Chapter 25: The Measure of a Man

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

Chapter 25: The Measure of a Man

Cranky was his mood later that morning, hazy rays of sunlight finally creeping through the casement-framed glass. It couldn't be much past sunrise, he deduced. Headache by dehydration; back knots via cold, hard floor; disposition courtesy of sleep deprivation. Mantra-like pecking of that damn owl on the window wasn't improving matters, either.

Sirius squinted against bright reflection above, the crick in his neck protesting such odd angle. Not the energy to fully swear even under his breath, he made do with mentally cursing the bird while stiffly drawing himself up from the floor on chilled hands, his makeshift duvet of fluffy rose-colored bath mat sliding off in a heavy flop. Ripping pain gave immediate pause to his gathering of knees beneath him; left thigh protested every movement of quadriceps, their stretching a pull the newly healing gash could not condone. Sirius could feel fresh tears opening beneath the bandaging.

Gods; the bandaging. That's what ultimately had landed him in such a ghastly, sleepless night. Best not to think on it, he decided, focusing instead on gaining his feet. Incessant clatter of beak or talons to glass drove him to bite down the pain and move on. Upright finally, he gave a disgusted glance to his brother at his right, secured snuggly within soft, warm bedclothes of Shauna's own bed. He himself had started out there as well, he recalled bitterly, until early into their agreement of sharing the small bed Regulus had in his sleep managed to spread out dramatically several times, a strong leg shoving Sirius off the edge into a heap. Giving up after the fourth incident, Sirius had tossed the frilly bathmat next to the bed over his shoulders and made due for the couple hours more he had for slumber. In the light of day, it was apparent Regulus was not the toss-turn sleeper portrayed so well, the younger Black now currently curled cocoon-like against the wall.

So much for brotherly compassion.

Haltingly making way to the window, he eased it open, brisk air whooshing in, splashing his near-bare chest with chill. Buttoning up his re-donned shirt before retiring earlier might have been a right smart idea, but nothing about the past twelve hours could Sirius say had indeed been smart. Ignoring this new discomfort as well, he further opened the window, coaxing the evil-eyed predator in. Eagle owl, but one unknown to him. Who could Hermione be writing to? No one knew he and Regulus were there, and Shauna was a Muggle.

Momentary alert raked through him. Harry had last communicated through an owl to Hermione's dormitory room. But closer inspection revealed feminine writing vaguely familiar to him. At first the owl refused him collection of the message, nipping painfully at his hands. All right; Purgatory for sins of the night he accepted without complaint: the row, the floor, the cold. But enough payment had been made, and Sirius had not the tolerance for temperamental postal owls.

"Lay off it before I make quills and a pincushion out of you," he growled, eyeing the bird with testy intent and a sharp flick of finger to beak. Giving over, the creature offered up the post, departing immediately with a forceful wing flap of annoyance. Sirius closed the window. Briefly he considered if he should wake Regulus and send him to take the message to Hermione, who, along with Shauna, had opted to spend the night in a classmate's room under excuse of foul theatrical paint smells in their room. Only Regulus was privy to the whereabouts of said room, Shauna having sighted him in the corridor and shared such information. Hermione, on the other hand, apparently wanted nothing to do with Sirius at the moment.

And therein lay the utter insanity.

Limping to deposit the letter on her desk across the room, he chanced a glace at her bed, MacGregor still unconscious, but now bound tightly at wrists and ankles by Regulus' handy work. Nylons made lovely restraints, he mused. Too bad their use was something so ordinary this time. Chiding himself for lack of mental manners, Sirius considered his options for entertainment until his brother woke and they, together with Hermione, could deal with MacGregor. He was sore, irritated, exhausted, frustrated, and grungy. And bored. And boredom for Sirius Black was the greatest punishment of all.

Ensconcing himself in the femininely pink – what was so fascinating about the blasted color? – bath for morning absolutions, he suddenly realized a long, hot shower was just the remedy for all issues. Carefully unclothing, he rummaged the vanity cupboard for scissors, then oh-so-delicately cut the wraps about his thigh. Peeling back layers of padding, he realized Hermione had, indeed, done a fantastic job tending the injury. Nevertheless, it lay there angry and red, daring further strain with even more bleeding nicks than he'd opened only minutes prior.

Scalding liquid could not have been more welcome than at that first moment of contact. Beneath pulsating spray, a night's worth of scrimmage, a week's worth of stress and months' worth of pent frustration washed away. Steam rising blurred vision, such that tiled walls bled into nondescript images. Visions played out before him, consideration of what was and what could be.

