Chapter 24: To the Edge... & Beyond

Chapter 24: To the Edge... & Beyond

September first brought with it a damp chill that clung to his political robes with an air of suffocation and sinister intent. Dementors mating, they'd called it, the last time he'd felt the mists bear so heavily on and about him, taking on threatening qualities as to prickle his nerves, heighten his senses. And Raj did not care for it. Not one bit.

In the hours it had taken for his business to be concluded, London had grown dark and menacing. Footpads and tramps worried him little; others – more swift and deadly – wanted his destruction. Only saving grace found was in anonymity. They didn't know who he was. Not yet, anyhow. Little doubt stood in his mind that they were close, though, that soon their acquired titchy bits of knowledge would fall together like some Christie novel. And then even his endorsers held not enough power to save him.

Footsteps quickened; Visitor's Entrance would be bare this time of evening, allowing admittance free of mindless or suspicious questions. He was going to visit his aunt, he was, who was working late. No oddity in that, now, eh? One security wizard for the night shift – pervious expeditions had clued him that – would be maneuverable. He had to get there before they did.

Holiday makers staggered by in groups, each jostle and near brush in their silliness unnerving Raj. Tightened grip on the wand tucked just inside his belt – below his robes – shook in anticipation. In the air a crackle of magical current sped his heart rate, his adrenaline. Laughter, cackles, shouts, horns, taxis... All these converged upon the wizard, and his stride lengthened and sped even faster. Something was not right.

Crowds were growing too large, too rough; he would need to take an alternate. An Underground entrance lay not far ahead – a perfect point from which to renegotiate his path –

Sudden grip like claws whirled him round, causing misstep and nearly toppling both he and his assailant. Raj's reactive wand draw stopped only just in time, the face of a rather pissed young woman taking form in the streetlamp light. She held onto his left bicep for support, weaving heavily.

"'scuse, me, Govn'r," she pardoned, squinting through unfocused eyes, glancing him up and down in his full cloak, his robes only half hidden beneath. "Would you 'appen tah know where the Roz'in... Rosen... Rosenguild poooblic 'ouse mightn't be?"

He did not need this. Sloshed Muggle women on holiday. If only his problems were so minor.

Still keeping his wand in contact, Raj steadied the platinum blonde. "No, ma'am; I'm afraid I'm not familiar with London." It was all he could do not to modify that as Muggle London. "Now if you wouldn't mind, I've a pressing engage..."

"– Wha's tha? Off tah a fancy dress party, are we?" she giggled, half coming out as a snort as exaggerated head movements denoted her blatant appreciation of his attire. Lecherous grin broke out, revealing crowded teeth spotted with evening supper. "Mind if'n I come along?" Girlish giggles this time, broken by chokes of chronic means, heavy fumes of alcohol wafting into his face. Raj turned his face aside, leaning away in an attempt for clean air. He really needed to be on his way.

Disengaging himself, he left his new suitor with her own personal letter box to cuddle. Immersed in seeking his route, Raj never witnessed an exchange of pound notes and a sudden sobering of one blonde lassie. Instead, attention moved into keeping a straight path, the tube entrance exiting a concentration of pedestrians. Masses bottlenecked before dispersing, their on-coming movements jarring Raj further and further to the outskirts of the walk, out of direct line to the stairs. Doxy with a pram halted before him – edge to the right. Attempt to tuck back into line – diverted by spotted youths bee-lining for a side shop. Nearing the rail marking the descent – rowing couple to his left shoved past, bumping him further toward brick façades and window displays, skirting street entertainers and snogging couples. Past the rubbish bin and the burned-out streetlamp –

Hard was the impact made as his body was jerked viciously to the right, delving into a slight chasm masquerading as an alley betwixt adjacent shops, slamming his chest and cheek into solid brick. No time had he to recover faculties; no more had he gained his footing and turned than there was chaos. Shouts, calls, swearing, flashing streams of colored light.

