Chapter 13: Foreign Correspondence

To Isis Uf – thank you for allowing me to borrow your phrase. For all those curious, I note it at the end of the chapter, so as to not ruin the humor before you read it in text.

Reviews are loved and always appreciated!

-o-o-o-0-o-o-o-

Chapter 13: Foreign Correspondence

Moon-glow faded behind cumulus clouds above, depriving vision even as the unnatural mist dissipated. Instead of hazy white, the world around was black, menacing. Rain droplets began to fall. Hermione drew shaky breaths, stilling her traitorous trembling. Too dark for clarity, only tall, shapeless figures – void of identity – filled her limited vision. Two directly before – the lanky, taller one being Sirius – and one just behind and left. Turning about for properly attempted viewing was not an option; hardwood biting tender flesh below her jaw reminded her her situation.

"Visitors, it seems," a similar, lowered voice near Sirius replied. Familiar was its tone beneath heavy insinuations. "Uninvited visitors. What-say we hoist their blackguard hearts atop the nearest chimney top? Calling card for all who follow..."

"Better yet," chimed the brothering voice beside her, "disembowel them and strew the pieces along the verge. Best do it quick, ere Lady Grand arrives. Throw a right wobbler, she would. Wants her fair share of the entertainment." Descriptions such as those did not bode well for them, Hermione figured. If only they could manage around the building, away from their captors, and Apparate out before "Lady Grand" made her appearance. Why did Bellatrix Lestrange come to mind, eh?

"Too late," the disappointed first voice flatly sounded. And indeed he was right, if the bright sun of light rapidly approaching was any indication. Nearing the group, the Lumos'd wood cast brief illumination on the crowd of four, granting Hermione only the briefest glance of Sirius... and the pale hand securing him at wand-point. Then she saw nothing, so bright its luminance upon arrival. Eyes squinted in protection, body grown rigid in fear.

Bauble of light, bringer of destruction to life and limb, the intruding glow bit aggressively into her sight. It hovered eye-level, shifting to the left, rising toward Sirius...

"Sweet Mother of Merlin..."

Whispered in nominal breath, feminine dulcets drifted lightly across the stillness, awe embedded throughout incredibility. Wand light shifted again, protruded toward herself. Pausing, the invisible figure seemed to study Hermione, conclusions evidently in limbo. Finally, the disembodied voice found purchase, carrying their fate, no doubt, in heavy, echoing words.

"It can't be... it just... you..." Pause of several heartbeats. "You were right, Hermione."

-o-0-o-

Hot chocolate steamed before him, aged ceramic heating his iced hands. Blackwatch tartan draped his damp body, staving off the chill. Briskly popping flames drew out the dampness that enveloped him, wrinkling skin beneath soaked attire clammy and soft. Sirius took another cautious sip, pitter-patter ambience kindly lulling his senses to drone. Nearing warmth, his body began to relax, the tension of the evening seeping out in immeasurable quantities. He now desired only sleep. Not even the informative conversation around and about him quelled his longing for complete rest.

Promised rain pelted the window panes of this hodge-podge abode, swelling and receding as the storm chose. Rather than drive his anxiety, Sirius found the natural tempest comforting. The four bodies gathered round him only – oddly enough – increased the effect. He knew these people, though he could not recall them. A sense, a feeling, tugged his survivalist instincts to trust his surroundings, to take advantage of this rare security. No Aurors here, waiting to collect him. Only... welcoming peace. Amazement, shock, and even bewilderment, but still... peace.

Affection.

Hermione – he'd learned her Christian name only a half hour prior – sat nearest him, gazing – was that protectively? – at him, a furrow lining between her brows. Her own wrap of hand-knit maroon draped her small form in shapeless warmth. She still had said little since their 'capture' earlier, after she'd Apparated them just behind a broom shed on the estate outskirts. Frantic whispers passed between her and the young witch beside her. Sirius recognized her as the same who'd accompanied Ms. Granger to the Rose and Guild only days before. She, too, continued to gawk, occasionally shaking her ginger head in disbelief.

Further round the half circle to the fire, the twins sat directly across from him, eyeing him in mixed qualities. Incredulous joy. Suspicion. Thoughtfulness. Anger. Surprise. Curiosity.

