Fire and Rain (3/?)

[redtapestry]

Title: Fire and Rain (Part 3 of ?)
Author: redtapestry
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: R
Pairing: Hermione Granger/Sirius Black
Spoilers: All books/films
Warnings: Violence, gore, schmoop!, romance, gratuitous descriptions
Summary: History must be rewritten if the Order is going to win this war.


PART THREE

Mister Bartemius Crouch Sr. has never slept well. Even as a young lad, he tossed and turned and caused the rusty springs on his hand-me-down mattress to squeak and squeal like an animal in a trap. Now, as an adult and Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, sleep has become a myth. It's a smoky haze of what used to be floating at the edge of his insomnia. Barty Crouch cannot remember the last time he slept through the night, dusk till dawn, and neither can his wife. Most nights, his side of the bed remains cold and undisturbed, barely touched. Most nights find Barty Crouch huddled over some papers in his office, studying them as if they were treasure maps and not tedious field reports from his numerous Aurors.

Like tonight. Tonight, Barty's shut up in his office, blinds drawn, nursing a cup of goblin-brewed java (the kind that puts hair on your chest and warts on your balls), going over a copy of Auror Tom Bricks' arrest record. Normally, an arrest doesn't come across the Head's desk. Frankly, Mister Crouch is far too important to deal with every toilet-seat jinxer and Peeping Tom that floats in and out of this office. However, when one of his people brings in an infamous Death Eater responsible for the murder of three war heroes, Barty usually insists on getting himself up to speed. After all, he has to be briefed and ready with quotes when the Daily Prophet comes calling.

Barty's beady eyes dart across the page like a bee over flowers. He grips the sheets with a fervor and tries to read between the lines. Between the reported details. Poorly hidden beneath the precise, robotic details is the thinly veiled sense of success, the written victory dance of a good guy triumphing, finally, over a bad one.

Right at this very moment, notorious mass-murderer Sirius Black is chained and locked, practically glued, to his chair in the belly of the Ministry. Twenty or so Aurors surround him, wands trained and waiting to escort him to Azkaban. And Barty Crouch is going to go with them; nothing and no one is going to screw this up. That's for sure.

He's heading out; Barty grabs his robes, shoves them over his shoulders, downs the rest of his coffee, and switches off the lamps at either end of his desk. The office is swamped by black, and he's in the middle of locking his door when he hears a familiar voice.

"Father!" Barty Crouch Jr. takes after his mother. Instead of inheriting his father's dark, coarse hair and more-often-than-not surly demeanor, Junior is light and soft and more feminine than male. He looks just like his mother.

"Junior, what are you doing here? It's late," Barty growls. He doesn't bother to hide his irritation. It's late and he's supposed to be home with his mother. Barty's work has kept him away for far too long, and it seems his dear wife has fallen ill. Again.

"I was having drinks with some of the Junior Aurors down at the Leaky Cauldron and saw Tom Bricks come in, sloppy drunk and celebrating," Junior hurriedly relates the night's events. "He couldn't help bragging about his arrest today. He even bought the entire pub a round of Firewhiskey." A huge grin split his son's face, but Mister Crouch had already started on his way again and fails to notice. He's stopped again by his son stepping into his path, and Barty realizes he's beginning to lose his patience, even with his own offspring.

"Is it true, father?" His son's voice drops in pitch, taking on a serious timber. His formerly jovial expression fades, replaced by such a strangely serious expression out of place on such a young face. "You've caught Sirius Black?"

"We did, yes. Well, Auror Bricks did, as you know. I'm actually on my way to brief the prisoner now."

It's an obvious dismissal, even from a father to son, but Junior doesn't take the hint. In fact, he moves in even closer. It's as if he has a secret to share, or a whisper to spare ears beyond their little bubble of privacy from listening in. Barty Crouch, Sr. doesn't have time for this. He wants to push past his son and continue on, the excitement of sinking his teeth into such a remarkable catch has got him on edge. But something stops him; maybe it's the last vestige of paternity rearing its concerned head, or the beyond-serious expression on his son's face. Junior's got a look in his eye, the eyes that remind Barty Senior of his wife so very much. The eyes that stare him down so coolly.

