Chapter 21: Fragments Vague

Chapter 21: Fragments Vague

Voices blended into low murmurs of varying decibel and intonation, drifting down with remarkable clarity through aged oak and ancient stone. With careful, ever-so-gentle movements, Hermione worked the tea preparation, adding scones, biscuits, finger sandwiches. Too much rattle or shuffle reduced hushed conversation to muddied thickets of sound. Such would not do; she intended to hear every word spoken above stairs.

Burnished silver glinted against soft oil lamplight. Hesitant to brighten the memory-filled kitchen any further, Hermione moved about with intent precision, easing canisters open, pillowing cup and saucer's meeting. Slow, shallow breaths complimented the dulled sense of illumination. Soft padding of socked feet. Lightest settle of crested sugar spoon to etched tray. Gentle, smooth pour of water from cast iron kettle above low, licking flames into serving kettle, sudden heat and steam clouding the silver's shine...

Nothing for it; delay all she could, she would have to return to group, face the men... face Sirius.

Deep sigh of resignation. Anti-climatically drained, drawn... weary in spirit; weary in mind. Body didn't even begin to offer strength, the turmoil and stress of past hours finally rendering exhaustion. Yet rest was not an option. Even should the possibility be offered, declining was inevitable. Questions to be answered, to be asked, to be considered. Regulus Black, for God's sake! Wrapping that leaf of storyline round her head still could not smother out memory of her own actions. Accounting for her suggestive accusations was only the self-admittance of her growing affections. But she'd sniped at him, ranted like a spoiled child, tossed suspicions as though lording over him her superior intelligence. And it was that outburst, that display of consuming emotions, which draped her now in utter dismay.

How could she face Sirius after all she'd said?

Though, looking back, words exactly were not scandalous. Rude, yes. Uncalled for, yes. Arrogant he was, and blind to that which all but blazed before him. Horrid display, but not scandalous. No...

Scandalous was her heart exposed upon her sleeve, and her powerless state to cloak it.

Wearily toting the service by hand, Hermione edged her way in soft, slow patters of step. Muddled conversation rose in volume and clarity through dust mite-strewn hallway, its ash coating of neglect sickly colored in the dim. Portraits feigned sleep in her passing, gentle snores fading into white noise. Each stride bore tighter grip upon her gut, light perspiration beading miniscule upon an already damp brow.

"...that's when Dumbledore found me. Not the headmaster; his brother." Regulus' voice was much like his own brother's, slightly raspy from ill use and pent emotion. Hermione paused, shadowed just aside the sitting room doorway. Held very still, breath slow, shallow, she listened. Intrigued, nervous. Unsure.

"I knew to go back, Bella would eventually discover me. And my treachery. With no qualms, she'd kill me if the truth came to light. Yet I didn't trust the barman, either. Dumbledore's brother, after all. Even merely seen in his presence would be enough to draw the Dark Lord's attentions. I didn't wish to explain my way out of that. The Dark Lord had – has – a way of determining the truth. And I wasn't a very good liar."

The expected snort of contempt did not emerge from Sirius as Hermione had fully expected. Silence reigned, absorption clinging in the still air, sweet and damp with summer rain and musky sweat. Her own fingers trembled beneath the strain of silver and Earl Grey, biceps crying for relief of their burden. Anticipation checked her desired movement.

"Why are you so sure your own cousin would have denounced you?" Blue's inquiry sounded clear and innocent in the grit of Black vibe.

Harsh chuckle answered. "You obviously don't know our dear Bellatrix," Sirius remarked dryly. "Cunning pet of Voldemort. Reg was her favorite relation, but no one interfered with her choice of master. Any sign of disloyalty – real disloyalty – and blood would take back row to Slytherin ambition." Bitterness filtered through, and visions of descriptive Death Chamber tales rose unbidden in Hermione's mind. Slytherin ambition against blood, indeed. She shivered.

"Sirius is right." Regulus' voice softened in painful recollection. "I was favored, but only by stipulation. Tourjours pur, or not at all." Held in definitive, tangible silence, the admission resonated. Finally, Blue's practicality broke the spell.

"What did you do, then, when Aberforth Dumbledore found you? Obviously returning to your own fold wasn't an option, not if your family were quite the fanatics you claim. Did he turn you over to his brother, then?"

