aurors trained to spot criminals, murderers... men of wicked means. Men like him.

Two days had passed. Two days since he'd seen it – seen the image that had confirmed his apprehensive suspicions. Needing to feed a restlessness that currently dominated his psyche, Sirius had left the flat Friday after reading that damning article. Apparation had brought him to Diagon Alley, and after hours of mindless wandering, to the Leaky Cauldron, a stiff mix of firewhisky and wizard talk beckoning. There, under the guise of a hooded cloak, he'd kept to the shadows, intent on the bar. In transit, he had passed behind a quietly sobbing witch face down upon her table, a bottle of the sterner stuff beside her. But in her hand, clenched with certainty, lay partially exposed a worn, faded Wanted poster.

Of him.

He'd fled, of course. Unsure of anything, time and solitude were necessary to think. He'd not seen the charges, but one didn't get man-hunted for wangling.

"Go on, let 'em lock me up," Kent proclaimed, tossing back the catered fruit chunks with relish. "Azkaban don't scare me none, anyone. Bloody wankers are sauced up if they think boggarts'll hold a real wizard in. Not been the same since the Dementors defected."

What? Sirius' bent head jerked up to stare at Kent's reflection. Silver hue brought sharp contrast to the bassist's mirrored image, a smug expression ripe with melon juice draping his box chin. Boggarts in charge? Dementors defecting? No jest revealed itself in the metallic glass. When had this occurred? The lack of reaction from the others milling about suggested it a long-standing status, but to Sirius it was news. Nothing could enforce imprisonment like a Dementor, its cold, rattling presence, veins chilled in horror, defeat... His eyes closed in memory, an aching of empty chasms deep within, cringing in hopelessness, piercing in travesty's remembrance... Dreary stone, damp with sea water, moldy, musty, the rusted bars dank and rough...

Oh God. His eyes flashed open, peering fearfully into themselves. He'd been there, hadn't he? He'd been to Azkaban Prison. Under the Dementors. For a very, very long time.

What had he done?

"Oi, Stubbs!" Breaking thought, Sirius raised his sight to the glass likeness Nigel presented. "By the way, mate, your new best friend out there," he tossed his head to the door behind him, "says to tell you not to fret over your toys, as he'll keep a good watch over 'em for ya."

"New best friend?" Blue's for-the-evening girlfriend inquired.

"Yeah; the massive bloke guardin' the door. Body art in full sleeves. Took a right liking to Stubbs, here, didn't he?"

Kent chimed in, a groupie's massaging hands causing his words to be mumbled into his chest. "Tha's right. Already done invited 'im to tea at 'is mum's, he did. Soon as we'd arrived. Tatt'ed Muggle's right taken with our Stubby." Lecherous, knowing grins and chuckles accompanied his tale from all around, the magic folk roadies – three in all – joining in on the innuendo. Sirius merely rolled his eyes, his concerns much greater than a rock star wannabe hounding after him. "Dodgy lookin' bloke, though. If he turns out a footpad, the Ministry'll say nary a word when we string 'im up by his pudgy piggies, long as it's after the show."

Laughter increased, but Sirius' thoughts had faltered on one word: footpad. It wasn't thievery that tickled his mind, but the word itself. Yet, it wasn't quite right. Something... something close, another memory, something personal.

"'Course, it'd only be courteous of us to give 'im a last request. A last meal with ole Stubbs, here, eh? As the main course?" Roars and cackles this time, breaking Sirius' verbiage analysis. He scowled.

Knocking preempted his silent reply, and he lowered his gesturing hand as the door swung in just enough, allowing a massive blond head to shirk through, smile in a glance at Sirius, then whisper to Blue nearby. Rumblings had ceased during the confab, and remained so when the head recoiled out.

"Pork-boy says Origami Legion's ready for sound check. Want to go see how the other half lives?" Blue smiled his charismatic invitation; total agreements readily chorused in acceptance. All save Sirius, that is. Choosing to stay behind, he leaned back to view the newly-experienced Kentucky Bourbon missteps each associate displayed. Two full minutes it took before an orderly exit engaged. Ribbing murmurs of, "Wants some alone time with Bangers, I wager," and corridor scurry faded as the door swung shut yet again, locking with a final click.

Screaming silence filled the stark-white tiled cage, throbbing his eardrums for attention. He was alone. Finally. Too much needed to be considered, thought out. Magic-free meant a by-hand creation for disguise. Brilliant response from their clean-faced photo had endeared Blue, Nigel and Kent to decide the same for tonight. Muggle attire without magical transformation, as well. He sighed. Creative options were called upon, and by Merlin he was going to wit himself into remaining un-incarcerated. By no means could he accept a return stint – had he broken out previously? No; impossible – in Azkaban, Dementor-free or not. Especially as he could not recall just why he'd been there in the first place, or why he'd been hunted later.

