Chapter 23: If Memory Serves

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

Chapter 23: If Memory Serves

Words failed him. Never before had someone surprised him so. This was not Regulus, youngest male in the line of Black. Regulus, the superficial follower. Regulus, resentful and haughty in pureblood supremacy, yet woefully short in strength of conviction. No; that Regulus would never have spoken James' Christian name, nor sincerely condoled his loss, admitting freely veritable worth of the Gryffindor. Wind stolen from his sails, Sirius hesitated, gaining composure and breath. Uncharted territory this was, bearing odd resemblance to... understanding.

Understanding was never forte in Reg's repertoire. Yet... Nothing in the stirringly familiar face before him bespoke less than authenticity. Regulus was being genuine, and the oddity of that unnerved Sirius.

"Yes," his voice, croaky in emotion, responded just above whisper. Eyes sought bare wall, blurring in lack of focus or heed. "James was brilliant. Best mate a boy, a man could ever ask for." Dampness blurred his vision even further. "He was loyal, a confidant. He was the brother I nev–"

Abruptly words ceased, realization waking him to the moment. Sirius jarred from memory, collected himself as throat cleared and body rose and turned away, steps drawing toward the worktop.

"He was the brother you..." Regulus' soft, lonely timbre fell gently, awash in quiet resignation. "The brother you never had." Audible inhalation, gathered reinforcement. "It's all right, really." The forced smile was evident in sound alone, but just as clear was its feign. Regulus had openly called James being like a brother to him – to Sirius – but Sirius' words drove far beyond such allegiance. He'd called James the brother he'd never had... though Regulus had had to finish the thought.

Regulus. The brother he did have.

"Regulus, I... I meant only that –"

"I know what you meant," he forestalled, hand held up the second time that morning in ceasing request. No animosity colored the air. "And, honestly... you're right. I wasn't a brother to you. I know that now." Pleading look quelled Sirius' primed interruption. "I was too concerned for acceptance from our family. Too consumed with measuring up to the enigma that was Heir to the House of Black. I sought equal attention and praise to yours, but never could I quite weigh in.

"No, Sirius, please," he again leveled the open mouth of his brother. "It is the truth, and we both know it. What you perhaps do not know, however, is why I turned to them, to falling lap dog for scraps of your plaudit.

"We were brothers once, and not without bond. Remember that? Yes. We were close; fighting, yes, as siblings will do. But nonetheless, you were always there for me, protecting me – I now see it for what it was: protection from the bloodlust and neuroses of our kin. You were my best friend, just and kind and mentor as well. But all that ceased when you went off to school, and I could not follow. There... you changed, and you'd left me here alone without your affection and tutelage. And when you'd returned... Well, James had taken my place in your life, and now, older, I can understand. But I couldn't then, and when I was no longer your comrade in arms, I sought solace elsewhere."

"Where you would never reap it," Sirius added solemnly. Few exceptions marred the Black family tree with honor and kindness and compassion. Such disservice he'd done to his younger brother. At the time, all he'd been able to see was escape from the ever-closing walls of sickening tradition, and rebellion against all that tradition stood for. And Regulus had been caught on the outskirts, forgotten in the war that was Sirius' conscience.

Self-condemning half-smile worthy of Remus complimented the weary emptiness of Regulus' eyes. Within, Sirius condemned himself, knowing on some level his responsibility for this other person his flesh and blood had become. Yet little brother had more to say, low and heartbreaking, but exacting with finality.

"No, I should never have reaped it. But that is the past, and a life I no longer own. Nor desire, truth be known. I've spread my wings, became another, lived a time in the same spotlight you'd commanded. Different name, different history... gave me a very different perspective, and for that I am eternally grateful. I would not change it, now, for I see that had you not broken away from the family, eventually I would have drown in my own solitude. For I would have been torn in pleasing them and emulating you, and never should the two coexist. You forced me to make choices, Sirius, rather than follow along your path blindly, as I had followed that of the family. But whereas you would have carried me, they did not. Manipulated, yes; but abandoned to fight each step myself, I made mistakes. And learned from them. I only regret I didn't learn sooner. I would have liked for us to know one another again. Perhaps..."

Here he gave pause, debating as to finish or not. Surprisingly, Sirius found himself with breath held, more than merely curious as to such option that might lay bare with simple words.