"That's the oddity; he didn't," Regulus replied, tone less morose than previously. Hermione took her cue to enter, relieved the more personal air was abandoned for the time.

No worry was needed, however, as her appearance garnered only observatory flicks of eyesight. All focus was upon the younger Black, he himself aware solely of timeline dissection. Settling the tray upon a low table, she set to filling cups and handing them to each in turn.

"He knew by my ragged appearance I'd been involved in, shall we say, less than reputable dealings. But he didn't say much. Only eyed me shrewdly for long moments, then beckoned me to follow him. Don't know why I did so, but I found myself trailing without question, without explanation. He led me to the backroom of the Hog's Head, where – thank you," he spared, quick glance to Hermione for her offering.

Brief interlude of sugar addition and testing sip lost no tension. The young witch settled herself in the only open position: beside Sirius. Hugging the settee arm, unobtrusively as possible she drew distance from Sirius. Exhausted though she was, tingles of awareness still traced through her body, sensitivity akin to embarrassment battling for blushing rights. Attempt to follow discussion rerouted her wayward thoughts, however, and she turned to face the eerily familiar man before her.

"– where he ascertained only that I'd left the Dark Lord, and feared swift and permanent retribution. I'd no inclination to share either what I'd learned of the Dark Lord's measures, nor my own steps to diminish them. I was stuck. To go back would mean certain and swift death; to accept the promises Aberforth was touting me... well, let us say I did not trust him, but my choice had been made when I'd switched the lockets in Bella's keeping. I'd as well as signed my death warrant."

Curiously, Hermione accepted his story without shock, only mildly surprised that indeed it had been Regulus who had switched the lockets, the Horcrux for which Albus Dumbledore had sacrificed his life. Fleeting bitterness swept through, an acknowledgement that had the younger Black been only that much braver and told his story to the barman, the headmaster would still be alive. But nearly as quickly as contemplation arrived, it fled, giving way to more abstract consideration.

Regulus Black was quite well spoken for the young man his brother had described. Unexpected, yes. Disturbing, no. Something of this nature felt right. Perhaps it was the comparison with Sirius that brought all together. Though thick-headed and reckless, arrogance and moodiness and occasional flippancy aside, Sirius was extremely clever. Loath to study over such admittance, Hermione continued on leveling brother to brother. Other aspects screamed relation: extreme physical likeness, though pewter irises warred cobalt; the slight scar on Regulus' jaw, marring the fine stubble of black masculinity. Sirius was taller, she noted with recall to their return to Grimmauld. Regulus held heavier, muscle broadening shoulders and chest. Bias aside, it had to be admitted Sirius was the handsomer of the two, but not by lack of Regulus' attraction. Where self-assuredness reigned in intensity of the ex-convict, wary self-doubt lay shadowed across the former Death Eater's masque. Weakness in fear lay beneath, but Hermione wondered if it were more a fear of disappointing than of engaging. Flecks of notice between the two men now silent again in their face-off gave her pause. Regulus would not meet his brother's gaze for more than a breath at a time, yet Sirius' face was unreadable, not contemptuous.

Regulus feared Sirius' disapproval.

Dawned in such realization, magnitudes of weight released from atop her shoulders. Tendons released their strain, melting tension in waves down her form. That was it. Nerves alight in his presence, alerting to his unease. Caution had created in her mind it was Regulus' untrustworthiness that disquieted her in his vicinity. Worry had gnawed inside, repeating his intentions ill. But now...

He was nervous... for fear of falling short in his big brother's eyes.

Sensible and completely safe explanation drained anxiety, leaving limp flesh fueled by mere adrenaline. Hermione sank back, heart rate easing, mind clearing to attend the words spoken.

"If he didn't turn you over to Albus, what did he do?" Slowly came the question Sirius breathed. Eyes never wavering ere his sibling, he held his words with expectation and keen interest.

"He killed me..." Startled, Hermione's eyes widened in new energy, a flush stealing her warmth. "Then gave me a new life. An elaborate scheme he set up so as to let it be known I'd turned coward and sought to leave. He ensured Rosier and Nott would be sent to deal with me – how, I've no idea – and that they both caused and witnessed my demise. Word quickly spread I was dead, and Aberforth hid me beyond my dreams. Two years later – when the Dark Lord disappeared – Stubby Boardman was born."

