Chapter 28: Besotted Fools

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

Chapter 28: Besotted Fools

Vague grittiness shifted beneath an arm burdened with her resting head, scent of dry heat tickling her nose. Hermione's eyes parted but slits, blurry recognition of time and place settling her back to half-awareness. Desert sands were safe, she knew. At least for the moment, and soft cobalt-gray suggested the freedom of another hour's sleep.

Drifting hazily, other notions formed as semi-consciousness absorbed facts of her surrounding state. Right knee – bottom of the two – curled as a balance to prevent her pitching forward into the lightly-packed grains. Weight upon her lower ribs eased warmth through light cotton, deep sense of comfort and security drifting through her body. Gentle ministrations lightly jostled the galabia across her midriff, fluttering caresses soothing in their subtle repetition.

Left arm heavy with imposing sleep slowly drew up to her side in search. Fingertips gravitated to the draped Limb of Protection, and warm palm trailed down the cool flesh, soft hair just coarse enough to reinforce its beautiful masculinity. Forearm... wrist... delicate bones of a large hand. Finding refuge, her fingers drifted between the long, slender ones hovering above her stomach, sliding deep in order to curl into the rough palm. Intertwined, life felt whole, natural, complete.

Mind at ease, sleep was welcomed in such a relaxed state... drifting... floating... enveloped warmly in –

Oh, God.

Sirius.

Eyes flew open in sudden and complete wakefulness. Hermione stilled perfectly in anxious, abrupt awareness. Pulse raced. Senses heightened. Eyes darted about, taking in nothing of the shifting hues of scenery before her. Sunrise in the desert... its beauty lost on a soul aware only of the body pressed against her backside, the arm lazily trapping her against him. Sirius' arm.

Sirius' body.

-o-

He knew the moment she'd fully awakened.

Noticed was the change in her breathing – the stilted, nervous, shallow breaths. Her attempts to remain still foiled by abrupt tension in her muscles, her body length so well molded to his. Shudders of tightened, coiled fibers of flesh belied her act of slumber.

He'd been perfectly awake for nearly an hour, watching her sleep from behind, the slight rise and fall of even, steady, unworried breaths. Even in first coherency, she'd not been guarded. And now Sirius missed the relaxed state she'd been in, half asleep. Freedom of her hazy comprehension had allowed her to be utterly female, falling on simple, straightforward instinct and feelings, not logic or rules or propriety. She was soft, responsive. Yielding. He'd almost absentmindedly been caressing her stomach with his thumb, fingers splayed across her midriff. Beneath his palm the thin cotton of her galabia left little question to her flesh, and despite the rapid warming of the sunrise, he'd felt the bumps of gooseflesh at his touch.

But she'd lost all drowsiness, had grown fully awake. Now she would tense up, become the Hermione he knew – unbendable, rigid, stoic, stressed, repressive. Disappointment flitted across him, an odd sense of loss filling the spot where only moments before wry amusement and peace had been. He supposed it had only been a matter of time, really. Regardless of now or later or some other place in time, point was she was now wholly cognizant. And stressed.

Giving her an escape from embarrassment, Sirius pulled his arm back to him, a loud yawn escaping in distorted tones, accompanied by the stretch and contortion of morning muscles. Playing up the waking ritual, he feigned grogginess with a certain ease of practice. She'd be mortified if caught having shown such an intimate side; contrary to belief, Sirius was far too much a gentleman to allow her that suffering. She was, after all, still a friend.

Drawn out groan of testing his limbs and finding them stiff and sore seemed to secure the ruse. Hermione turned over onto her back, casting a quick glance his direction to ensure he really was unaware of moments before. Visibly she relaxed in relief, and Sirius knew he'd made the right call. Smiling to himself that she was once more at ease, he ran his hands about his face, wiping faux sleep from his features.

"Mornin', m'love," he quipped. Briefest of blushes swept across her tanned cheeks. Opting for lightheartedness, Sirius offered his boyish, innocent grin. Something – perhaps – not used since the age of fifteen. But she smiled back, a bit shy almost, and for that it was worth it.

