Chapter 30: Concerning Dragons

Chapter 30: Concerning Dragons

Dazed by multiple impacts, Hermione stared unfocused at the light show just meters before her, enveloping darkness brightening spells to blinding things. Crimson, sage... flashes sharp and distinct, wavering her mind into hazy rituals. Did I really see Lucius Malfoy leaning 'gainst the shelves, tsking me for my language? And now... now he's trading spells with... with someone familiar further down. How... odd.

Her screams had been cut short with the errant tray's fall upon her shoulders, the abrupt meeting of stone slats with feminine chest more than able to cease all vocalization. Particularly seeing as how all air had abandoned her lungs upon collision. Yet something struck her curious further down inside, more so than mere violent acts. Something about the man who'd invaded her personal safety. Something not quite right.

Moments passed before Hermione realized all was quiet and dark again, save for a small prick of white light floating toward her. Subsequently a vague form took shape as the source neared, revealing soot and charcoal attire, matte black riding boots softly scraping with each confident step. They ceased mere steps before her.

"Good God, Granger." Annoyed drawl slipped into hinted mockery above her, beyond the light. "Alert the entire Ministry next time." Flicks of the wand suggested he was taking in his surroundings. "Horrid filth," he murmured, more to himself as Hermione attempted mental clarity. Something....

"One of your precious little liberated house-elves, I presume," he continued, bored, view moving to the opposite shelving. "Not worth a Sickle's draught once they're freed." He seemed suddenly to notice her position, the raised brow apparent in his voice. "Honestly, Granger. And Potter calls you the smartest witch of our age."

"Draco?" she whispered, throat tight with unshed fear and emotion. That's what nagged her so about his demeanor, his voice. "But – but Lucius –"

"Is dead," he interrupted flatly. "As you well know, seeing as how the Dark Lord murdered my father right before you." Bitterness crept into dialogue, the Malfoy sneer evident tenfold, but this time not for her. Eyes viewed distant visions. "All those years he'd kept to the Dark Lord's path, doing his bidding even whilst it was thought he was destroyed. Yet a mere scratch from the Weaselette and the Dark Lord turned on my father like a rabid hound." Long pause, steady, tight. Attention returned. "Some things are unacceptable."

He turned on his heel, stepping out back down the aisle. Leaving, perhaps? Message delivered? But no; he stopped several meters on. Glow dropped low, then rose, faint hollow clicks of wood upon rock. Unhurried whirl about, more dancing movements of wand tip... parchments immediately gathered about her, restocking themselves within their crate, the container returning to its place high up.

"Come along, Granger. Potter wants a chat." Snap of cloak fabric indicated his sudden about face, effectively dismissing the interview. Regaining faculties, Hermione drew herself up, reacting just in time to the "Here!" echoing from him, her glowing wand falling in an arc into outstretched hands. Hurriedly double-checked, Hermione dashed on to catch up, reaching Draco just as they passed a prone figure at the aisle's end. The security guard who had stopped her last night.

"Oh, no –"

"Relax," Draco admonished. "Just knocked him out; he'll rouse in few minutes, no recollection. So we'd best be on our way," he added, meaningful glare implied beneath the shadow of his hood. True to arrogance, he stepped off again, assuming her compliance.

She had her wand. She could strike him now, from behind, and he'd never see it coming. Yet something stilled her hand, and compellation drove her feet to follow his steps mutely. Logic must take a seat behind instinct this time, she knew. And instinct beckoned; Harry and Ron would be at Draco Malfoy's destination.

Into the primitive corridor they went, neither feeling speech a necessary commodity. Abreast him now, Hermione kept pace, more curious than frightened. Up the stairs, into the elevator... Deserted was the Atrium, night security safely ensconced below. Not surprisingly, Draco led her to the Visitor's Entrance, and confined closely within the telephone box, they rose to street level within a minute, departing into the alley of her fifth-year adventure. The same in which they'd lost Sirius...

"What did you mean back there?" she suddenly asked into the streetlamp-lit night. Her companion had ceased his rummage through the Muggle skip, pausing with obvious irritation. "When you asked me if Black found my language attractive? What were you talking about?" she added cautiously. A pit of fear grew in her belly, his answer one that could set off new concerns, as if trusting him now was not in and of itself a madman's feat.

