Chapter 19: A Tale of Two

Chapter 19: A Tale of Two

Heeding his grandmamá's words had always been a partiality, particularly since said matriarch was oft quite uncanny in her apt observations. Eccentricity skipped generations every other, and he'd inherited her flash for the misrepresentation. General folk assumed by his flamboyant attire, punk hair and station in life that Blue Foncé was a gormless busker, intent solely on wine, women and song. And while each had their special attributes, life limited to these would indeed lie dull for him. Deeper below, away from public consensus, keen intelligence drew fantastic lines, creating a web of seemingly unrelated lives. Magical in their own right, these connections. Ethereal at times; Blue found them, studied them, all with a whisky in one talented hand, a bird in the other. Rare did one question his appearances, seeing only expected visions. But as Gram always said: Folk will assume the façade you assume. Just don't assume the same.

So he let the tarts fancy over him, the Muggle Goth boys comp him shots, and the pub at large treat him as rock star royalty. Let them all believe him so silly and dazed. Words most secret are spoken uncensored before those considered ignorant and below notice.

Yet in it all, not once did he assume the same regarding carefree attitude and shadowed eyes across the table. Stubby Boardman wasn't quite whom he portrayed. Gram had taken that note upon initial sight of lean frontman, falling prey to a warm night and warmer wine, enchanted by an evening show for the Ministry Gala nearly six weeks' back. Ever since, suggestion that Blue keep watch over Stubbs prompted his ever-watchful eye. Intense scrutiny added up, a single conclusion striking out above all others.

He wasn't Stubby Boardman.

-o-

Sipping Guinness left Sirius warm inside, if only less-than-slightly fuzzy. Third pint for the evening, courtesy yet again of adoring fans strewn about the pub, eager female fans strewn about him. Across scarred pine sat an unusually reserved Blue, his motions conservative, his speech soft, reflective. Considering.

Offered smile to said drummer was repaid in kind, genuine friendliness reflective in his eyes. Chatter on either man's sides drowned out any possibility for honest conversation. And surprisingly, meaningful words were exactly what Sirius craved at the moment. Regardless his remarks to a flustered Hermione earlier, desire for a wicked roger had fled some time ago. Nagging sensations plagued him, formless in their need.

Guilt did not haunt him, this uneasiness of his. No; he'd been honest and true in his summation that they were doing all they could for Ron and Harry at the moment. Until Remus came back from his quest for information, they could go no further. And a chance to relax always made for better shape when action was called upon. He'd been right. But Hermione's face had spoken more than girlish embarrassment at his suggestions, and now upon reflection, Sirius realized her feelings more accurately for what they were. Though he loved Harry as a son, and – should he ever admit it under Veritaserum – as his closest link to his late best friend, to Hermione, these young men were her best friends. Just as he'd have given his life for James and Remus, she felt the same for James' son and his cohort in play.

She only wanted to find them – she'd missed them terribly – and he'd dismissed her floundering for priggish lecturing. Well, it was. But born of affection for her mates, such attitude should be understandable. Facing facts in the din of a crowded public house, Sirius accepted he'd been a bit of a wretch. So long it had been since he'd had to worry over comforting an irrational female (and Hermione Granger was never irrational), he had lost all aptitude for such task.

"Fancied 'imself a bloody winged horse, an' tossed 'imself off the roof o' the mews," a pissed Kent was sharing, darlings hanging on his every word and accessible flesh. Properly placed 'ooh's' and 'aw's' filtered through the Celtic band on the corner stage, encouraging the bassist in his tale. Nigel split his attention between his mate, his bourbon, and the twin redheads vying for position on his lap.

Recalling this a Muggle pub, Kent sobered enough to censor his story. "Mum sent 'im to hospital wi' a broken leg, rib, wrist, an' concussion. Would've been much worse if Uncle Havish 'adn't've cast a, er... landed in a castor bean bin." Sirius' eyes closed briefly in resignative weariness, mental sigh of quiet suffering. Leave it to Kent to weigh secrecy statutes against male ego, all to impress leather minis and boob tubes.

Colloquial syllables wove through bodies to reach his ears, expressing the fact Kent had won out again in the balancing game with luck and his pushing of it. No question of spells or witches or cauldrons a-brew. Just chuckles and giggles and sideline commentary followed.