Looking around in interest, he went the route of neutrality. "Was afraid I'd sleep too late, but looks like the sun's just risen." He turned back to her still silent form, his smile now slightly flirtatious and all Sirius Black. "Bet you've been up for ages, watching me sleep. Mouth gaping and drool and all, eh?" He chuckled, noting a new blush had spread, but at least she smiled.

"Just don't tell anyone, all right?" he requested, keeping the mood playful. "Wouldn't want to tarnish my pristine reputation." Her replying amused snort was gift enough for his self-deprecation. She really was quite lovely when she let herself simply be herself.

Wandering off amongst the rocks for morning ablutions, rucksack of water and clean denim in hand, Sirius considered their plans and pressing needs. Hermione and he needed to locate Harry and Ron, the two obviously safe for the moment, but for how long that remained so still a mystery. They also had to prepare for whatever knowledge or plan MacGregor came back with, he and Regulus having remained behind in Cairo to search out Sarras.

Thomas Winston – antiquities dealer of renown interest – did indeed know the tale of Sarras, the Seventh Month, the Sangreal... and the heretofore unknown bloodline. Revelations and proofs later, and MacGregor had one more ally – associated with Sir McCaine directly, and St. Cyr's group indirectly. Thomas had been researching on behalf of McCaine, had learned through Merlin's letters of the secret line of Galahad and Evangeline. But McCaine had disappeared in the search for the Grail's promised refuge, his hopes that the Grail was safely hidden away there fading with each step of gained ground. Left to worry and desperately research was Thomas, a learned man of ingenuity and dubious talents.

While the three continued to plow on to find the concealed location in time – and in secrecy – he and Hermione needed to return to London and break the riddle of Harry's letter. They had to locate the boys, and soon. Whatever revelation came from the Grail on the eleventh would need to be put into place straight away. And it had to do with Harry. It always did.

Washing up with canteen and cloth, Sirius allowed the rare heated breeze of the desert morn to caress his bare body. Closing his eyes in utter pleasure, he stood straight, turning his face to the rising sun, tilted back his head and absorbed the blissful warmth as though it were the blessings of all the gods. Black mane drenched, droplets fell about his shoulders and back, lying heavily upon a sore neck. It was good to be alive, to feel the freedom and peace of life without incessant hiding.

Several moments passed in simple absolution, existing to revel in nature, in being. Then Sirius stretched languidly and fully, realizing in the back of his mind that they had many miles to go before he could truly rest. And many duties to perform, not the least of which was to locate his godson. If instincts were trusted, such answers may only lie with the other Evans. And dear was his desire to find another way. Any other way.

-o-0-o-

It was Monday, the eleventh. Of September. Hermione stared into space, eyes lacking focus against the fire of Grimmauld kitchen hearth. Tea cup grew cool in disuse, her hands lightly grasping the ceramic by habit only. By this evening all their hopes would either lie in waste or align in success; the Grail must be returned on the first day of Tishri. Had Raj and Regulus located the ancient structure? Had they been caught by St. Cyr's group – who, though seemingly allies, harbored thieves and possibly traitors?

Though these thoughts intermittently crossed her mind, dominancy lay elsewhere, other visions of memory and self-creation far more disturbing than even their fates. Shifting uneasily, Hermione's brows knit in consternation, teeth bit lower lip. Three days had passed, but recollection was keen in touch and sight. Three days of anguish, self-torture. Three days of constant distraction. Three days of building inner tension.

Three days of recalling Sirius' possessive, protective touch in slumber.

Three days of replaying the sight of him in the desert morning, resplendent in bare flesh.

Gods, he was beautiful. She'd not meant to come upon him unawares, had not meant to intrude his privacy. She'd not known he was going to bathe – just a quick change of clothing, and she'd needed something stored in his rucksack. But the object's identity had fled all comprehension at the sight once she'd topped the small hill and peered over the rocks.

