Chapter 11: Bound & Determined

Chapter 11: Bound & Determined

...Rapture invades mine heart; thou cannot conceive this beautiful malady. Describe it, I cannot. Such treasured gift bestowed upon this humble servant, I deserve not. Mine father, thou dost know to be the most true, most noble, most brave, yet though nigh he came to this grace, he hath fallen by the ill-fated glance of one so weak in desire. This weakness betrayed them three.

Evangeline.

Voices rose in approach, and the binding cover threw shut, the Translation Charm broken with a flick. Hurriedly, frantically, ancient script relocated out of plain sight. Muttered swears interlaced with frenzied spells. Deception grew imperative, a masque of deeds performed moments before.

Satisfied all traces were destroyed, a deep breath, a calming thought, and a rejoining followed.

-o-

Silence hung in a heavy veil, shrouding all but the pulsing of life deep within. Bated breath held on each side, the repercussions of that one word anticipated in tandem. Yes.

Yes.

It draped the silence, permeating all senses.

Yes.

Confirmation to both sides that neither was errant in their tentative identification.

Yes.

A tint, coloring all considerations from this point onward. Silent challenge to the woman, daring her action on this single word. Muted pleading to the man to prove his corporeal existence. Consequences be damned; the truth granted freedom, an absolution of the past days, weeks.

Yes.

Sirius Black... is... alive. Hermione's cerebral senses flailed, desperately grasping at the wholly inconceivable notion. He was Sirius. He'd said so himself. No one in his right mind would confess such an outrageous claim were he not truly said man, particularly considering said man's past. Exonerated though the black sheep Black was, the Ministry would still have issues with him. So he wasn't lying – couldn't be lying – and she was staring dumbstruck at a four-years-dead man. Her grip on the door latch behind tightened; her body shivered in pent emotion.

Before her he warily stood, tall, tan, healthy. Better than the recovering escapee of her fifth year, actually. No older. Younger, fresher was his aspect. Not a regression in age, per se, but a bloom to well-being, a reneging of struggle and worries. Niggling her consciousness was just what sort of regime it took to fill out like that from the gaunt, haunted man she'd known years ago. More the question, what sort of time did it take to achieve this prime state? How long had he been returned, playing the part of rock star sex god? Leaving everyone to believe he was gone, dead. The vision of incredulous miracle blurred before her, her memories dropping by, instead, reminding her of the four years since Sirius' disappearance.

Harry'd been inconsolable. Never letting on, he'd hid it well. Well, that is, until the Department of Mysteries had loomed before them again. Molly Weasley had felt shame for her treatment of the cousin of whom she'd adamantly disapproved. The Order had felt the blow, knowing yet another one of their own had fallen. She herself had felt guilt over her less-than-ambivalent attitude toward a man who'd lost his youth, his hope, his life in the middle of a cold northern sea. And Remus... oh, poor Remus. His one true friend left, a brother taken from him by more than prison walls for twelve years... reunited so briefly, only for Sirius to die without cause.

Well, perhaps not quite. Hermione's eyes narrowed in thought, her brows knitting in growing agitation.

Sirius was alive, well; walking this earth, breathing its air. Obviously. The proof stood before her in well-worn blue denim and gray knit pullover. He was alive... fit... healthy. Just how long had he been so? Just how long had he left his loved ones to mourn unnecessarily, cruelly allowing their grief to color their every waking decision. Of the lot, Harry and Remus had suffered the most. Yet others had cared. And grieved. And he'd let them.

The bastard.

-o-

Sirius waited expectantly, uneasy. They were going to jump out at any moment, the Aurors, drawn forth by her slightest prearranged motion – a signal to claim he'd been found, identified, caught unarmed.

They didn't come.

Instead, he found himself studying the young witch before him. Familiar still, yet he could not make the connection. Intriguing though she was, his guard could not slip. Incarceration came from that. So did death. Or death of memory...