"And he's below us right now, in one of the cells you Ministry lot have in the basement or somewhere?" His words take on a particular kind of fervor. A strangely disturbing tone. Barty barely notices.

"Correct. And now I'm on my way down, so why don't you head on home, and I'll tell you all about it when I get in." It's a lie. More like a bargaining chip he's trying to play to get his son out of the way and back home before he delays Barty further.

Junior shakes his head and the chilly sheen that's got Barty so uncomfortable slides away as if it's never been there. He's back to his normal, bored self, and Barty lets out a breath he doesn't realize he's been holding.

"Then I'll see you at home, Father." His son waves goodbye, and then he's gone, turned on his heel and headed down the hallway. Hopefully, Junior will head straight home. It's dangerous on the streets at night, even after the defeat of the Dark Lord and capture of one of his greatest minions. Barty entertains the notion of worrying about his son's safety, but other things -more important things- take the foreground of his mind.

He's in the lift and headed down to the cells in the belly of the building in moments. He's at the door to Sirius Black's interrogation room within minutes, and he's opening the door without even realizing he's turning the knob.

This should be interesting.

_ _ _ __________________________

Sirius is waiting. The Aurors that manhandled him into the Ministry left him here in this white-washed room without any windows hours ago, cuffed to a chair. His wrists have long since gone numb, and his ass is following suit. He's even beginning to smell. None of this matters, though. The truth is that Sirius can deal with all this. He couldn't care less whether he can feel his fingers or not, or whether he'll even come out of all this having all his digits intact. He doesn't care if he sits in his own stink for days on end. None of his discomfort counts when faced with the reality he's now forced to live in.

Sirius' world is red. It's as freshly crimson as a new nosebleed and as rusty as an old splattering of blood upon the pavement. A burning ember, fanned to flame, within his chest rages and roars and doesn't die down, no matter how many hours and minutes and seconds tick past. Four days ago, he was a relatively content man. Not quite happy; he didn't have a lady back home, and he was a pretty mediocre Auror at the bottom of the food chain. Then the world blew to Hell, and he's stuck under a burning timber of wreckage.

And, to add the cherry to the bullshit sundae his once good life has become, he's being held for murder. The murders of his best friend, James, and his wife. Lily. Merlin knows what happened to their baby boy and Sirius' godson. Maybe somebody's gonna come through that door and tell him he murdered Harry, too.

For a split second, Sirius wishes he was back on his living room couch, his arm falling off and his blood staining his brand new shirt. For a split second, he wishes he had remained there, nothing stopping him from bleeding the fuck out and escaping this really inconvenient situation.

He doesn't have long to revel on the intricacies of the beyond, however, when he notices the far-off beats of boots against a tile floor. They get closer and closer, a ticking clock. Sirius sends out the futile thought into the universe, a stupid prayer that those boots go past his door and off into the beyond. Give him just a few more seconds. He knows it's all going to come down, and soon, but a man can hope. Sadly, the gods or whoever happens to be in charge of the universe, aren't feeling particularly generous today. The boots stop by the door to the interrogation room Sirius is taking up, and the knob slowly turns.

The door opens to reveal Auror Tom Bricks. Sirius recognizes him. He looks good, unlike the guy tied to the table. Not like his world's been ripped apart. Then again, it's just another day at the office for this guy.

Someone follows in behind him. He's an older man whom Sirius has seen once or twice. Certainly never exchanged a word with. Barty Crouch the first is the top of the food chain, Alpha to Sirius' Omega. And, apparently, his interrogator for the evening. Sirius thinks he should feel honored, but instead, all he feels is hopeless.

It's not a good feeling.

_ _ _ __________________________

The snows have come early to the small village of Rakhiv. Benito Bento's shoes crack against the fresh snow, leaving behind deep impressions in the white powder. He tugs his jacket around his upper body. It's a poor excuse for a robe against the cold, but it's not like he had enough time to prepare to brave the elements, did he? She demanded he meet her as soon as possible, and when someone flashes that much cash in front of your face, you meet her as soon as possible.