One small hurrah for their party, at least.

"Oi, Stubbs!" Sirius jolted from his reverie, attention spotting Kent mere seconds after the call. "The lassies wanna hear 'bout you next. Give 'em a story 'bout you an' your brother. Wha's his name? Ryan? Yeah, tha's it. Go on, tell 'em."

Blood drained from his face, pooling somewhere in his throat, Sirius felt. A story about his brother? Great Scot and then some... he didn't know who Ryan even was, much less a tale to tell from Stubby Boardman's point of view. So long he had portrayed this role, easily forgotten was the fact in face: he wasn't Stubby Boardman. Think fast, Sirius.

"Oh, 'course back when you was kids, mate" Nigel interjected, sloshing several syllables. "Tight lipped usually about his older brother," he was enlightening the girls about the table. "Never even knew he had one 'til we was on the Simmering Cauldrons tour; nearly three years together by that time. Family row and all; hadn't spoken in ages." Turning back to Sirius, he continued. "Oh, c'mon, Stubbs. Everyone's sharin' this evenin'. Just one happenin'; just somethin' to prove you was actually a lad of some level of disobedience." Hearty chuckles this time.

Careful glance toward Blue confirmed Sirius' concerns. Suddenly piqued in interest, eyes narrowing slightly, brow rising a whisper. Blue was waiting for a response, and doing so with more than mere passing curiosity. Intently waiting.

Repeated choruses pleading his tale reverberated against glass, wood, flesh. Wariness set in abruptly, tingling coursing through his veins in a reminder of his precarious position. Sirius could not immediately locate the faux pas which led to the drummer's suspicions, but he knew when he saw such questioning in a single look. No chance was there of avoiding the whole thing, yet he could have little hint as to anything the real Stubby would have shared. Apparently Boardman did not fare well in familial matters, either, and at such time as the bonds dissipated he could only surmise. Careful and calculated his words must become.

"Must have been around seven or so," he began slowly, weighing the memory against assumptions of the man he claimed himself. Best to be vague, not specifying which brother was seven, refusing to suggest an age difference. Point of view cast downward, nervous fingers toying in detail with a booklet of matches, McCulley's dashed in white script on green cardboard; below, Est. 1892. Distractedly, he noticed the torn edges within, evidence of two charcoal gray matchsticks gone.

"We were fighting... over some nonsensical item, I'm sure. Quid–" Eyes darted up, about. Muggles. Returned to hands. "Quid's worth of toy, perhaps. Not even a favorite, just a matter of 'what's mine is mine' ideology." Vision unfocused, blurred from the matches to an upstairs hallway, décor of suffocating wealth and antiquity, haughty and rigid. No place for two young boys, one a carefree rebel, the other an overlooked second, wishing only that he could be something special in his older sibling's eyes.

Voice softening in thought and yearning, remembrance bringing to life the scuffle of scrawny boys tugging over a forgotten Quidditch model. Seven-year-old hands wrapped about it aggressively, determined to hold onto a possession of his idolized elder brother, the eight-year-old just as determined to retain ownership over one of the few toys he had acquired whose purpose was not to groom him to head the family one day.

"Ryan'd grabbed the model, I think it was, and wouldn't let go. I grabbed his hands from behind, my arms encircling his neck tightly. We struggled, and in the process I slammed his chin down onto a hall table, catching the edge and shattering a vase." Expensive and antique vase, but such detail held no purpose here. And little did it matter, anyway, as Sirius felt the tender, plumb childhood flesh of Regulus Arcturus Black beneath arms even now, the strength of will refusing to let the older boy win in the struggle.

He could still hear the crack as bone hit teak, Ming porcelain shattering in the short tumble from upright to prone... the crunch of shards embedding themselves into baby-smooth flesh, force of jawbone splintering it further. And he, Sirius, had been the cause.

"Tore a gash in his jaw," he elaborated, tracing a centimeter-long path along his left jaw, indicating the deepest of the wound. Blood had poured heavily, pooling reflectively on the polished half-moon tabletop.

"Did our best to clean it up, both the mess of the vase, and the wound." Walburga would have Crucio'd them had she caught the childish behavior or its aftereffects. Reg'd held his chin over the table to prevent staining the hall runner, while Sirius had run to the bath, gathering hand towels. Magic wasn't an option, and neither was garnering aid from a house-elf. Too loyal they were to the elder Blacks.

