Chapter 22: Unsavory Conduct

Chapter 22: Unsavory Conduct

"St. Cyr's widow is on the move, me boy. Something's a-brewin', and 'tis not a lovin' potion, either, ye ken."

Thoughtful sigh answered. "Yes; she was conferring with Bailey the other day in private. I've no doubt it's to do with Jon. I'm uneasy about him. Word should have reached me by now. The Cistercian have kept watch, yet..." He trailed off, worry evident in the hushed, clipped words. Agitation married suspicion. "Last known to be in Sarras; trailed him there, but I've no confirmation since of interception. He knows more than he should; how much, however, is the question."

Aged blue eyes looked up from freshly inked lines and curves of demarcation. "Right loyal soul was St. Cyr to the cause. 'is widow'll be carryin' on his plans, for sure. She's a followin' to be notin' as well, and Jon's a part, no mistakin'. I've seen 'em oft enough together; they're matched. So's I'd suspect if ye follow her, you'll find Jon as well. And best be ye find 'em first." View returned to squint at evolving notations, compass and legend half complete in the flickering candlelight. Flick of wrist and quill, and mountains identified their image.

"Ye're bein' hunted, son. Ye jest don' know it, yet."

Youth glanced about, paced in excessive energy. Eyes everywhere – before, aft, and unknown. Time was against him. Duty lay upon him in most difficult terms, and not yet had he discovered the solution, nor rid himself of the problems.

"Mind the girl; she's the knowledge... and shared it with yer mark, ye ken."

Pausing his restlessness, the younger studied the guides upon the wall, each map a world unto itself, a secret told to those who knew how to listen.

"I know. She's not aware of what she's done, but it's of no matter, now. Courses change; I've other options open, if only they prove valid and... obtainable." Below his breath, spoken thought untangled his mind's scenario. "Potter's involved, now, and that means she is, too..."

Gathering heavy, woolen cloak to his breast, "Evening's grown deep; I'll be missed," fell from his dry lips. Steps long and purposeful drew him abreast the oaken outer door. From behind, a call soft and earnest...

"God be with ye, Raj..."

-o-0-o-

A dream would not render taste. It was logical. And logic ruled. Proven was sight, sound, even smell. These could transcend into the 'scape of subconscious thought. Almighty touch, even, had shared its bounty with the intangible. But taste, no; she was a singular sense upon her own, destined only for existence. She could be counted upon for the truth, for the test assaulting dream-state impersonating reality. And thus so, no other avenue lay open but this quad of classical distinction – bitter or sweet, salty or sour. Honesty, there was no other choice.

Or so Hermione told herself.

Dormant desires burrowing to the fore had nothing to do with the decisive actions she was about to partake. Logic demanded it. For sake of clarity and answers. To prove reality over imagination. Yes, that was it. A matter of experimentation, deductive reasoning. Wicked yearning figured naught in yielding to the draw of the specimen before her.

Hermione blinked again, slowly, expectant to find gone in that crippled flash of vision the image she had stared incredibly upon these past minutes. Yet eyes open again, the mirage still lay before her, mere decimeters opposite her pert nose and bleary, sleepy eyes. And logic proclaimed none but taste could identify actuality.

Pulse quickened, breath calmed, mouth dried. Skin chilled, face flushed. Eyes raked briskly down the bed before her, taking in the rumpled sheets and duvet. But just as quickly they returned up the length, cautioning at the break point when raven silk gave way to apricot flesh. Just shy of flank, the material draped but a hair's breath atop firm almond skin, pale hairs gracing in baby fine array. So masculine the taut muscle beneath; even in repose, lines marred the gentle curve of hip to rib, echoing instead a poise for action.

Divot of spine and rise again, her eyes traveled across breadth of lean torso, vaguely curious if proper nutrition would ever fill out the dim outline of ribcage. Further up her sight traveled, taking in detail miniscule the raised shoulder blade, a pocket of skin below shadowed in the hollow created by its arm draped above head-level. Said arm settled upon feather down, elongating the natural flow from point of hip to fingertip, slenderizing and stretching and calling to attention the utterly graceful form in slumber beside her. Belly down, his face turned away, ever-lengthening locks splayed across cheekbone, mere stubble-laden jaw peeking from beneath in man-child masculinity.