However, it seems that she hasn't shown up yet. Benito's getting a little antsy. He doesn't like the taste of this deal in his mouth. There are too many variables, too many ifs and buts and not enough information on his side. Is he providing shelter to a fugitive? Is he giving a terrorist an easy hideaway so they can plan their nefarious deeds? Benito isn't afraid to admit his has a somewhat overactive imagination, but still. That doesn't mean none of his imaginings aren't true.

Just as he's about to head out and away from this quite possibly bad idea, he hears crunching coming from behind him. He whirls around and comes face to face with the mystery buyer.

She contacted him via land line, so he's never seen her face. He knows she's English by the accent, but beyond that, Benito has no idea who she is or what she looks like. At least, until now. She's short. Not dwarf short, like Michel back at the office, but shorter than him. She's slender without a hell of a lot of curve, but she's undoubtedly feminine. Bundled up in a torn-up jacket and heavy boots, she's ready to take on Siberia. A heavy hat covers her bushy brown hair. While she may not be the picturesque Ruben woman Benito usually seeks out (sue him, he's got a type), but she's got a an expressive face and big, brown eyes with freckles splattered across her nose.

"Mister Bento?"

"That's me. And you must be Miss..."

"Is this the cabin?" She walks past him, deftly avoiding the question. He follows behind, clutching his clipboard like his life depends on it, quietly calculating how long it'll take to bludgeon this terrorist to death with it.

"It is."

"I like it. It's exactly what I'm looking for." She tries the front door handle, and finds it locked. "You have the key, I presume?" He quickly hands it over. She turns it in the lock and steps inside, obviously waiting for him to follow. He does without much delay or complaint. Better get this over with.

The cabin, on the outside, is fairly small and unremarkable. The inside is much of the same. There's a wood-burning stove that doubles as the heater for the entire space. Sparse furnishings do nothing to warm up the room. There are barely any windows and a tattered imitation Persian rug on the floor covers a scorch mark made by the previous tenant after enjoying three shots too many of vodka. She walks over it, scuffs it with her shoe, and says nothing.

Benito's office has been trying to get rid of this particular piece of property for about ten years ever since the first tenant died of rather unnatural causes. Nobody wanted to touch it. Now, this stranger requested an out-of-the-way cabin in the woods, unremarkable and forgettable. Those were her words. He should have known something was off then, but he is just too damn excited to get this property moved, sold, signed, and sealed. Everyone in his office will be relieved to see it go.

She finishes her first look of the property and turns to him.

"That's it?" No disappointment colors her voice. Nothing betrays her true thoughts, so Benito nods, hoping she hasn't lost interest after all.

However, that's no longer a worry when her face breaks into a truly genuine smile and she crosses to him, grabs his hand, and shakes it vigorously.

"It's a deal. It's exactly what I'm looking for."

Benito heaves a huge sigh of relief. It's done. This deal is going to make him a legend around the office, and maybe his wife will let him back into the house with his shiny new commission in his wallet.

"Did you want to sign the papers now? The seller is no longer alive, so the property has transferred ownership to our offices. No middle man," Benito explains, as if this were a bonus instead of something morbid and horrible.

"Actually, I had another idea." Benito doesn't understand. When she reaches into her pocket, he assumes she's reaching for her bill fold. Instead, she pulls out a long stick with weird engravings on it, and now, instead of terrorist, Benito is thinking she's an escaped mental patient. It doesn't help matters when she starts towards him, waving it dramatically.

"Did you want to phone your solicitors? I assure you, we operate above the law at my office," Benito puffs out his chest in pride.

"No. Now, just stand still for a moment...Obliviate!" She waves her wand, and an eerie silence falls on the room. Hermione watches Benito's face go slack and his mouth hangs slightly open. Not really the most attractive picture ever. Still, she has more important things to focus on. Like erasing this man's memory. She slips her wand back into her pocket and pulls out her wallet. It's stuffed to the brim with Muggle money, enough to buy this cabin and more. Sadly, Benito Bento would be leaving with only a small amount today.

"Benito?"

"Yes, ma'am?" His mind had been stalled, almost wiped clean. Hermione has yet to restore it, and for a moment, she pauses to enjoy the serenity of his pale face. It's almost as if he's happier here than burdened with the weight of his memories.

