Chapter 29: Ghostly Affaires

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Chapter 29: Ghostly Affaires

Again? Sirius felt it good to see Petunia Evans Dursley again.

Confused to say the least, Hermione sought any indication that perhaps she'd misheard the brief exchange before her. But a look to Dudley confirmed him just as suddenly off kilter as she. Harry's elder cousin was sitting quite still, struck silent with an odd expression as he stared at his mum. From all Harry had told Hermione over the years, the cold, accusing expression was not exactly what one would expect from Mrs. Dursley. She had been callous toward Harry, of course, and anyone she knew to be 'his kind,' but under no method had either Sirius or herself even suggested they were magic folk.

But wait. She'd referred to him as Sirius; he'd confirmed their previous acquaintance, as well. What was going on? When had Sirius Black ever met Petunia Dursley? Worlds apart they were, and between Azkaban, hiding, the Veil, and Stubby... Well, whenever it was, it obviously had not been a pleasant encounter for her. Face contorted with something akin to loathing, Harry's stoic aunt glared mutely at Sirius, expressing with eyes what lips refused to speak.

Sirius, on the other hand, revealed – what was that? Contriteness? On Black? Yes; yes, it was. Sirius Black actually appeared abashed at the glower aimed upon him. Very curious it was, indeed. But more so were words of sincere apology trailing from his lips.

"Look, Petunia, I'm really sorry about –"

"Mum! What's he talking 'bout?" Dudley interrupted, gaze traveling incredulously between his mother and his idol. "How you know Stubby, here, eh?"

But Petunia wasn't listening to her son; perhaps for the first time in his life she ignored him completely, otherwise intent upon someone else. And that someone else was a wizard.

But did she know that? Hermione wondered. Surely not; she'd never have let them in the house, much less have been prepared to hob-nob to his ego –

"Mum? Mum!" Apparently unused to total exclusion, Dudley's protests swelled in volume and intensity. His beady eyes grew large with shock and dismay at the steady attention Sirius had garnered. "How you know a big rock 'n roll star like Stubby, Mum? Why'n't you tell me, eh? Could've got me a right nice gig there with him without me havin' to drudge the Wim for a quid and bit o' nookie, you know. Not nice to not tell me about –"

"Dudley! " his mother broke in, stern in tone yet visual never breaking from Sirius, though the latter had stood up proper, as had she. Lower decibels, she added, "Go mind the kettle."

New developments occurred all the time; Dudley Dursley, however, must never have believed it true of home life. Hermione could see incredulity haggle his face from annoyed to comical to confusion and beyond. The young witch found no speech herself, this spectacle before more surreal than even Sirius' return.

Gaping mouth worked frantically, seeking purchase on commentary that would return his mother back to the spoiling, malleable female of all his days. Such words failed him; only repeats of sloshed, "Mum! Mummy!" and, "What's goin' on?" emitted from his fish-puckered mouth.

"Just do as I say!" Petunia Dursley snapped, a quick turn to her beloved son.

Everything Harry had ever told Hermione about his aunt disappeared in that one sentence. Played up as all mollycoddling, this bite to her only son indicated a whole other realm... one in which Petunia Dursley held some past acquaintance with Sirius Black. And that, if for no other reason, propelled Dudley into a stumble across the floor, casting futile glances back to the woman he obviously did not recognize.

But Petunia noticed none of her precious' alarm. Fixed upon Black, her demeanor bordered on hostility laced with... embarrassment? Closer inspection of pale pallor growing blotchy revealed trembling of jaw, and not by anger was this caused, Hermione was certain.

"Petunia," Sirius tried again, and Hermione could see a rare earnest expression on his beautiful face. "I really am sorry. Things went –"

"Don't. " Grit was the single interjection. Dismissive. Another few moments of accusing stare, then she turned. But not to walk out, as was suggested by her disposition. No; arms folded defensively across her lean chest, Petunia strode across the room to the picture window, staring. "Don't apologize. It was long ago. Meant nothing."

Only a heavy, sad sigh escaped Sirius beside her. Finally he seemed to recall Hermione and turned with an odd look, one expressing repentance, a sorrow for something of his doing. He began once more, this time obvious in that within lay explanation for both women; one an apology, one a tale.

"Regardless your assurances, Petunia, I feel I owe you an explanation. First of all, I was only sixteen. I know that doesn't," his voice rose in interruptive clarification before returning to its steady, calming timber, "excuse my behavior. But it is one of several attributes that dictated my life at that point."