Cream colored lines nicked hither and yon, evidence his turbulent past. Yet these only served to intrigue, to mesmerize... to trace in lightest finger-pad their origin, destination, journey. Her touch was no less than reverent, worshiping in physical connection the traces of violence untold. Marks bespoke tales in semi-healed words. Faint, irrevocably and unnaturally smooth... seventh vertebrae to ninth in curling J fashion... right floating rib midway its center, dimple reminiscent of a Cutting Curse... left scapula, high point, splintering starburst.

This last inspection pleaded the test, for touch alone had proven untrustworthy. Skin soft in repose did not convince her mind, for in what true world would she ever wake to find Sirius Black lingering in sleep next to her? Not, in any case, as he was – bare back exposed in trust, face soft in total relaxation. Grayish illumination bathed the room in ethereal fascination. Just a dream. Her life's story did not include richly male body languid against her own, nor did it include finely grown hair tickling said back, such disheveled ebony locks teasing nerve endings of her own palm and fingers in itching need to meet.

But he was just a dream. Only a dream. Touch proved nothing, nor did sight. Mists and a loch and a feathered breeze had proven that. Only one test...

Logic. Yes. One logical route to take, to see – for purely academic purposes, mind you, to prove the imagination was fully responsible...

Starburst crossed lines... growing larger, blurred, filling vision... breath warm in reflection off hot skin... lightly musky in oil and evaporated sweat... growing, blurring... heady, radiating –

Salty. He tasted salty, drying her tongue tip and inner lips as they encompassed then retracted in a glide across the taut skin. Deviation of porcelain and kid leather encasing pliable sculpture, her mouth distinguishing scar tissue from battle-spared with uncanny notice. But it was his taste that fell her: slight tang and hint of bitter with mineral and natural oils. Light and tempered and oh-so-earthy.

His taste sold out logic's plan... and he was real.

Experiments claimed better credibility if repeated, it was widely known, assuming in turn they reaped the same results. Thus, it was all for the sake of scientific legitimacy. Or so she told herself, clarifying somewhere in the back of her mind... justifying the lingering over his cool skin. Justifying the trailing of parched lips – slightly catching, dragging apart against high friction of heated skin.

Supple flesh coating solidity below, with sweet flavor of lingering perspiration and vaguely scented soap tickling tongue and breath... merely this limited course before her, yet Hermione could notice nothing but these stimuli to her mind and body. All encompassing were these; all reality were these. Leaning heavily upon left arm, balancing with right on his other side, bushy curls draping this pallet of flesh tones. Onward, random, exploratory... kisses languishing each mark, inducting every crest and valley to memory, blessing one scar and another with healing caresses and holy water of love and compassion. Trailing ridge of scapula into ravine of spine, rising to – oh, God – joining of neck base to shoulder, his hair tickling her cheek, scents of smoke and rain and something spicy drowning her, engulfing her as tongue-tip relaxed to glide along, following the dominate lips from shoulder point to neck column. Raising up on elbow for better access, hovering her chest above him, curtain of brown mane shielding eyes to the graying dawn, inadvertent sighs of passion escaping in slight exhales on now-damp skin, quickly remedied by repeat performances of lips, blending at the nape hairline –

Bang!

Arctic cold slapped Hermione with force of gales. Violent jerk to upright seating, eyes gaping in fear, heart slamming against suddenly tight pectorals. But the immediate twist to the door revealed its calm demeanor of still fully closed. It had not been disturbed.

Quick glance about admitted no concern, and held breath eased out. However, a return to present situation stole relief. What in the sodding hell was she doing? Cursory glance over Sirius' back gave rise to the blush threatening to spread further. Dear God she was losing her ever-kinetic mind! Under what curse must she have been to have given in and – no, she couldn't admit it, even to herself, mentally. But –

Shite. Simple fact was: she wanted Sirius. And she wanted to kiss him. And she desired him like never had she another. Not even Ron. Bloody hell; Ron didn't cause her to lose all awareness to her surroundings simply because she woke up unexpectedly to his bare back draped casually in sleep next to her in the misty dawn. And worse... she peered through the haze of creeping daylight and uninvited emotion... regardless of consequences, she damn well wanted to return to that back, that neck, continue where she had left off her ministrations...

Which was why, in a rush of sanity, she scrambled in desperation off the bed, drew on her now-dry trousers and bra beneath Sirius' tee, and, with panicked stare at his still form, backed her way to the door silently and fled.