"...You can do better than that!" Taunting laughter.

The flash of recalled jeering snapped with the instance of a lightning strike. And it had been his voice. His laughter.

The storyline he felt to be memory was fleeting, and again he stood stark still before the subject of his latest stalking. But her face had changed. Contorting her expression were pursed lips, furrowed brows, narrowed eyes. Thinking, planning, choosing her words to share the story of his capture?

Hesitantly her steps broke from the doorframe, her tread slow, deliberate, direct. Studying him, was she? She stopped a half step before him, raised her chin and stared at him, her expression unreadable. Gently, reverently she reached out with her right hand, the limb trembling with the effort, placing it a hair's width from his cheek. Body heat radiated from her relaxed fingertips, their unsteadiness bringing barest contact fleetingly. With gossamer touch the tips confirmed his reality. Breaths held, his eyes locked on her taut features, hers unwavering from their point of contact.

Fingers fell, and Sirius leaned slightly away, wariness remaining. The next instant he never saw coming.

Crack!

What the bloody hell? Realization hit him an exhalation later as his panoramic view blurred by. She'd slapped him! The chit actually slapped him.

Still rooted to the ground, Sirius paused for bearings and shock, then swung his head back around. Just in time for–

Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump!

If the slap had surprised him, then the following actions bewildered and bemused him. At first. But damn it if Sirius Black was going to nonchalantly stand about for a half-pint witch to pummel his chest, her nearly incoherent screams into his pullover clarifying into swears of un-gentlewomanly-like conduct, reverberating throughout the concrete walled room.

"You bloody bastard! ...thought you dead, you arse... realize the God forsaken pain you caused... how the hell could you..."

Tightening his pectorals against the assault, quick hands secured her wrists from below in mid-flail. Without thought, he immediately yanked both roughly down to her sides, then back up again behind her leather-clad back. Knit met leather at lower to upper chest points as his movement drew her forcefully to him with a jerk. So tight was his hold, so high up her back, that she was raised to tiptoes to prevent her arms breaking. It was then her verbal attack abruptly ceased.

-o-

Hermione's breath came in hitches, the intense pain her shoulders denounced forestalled most but the inherently survivalist actions. Saline built from emotional turmoil mixed at outer eye corners with fresh solution, graciously provided by the verge of ligament snapping onto which her body'd been placed. Neck strained in order to meet his face nearly a foot above, every muscle from scapula upward protested vehemently.

Through bleary eyes she made out his expression: incredulous, annoyed, confusion, fear. What the hell did he have to fear? He was the one holding all the proverbial cards at the moment. Forming a level glare as best she could, she grit her teeth to keep from breaking down, hoping the message conveyed said violent displeasure and not extreme discomfort.

Straining joints and tendons made up only half of said discomfort. Tense, eternal moments passed, and loathed to admit it though she was, Sirius' proximity unnerved her. Vulnerable in such an awkward position, physical harm was not what she feared. Uncharacteristically, she could not help but note with extreme awareness the solid structure his slender chest offered. Trim, but deceptively powerful, and her slight form pinned aggressively, intimately against it. Each angry, labored breath forced the issue more prominently in her mind.

Get a grip, Hermione, she chastised. This is Sirius we're talking about here. Wild, impulsive, irrational, immature, father-type figure who – damn, but those eyes are beautiful –

Shit! Hermione abruptly squeezed her eyes shut, desperate to close out her illogical thoughts. She bit her lower lip in confusion and pain. What the hell was going on with her? Past the fact that those indecent thoughts were connected with Sirius Black of all people, the complete absurdity of their timing was insane, the current situation not being conducive to impure images of the man now arresting her.

Bang, bang, bang! Heavy steel rattling from behind broke her inner turmoil, eyes flashing open in surprise. Sirius was no longer staring down at her with those delicate almond – stop it, woman! Deep breath... Point being, his attention was drawn to the pounding on the door, the muffled howls of the security swine emitting through, requesting proof all was well with Mister Boardman. Apparently, all was well enough.