Hermione Granger fancied him? Him? Of all people... Assuming Regulus was right, that was. But then, Regulus was a number of things; flippant wasn't one of them. And Sirius could not see how it would aid Reg, either, by telling him such a tale. No; he had been rightly angry with Sirius last night – this morning – and had meant what he'd said. But if that were the case, then...

Then Hermione Granger fancied him.

And she wasn't the same little sixteen-year-old he'd known – what felt to him – only months before. Calculating, he realized with no little surprise that she was nearly twenty-one years of age. Yes, still a girl to him at thirty-six, but... she was more than of age. Such thought should have cleared his conscience of guilt associated with that dream last week, but it did not. In point of fact, it unnerved him all the more. Just because he was now allowed to think erotic thoughts about her didn't mean he was supposed to do.

Taking a mental step back, Sirius considered the situation from what-if-then points of view. Assuming he wanted to pursue a relationship – which, thank you very much, he was certainly not endorsing – what actually stood in the way? Harry – and yes, he must consider his godson's feelings in the matter, for he and Remus and... and Regulus were his family – Harry would not be an issue. Assuming all went well and the boys came out of their predicament unscathed, Harry might take exception to a father-figure becoming involved with his best friend. But in all honesty, if Harry had grown to be anything like his father, in the end only their happiness need be present.

Ron? He wondered. Difficult was that avenue. Ron was Hermione's other best friend, and like Harry he'd be protective of her. But they were dating... right now. He'd not known that until a few days ago, when Ginny had briefly mentioned something alluding to such fact while she searched for some odd knick-knack in the attic. Yet Hermione's thoughts dwelled not on Ron – not in that sense. Too obvious were her feelings that Ron had grown more in their friendship, but less (if ever there had been) in their romance. And truthfully, though the lad was a good kid – young man – he lacked the drive Hermione had always shown, even as a teenager. He lacked her passion.

Who was left to care, really? Quick scan of names and faces revealed no one with any legitimate sway. So decidedly it fell to the two of them. Considering Regulus' claim, one mind was already made up. But she doesn't know me! he argued with himself. She doesn't understand who I am as a man – she's only seen me at my worst, always – always – in hiding. Repeatedly excuses rose, all valid, all noteworthy.

But it perhaps all came down to him, to his wants, and it was those he could not justify, could not clarify in his heart. Bodily reaction told him all he needed to know in terms of desire, but Hermione was one of those very few for whom it was all or nothing. Too much respect lay there upon her, too good a soul was she for him to ever classify as a shag piece. No; Hermione Granger was above all of that, and dog though he may sometimes be, he would not sully that beauty with mere lust.

Thoughts of similar nature debated within his head, more than a quarter hour at least passing in fashion, allowing cleansing, releasing, soothing of his beaten body. War raged on inside his head, rousing to clouts of screams and poundings for stress of point, his own name repeating in effort to wake from his haze of self-condemnation and accept some value of answer. Facts were as they were; no changing would there be. How he dealt with them, on the other hand, defined him.

Fluttering of dusky floral, vinyl curtain pulled him back to immediate consideration, breezy ruffling brought on by sudden opening. A soft click indicated closure.

"Sirius?" Unsure voice. Water shut off, towel drawn down from its crest upon the rod, quick dab to face, swift, loose wrap about hips. Sirius stepped out the shower, casual in movement and attitude, to find himself face to face with the object of his musings. To Hermione's 'O' expression, eyes and mouth alike, he froze. Several heartbeats remained this stammer to their meeting. Progressively she stiffened, defensive arms across chest, stony face. Moments more it took before his own action set in.

Recalling himself, he flashed trademark grin of charm and moved to the porcelain vanity to her right, brushing arms in passing. Hermione moved to her left in quick shuffle, invading what little space was available in the cramped room.

While he faced steamed mirror, gently wiping down with a hand towel, Sirius divided mute attention between his task at hand and covertly studying the young woman he'd now be forced to view in a whole other fashion. Though he'd acted in typical Sirius Black manner, at no point was he feeling aught typical. Odd were sensations now, this uneasy interaction between old acquaintances. Lack of proper attire affected nothing here; exhibitionist to a degree, little more than skin found him equally comfortable. Acquisition of new knowledge, however... now that was unnerving.