-o-

Mist heavy and chilled collected upon her goosed flesh, drawing further inscription from the multitudes surrounding her in spirit form. Sight revealed only ebbing, flowing white shear – depthless layers unceasingly dancing with their fellows, implying movement not yet verified in bodily sense. She believed herself atop solid ground, but could not feel her feet solid upon the earth. Rhythmic laps kissed the shore, the scent of heather tarnishing the illusion of seafaring.

"But it's dangerous, though. I was followed... twice. Narrow escapes, both. But the value...

"That's why I shied at the café. It wasn't you I feared seeing me; it was Ted. He'd have recognized me, even when no one else would. Andromeda still has photographs; I've seen them at her home. A few she's aged a bit to look as she would have expected me to appear, had I lived..."

Mists fell to black; slits of light broke the new darkness. Crackle... snap... accompanying voice of the low fire, its rapid licks of flame red-gold against the ebony of the room. Hermione gave allowance to her senses, each reeling from the dream and battling at once the unanticipated.

She'd drifted off. Obvious now, yes, but disconcerting nonetheless. Still upon the settee, her position had altered since her last conscious thought, and now she reclined upon her right side, level to knees clad in worn black cloak opposite. Regulus. Yes, yes. She remembered now. Regulus Black sat across from her, lower torso and legs cast in distinct relief by the failing fire to his right.

Eyes remaining hidden, the view was drunk in with cautioned fervor. Each image nudged a memory, a nerve. Regulus spoke still, his words hushed in weariness, but ever roaring in the blackened silence. No spit of burning wood competed his rusty baritone.

"Lynley was my contact at the Ministry. One of only three who knew the truth of my so-called death. I was to meet him that night I saw you at the concert. I'd been attempting to make contact with you, Sirius, for quite some time. Ever since the band's write up in the Prophet. I'd seen your photograph, but... I couldn't believe you were alive." Croaked his last three words were, giving credence to emotion that refused admittance.

Awaiting his continuance, breath held anticipatively, Hermione nearly jumped at the touch. Light, soft, caressing. Tangent her dream, reality had fled its confines to join its netherworld cousin. The breeze dancing upon her skin, waltzing damp tendrils in countless rhythm... Amazed at her feign of calm, Hermione detected every light brush of fingertips, every modicum of body heat emanating near her temple... her cheekbone... her brow. Gentle passes of lithe fingers stole her attention from the man across the carpet. Every cell within attuned itself the subtle, breathy ministrations.

Shifting beneath her head confirmed sudden suspicions. Adjusted position and brief rigidity eased into the slightly forward lean of earnest to the speech. Hermione mentally sighed in anguish of sweet torture. Surely she remained in sleep, for in no waking world she find herself curled upon the settee in the Black ancestral home, bushy curls pillowed upon Sirius' firm thigh, draped in his jacket, soothed by his petting touch.

"It's all right, Reg." Little more than a whisper, throat tight with memory and disbelief and unwashed black marks between them. "I'm here. As are you. That's all... that's all that matters right now." Several heartbeats passed without word before the solitude broke.

"If you were helping the Ministry through your inside knowledge of Voldemort's doings, then why – why were you living and working as a Muggle? Why didn't they take care of you, put you up in a safe place?" Blue's logic had all night settled emotional turmoil.

Regulus sighed, and Hermione felt Sirius' pose relax as he drew back again to lean upon the antique upholstery.

"Like I said, there were only three who knew the truth. Aberforth knew, and without explaining who or the exact situation, used the Order to secure me a new life. Lynley knew; he was an understudy of Moody years ago, and eventually gained Aberforth's trust. After his brother died, Dumbledore realized someone in a position to use information needed to know whatever I could offer, and he convinced me to liaise with Lynley. Otherwise, I had to make a living. Black inheritance was gone to me once I'd perished beneath the wand...

"At first Dumbledore tucked me away from the Wizarding world completely, until Voldemort's disappearance at the hands of the Potters. Then he felt it safe enough and time enough removed to allow me a partial return, and it was then I'd formed the band."

"I remember," Blue cut in, wistful humor evident in his voice. Though she could not see him as he reclined past the top of her head, to Sirius' right in the mahogany Queen Anne wingchair, she felt his pleasure at the history lesson. "I'd always wondered how we'd never known anything about you, how you seemed to have no past. In rare instances, a tale of the Brothers Boardman could be leeched out of you, if you'd been pissed enough, but anything more was not to be had."