Raj shoved against the brick wall for balance and spun, wand drawn, but ducked just in time as the first stream of red light flashed, flying past his left shoulder to knock a chuck of mortar from the wall. Attack from the entrance, Raj retrenched deeper into the black void of alleyway. He alternated between backward steps, throwing his own spells, and weaving and ducking in a scramble from the threat. Voices carried, resonated down the narrow way, steep walls entombing him. Multiple sets of timbre, footfalls, brilliance of varying colors and brightness in offense, in defense.

Stumble, recover, slide, slip, nicked shin, scraped palm, singed hair by streak of incantation... wrenched back in a twist of thrown ward... blackness of the void, blinding of magical light... running from, firing upon, dodging... anger, fear, anticipation, nerves, calculating... closer, louder... turn again, cast the spell, move to flee –

Searing pain to his torso knocked Raj backwards, right shoulder catching in a sickening thump against the rough stone wall. Unable to move, he felt his knees give way, buckling beneath the newly dead weight of limbs that ceased to obey commands. Miniscule jagged edges of brick snagged at his cloak, pulling it upward as his body dragged downward to cluttered alley floor. Surprisingly loud was the tink of his wand as it popped against concrete, its grip still within loose fingers.

Some sort of Stunning Spell, it had to have been. Raj was vaguely aware of on-goings, and completely unable to react. But between drifting in and out of consciousness, several things became clear: he was not alone in his fight, he was not alone in injury, and someone had every intention of saving him, but for what purpose only they knew.

Solid chest greeted his back as an arm wrapped about his own chest, under his arms, pulling him against his defender. His body draped, his own intentions to support himself fully unrealized. Pitch lay before him as the men behind staggered backward, sniping words between them, occasional return fire flying just above his head.

"What the fuck do ya think I'm gonna do, Reg?" a tight voice directly behind him hissed before firing another red shot just over Raj's right ear. "App him out? Fuck; it's all I can do to damn well walk, myself. I can barely hold 'im as it is. I'd splinch us both!"

Jerking movement pulled him back, and just in time as the piercing light struck the wall but centimeters from his face, the brief flash enough to note shards of brick and mortar exploding in contact.

"Do you take me for a bloody fool, Sirius?" another similar, hoarse voice bit from his left. "We can't take him back home. Let's get him to the Underground." Flak from this newcomer's wand in response to nearby triple shot. "Tell anyone who asks he's pissed." Sudden bright beam expanding in brief walls of white light now broke from this same wand, illuminating the alley in sharp relief for an instant. At least five figures had been exposed in that time, and Raj understood only too well the precariousness of his position. Scrambling footwork, apparent jab to his helper – Sirius? – in effort for attention. "Come on, this way... before it fades."

Hoisted higher in Sirius' grip, Raj MacGregor felt all control over his own survival dissipate with the fading tendrils of magical sparks. Queasiness overcame him in the jostle and further hushed commands.

Then he passed out.

-o-

Droplets of beaded sweat ran down his scruffy jaw, adding to the drench that converged on his charcoal button down. Between humidity, the heat of that damn Muggle train, the effort to manhandle – Regulus and his insistence to avoid magic! – Raj MacGregor all through London to their current location, Sirius found his body soaking his denims and un-tucked shirt most uncomfortably. Not to mention the perspiration born of injury, blood and scorched, broken denim prime for curious glances upon the train. Roundabout trails and last moment slips; crowded clubs and randy street urchins, all played as cover to their escape of more than an hour prior. He hurt, ached, and wanted nothing more at the moment than to deposit his burden, heal his wound as best he could magically, and nurse a fifth of firewhisky.

"Are you sure this is it?" Regulus asked again, speculation heavy in his query. Sirius grit his teeth in pain and aggravation.

"Once more, Reg; yes, this is bloody well it. I'm sure," he added, sniping as they reached the unadorned door, a message board of white tacked carefully upon the wall, adjacent the scarred doorframe and worn brass-work. Sirius fell heavily against the corridor wall, grateful its presence and the lack thereof regarding guests on the floor. A wall clock revealed the night well advanced into morning, but as a Friday night, they could not count on the emptiness remaining. Adjusting the dead weight of their companion, Sirius shifted his hold to one arm and reached out to his right, backhandedly rapping the dormitory entrance beside him.