Sirius stared into the streaked, wet mirror, lint left in symmetrical arcs from his clearing. Absentminded stroking of chin and cheeks, two-day growth itchy and rough, eyes averted from watching her behind him. Aware the slight puddle due his dripping body, he remained still upon foot, decidedly impervious to drying body and rapidly cooling air. Why doesn't she say something?

"There's... there's a razor in the cabinet. If you want to shave," she provided as though hearing his thoughts, strength of conviction much less apparent than only the night before. Brief glance to the mirror placed her eyes directly upon his back. She was still angry with him, unable to meet his gaze. But that was all right; temporal and emotional distance would be required in seeking resolve to this new, strange circumstance.

-o-

Wet. All that crossed her mind was one word: wet. Shimmering against cheap florescent light, droplets reflected and magnified, dancing upon renewed flesh, masculine flesh. Poised before her, unreadable expression upon his perfectly still, perfectly formed face, he waited. And he was wet.

And beautiful. In her anger of the night and even morning, she had forgotten how beautiful he was, marks of past pains coloring his body in shades of stories and trials. After a night of crying and complete confession to Shauna (who was horrified to learn she'd nearly shagged the object of Hermione's deeper affections, and admitted it was she who came heavily on to Sirius and not vice versa), Hermione was worn to a point beyond reactionary shock. That was not to say no effect was had upon greeting this sight of male form. On the contrary; though she did not display it, inside her gut clenched, breath caught, belly tingled. For all his flaws, he was still quite the masculine beauty of real athletic form, body born simply of lifestyle and hardships, of fighting for life itself.

Bead of clear water gathered at mid sternum, grew with others, fell... tracing a rapid descent down his taut belly, skirting his navel, disappearing into white cotton dipping just below, dipping dangerously low in a heavy drape. Mouth dry, she struggled to swallow, then met his eyes. Wary, but lively.

Mistress of control – momentarily, at least – only the merest cocking of one eyebrow did she offer in response. Arms crossed chest to give off an aggrieved, annoyed air. In reality, no other solution came to her of what to do with her arms. Nerves shook them perceptibly if left to hang on their own.

Cheshire grin and in two strides, he was beside her, facing away to the vanity, forcing her steps aside to avoid crowding him. But the view from behind was even... worse.

Realization prickled: she was staring. Undignified, unashamed. Fascinated. Faded crosses to bear, bared in stark white light, fine etchings of pale against deeper hues. Scars of life. She knew that back rather well; some would say intimately. Heat creeping up neck and face belied her cool facial aspect.

"There's... there's a razor in the cabinet. If you want to shave," she managed, still intent upon the plane of sinew and angles, gentle divot of spine, graceful concave of lower back. Reinforcement within was called up, deep breath forcing the words from her before she made herself laughing stock.

"I just wanted you to know that I received an urgent owl from the Head of Muggle Artifacts. Zelda, if you recall. She says she needs to speak with me about Raj. Funnily enough, she wants you and your brother to come along should I be able to contact you. I didn't know she even knew about him. But suffice it to say Regulus went out to find an owl for a reply. He didn't trust leaving Raj here, so he trailed him along. Once he's back, we'll all go. So whenever you're ready..."

Ceasing her rambling, no bother to await his answer did she consider, and instead turned and slipped out the door, her breathing difficult through more than heavily humid air.

-o-0-o-

Blue picked listlessly at his blood sausage, appetite suppressed in growing anticipation. The man across the ancient table fared better, managing bites here and there, periodically smiling at something the spry little woman between them said. Breakfast was usually a lively affair at his grandmamá's cottage, but long evening of incredible news and worrisome contemplation had left all participants depleted by sunrise.

Jacob MacGregor set down his fork and gently rubbed his frail, bony hands, skin spotted with age and nearly translucent. Attention was turned to Zelda, herself offering only a half-honest effort toward the meal she'd prepared. MacGregor's hand found hers, the dainty feminine fingers small and drawn in the Scot's larger paw. "Argus'll find Raj. Don' ye worry, lass. Then all this secrecy can come tah an end.

"Mind ye, Raj knows wha's wha', and if Blue an' 'is friends know wha' he's said, then time's come fer 'em tah know t'all. Potter an' Raj, they needn't be at odds, ye ken."

