Chapter 17: Truth Be Thy Name

Chapter 17: Truth Be Thy Name

"I suppose he wasn't quite as grammatically thick as I'd believed."

Gardenias graced the pools of mulch-filled landscape mounds, their curves trailing along the tree-lined walk upon which they now strolled. Humming shot across with intent, a honey bee diving to its perfumed rendezvous. Hermione was thoughtful with each step, her spoken words reflective of the inner turmoil caused by arrogance. Her ego had not once allowed that perhaps Harry had known exactly what he was writing. And she'd simply ignored it, glossed over the presentation as poor talent with a quill.

How wrong she well may have been.

"I just can't have imagined it, Harry being so literal at a time like –" Bitten lip and surreptitious side glance silently expressed her self-dismay and guilt. But Sirius showed no sign of condemnation; his walk was leisurely, un-faltering, his gaze ahead and searching. He remained mute. "Well, you know," she lamely finished.

"I didn't know he was so well versed in ancient Muggle literature, to be honest. Not that he's illiterate or anything," she quickly added, another fearful look at the contemplative man beside her. All traces of flirtatious ladies' man had disappeared once they'd left her dormitory seven minutes prior. Instead of typical mischievous grins or even passionate cause, a rare, subdued continence brought Sirius' face to her attention, all manner of previous petty jealousy instantaneously forgotten. He was fascinating. And at the same time, unnerving. Suddenly, Hermione cared very much what he thought of her. If only it wasn't as a complete bungling fool.

"Actually, I don't know that much about Chrétien de Troyes, myself. Just that he was a poet in the Twelfth Century. I mean, I know he wrote romances about knights and damsels and such, King Arthur and all..." Words failed her, Sirius' continued refrain shaming their life ere passage upon lips. Her 'friend' Troyes – elusive, alcoholic Troyes – had been located, and not by her. God, Hermione; how could you be so stupid? And Sirius blames you, he does. Wasting precious time almost kissing Raj, and worrying about bloody dreams and stalkers instead of figuring out Harry's code. Harry could already be dead because of you, because he trusted you to be clever and suss it all out, and you failed him miserably. He and Ron, both. And Sirius knows it. He had to figure it out himself, and he's a pureblood with no taste for Muggle literature, and even he spotted it before –

Unresolved questions brought her strides to an abrupt standstill. Only a second passed before Sirius swung around, inquiring as to her stop with a raised brow. Struggling confusion marred her face as thoughts tumbled out.

"You –" Calculation of parts of speech, formation of syllables. He was quite intelligent, yes, but for him to figure out something so literary, so Muggle...

"How could you possibly have sorted that out? Your exposure to the Muggle world is really rather limited, after all, especially with all those years in Azkaban and in hiding, and behind the Veil and now in a rock band and..." Trailing off, coherency abandoning her, Hermione fell to simply staring at him with pleading, beseeching some logical explanation. Had she gone mad? Had her own intelligence sought refuge in light of her best friends' peril? Or had the Veil –

"All in due time, Hermione," his answer breaking her mental flailing with a knowing smile. "Come along." With a sweep of his hand, he turned and continued down the courtyard walk, passing hurrying students on their way to class. Hermione stood but a moment, perplexed, before scurrying along to fall in beside him once more, this time curiosity overriding disgrace.

Still fascinated by his apparent assuredness, long moments passed before realization struck that the building they were entering was, indeed, the campus library. Sirius Black, in a library? Voluntarily? Gone mental, has he?

And he was awfully smug about it.

Decisions could not be reached as to whether she was annoyed with his superior attitude, relieved that he may have found a solid connection, or dismayed that his actions were now quite un-Sirius-like. Battling between these three yet blindly following, Hermione accepted (for now) Sirius' complete leadership. Weaving between ceiling-high oaken shelves, islands of colorful reference displays, shadowed study carrels and focused co-eds, they made their way through the dense interior of the ground floor. Reaching a quiet section of back wall, Sirius nipped through a stairwell door, ascending the eggshell white concrete two steps at a time. Hermione dutifully followed suit.