Reassuring response given, Sirius' gaze returned to her. His expression had changed; indecision fluttered across his features as his mouth began, closed, and began again.

"Are you quite finished, yet?" Calm vexation was evident. On his tight face, in his voice... Not what she had expected from him. Indignation returned her faculties, all traces of intimate awareness vanished.

"Am I what?" Her voice rose. She leaned in to him, further closing the gap between their faces, intent to air her ire.

"Listen, if you chuck the fit and quieten down, I'll –"

"You'll what, you pureblooded, arrogant son-of-a–"

"– That's it," he interrupted, pissed off his new dominate emotion. Startlingly, his grip tightened even more.

"– like some bleeding game to you –"

"– your problem? Lashing on me like –"

Volume increased and tempers escalated with each passing syllable, until ears ached with the decibels of unadulterated screaming.

"– cruel and heartless, acting ignorant –"

"– gone mental. If I did something –"

"– horrible, though if you'd only –"

"– please, I beg of you, just tell me who I –"

Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!

"What the bloody fuck do you want?" came the pained roar. Calloused fingers bit deeper into her wrists as his frustration toward the interruptive door broke control. Again his attention was directed otherwise, and Hermione found herself suddenly speechless. The resulting silence echoed dangerously.

"Open the bleedin' door, Stubbs," a gruff male voice called. She'd heard it before. "Brilliant wanker out here done lost the golden-ass key."

Sirius' head lolled back and around, his eyes rolling in exasperation. Heavy sighing escaped his throat in annoyance as he stole pleading glances heavenward. Hermione watched the tightening and twitching of strong jaw muscles.

"Fuck..." The whispered epitaph drew out long and suffering. Slight whining tinged the muttered swearing that followed. Suddenly his head popped back up and his eyes darted about, searching hectically. Coming to rest on Hermione, they studied her face intently, brows knit. Quizzical at first, he seemed to come to a quick decision and thankfully released her arms. Unfortunately, it was only a release from the abusive pinning up her back, as his grip never abandoned her left arm. Hermione soon realized why.

Keeping tight hold, Sirius drug her several steps in each direction as he procured odds and sods items: silken performance scarves, sofa cushion, concert souvenir bag, wrought dressing chair... Curiosity overtook the desire to speak, leaving Hermione silently perplexed as the undead Black relocated the chair in the middle of the room. He paused and faced her once again.

"I've no time to play games with you, minx, so here's the plan," he directed succinctly as he swung her around to face the door, he himself directly aft. Fumbling for something, his breath came heavily.

"You're going to wait patiently for my return," his hiss commanded. Silk appeared from behind in a band, dropping from above her head. "Belt it up; no signaling Aurors, causing a ruckus..." Bewildered suppleness fled once the material touched her lips. Panicked tension took over, and struggling commenced heartily as the scarf broke apart her lips in violent fashion, digging angrily into the corners of her mouth. He was gagging her!

-o-

Arms flailed, body squirmed, dropped, dodged... But he was prepared. Pole-bending around her, he faced her, grasped her arms and wrenched them down before her. The dance of domination began in earnest across the floor, and Sirius had had enough. With talent from an unknown source, his fingers deftly wound a second scarf about her wrists, binding them securely. Reaping her legs from beneath her, he took her first to her knees, then to her stomach. Umph! came her expelled breath. He ignored it, intent on the task before him. His own knee now digging in her back, a third binding secured her ankles.

"Boardman, ya great duff-arse!" Kent again, damn it. Rattling at the doorknob emphasized his distress. "Chivvy it, will ya? We're on in a quarter!"

Low growls erupted from deep within, frustration taking hold. Biting his inner cheek for control, a snapped, "Hang on!" broke from his kneeling position, his body coiled with the tension he couldn't vent in his words. Quickly to his feet, he rotated to face her head and yanked her upright from behind. The final luxurious strap found its home around her torso and mid-arms. Now she was secure.