Raj MacGregor – grandson to this brogue-lipped wizard – had disappeared. And for once, Blue was worried more for young MacGregor than about him. If what little the elder had said was true – and Blue's own grandmamá had indeed verified his story – then in Raj's safety lay all their fates. Until he could be found, only brevity would be allowed upon those involved, and Blue waited impatiently for owls to confirm imminent arrivals of Stubby (Regulus, you idiot!), Sirius and Hermione. Much had to be done... before Voldemort closed in.

Blue took a sip of his Irish Breakfast. It'd grown cold.

-o-0-o-

Regulus had not returned by the time Sirius had dressed, having scrubbed the blood as best he could from torn denims, new gauze of his own wrapping staunching fresh blood. Once out of self-imposed hiding, he would cast a quick Scouring Charm in effort to cleanse his sweat-stained shirt to a level of presentation. Despite his attire's condition, his body and ever-lengthening black tresses found themselves revived and refreshed, and that would do for now.

Hermione was pacing in annoyance, glancing out the window often, then to the door, as though expecting any moment some saving grace to enter. No effort would she spare him, however. Just as well, he considered, that whole distance thing previously agreed upon with himself. Right now concentration fell to Raj MacGregor, and whatever association he held with the Head of the Department of Muggle Artifacts. Had Zelda Luminare realized the boy a threat to Hermione? Possibly. His own chat with the eccentric lady weeks prior suggested a stalker of questionable magnitude. MacGregor, perhaps?

Musings dissipated rapidly in the broken vocal silence. Sirius looked up from Shauna's bed, posture reminiscent of only hours before. Hermione had stopped pacing.

"Why, Sirius?" Staring down at him from but a meter away, hands atop hips, mixture of hurt and anger and something unspoken pulling her face into tics of tension. "Why did you do it? Why did you decide... well," she left off a moment, steely gaze dropping with nervous shuffling and relocation. Sirius did not interrupt.

"It wasn't the time nor place, you know," she corrected in schoolhouse matron tone, apparently feeling safe beside Shauna's desk. Fingers toyed idly with rolled theatrical ribbon, delving into sectioned layers of crimson velvet. Periodic looks to him, her resolve falling apart. He wondered what originally were her accusations. Unclear her direction at first, illumination struck at her mindless glimpses to the bed he sat. Of course...

Embarrassment suddenly turned to agitation, and Sirius witnessed transitions play across her face, happenstance seeking spite over shame.

"How could you? Honestly, Sirius; shagging one's roommate whilst one's friend is out checking security with one's brother for said one's own bloody safety and well-being is a right bit rude, don't you think?" Voice higher now, fueled with millions of emotions.

"Please, let's not discuss this now." Beseeching, quiet. Not now, no. Unprepared, unsure, unable to disseminate loads of revelations.... He wasn't ready for this little chat, nor was he sure when he ever would be. But hysterics proved her will different than his, and on she went, a good several minutes chastising his lewd and raucous behavior. Never once suggested were her own feelings for him, a matter of jealousy or hurt. No; instead, claims of selfishness and prat nature conjured dormant aggravation he'd thought gone through some sleep, physical release and scalding water. But she'd only kept on, and patience was never his virtue.

"Merlin's eyes, you looked like some beastly little schoolboy in a right temper, fit of hormones you couldn't keep quelled for a bleeding minute. Greater things to worry about, you know, and all you cared while we were out protecting your precious backside was fawning all over Shauna like you'd never seen a girl – and a squiffy one at that!" Shrewish her tongue had become. Nearer the edge she pushed him, asking for but one more piece of nastiness to shatter his newly constructed reserve. "Taking advantage of her less-than-sober state for your own jollies. What cracking behavior, Mr. Black; and here I'd thought you'd grown up."

It was the sneer that did it.

"I'm only a man, Hermione!" Sirius swung back, leaping to his feet, all consideration of previous concerns for her feelings disappearing in the heat of rant. "I'm not a fucking Saint. Good God, do you even know what you were doing to me last night? And you've the gall to ask why I wasn't better behaved."

"What I was doing to you?" she snapped back, hand dropping to grip desk edge until knuckles shown white in their force. "Did I hold a wand to your ego-swollen head and force you to have it on with my roommate?" Derisive snort. "I think not."

Disgusted at her sarcasm and lack of understanding, something inside him gave way. "Shagging Shauna had not a damn thing to do with a wand to my head, little Miss I-Don't-Bloody-Well-Know-Everything," he barked, stress bunching his features. "This... this..." He tried to form the words, but flustered at the right ones, instead pointing accusingly at his wounded thigh. "This bit of your handiwork, however, was more a threat to my sanity than any Cruciatus Curse ever could be. God's teeth, Hermione; you were bloody well trying to kill me!"