Concentrating on the implements before him, his mind began to race, seeking physical misrepresentation without rousing suspicion. The boys didn't want full face paint, so... Slender colored grease pencils caught his gaze; images rapidly formed. Self-study in the mirror confirmed the endeavor practical, plausible, perfect.

Excellent.

Choosing dark brown, Sirius leaned over the table, inches from the glass, and set to work.

-o-

Bless Colin Creevey and his hero-worshiping ways. Blinding florescent light shimmied off the laminated lanyard about her neck. Press Pass, it read in bold, block letters. Grateful was Hermione for Colin's intervention, as without the legitimate pass (damned Auror forgery experts), she'd have never gotten this far.

Of course, 'this far' may as well have been a kilometer, she considered upon noting ponderous forms looming meters away about the prized gateway. Behind that institution-green steel door, the miraculously reanimated body of Sirius Black dwelled, and she had every intention of witnessing it first hand. Well, as soon as she discovered the trick to by-passing the guard-dragon filling the archway to salvation. Golden cropped locks atop a portly red face; fleshy, rotund frame draped in tight tent-sized dungarees and bright yellow Backstage Security tee; cultural tattoos running the full of his arms... Shivers danced down her body, nerves growing taut in anticipation, the magnitude of the magic-free subterfuge required reminding her that it wasn't going to be a piece of treacle tart.

A tug on her cropped biker jacket drew her up, the black leather now impeding progress. "Right; you're on your own from here on out," Colin whispered from behind, his breath soft and warm and reminiscent of an excitable, adoring first year. "Sorry, Hermione, but I've a job to do. You should be all right; just keep the pass visible, don't draw attention to yourself, and don't – under any circumstances – use any magic."

Like darkness, solitude descended. True to his calling, Colin had abandoned her for photo opportunities. Organized chaos bustled all about, stage hands and venue management traipsing through the wide corridor, yet interaction was not with her. Pressing deeper into the concrete brick, a shadowed niche of pillar and wall, she concentrated. Plan 'A' was to integrate into his dressing room (catching him alone, of course) and confront the man she knew to be the Godfather of the Chosen One. Somehow, Muggle security had been overlooked in generating Plan 'A.'

Plucking courage, Hermione drew a fortifying breath and prepared to simply waltz up to the bruising bully, flash her press badge, and request an audience with the band. Yes, that was it. Straight to the point, no nasty confrontation, wholly legal... well, acquisition of said pass wasn't exactly, but that was not the point, now was it? And without magic, the prospect of dealing with sneering men gave little encouragement to success. Why, right there, the business casual bloke approaching him... speaking politely... good, good... smiling... yes... gesturing to the door...

Ooh. Not good. Hermione visibly cringed. In the process of Attila's physical rebuke and relocation of said polite gentleman, the latter's credentials caught in a flutter of movement. Press Pass.

Damn it.

All right, so Plan 'A' needed revision. Think, think... Simple. Distraction. Lead the Hun away from the door, slip in unnoticed, and voilà! Now, what sort of distraction would actually tempt him away –

Giggles and heel-clicks and squeals of immaturity sashayed by in group form. The roll of her eyes was instinctual, yet Hermione forced her attention to follow, reading the guard's lustfully sneering reaction. Ill though the consideration made her, it was an option, and one to which she might have to resort. Perhaps if she paid a little trixie to entertain him, she could slip by, nip into the room, and –

Another bloke approaching... But this one seemed familiar to the guard and only offered information, turned and left. Attila turned toward the door, digging his massive sausage fingers roughly into his pocket and pulled out a metal ring and... Damn. No less than a dozen keys. Lovely. Just absolutely, bloody lovely. Revision two.

Chrome with the blue façade. Slipped in, fit, clicked, slipped out, unlocking prize door number one. The witch sighed, taking in this new development. With it locked, perhaps they weren't even in there. Perhaps the guard was just poking his head in to assure himself no one had nicked anything –

Laughter. Inebriated laughter, chortling through the head-width opening created for Attila's message delivery. At least it wasn't empty, but that also meant Sirius wasn't alone. One more hurdle. And that lock. And no Alohamora. And a cast of bloody thousands stalking the corridors in hopes of notice, to be shagged senseless by evening's completion.

Revision number three.

Aggrieved, Hermione stared down her target, treating the cocky guard as a particularly problematic Defense Against the Dark Arts practical. Never her top subject, a hands-on exam in such course calling for wholly Muggle resources could be a chance to think outside the confines of wands and incantations. She was, after all, Muggle-born. Logic took over, breaking down the situation in proper dissection: statement of goal, definition of problem, theory of remedy, steps of action.