Later he would question the sanity of his actions, but mental status never entered thought in the hoisting of the petite feminine form. First atop the spindly-legged chair, dangerously rocking from the full-body flailing. Then the dislodging of the ceiling tile, sliding it above its neighbors, forcing the violently squirming woman through the panel opening feet first, up into the darkness, flopping her gently as possible onto the cross beams. Thankfully, she froze, a panicked reaction to the absurdity of the plan, obviously. Perhaps only that prevented her from thrashing through the foam-esque panels.

Next came the sofa cushion – for her head, he explained – and the glow stick he'd noticed Nigel toying with earlier from the souvenir bag. Even his agitation and desperate need to control the situation did not imperviate him to simple comfort needs such as muscular support and a light source.

"Look, I don't like having to do this –"

Bang, bang, bang, bang! "For pity's sake, Stubbs," Nigel interrupted, "clothe the damn bird an' 'amora the door!"

Deep breath... sigh... grumble of frustration. Disregard. Sirius turned back to his involuntary guest. "I can't afford to chance you'll alert the Ministry I'm here. Sorry it's down to this, but I've no where else to hide you without magic. Just play nice, and I'll get you out as soon as I return." At her incredulous expression peering down upon him, he added, softening, "I promise, love. We'll even discuss your displeasure, then, all right? Now stay still and quiet. Take a kip if you've a mind."

With that the panel slid into place, the chair was dismounted, relocated, and Sirius approached the door.

"What the dragon's bleeding teeth were you doing in here?" Blue was the first through the freshly released entry. Suffering words notwithstanding, none of the troupe converging appeared too upset with the wait. Flirtation and inebriation dominated their senses.

Sirius offered the drummer an insolent stare, chin tucked, brow slightly cocked. He replied flatly. "Housekeeping."

-o-

Surrealism is an art, apparently, and one with which the company of Sirius Black is guaranteed an experience. Were someone to have even suggested this scenario now playing out, Hermione would have considered them mental. Only in storybooks and Hollywood would something this asinine take place. And for this reason alone, the Muggle-born witch of logic and facts remained statuesque, speechless even unto herself.

This was insane.

Long minutes passed, and neither did she make a sound nor movement. Abstractly she listened to the activities below, distantly fascinated by obscure subjects, rowdy comments, and tales obscene. Rarely did Sirius' voice rise to meet her hungry ears, and she realized with morbid fascination she was waiting for him to give himself away, admit his death, express his brilliant prank, call her down from her musty perch. But he did not. Only the mutterings and movements of preparation sounded, and still she waited.

Until they left.

The door shut with an ominous finality, and Hermione snapped out of her trance with the faraway click, muffled through the tiles below. Eerily quiet, she knew she was alone. It was time to rectify this horrid mess her over-ambitious scheme had concocted. Sirius Black or not, that man was not the man she knew. Trust him she did not; wait patiently for his return, she would not. Escaping her confinement was first priority; doing so without alerting anyone was a close second. Remaining free of broken bones came in a distant third.

Nowhere to hide or leave but the one doorway below meant the room from which she came was not an option. The burly bloke with the sneer would be Fluffy to that exit, and now more than ever she did not want to run into him. With no use of magic, either, she would have to depend on Muggle upbringing and cleverness to free her of this nasty spot of trouble. What would Harry do?

First, the body binding had to go. She couldn't move otherwise, and move she must. Wiggling gently so as to not break through the ceiling, Hermione exhaled fully and began to pull her leather jacket up her waist using fingertip grabs. Slowly the material shifted out from under the torso-wrapping scarf, giving it a looser fit. Undeterminable minutes later, she'd succeeded her task and was able to shimmy her arms free. At least she had movement, and with that, the gag yanked down. Good Lord, swallowing properly never felt so good.