"I was trying to mend your leg without magic, Sirius! It's called First Aid, and though not nearly as effective as a spell, it was all that was available at the time. Perhaps I should have let you bleed to death?" she asked saccharinely sweet. "For apparently my attempts upon your person were instead blatant of my true, accursed ways. That's me, alright – horrible person, me; tried to heal your wound. How evil I must be," she replied caustically, eyes narrowed in a snit. Trouncing like a child in a fit, she turned her back to him, arms crossed, hips cocked in a brood, staring towards the door.

Incredulous. She had no idea what she'd done last night. Sirius paused a moment, debating. Perhaps the only way to get through to her logical mind was to show her her wicked ways... by example.

"Here, let me explain in terms your pretty little head can understand," he bit off, teeth clenched. Strides few brought him to her, rough grab to a slim wrist, jarring her attention. No time to react had she before they were across the room, her desk chair whipped about and her body practically thrown upon it. No measure of civility was available to him at that moment. She'd pushed and pushed, never accepting his polite replies that never were obvious enough. So he'd given up manners. She'd demanded answers; he'd give them.

Barely settled, Sirius threw her off balance again, grabbing each leg just behind the knees, roughly yanking her toward himself, stretching her out whilst proclaiming more to himself, "Yeah, that's about how I was sitting."

Scanning the room in sharp movements, he located the perfect prop. Hurriedly he retrieved the velvet ribbon roll from Shauna's desk, returning to Hermione with a sole thought in mind: make her understand.

Kneeling, Sirius grabbed a handful of trouser fabric over her left thigh, bent over the spot and neatly tore a hole with his teeth. Brisk further rip, and the trouser leg lay open in a gash, much resembling his own. Shocked into silence up to this point, Hermione did not, however, let this particular gesture go unvocalized. She let out a screech of surprised dismay. Her body, on the other hand, allowed fear to halt movement, so said her wide eyes and taut muscles.

Ignoring minute protests, he fussed about the tear, muttering beneath his breath "like this" and "more like that" until the size and shape were perfect. Gathering the ribbon roll, he suddenly stilled, pondering. He wasn't sure he could do this, this little lesson. Nagging voice inside his head told him it was a poor plan, that backfiring was very great a risk. But he'd come too far, and a point had to be made. Lesson of life, as it were.

Much slower, gentler, he began again. Eyes now narrowed rose and met hers, wide in concern and bafflement. Dark brow creased, restrained force holding him in check. Burrowing visually into her, calloused hands delved softly into her torn trousers, crushed velvet taking on roles of gauze and implement of torture. Settled between her knees, his hands recreated her attentions of the night, the same fluttering, perfectionist movements she'd performed. Slowly, calmly, ever so lightly his fingers played upon her skin. Repetitiously. Ministrations mirroring her own once upon his jagged flesh.

But unlike the night, this time he watched her, a tale of plenty written brilliantly across her young face. And she watched him, ever curious, ever scared.

Hermione's breath caught, seeming to stop, even, and the oddest look played across her face. Body tensed, stilled. Trembled slightly. Mirroring hers, Sirius' fingers found themselves readjusting placement upon soft flesh of hamstring, tips straying in unconscious measure, brushing innocently higher and higher yet in a dance to correct bandaging. Finally material ceased its unravel, and his hands tied off supple ribbon, freeing themselves of her trousers with ever-so-cautious easing. Carefully, slowly he regained his feet, their eyes following each other's. But her body remained frozen, and he leaned over her, hands placed either side her hips, his face drawn closely to her own.

Controlling his now ragged, shallow breaths, Sirius continued to stare. And for a moment he'd forgotten she was Hermione Granger, best friend to Harry and Ron, bookworm teenager he'd known years before. For a moment, all he knew was the set jaw and gentle curve of cheek directly before him, the hint of peppermint from warm breath and supple lips, the magnetism drawing auras into her own, his included. Constricting his air and tensing his body. Careful restraint found his voice. Hitched, weak, strained.

"For the brightest witch of your age," he spoke but above a whisper, tight and focused, "you're sometimes quite clueless."

-o-

Breathe. Just. Bre... eee... eeeathe...