Regulus paced restlessly upon the flea-bitten white of the ceramic tiled floor, repetitiously scanning the exits for any sign of unwelcome visitors. Moments passed without change, and Sirius grew concerned his plan was ill-timed. Another sharp measure of raps, the rattling reverberating down and throughout the corridor.

Again moments passed, and Regulus halted his tread, looking meaningfully at the unchanged door, and back to his brother. Lips parting to speak, they suddenly stilled at the shuffling now announcing movement within. Sirius sighed quietly in relief as locks clicked and handle turned, and the gateway to respite opened.

"Regulus? But what – oh! God, what happened? And what are you doing with Raj MacGregor?" Her voice rose upon the last notation, eyes widening in shock.

"Hermione, please," Sirius practically begged in weariness. "Just open the door and let us in. We'll tell all if I can just sit the bloody hell down." Waiting not for formal invitation, the wizard shoved off from the wall and made for the opening, his grip on Raj failing with each step until the unconscious man was near to being dragged into the small double room. Without a by-your-leave or pardon-of-impertinence, Sirius plowed past Hermione's pajama-clad figure and made for her rumpled bed, a last-ditch effort for strength calling Raj to enough height as to be tossed unceremoniously upon the single. He then dropped himself onto the bed, lying back against the headboard in near collapse, long legs stretched out along the edge.

She had lit a Muggle lamp bedside, he noted without much care. Its soft glow cast his brother's entrance in surreal effect; it captured Hermione's return in youthful splendor. Shite, but he was going to have to clear his mind and conscience.

Her questions began in earnest, yet it was Regulus who answered, skimming the points of their meeting with McGonagall at the Leaky Cauldron, Sirius' notice that her brother-in-law had followed Raj MacGregor out and Sirius had followed suit, suspicious. He continued with Regulus' own concern, and eventual catch-up with his brother, their greater distrust as the man had signaled to others in the crowd, and a play-out had begun to take shape. Described in great brevity was their subsequent trade of warfare in the alley, their complex escape route, and finally their arrival here, in her very room. Included in this tale were brief interruptions of questions, clarifications and even a cursory check on Raj, who was veritably deemed out for the night by a nasty Stunning Spell variation. Blanket and pillow found their place upon and below him, respectively.

Sirius barely attuned himself to the verbiage, his mind drifting in fatigue and draining adrenaline. Lightly dozing, Hermione's shriek jarred him abruptly, bringing him upright, wand drawn, heart pounding. But no attack had entered the room in a barrage of spells; Hermione's horrified gaze and gaping mouth with proper half-hand cover were all directed toward him. At first, Sirius was confused. Then he reconciled her line of sight: she'd seen his wound.

Oh; that was all. Lowering his wand, he leaned back again, intent on kipping moments more. But that was not to be, he soon realized.

"Sirius, you're bleeding! You've been hurt!"

"Quite, yes," his droll reply came. He was tired; he didn't have the energy for injury explanations or their fawning spoils. His eyes closed, blissful sleep seducing him –

"Ah, damn it to bloody hell!" He bound straight up again, no wand palmed but the angered yelp of pain filling the serene peace of slumbering dormitory residents. Sirius' hands immediately grabbed headboard and night table, gripping in agony-induced need as his body arched upward in sudden tension. She was pulling the soaked, dried blood stained material from the sliced gash on his left upper, outer and middle thigh, for Merlin's sake! Good Morgana mayhem, but that hurt like hell!

At his hostile reaction, Hermione let go her attempts and immediately pulled back, momentary fear flashing across her face, though quickly it was replaced by both compassion and vague annoyance.

"Honestly, Sirius. That wound's got to be cleaned and tended." She glanced back at Regulus, whose expression was difficult to read as he met her gaze, then glanced to Sirius and back. "I promise without magic, Regulus," she amended, and, apparently satisfied, Regulus left his post in the middle of the room to seat himself on the empty bed against the opposing wall. She turned back to Sirius, lips set in firm resolution.