Easing down the stairs gave opportunity to regain mental ground. Breathing relaxed, offering solace to furiously engaged nerves. She willed muscles to uncoil, a command reminiscent of days gone by with Harry and Ron and the ever-threat of Voldemort or his clan. Light-footed each step fell, each scrap of bare foot to hardwood ten times the announcement to her own ears as to reality. Skimming the final landing with relative sanity, she took stock of the atmosphere.

Semi-opaque pewter had given way to translucent, granting contrast enough with which to make her way to, through, and about the sitting room. Her wand lay on the lamp stand beside the settee, apparently placed there by Sirius when she'd fallen childishly asleep on him. Way to go there, Hermione. Curl upon him like a needy little child to a parent, drooling on his leg, no doubt. Dissection of the evening lay too painfully in her mind, and she chose to store it back for later analysis. One could only take so much mortification in so short a time span.

Snagging the wood of power, Hermione returned to the hallway, destination now the kitchen. Calming cuppa and biscuits courtesy of Marks and Sparks were just what she needed to get her head on straight. And her mind as far from Mr. Black as possible. As well as her mouth. And his taste.

Damn.

The kitchen door laid open a hand's length, dim firelight playing through in cast reflection off stone. Someone was inside. Easing the door, praying no sound, Hermione peeked in.

Sudden intake of breath collided with the diaphragm's immediate clenching, and she drew back in a start. Seated at the table, head resting into his propped palm over a steaming cup, sat Sirius. Sirius! Hermione choked back the strangled cry straining throat muscles. If Sirius were there in the kitchen, then who... No. Dear God, no. No; please don't tell me I just... no, not Sirius' brother... oh, no.... Ensuing stress forced her throat's proverbial hand, a tight squeak emitting despite worthy attempts at restraint. Soft shuffling, scrape of wooden chair leg across oaken floor, nearing the door. Terror froze her retreat, stilled her defensive expression from clearing tell-tale face.

"Hello?" soft whispering came, the door gently opening to soft glow and shadowed form. He stared wordlessly at her but a moment, then shifted in a half turn, gesturing her entrance to the room. Hermione mechanically stepped within, excuses ready upon dry lips... lips that had just wantonly worshipped the blessed skin of this man's brother but minutes ago –

"Sorry to have woken you. I'd forgotten the copper urn on the first landing. I'm afraid my grace has all but left me in the last twenty years..." His voice was gentle, apologetic, self-deprecating with an audible smile.

Regulus.

Breath released in a wash. Sirius, then, was truly upstairs. Truly... defiled by erratically emotional, virginal lips, dry now and chapped, surely reddened but for the lack of telling illumination. She sighed soundlessly, turning from his dark form instead to make her way to the cupboard to retrieve a cup. Fingers unsteady, china clinked in response.

"Sirius told me a bit about you." Voice low, soft, careful as treading eggshells. Location altered from doorway in return to previously occupied seat, scrape of chair to flagstone again reinforcing the move.

Her shoulders tightened in anticipation. Movements slowed for fear of missing follow-up.

"He said you were the brightest witch he's ever known of your age." Shoulders slumped in illogical disappointment. "You were at school with James Potter's boy; best mates, I assume."

Strained silence echoed, filled by hushed ministrations of tea preparation at the countertop. What was there to say to him? In reply to his brother's observations? Nothing. Mere repeated opinion of intelligence, and basic fact of social engagement. No words of personal nature had crossed his lips last evening, it appeared. But honesty decreed she should not – could not – have expected any different. Bared soul aside, just because she, Hermione Granger, had declared to her own conscience an obsessive attraction to the elder Black did not preclude a requiting of affections.

Schooling her features, she took a resolute breath and turned to face this man of mystery and marred memories, plastered smile glowing real in the faded light.

"Really? That was... how kind of him." Neutrally spoken, avoiding the bitter bile longing to flavor the words. She settled herself across the scrubbed pine, facing more her steaming herbal than the man avidly watching her. He tried again.

"You're a remarkable young woman, you know." Hermione's eyes darted up, staring at Regulus in puzzled surprised. They'd spoken little since officially meeting the night before, most conversation being held in the park and on the way to Grimmauld. Little of that was direct between the two. Certainly not enough for such proclamations. "From all I've heard," he quickly added. His own eyes dropped, held, shifted around uncomfortably, seeking solidity on which to alight.