No movement betrayed Petunia's reaction, and Sirius cast a glance to Hermione, silently willing her to understand. "It was Marlene McKinnon's Christmas holidays party, and not one that entailed a lot of sobriety on my part. But I do recall distinctly Lily bringing you along. And yes, I do remember a bit of heavy snogging beneath the yew tree in the back garden, after a few more beverages of the intoxicating nature."

Initial shock flashing through, the witch allowed widened eyes to stray from this man of many secrets. Even from across the room Hermione witnessed sudden tensing and new coloring to Mrs. Dursley's pale face, her blonde locks tight against the reddening flesh of a long neck. She felt sympathy for the woman, understanding all too well the counterless attack Sirius Black's charm could pose. But the older woman said nothing, and the wizard in confession continued.

"And, if memory serves, you'd had a few swills yourself. Was why you loosened up enough to give Lily's sort a chance. You and I, we got on well, I thought. Even when –"

"When you decided to stand me up," Petunia growled, attention still out her spotless window. "I'd waited in that dreadful London park all night. Hours in the bitter cold. All sorts of riffraff sniffing around. And yet I waited." Catch in her voice. "You never showed." Uncharacteristic and derisive sneer followed, reflection of disgust appearing in the glass.

"Of course, you know that already, don't you? Suppose you were having a grand laugh about it all with your little friends, that Potter boy among them. You'd lied to me that night at the party. Every word was just to have me on for your amusement. I'd dare say my dear sister knew, as well. 'Wouldn't it be just delicious to abandon Petunia in a cold and nasty park on New Year's Eve, waiting like a love-struck fool?' "

Petunia's voice had grown shaky, though by rage or other, lesser known emotion Hermione could not tell. But pieces were collecting in form, and the picture painted was not one the young witch was sure she wished to see. It simply drove all preconceived notions and tidy pigeonholed beliefs into the rubbish bin. Petunia had been heartbroken by a boy – a wizard, even – and it was beginning to look as though that boy wizard was Sirius.

She swallowed. Hard. Then turned to him for reaction. She wasn't disappointed.

"Look, I know I promised to meet you there. I remember that. But things got... complicated." His heavy sigh and her humph blended in the stale air. A film with overlapping dialogue bereft of actual communication. That's what this was, she thought. Chatter without saying anything a'tall.

"Really, Petunia. They did. New Year's Eve... That's the day I –" Sirius cut off abruptly, his whole mien altering to dark, brooding. Voice softened, hollowed. Dulled. "That's when I left. Became disowned, name burned off the family tree like a blight to the tapestry."

Whatever response Petunia Evans Dursley had, Hermione did not notice, nor did she care. Hands found themselves around his lithe frame without conscious consideration, pulling him to her with pressing need to comfort. Honestly, she didn't know what he thought of her actions, either, but once more her concerns lay elsewhere other than others' opinions. Too well understood was bitterness born of his departure from family, but often overlooked was pain of heart, of separation that he rarely admitted... even to himself.

Into the silence of several long heartbeats came Petunia's voice, though not a sound familiar. Attempt obvious at hateful and begrudging, but in its stead came personal pain and inner turmoil.

"Your life doesn't concern me any longer. Nor do your explanations." Single breath. Glare through the window. "What do you want?"

Hermione had pulled back from Sirius, and now sought his eyes for some answer. But to Petunia they were, a certain sadness mourning not the loss of bygone relationship – for really, by no stretch of the imagination could have existed such – but for the loss of defense, the loss of once more condemnation without trial. And it wasn't anger, but bereavement.

"We needed to know –" Hermione began, assuming Sirius' silence to be indefinite. "We were wondering... I know it's a long time back and you'd probably not like to relive it all, but it's extremely important we know what friends would visit your sister over the summer holidays. Most likely from school." Hesitating, she added quietly. "Harry's life depends on it."

Tense, long moments passed. Sure she would not answer, Hermione mentally searched arguments, knowing Petunia knew of Voldemort from Harry's tales. But what words could extinguish sibling rivalry unresolved this many years? Yet without Petunia's assistance... Harry would never be found. Or they would die. He and Ron. And Voldemort would live. Live to bring both worlds to their knees, to –

"That awful boy she met at school." Her voice was tight, but Petunia Evans Dursley spoke nonetheless. "Always talking about boiling things or some such nonsense. Sampson... or something."

Foreboding chill washed down Hermione, invoking nausea of deductive reasoning. She didn't like where her mind was going. It was just too...

"At Marli's party," Sirius interrupted her thoughts, "Everyone had a fancy hat on. Colored in their house's fashion. Do you remember what he was wearing?"