He'd stood perfectly still, head back, face bared to the lighting sky. Three-quarters view of his backside, yet the stark beauty his form had presented transfixed her and embarrassed her. She should have looked away, left him to his personal matters. But torn away she could not have been; no strength had resided within Hermione Granger to turn from the image that had presented itself to her. Oh, she'd seen men in many stages of undress, had even in error caught sight of more than she'd wanted once or twice. The twins at the Weasley home – rare occasions they'd spent the night – had a knack for leaving the shower early in the wee hours without their towel. But this....

Sirius was lean, tall, his back marked in scars she'd recalled all too well. Slender muscles moved in defined structure, even from a distance, from the subtle shifts of weight or balance as he'd basked in the sun's new rays. Raven tendrils she'd longed to run fingers through to untangle. Glistening drops catching sunlight in sharp relief, more so than had florescent lighting in her dormitory bath. Poise of grace and relaxation, coupled with readiness of a warrior. No obvious tan line marred the picture, and vaguely she had wondered how he had come to darken taut buttocks, hips of angular leanness yet saved from a sense of boniness by lines of trim muscle.

He was no David, but curiously Hermione realized she'd not want him to be. He was real; he was... tempting.

And three days later, she could not erase the vision from her mind. Nor, it seemed, could she banish it away for more than mere minutes. Dreams now were plagued with combinations of the scene and his innocently seductive touch of that same morning. She was going mad, truly, but she could find no exit from the driving turmoil Sirius Black had led her into. Though Regulus was attractive and ever the enigma, Hermione could only wonder at how she had ever thought he – or anyone else – could ever bring her to such a frenzy of emotions. Could ever hold hostage any semblance of her peace.

Rustling above stairs pulled her slightly to the present. Enough that she noticed cold tea and fading fire. Rising, she put the kettle back on the stove and levitated more wood the grate, fanning licking flames into animation.

Sirius was upstairs, showering the filth of manual travel off himself. They'd only arrived this morning, the Underground of secret communiqués and aliases having been faster than their previous route to Cairo with Raj and Regulus. Hermione had showered quickly, choosing to relocate to the safety of the kitchen while Sirius took his time, relishing the civility of home. That was perfectly fine by her; distance was best, considering. Three days of intimate travel with only Sirius most of the way, and Hermione was unsure she could prevent herself from whole and complete humiliation. Immediate reactions of instinct were pulling on her with ever-increasing strength and frequency, and Hermione was scared.

Busying herself with the tidying of the room and setting new tea makings to brew, Hermione fought traitorous mental state and pointedly reviewed their plan instead. Though dodgy at best, it was all the option they'd had left to them. Finding Harry and Ron required learning with whom Lily Evans had spent her summer holidays. Unfortunately, only one person remained alive who might know.

Sirius had explained his initial plan to Hermione on their travel home, commiserating a lack of ideas for initially gaining invitation into her home. He had seemed extremely reluctant to go the route of Petunia Evans Dursley, but admitted he knew of no other source. That was when Hermione had recalled David's revelation, and shared that Petunia's son, Dudley, worked as a security guard at the venue the Hobgoblins had last played. And didn't he know that she'd overheard him telling a coworker in the toilet that he still lived with his mum and dad?

Hearing this, Sirius had asked for a description – he could always get information from Dudley by a bit of bribery, now that he knew where to find him. But once Hermione had given the statistics of Harry's cousin, Sirius had gone quite still, then had barked in laughter. It seemed he was the same bloke overly attentive to Sirius during their time in the Green Room. Dudley had even – with star-struck enthusiasm – invited Sirius, nee Stubby – to tea. Well, it seemed... it was time for Stubby Boardman to take up the gent's offer.

An owl was sent to Blue from Calais, briefest of descriptions outlining the rushed plan. By now he would have had time to make contact with Dudley, relaying that Stubby Boardman was considering personal security for their as-of-yet-unannounced world tour, and would he – Big D Dursley – still be of a mind for his offer of tea to discuss opportunities?