"Perhaps Fate has again intervened upon the most noble get of the most ancient line," he mused with a hint of irony and touch of honest humor. "And perhaps we have a chance to start anew; both of us returning from the proverbial dead, while the world believes us but memories. Opens up new realms of possibilities, does it not?" This time mischievous grin and sparkles of eyes broke out, and Sirius found himself answering in like.

Perhaps... the Brothers Black were back.

-o-0-o-

Palpable silence left each musing within their own mind, the outer world breaking in only with the rhythmic kreech-kreech of animated scrubbing brush tidying the cast iron skillet in the sink. Distant bits of socialization wafted into the kitchen, assuring Hermione the rest of the Weasley clan was well entertained. Pausing in her hand-drying of cutlery, she broached the subject too taboo for Ginny's nerves as of late.

"Ginny..." Hushed tones fearful of the younger woman's response next drew out their call. Ginny's dinner plate stacking ceased, and she turned a sorrowful head to her friend. Molly had attributed her daughter's sadness to the baby, but Hermione and the twins knew true cause and effect. It was the cause Hermione hoped to alleviate now, rendering happier effect.

"We've been discussing it, and..." Here she paused, unsure how to approach the theory when it lay nearly baseless but for intuitions and past connections. "And... We don't believe Voldemort's captured Harry and Ron. In fact, we don't think he even knows where they are." There. Two full breaths. And now she held another, awaiting feedback that could surely lay theories wide open, and deepen the depression of the mother-to-be.

Shaking, plates were placed tabletop, a chair absently claimed. Eyes wide with innocent hope and fitful despair gaped. "Are – are you sure?" Forced whisper, one the elder had fervently desired to avoid. Truth was mandatory, and only humane.

"No; no, we're not sure, but it only stands to reason, given certain new... developments we've made." Crestfallen face framed in limp ginger strands bottled up Hermione's courage, and she strode quickly to the table, depositing towel and implements negligently upon discarded baby magazines. Securing her own chair, she faced Ginny, force behind her explanatory words.

"Ginny, we've got an inside source." Ginny looked up, surprise mingling with confusion.

"New source? Where? How? For what?"

"Information," she quickly supplied. Skeptical grimace answered, reminding her the cynic to whom she spoke. It was all or nothing, now; too deep the waters had become, and they were all treading together, dependent upon each to swim... or sink.

"Last week, I figured out what Voldemort was after. Yes, truly," she added, taking in the nonsensical verbiage offered in return. "And when I went to tell Sirius... the most fantastic thing happened..."

And between interruptions of parents, brothers, and chores left unfinished, Hermione Granger shared intricacies of the past seven days. Leaving out nothing, save...

No reason on Earth was there that Ginny should be enlightened to Hermione's momentary lapse of sanity. Six days it had been since she'd lost reason and had explored Sirius Black's bare back with naught but inquisitive lips. Six days since she could look him in the eye. Six days of visits to Grimmauld to break up monotony born of making up excuses as to why others could not see Mortimer Bailey, a man secretly on assignment. Seven days since Sirius had spoken more than a few, impersonal words to her – meaning anger still existed over her nasty, one-sided row she had thrown on him last Friday night in the park, just before Regulus Black returned from the dead.

No, no need existed for her friend to know such disastrous episodes. Some things Hermione simply could never live down, not to mention Ginny was expecting Hermione to eventually become her sister-in-law. Any further deviation from the norm at this time could send the younger woman into St. Mungo's care. But the rest of the week's events lay now before her, the requisite squeals of incredibility pouring forth from Mrs. Potter.

"You're having me on!" she exclaimed, resurrection of the wayward sibling having just been announced. Hermione had to chuckle in spite of all.

"Honestly, no. It was Regulus, all right. He's quite alive. And on our side.

"Remember when Dumbledore was so adamant about making sure Sirius' will would overcome any blood bonds regarding the heritage of Grimmauld Place and Kreacher? We all thought it was a matter of ensuring the Malfoys and Lestranges didn't inherit. But it wasn't them at all he was worried about; it was Regulus! He knew he was alive, but he didn't know the details, not even where he was; Aberforth was the only one who knew."

"So that's why he didn't know about the locket, and why..."

Hermione's excitement died a moment, memory of the Death Eaters' attack on Hogwarts suddenly fresh in her mind. She shook away the tragedy. Reliving it served no purpose.