Ignoring the cushion her head had rested upon, the glow stick was seized and carefully her body was twisted about to face in the direction opposite the back entrance in which she'd come earlier. Parallel to the corridor – to the best of recollection – the route to take lay directly before her. If the construction of the remodeled venue lay as she believed, fifty yards or so should bring her to an empty room of sorts. Perhaps another dressing room, or even a cupboard of equipment. How she would get safely down at that point was a matter best left to the moment.

Phosphorescent green rebounded within the confines of above ceiling. Dull, low-contrasts defined support beams, electrical cables, old insulation patches and items best left unidentified. The light was not far-reaching, and required squinting and logical fill-in-the-blank to mentally reconstruct the environment. Held aloft, the stick revealed heavy I-beams following her intended path. Not an arm's length to her left, the steel support beam lay half a meter above the tiles, offering a feasible, safe way to cross to freedom.

Agonizing minutes later, Hermione had inched to the beam, leaving fluffs of tile material snowing upon the floor below. Sweat born of fear beaded and dripped, blurring her vision. Leather clad arms cleared her view. Miscalculation of weight-shifting would leave her a broken mass on the make-up counter and foo-foo cushioned stools. She tensed. Sirius Black had best hope for a miraculous repeat performance returning from the dead, as she was going to kill him for this.

Children's dance classes gave her just the leverage she needed, and with glow stick in teeth, oh-so-carefully Hermione balanced on her knees, grasped the beam's top – ignoring what gnawing or stinging creatures may reside there – and pulled herself upon its solidity. Stick back to hand, she gave in to the build-up of shameful curses filling her brain, waggling her tongue. Damn him for this. Just damn him.

Some time after, a mental note was made: leather does not slide well on rust-gathered steel. Edging along on her belly had afforded her a unique perspective of life as a flobberworm, and a proper appreciation for upright walking. Coefficient of friction aside, however, she had made a fair piece in what seemed less than an hour. She couldn't be sure, though, as she could neither see much of her surroundings nor her watch face. But the large mass of heating ductwork one slide before her... that she saw.

Four swears and one formulated homicidal scheme later, Hermione had managed to backtrack – er, backslide – enough to maneuver onto a second beam, this new one running forty-five degrees to her right and offering less width on which to balance. The nightmare was worsening.

Minutes further... Contriving yet a second method of engineered death, the task of un-snagging her ankle bindings gave renewed strength to creativity of torture. A delicate task, Hermione had to go about her movements carefully in order to remain aloft.

"So, what; you're best mates now, are you? Havin' him over for tea an' biscuits and the like, are we?"

"Shut it." Hermione knew that bullying voice. Creepy security git. Lovely.

Simultaneous flushes pinpointed her position to above the Gents'. Odds were, if she kept going straight another few meters, she'd be over the Ladies' – a much more appropriate place over which to drop out the ceiling. And during the show, it should be abandoned. She was still what was considered backstage. Wasn't she?

Water running suggested hand cleansing, and she stilled in order to prevent undue attention.

"Takin' a fancy to him, eh, Dee? Right looker, 'imself, if you swing that way." Snickering.

"Sod off, nancy boy. Boardman's my ticket to the posh. Right up an' coming, he is, and I mean to take post as his bodyguard. Pullin' girls an' gettin' paid for it. Whatever he wants, I'll do it. I'll make myself indisposable."

"Indispensable."

"What-fuckin-ever." Hazy green reflected Hermione's eye roll, her sigh stifled. Thick berk.

Towel dispenser rolling... "Smashing conversation it'll be, too, when you have him 'round for tea an' have to explain why you still live with your mum and dad."

"Bite it, tosser. I come 'n go as I please. Don't pay for nothin'. Mum's a clean freak, so's my laundry's done, I've a nosh-up anytime I want..." Further description faded as it followed the men out the door. Hermione sighed deeply. If only her problems were so slight.