"All right; come on. I can't clean it on the bed – not with Raj taking up most of it, anyway." She turned toward the door, but veered to her right to pull out a straight-backed chair before a writing desk. "Here; settle on this while I get some supplies."

Sirius watched incredulously as she disappeared into the tiny bathroom, flipping on a light and rummaging through cabinets and drawers. He shot a look to his brother, but Regulus only tilted his head, raising his brows as if to say, "Might as well." Sighing heavily, Sirius dropped his feet to the floor – how his thigh had stiffened in that time – and carefully rose, half dragging himself to the waiting settlement of torture.

"I'll return shortly," Regulus stated abruptly, regaining his feet again in that restless cat manner. "I'll have a look-see down the stairs. I'm not all that keen on surprises at the moment." With a quick nod he left the room, softly drawing the door closed behind him.

Minutes later Hermione resurfaced, arms laden with a bulging pink, terrycloth towel. She set her bundle down, revealing bottles and implements within its folds.

"Where's Regulus?" she asked, concerned face turning about in search.

"Gone to make sure we weren't followed," he replied tiredly. The time allowed in repose upon even the hard-backed chair had left him growing drowsy again. His left leg stretched out before him, barely leaving his arse on the chair, allowing him greater angle from which to lean back.

Hermione merely muttered something noncommittal and proceeded to apply small scissors to his already gaping tear of fabric, and Sirius bit his bottom lip. Usually highly tolerant of pain, timing, frustration and repeated misuse of the limb over the past hours had left him sensitive to attentions. But as Hermione continued, eventually adding a warm, damped cloth to ease the material from skin, Sirius found himself once again on the verge of relaxation. Ministrations to the long wound soon eased the muscle somewhat, the throbbing letting off as blood was cleared, ripped skin freed, and some sort of disinfectant tingled its numbing directly into the gash. He lay his head back over the chair's support, willing his thigh to remain relaxed in spite of the occasional sting of medicine or snag of cloth from flesh.

What seemed like hours had passed, and Sirius realized Hermione was finishing her task, a soft patting of a drying towel clearing the outer areas of the wound. Denim laid still damp and heavy in flopping sections upon his leg. Her completion was welcome, he felt, as it meant a chance to finally rest. Hell would be paid by morning, his quads already protesting the evening's assassination attempt. But that was tomorrow, and by then Regulus might actually feel it was safe to use magic, their Ministry-involved (they had heard the cursed word) attackers less able or likely to trace all magical demonstrations –

Sirius' eyes popped open to stare unseeingly at the ceiling, his head carefully raising back up, with effort of a thousand men preventing any other movement on his behalf. Eyes adjusting in the dim, visual confirmation did nothing for his peace of mind. Dear all holy relics of the world, she was bandaging his wound. Oh no, not with simple cottony pads and spell-o-tape, but by bloody wrapping it with a small roll of gauze... around his leg... inside his trousers! Her small, lithe hands tickled his skin, caressing in gentle strokes the fine hairs, taking particular care in readjusting bunches and skewed layering about his inseam.

Time and again her medicinal work failed her sense of perfection, and Sirius grit his teeth and closed his eyes in the never-ending torture. Quidditch... Quidditch... He could feel the instinctive tightening within, and intentionally his breathing slowed and deepened, an attempt at some miniscule rein of control over his traitorous libido.

Thumb brushing the edges of his sensitive wound; palm flattening out, cupping underside tensed muscles; fingertips tickling in their quest to find the other hand, the roll of material. Deeper inside the trouser leg, retreat out the ever-enlarged rip... hand-off to left hand, burrowing once more into the confined space, caresses of simple medicinal acts engaging and alarming.

"Aye!" he abruptly hissed through clenched teeth, his face scrunched in painful contortion, head thrown back, whole body clenching. Hermione simply sighed heavily and muttered something under her breath about low pain tolerance thresholds of egotistical men.