"It was Regulus I saw at Gringotts that time I thought I saw Sirius! Explains so much, really. He'd been recognized there as Stubby Boardman, the persona he'd become when he went into hiding. When the goblin asked about his hit song 'Creature of the Night,' all I'd heard was Kreacher, and... Well, that's why I'd thought he was Sirius. He looked so much like him. And then Sirius was actually posing as Stubby –"

"– While the prodigal son watched from afar, right potty over the bloke impersonating him being his long-deceased prat of an older brother."

Both women whipped about, the foreign voice to the conversation summarizing from just inside the doorway. George leaned opposite the jam of his brother, nodding in agreement, smirk firmly in place.

"Fred!"

"George!"

"Right you are, ladies," George replied, exaggerated bow of his head, salaam to follow. "Your disbelieving faces –"

"– suggest your inadvisable –"

"– indiscretion –"

"– in interviewing –"

"– and interrogating –"

"– less than inaudibly –"

"– incriminates you indubitably –"

"– inexcusably."

Hermione took them both in a single glare. Grit teeth and tight voice prefaced her meaning. "There are times I despise you both."

"We weren't talking that loudly," Ginny interrupted, accusing looks boring into each brother. George smiled, holding up a hand with something small and stringy dangling from loose grip.

"How short your memory, dear little sister. Extendable Ears."

"Besides," Fred added, his smile dropping a few degrees. "Your little revelations may shed some light on a mystery of our own." Pushing off the doorjamb, another seat was secured at the worn family table, twin two following in wake.

"How do you mean?" Hermione's brow arched, curiosity overcoming annoyance. Any insight might prove useful at this point, as they still had no direction to travel, Blue still not having discussed whatever matters he'd had in mind with his grandmother.

Thoughtful frown replaced George's own humor. "Took a little shopping expedition yesterday morning to Borgin and Burkes." Quick, breathy intakes and bulging eyes earned only dismissive glares from both men.

"Mum'd have a right state of fit if she knew you were tossing off in Knockturn Alley!" Ginny's miffed expression, Hermione had to admit, was suddenly a replica of Molly Weasley, with the colorful tongue more befitting Mundungus Fletcher.

"Easy, baby sis," Fred calmed, his own features fully serious for a change of pace. "We had reason to believe nasty little articles were coming available through the little rat's nest, so George nipped in to get a peek."

"Got to stay ahead of the tricks 'n trades game, suss out a counter or antidote before problems get too bad. Saves Dad loads of problems," he added, a knowing look directed to the ladies. Considering Arthur Weasley was on higher alert these days, anything to help alleviate his responsibilities in keeping the public well trained in personal defense was welcome.

Ginny backed off.

"Anyway," George continued, "I'd taken a leaf from Moody's paranoid book and disguised well. Extra caution with a full cloak, hood up – not a stand out in Knockturn, you know."

"So what's this big mystery?" Hermione asked, anxious to get answers after drought conditions of meaningful discovery.

"Getting to that, Hermione," Fred answered, slight grin easing the fierce study of face. "Give us a breather."

Bow of the head to George, and the latter continued. "So when I went in, I was browsing carefully, vigilant not to touch anything for healthful reasons, mind. But the shop had one other patron, skulking in a corner by the counter. Done up as well, so his face wasn't too visible. Looked like he wanted to be anywhere but where he was, leaning over the case to confab with the keep. Shifty-eyed they were, too, when I came in, but obviously decided I was too far to be a concern, so they went back to hushed whispers. But they were frantic whispers, too, I could tell. Got a right queasy feeling over that."

"So what'd you do?" Blue eyes widened in her question, freckles twitching in anticipation.

"I did what any self-respecting businessmen would: I eavesdropped." He caught the inquiry before Ginny made a sound, holding up the flesh colored lines. "I suddenly spotted something near them I wanted to view closely, then immediately decided it wasn't what I needed and straight away returned to my earlier odds and sods. After a few leers, they went on with their discussion."

"But this time they had an audience." Fred's tone indicated pride he held for his twin. George nodded.

"The patron did most the talking. He was definitely nervous, going on about how they'd been compromised, how someone was leaking information and he knew his master would think it was him. Course he didn't right out say it was Voldemort and he was a Death Eater, but I've no doubt. He was scared, saying he had to find the chalice before he was dismissed of his duties."