His gaze finally returned to hers, only to shift about again, overcome in schoolboy shyness vaguely endearing on the former Slytherin. Resumed head bow left saucer and cup his focus again. Curtain of onyx fringe arpeggio'd down to cloak his reddening cheeks, high color threatening confession... but of what? That she made him nervous? Hermione considered. Yes, of course she made him ill at ease; she'd directly caused him to shed his safe cover, to be found out. And should she or Blue or even Sirius not be fully faithful to keeping his secret – and no Slytherin worth his green and silver would trust so – his death would be imminent. His life lay in her hands, and he feared her intentions.

-o-

Heat flooded his face as had not done so in many a year. The blush was swift and unexpected, yet Regulus had little escape or remedy. He had not expected this pre-dawn vis-à-vis, and her presence left him nervous and unsure. Weeks ago he had first seen her, sitting there with his brother outside the café of his employment. Immediate impression was less than flattering, her state of dress suggestive of groupie mentality – a characteristic familiar from years of musical success. But last evening she'd shown herself true, and though flustered and weary, her colors stood strong and... engaging. Then Sirius had shared a bit of her knowledge, her loyalty, her strength of character.

Maybe Gryffindors weren't so bad a lot after all.

Regulus spared a glance at the young woman, once again regaling her attentions to her tea. Reading leaves, perhaps? No; she didn't appear the sort. His unwanted attention could perhaps be unnerving. Deciding to shelve his blatant interest, Regulus settled on mundane – and not so mundane – topics.

"Bit of a chill this morning," he commented, rising to tend the cooling hearth. Choice spells and mindless poking of split logs filled his time as he considered his next words. Flame grew in leaps, bestowing heat and glow. "Always was a bit frosty in this house..." Visions of years past drifted languidly, each dousing a bit more of his heart in bitter cold. He turned abruptly, shaking off ill-fitting clothes of despair.

"But no matter." Accepting smile creased his staid face. She was watching him now, wary. Easing down to the table once again, he spoke an incantation to reheat his cup, hers as well. Slight nod gave her thanks. "The past is as it was, and shall remain. I am grateful to have my brother back, odd as it may seem to those who knew us in our younger years."

Her expression changed, interest piqued at the reminisce. "Yes," he elaborated with a soft chuckle. "I'm sure you've heard all about it, how the Black brothers could barely tolerate one another... but it wasn't always the case. In fact, it rarely was. Family was always most important to me; I had to earn the love – no, not love. Affection," he corrected without bite. "Yes; affection is closest." Vocabularic search honed in on the impressionist word. "I had to earn what affection was bestowed upon me, while Sirius was smothered in it from all relations from the time of his birth. That is, until his escapade at sixteen. Then suddenly I was the Heir, and had to uphold everything Black and Slytherin. I didn't want it, honestly. What I wanted was my family's respect. Sirius had that without lifting a finger, yet he tossed it all aside like rubbish. And to so solidly turn his back on family and tradition..."

Momentary cessation granted time to regain ground. He'd not intended to go down this road – not here, not now. Perhaps not ever. But Hermione had simply listened, and he found himself speaking without consideration. He would have to check himself. He was still, after all, a Black. And Blacks did not allow emotion uncontrolled.

"So... you believe the Dark Lord is after the Chalice of the Christ?" Whiplash nearly visited him, his change of subject and demeanor so sudden. Hermione's reaction agreed.

"Er... yes." Hesitancy reminded him she did not trust him, nor knew how much the men had spoken of last evening. She'd lain asleep on the settee, nestled upon Sirius' lap. A wash of resentment fleetingly crossed his heart for his brother. Ever the ladies' man, ever the charmer, ever the reckless show-off the girls would always adore. Never the duty-bound pleaser Regulus himself had been. Replacing in quick succession the annoyance was the half-hearted pleasure of karma. While Sirius had lost his world in James' death and wilted away in the dregs of Wizardkind, Regulus had taken on the persona his brother had embodied, displaying antics and flamboyance and garnering the devotion of throngs of witches. He had tasted – no, feasted upon – the world Sirius had left him for.

"He is." Leaving errant thoughts, conversation fell back to new subject matter with his answer. "He's inside sources both looking for the cup, and for the sacred knowledge to wield it. He wants the immortality, but is learned enough to recognize the foolishness of blind action."