"Cleared the remnants with a whisk broom, wiped it all down. I tried to treat the wound as best as possible. Re – Ryan never once said a word, giving the slightest indication it hurt." Not a cry or tear fell, though Regulus' blue eyes welled in saltwater. Brave front before his big brother, and Sirius had to respect that, even then. Reg even helped Sirius bury the shards in the back garden, along with the bloodied towels so the house-elves wouldn't find them.

"We never told, and no one ever asked about the scar he ended up with." No one asked because when it came to Regulus, he was just the spare to be held onto, just in case the unimaginable happened to the Black heir. And it did – just not the unimaginable that had been imagined. "I suppose, on some level, that left a bond between us. He could have told, caused me grief and punishment, but he never said a word. After that..." Soft throat clearing of encroaching emotion. "Well, we never fought again over toys."

Never again over something so trivial. But blood was never trivial. Pure or otherwise.

Sirius raised his head to see numerous sets of eyes upon him, maternal kindness in the feminine ones, mild confusion in Nigel's and Kent's.... keenness and casualness in Blue's. Too much must have been revealed in his story. Enough so that it didn't match what was previously known of the real Stubby Boardman, and though befuddled by drink, Nigel was not stupid. Blue, however, wasn't even liquored. Concern drew his stomach muscles tense, internally calling for a speedy exit. Backpedaling was useless, and would be most obvious at this stage. Sirius could only hope he'd not marred his cover too badly, that perhaps he could learn the truth, and later talk his way out of any trouble his ignorance had caused him. He wasn't ready to proclaim himself Sirius Orion Black, former Azkaban inmate.

"Don't recall you ever mentioning physically fighting with your brother." Nigel cocked his head in thoughtful consideration. "Always believed it was because he was older and bigger. But this must've been the one time you did, and afterwards your guilt was so strong you never again brawled." Sobriety led to philosophy with Nigel, spurts of the Muggle psychology of Hermione's lectures leaking out as words of wisdom. It didn't matter; Sirius was not confident enough to stay. Hell; he wasn't comfortable enough to stay now.

"I suppose." Rising swiftly, he knocked the chair back without grace, one hand sweeping through the ever-lengthening locks in agitation. Avoidance of eye-contact, he mumbled a quick apology to the table, turned, and left in haste through the masses of bodies, the echoes of voice and tune. He had to get out, not only for his blunder of identity, but for the rush of feelings his tale had invited.

Muggy atmosphere smacked Sirius with a dull greeting as he stepped through the pub door. It had rained while he was inside, leaving the air heavy with steam from the burning asphalt. Overcast withheld the moonlight now, streetlamps glowing against the rising fog of late evening. Odor reminiscent of ozone and fish marketers wafted from the nearby docks. Throngs of partygoers clamored for position on the walks, each pair or set eager to make destination before the threat of another downpour materialized into reality.

Sirius jostled himself into the flow, desperate to vacate premises and memory both. Lightening above the clouds lit the sky in uneven muted displays, mimicking the palpitations of Sirius' soul. Turning points mile-marked his scarred life in gashes on the inside. Long since forgotten was the battle over Roderick Plumpton's likeness, the subtle change in sibling rivalry after the fact. There had been hope, until Hogwarts. By then, Regulus' attempts to gain approval from their parents drove him to the wrong house, the wrong friends, the wrong path in Sirius' opinion. Some breaches expanded far past bridges of any kind.

Half-attentive, it was many minutes before Sirius took notice of his surroundings. He'd left the heavy flow of foot traffic behind, the well-lit shops and entertainments blocks away. Orange hue illuminated from behind the local buildings, directing all night owls toward the craic of the night. Wrapped in his own thoughts, failure to note direction had left him vaguely disoriented. Was it that loss of placement that flicked the hairs of his nape? Or did a sense of foreboding follow something more sinister?

Slowing his pace to tread lightly upon the stone, ears perked to nocturnal noises. This time there was no overzealous female breathing in his ear, covering the telltale disturbance of nearby footfall. He was being tailed. Again.