"You were only lucky that the baby kicked," the other witch – introduced as Ginny – was stating matter-of-factly. "Threw my aim right off. Considerably."

"I'm just glad you realized it was us before any real damage occurred. What were you doing, attacking first? You knew I was returning." Hermione's exasperation lay riddled with residue fear.

Ginny hesitated, casting furtive glances at the brothers. Simultaneous shrugs replied her unspoken inquiry. Apologetic pleading her eyes revealed, and one nearest the fire spoke in her stead.

"Shortly after you left, Errol arrived with a message from Mum, telling Gin she and Dad were having an evening out. Dodgy bit was, he was in a right state. More so than usual. Feathers missing, wing sprained; wouldn't let Gin touch him. Or us, either, after she Flooed us. Finally, he passed out from exhaustion."

The second twin picked up the story. "Yeah, but that wasn't until after she heard strange noises about the perimeter. Took it upon herself to have a shufti, but couldn't locate anyone. So she Flooed George and I –"

"– to find out what was going on, so with a little help –"

"– from our trusted inventory –"

"– we arrived to stake out the place when –"

"– a bit of unpleasantness visited as well." They stopped, hesitancy obvious in their faces. Sirius's interest piqued, he waited, knowing the true cause for the attack lay in the next words. It was the girl who elaborated.

Turning back to Hermione, she licked her lips nervously, playing for time. Eyes drifting to the fire, conclusion fought its way to verbal freedom.

"Lucius Malfoy."

Hermione blanched. "What?" Harsh, desperate, thin. "But he – he's dead. I saw him die!"

Gut reaction shot through Sirius. Images of white-blond arrogance in malicious taunts. Screams and warfare Flooded his ears; strobing flashes cracked through his mind in painful recall. Explanatory conversation and worn family faded into background. Werewolves, Dark Marks, wedding, Christening, smoldering ashes... Azkaban.

Dementors, shrieking portraits, Hippogriffs, Ministry mysteries, white masks, black robes, filthy threats, angry hexes, Unforgivables...

The Veil.

Something within broke. Polar chill swept his body; trembling in memory, tears in recollection, breathless in remembrance. Not the shattered mug between his palms, nor the burning frothed liquid reclaimed his conscious bearings. Faster they came, visuals and tunes of auditory stimuli, growing, clashing, snapping in, breaking out. Louder the voices of the Past drowned, emotions of Then silenced him. Eyes clenched, head tucked, fetal, to the ground... images too fast to comprehend, rapid, splitting, popping, striking ... sounds encompassing, filling, shouting, screaming, every word of every day and every night of every one of his life's thirty-six years –

Blackness.

-o-

In repose, he was their Sirius. Not hers, Ginny's, the twins'... Far too peaceful, relaxed for the man held captive by his own reckless need for freedom, the man she'd known years ago. No; this was the vision belonging to a man secure in his friends, his promising future, himself. This was the Sirius of long ago, the dear friend of Lily and James, of Remus and, yes, even Peter, before his misstep across the line of loyalty and faith.

Hermione studied him openly, no one about to openly chastise her curiosity. Ginny was clearing their dishes, pacifying her newly-arrived parents with a tale of girlish gossip and little time for friends to spend together. A Silencing Charm on her bedroom ensured privacy in their discussions; additional enchantments prevented unwelcome intrusion. All necessary, Hermione reasoned, for the beautiful phantom of a man sleeping deeply in the narrow bed across from her.

Late into the night they four had spoken, Hermione's tale from the beginning – sans dreamscapes – explanation enough to the twins for their cooperation. Fred had levitated Sirius above stairs after his rather startling collapse, placing him in Ginny's room. She could always beg off to complete privacy and odd hours due her condition. Ensuring it merely exhaustion – not that they'd had any choice, as medical help was not an option – Ginny had returned her mum's texts on Wizarding first aid and they'd sat around, staring, alternating between belief and denial. Finally, George admitted there was little else they could do until morning, until Sirius awoke. Weasley wares were expected in the morning; Hermione herself had to return to work, once again borrowing Ginny's spares.