Dear Merlin on high, if she doesn't stop running her soft little hand up the inside of my upper thigh.... He was only a man, after all. And never did he have a strong defense against women; even in cases of one perhaps – no, definitely – completely inappropriate. Hermione was little more than a child; she certainly could not know what she was inadvertently doing, causing him such distress and... reaction. He swallowed, hard.

"All right, then," she finally proclaimed, his trousers now free of her fingers. "It's not tops, but it will have to do until we can get you to a Healer tomorrow. As Stubby Boardman, of course," she added, gathering her items and retreating to the loo. She was rattling on something about infections and antibiotic creams, but Sirius could ill pay attention, his concentration spent for the night. Thankfully, Regulus returned within moments more, addressing Hermione upon her re-entrance.

"I need to know all possible entrances in the building that do not include personal rooms," he stated without preamble. Hermione frowned.

"Surely you don't think... well, I mean, they are wizards and all; stepping through the front door would be hardly necessary." However, she looked pensive, and Regulus' unchanged expression forced reconsideration. "Let me grab a dressing gown and I'll show you."

In truth, Sirius was most relieved to watch his brother and Hermione depart the now-suffocatingly-confined room. Hermione's healing practices had about been the death of him. Even now, his body was drawn taut in demand and expectation. And he had no one to blame but himself; self control was easier to come by when one had had some sort of release in the past, what, four years? Not helping any was that guilty dream of last week...

Damn it! Books rattled with the force of his punch to their case. He couldn't get that bloody image out of his mind; his back practically tingled at the faux memory of Little Miss Know-It-All Granger's lips tracing his battle scars in reverent detail. Worse yet, he'd just felt those delicate hands brush him with such tenderness belying her cranky words, and now he had basis for comparison. Little did it take to mesh intangible anticipation with experienced reality, and as the hour grew later, and his exhaustion more prominent, the more blurred the two dimensions became.

-o-

Hermione considered the man beside her, thick, rich ebony framing a handsome face of aristocratic lines and breeding. Icy blue eyes narrowed in study, long, elegant fingers gently traced door frame, hinges, locks. In the week since they'd met, she'd grown to realize Regulus was not quite the man she'd expected. Sure, she'd known Sirius' accounts of him would be skewed, colored, but even outside those sketching remarks, the younger Black was proving hard to decipher. She told him as much.

"What would you like to know, Miss Granger?" he queried, his eyes and hands still engrossed in casement window fittings and snippets of wandless magic, checking for traces of the same.

"Well," she fidgeted, house slippers scuffing across cold tile while she pondered just the right phrasing. Arms crossed in self defense, warding off the too-intimate feeling she felt at her limited attire and his all-too-masculine proximity. He really was an attractive man. "Your speech, for example. When I first met you, that night in the park – well, more so in the sitting room at Grimmauld – you were well-spoken and forthcoming, but not haughty or confrontational in any way, even to Sirius. I'd caught enough of your story that you sounded almost... poetic. It seemed you'd gathered experiences in your life that had left you, for lack of a better word, a bit passive and accepting."

At this, he paused his investigation and, leaning upon his elbows within the window sill, turned his head to her, brows raised in curious question. Slight smirk tugged at his firm lips.

Blushing, Hermione continued, eyes darting repetitiously to her feet and back. "Yet... yet when you're discussing things with me, and me alone, you're more relaxed, but also more definite in your feelings, like you don't need to caution yourself so much. And with Blue, it's as though you're comfortable, like you're free to speak as you choose. And then..." Deep breath, keep going. "Tonight; your mood was so much darker, fiercer, that you were almost... frightening." She glanced back to him, forcing herself to keep contact.

Expression altered only slightly, one brow dropping, eyes focusing to intensity that raised her hackles and spurred her fear. Slowly, directly, softly he answered.

"I'm a chameleon, Miss Granger. And still a Slytherin." His head cocked to one side slightly. "We adapt."

Words hung in the pre-dawn air with a sense of warning. Regulus Black, for all his inner growth and peaceful acceptance of life and fate, was still not a man to be trifled with. She did not fear him for a matter of betrayal or physical injury; however, matters of a more sensual aspect were obviously fair game.