"The chalice? But that has to be the Grail," Hermione deduced, excitement bubbling for the first time in many days. "He's looking for it for Voldemort, but someone's breaking their secrecy. Regulus." Beaming, energy exploded within her, carrying new breath into achy, deprived mental muscles. A connection finally!

"Would seem that way," Fred agreed, darkness overcoming his expression. "I'm curious as to what baby Black has to say about one of the Ministry's lot searching for a legendary artifact for Voldemort himself."

Cold chills chased down her spine, knotting in the stomach that had only moments before released its tension. The Ministry's lot? Inside she shrank, sudden dread filling all voids. Something in the way Fred was staring at her unnerved. Fingers crossed in that his next revelation was not the one she feared it to be, and if it was... she had no sane thought left to deal with it.

"George pointed the bloke out to me this morning when we'd gone to the Ministry for our annual propriety license renewal." Eyebrow cocked in inquisitiveness. "Holds underling post for the Secretary of Finance."

Oh shite. Raj.

-o-

Lonely were the shops of Diagon Alley as the estranged brothers kept pace along the walk, each musing his own cautions and hopes, past transgressions dissipating in the growing light of promise. So much option now lay before them, restricted only by the circumstances they now found themselves, this state of being the undead hampering their progress with great annoyance.

Sirius peered down the shadow-cast structures, spotted at random in weak lamp-glow, an effort to keep out encroaching evening. Blackness was settling across the land just as it had his mind the past week. No companion could he entreat for conversation, with all but Hermione engaged in their own lives and work. And Hermione... he couldn't look her in the eye, recollections of the vivid dream still too raw to allow him aught but guilt if he gazed upon her.

"Seems a bit bare," he commented, breaking solitude of memory for comfort of vocalization. "Hard to believe it's already September. Children will on to school right about now. Maybe even there, already."

Words met by echoing footsteps left Sirius doubting temporary truces. Was he overestimating their newly defined roles as tentative friends? Sidelong glance measured mood of companionship, yet covering darkness left expressions well hidden. Silence reigned.

"The scent of well worn leather..." Regulus' voice was so low Sirius first believed he had imagined it, its wait so lengthened as to be improbable. Yet following phrases fell lightly upon his ears with steady strength and caresses of fondness.

"That's what I recall most strongly every year. Loading the trunks, you'd always leave out your favorite jacket, worried it'd be scuffed in the trunk with all your books and lot." Never missing a stride, Regulus' head fell forward in remembrance, a soft chuckle rising in solitary heartbeat, regressing just as quickly in self-admonishment.

"So you'd leave it atop your trunk, set to stow it secretly in some bag or other before Mother caught you with it. Gods, but how she despised your tendency for Muggle fashion. But with your broom and satchel of hodgepodge you and Potter had rigged up for the new year, you never had room or chance, and I'd always get landed with toting it out for you, bundled in my arms in such a way as to look like another knapsack. She never caught on."

Three strides gave distance to the spoken thoughts. But Regulus was not complete in his tale, and Sirius was surprised at his continuance.

"I'd breathe in the scent, all the way to King's Cross, all the time on the platform, until we boarded and parted ways. And you'd at the last minute remember your jacket, and I'd return it, some nasty remark on my lips about not being your personal house-elf, and how next time you could tote it yourself. But deep inside, each trip on the train, whether to or from school... each time I'd carry it safely, protectively, and each time I'd wish so hard it'd be the time you'd forget to ask for it back." Softer, now. Thick, as well, heavier with some unstated emotion. "It was you, in a sense. The best part of you. The natural side of yourself: fun, fiercely loyal and self assured. The part that stood with conviction and acceptance of yourself and your role. The part I wanted so much to emulate, but never could. I just wasn't you..."

Odd, it was, how revelations years later could contort the memories of old, speak a new mind-state with curious clarity. Yes, Sirius remembered badgering Regulus into being his footman, but never had he realized just what the role had been for him. Not as a servant, but as a keeper of what he considered the brother he was losing bit by bit to others, to a world that denounced purity-driven genocide.

They'd reached the back entrance to the Leaky Cauldron, and for that Sirius was grateful. He had no turn of phrase to match confession, and strangely felt at a loss. But Regulus didn't seem to need a reply, and pulled open the aged door for his brother, creak of rusting hinges announcing change of subject.