Tomorrow, Ginny would wait here, watching, tending the specter of flesh and life. Sudden developments would warrant a Patronus; otherwise, business as usual must continue. They were not ready to share him with the world yet; too many questions lay unanswered, their solvability resting solely within this godfather's soul.

Wisps of sighs escaped parched lips, and tension from the past weeks drained, leaving her weak, tired. Freshly showered, she pulled her eyes from his still form, slid deep beneath the duvet Ginny would soon share, and doused the lamp. Wrapped in darkness of night, comfort of familial love, natural conviction, Hermione fell quickly to slumber.

That night, no dream haunted.

-o-0-o-

Does mental absence count as infidelity? If you do not think about your boyfriend – absent boyfriend, off to save the world – every other moment (or every other day, even), does it smack of treason of the heart? And if so, to what Circle of Hell would this entry-level betrayal be banished, should said boyfriend realize the depths of his momentary non-existence in aforementioned girlfriend's consideration?

"Thus, the additional security measures." Awareness snapped presently, Hermione suddenly taking in AI Lynley's monologue. Day-drifting again, damn it. She really needed to stop that nasty trait recently habituated. Now she attempted focus on the subject at hand, ready for 'yes, sir' at just the right time. It didn't take long.

"Should you notice anything missing at a later date," Lynley concluded, rising stately from his desk. "Notify me immediately."

"Yes, sir." Programmed response, just in time. Rising as well, Hermione followed him to his office door, smiling pleasantly while recalling any questions possibly overlooked. But nothing crossed thoughts and firmly she was shuffled out, finding herself once again in the main corridor of Auror cubicles, Wanted posters strewn about. Once upon a time, not so long ago, Sirius' face stared back from such a parchment.

Sirius. Such was the man she'd been considering this morning after she'd been paraded quickly into the Auror's office, primarily to discuss the previous week's display to her own work area. No change had occurred by daybreak where Sirius was concerned, and as planned, all involved agreed to leave him to his rest. Only peripherally did he occupy her mind now, instead her obsession with her mysterious dream invader took over. For the first time in weeks, not even the briefest image of him had appeared to her in sleep. It was oddly disappointing.

But Mister Black had resumed high up in her thoughts, unfortunately, when, on her way to Lynley's, Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin abruptly caught her for a brief word. Curious, Hermione had slipped to the break room for a moment's privy with the young Auror.

"Is everything all right with you and Ron?" she had begun, eyeing Hermione carefully for a reaction. "I mean, he's been gone a lot, I know. Sometimes that kind of thing makes a woman, well, consider other options, you know." Brows had furrowed in concern and tact.

"Honestly, I don't know what you mean," Hermione had replied after a moment's pause. And in truth, she hadn't. Not until Tonks had followed up.

Lemon-yellow brows had perked in conscious study, hesitating as obvious consideration passed through expressions. Finally, seemingly agreeing the younger witch was confused and not merely acting, she had explained her suspicion succinctly.

"You were seen last night. In the company of another man. Romantic circumstances."

Shit. Sirius.

For a moment, she had considered lying, but lies told too often find themselves discovered. She had opted for a change of focus.

"By whom?" Indignation attempted, but failed. "Lynley?"

"Nope. Lynley's too straight; right pro, that one. Gossip's not his duck. Didn't know he even knew, either."

"Then who..."

"Not important," Tonks had countered reflexively. "But only a few of us know, and won't be spreading it around, either. Just wanted to say, you know, if you needed a woman to talk to about it..." She had trailed off, looking abashed. "Just all I'm saying is, I know what it's like to have the man you love gone for stretches at a time, especially on dangerous treks. Worry eatin' at you, you'd do most anything to distract yourself."

Hermione would have answered, but laughter and job chat had entered the room, and Tonks had given a supportive half-smile and left, claiming duty. And Hermione had found herself in Lynley's office, mentally chastising herself for what she knew the previous evening's arrangement had appeared. And the worst part of it: not once had she thought of Ron.

What kind of girlfriend was she?

-o-

Tidying the shambles her work area had been reduced to took Hermione more than an hour. Meticulous effort ensured the proper placement of all files and notes, each bit of correspondence placed in accordance with its sender, date, subject, status. Bailey had said little more than parental platitudes, several well-placed condemnations of the perpetrators, and a by-the-by asking how her holiday off had gone. Hermione had too much else to be going on with to concern herself with his lack of interest in the matter.