"Congratulations, you sold this cabin, and at a tenth of the asking price as well!" She handed him a short stack of bills, colorful ones so different than the Wizarding coins. He smiled, a true smile of joy and success, and dropped the bills into his jacket pocket. Hermione continued, unabashed by his frankly disturbing childlike glee. "Now, you're to go back to your office, post it as sold. Tell no one it's inhabited; in fact, let everyone know it's been condemned by the village council."

That should keep everyone away. A condemned building constantly bombarded by snow fall is bound to cave in. It's a very dangerous place to be, and no one is about to go traipsing around. That's exactly the kind of place Hermione needs.

She heads back into the house. She knows she didn't retrieve the keys from Benito, but for a condemned house, she wouldn't need the keys. Of course, she has far many more ways to ensure the house is safe and secure beyond a few tumblers and some metal. Hermione drops her coat to the floor inside the doorway and heads back outside, wand in hand. Her breath comes out in white, cottony puffs, and instead of shivering, she's already sweating with the effort it takes to lay the spells she's about to lay.

No one is going to get past these wards. It'll be as safe as a prison when she's done with it.

_ _ _ __________________________

Barty Crouch takes the seat before Sirius, pressing a folder onto the table. He swipes a finger over his tiny, well-groomed mustache and eyes Sirius up and down before opening his mouth to speak. It's like he is waiting for Sirius to explode, save him the trouble. They'll just have to cast a couple of Scourgify charms, and wham bam thank you ma'am, that's all for Sirius freaking Black.

Thing is, Sirius wouldn't mind that much at all. Sadly, the percentage of people who actually spontaneously implode is much lower than generally portrayed.

"Sirius Black. How are you?" Barty Crouch's voice is dry and calm. Like paper.

Sirius doesn't really know how to respond to it. Is it foolish to hope that he's realized his mistake, regrets the past events, and resolves to set the prisoner free with the Ministry's apologies? Seeing as he's still restricted to the chair, it appears it is too much.

"Oh, just fine," Sirius responds after a moment. He jiggles the restraints. "A little tight 'round the wrists, though. Anything you can do about that?"

Barty's gaze passes over the offending objects. "They look fine to me. Besides, you'll be getting them off soon enough."

What is that supposed to mean?

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Barty meets his eyes. "It means that you won't be here long."

"Okay." How does Sirius get a straight answer out of this guy? He's near driving himself nuts trying to figure out where to go from here. His entire life, Sirius has been the one in control. He left his parents' home when it got to be too much, too Dark, for him to stand. He left behind his brother, Regulus, and his mother and father because he chose a different path. He chose to join the Order of the Phoenix, the Auror force, and he struck out on his own.

It's a harsh lesson learned when you're no longer responsible for your fate or where your life goes from here. It doubly sucks when you're a prisoner and most likely going to die in the next forty-eight hours or so.

"Sirius. The reason I am here is to retrieve as much information as possible from you," Crouch continues as if Sirius never said anything in the first place. "We know you're a Death Eater, whether you have the Dark Mark or not. We know that you gave information to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named about the whereabouts of the Potter family." Crouch pauses for effect. "And we know you murdered Peter Pettigrew after he dared to confront you, involving thirteen Muggles in your street-wide attack."

He's heard this all before. The Order accused him of these as well.

"You've got the wrong guy."

Crouch's eyes narrow. "I surely don't know what you mean. You were the Potters' Secret Keeper. You were seen on the street with Peter Pettigrew, whose little finger is the only thing we've found left. After you took thirteen Muggles with you. You're the only common denominator, and the only one alive. We know you're a Death Eater because your victims were Number Ones on You-Know-Who's Hit List. And when Peter Pettigrew, an aspiring Auror, valiantly tried to stop you, you murdered him in cold blood. Only someone with Dark Magic flooding their veins could be so heartless."

"Yeah. You've still got the wrong guy."

"No, we have the right guy, Sirius." Crouch sat back into the seat, heaved a huge sigh reeking of victory, and then pushed away, stood, and gave one last long look at the prisoner. "And that means that you're going away for a long, long time."