What the bloody hell is wrong with me? she chastised herself. Everywhere she turned, she found herself turning into a wanton maiden in fascination of so-called bad boys. Raj, Sirius, her dream figure, for God's sake! And now Sirius' younger brother... Regulus, former Slytherin and... Death Eater. When all this was over and her boys found safe and sound, Hermione was going to visit a surgery and beg something to level out her hormones. This could not be normal!

She met his gaze, yet response came out in stumbles and squeaks, and poorly inarticulate. "Er... ah... I see," was all she could manage.

Bunny slippers suddenly became quite utterly fascinating at that moment.

-o-

Amusement tickled Regulus inside; it was all he could do not to grin devilishly at her obvious discomfiture. She was lovely when she blushed, he admitted. Each chance and planned encounter with this witch drew his interest more, and his initial ramblings of thought that first night back home bloomed further into plausible and pleasant options. Clever, talented, fetching... Hermione Granger could well keep his attention, and for a very long time.

A family of his own...

But carefully crafted masque still held upon his face, obviously unnerving her further. He opted to ease her tension by answering. Head tilted inward in gesture, suggesting a pique to her intellect.

"I get poetic. One of the hazards of music as a profession. At times when I become melancholy, I speak from the heart, exactly what I'm thinking or feeling – and that's an odd thing for me. Very much outside my breeding."

"So your entreaties of peace and acceptance were no more than low spirits." Her tone laced in accusation.

"I may phrase it all in pretty words and iambic pentameter in moments of pensive thought," he replied carefully, a threatening edge entering his voice. "But never doubt my sincerity." Reflection caught his tongue in open season.

"I even told Sirius that I –" He stopped abruptly, disgustedly realizing he was sharing too much, allowing far too open an expression of emotion or heart. Blacks did not reveal emotion, not even with family (though he'd fractured that rule quite recently, quite boldly). "Well, it doesn't matter what I told Sirius." Formality again replaced emotional display, words spoken rapidly in dismissal of the subject.

Pushing off the sill, Regulus moved on, speaking only to inquire of safety matters.

Completing their survey, Regulus led the way back to Hermione's room. She'd been quiet thus far – since his revelation of theatrical roles he found himself playing. But he did not kid himself; her reaction to him was blatant in its nature and had little to do with confession. Admitting or not, her body told a different story, one that did not gloss over physical attraction to him. Rushing it was not an option, he knew, so in biding his time he kept social distance for the past twenty minutes. Besides, he had needed time to recollect himself, to staunch the sudden flow of honesty in feelings and thoughts that had resurfaced in the past week. Only as Stubby Boardman had he allowed himself such freedoms. But he was once again a Black, and to a degree, he found himself needing to be a proper Black. Some natures were too engrained to shed easily.

They'd reached her floor before she found her voice, suitably recovered yet still hinting at raw tenderness from his lashing.

"If you're so different now, what changed your mind? Sirius told us of your family, how, even if you didn't support Voldemort directly, you bought into his ideals. Really, I'm surprised you even talk to me so well." They'd reached her door and she stopped to face him, quizzical in expression.

"Your family wouldn't offer me the time of day. Rather, they'd be the first to throw me to the Death Eaters as sport, seeing as how they despised my kind, being a Muggle-born."

Regulus visibly stiffened. Sirius hadn't told him that.

Ever the resourceful, however, Regulus ignored the opportunity for speech and instead turned his attention to opening the door, allowing Hermione in first so as to avoid her gaze whilst he composed himself.

The sight that met them fled all traces of pureblood snobbery from his mind.

-o-

Hermione stopped dead in her tracks. Bile rose, sickening; blood rushed, drained, grew cold. Jaw slackened. No sound could escape, and it was Regulus' eh-hem that broke the sounds of heavy breathing and muted, earthy moans coming from atop Shauna's bed.

Coming from Shauna.

Who lay beneath Sirius.