Nothing appeared missing, she noted in completion of task. And Bailey's materials had not been touched. Someone was interested in hers, and hers alone. But nothing she possessed was of any critical importance. If indeed it was, then she failed to take notice what.

"Oh, Hermione, dear..." Out came Bailey's full, round face from his private quarters' doorway. Mentally, she sighed. Plastered smile to face, turn, quirked eyebrows to denote he had her attention; she didn't trust speaking at this point of aggravation.

"If you've a moment, would you please collect a tea service, some biscuits, perhaps? Those tangy shortbreads with the sweet frost would be lovely." Dreamy expressions crossed his innocent features, leaving Hermione caught between exasperation and humor. She settled for neither.

"Yes, sir." Disciplined response won through. Back to tea services. What grand educational experiences she was harvesting, even while located in the Ministry itself. Next year, she planned, an internship with the Muggle Ministry will more than suffice. After all, it's a Muggle school I attend. Why not?

Appeased to a degree, the disgusted witch ran her errand, returning ten minutes later with service in hand. Upon her knock, entry was granted, and Hermione stepped into the office where Bailey was entertaining an older, stern-appearing witch in emerald green robes. Dismissed of her presence, the two officials – for she assumed the familiar woman was one – continued their discussion as the intern played mother.

"I really don't see how my presence would help, Madam St. Cyr." St. Cyr? If she is French, he should address her as 'Madame St. Cyr,' Hermione mentally corrected. Bailey was usually on top of etiquette, if nothing else. "Surely if Sir McCaine wishes to open trade discussion with Egypt again, he has enough clout to be going on with. There were his previous interactions with that Canadian chap – what a bugger mite he was – and each time he came out atop, when everyone else was sent off. And then there was his trade agreement with South Africa – what a choice deal, with the everlasting adoration of the Council Leaders. Though his dealings with the Chinese connections were inspired, right-so. And now a small transaction in Sarras? A British diplomat need not be present to ease non-existent tensions."

Two lumps sugar, lengthy pour of milk...

"I'm quite well aware of Sir McCaine's résumé, Mortimer." Clank! Immediately Hermione righted the slipped tea cup, composing herself from astonishment. Faux pas ignored, she stared heavily beneath lowered lashes, studying the formidable woman seated across from Bailey's desk. Her trim Scots accent lent credibility to Bailey's use of title, for though her name was French, she obviously was not. No, immediately it clicked: this was the same woman whom Hermione had followed up the packed staircase in Kerry weeks before. This time, however, her resemblance to Professor McGonagall was even more deeply entrenched.

Personality, it appeared, was another shared trait beyond physical, as Madam St. Cyr scowled in irritation at Bailey, patience apparently exhausted.

"The Committee for British International Trade is backing McCaine full-on; we only wish you to arrange a proper session, so that we may also work in an opportunity as well for England. Unlike Northern Ireland, we do not have pleasant circumstances with the Egyptians. Not after that fiasco years back over the importation and excise taxing of carpets!" Frustration lay apparent in her gritted words. Settling back, a deep breath allowed her a moment's collection of thought.

"Mortimer, you are our peacekeeper. We need you to intervene, set the Egyptians at ease so that groundwork may be laid for future trade. There is significant development in Security Curses and Codes in northern Africa, and we would do well to get in their good graces straight away."

"Perhaps the Undersecretary of Finance would be more appropriate, Madam St. Cyr. He has made several goodwill expeditions to Egypt, as well as France and Scotland, over the past couple of years. Most assuredly he has numerous connections already." Bailey's tone was bordering on pleading. Hermione knew her boss well. Bailey had done enough traveling for the time being, as with the Summit now over – she'd missed it the previous week – he had promised his wife to be available after work each day for the rest of the summer. Marta's list of home chores for her husband had grown beyond that of a borrowed house-elf.

Hermione dabbled around upon the tray, taking her time setting out the poured English Breakfast and almond biscuits. St. Cyr's expression grew pinched. "Chamberlain has done enough, Mr. Bailey. As well, this is a matter of some delicacy, and he is not known for his discretion. This shall not be discussed out of this room, either. Understand me on that.