"No, you've got the wrong guy!" It's all been a joke up until now. A cruel twist of fate that landed Sirius in the wrong chair. But when he sees Crouch getting up, leaving, signing his veritable death warrant, that's bound to make any man go crazy. He struggles against his restraints, feels them cut into his wrists and doesn't care when wet stickiness starts seeping down his arms.

"Keep telling yourself that, if it makes all this easier for you. Auror, please prepare the prisoner for transport."

Tom Bricks, who had been standing there the entire time and being silent as the grave, steps forward. He brings out his wand and points it at Sirius, a clear threat should he try anything during the supposed transport. A few more Aurors, signaled by some unseen hand motion or something, flooded into the room. Sirius kept struggling, even as the Aurors laid their hands on him. Panic bloomed in his chest, an explosion, sudden and harsh. He could feel the adrenaline pumping through him without any place to go.

"What!? What are you talking about! What about my trial? I'm entitled to a trial, aren't I?"

"You, Black? No, you're not." And Crouch disappears through the sudden sea of Aurors, out of sight, but never out of mind.

Sirius keeps moving, trying to throw their hands off him. His chest swells as they come towards him, manipulates him. Tom Bricks unsnaps his restraints, and Sirius is all limbs and elbows and eye gouging and anything to make his freedom last a little longer. Taste a little sweeter.

Of course, in all this chaos and commotion, Sirius doesn't see the fist headed straight for his head until his world bleeds dark and he tumbles down in the void.

_ _ _ __________________________

Bartemius Crouch Junior wanders through the rain, away from the Ministry. Away from his father. He doesn't mind the drops winding down his neck and into his clothing. He actually quite likes the way the rain clears the streets. He's alone, but not lonely. For once, the streets of Wizarding London aren't crowded with pedestrians and children and loud women and men carrying briefcases, dressed in flashy robes. He can let his mind settle on the events of the day and the tasks of the future without the distractions of the usual hubbub.

He tugs his robes around him tight and ducks into the entrance to Diagon Alley. It's as deserted as the streets around the Ministry. All the shops have closed their doors and pulled in the bright stands and awnings. He passes through the winding cobblestone walkways unnoticed by anyone. The Leaky Cauldron is full up with people sloshing beers together; it's unlikely he'll be disturbed. Just a few more blocks, and he'll be there.

The corner of Knockturn Alley comes up quickly, quicker than he expects, and he has to slow himself down before missing it. He whips around the corner, faster than he intended, and passes some of the darker storefronts.

Towards the end of the walkway, he sees the bobbing light of a lantern and heads towards it.

Unlike most, he isn't bothered by the men stepping from the shadows around him as he moves. The pillars of darkness covering their faces with skull masks to protect their identities. Instead, they welcome Junior as he would have welcomed them. Not quite a reception warranting open arms and smiles, but they accept his presence and part to allow him into their ranks.

An arm reaches out from the pack and hands him a black robe. He dons it, comfortable in the familiar fabric and nods his thanks to Karkaroff for his speedy thinking. He slides his mask over his face and pulls the hood over his head. He blends in now, just another hood amongst a crowd.

"Now that all our number has finally joined us, we can proceed," a cold voice calls from the center of the ring. Junior tilts his head to catch a glimpse of Lucius Malfoy, one of the most trusted Death Eaters amongst them. Even with their master gone, he has taken the reins of leadership up and still commands enough respect to get away with it.

Junior falls into line, dips his head in mock admonishment, and listens to what Lucius has to say. It's only a matter of time until Junior proves his worth here. He has information they all need, and sooner or later, Lucius is going to have to withdraw his displeasure and hear him out.

"As you know, four of our Circle were taken, under arrest, to Azkaban by the Aurors," Lucius begins. The Death Eaters all nod; they remembered the night when one of their meetings was raided. Someone tipped off the Ministry about their meeting in Little Hangleton, the graveyard when the Dark Lord summoned them. Three days ago, there used to be more of them. Now, four members of the Inner Circle were behind bars, having their souls slowly sucked from their bodies by Dementors. While Junior and several of those around him couldn't care less -in fact, they were more than happy to let them rot in prison for the rest of their hopefully short lives-they knew too much. Names, faces, facts about those surrounding Lucius Malfoy. The plan, so far, is to prevent that information from falling into the hands of law enforcement.