"He's... but... how do you know all this?" Regulus bit back the chuckle threatening at her incredulous expression. He could not, however, hide the sense of pride his private knowledge deemed suitable. He knew a lot of things, things that would astonish and cower others.

"Auror Investigator Lynley did not seek my counsel for no good reason, Miss Granger. Having been in the depths of the Dark Lord's family, I and I alone could tell him intimates of the Dark Lord's plans. Even now... I know where to find information, even having been out of the lower hierarchy these many years. I've sources I can check, places where passwords and entrances have never been bothered for alteration. I've a commodity, finally, that makes me worth something. And I've been intent on using it."

Digesting such flow of information, Hermione soon lost her edged disposition and found the scarred table acceptable to lean half her body upon, intent with eyes wide and perfect lips a-gasped. "And what... what did you learn? How close is he to finding the Grail? Is it even in existence? How is he searching for it? Who is helping him inside? And inside where, exactly? What are his plans once he –"

Hand shot up in stopping motion, imploring Hermione to settle her questions. She acquiesced.

"All in good time, Miss Granger. Priorities, first." Regulus weighed his directions, settling on the direct route to his suspicions and missing links. "Tell me what you know about Jonathon McCaine."

-o-0-o-

Suspended long enough in steaming tea, rock cakes did tend to mellow into gravel cakes – edible, though not approved by Drs. Granger and Granger. Some things never change, she contemplated with a wry smile. Leaning back in the overstuffed armchair, Hermione nursed her treat while Hagrid puttered about the kitchen, preparing a light luncheon for his guest, excitedly warming to the subject she'd brought up ten minutes prior.

"'course, dragon research has thinned out a mite in the last century. Thumpin' shame, too," he added, rummaging his pantry for elusive spices that Hermione questioned she would desire anyway. "Dragons are such misunderstood creatures. They're only actin' on instinct, ye see. Protectin' their own, like. Charlie Weasley even once..."

Hagrid continued on, relishing in his element, oblivious to Hermione's wandering mind. Initial theory downgraded, she was unsure how to proceed. She had been so sure those dreams of a book Concerning Dragons had meant Hagrid was somehow hiding the boys. Since Zelda's tea, she'd accepted her gift as real, though less than pleased about it. Yet here was the chance to use it to some benefit, a clue guiding her to saving her friends. But she'd been wrong.

After her morning discussion with Regulus – she couldn't believe the turn of events these past twelve hours – an owl found its way to the gamekeeper, requesting a tea if he had the time. Immediate was his invite, and Hermione came round at half ten, mind furious with processing answers and probing new inquiries. After pleasantries, she'd turned the conversation to books – a natural transition for her – and then on to the title so vividly reappearing in her dreams.

"Never 'eard of it," he had responded, thoughtful in deliberation. "After Norbert, I'd read ever'thin' I could find on them. School library, Black library... ev'n owl'd Charlie fer books. But that'n I've never even 'eard of."

And she believed him. Not that he would lie to her, but that he had indeed sought every text on the subject. Another dead end.

Contemplating now her options, Hermione ventured a different route. Long shot, yes, but something perhaps of use.

"Hagrid," she broached, interrupting his detailed description of migrating patterns of Welsh Greens. "Do you remember who Lily Potter's friends were when she was at school? Someone she would've trusted entirely, stayed in contact with?"

Frozen amid boiling pudding and sizzling meats, the half-giant paled slightly, face full of surprise and concern. "N – n – nothin's 'appened to Harry, 'as it?" Honest fear gripped his words, and Hermione suddenly felt a heel for leading Hagrid down the wrong avenue by not prefacing her question. "Don't tell me yer lookin' to hide 'im, what with You-Know-Who after 'im, somewhere..."

"Hagrid, it's all right," she lied quickly, hoping to calm her old friend. Irony tinged his choice of words. "No, no... just a little, er, research project Harry asked me to complete for him. That's all."

Relief swept over him, relaxing his tenseness into peaceful smiles again. "Ah, that's all, eh? Well, hate ter be of no help, but Lily Evans – that was 'er right name, then – was friends with near ev'ry student here at Hogwarts. Real likeable, she was. Couldn't wait ter come back ev'ry year, seeing as 'ow she rarely saw none o' friends on summer hols. Reckon she bumped intah James an' Sirius on accounts, but tha's it. But here... Head Girl, smart, pretty, friendly as could be. Weren't no one who di'n't like her, 'cept maybe the Slytherins, and even they were mostly nice. Well, as nice as Slytherins go, ye know.