Third floor landing gave way to re-entrance of the building. Much quieter and less-used, the stores of aged, bound periodicals lay dusty, the air slightly stagnant. More maze-trolling led to an obscure corner table, texts spread all about in varying states of openness. A man in faded azure cotton, his pressed sleeves rolled to mid-arm, studied over a particularly large, seemingly old tome. At their footsteps, he casually peered up, obviously expecting them. Hermione blanched.

"Hello, Hermione." Softly spoken, as was always his way. Weary, thoughtful expressions grew to a smile upon his scarred face.

"Remus..." Breathy whisper betrayed distress. Quick, furtive glances betwixt the two men made apparent her confusion and concern. Throaty, hoarse chuckling drew her back to Remus.

"It's all right, Hermione. I know." Endeared look full of quiet joy and shared humor passed from his eyes in a fleeting view to Sirius. Returning to the young witch, "Sirius came to see me a couple days ago. At first I had thought I was hallucinating, else it was a horrid trick or trap, a lure by Death Eaters. Because when I saw him, realized... Well, I knew it couldn't... Not when I'd been there, seen him... fall..." Here his voice broke, choked with emotion he desperately tried to contain. Tightness reined in his features, jaw set and lips pressed, attempting denial to the raw feelings now surfacing. Saltwater glazed his kind eyes, eyes that searched about the room, seeking to land anywhere but the sweet former student before him, and the best friend he'd long believed dead. The love of a brother he'd so desperately missed.

Empathy reigned within Hermione. Yes, for once she understood well what Remus was feeling, though its origins for her were altered. She had not the history of best friend antics with Sirius, but her affection for him had grown in the time she'd first begun to ponder upon him intensely these past weeks. And she understood the depth of friendship, and of the horrors of its loss through death. Ron and Harry might already be dead, surely captured, and like Remus, there had been nothing she could have done to prevent it.

No, that's not true. She could have. She simply wasn't up to scratch, it seemed. The thought sobered her, bringing back the point of the visit, comprehension dawning.

"So you're the one who figured out Troyes' identity." Remus seemed to welcome the change of topic, hastily brushing a lower eyelid with one long, calloused finger as though a speck of dirt had caught. Breaths returned to him with relieved sighs, sniffs brisk and forgotten in his rummaging of the volumes on the rickety table. Once put to rights, he peered up at her, a self-conscious smile tugging at his right lip corner.

"Lucky circumstances," he excused, modest beyond measure. "When Sirius showed up, frightening me beyond comprehension, I had just concluded Yvain..., and the name was still fresh in my thoughts."

"Your humility astounds me, Remus," Sirius interjected, seating himself at the table. "After all these years. Some things never change, I see." Accompanying grin lightened the mood with teasing, and Remus blushed slightly, more so as Sirius continued, this time to Hermione.

"Remus read the copy I'd made of Harry's letter to you –"

"– after sitting me down for a full explanation as to how he came to be here, alive –"

"– after he performed every identification charm and arresting mechanism known to –"

"– only after he crept into my library to stalk me like –"

"– as if I'd have knocked on the front door you'd have greeted me with a bottle of firewiskey and a, 'Hello there, Sirius. Glad you could pop by. Thought you'd toddled off to the Hereafter. Good to see you're back. Come in for a cuppa, eh?'" A snort of incredulous humor doused Sirius' monologue, and Remus choked with laughter.

"Perhaps not, dear friend, but didn't anyone ever teach you that it is rather rude to slip into someone's house unannounced and lie in wait for them, particularly when said mate believes you to be quite dead, as he saw the death with his own eyes?" Liveliness sparkled in Remus' eyes, a light Hermione had not seen since her fifth year.

Sirius conceded with a wry grin and casual toss of his head, lengthening silky locks tossing about his unshaven jaw. "Lily might've mentioned it a time or two."

Withholding the chortle of laughter bubbling up, Hermione chose to cease the game, as they did have pressing matters to attend. Games and reunion play would have to wait further.