-o-0-o-

All right, so she didn't understand quite everything, Hermione clarified to herself as she paced the entrance hall of twelve Grimmauld. But enough puzzle pieces clicked together to grant a clear view of one subject of the picture, and it was definitive of her search. Another cryptic line broken, obvious in hindsight. Yet only more questions posed themselves in its enlightenment. And more fear.

If only she could speak to Sirius.

Bitterly the memory of their words earlier chanted in her mind, and she found herself helpless in their prick of pointed insults. No, he had not degraded her, but her lack of honest response had left her demeaning herself. True Gryffindor blood would have marched up to him, clutched those layered tresses, pulled him to her and –

And what? her conscience challenged. Nothing. You'd have done nothing, she admitted to and of herself. Sirius' high spirit mirrored his wild animal hierarchy in her world. Beauty and finesse and strength and cunning... and unattainable in more than appreciation from afar. Even Godric would have recognized the innate defeat of such folly.

Quarter to midnight and still the Black heir was nowhere to be found. Entertainment flyers had suggestions for where he might have gone to meet the boys, yet none had panned out. Pacing continued in increasing steps, worry mixed with anticipation, flavored in – dare she admit it – jealousy. How dare he go out catting around? When she had pertinent information to his godson's plea for help? After all, it was his inherent duty to...

Stay home and dismiss actually living his own life? The inner voice was little and soft, but there. Angry tears threatened their blemish, and Hermione dabbed the corners of her eyes with shaking fingertips. Rehabilitation was said to begin with admitting the problem. Yet, even voiced, hers seemed only to worsen.

Stirrings of sleepy portraits distracted her thoughts. Sirius could be all night, or even all weekend. Wincing the plausibility to the back of her mind, Hermione decided her news could not wait. Remus was not the first in line for such progress, regardless how much respect and affection he garnered. Sirius was her support. Sirius was her sounding board. Sirius was her guide. Sirius was her...

Weakness.

Grumbles emitted more frequently now from the oil and watercolors, distressing over three single flames illuminating the hall. Mutterings of rudeness and inconsideration filtered through oppressing darkness.

"Sod it all," her snip grated into the suffocating silence. Abandoning further wear and tear trials of the floorboards, Hermione grabbed up her book bag and stalked out the front door. Missions brought out the best in the witch, and for once gratefulness for the mess exuded through all other emotions. Busy mind equaled no dwelling on matters too close to the heart. Matters best left for a rainy... er, rainier day.

Meeting the encompassing night, Hermione fell into its disappearing spell, stride purposeful, anticipative. Sirius Black was somewhere in London this night, and she was going to find him.

-o-0-o-

Sirius Black was somewhere in London this night, though precisely where he was not sure. Nor was he sure who was stalking him, but it had to end. Here. Now. For his own sake; for everyone's sake.

Shadows obscured corners, nooks, alleys. Lack of light scrambled brick and mortar, creating mixed sundry where solid forms once stood in daytime. Misty gray blurred where sky supposedly lay, the city backlighting its echoing expanse. Every darker form was suspect, every curving mass another wizard with a wand.

Killing Curses surprisingly did not frighten him. Why this was never was questioned. He had supposedly died once. What was another time without pain? Surely few would miss him this time; of those with tendency, only the few who actually knew he was back. But then... he had too much to do, too much to accomplish. And for that, for Harry, he would live.

Death he did not fear, but capture was another story.

Controlled breathing screamed in his ears, every creak of building settlement, every stray feline's misjudged leap. McGonagall would never be so inept, he thought wryly, as another bin lid toppled further down the street. Scurrying at left briefly brought image of old friends, and old times. Quickly followed by old stone walls of desolation. He grimaced. Peter had caused death and pain, but in the end, he had paid for it as best his weak-minded heart could: he had taken a Killing Curse for Ron Weasley. Courtesy of Lucius Malfoy, when his cowardly son could not perform the act himself.

Dismissing Ginny's succinct volley of information, Sirius resumed calculating his risks and options. Rolling footsteps blended his noise into that of ordinary background, granting him further stealth. Looming silhouettes threatened ambush or worse; they also offered refuge and strategic advantage. Not trusting his Animagus form (as thumping long tails did not agile movement make), Sirius relied more on intuition rather than sound or sight. Touch, however, was imperative; fingers lightly trailing across crumbling rough brick led him through abyss.