Hermione's brain commanded, but Hermione's body insubordinated. Comprehension was a formidable thing. Lessons learned by hard experience were both effective and long-lasting; extremely well-learned was this one.

Great heavens; if what she did to Sirius last night was anything like –

Eh-hem... well, one could only say that he did have a rather valid point, after all. Because what he was doing to her now... it was torturous. And inhumane. And had to be in violation of seven different peace treaties. In guilt she recalled tending his wound in wee hours of the morn, her own fingers fluttering about tensed muscles and delicate skin. Understood now was just why his muscles were so tense. And it wasn't due to inferior pain tolerance.

There! There – oh dear... She had to bite her lower lip in effort, forestalling uncivilized noises breaking through her lips. Eyes shut tightly a moment, but ever quickly opened again, their closing allowing far too much awareness of Sirius' fingertips grazing tender flesh, hypersensitive and quivering of its own volition. Touches stilled, hands withdrew, eyes... searched. And he stood, placed his hands near her hips, leaned forward, close. Too close.

And staring into pewter framed in raven wisps, Hermione knew things would never – could never, ever – return to innocence.

-o-0-o-

Ghostlike prints tingled upon fingertips, memories of soft, feminine give and goose-fleshed skin responding to lightest pressure, graze, presence. Flexed fingers, slight shake of hand, deep breath out. Nothing relieved phantom awareness in Sirius' body, memories sharp of her beneath his touch.

He should be drug out in the street and Avada Kedavra'd after that. If guilt had lain there before upon him for barely recalled taunts and teases and inappropriate displays of sexual hunger, then what he'd done several hours ago deserved little better than quick execution. Intent on communicating, on making her understand... his conscience had been right, and all had backfired. All desire and frustration had returned to him, tenfold. And more so, the responsibility. Only Regulus' timely return had broken the spell after his little demonstration. Yet he had crossed a line – forced them to cross that line – and no going back was there to be had.

And they both knew it.

No excuses of ignorance could anymore be made; each now quite cognizant of the other, each fully sighted in baser attractions. Each only too aware...

Refusing to glance at the preoccupation of his thoughts, Sirius concentrated on the other occupants in familiar drawing room ambience. Young MacGregor stood window-side, hands clasped behind, staring unseeingly through sheer whites and mullioned glass. Straight, formal, still.

Regulus sat the settee across the room from Sirius, wand trained inconspicuously upon their former captive. Reg didn't trust the wizard; neither did Sirius. Easing posture minutely, his own wand cleared his knee-propped left foot, shot ready should need arise. Center seating found Zelda, uncharacteristically nervous, worried eyes following Raj MacGregor's subtle, almost nonexistent shifts of weight. Frail and lean, an old Scot introduced as Jacob MacGregor – Raj's grandfather – reclined beside her, comforting hand nestling her own. Blue and Hermione found floor-space near the fire, damp chill in the air forcing such desired accommodations.

Empty tick...tick...tick... counted uneasy seconds, minutes of otherwise cottage silence. Even crackles and spits of flame remained muted against the echoes of time. All eyes trained upon stately figure, anticipation running rampant. Sirius had been against sharing any information when they'd arrived more than an hour past, despite Zelda's encouragement. But Hermione had seen no reason to keep her suspicions of Voldemort's plotting, most of which Blue had already told his grandmother and Jacob. And yet now, now they sat waiting, some expectancy upon young MacGregor for what purpose Sirius knew not. Only Jacob seemed to realize there was reason to consider Raj's response as important, and the sense wafted through their party in contagious form.

So they waited.

"A birthright ages honored...." Raj's low voice lay even, emotionless. Still he stared out into gray overcast. "A lineage ages hidden."

What the sodding hell does he mean by that? Sirius quipped, but held silent. Raj was going on like some blasted minion of Dumbledore's: secretive, evasive, riddling. But like others, he waited on edge, vainly awaiting continuance. Despite judgment, he was curious. Raj, however, had little intention to satisfy.

"Is all right, Raj," Jacob finally said, resigned acceptance in his aged voice. "Tell 'em. Might'n't be our only chance, ye ken. We've nae time tae be wastin' – an' if the lad here knows his plans..." Trailed off, unspoken phrases understood. Solemn blanket, heavy and worn, fell upon the room. Raj's eyes flicked, not to his grandfather, but to Regulus. The "lad."

"So he is after it." Confirming statement rather than inquiry, but Regulus perceptively nodded regardless. Returned sharp nod, returned facing glass. Quiet again, gathering of thoughts.