They'd not yet heard from Blue, but the plan had seemed solid. Yet Hermione could not shake the feeling there was something Sirius was not telling her. Something important that would affect their success. Every request for further information, however, led only to reassurances that never quite reached his slate eyes. And then...

And then she'd look into those eyes and find her own unbidden desire clouding her judgment, stating that perhaps wariness was born of not logic, but defense against his easy sway over her.

Voices broke her musings, and setting down a second cup for Sirius, Hermione looked to the door in question. Moments later the elder Black entered, ever-lengthening hair damp and clingy, freshly shaven and donned in his fall-back of denims, bike boots and un-tucked crimson Oxford. Thankfully he did not witness the crimson of her own, the heavy coloring spreading from neck to cheeks to ears. His attention – and face – was turned behind him, and a second later Blue stepped through the kitchen door, amusement lifting his words.

"Circe hang it, Sirius," he chuckled. "The bloke would've gladly buggered you if you'd but asked."

"Now that you mention it, yeah... how could I have forgotten?" Sirius snorted in bemused contempt. "Way too eager to please, and for his own advancement, I'd wager. Reminds me now of a long-ago friend, the little rat." Contempt fell off that last, changing Hermione's blush from embarrassment of sensuality to one of guilty memory. If only she'd let Harry kill Pettigrew in rat form when he'd had the chance third year...

"All right, Hermione?" Blue seated himself at the scrubbed table, flashing a friendly smile in greeting. Back warming to the fire, he took up the proffered cup Sirius had retrieved from the cupboard behind her.

"Er, yeah," she managed, eyes darting to the workspace as she stepped back and around a bit, certain to keep Sirius in her sights. Ever since their first night in the desert alone, the sensations brought forth from his unseen presence behind her left her highly sensitized, troubled even more in mind than ever before.

But Sirius seemed unperturbed, retrieving the heated pot and pouring for them all three. Buffer towel atop the table, he set the kettle within reach and settled, facing his drummer.

"I've – Stubby's – got a tea engagement at Privet Drive tomorrow afternoon, eh?" Sirius smirked, though the humor failed to reach his eyes. "And you did inform him my personal assistant would be accompanying me, yeah?" Hermione barely caught the flicker of his gaze before Blue replied.

"Yeah. Two for tea, so to speak." He grinned. "Squidgey divvy nearly got a stonker when I told him you were askin' after him. Called off to his mum, and don't you know, she was ready to do his bidding. No word of 'please' or 'would you mind' – was my job's worth not to belt him." Blue grimaced a face of loathing.

"That's all right," Sirius assured him. "All we need is an invitation. Once there, I'm not all that invested in Dudley's ambitions. He was a right arse to my godson, mind you; I've no obligation to him but to use him to our own means." Narrowed eyes and hard planes of expression gave Hermione pause; this Sirius she had not seen before, not even in fifth year. Bitterness had dwelled, and hatred for certain orders and Order members, but never this newly cultivated scorn. Suddenly the desire to leave was great.

"Er... I'd best get to the office. They'll be suspicious if I don't show after a week off. And I'm not sure if Bailey's not returned. If I leave now, I'll catch a half day, possibly learn if Chamberlain's still in the area." Not giving time for more than acknowledgement from the men, Hermione set untouched tea in the sink and darted out the room.

-o-

A week's worth of interoffice memorandums and outside owls littered her desk, forcing Hermione's mind clear of libido-induced obsessions. It was hours before backlogged work was completed and the great pile was gone, each memo either read and acted upon, filed, forwarded or forgotten. Bailey'd not returned yet, and the official notice via memo was that his vacation had to be extended due to weather conditions in the Tundra.

Right.

No sign of Chamberlain, either, though, and that worried her. The closest she'd come to any knowledge of him was a package sent to her from his daughter Chelsea, a hapless pawn in her father's betraying game. The girl had sent from school an owl-order catalogue of dresses and formal robes, along with a note of pleading that the elder please, please help her choose an outfit for the Witches' Thanksgiving Ball a week from that Friday, on the twenty-second. The girl had finally been able to elicit an invite from her father, on the grounds her history paper had done extremely well (an O, and that thanks to Hermione's greatly appreciated assistance).