Returning attention to the snag, another few wiggles and the distinct krrrrk of ripping fabric broke the silence. Relief swept through her, the slight jerk of freedom calming her fears. One more obstacle down; infinite more to go.

Resuming her trek, only one body slide progressed before the thump of the door below sounded again. She paused to wait out the visitor, considering it better safe than sorry on attracting attention. Opposing footsteps suggested there were two.

"I want him watched." Hushed and definitive the words commanded. Immediately curious, Hermione forgot her predicament and listened with intent. This was not a conversation of light matters. Steps rambled around, stall doors squeaked in protest. The first voice continued, lower, tense.

"MacGregor was in Waterford for that little escapade. Question him. We shall suffer no breach."

Raj?

"What about the girl? She knows." Faintly French, this man sounded little more than a teenager. Clipped words suggested training of complete obedience.

"She won't speak of it. She's too much to lose. Besides, it does not appear she knows everything. Nevertheless, I've already taken precautions, in light of recent events."

"Sir?"

"Word has reached my ears that the power to overcome shall only reveal itself the first day of the seventh month. Our time is limited. We must act quickly, inform the others, before it is too late."

"But where, sir? How? If we can't –"

Clank. The noise was slight and distant, but deafening in the ceramic tile room below, the silence amplifying its resonance. "Shhh, Philippe." This time worry laced the Northern Brit accent. Pausing in speech and movement, the men's presence would have been overlooked had Hermione not already known their existence. Her breath fell to shallow flow, both to hide her own vicinity and best catch any further tales. Fear crept in as the moments passed without sound. Had they heard her? Were they right now peering up into the ceiling, debating a non-magical means to capture her? Unless they were Aurors, in which case they could use their wands. Surely she would pose a threat, having obviously eavesdropped upon an intended-to-be private matter. And she wasn't sure, either, as to just what that matter entailed, and if it boded well or ill for her own self-preservation.

"Que sera, sera..." Almost she missed it, the first man's hesitant phrase terribly low. Holding breath completely, Hermione waited, but no more syllables of information revealed themselves. Shortly thereafter footsteps clicked to the door, their owners departing in the swoosh of the spring-taut hinges.

A full minute passed before Hermione dared continue her journey. Rather, it took a full minute for her to break from analyzing the cryptic exchange. Recalling her current situation, she swept aside the mystery and focused back on making it out of this tomb of faux asbestos.

No more than three yards had passed beneath when the roar of screams and trampling tread reached her in a rush. Louder, closer, driving, engulfing.

The show was out of doors. Surely she could not be that close to the crowds. No; something was wrong. Definitely.

Indefinable din assaulted her ears from below. What the hell was going on? Readjusting to lean down, to make out the noises –

Off balance – slip – desperate flailing – crashing through – falling...

A certain resignation wrapped Hermione in an otherworldly security blanket on the way down. Absently, she noted with vague interest the way florescent white reflected off satin eggshell brick. Colorful shapes mimicked human forms, blurring in the downward motion her eyes followed. Muffled through shock, voices of the masses washed over her, through her, to her. Time slowed, and her eyes closed in preparation of impact with the concrete floor.

Oddly enough, Muggle concrete had grown firm but giving. Warm. Caressing.

Caressing?

Instinctive reaction threw open her eyes. Frantic was the vast crowd around her, grabbing, screaming, attacking. It was into this body of human flesh she had dropped. That body, more specifically, that was the reincarnation of Sirius Black.

Shit.

Shock was less evident in his eyes than, remarkably, relief. Not waiting for explanation, his arms tightened about her waist, hoisting her vertically just inches from the ground. Ducking his head, he shouldered his way through the mob, heading what Hermione realized was back down the corridor, back the way she'd just come.

Jostling moments passed before Hermione understood the situation. Security shoved all around them, parting the torrential sea of people. Celebrating was not their moment. Nor was merely exiting the show. Obsession marked with adrenaline. Blood lust and energy. Demanding and panic.