"Really, Granger," he replied in boredom, returning to his levitating search of rubbish. "You're not the only one with deductive abilities, you know. I don't know how you managed it, but bringing Sirius Black back from the Death Chamber was either pure brilliance or incredible luck. I'm more inclined to believe the latter. Here," he inserted, drawing from the shadowed pile a filthy, battered trouser sock. Presenting it via wand to her, he instructed, "Put it on."

Hermione shot him a dark look, incredulous to his request. Her glance to her stockinged feet drew his exasperation. "Over your eyes, you dunce. Similar sides or not, our location is still secure."

She snorted, delicately taking the offending proffered item between thumb and index. "If you needed a blindfold, why did you not simply conjure one?" she accused.

"Wouldn't be quite as entertaining, now would it?"

Oh, yes. There was no question about it. It was definitely Draco Malfoy.

-o-0-o-

Severus Snape's wand leveled from his former professor's greater position across the room. Harry gritted his teeth in irritation. Always the over-confident one, Snape was. Condescending as well, but not always triumphant. Harry was intent on ensuring that.

Hardwood flicked infinitesimally, and ancient ebony figures slid across mottled marble. Upon closer inspection, Harry had to admit it a bold and – unfortunately – brilliant move. The knight now placed his king in check, if not...

"Check...mate. I dare believe." Clipped tones per his usual, Snape's arrogance grated nearly as much as his understated gloating. School friend of his mum's or not, Severus Snape was a right git, Harry concluded. Yes, the man's history with Lily Evans Potter deemed him some quality, though even now Harry could not guess his mum's manner of thinking. What had ever possessed her go beyond the requisite association afforded as Potions' partners with the counter-spy before him was something Harry could only mark up as to eccentricities of the female mind. Fleetingly it crossed his own that such an unusual friendship would be as like to befall his own friend Hermione Granger, but not his wife Ginny. Ginny, though kind in her own right, was less forgiving of ill natures.

Harry had to chuck the half-laugh caught mid-throat. Mere months ago he would never have found credible the scene before him which now played. Confirmation, however, had exposed itself there in the secret chamber of the pyramid he and Ron had been searching. They'd been found out, hunted by Voldemort's henchmen, cornered like desperate prey. But it had been Snape who'd caught them up before the others, Snape who'd immobilized both of them before stating in his yet-so-haughty air that he was there to save them, to make good their escape before Macnair and the others found the right passage.

If it had not been for Remus... Well, yes. If not for Remus, Harry never would have learned so well the art of Legilimency, a talent the werewolf himself had tweaked for years, had used in order to determine Harry's identity when the Advanced Guard had come for him the summer before fifth year. And it was Remus' teaching that had left Harry in the most unpleasant position to believe his proclaimed sworn enemy Severus Snape. Though master Occlumens, the powerful wizard could not conjure false images – only cover those in existence. Hidden from Voldemort were Snape's true feelings, leaving only the ambiguous. Laid bare before Harry, however, were snippets of Harry's mum... happy... teasing... and with the bat-like creature before him.

Circumstances had forced immediate decision. Incredulous was Ron, but Harry had stated in definite, unyielding terms they would follow their former professor. But information already obtained had revealed severity of situations beyond Harry's scope. Plan swiftly devised, the young wizard coded a script to the one most likely to translate it, the one most likely to solve the riddle even they could not answer. Smuggled owl released, the hope of guidance with it.

In due time, hidden away at Spinner's End in yet another secret chamber, both young men grew to learn the skeleton of truth behind deceptions aged these many years. Even Albus Dumbledore's death – they later learned through Draco, Snape's remaining loyal foster – had been designed by the headmaster himself. Voldemort's security potion had done its deed too greatly, and dying, the great wizard had asked – no, begged – his pawn to follow orders, azure eyes pleading obsidian for the in-character death blow.

No enjoyment had been derived from these learnings, but Harry knew by this point that not all of benefit was honey to the heart. And so it was... concealment protected the blood brothers, news of the sixteen-year-old Lord Voldemort trickling into their musty domain whilst they studied the cryptic library about them. Each delicate tome revealed only more questions to those already present: where could Voldemort begin to search for the Holy Grail? Who did he have in his employ with inside knowledge of the artifact? How could its power be harnessed for benefit of immortality?