Right hand now palming wand, left keeping orientation, ears attentive, body sensitive to nearby presence... There. Pause; running fingers gently, quietly back over wall surface. A divot in structure, little more than architectural whimsy, this hollow of barely a man's width and breadth. But that was all he needed.

Encasing himself within the squared-off indention, Sirius Black waited, bated breath and coiled muscles, aware, tense, expectant. Ready. Eternity of seconds ticked by, each privy to dozens of scenarios dashing through his head. But the time for guesswork had diminished the moment he'd gone out for a drink this very evening. The clock now read Action.

Clip. Clip. Clip.

Reverberation thickened the distinct grate and snap of sole to gritty brick walk. Any doubt offering this may be only a nighttime stroller vanished in the hesitancy of footfall. Not that of a woman fearing for safety, nor that of inebriation seeking home. It was of one looking for something in particular. One looking for him. And they'd found him. Just not as originally intended. Not when his wand hand slid up his body, pressed against it for disillusionment, poised for the all-important first curse thrown.

Nearer now. Pause. Scrape of metal pipe adjusted out of the way. Gentle push of rubbish bags, longer pause still. Heavy step, weight falling harder due to unbalance. Ever closer; ever more careful. Sirius slowed his breathing, feeling the intruder hesitate just to his right. Just one stride and the stalker would be before him, just as planned.

Shift of weight suggested he'd changed his mind, was turning round. But abruptly direction changed and he stepped forward, directly in front of the cubbyhole where Sirius waited. Lunging, Sirius wrapped a forearm across the man's throat in a submissive choke, his wand digging into soft flesh just below the jaw joint to his right. Resulting force of impact brought the mystery man to a stumble, flung hand catching the renewed wall structure before him. Sirius merely stepped for balance, pulling the man's head back against his chest.

"All right, all right!" pleading words broke in resembled gasps. No fool, Sirius only slightly eased his grip, ready for sudden movement. Wand pulled back mere centimeters.

"Lumos," he whispered, calling for light to reveal his capture. Low illumination broke darkness about the head, reflecting handsome features and... blue hair.

"Damn it, Blue! What the hell do you think you're doing?" hissed Sirius, releasing his grip all together, stepping back to allow the drummer to stand and turn. Kept trained on him was the Black Market wand, wary and cautious its master still. Blue rubbed his throat, discreet coughs attempting to clear the trachea's passageway. Guilty was his face, though not without some hint of sheepishness.

"Sorry, Stubbs." Eyes met Sirius', and the latter knew the man sincere. He relaxed a hair more. "You looked rather off color back at the pub. Didn't think you should be heading out alone." Hesitantly he reached out, open palm down to lower the wand. Sirius swept it to the side and held it back up, now chasing away the darkness full circle about the two.

"You obviously knew you were being followed," he added, motioning to the nook. "Why didn't you just Apparate out?"

"I could have done," Sirius replied casually, "but then I wouldn't have learned who was doing the following." Critiquing the man before him, Sirius grew uneasy. Something else seemed on Blue's mind; something not limited to concern for a mate's health.

"What are you not telling me?" he asked, finality in his words, in his expression. An answer was required, and without further question.

Full of trepidation this evening, Blue paused thoughtfully before answering. Sober, articulate, carefully his words fell.

"You're not Stubby Boardman. And I think you're in danger."

-o-0-o-

Insufferable Know-It-All, Severus Snape always called her. But at the moment, sadly mistaken was that moniker. Hermione Granger was at a loss for all sorts of information, the exact location of Sirius Black being but only one.

Mindlessly wandering about, Hermione found herself in a park in less-than-savory atmosphere. Across the duck pond figures could be made out, movements inferring illicit dealings she'd prefer not knowing about. Surely Sirius wouldn't have gone for a stroll past one in the morning in this neighborhood. But sighting Kent and Nigel – recalled from the night she had first actually seen Sirius – had put her on the right path. Acting a groupie, she'd infiltrated a crowd of girls swarming the musicians at their table. She'd never even have looked in the pub had it not been for overhearing chatting girls on the street talking about meeting the Hobgoblins there.