Rioting.

They were attacking the band, overflowing the limited bodies of security. Glimpses of Sirius' arms showed ripped remnants of a silk button-down, blood trailing the three-across lines of fingernail scratches. Whether from excessive adoration, potent inebriation or pissed emotion Hermione could not tell. But the corridor had turned into a tsunami of fans, intent on devouring everything in their path. Unfortunately, within that path included Sirius and herself.

An odd sense of abstract observation held Hermione mentally in check. Hysterics at this point wouldn't do, anyway. Instead, mild interest replaced fear and concern. This detachment allowed the scene to play out around her, invoking only curiosity. Not to heart did she take the jarring run, the arresting hands, the whirlwind of voices and faces and corridors and lights and...

Sudden redirection startled Hermione back into reality. Casual observation time was over; she was living this nightmare. And this nightmare had arrested her escort, abruptly jerking him out of the crowd and shoving him into an alcove on their right. No, not an alcove... a room.

Equilibrium returned in time to distinguish her surroundings. Deprived of her glow stick, only the sliver opening granted a light source to see by. That hint of illumination from the mob-strewn corridor cast a vertical line across their bodies to the wall opposite the door... a whole three feet apart. A janitorial cupboard.

"I'll refrain from asking why you're bound, Hermione," an amiable voice said nearby. There was an unshed laugh hidden in that vaguely familiar voice. "But I'd wager you're both looking for safe, swift passage out of here." Non-committal grunting sounded from Sirius behind her. Though his hold remained secure, she felt his arms loosen enough to allow her slight slide downward. Feet solidly floor-bound, awareness hit that her feet were free. The rip she heard and felt earlier must have ventured through deeper than she'd thought, the fall only completing the break.

"Good to know years of interning the national floral competitions weren't all for naught," he reminisced, previously held humor slipping out in a soft chuckle.

"David?" Incredulously, Hermione identified their knight in shining armor.

The laugh was deep and long this time. "Yes, Hermione. Long time, no see, eh? Didn't figure you for an Origami Legion fan, really. You just don't seem –"

"– Don't mean to be the killjoy," Sirius interrupted, "but you were saying something about an exit...?"

"Right."

She didn't ask a quarter later where he'd obtained the road crew jackets, nor the short-brimmed sports caps she and Sirius were now hiding within. Instead, Hermione concentrated on following the denim-clad David out onto the nearly abandoned loading docks. The disguise had allowed them through the out-of-control crowd without mishap; only thankfulness could she muster now.

"Listen; I'm sorry about before, about the tying up and the ceiling and all." Sirius continued looking ahead, he himself focused on their guide. His words were hushed, meant for her ears alone.

This was not a discussion for their present place and time. They needed to get out of here and Apparate, before someone recognized them. Or worse... "It's all right. No harm done." Not entirely true, but again, circumstances were not conducive to an all-out rant. Besides, an unsolicited apology from Sirius Black was not something she'd ever seen; it was unique enough to do for now.

"I'm glad you're all right. I was worried I wouldn't be able to get to you before the fans got to me." Strangely enough, he sounded sincere, only glancing at her face as he turned to help her down the three-meter drop onto the lorry drive. He chuckled. "Not sure how you managed it, but your progress above the ceiling was remarkable. You seem quite the determined and clever witch, lady. I'm impressed." He moved on, following David across the car park to the outskirts of the property.

Hermione stared at his retreating back. Seem quite the clever witch? Lady? This from a man who'd spent an entire summer locked up with her – and Lupin – constantly going on about books and ideas... A man who'd heard his best friend refer repeatedly to and about her as one of the brightest witches. There was no knowing grin accompanying his words now, nothing to suggest his intentional understatement. No; he was being straightforward in his assessment, a lacing of surprise accompanying his compliment.

He didn't know who the hell she was, did he?

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Author's Note: "You can do better than that!" is a direct quote from JK Rowling's 'Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.'