Infinite questions had led Ron to infamous musings. What if's had bled into should have's and if only's, each drawing to the surface memories best left forgotten. Still, one had repeatedly resurrected its ghost, and Harry had found himself more than once voicing regrets about rash decisions and Sirius' death to the damnable Veil. One such occasion of this had brought exception: an unexpected answering remark.

"Honestly, Potter. You'd think Black was really dead by the way you whinge on about him." Malfoy had just been toting in their evening meal, smirk and dislike blatant on his aristocratic face. Before either Harry or Ron had had opportunity to snipe indignantly, the blond had continued on, unaware his words were any more provoking than his average fare. Setting the tray down with a quick theft of a biscuit, "As cousin I'd not claim him, but his Slytherin side is certainly bleeding through in true Black form. Even I would credit such a heist that could fool the Dark Lord." Here his eyes had narrowed in spiteful thought, but Harry had not noticed Draco's usual distaste of late for his former idol.

Age and experience had tempered Harry's tendency for immediate outbursts. Replacing initial barrage of insults and threats, a nagging sense of curiosity had pulled from his lips questions of intent rather than sanity. A hand of stay had warded off Ron's similar retort of anger, allowing the younger's tight, dark voice half-whisper into emptiness.

"Such a heist?"

"Oh, come off it, Potter," derisiveness commanded. Draco had stood abruptly from bent position over the tray, cocky glare and slight sneer. "Play at innocence with the Ministry, if you must, but not with me. I've not the time nor patience for it." He nicked another biscuit, sashaying to the narrow, diamond-paned window that provided the room's dominant light through its filth-encrusted glass. "Disgusted as I am to admit it, however, your ruse for his death was quite the convincing role. Having Black take up as a washed-up singer was a tidy way to hide him. Course, Granger's supporting cast as his groupie..."

And thus grew hope – guarded, to be sure – that Sirius had somehow been brought back through the Veil. Hermione. No other explanation existed but that Hermione had found a way to reverse the portal that had taken his godfather away four years before. Yet such was the case only if Draco truly had not been having him and Ron on. Though conceit and dismissive attitude had described Draco's reaction each mention of the topic, deception had not. To give into eager wishes that Sirius Black was once more alive, however –

"Composing your concession speech, Potter?" Snape's flippant words drew Harry back to present, a slight shake of his head clearing the glazed focus on the chessboard. Checkmate. Right.

"Mind terribly if I forego the sentimental theatrics," he added, single brow arched, "and entertain myself rather with unfinished business? Draco shall be along shortly with his parcel, I dare say, and loath though I am for this reunion," he sneered, "I need be present for that particular discussion." He moved toward the hidden door, snapping flap of his robes belying silent footsteps. "Assuming, of course, you've no need for a full explanation of your strategic education just now," he tossed over his shoulder. But with no answer, he did not look back. Triggered catch released, Snape swept out the passage.

Harry sat staring silently after him. Brooding no help, he instead focused on the upcoming meeting. It would be wonderful to see his friend again. After months away from everyone he knew but Ron, excitement mounted at the prospect of seeing Hermione. Only better would be to see his wife, but it was best Ginny not be involved in this latest scheme. But to see Hermione, and to know she was well and perhaps to learn any progress she'd made since their retreat to this lair, would be a grand relief.

Rerouting his glare, Harry turned to peer behind him. Tucked away in dingy shadows and dingier bedclothes lay Ron, his long, lanky body sprawled untidily along the narrow child's pallet situated in the corner. Soft snores drifted across the minor distance, reminding Harry just how tired he himself was. They'd spent countless hours these past days scrounging through memoirs and books Snape and Malfoy had managed to nick without drawing attention to themselves. Draco had even managed to acquire several pieces from the Malfoy estate library, even with the numerous Death Eaters now taking up residence in the manor home.

Voldemort himself had commandeered – rather, graciously accepted the offer – of the old Lestrange mansion in the North Country. But keen eyes often followed the Malfoy heir, and too often merely staying out of their sight was not enough for those rare occasions Draco ventured home. Narcissa Malfoy had taken to her room most days since her husband's death, and was little consolation to her only child. It was her emotional breakdown that had driven Draco as much as the death of Lucius to scorn Voldemort and turn his loyalty away. Only by good fortune had it been Snape who had recognized Draco's signs of betrayal.