Decent question, but Hermione had a deep feeling an unnecessary one.

"Wasn't at the party that night," came the woman's taut reply. "My sis– Lily said he didn't get on with you lot. You and Potter and your friends." Nervously she worried pearl strands at her long neck, their dulled scrape nicking into subsequent silence.

Felt rather than seen was the stiffening of Sirius beside her. Same conclusion, apparently.

Not a pleasant one, either.

-o-0-o-

Madness. Sheer madness, traipsing about ancient filings on Level Eleven. Acquiring a location, however, was paramount. It wasn't as if Hermione could simply waltz up to MacKenzie Wiltshire of the Wizarding Census and Statistical Archives Department and request the personal home address of a known murderer and Enemy of the Crown. Well, Enemy of the Pointy Hat. Whatever.

Just great. She was mentally arguing with herself not only over logic, but in testy form and flippant sarcasm. With herself. Grand example of just how taut her nerves were.

Similar to the Hall of Prophecy, the archive warehousing was cavernous, dank, dark, dusty. And deserted. Hopefully deserted, she corrected herself, ever-anxious eyes darting about half-Giant high post and plank shelves, peering into depths of blackness just beyond wand light. It was quite late; surely all but Security had left for the evening. Hairs rising on the back of her neck suggested otherwise.

Shaking off building fear, Hermione turned back to task at hand. Ultimately, Hogwarts would have been prime choice for locating his home, but that would require more allowance of information than she was willing to give. Instead, files lay in wooden crates, piled atop each other, just out of reach above.

Levitating was risky, as she wasn't sure what – if anything – was secured. Or, more likely, what was damaged, frail, balanced precariously. Would be all too easy for the charm to backfire and Hermione find herself sprawled upon the cold, biting stone floor, parchment strewn about. But unless levitation was an adept feat of and for herself – and it wasn't – she was going to have to chance it. Conjuring a ladder was not an option due to heavy wards of the lower levels.

Flicking wand light and all toward the tower of crackling scrolls, Hermione left her wary vigilance to visually follow each advancement of crate targeted. Once down, she would still have to search quickly for the identifying file, memorize the information, return everything as originally set, and depart without anyone the wiser. Tall task to be sure.

"Come on... just a wee bit more. Oh, bollocks," she bit out as the crate's bottom corner snagged against something she couldn't quite make out. Three-quarters the box lay beyond the edge, hovering dangerously just above her head. Hermione stepped sideways, continuing her wand movements, directing the edging to reverse, round the obstacle... caught, again.

"Damn you, you effing mock-up of splinters!" Hissed through grit teeth, patience at a loss under strain and nerves, her words were coarse and terse. "Bloody cock-up of pretentious wankers... bodge up bloody simple filing..."

"Tsk, tsk, Granger. Such filthy language." Hermione whirled left in a blink, wand cast out in defense and illumination. "Black find that attractive, does he?"

And all else followed in a blur as hell broke. Spell forgotten, the over-shifted crate gave way to gravity above her... Bright wand glow suddenly fell on white blond locks, caught arrogant curve of a smirk, reflected the silver of cane trim, was absorbed by obsidian frock coat and cloak hood... Commanding call in familiar pitch from further down the aisle, "Cease and desist this instant!"

Malfoy turned and ducked just in time; red stream shot past, straight toward her; wood and parchment dropped from the heavens in great crashes... Knocked to the ground by stray follow-up crates, Hermione lost grip upon her wand. Darkness flashed; return fire flew...

And Hermione screamed.

-o-0-o-

"After midnight," the kitchen clock tattled to those apparent. And Sirius Black was quite apparent. Pewter eyes flicked often to refresh the information, taking little consolation in its progression. The two weary men on either side of his patriarchic seat had little concern for timepieces; hot tea and prospects of scalding showers hijacked what little free mind remained. Majority attention was instead given to the Black heir and each other, both parties sharing their own revelations. That which was learned appeased neither side.

"T'was like waking from a dream. I don't recall actual events or figures, but vague recollections and phrases repeat in my head." Raj MacGregor stared unseeingly into steaming tea, both hands clasping delicate china with desperate need. "When my mind cleared, the Grail was gone."

Sirius shifted uneasily, concern increasing as wretched facial lines. He turned right, eyeing Regulus with care and caution. His brother appeared little better than MacGregor, but his weight was borne differently. Arrogant anger tightened his features, leaving an image more predator than scavenger. Might he, Sirius, have been hasty in assuming his brother was exactly as his prior offenses dictated? So much had been said since their reunion, but only now did it occur to Sirius that Regulus truly might not be all of which he'd once been accused. Perhaps – as Regulus had stated but a week prior – he never had been.