"All right, boys," she broke in just as Remus was forming a response. "We've a pair of wayward wizards to save, if you don't mind..." Though sobering her words were, the laughing tone conveyed her understanding and joy at seeing the remaining Marauders together again.

"Right." Remus flipped a few pages, smile still present, and Sirius gestured for Hermione's joining. They were alone on this floor – the reason, she was sure, it was chosen – and no one bothered to whisper as they began discussing the encrypted message.

"We've been studying Harry's message to you, Hermione," Remus began again, running his finger down the aged pages of an especially yellowed text. "And Sirius and I believe we have a bit of it worked out.

"You're on about the boys getting into skirmishes with Black family Death Eaters; he couldn't have been more blatant about that. The next bit about Lily's friend... I've no idea. She never talked about holiday making with anyone in particular in the summers. Not even to James. She stayed with her family as best we knew, and no one outside of them or schoolmates ever spent much time with her." He looked up, weariness beginning to show in his failure for answers.

"We'll just have to get back to that," Hermione reassured him. They needed to fill in what they could now, and the gaps later. Noticing blank parchment and quill near her, she gathered them to her and began jotting notes, first copying the copy of Harry's message Sirius was now reviewing, then, line by line, noting the translations below. When she finished, she felt marginally better. They now had a logical process through which to work. It was the first time in a long while she felt useful.

"All right, what else do we know?"

Sirius threw a meaningful glance to Remus, the answering expression one of resigned allowance. Deep breath preceded storytelling. "The Head barkeep is definitely a reference to the Hog's Head... and Aberforth Dumbledore."

Sharp breath admitted Hermione's surprise. Aberforth Dumbledore was a gifted wizard, intelligent and keen, but he was not his brother. Silent and crafty, one could never be sure what he was thinking, or what he would do next. It had been rumored he'd gone a bit barmy after too many years in the dodgy bar, surrounded by dark and questionable magical folk of all sorts. He was quiet, kept to himself, and lacked the personable qualities the former headmaster had thrived upon. Left to gather information from Aberforth Dumbledore was not a pleasant option.

"I see you understand," Remus acknowledged, Hermione's reaction equal to his expectations. Affirming nod, and Sirius continued by retelling his trip to the public house just days prior. He'd failed to mention the where's and who's when he had first told Hermione about meeting up with Zelda. This time, he even mentioned his unidentified tail.

"That makes two of us," Hermione responded, revealing the meet-up with David and his notice of her apparent blond stalker. Concerned looks exchanged between the men, but no explanation was forthcoming. Sirius did not know the details, but the night he had regained his memory, he had understood from the Weasley conversation that Lucius Malfoy was supposed to be dead.

But then, so was he.

"We'll have to be more careful from here on out." Remus' worry etched deeper furrows around his brow and mouth. He did not need to vocalize consequences, each of the three knowing too well what ramifications lay in wait for carelessness at this point. Instead, they returned to the subject matter at hand, the former professor elaborating research findings.

"Chrétien de Troyes wrote five major poems. Four were completed. Erec and Enide, Yain, Cligés, and Lancelot... The fifth – Perceval – was not. What gave me pause that Harry's letter may regard Chrétien was his work Yain, the Knight of the Lion, which I'd only completed a few days ago for a bit of pleasure reading.

"In it, Yain rescues a lion from a serpant –" Hermione's eyes shot open; both Sirius and Remus grinned. "Yes, the symbolism was difficult to miss. But as I was saying, it fits Harry's second year at school. I had heard all about the Basilisk, and how he had saved Ginny – a Gryfindor – from a snake. The story is also said to be lightly based upon Saint Mungo's life. If Harry says that 'Troyes' needs help to stop, where does one go for help?"

"St. Mungo's," Sirius offered needlessly. His point, however, was made in the suggestive stare he presented her with. He was mentally egging her on, forcing her to conjure the answer herself. Slightly disturbing it was, as well, since that mental exercise was directly a Remus Lupin speciality.