Weary and realizing the need for rest, Harry drew himself from the lost game and trudged to his own camp bed, lying fully clothed. Setting his glasses on the floor atop his favored text, Concerniendo a Dragones, he turned to his back to stare at the ceiling, failing lamplight dancing upon the ancient plaster in hypnotizing display. Anxiety crept in his thoughts, recalling that if Hermione Granger did not have any leads, they were in great despair. And this time, a squawking wand would not save them.

-o-

He must have slept. Voices drifted to his ears, and prying eyes open revealed a ceiling with only the barest of reflected flame. Locating his spectacles, Harry regained clear sight and sat up, ears tuned to bickering outside their hidden chamber.

"Honestly, Malfoy; you've gone well beyond the Argyll Treaty of the 1684 Goblin Rebellion Massacre by the very nature of your inappropriate securing techniques and dangerous measures of transferring prisoners of war, subjecting said individuals with..."

Rant trailing off through distance, Harry still smiled to himself. Hermione. Hermione was there.

"Ron! Ron!" he whispered excitedly, reaching out to his mate's bed and jarring him awake. "Wake up – Hermione's here!"

"Wha-wha-whaaat?" came the yawning, incoherent reply. In the dull glow of the dying lamp, Ron Weasley's freckled pale face appeared ghostlike, leaving a chill to suddenly run down Harry's spine.

About to repeat himself, he was cut short by the release of the door latch. Both sets of eyes now wide awake and intent, they stared as the opening appeared, three figures emerging single-filed. Snape swept in, his gaze indiscernible in bleak atmosphere. Draco's long blond locks caught the light next, his attention behind him. And drawing out from the shadows...

"Hermione!"

Unison so close it sounded one single, boisterous voice. Ignored were trite remarks from either Slytherin; the Gryffindor boys had only one person in their thoughts. And that one person, upon seeing the young men, froze abruptly. Eyes widened. Face frowned in concentration, then a smile lit up her expression into one of purest joy.

"Harry! Ron!" Brisk steps on either side to meet in the middle with a resounding thump! and all-encompassing embrace. And for a moment, the rest of the world fell away. Friends reunited. It was all that mattered.

-o-0-o-

Only true exhaustion had allowed sleep. Several blinks cleared sight to the freshened sitting room fire, its only other occupant staring morosely into the flames while wrought iron poker formed in Black fashion rapped lazily against the grate. Sirius watched his brother intently. Without Regulus' knowledge of being on display, he was relaxed in a manner Sirius had not seen in too many years.

Lines of hardship edged his face, yet – like most of the Black family – he remained quite the handsome young man. Yet marring those famous aristocratic planes were furrows of brow and tenseness of jaw; Regulus was deep in unhappy reflection, and Sirius instinctively knew it was not about him. Guesses and abstract consideration could manifest what perils or regrets the younger man had endured in life outside blood identity. And for Regulus, blood identity had been everything. Family was everything. Giving an unusually honest allowance, Sirius accepted real problems and earnest emotion had plagued Reg, and like himself, his brother felt each loss with the depth of razor to bone.

On some level, Sirius also knew that their time of estrangement was at an end. It had to be... for both their sakes. Recalling their conversation on the first (just before returning to the Leaky Cauldron), words spoken candidly reverberated within. Regulus had simply wanted his elder brother's attention, his acceptance. Nay; even his love, though thumbscrews would never bring about such admittance.

Sirius smiled to himself, a sad, gray smile. So many years lost between them. Such a different path all would have been had Regulus left when he did, accepted the Blacks as delusional at best. But Sirius supposed that Regulus, like he, had loyalty undeniable for family. Their differences lay in just who was considered family. So very clear more than two decades later; so very broken both children had been... both men were.

"All I ever wanted was my acceptance within my family." Spoken so lowly, Sirius was not quite sure he'd actually heard the melancholy muse. "Regardless the sect, I never quite earned rank within any, no matter my efforts." Here he turned his head slightly, eyes downcast in the movement, acknowledging Sirius' conscious attendance.