"Well, I couldn't risk it, even with the Dark Lord gone. In all senses, after I'd left the fold that day, my life was no longer."

"And after the disastrous show with the bloody turnip, you called the band quits. Apparently you did the same with our world, too," Blue concluded, resentment failing in appearance. He seemed to understand.

"Yes, and with pity, now. I needed a break after all the attention – attention I eventually realized I didn't desire nor could ill afford. So I left, until Aberforth approached me about Lynley. Then I returned to help him out, to accomplish what I had tried to do in my own naïve way years before."

Air was thick, heavy in the din of failed conversation. Minutes long and weighing passed, the men empty of verbal expression. Log splitting through broke the repetition of the flames' biting, a dull thunk disappearing into the void of shadows with a finality Hermione felt bone deep.

"What do we do about her?" Momentary breathlessness struck her, Blue's soft query a shocking turn. There was no doubt as to whom he was referencing, and she could only fathom what had been said in her conscious absence to bring about such a knowing question.

"We'll discuss it later, once we're not so... drained." Sirius shifted again slightly, continuing his decision. "It's been a long night. Go on up to bed. Get some rest. A full belly and a good kip will make matters a bit clearer.

"Blue, you can have the master bed. Reg, if you'll show him...?" Regulus did not seem to question his brother's master-of-the-house authority, but simply rose with a few words of evening parting to Sirius, and request to Blue's following. Shuffling faded with hushed conversation, until only the flames and her own heartbeat could be discerned in the hollow darkness.

"You can stop pretending now; they're gone." Gentle but knowing tone broke her concentration of stealth. "Hermione, I know you're awake. You have been this past quarter hour. Come on, get up," he added, strong hands suddenly slipping beneath her head and shoulder, kindly but firmly lifting her upright. To fight it and playact herself still in slumber was pointless and an insult to both their intelligence.

Bracing her arm to the seat near his thigh, she pushed herself up, catching the jacket as satin and leather both glided and caught respectively down her torso. She fiddled with the material, unable to look at him, though she knew his gaze bore directly upon her.

"Hermione... we've got to talk." She stilled her adjustments. Steady outside; trembling inside. Had he finally understood? Had he seen through her thinly veiled words, realizing her childish hope of returned admiration? Chest constricted; mouth grew dry. "I think you're right; Voldemort is seeking power of the ancient line. And the Holy Grail, no matter how fantastic a reach, may well be his intended target."

Visibly her shoulders dropped, back still three-quarters to him. So no, he hadn't figured it out. He hadn't thought of her at all. It was only her mind, her logical deduction. She was a tool, an asset, to be used in reasoning and research. Honestly, she should be relieved by his lack of notice. But she wasn't. Part of her inside wanted him to see her as a woman, an equal. To be given the consideration that she just might be more than simply a resource of quoted tomes and equations.

"It's late," he repeated, voice even softer now in its exhaustion. Weight leaned upon her left shoulder, and his hand gently squeezed. "You should get some proper sleep. Take my bed. I've matters to attend down here and won't be using it."

He rose, drawing her to do the same. She followed him to the foot of the stairs, daring not to catch his eyes until he turned her upon her first step. Dominating her view, little choice was left but to admit defeat and face him.

Reflected firelight cast shimmers of his features; he was beautiful, she admitted without pause, but so dangerous a need. Ill afford could she this uncontrolled awareness of him. She would do best to remember that, and to avoid him. But there was Ron and Harry to consider...

Ron and Harry. How could she continue to lose sight of them, of their plea for help? Sirius was truly the one person left she could count on for help, the one person besides Remus who was able to help. And yet... his presence drove the two young men far from her mind. Their mission, their safety, their distress call fled in the face of... in the aristocratic face of Sirius Black.

Moments stretched without word, and Hermione fought for control to return his attention. How could he be so calm, so self-assured? While all about her very foundations of truth in her life shook in instability.

-o-

Head tilted to the side, he studied her in a mildly curious fashion. An edginess had returned to her demeanor, a guilt measured in awkward silences and averted stares. More than simply fatigue and worry creased her smooth skin in tenseness. It was a look he had seen before, but not from her, and not in many years. It niggled at him, teasing his memory for foreign shape and size and color and form. Yet defining answer it would not grant, and Sirius let go the game, promising to return at a more agreeable time. Instead, his stage whisper flowed into the space between them, low and cautious.