"Meaning..." At a loss for answers, she hedged. Glances around the dark, musty lair of written word... pursing and nipping of lips... dull hmmmm gnawing from her throat. "Meaning there's another Horcrux at St. Mungo's?"

Hesitation, this time from Remus. "That's where we run into a wall. Harry had destroyed the last Horcrux over a year ago. We – meaning the Order, myself, Sirius – all believe Voldemort hasn't the strength or power, or even enough soul left, to create any more Horcruxes."

"No, not Horcruxes," Sirius intervened. "But what of the same sort of idea would you look for in hospital?" Questioning gaze from Hermione only encouraged Black's smirk already forming. She hated it when he was brilliant. "A hospital heals, Hermione. There's a healing potion or charm, or a Healer there who can give him his abilities back in full reign, or perhaps give him his soul back. I don't know what, exactly, but it makes sense."

Light suddenly fell upon Hermione, a growing excitement bursting her revelation loudly in the cavernous room. "A potion, yes! He must mean a potion!" Taken aback by her sudden force, both wizards leaned slightly from her, interest and surprise holding rapt attention. "Drinking! Harry said 'Troyes' drinking!' It has to a potion, something that will bring Voldemort back to power."

-o-0-o-

Two weeks from their library revelation, Hermione found herself seated again at Grimmauld Place's antique kitchen table, sporting a mug of cinnamon tea and plate of simnel cake, drowning her mental block in sugar rush. Blotted, scribbled, torn and crumpled, her parchment notes littered her surroundings. Nearing ten in the evening, she was tired, worn and frustrated. They'd gotten no closer to answers on the potion, even after they had shared their information with the twins, who, in turn, took it upon themselves to accompany Ginny to St. Mungo's for a check-up. George was 'officially' there, while Fred slipped in, pretending to be his brother when noticed, allowing him to nose about. Unfortunately, this turned up nothing.

Ginny had been informed, as well, in order to give her hope that her husband was still all right. Guesswork concluded the message in the ring was sent well before Hermione's letter, delivered by Malfoy in times of desperation in order to cause Ginny despair. Harry and Ron were all right; they had to be.

Soft creaking behind broke her brooding, and the door admitted Remus, his gentle demeanor prevalent even in the worst of times. Tea quietly drawn, he seated himself at the head, a corner from her. Companionable silence ensued for several minutes, Hermione studying her notes, Remus studying her.

"So how long have you loved him?"

Gentle demeanor aside, Remus Lupin could cut to the quick should the need arise.

It arose now.

Hermione, however, was slow on the uptake, startled confusion knitting her worry-lined brows further. "What? How long have I loved who?"

Brief pause, contemplative.

"Sirius."

He said it without censor, without condemnation or folly. Soothingly spoken, like an encouragement to a frightened, wild animal. At the moment of his words, Hermione felt like one. Denial was an option, of course, but Remus was no fool. Observant, logical, sensitive to emotional current... It did not hurt that he had some training in Legilimency, though she knew he would never stoop to that unless required, such as ensuring one was who they claimed to be. He had done so before to Harry his fifth year.

Just because she refused to lie, however, did not mean she intended to give full credit easily. In fact, she had little taste for like admittance at this time. It had only been a festering thorn-wound to complicate matters. Continued presence and close proximity had done nothing to assure her her fears of attraction were mere child's play, a sudden awakening to the existence of older, more self-assured men. Time spent working with and now practically living with Sirius had only come to reinforce the growing feelings developed in the last month.

Averted eyes confirmed her guilt, she was sure, but she could not face Remus. Not until emotions were controlled, at any rate, and that could take years considering their upheaval. Several slow, calming breaths allowed her strength enough to turn back to him, eyes almost clear of pain.

"It doesn't matter." Flat was her own voice, foreign to her ears. Attention returned to theories, beseeching wordlessly for the subject to be dropped. Hermione hated being vulnerable, and this was undeniably the most vulnerable she'd ever been: owning up to being in love with Sirius Black.