The goal was direct: reach Sirius, preferably alone. The problem: very large, nasty bully security guard stood between Hermione and the door to her goal. And a locked door, whose key resided in the Hun's trouser pocket. And too many people congregating within the room, making interrogation a difficult prospect. That didn't help. But the locked door was the pressing issue; by his appearance, retrieving the key would not quite be like taking sweets from a baby –

Bingo.

Images crossed and re-crossed, forming Plan 'A' Appendix. Or would that be Complimentary Plan 'B'? Regardless, it would have to work, as she didn't have a back-up plan and couldn't risk Azkaban herself. Breaking Hogwarts' rules with the boys was one thing; a Ministry record was another. Of course, there was the illegal B&E at the Ministry her fifth year, but that –

Carousing sniggers and guffaws broached her musings; the door had opened, releasing Page-Three Girls, possible roadies and... yes. Peeking around the pillar for a better view, she recognized Kent and Nigel from the pub, from the Gala, from the photos. In finality the door swung shut, the din died away as the entourage scurried forth further down the corridor. Without Sirius.

If he remained behind, she had him alone. If he did not, at least the room was most likely empty, and they would return at some point. Watch check suggested less than two hours before they took the stage. She could wait. That gave her plenty of time to decide how best to approach Attila –

"Oi, you! Saucy little wench. Yeah, you." Someone, somewhere, wished her to suffer tonight. Of that she was quite positive. Slow blink for courage, deep breath so as not to pass out... Think, think, think, Hermione! She stepped out from her niche, greeting the rude salutation young Master Hun offered. "What're you doing down here?"

Accusatory tones grated, and a faint wince flashed through Hermione before she reached his offending presence in three strides.

"Hallo; I'm Hermione Granger," her hand striking out, "and I'm here from –"

"I know where you're from; I can read!" his belligerent self proclaimed, eyes darting to her Press Pass. The accompanying sneer held, transforming to lechery as the gaze fell down her crimson spandex tank top and ultra-mini. Hermione reddened. The creep.

"Bloody reporter," he added, his eyes returning to glare at hers. "Band ain't giving interviews, so's you can just leave, unless you've," his leer washed over her again, "other talents besides writing."

Grit teeth made for little conversation, so Hermione forced her jaw apart, a sickly sweet smile Umbridge would've been proud of replacing the angry grimace.

"The band?" her innocent voice asked. "Oh nooooo; I'm from the University. I'm doing a paper on, er, fantastic lengths people will go through to associate with celebrity status. I'm actually here to interview you." Brilliant, Hermione, she told herself sarcastically. Oh, like he'll fall for that one.

Eyebrows creased in what could only be described as Crabbe consternation, apparently deciding which of her limbs to tear off first, or whether her attire was conducive to entertainment before said limb departure.

"Really?" The hopeful note nipped a bit of guilt, but the cause was beyond conscience. Eyebrows raised in interest, a smile broke out on that pudgy face. She changed her mind: Goyle gullibility.

"Yes. In fact, I'd like to ask you about all the oddities you've witnessed, the things Mu – people will go through to meet the musicians, and such." Heat crept up her face; she would have to watch her words carefully. The lying was fairly easy; it was the next bit that roiled her stomach.

Fluttering her eyes and bashfully weaving and twisting away from him, Hermione flirted as no self-respecting intellectual would. Giggles and eye-bats and dancing her fingers about his massive arms. Oh, the lengths she would go to for Sirius Black. While the blond ox rambled on about lacy knickers and groupies who'd posted themselves in crates to the dressing rooms, the young witch offered "ooh's" and "ah's" in all the right places, all the time thinking frantically on how to bring about her plan.

"Oh, foo," she interrupted him, a huge pout protruding from her painted lips. Saccharin had nothing on her upward gaze into his eyes, her hips swaying in cutesy nervousness. At the proffered "What's wrong?" she highly counted upon, she brought lip-biting into the routine to suggest hesitation.

"I'm awfully thirsty and it seems I forgot to bring any money. I've no pockets in this," she raised her jacketed arms to prove her point. Drool formed at the creases in his lips. "And I left my bag at school. You wouldn't happen to have any coins I could borrow, would you?" He'd better bite, she thought, else the gig was up. She couldn't handle any more of his touchy-feely liberties. Bile was rising and she was making herself ill.

Trying one more time when he looked a bit hesitant, "I'd be awfully grateful." Girly, pleading whisper. Wide, innocent eyes.

That did it. As she knew he would, he began cleaning out his denim pockets, having to pull out the items wedged on top in the skin-tight trousers. Coins would lie at the bottom loosely, well below the topical bits of metal. Good; he started with the right pocket. Piling his items on her outstretched hands, he tugged free the contents with much concentration...

Switchblade. Packet of gum. Packet of Johnnies (she chose not to speculate). Keys.