Dim fire and candlelight guided pathways though sparsely congregated diners to seclusion via corner table, and there they sat, abstract words exchanged in terms of an upcoming meal and scraps of mediocre success from their fresh meeting with D.A. Lynley. The latter had sworn secrecy of Sirius' return, and in exchange for their theories, had offered to share any news or intelligence regarding Voldemort. He'd also agreed to begin a private search for Harry and Ron.

Upon service and arrival, the two tucked into double hot pots, steam still rising enough to flush Sirius' face and dampen stray tendrils of his ever-lengthening hair. Murmured comments fell through cracks of nourishment, generally finding a place directly before and after sips of Guinness. It was nice to sit down publicly to a quiet bite with his brother, Sirius thought, even if it was in the dead of night under terms of conspiracy.

"Back in a bit," he offered lightly, rising to seek out the loo so that upon return, another pint would be in order. Regulus nodded in acknowledgement, next to final bite of stew already engaged in his mouth.

But no further than a turned step had Sirius taken when he bashed up into a back of emerald robes, their owner having also chosen such time to exit their encased table. Black caught himself in a step back, apology already leaving in polite excuse. Rejoinder was feminine in expressions of regret for the blunder, a bodily turn to properly speak face-on –

Shock and confusion and something akin to fear flitted across her aged features, and Sirius could do naught but stare in return, both falling abruptly silent. Her mental stumble and failed grace Sirius could not fault, for his own reaction was checked surprise at seeing a face familiar to him from days of old... and not so old.

Immediately Sirius regained himself, fast work of mind and playact. "Sorry, ma'am," he expressed, trying for casual embarrassment. He could not allow her to see the look of recognition on his own face, one to mirror hers, yet without the touch of unease.

"It's – it's all right," Minerva McGonagall replied in a halting stutter. Eyes widened as they swept the Black cheekbones and telltale eyes, excusing the trim goatee of new that gave off slightly sinister vibes. "I – I wasn't looking quite where I was going," she offered, loss for words hindering self recovery.

Suddenly her gaze flicked past his shoulder, and though he would never have conceived it, her eyes grew even larger, her mouth now agape in slackened foreplay to speech. Twisting himself, Sirius realized the catalyst: Regulus had joined his brother, obviously curious as to his hindrance in leaving the great room. Damn, he thought. Though Regulus had changed considerably enough in the past twenty years to pass undetected, he – Sirius – had not. In fact, outside of healthier, heavier in muscle, and cleaner cut, he'd only changed the equivalent of but months since his former Head of House had seen him.

But even time could not wash away the classic lines of Black blood; fine cheekbones and mercury, almond eyes tattooed them their lineage. Cleverness on a Knut, he realized, else they were doomed.

McGonagall found her voice, piercing stare having returned to Sirius, eyes locked. "Great Merlin's ghost... You're –"

-o-

No, it couldn't be true. Raj MacGregor was not in league with Voldemort. He couldn't be. Yes, he made her uneasy. Yes, he was mysterious, an unknown in her life. But deep down Hermione could not believe he was an agent for the evil incarnate that was the enemy. And how close she'd come to kissing him! Not to mention her foray into his home, she and Ginny walking into a lair completely unprepared, completely vulnerable –

Hermione shook her head, demanding the feel of treason flee her mind. "No, no, no. Not Raj..." mumbling under her breath, lost in the noises of chair feet scraping 'gainst hardwood as she hurriedly rose. She couldn't deal with that now, not another betrayal of someone she did like, no matter how edgy he may have made her.

Ignoring the questions thrown to her, rapidly she gathered her book bag, settling it atop the table as she gathered periodicals without structure. "I'm sorry, really, but I've got to go. Ginny, please let me know if you still want me to help decorate the baby's room. When you decide how, I mean," she continued, speaking to the pages contorting as efforts intensified to store glossy Muggle covers and advertisements.

Near tears now, frantic in fighting the clasps, the bag overcorrected and fell in solid thump to the floor, items sluicing out the open pockets in impact. Only Hermione's dire squeak of painful frustration indicated her nearness to breaking. Falling to knees, a mess of it she made, attempting to gather papers and notes and miscellany. Through tear-blurred eyes she noticed double ginger spots hanging over the display to her right as capable arms gathered logically, constructively. She sat back on her haunches, letting the droplets fall in anger and confusion, desolation overshadowing any feeling of euphoria by knowledge. What good were spots of information if she could not rely upon her own judgment of who to trust. Gods, she was a mental case anymore.