In love, yes. Days ago she had given up lying to herself, excusing reactions bold and unequivocal as feminine curiosity or physical lust only. When the urge struck him, Sirius could be gallant, a gentleman, and those rare occasions exuded genuine honor and thoughtfulness. Acting the playboy, deep down he honestly cared. Complex. Methodical. Eager. Forthright. Resolute. Fervorant.

Flirtatious. Haphazard. Reckless. Arrogant. Egotistical. Insensitive.

But curling up beside him one night, when she unintentionally fell asleep against him on the settee Tuesday evening, exhaustion overcoming her in the midst of perusing Potions Ill Conceived... That had been the eye-opener. His upper arm her pillow, she'd awakened to the steady, subtle rise and fall with his breathing. Vantage point being hers, consciousness had gone unnoticed. Unfettered, she had studied him beneath lowered lashes... the beauty of his face, his eyes – stormy, turbulent. Refinement bespoke breeding in his elegant hands, grace that even the Veil could not rob him. Scent, masculine and leather and natural oils and Sirius... All this she took in as he, unaware, continued his own study of St. Mungo's staff of Healers. But most important of all, she closed her eyes yet again, and took in the sensation of simply being with him, and she noted her own feelings, her mind and body's response to him.

And it was good.

In fact, the longer she remained positioned there, the more right it became, the more comfortable, the more... essential. And that was the point when she realized this was no game of hormones or infatuation, of rebellious wickedness. Deep and desperate, so much that she later dare not look him straight in the eye. And for that moment, it was all she could do not to move, not to slide her limp arms from her own lap to his solid, bare arm. Not to turn her head and stare into his face directly. Not to kiss him.

She had liked Ron; he was one of her best friends. She had found attraction to Raj. But in Sirius she had found... longing.

"I suppose not." Hermione jerked, reverie popped in its delicate bubble. Remus was answering her. What had she said?

Oh, yes. That her loving Sirius didn't matter.

"When you fell in love with him really isn't an issue; only the fact that you do love him. He will be appreciative to hear that." Horror pulled her face. Remus chuckled heartily. "Don't look so frightened, Hermione. I won't tell him," he clarified, his smile crinkling the corners of his brightened eyes. Breath returning to her lungs, tenseness left her body and her gaze fell back to her tea. She really needed something stronger at a time like this.

"You will." China splintered with resounding bite to the air, the warm liquid seeping into the wood of both floor and table. Remus' laughter grew to a short roar. Containing his mirth for a moment, his eyes softened with his speech as her petrified face met his in astonishment and fear. "When it is time, you will..."

Saved a retort, Hermione nearly jumped clear her own chair when the door opened once again, this time with negligent care, with force and speed, offering nothing of Remus' former ease. Taboo subject himself strolled in, muttering choice phrases as he stalked to the counter, poured his tea and fixings, and swung back to exit, handily partaking of a piece of Hermione's sweets en route.

Once gone again, company dear coughed discreetly, bringing her back to some semblance of reality. Barely she noticed as Remus flicked his wand to clear the mess, and without show left the table to retrieve a fresh cup for her. As he poured, over his shoulder suggestions resumed.

"You might want to be careful, however, when you're out with him. He's not even supposed to be alive, and you're supposed to be dating Ron. Your public company with him will only draw unwanted attention to his existence, and now would not be the time for anyone outside of this house to know of his return."

Still without reply, she remained silent as he turned back, delivering her tea before her then reclaiming his chair. "You were seen – noticed, actually – a few weeks ago outside a café. Sirius wasn't recognized, but you were, and it was of particular interest."

Realization struck. "Tonks said something about that," she sniped, suddenly annoyed that her movements were so monitored. "Right woolly about it, too. Wouldn't tell who saw me, or told her, other than it wasn't Lynley. She thought I was having an affair behind Ron's back." Not that now she wouldn't be half right. Desire to have an affair isn't quite the same as having one, but still...

Pause of cup to lips, Remus narrowed his eyes in thought before seeming to make a decision. Sip first, he answered. "My father-in-law saw you. From what I gather, he was sitting directly behind Sirius, so he never saw his face. You were lucky Annie wasn't with him instead of his Muggle co-worker. She'd have spotted Sirius, no doubt." He studied her a moment, considering. Finally, feeling she had enough to be going on with, he let it drop with a simple, "Just be careful."