The toast of the Western world of wizarding ministries would be in attendance, and this time she simply had to look her best. Her father had assured her Raj would be attending as his assistant, that he'd be returned from relations in India by then, and she wanted to secure MacGregor's interest in time for him to formally ask her to the Samhein Ball next month. Sigh escaping, Hermione read pitifully on, wondering when the girl would give up her persistent pursuit of the young man.

When you cease your own besotted desires for a man above your league, her conscience chastised.

Shut it! she snapped back. Honestly. There was no need to be rude. Even to oneself.

Deciding a quick look through wouldn't hurt, Hermione flipped the advertisement open, taking in the detailed photographs of new designs and fashionable robes, the types for those who had not quite the time or means for personal modistes. Each style proved too revealing, too old, or too flashy for the young girl. It was a formal event set outside at Stonehenge, location a reverence to the day of Equinox. Air would be crisp by then, and warmth would be a factor, even in formal wear. Dignitaries and the like would attend, and if Chelsea wanted to impress Raj in a classy way, she needed a classy dress. Not that Hermione was a fashion guru, by any means, but she knew from experience the horrors one could do a first impression – or fiftieth, even – by a seriously wrong choice in attire. Regulus had told her whilst traipsing the pyramid his first impression of her... there at the Muggle café after the concert. It hadn't been very flattering.

Jotting suggestions on a reply, it was several moments before Hermione sensed eyes on her. Her own flitting up, an image of dread filled her doorway.

"Rather late in the office, Miss Granger. Anything I can assist you with?" Lord Chamberlain looked every bit the dapper dog's body of Death Eaters. Once she'd simply found the man a little too straight-laced, even for herself. But now... now she saw him in the light of knowledge, and in the shadows of the after-hours Ministry it was an unsettling sight. Hermione played for calm, forcing a naturalness to her voice not felt whatsoever.

"Er, no, sir. Was just catching up on some post. Actually, was looking up a few fashion items for your daughter," she added, directing a casualness to her words. Lighthearted smile bent the stiffness of tone, and while she attempted to keep a general subject line, Hermione found herself struggling to keep her seat. Part of her longed to flee. A very strong part of her.

"Chelsea has an unhealthy attachment to socializing beyond her years," he commented dryly. At Hermione's raised brow of nonplus, he quickly amended, though still hinting at a boredom she'd missed before. "Her obsession with formals and soirées; takes after her grandmother." He wasn't quite the caring, doting father she'd originally thought. He'd been using his daughter to get information, allowing her to attend parties as long as he could interrogate her over anything she'd heard.

Hermione barely quelled the indignant scowl rising. Wouldn't do to piss him off. Or to let on she knew what he was about. It was best for everyone, really, that Hermione keep her head. Literally.

"She's young, is all," she offered up instead, attempting to keep matters neutral. As annoying as Chelsea could be at times, Hermione found herself needing to defend the girl. From her own father.

"It's normal for girls her age. She'll grow out of it in time." Proud she was that this time her voice didn't waver a bit. Not to her ears, anyway.

Chamberlain seemed to accept this and was about to comment further when another figure paused just outside her door. Hermione let go a breath in relief, recognizing the Secretary of Finance – Chamberlain's boss. So that's why he'd been here. Still, legitimate reason or not, Hermione Granger found herself uneasy with Chamberlain's presence, and decided it was time to leave while his attentions were elsewhere.

While the men spoke in the corridor, Hermione hastily finished up, locked up, and slipped out as unobtrusively as possible. She didn't slow her step until she'd reached the Floos. Abruptly deciding not to Floo as usual to the Chinese Chemist, Hermione turned to take the Visitor's Entrance. Just as she stepped in the box, a voice called from behind. She turned, shaken.

"Might want to do a Fragrance Charm whilst you're in there," the night security guard suggested at her turn. Hermione let go her caught breath.