"Now, how do ye like yer kippers?"

Knockout, round two.

-o-0-o-

Refreshed by scalding spray, Sirius dressed casual in denims and gray knit pullover. Hair glistening in damp state, finger-combing left tendrils drooping and sweeping across angular features and shielding eyes. Barefoot, he left the confines of his boudoir to seek out fellow life in the grim inheritance.

Grandfather Clock echoed his tale of woe into empty corridors and rooms void. Ghosts of Azkaban years layered the air, and Sirius found himself increasingly desperate for company. His bed had been bare when he'd awoken, faint scent of feminine shampoo and rustled bedclothes – the duvet was fully arranged to the other side of the bed! – the only traces Hermione actually had been there when he'd climbed to his slumber just before dawn.

Exhaustion had overtaken him, but side effects in subconscious dream material motivated the vow to never again find himself in that state. Disturbing images and phantom feelings of – dare he admit even to himself – Hermione Granger seductively running her lips in lingering kisses across his back, pausing to grant extra care to battle scars of war and prison. Shudders involuntary ran down his body, flush claiming his face. Even now, his shower redeeming, Sirius felt the guilt lie upon him like a scarlet letter, an O for dirty Old man, or B for Betrayer of old friendship. Or simply a branding of sick git upon his forehead. Not that he intentionally dreamed any of this, for nothing could have ever been further from his thoughts. No, Hermione Granger was not a potential shag to him, nor had she ever been.

Which made that hauntingly realistic dream that much more disturbing.

Muddled voices reached his ears from the kitchen, and he made his way down, the humanity drifting upon the air a beacon honing him, calling. His stride lengthened, and soon was he stepping into the aged galley, greeting in sight the other two males of the house.

"... and you were rat arsed the rest of the night," Blue was describing, utter joy at the memory displaying across his animated face. He was leaning across the table, then back away from it, as each new portion of the anecdote rattled out in enthusiasm and laughter to and at Regulus, seated across from the drummer.

Surprisingly – though why should it be? – Regulus was smiling, chuckling in return, wry grin warming his aura. Sirius could not recall the last time he'd seen his brother smile... genuinely smile. It was a grand look for him, he realized. But so foreign, so unfamiliar...

Years lost to war, betrayal, family factions had left any sight of Regulus Black – save the weak-willed puppet of Orion and Walburga – a novel vision to Sirius. And he despised every ounce of the culprits for it. His own baby brother shouldn't be less than a stranger to him. Regret tore at him. There; at the edge. Just a little; but it was enough. His heart would soon know what his pride refused admittance.

He'd missed him.

Not the extension of pure-blood maniacs, nor servitude by pacifism, but cheeky taunts and good natured competition. Acting on the sly to diddle house-elves out of savories and afters reserved for dinner parties – events children were spared but for obligatory appearances for Sirius as Heir. But always he'd nick some bits for Reg, and together they'd regale in the spoils of war in Sirius' room, winding up the guests and devouring treats until they were right dicky. A team, they were, looking out for the other. Until the year Sirius began Hogwarts.

The year Sirius was sorted as Gryffindor.

The year Sirius began to realize the Black motto's true meaning.

The year Sirius began to turn his back on such catechism.

The year the family took exception to such disloyalty.

The year Sirius created his own family, in James and Remus and Peter.

The year Regulus could not understand. And never would.

"Not that you were any help at bloody all, Blue," his sibling was saying, bringing Sirius back to the moment. They'd still not noticed him.

"As I seem to recall, waking up in a fancy dress of leopard skins and fishnets... looked like a poncy slag, thank you very much. You and Kent had me believing I'd spent the evening in a bonk with a security bloke from the show!" Choked laughter followed, Blue's all-out guffaw and Reg giving in to his own, though he'd tried to keep a straight face. "And mind you, chartreuse is still not my color."

"Thought that was eggplant," Blue replied, wiping tears of mirth distractedly, while attempting to catch his breath. This, however, only served to send Regulus further into fits, with Blue right behind. Moments passed in this state, until Blue caught glimpse of their intruder.

"Oh; good morning." Friendly, but not the sparkle of minutes passed. Regulus turned to spot Sirius, his broad grin and laugh dimming to pleasant and quiet, reserved. The last... that was the Regulus Sirius had grown to know and remember.