"Imperative secrecy, and yet now..." Raj left off again, seeming reluctant to speak further. Quarter view of his face offered enough to discern conflicting emotions warring within. Suddenly Sirius felt poorly for him. Inexplicable, yes, but a sense overcame him that MacGregor held a responsibility greater than any were prepared for, a decision battling between betrayal of an oath, and failure of its need.

How very right he was.

"San Graal. The Sacred." Eyes narrowed in thought, consternation. "Over the centuries it was lost to history, but never was it lost to those charged with its custodianship. A charge passed down in blood, to protect the Chalice of Life Everlasting. Birthright bestowed upon the descendants of the only one worthy to succeed in the Quest, to locate the Sangreal, to be revealed its divine truths." He paused, looking down in remembrance, voice softening.

"A lineage thought never to have existed. For though renown by his purity, his chastity, he was rewarded by God not only the Ecstasy of the Sangreal's revelations – as is well known by history – but also of a night with his one true love, Evangeline, who had followed the men of the Quest as a servant. He had denied himself his whole life in the name of God, and his sacrifice was not forgotten. The morning after, he ascended. Left behind: his bloodline, successful only in its complete secrecy. Sworn to protect the Sangreal, as he had sworn. As had his descendants ... as had sworn their sons ... as had sworn the son of Jacob... as had sworn the son of Argus..." His voice caught, now but a pained whisper. "As had sworn I...."

"Your... your ancestor." Hermione's voice cracked, amazement laced in incredulous awe. "Your ancestor was Galahad..."

Turning, he looked up then, eyes seeking hers. Sirius felt ill. They had stepped into something larger than ever imagined.

"Yes. Bastard son of Sir Lancelot du Luc and Elaine of Corbenic. Knight of Service of Arthur, King of Britain, and acquaintance of Merlin. His journals kept the knowledge alive, offered guidance. And now the Sacred has fallen in turn to my protection, yet Voldemort is its greatest threat ever... and one I've not the power to fight."

"So, you just need to keep Voldemort's hands off it," Sirius interjected, logic pure and simple for the brave at heart.

"Yes, it would appear that way," Raj responded, slight grit to his speech. Level stare to Black conveyed his rare annoyance. "But Voldemort's reach is greater than any concealment I might could offer. Not when the Sangreal is so powerful – it can only be hidden by such means for a short time." The despair in his voice told Sirius all anger was not directed at him, but at Raj himself, at his situation.

"But surely you've hidden it well." Blue this time. "He's not found it, yet, has he?"

"No, not quite yet," Regulus broke in. "But he's close. That much I've learned. He's someone on the inside of the Ministry, though I've not yet learned their identity."

"Oh!" Hermione squeaked. All eyes to her. "Oh Merlin!" She turned to Raj. "Chamberlain! Lord Chamberlain, your boss! Raj, he's the one Voldemort's sent to find the Grail." She pulled out the now-creased photograph from the Gala, and explained George's overheard knowledge and their own surmisings. Once finished, chatter erupted. But it was Raj's pale face that drew attention back to one focus.

"He's closer than I'd believed," he said, a certain level of edge creeping into his words. "I'd marked him as the culprit – was sure of it – but had no proof. Bollocks!" Uncharacteristically he cursed, smashing a fist into the plaster wall. "If he'd spotted McCaine by the night of the Gala... then he knows McCaine's one of them."

"One of who?" came several requests.

"One of St. Cyr's people. A Wizarding order branched off centuries ago from the Muggle Knights Templar. They're searching for the Sangreal, as well. To protect it, of course, but too many differences lie within the group, and it could never be safe there. However, they've knowledge that would help Voldemort, even though they may not realize it. And if Chamberlain has marked McCaine... then McCaine is in dire straits. And the Sangreal is nearly exposed." Raj's aggitated state grew into blatant fear. "I've got to retrieve it – I'm the only one who knows its location – and move it to its one true refuge before he determines its position. But timing is crucial... the last piece of the puzzle no one has ever uncovered..." More to himself his mutterings now fell, furrowed brow in thought.

"Surely it isn't that easy to find," Hermione reasoned aloud. "You've hidden it somewhere safe, right? Somewhere obscure and out of the way, somewhere that no one would ever cross its path, like a cave or underground vault or –"

"– like," Raj cut off, piercing look to his Auntie. "The Department of Muggle Artifacts."