She feared she was well past careful, thank you very much.

-o-

Zelda's interoffice owl had been quite specific. Lunch would be tea at her cottage in Hogsmeade, without argument. Due to the distance, a Portkey would be authorized (being a department head had its advantages, she had pointed out), and as it was a Monday, there was little going that prevented them both from taking an extended meal. Zelda had even cleared it with Bailey. Thus being, Hermione found herself at noon in the Atrium, awaiting Zelda Luminare's attendance.

"There you are, dear." Perky as ever, the little witch greeted Hermione on the move, still tucking a few papers into a folder and casting a quick binding charm to keep them in place. "I'm delighted you agreed to lunch; I've so wanted to know you better."

"Thank you for inviting me," the younger witch replied politely, the childish retort that she had no choice in accepting quickly dissipating. She truly liked Zelda; it was only that she had so much more on her mind to contend with right now, and socializing lunches were not in her time table.

"Sorry we can't Floo," Zelda said as they took the Visitors' entrance up to the London streets. "After Jonas passed on, the thrall endured by its existence held me to visitors at all hours, welcome or not, everyone wanting to check up on me, make sure I was doing well. 'Fine, fine,' I would tell them, but the pop-ins were over much, so I finally cut off the Floo Network access. Much more pleasant now." Her smile broadened as she pulled out the windscreen wiper blade from her robe pocket, tapped it with her wand, and presented it to Hermione.

-o-

Grandmotherly cooking filled Hermione's stomach to the brim, and nostalgic stories filled her mind with visions of a charismatic, youthful Albus Dumbledore. Bubby had been idealistic, ready to save the world. Aspirations of grandeur were not wasted on him, though, Hermione considered with a wry smile. He certainly had changed the world, changed so many's world. Were it not for him, great wizards like Remus Lupin would not have been allowed an education, close friends, a chance to teach and prove his worth.

Now they wandered through her knick-knack filled cottage, Zelda reminiscing with each hodge-podge memory, every porcelain figurine, this portrait and that photograph. Serenity coursed Hermione's body. For now, troubles and mystery lay far away, a tiny elderly witch possessor of soulful restoration in her tales of long ago.

They had passed Dumbledore's portrait earlier down in the hallway off the dining room. But he must have been out visiting another of his frames, as only a chintz armchair remained at their passage. Now they had maneuvered up the worn, polished stairs, slipping into Zelda's bedroom of bright, rich teals and pinks. All foo-foo and eclectic at the same time, with sheer bed curtains and French laced windows, whirly silver instruments worthy of Dumbledore dotting the nightstand, dresser and wardrobe.

"Ah, yes," Zelda sighed in fond memory as she retrieved a small photo frame from her nightstand. "This was taken on holiday in '45; we were celebrating, enjoying life with newfound energy." Before Hermione could question just what they were celebrating, further explanation stopped her cold.

"Jacob MacGregor and Bubby were such close, fast friends. Trusted each other with their lives. Had secrets and plans like best friends always do. I remember on this particular trip, I was left by Mount's Bay to watch little Argus – Raj's father, you see – while they whisked off on some adventure nearby." She chuckled lightly to herself, returning the photo to its place. "Ah, boys will be boys."

Little Argus and younger Zelda appeared to be fast friends, too, the photo displaying the two playing about a sandcastle upon narrow beach. Jacob was in the background, fiddling with his boat. Upon her lips questions formed, but again Hermione could not voice them, for Zelda had moved on to a wall frame on the other side of her headboard. She stepped around the foot, striving to keep up with her hostess.

"And my newest acquisition..."

Ice water could not have caused greater pause or shock to Hermione. Clutching the bedpost, she stared in disbelief. There, gilded frame ever encompassing, was a memory of her own.

"Though I vaguely recall it once went by another title," Zelda continued, "it has been engraved with the moniker, The Mystic of the Mists."