Pleasantries exchanged, tea poured, toast and jam shared. Sirius found himself at the head of the table, symbolic he was sure to his brother, yet no comment or move indicated any hostility or begrudging. Talk turned to general state of things, eventually rounding to discussions of last evening – or early this morning. Discussion had apparently been rabid since dawn, shortly after he himself had finally gone to his bed. It was now nearly eleven, and though minimal sleep had been granted, Sirius was well ready to delve further in new information and theories.

"Miss Granger left. Received an owl this morning, and went off to visit someone," Regulus was saying. He'd forgotten about Hermione, truth be told. After this morning's bit-too-realistic dream, he figured it was subconsciously intentional. "She said there was a letter from your godson, Harry, that might indicate where they were. I explained that it was highly doubtful he'd been captured by the Dark Lord or his followers; too much uneasiness still lies in that camp, as of last week, at any rate. Trophy like that would've been chatted up about."

Torn between relief at this conclusion and grating ill at the reasoning behind this source's knowledge, the elder Black refrained from comment, concentrating instead on options now left open. Sudden trivia broke his contemplation.

"Why Ryan?" Dumbfounded looks egged his hand. "My name. Last night, at the bar with the band, they wanted some sort of tale about my childhood. I'd gleaned enough to know that the real Stubby Boardman had a brother, and his name was Ryan. If you're the real Stubby, why Ryan for me?"

Snort and eye-roll suggested the answer should be well known. But Regulus complied, smirk of one-upmanship crinkling his right-half features. "Best to stick to the truth as much as possible when living a lie, Sirius. And don't you think Sirius would draw just a bit too much attention? Common name only in the Black line. So I went for your middle name, or rather, a variation that wouldn't cause the same stir. Orion transfigures nicely to Ryan."

No rebuttal came to mind; Sirius had to admit his brother had thought well. Rather than say so, he acknowledged this with only a compulsory nod of affirmation, turning his attention back to prior subject matter.

"Did Hermione share the letter with you?" His question was directed at both men, and each gave an affirmative. At his, "Any ideas?" Blue took the lead.

"Yeah, but I've got to check with someone first. Make no promises, mind you, but I may have an idea where to find some answers about Voldemort's failure in finding the Grail, if indeed that's what he's after." Glance to Regulus, then back to Sirius. "And I believe it is, per your brother's inside knowledge, and Hermione's research. I just hope I'm right, and I don't bollocks matters even worse."

Refusing to elaborate further, he cleared up his dishes and bid a good day, conferring with Sirius and Regulus both he would contact them once he had detail. "After all," he tossed to Sirius on his pause at the kitchen door, "we've rehearsal Monday, don't forget." Wry grin marked his departure, and in a flash the Brothers Black were left alone. It was the first time in over a quarter century.

Awkwardness fell, neither familiar with this new territory. Each had accepted long ago the other's loss, burying with their sibling the emotions and recollections and unsaid forgiveness or understanding. And now... faced with regurgitation of decades' turmoil and grief and anger... neither knew what to say, or how to say it had they known. Regulus broke the barrier, his words soft yet drawn, spoken more to the freshly poured tea than his brother.

"Sirius, I..." Sirius wasn't sure he wanted to hear what Regulus had to say. Part of him still raged at the choosing of ambition over compassion that drove this wedge deeper, furthering this chasm between them. Yet he glanced up briefly to catch his brother's reluctant meeting stare. Brows drawn in unsure consideration, and Sirius felt the confrontation of Regulus' excuses for his actions those many years passed. That was Regulus – his O's obviously in shite reasoning and contorted logic, pleading his weak way out of every idiotic move he'd ever made. Sirius had thought perhaps with the revelations of last night he might could get past it all, accept that his brother really had grown up, had finally seen clearly and risked his life to set things right. But apparently some wounds were still too fresh, even after scars had left their mark in place of open cuts. He simply wanted no more excuses – not now. Excuses were petty at this moment, when raw emotions still charged the air.

Ready to bite back with scathing lecture, Sirius narrowed his own eyes in preparation, a warning of his new mood. But Regulus had already moved his gaze back to his hands, fidgeting nimbly with a new splinter pulled from the table's edge. Slight inhale in decisiveness, then bolder, surer, without stumble.

"I'm sorry about James. I know he was a brother to you. He was a good man."