"Oi, what's this?" Rapid blink cleared Hermione's sight, and she started, turning to Fred – or was it George? – to answer whatever misconception he may have landed upon. Notes were strewn about, scripts of research and analysis of Harry's letter. Brows furrowed as she realized the twins had both ceased cleanup and were instead poring over a photograph. Leaning in, Hermione peered over a slender shoulder to refresh her mind as to its content.

"Oh," she said, allowing a bit of a sniff and backhanded wipe of tears. "That's just the band, the Hobgoblins, on break at the Gala last July. Colin gave it to me. Right pissed, they are, but there's Sirius up front. You can catch a view if Blue'd stop shoving him around with that blasted –"

"No," George interrupted, pointing to the background of the shot. "Who's that?"

"Oh; that's Sir McCaine, the liaison for Northern Ireland's international trade. He's quite well liked, really. Was fantastic in his dealings with –"

"No, Hermione," Fred interrupted again, shaking his head yet keeping eyes focused upon the subjects. He pointed more specifically, finger following the slight movements of the other figure. "Who's that with him?"

Hermione glanced again, noting the two men arguing at the party just as they often did on Ministry grounds. "That's Lord Chamberlain..." scowl returned with lower voice of disgust. "Raj MacGregor's boss." Ginny's look of horrific understanding earned the younger witch a slight nod of wry acknowledgement. At least Ginny now knew why Hermione had been upset – realization must have just hit as to the prime Ministry underling who would be cautiously convening in suspicious territory. Her heart dropped even further. Bitterness tore the words next from her, giving residence to the hanging condemnation in the air.

"Raj MacGregor, the young man of mystery you caught showing his true colors, the one you caught –"

"That's him." Fred interrupted her stolen soliloquy once more, ignoring her sardonic rant in favor of agreeing glances to his brother, his finger tapping the photo. "This Chamberlain – he's the bloke I saw at Borgin's."

Hermione nearly fainted.

-o-

"Hopelessly clumsy, yes," Regulus broke in, saving his brother with additional moments to conjure a plan. It was all Sirius needed.

"I'm far too caught up in my own thoughts this evening, madam," the elder Black elaborated, trademark grin springing sheepishly in penance.

"Er, yes," McGonagall was answering distractedly, continuous visual comparison still darting between the men. Her companion – a young, dark complexioned man of indescribable expression – had risen from the cleared table to stand just behind and to the side of the headmistress.

"Everything all right, Minerva?" he asked, accents of Southern France coloring his speech. His attention was direct and keen, taking in the sight McGonagall found flustering. Obvious was his intention to correct any ill situation for her. "Is there an issue here?"

"No, no, Philippe," she replied, weak voice belying negative answer. "No, these men were, er," her pause held but a moment, but it was enough for faculties to engage and shrewd Gryffindor to press on. "These men were just introducing themselves," she finished, eyes now narrowed in calculating expectation.

Beguiling smile with courteous head nod, and Sirius found himself repeating, "Stubby Boardman, vocalist extraordinaire, at your service, ma'am." Proud of his credible act, inwardly he cheered yes! to his quick wit.

"I see," came formal acknowledgement. "And you are...?" Her attention had moved to Regulus, and at that moment Sirius blanched, sudden realization striking. In his smug characterization, he had forgotten one tiny, minor detail: Regulus, not he, was actually Stubby Boardman. He'd taken his persona without a thought, and had left his brother with –

"Ryan Arcturus, his agent," Regulus smoothly replied, hand thrown out in lively greeting. Philippe ignored it, turning instead to McGonagall for direction. Though pale, the professor had recovered well in past moments, currently critiquing the men artfully. One clever witch was Minerva McGonagall, much to Sirius' current dismay.

"Minerva McGonagall," she suddenly presented, form reminiscently stiff and precise. This is my brother-in-law, Philippe St. Cyr." Salutations under breath crossed all parties, tension vaguely building on the outskirts of the interview. Sirius found himself uneasy, and began to excuse himself for the loo – his original destination – when young Philippe suddenly tensed, eyes flickering deeper into the semi-opaque room with great intent. Harsh lines drew taut his smooth face.

"If you will excuse me, Minerva," he tossed, eyes never leaving his new interest. Rude to the point of insulting, his lack of by-you-leave at all to the aristocratic heirs of nobility in other times would have annoyed Sirius – for Sirius did not like to be ignored – and brought the old Regulus to dueling for family name and pride. But both men, instead, found only relief in Philippe's distracted departure. Two Blacks on one McGonagall were much better odds.