Middle age, face lined with fatigue, his smile was cordial enough. From the short distance, Eddie could be made out on his badge, a pale likeness beneath his moniker proving if you looked like your identification photos, you were too ill to work. "'s not been the same since that mangy black mutt took a ride months back. Just wanted you to know," he followed up, a grin and nod at Hermione's reply of, "Thank you, I will."

Mangy black mutt?

-o-0-o-

Shauna never asked; Hermione never volunteered. Borrowing the blonde's vintage Jaguar was an unspoken gift of penance from the theatre major. Not once was questioned Hermione's purpose; only the keys were handed over, commenting on the one or two idiosyncrasies her beloved forest green baby had.

"Must say you look the role." Sirius' gaze raked over her fashionable charcoal trousers, black flats and silk ivory blouse. Hermione felt a bit odd in such attire, seated behind the wheel of the sports car, chauffeuring Stubby Boardman to his appointment of tea. Cut glance to her left took in his standard choice, a collarless navy knit pullover replacing trademark button-down. Sad to admit, he looked good.

Like she needed reminding.

"As do you," she managed, eyes returning to traffic avoidance. Due to his perfectly mussed hair and eight o'clock shadow trimmed into full goatee style, she really did not need to look. It was enough enduring slight musk mixed with faint shampoo and the simple essence of Sirius himself. She need not see to be keenly aware his presence.

"Hermione," Sirius began carefully. The sudden alteration of mood immediately sunk a stone in her belly. Nothing good ever came from so solemn a tone.

"Who is it who has been following you? I don't mean Chamberlain last night," he clarified quickly, referring to her story shared once she'd returned to Grimmauld near midnight. "Regulus told me about the guy you spotted in the pyramid. The bloke who took a shot at you." Hermione paled in remembrance, falling to automatic motoring. Preference lay in not discussing it at all, though Black was more than likely not willing to allow her preferences. He had too much to control, too many variables he needed marked and filed.

When she answered only with a casual shrug, one missing clause was added. "Reg also told me you'd gone on mumbling shortly thereafter. Something to the effect that 'he' wouldn't leave you alone... that he was dead, and you'd seen him die." Pause for reaction, though only the drain of blood from her face indicated she'd heard.

Sirius reached over to guide the steering wheel, encouraging her wordlessly to pull over into an empty car park. She obliged.

"Lucius Malfoy." Lips finally parted in speech. "I think I've been seeing Lucius Malfoy, that it was him that day in the pyramid, the man who threw a curse just past my head." Sightless eyes trained before her, words spoken as monotone fact. "It was Lucius Malfoy Ginny had seen the night they found Harry's ring at the Burrow. David'd spotted him following me on the street. But..."

Here she faltered, yet neither interruption nor encouragement yielded. Deep breaths...

"But I'd seen him die. That night. At the Ministry.

"We were all there – Ron, Harry, Ginny, Neville... Some rubbish charge had been brought up on Harry, so we'd been there for character witnesses, you know. Down below the Department of Mysteries, again. Was a trap, turned out. And as it went, Malfoy... Malfoy, he..." Swallow. Slow breath. "Malfoy caught hold of me in the brouhaha, and like he always was, took a nasty turn about it. Wasn't just going to kill me, but intended to toy with me first." Shivers convulsed her involuntarily, but she kept on, determined to get it all said.

"He'd held me from behind, wand to my neck. True to form, he went on and on in that arrogant manner of his, haughty about Mu – Mudbloods, and the only use for them being target practice. But he'd thought I had one more use, at least before dying." Woodenly the words came, describing the groping and explicit references he'd intended. And all this in the middle of the fight, the very room Voldemort himself was tearing apart.

"He was using me for a shield, as well. I don't know if he planned to rape me or not, but he didn't get far. Too busy fondling me, he hadn't done his job properly – watching Voldemort's back – and had allowed Ginny a clear shot. She'd caught him – Voldemort – with a Cutting Curse, a nasty gash across his neck. Voldemort didn't take kindly to Malfoy's carelessness, and witnessed well by all, denounced him a fool for worrying over me, and coldly cast the Killing Curse. Malfoy pulled me down with him when he died, trapping me by his weight and unseeing eyes. By then Voldemort had other problems, so I escaped. Barely."