Not able to simply ask the guys where Sirius was, she hung about, eyes seeking the bodies for Black's lithe figure. Ten minutes passed, and no closer was she to his whereabouts. Gathering to leave, almost missed was the girlish giggle nearby, the story shared with her friend that she had just minutes past 'spotted the vocalist up by Charlie's Fish Mart, heading toward the park.' Once out the door and armed with 'park directions,' Hermione had set forth into desperately bleak trails.

Now she was as good as lost, and none too pleased about it. Frustrated, scared, she began pacing. New to this game of saving the world, stress and pressure weighed heavily upon her shoulders, and only Sirius Black seemed capable of relieving her this load she bore. Heroic affairs were Harry's lot, not hers. She did not want this, did not want the responsibility of rescuing her friends and every other wizard in turn. And if she could not locate Sirius soon, get the help she frantically needed, only dire consequences would result, she was sure. Not this time did she believe Harry would be saved by Fred and George's talents. Not this time would Voldemort lose his wand in a stray Cutting Curse to his hand, reach for another and strike a pose for the Killing Curse at a cornered Harry. Not this time would that replacement wand, at the hissed Ava–, emit a squawk! and turn into a rubber chicken.

No, not this time. This time Hermione had to save him. And Ron. And she needed Sirius Black to do it.

"Godric's hat, Sirius!" Anger fueled her resounding cry, startling the night's hum of business as usual. Words carried wildly into the night. Screeched, frustrated. "Where the bloody hell are you?"

Dropping to rain-soaked turf, Hermione bowed her head in defeat. Tears started in earnest. How did Harry do this for seven years? Well, more than that, but primarily whilst at school? She wasn't cut out for this Chosen One rubbish. Much more and she'd be barking. Honestly. Cup of tea and all that... She was Hermione Granger, friend to Harry and Ron, but bookworm, source of logic and research. Content with this position, as well. Adventures with the boys had their place, and yes, she'd done her fair share of dueling and escaping death, but... After the last bout at the Ministry, she'd had enough. Racing pulse and extreme fear and chaos and –

Resurrected dead stalking her changed her taste for it. Lucius Malfoy had had her dead to last rites, yet she had survived, and only by millimeters. And only by a lucky shot by Hestia Jones, who in turn found herself battered and bruised by the same Malfoy. But his death soon followed, and of all executioners by the Dark Lord himself.

Hermione shuddered. Weeping increased. Too many emotions, too strong their pull. Thrown ungraciously into the mix were the passions for Sirius Black, and not only did she not understand them, she did not want them. It was too much. Too much!

"I'd never taken you for a simpering female," a familiar rough voice challenged above. Peeking from behind masking hands, Hermione looked up to see her quarry, Black arrogance evident in even his stance. Scrambling up, she caught herself just in time from throwing her arms about his neck and clutching with all her might. Instead, dashes of the tears, quick rub of the face, and fidgets for emotional control of both voice and body.

"What's with you?" he continued, appraising look scanning her from head to toe and back. Disdain laced his words. "Deaf Inferi could have heard your bansheeing. And what the hell are you doing in a place like this in the middle of the night?" Detected anger in his voice only worsened her mood, but a voice within whispered it was out of concern. And honestly, were she to take an unbiased view, he was right. She should not be here, much less in a heap of tears, neglecting vigilance for safety.

Rather than bite back, revelation of import broke excitedly from trembling lips. "I found it! I figured it out!" His confused expression forced elaboration. "Harry's letter. I figured out the last; I know what Vol–"

She stopped dead, realizing for the first time he was not alone. Blue-haired bandmate beside him, Sirius seemed unconcerned as she rattled on. The friend, however, was listening intently. Flickers of question in her eyes darted between the two, and Sirius, realizing her cause for pause, sighed in resignation.

"It's all right, Hermione. You say whatever you've to say in front of Blue. He knows." At her shocked expression and open mouth, he cut her off curtly, hands raised in pleading. "Just... go on. What is it you found out? What is what who what, Hermione?" Honest attention now, keen interest tightening his words and face.

She turned her focus back to him. More calmly now. More quietly. "I know what Voldemort is after. He's JR. Tom Riddle, Junior. And he's after the Sangreal." She paused, taking in the blank expression on both men's faces. Eye roll reminiscent of school days, she bit her inner cheek to keep from snorting in derision.

"The Holy Grail."