Regulus' voice again echoed in the tiny room, the shut of the door behind them negligent in announcing the pair's arrival. Sirius immediately – startled so – rolled off from between her roommate's long, curvy legs and onto his right side, half-sitting in an elbow propped way, muttered oaths slipping from beneath his breath. Annoyance and irritation, perhaps, but not a single sign of guilt shown upon his face. He didn't even have the decency to feel embarrassed! Hermione grew ill.

Bare of shirt, testaments of Sirius' battles lay splendidly before her, a small part of her unforgivingly reacting to the sight of him. His belt fell loose, its buckle free of partnership. Denims unbuttoned , slightly agape. Good God, at least vital bits were still concealed. Not that his naughties wouldn't be welcome a sight – she blushed furiously at the brief thought – but not in company, and not – by Morgana – in league with shagging her bloody roommate!

If Sirius looked aggrieved, at least Shauna offered up shame. Chemise pushed up to nearly revealing her breasts, her mini gave quite a view of red lace knickers, knickers Hermione was thanking all deities were still in place. Even at a distance, evidence of swollen lips and disheveled hair loudly proclaimed that another couple minutes more and the sight would have been beyond all repair.

But repair for what? Hermione asked herself. He wasn't hers. She had no claim upon him in any fashion. And by all obvious statements of fact, graciously displayed in three-dimension before her, she was never even in the running.

Sudden tears flooded her eyes as she turned, jerked frantically at the door latch (Regulus had to turn it for her), and fled, leaving behind a strangely, eerily quiet room of four.

-o-0-o-

"Tell me..." Regulus nonchalantly pulled Hermione's desk chair near Shauna's bed, where his brother sat at the edge, elbows on knees, forehead resting upon palm heels. Shauna had left to find Hermione, leaving the brothers in solitude.

Cynic's humor rose in his speech. "To what lunacy did you lose / sell / offer / give / bestow or bequeath your mind, Sirius?" Rare was it he held supremacy over his charmed sibling. Opportunity to take the mickey out of him was too juicy to pass up.

Besides; he really wanted to know.

Sirius' answer was a heavy, pained sigh. Still barely clothed, he seemed unabashed yet... something was eating at him. Regulus inquired once more as to what had happened in the whole thirty minutes he and Hermione had been gone. And in monotone reminiscent fashion, Sirius told his story.

-o-

Left with a physical ache that had nothing to do with his wound, and a mental image that practically haunted him, Sirius punched the nearby bookcase, rattling its contents and relieving none of his stress. Why did she do that to him? Why her, of all witches?

When she sat abed to remove high-heeled boots, a dark leather mini rode up black-stockinged legs, revealing lacy suspenders mid-thigh. Sweet Fanny Adams, what had done in his life to deserve this never-ending pain? Sirius asked himself again, closing his eyes in desperation, and failing to keep them that way. Always a glutton for punishment...

They opened to find Shauna down to chemise and skirt, her blonde locks wild from finger combing. She was standing now, a foot propped upon her desk, hands gently rubbing in some ladies' cream into bare leg. Sirius directly found his voice, surprisingly steady, considering.

"No; she's out with my brother," he clarified before thinking. But this girl was a Muggle, and she didn't know about Sirius and Regulus Black, or about how they're supposed to be dead. She regarded him from under hooded eyes. Gesturing in head movement, he continued. "Our friend's rather sloshed; letting him sleep it off." His eyes could not draw away from her a second time, following her casual switch of legs, scents of lavender and jasmine drawing his senses... the senses of a much weakened man.

-o-

Amusement faded from Regulus' disposition. Realization was taking shape, and not one he appreciated, either. Recalling Hermione's reaction, it was not the girlish embarrassment of walking in on heavy roger action. No; it was, he suddenly understood, the reaction of a young woman walking in on her roommate shagging the man she fancied.

Damnation! Was Sirius to always come out on top? Regulus' humor waned, and he glared at his brother without pity.

"She fancies you, you know. Granger." Regulus waited a moment while Sirius slowly raised his head, confusion evident on his drawn features. "But you don't fucking deserve her."

With that, he rose, turned, and left the room.