"The Egyptians must be approached by you, with all indications to all involved – on both sides – that it was your consideration and idea, and that Northern Ireland and Sir McCaine were only a last moment addition. In fact, he will be involved very little. That will lend credibility that Britain is offering the olive branch, not flying in on McCaine's robe-tails."

Abruptly noticing Hermione and the repast, St. Cyr paused her tirade, glancing appraisingly over the young witch. Approval must have been concluded, for she smiled lightly in acceptance of the proffered tea, liberally dousing it in sugar and offering a nod of thanks as she sipped the steaming beverage. Bailey, himself only just noticing, took opportunity where it lay and heartily drowned his rebuttal in sweet and light, almond shortbread chasing.

Significant developments in Security Curses and Codes? Obviously, Madam St. Cyr felt strongly a need for acquiring such new abilities and knowledge. CBIT suspected situations that no one else knew, Hermione was sure. What was so important as to necessitate privy, need-to-know status? What were they all hiding?

Deep, resounding breath of finality broke the heavy silence of the room, and St. Cyr stood suddenly, cup and saucer rattling sharply upon delivery to the desktop.

"Consider my words carefully, Mortimer. There is more reliant upon this endeavor than you can scarcely imagine." Three brisk steps to the door, before turning in encore, "Your cooperative response is expected within the week."

Bailey simply stared open-mouthed at the empty space his doorway framed. Hermione wondered if he had ever, in all his days of diplomacy, been spoken to in such an irreproachable, blunt manner. Nearly sorry for him, she grimaced at his weak fortitude. Yes, Madam St. Cyr left no room for argument, but Bailey's inability to even keep level with her... Further disappointment in a man already too soft for the Granger Scale.

Dismissed by lack of attention, Hermione gathered the remnants of the tea and exited to her outer reception. Questions plagued as she whisked the service to the nearest break room, questions of the Ministry keeping secrets again, attempting to deal with greater issues while holding the public at bay, in the dark.

"Hermione," chipper resonance came. Breaking from consequential thoughts, Hermione started, raising her gaze above the Floor to find Arthur Weasley grinning. A smile creased her stoic features.

"Mr. Weasley; wonderful to see you. How have you been? And Mrs. Weasley?" Comfort was unexpectedly running into her second father, a man for whom great affection bloomed within. Tension soothed from her, granting unaffected ease ample entry.

"Sporting on, each day a new revelation." His own grin widened. "Haven't seen you in ages. Even here, you're oft as not off with Bailey or some such. Didn't even know you were over last night until Ginny mentioned it. Oh, speaking of which, she Flooed me earlier. Wanted me to pass on a message to you. Rather cryptic, it is," he added with a chuckle.

"Really? What was it?" Hermione could only guess it had something to do with Sirius, but could not fathom how she'd pass it along via Arthur, or why she would not Floo or owl Hermione directly.

"She said, 'Tell Hermione that I've moved our project over to our place, if she'd like to pop in and check on it after work.' Right jolly mood she was in for a change, too. What've you girls got up to, now?" Parental amusement shone in his azure eyes. Hermione could only recover from surprise at the message's meaning – could Sirius be up and talkative? – and return his playful attitude.

"Oh, you know us girls. Always one-upping the twins."

Genuine laughter reverberated off the corridor walls, head shaking in humor. "None of you shall ever fully grow up, shall you? It's good to know my old age will be filled with Itching Floo Powder and Bat Bogeys."

"Er, right." Mind reeling with all the possibilities Ginny's relay could mean, Hermione found herself at a loss to carry the conversation. Thankfully, she need not have worried, as Arthur checked his watch with exclamation, citing he had fallen behind. A quick request that she come by for dinner soon, and he left with barely a bye-now.

-o-

Sirius ran his fingertip across the top binding of aged, red dragon-hide. Purest of the Purebloods reeked slightly of mildew, its faded cover creased from numerous reads. Disgusted, he re-shelved the tome amid various similarities, each touting virtues of power, blood, control.