Bypassing the feign of sleep, the older sibling replied in kind, words soft in half-whisper, reverent in the holiness of solitude.

"And I failed you," he said, understanding and shame awash with defeat inside his chest. "I should have torn you from these deranged people when I left, not abandoned you to their madness."

"I wouldn't have gone," Regulus assuaged, reminding in tone where fault truly lay. He turned back fully to the fire, staring reminiscently. "I couldn't grasp your reckless decision; though I'd resented the encompassing attention you'd received, leaving me a mere footnote to the tapestry, I didn't cease my brotherly affection of you. At the time, however, family meant all, not a black sheep brother intent on bringing down disgrace upon our name.

"But you did abandon the family, though now perhaps I understand better. Yet even so, I could not claim the interest of Mother or Father. Not really. I wasn't you, and thusly only filled a role by warmth of body." Bitterness crept in with the seep of poison. "They never actually treated me more than family on parchment, though I forsook my own ambitions to be equal as those they exalted. By choosing to please them, I in turn lost my only opportunity for my own family, a match not of duty or blood or ambition..."

Sirius swallowed, desolate in answers. Regulus obviously was well versed in all lost of his youth, of his single heartfelt desire denied. Of the cruel irony of circumstance. Sirius need not add salt... not when his own wounds lay open, half-healed.

And so it was, flame-crackles pricked heavy emptiness, and no more was said for a very long time.

-o-

Breeze light, bearing salt in damp caresses, cooling fevered brow. Darkness thick, foreboding, taste of enemy sweat hanging in the air. Distant crashes of heavy waves warred with closer laps of gentle current. Snaps and pops of nearby flame encouraged wakefulness, but pain dulled coherency. Senses sharpened, however, in touch, voice...

"No! No! Don't leave me! Wake up, wake up! You must wake up..."

"Wake up, Sirius. C'mon, brother; Raj has returned."

Awake with a start, Sirius took in his surroundings in a single fell swoop. Sitting room... firelight and two low-burning lamps... ancient clock reading after three in the morn. Regulus stood before him, his gaze queer and concerned.

"Are you all right, Sirius?" he inquired, and Sirius hesitated but a moment then nodded, recollecting himself and pushing away remnants of the frighteningly realistic dream.

"What news?" he finally asked his brother, rising from the settee on unsteady legs.

"I've searched everywhere in the Ministry," Raj answered, his words forcing Sirius' notice of the young knight's presence behind him. Those same words did not bode well in circumstance.

"And...?" Regulus prompted. Though never one to admit his fears, Regulus was obviously as worried as he for Hermione. He really must care after all, regardless all his pomp and airs, Sirius considered.

"And," Raj began, eyes darting between brothers never before so similar. "She's nowhere to be found. There's evidence she was in the archived records, but..." He paused, clearly uncomfortable with phrases forthcoming. "There was also evidence someone else was there as well. And they did not get on."

Long moments following that ominous statement were filled with action of intent and driving force. Controlled panic underlay a façade of masculine anger and strategic planning. Rushing about, gathering items of stealth and search and stakeout attire, almost missed were sounds of entry from the front door.

Regulus ceased preparations first, stilled like a stag caught unaware. His eyes caught Sirius; in turn, Raj. But it was Sirius who led the way, reaching for the old brass handle just as it began to click open. Swinging the door wide, a heavily cloaked figure stumbled in. Resuming stature, the figure took in anxious faces and reacted with a quick dropping of cloak hood.

"Damn it, woman!" Sirius cried, feeling tense chest muscles easing in relief just as the anger born of fear reared in speech. "Where the hell have you been all night? It's after three in the bloody fucking morning!" Clenching of his heart and lungs ebbed, yet Sirius ignored more tender thoughts for rants of emotional release. They continued as the heavy oak slammed shut, yet in the foyer they all remained.

However explicit he became, however questioning Regulus grew, however silently evaluating Raj fell, Hermione noticed none. Instead, wide eyes focused entirely on Sirius in wonder. As he drew breath for more, she interrupted, soft but strong.

"I've found Harry." Brief pause to allow realization before continuing. Gaze flicked to Regulus. "And you'll never believe what has happened."