Finally she looked down, realizing for the first time her hands, their death grip upon the black leatherette exemplifying her inner tension. Pale, bloodless, the contrast was riveting when a warm, calloused, brilliantly living hand wrapped about one, soothing with touch and presence. Hermione looked over to see Sirius but centimeters away, sympathetic smile melting the frigidity encasing her.

Carefully, she smiled back.

-o-

Engine shut off, Sirius took a moment to contemplate the home before them. This modern look-alike was where his godson Harry had been forced to endure sixteen years of his life. It had not been a home of love, of smiles. It had been instead a place of fear, suspicion, and age-old bitterness.

"Ready?" the beautiful witch beside him inquired. Her fears exposed, she'd calmed, collected herself, and had recovered smoothly. Just like he knew she would. That was Hermione. That's who she was.

"Yeah. Let's get this over with," he replied with a sigh, untangling himself from the safety belt and disengaging from the car.

A sense of unease swept over him as they reached the door. Casting a sidelong toward his companion, Sirius wondered at her possible reaction when and if she realized he'd not told her quite everything about what this endeavor might entail. True, that last bit of knowledge was perhaps wholly useless, but oughtn't he have prepared her, just in case?

Well, too late now, he figured. Odds were slim at best it would never come into play; would have been pointless to add yet another concern to her roster.

Flashback of concert oddities came crashing round at the answer of the door. The great blond bloke with sleeve tattoos and perpetual scowl filled the doorway of Four Privet Drive. Posh off-the-rack suit ill fit the boy before him, both in measurements and style. But it was clear Dudley had taken pains to present himself professionally for the occasion, and Sirius made allowance that he'd grown up and was not necessarily the same bully who'd terrorized Harry for most his life.

"You came!" Dudley could not control his excitement, it seemed, and Sirius felt a pang of shame for his thoughts. Really, he was using the kid, but perhaps he could – when all things settled and the world was safe once more – secure him a decent post. After all, he did have friends in the music industry. Even the Muggle one.

Dudley's huge smile dissipated slightly upon turning to Hermione, brows furrowing in concentration. "Don't I know you?" he asked slowly, processing her appearance.

"Perhaps," Sirius answered for her, drawing the boy's attention back. "She's my personal assistant. She's all the details for touring and such."

Visibly relaxing, Dudley motioned their entrance, stepping aside and closing the door behind. Fanatically clean, Sirius took in the home with mixed feelings whilst led to the sitting room. Both settled on the couch, Sirius and Hermione listened in rapt attention to tales of heroic proportions. Just getting to the animated rendition of preventing mass fanatic hysteria from de-clothing the members of rock sensations Snookered, Dudley broke off mid-pant to announce their tea's arrival.

Gentlemen stood at the entrance of a lady, and Sirius recalled proper breeding to do so now, watching with curious eye Mrs. Dursley's inclusion, her shining tea service eloquently dotted with biscuits and miniature cakes. Matronly attire hung oddly on a too-thin frame, angular features far from softened by the tight chignon of wispy blonde hair. All smiles and chirp, she settled the service on the low table before them, arranging items and chatting on about how good it was to meet a client of Dudley's, and admitting her curiosity for the business that she'd never quite understood.

Propriety would have him reseat himself whilst she served, but Sirius did not do so, instead silently lending a hand when she drew the pot up to pour.

"Oh, thank you," she gushed, finishing the filling of all three cups. Pot down, she looked up, one fragile piece in hand, prepared to offer it to her female guest.

She froze. Eyes held on Sirius, and he knew without doubt the hollow meaning of statistics. She straightened slowly, a coolness to her voice masking all else, accusing, correlating narrowed eyes.

"Sirius. "

Hard, dry swallow. Tight throat.

"Hello, Petunia. Good to see you again."