"I did not defy the Dark Lord and death merely to be waylaid his downfall by a damn riddle," Regulus abruptly growled. Eyes brought up from his own cup, they sought MacGregor's, peering intently. "Go on. Tell him the rest. Tell him this grand guidance that blasted cup offered us. You know," he added bitterly, turning to Sirius, "the ancient magical artifact that was to pave the way to our triumph. Risked our fucking necks in order to place it properly on the specified date. Lot of bloody good that did us."

Refraining comment, Sirius turned to MacGregor once more, seeking explanation. "What precisely happened in Sarras?" His companion shook his head with bewilderment.

"It was like I said earlier; Thomas had the accompanying maps, and with his assistance we found the location just in time. I knew it was right when I had stepped through the curtained doorway, the Sacred in hand, and felt all my magical powers dissipate. But I was safe; I didn't need magic. Not there. Not then." Taking a sip of tea, slow swish in his mouth, leisurely swallow, he continued. "What looked an altar was deeper in the tiny structure, and I placed the Grail upon it, stepped back and knelt. Then a glow surrounded me, enveloped me, and next I knew was opening my eyes to see it gone. I do not even know how long I was there."

"At least twenty minutes," Regulus provided, impatience coloring his voice. "After fifteen, I'd tried to follow to see if anything was wrong, but the curtain over the doorway was solid, like a shield. No spell could release it. But that's not the brilliant part, Sirius." Focusing on the Grail guardian, his words nonetheless were directed toward his brother. "Our savior of choice, this goblet of eternal life, only chose to bestow upon Raj the infinite wisdom of yet another damnable riddle. What was it, again?" he asked Raj, but cut off any reply the younger man may have made.

"Ah, yes," his sardonic mood recalled of its own volition. "Learn from the greatest wizard's defeat before the balance of light and dark tips to the night. Right clear that one, I should say." Regulus stood suddenly in disgust, stained robes bristling in the movement, chair feet scraping roughly. With grace of birth, he sauntered about the kitchen, refilling his cup and searching cupboards.

Sirius understood his brother's agitation, and by all means its source. But blatant hostility to the predicament would not help them rectify it, and for once Sirius found himself the calmer, subtler one of the siblings. Such role reversal felt odd.

"Getting in a nark won't remedy the situation, Reg." Calm, collected. At ease. Already Sirius' mind was wrapping about the puzzle, sorting meaning and implications. "We've little time to waste, I'm sure. We've got to get Harry and Ron away, and get a hold on matters before Voldemort catches on. Assuming he hasn't already." Shifting again, his face grew dark, worried. Voice falling between vexation and fear.

Regulus ceased his search immediately, and Raj MacGregor looked up anxiously. "What do you mean?" Regulus carefully queried from behind. "What have you not told us?"

Sighing, Sirius relayed the events of the day: Hermione's lunch leave from work in order to play out the part, gaining entrance to Petunia Evans Dursely's home, visitation of days gone by. Spattered with minor questions by MacGregor and occasional biting remarks from his brother, Sirius concluded his tale with a glance toward the wall clock once more. Unease festered.

"Hermione was determined to slip down into some archives at the Ministry this evening after everyone had left. She's searching for his address. We really have no other source to find him, assuming our deductions are correct. And, after looking over Harry's wording in his letter and Hermione's relating of school stories, I'm afraid they most likely are." Deep, harried breath and fierce rub of his weary face. Hardness entered speculation. "Though how in the bloody hell my godson would voluntarily choose to go with him is beyond all my comprehension."

-o-0-o-

"Your continuing refusal to admit certain defeat is rather fascinating, Mr. Potter. However," the drawl allowed, "entertaining though it may be, it does grow wearisome. Shall you concede? Or might you forfeit a quick end and choose the path of folly, only to fail in the end? Hmm?"

Harry stared defiantly into obsidian depths, daring further comment. Even from across the tiny room, tension built in tangible flavor. Hair on his neck bristled, his back straightened, chin rose. "Haven't you learned by now? I don't chuck it all in fear, nor do I back down, odds in favor or out. I'm a Gryffindor; Dumbledore's man, through and through."

Quirking an eyebrow in haughty air, arms crossed in superiority, Severus Snape lazily straightened his wrist, flicking his wand toward the seated younger man. "Indeed."