The Black library had always acted as haven to the misled, the conceited fanatics. Yet, for the moment, Sirius could not hate with his usual depth the room or its home without. No; not when he was thankful in the least that he remembered it. Truly, this time, and with detail. Yes, details still remained a bit fuzzy, and gaps gulfed his mind in riddled torrents, but in all, the puzzle lay picturesque inside his thoughts.

At least he could recall why he'd hated this place, this life, so much.

Harry and Ginny had restored a number of areas of the house, and little by little he could see their personalities and touch alter the air of each room. Less and less was it a grandiose mausoleum, paying tribute to Dark Arts and Darker Lords. Weasley familial comfort, Potter whimsy; Prewett affection and Evans wisdom... all kissed the former House of Black. Sadistic humor twisted Sirius' whiskered mouth into a challenged smile. He and his kind – Gryffindor goodness – had won out, and wouldn't he like to have seen his mother's expression over the permanence and procreation of 'blood traitors' filling this hall of ages.

His smile fell a mark. Blood traitor. That was all he had been to her, never mind past that. Why couldn't his mother ever have taken the time to listen, to understand, to at least accept – agree or not – Sirius for who he was? Still her oldest, still her son, still her admirer. At least, as a young child he had been. Eager for his parents' attention and approval... Sirius shook his head in sad resignation. For a woman who had played up so much the importance of blood, she hadn't tolerated her own's differing philosophies. And for generations, that was all this house had seen. But this generation was going to herald a new concept within these hallowed chambers.

Love.

Dull thudding of the front knocker broke Sirius from his dour musings. That must be Hermione. Ginny had notified her father to pass along that he – well, their 'project' she'd called him – had been moved to the still-unplottable, secret Grimmauld Place. Even now, as he could hear the door's movements, he was sure his goddaughter-in-law was filling the young witch in on all the discoveries of the day. Mainly, that –

"You remember? Everything?" Incredulous joy, almost fearing hope, sprang from her entry. Just steps into the doorway, she stopped, awaiting his answer. Ginny paused behind, watching the greeting with cautious interest.

"Not everything," he replied, though his expression mirrored optimism. "Splotches, mostly. But enough. I remember Remus' star student, if that gains me any points." Trademark boyish grin split his face into remembrance of days gone by. Hermione's face melted, awash in relief and tinged in pink from embarrassment. Yes, he could now recall the bookworm's tendencies toward academic achievement. It seemed some things never changed.

"Stand and chat, if you've a mind, but I myself will have a seat, thank you." Ginny's statement eased the oddity of the moment, and three weary folk found refuge upon the settee and chaise.

Briefly summarized, events of Sirius' revelation the previous night and subsequent follow-up this morning dominated the immediate conversation. Interspersed throughout were questions of specifics: what happened in the Veil (he didn't know), how did he cross back through the Veil (he didn't know), other than temporary amnesia, were there other side effects from his encounter with said cursed fabric (again, he didn't know).

"I'm dealing with the fact I've lost four years of my life to this bloody archway. Drapery, my arse," Sirius added bitterly, a momentary sullen frown marring his handsome face. Lost in thought, he mentally recounted the primary changes of which he knew, attempting to glance over those of ill.

"Fred mentioned this morning my name'd been cleared." Uncharacteristically, he pegged onto the one good bit of change he could think of. A wry smile followed. "That's something, eh?"

Apologetic creases formed, bespeaking Hermione's thoughts better than words. She never could hide her emotions well. Only that she not lapse into platitudes was his one inner request. Too much had happened, and too much was not being told to him, yet. Ginny had said that it was best if they let him in on matters bit by bit, allow him a chance to come to terms with things first. Fear nagged his gut over what was being held in check.

"Well, that, and..." Hermione began, looking unsure. Here comes the 'make the best out of a bad Quidditch match' speech, Sirius thought dishearteningly. He'd prayed for something better from the bookworm, from the woman who – by all Ginny's accounts – had discovered Stubby was actually him, had persevered to prove to one and all he was alive, back, real. She was responsible for his return to friends, his return to himself.

"... and you've learned to sing quite well."