"Have you ordered, yet?" Regulus was asking their former professor, but Sirius' attention had fled to follow the young man's path, a confident stride taking him to the front door of the pub, following out the lone figure just departed. A figure he'd recognized from the Gala and Hermione's description.

Raj MacGregor.

-o-

Blue Foncé shifted uneasily upon stone-bruised feet, chastising himself the forgetting of rocky ground and whimsically warded borders about the homey cottage. His grandmamá's sense of adequate protection often left him concerned for her less-than-secure welfare. Setting off the screeching dodo bird hardly recommended itself as formidable deterrents to wankers of all nasty measure. But then again, Blue could not recall once his loved one needing to call foul against intruders. Somehow her topsy-turvy system lay in place, and though often ideal a target, she never ran a misadventure.

Come to think on it, Blue considered his own soreness and time consumption in approaching the home. And he knew his grandmamá's set-up. Perhaps she wasn't so barmy after all.

Dismissing thoughts of protection plans, fist went up to rap sharply on the gray-faded wood, a door so familiar in his childhood as the entrance to a faerie land. Moments ticked by, yet no footsteps resounded, claiming his request for entry had been heard. Worry niggled his mind, reconsideration of the old woman's competence gaining ground.

"Bluazure!" Blue whipped about, wand drawn in defense of self and family, only to find said family had been source of all fret. In the growing evening, his grandmamá stood yards behind him, apparently having come just from the overgrown woods path he'd transverse often as a child. Eyes lit up in merriment, arms open wide to gather her grandson as he stepped forward in greeting. Even the flinch at his full name fled completely upon entering comforting embrace of memories and joy.

"How absolutely splendid to see you!" She pulled back partially to glance over him in motherly appraisal, eyes devouring his presence, smile perpetual and great. "Wish you'd said something about coming round," she stated without rancour. "I'd have whipped up a curry and fairy cakes for supper. Oh, it's just been so long and..." She rattled on almost nonsensically, too excited with his appearance to do more than jump from subject to subject. Blue felt a smidgen of guilt in his long absences.

"Grandmamá," he broke in, her lavish attention deepening his discomfort. He'd not come for a simple visit, but to gain information. Promises to himself formed; when all was well, he'd make time for moments like this more often.

""Grandmamá," he repeated, attempting new focus. "I've not a lot of time. I need to ask you about someone, about –"

He was just about to allude to the mysterious Raj when another voice broke from the path's entrance, addressing them in the feeble croak of advanced years.

"Zelda, me dear." Wizened and frail appearing, the wizard in dove gray robes leaned heavily upon a plain staff of whittled birch branch, shoulder-length white locks interspersed with twigs and leaf remnants. He smiled graciously at Blue, then turned his view back to the lively witch. "Mightn't we retire tae the indoors? Me stamina's no' wha' it once was, ye ken." Self-deprecating smile pulled his lined features, yet weariness was evident in the Scot.

"Oh, Merlin, yes," Zelda recovered, looking chagrined for having forgotten her original guest. "Jacob, dear, come along. Let's adjourn for some tea whilst I conjure up a right proper meal." She shooed the men inside, clucking all the while as to her lack of manners and where her head must have been, and what scrumptious dish should be served in the honor of two long-missed guests.

"Now, let's see," she began, seating them with matronly fuss and joy. "You two have sit-down and chat, and I'll get to work on the tea, first." She paused, revelation showing on her face. "Oh, where's your posh, Zelda?" she asked herself in wry humor. She turned to Jacob, an attempt at society form stilling her features for but a moment.

"Jacob, I'd like you to meet my grandson, Bluazure."

"Blue," Blue corrected a mite under breath. Jacob expressed his delight, and Blue accepted cordially as upbringing demanded.

"Bluazure," she continued, turning her girlish face to him. "This is my Bubby's dear friend of many, many years. Jacob MacGregor."

Repeat of pleasantries died midway on Blue's lips. Inside he tightened, nausea threatening at such turn of events. And his grandmother had been left quite alone with this man? This possible clansman of his subject of suspect? Blood drained, leaving flush his young, gaping features.

"Now, m'dear," she continued with a look of glowing expectation. "Whom did you need to ask me about?"