Keys.

He shoved his porky fingers deeper, his eyes staring for several moments at the ceiling for some divine assistance, and with the headiness of accomplishment, fished out several ten pence.

"You are so sweeeeet," she gushed, taking the coins, imparting his goods in return. A bit more giddy talk, and she excused herself just around the corner to the vending machine.

"Colin! Just the man I was looking for," she squealed, lowering her voice lest the wrong attention be attracted. Quickly she explained her need, and upon his agreement, returned down the now nearly-deserted corridor.

"They didn't have my flavor," she pouted, returning his coins and ignoring the strange look that'd come over Colin's face at her over-the-top-flirtatious act. Her left hand over her heart in pleading gesture, she ran her right over Attila's chest and purred. "But before I forget, I'd like to get your photograph. It'll be included in my report presentation," she added, a beguiling smile the only necessary nudge to her request. It was enough.

Thankfully.

The cheerleader façade dropped the moment Colin led Attila round the corner, claiming the light was significantly better in an unoccupied room down a different corridor. Hurriedly she reached the door, giving the corridor her back should anyone else walk by. Dropping her left arm with a slight shake, metal shimmied down her jacket sleeve, depositing directly into her palm. Thank you, Zelda, wherever your crafty heart and hands are tonight.

Key fitted, lock released, knob turned. Withdrawing the instrument, she bent to pitch it discreetly on the floor so the guard could eventually find it. A quick glance about showed she was still alone, but voices carried down the corridor, indicating impending inopportune disturbance. She didn't want to burst in, just in case he was still in there, or worse, wasn't alone. But she couldn't be caught out here, either, and it was her only chance.

"Big D's watching the newbies down here in Green Room Five." Echoes growing nearer made her decision for her. Deep breath, dart in, swing around with the door, shut it gently, quietly. Lock it. Release breath.

Hermione gave a mental shake and turned, prepared to hunt down a hiding place. She looked up and –

Squeaked.

-o-

Deer in the wandlight. But yet, not fear. Not this time. The reflection greeting him as his eyes adjusted focus from his own face to the scene behind him gave Sirius a right start. He had to be hallucinating. There was no other possibility. Not the one person in all of Britain, the only one with which he felt some sort of connection, within this murky existence he currently lived. She, of all people, waltzed right into his dressing room with him alone, past multitudes of Aurors and Muggle security... It couldn't be real.

Lowering the pencil gently, he slowly – ever so slowly – stood and turned, never leaving eye to mirror contact until his body had twisted about. Then...

"Sirius." Little more than a whisper, her lips working without breath. Though she'd entered his lair – he'd dare say without anyone's permission – her reaction spoke volumes. She'd not been as prepared to see him as she must have thought. Perhaps... perhaps she wasn't there to see him; instead one of the other guys was her interest.

Sirius distractedly noticed her Press Pass, and briefly wondered if she was there to get the story of his capture. A capture, perhaps, she instigated herself, leading Aurors right to him. Peripherally stolen glances confirmed her solitary presence, however, and if she felt him dangerous, she would not have ventured in alone. Unless...

He could think of nothing that would coerce her into dressing the part of wanton groupie and risk her life and limb to get past that great Muggle arse outside. Where was he, anyway?

Drawn from his inner thoughts, he realized she was speaking again – trying to, at least – breaking the nearly full minute of straight-on silent staring. A nervous lick of her lips, her jaw trembling, her eyes glazed in watery fashion.

"Y-you... you're..." Deep, steadying breath. His eyes narrowed. She shook more. Deep swallow. "You're... you're Sirius Black." It was a statement. At first. "Aren't you?"

Sirius wasn't sure how to answer. A positive could find him in Azkaban straight up. But it could also find him his history, his life. Either answer could well lead or leave him in a prison, one with bars, one without, both tormenting his mind.

-o-

For all her talk, all her Gryffindor bravery, Hermione was shaking in true fear. Not in getting caught; not in mortal peril from a powerful, full grown wizard locked in alone with her; not in failing her goal. No; she trembled in fear of the man before her speaking but one horrific word: no.

Though she had researched and planned and schemed, Hermione had not truly been prepared for the sudden face to face meeting. Void of paint, his shadowed jaw darkened his appearance by more than color. Unreadable eyes, black locks falling down, their tips mingling with long eyelashes. Tribal tattoos sketched just below one eye, incomplete. Tall, somber, confident. His presence – flesh and blood, by God! – was overwhelming. She wanted to cry, to scream, to run both to and from him. She wanted to touch him, prove to her logic he was real, not a phantom, not a well-cast look-alike. She wanted him to answer. She wanted to know that by whatever means granted, she was wrong – the entire world was wrong – and Sirius Black had returned from the dead. She wanted –

"Yes."