-o-0-o-

"...and you've learned to sing quite well..." Bloody hell. Why didn't she just put a Silencing Charm on herself and be done with it? A clanger dropped any harder would have sent her straight to the nursery. What Sirius must have thought when she'd said that. Facially he'd frozen, before a barked laugh coursed through the room. The man had just remembered who he was, after being dead for four years! And all the wit she could manage, all the comfort, had been childish complimentary observation to his voice. What a blithering idiot! When had she lost the ability to converse like an intelligent adult? When you caught those overcast irises mutely pleading you for some sort of saving grace, fixating you beyond proper thought.

Oh, shut up... Damn conscience was vexing her last nerve.

Eyes rolling in self-loathing accompanied her climb up the dormitory stairwell. She'd not been home in more than a week, and a change of clothing – her own, this time – was in order. Perhaps even a check of her Muggle post. And to sleep in her own bed...

Though it was summer holiday, the campus was still in use, many students taking on internships like herself, or suffering through courses in order to graduate early. Her own internship had been set up carefully, with uni administration listing her program as under the British Ministry. In turn, the British PM accepted the fact Hermione was actually working for the Ministry of Magic, and informed any Muggle official who asked, that she was working on more obscure diplomatic relations issues. It was the truth, really.

Cleared as still enrolled, Hermione thus kept her en suite dormitory room. Unfortunately, that included keeping her roommate Shauna, as well. It wasn't that she didn't like the blonde. She was read in drama and art history at uni, making her an interesting verbal partner. But it would have been nice to have the summer holiday free to magick her chores away for a change.

"About bloody time you got home," Shauna greeted from her lounged sprawl on her unmade bed. Barely glancing up from the newest Hello! she continued, either ignoring or missing Hermione's scowl as she closed the door. "Your mum's rang constantly for the past two days. Driving me mental."

Okay, so Hermione couldn't hold Shauna in contempt for her words; her mum would drive someone mental, fanatically checking up on her only child. Honestly...

"Sorry," she offered, tending her own bed with her overnight bag packed a week ago. Sorting laundry and sundry, she allowed her mind to return to the man she'd left not half an hour past.

Sirius had indeed looked healthier, though troubled. Who could blame him, though, with all he had to contend with once his true identity returned to him? And with the knowledge of his amnesia, Hermione had forgiven his discrepancies of manners, his distrust, his wariness. But something of him gnawed relentlessly at her, some change in personality or persona. But nothing other than his return in health could she see that was distinctly different. All personality oddities were completely explained, and lessened as the hours passed and his memory returned more fully.

Was there something different about him, these four years into his future? Or perhaps.... No, she didn't want to admit it, but truth could leave bitter aftertaste if left too long unaccepted. If he had not truly changed in that time, could the differences simply be...

That she had?

"Oh, bollocks and bother!" Shauna's miffed tones grated. Hermione turned to see the leggy actress bounding to the casement window, entertainment paper rolled in threat. It took only a moment for Hermione to decipher her roommate's actions: on the outer sill perched a weathered tawny, feathers ruffled and molting as though he'd had a long, difficult flight. Oh, no, Hermione realized. He must have a letter for me.

"Bloody bird's shown up a dozen times in the past few days, pecking the bleedin' hell out of the windows!" Unhooking the catch, Shauna rolled out the glass for a clear shot with her paper. "Nearly as scatty as your mum!"

"Shauna, no!" Hermione grabbed the woman's arm, tugging her back in from the fidgety owl. At her incredulous expression, the witch hastily improvised, "That's dangerous. He's a wild bird, and their talons are sharp. Perhaps you should run and see if the grounds gaffer can shoo him off, maybe put something on the sill to keep him away?" Fingers crossed, Hermione mentally begged her roommate to follow the suggestion.

It worked.

Latch barely catching upon exit, Hermione immediately turned to invite the harried owl in. Wary at first, he seemed to realize this was the witch he sought and quickly edged his way along the sill and into the room. Hermione nicked cold pizza crust from the tabletop fridge and offered the tawny his meal while she removed the message about his leg.

Unrolling the parchment, Hermione's eyes darted across the scrawl. Once. Twice. A third time, more slowly. Breath coming shallow, she sat without detouring visually. A soft, choked sigh escaped her.

"Oh, God... Harry..."

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

++ "Drapery, my arse," was borrowed gratefully from Isis Uf, because it was too wonderful a line to hide from the world... thank you! ;-)