"You've grown into a remarkable young woman, Hermione Granger." Involuntarily his right hand found her cheek, barely stroking it thoughtfully with the backs of his fingers. Quivering bled through touch, her unease a physical reminder of the heady night. Mental shake cleared his thoughts to the pressing present, dropping his hand limply to his side. "Sleep well," he bade, quirk to his lips, meditative softening to his eyes.

Sirius turned before he could watch her further, and strode without purpose from the hallway. Things to be done, yes, but distractedly so. Emotions uncategorized attacked from all angles; time alone and yet occupied by task was his greatest need at the moment. Greater than his body's need for sleep. Greater than the hunger gnawing his belly. Greater than want of feminine pleasure.

Greater than that, indeed.

-o-

Replica of decades past. Moving photos... emerald and silver brocade and silk... canopy atop rich mahogany... texts and parchment and robes and... memories.

Regulus dwelled in the doorway, eyes adjusting to dim lamplight of old oil wick beside him. Unlike his parents' room – where Blue was comfortably ensconced – his own boudoir had not altered since his death decades before. Yet, ironically, it was clean and tidy. Someone had gone to great lengths to keep his room up, yet had not disturbed its sanctity. Vaguely he thought of his old house-elf, Kreacher, but dismissed the idea. Kreacher was surely gone by now, if not by age, then by possession of the house. Sirius had said James Potter's son now held title. Harry Potter. Sirius' godson.

The thought gave him pause. A godson. His brother was godfather to someone. Had he, Regulus, been twenty years younger, he would have scoffed and challenged Sirius' ability to tend anyone's life needs. Derision would have soaked through each thought and word on the capability of his elder to ever be selfless and attentive enough for such responsibility. But years have a way of coloring the eyes, and wisdom cleanses their sight and allows the grander scope to be taken in one fell swoop.

Reminiscing panged at his heart, touches of the past fleeting in their reminder. Thirty-nine years, nearly, and a level of peace had finally allowed him to admit love and affection for his brother, their differences wide but not so that bridges could not be built. Sirius had always been headstrong and passionate, and deepest of depths of soul, Regulus had always longed to be as strong. But family, he had believed, was not a part of Sirius' code of ethics. Blatantly and violently he had shed his association with the family, turned black sheep, flew in the face of Mother and Father his direct disloyalty to their blood.

But it had taken all these years for him to realize that Sirius had not walked out on him. He had not turned his back on family itself. He had grown into himself, stepped up to follow his own rites of passage, and had offered his younger brother the opportunity to flee the tyranny with him, under his protection. And Regulus had turned his back himself. He had failed to see the truth. And he had failed himself.

It was not until Regulus had learned of Sirius' innocence – how had he ever doubted him, the unyielding Gryffindor he had been? – and his death that misgivings and regret and understanding and loss had all enveloped him. And he had wept.

Shaking off the mood, Regulus stepped further in and closed the door. He would have time later to run his hands over the keepsakes, renewing their texture to memory. For now, he was completely worn. The attack, his brother, the additional information on the Dark Lord... it was all taking its toll. Slytherin sheets beckoned with siren calls, and without preamble he answered.

Falling into slumber, last visions crossed his mind's eye. Sirius' mention of godson had rekindled his own longing for children, a family. Before now he dared not believe it possible, not as a wizard with a price on his head. But collaboration could bring finality to this disease of the Dark Lord, and with that ending his own life could find its own dreams. And he had found hope for them... in a bright young witch named Hermione.

-o-

Blue burrowed deeper beneath crimson silk, muscle tension giving way to demands of repose. Hints of gray bled through the heavy drapes, signaling just how late it truly was. A body could take only so much in one evening, and he had experienced more than his share on this one.

Stubby's – er, Sirius' – stories had set his mind in motion. And then the real Stubby – er, Regulus – had further thrown him into frantic search of fitting pieces. Puzzles were entertaining unless lives depended on them, and so many did on this one. He wasn't sure quite where he fit in, but a role he did indeed have to play. Of that he was certain.

And it all began, he thought, with his grandmother.

And Raj MacGregor.