"Mister and Missus Lestrange, Yaxley, and Rosier are being kept in the maximum security wing, closely guarded by both Aurors and Dementors," another man begins to speak. Junior doesn't know who he is, and many others seem to be confused as well. Lucius makes way for another to come forth. "They are not allowed visitors, for obvious reasons. Nor are they allowed outside time, meals with other prisoners, or communications from the outside world. Unlike with the other prisoners, they have a constant eight guard team with them at all times, not counting the Dementors.

There don't seem to be a lot of openings to get in, get out with the other Eaters, and there aren't a lot of entrances and exits to be exploited."

Junior continues to wait, biding his time. He's got the nugget, the golden ticket to the whole enchilada, and he's not going to waste it in the first five minutes. One thing he's learned throughout his life is you've got to let the drama build. People like drama, especially drama that's hit a really high note. It makes them feel as if they've accomplished something big. Plus, it has the added effect of making Junior look like a genius in a circle of really evil people. Evil people tend to not kill geniuses.

"Polyjuice Potion might work," someone says from the back. Junior rolls his eyes.

"I don't know why I'm actually surprised someone suggested that," the second man practically hisses. "Polyjuice takes a month to brew, and you all should realize we don't have that much time. Once our dear Miss Bellatrix, if she hasn't already, will most likely spill her guts about all of us. Her loyalty only stretches so far, and as soon as she realizes how valuable the information she has is, she'll not keep quiet for long." No one seems surprised by the information. Every one of them would throw the entire group under the Knight Bus for a chance at leniency.

The voices fall silent as people try to come up with new ideas. Lucius Malfoy and the second man have begun to look impatient; they shuffle their feet and glare at any who dare meet their eyes. Yet, they aren't offering up any plans of their own. Junior thinks it's about time to strike.

"Sirius Black."

All heads swivel towards him.

"Sirius Black? What has a blood traitor got to do with any of this?" Lucius steps forward, hand on his wand. He doesn't look pleased; he looks more like he's in the hexing mood and Junior just became his new favorite practice dummy. He's got to speak up, quickly, before he succumbs to the Cruciatus Curse.

"He's been captured by the Ministry in relation to the Potter deaths," Junior quickly explains. "He's being transported to Azkaban in a few hours. There, the entire retinue of guard will meet him and make sure his transport is complete. That's a small ten minute window to get our people in and get the rest of us out. After that, he'll be inside and they'll be out. It might even be blamed on him. He'll get the Kiss, we'll be without fear of being known."

He grins. They've bought it, hook, line, and you know the rest. He can see the wheels turning in Lucius' mind. So far, no one has spoken up against his idea. They all seem to be chewing it over.

It doesn't matter. These moments of suspense that come after, whether they'll take the idea or just curse him into oblivion for his impertinence, don't matter because he knows what will happen.

He's just that genius.

_ _ _ __________________________

Hermione walks the cabin one more time, content with the outcome. It'll meet her needs just fine, at least for the time being. However, she has more pressing matters to attend to beyond her real estate concerns. She has to leave the cabin and walk down the hill before she can Apparate away. The wards she's laid in the past day have formed a thick, magical secure barrier prohibiting any Apparating or particularly strong spells. It will keep everything inside the cabin and around it safe.

This is the first step. Well, really the second since she visited Gringotts, but this is the first tangible step. She can see all the variables and plans she's imagined beginning to take shape. She's nowhere near anything remotely close to being finished here in the past. The variables and plans are still just variables and plans, but she can see the roads she's going to take to make those plans come about, and it's exciting. She feels as if she's actually doing something good, accomplishing something. Contributing something. Ron supported Harry during the War and after. Harry, obviously, ended the War. Even Ginny had a purpose. Sometimes, Hermione feels as if she still needs to make her mark, and this is how it's going to happen. Not that she's doing this for the glory. It needs to be done if she is going to save her friends in the future.

However, it's not going to happen with her just standing here. She has a very small window of time available to her before Sirius is handed over to the Dementors and transported to Azkaban. There, she has a tiny chance of getting in, rescuing him, and getting out. Hopefully, it won't be more difficult than that.

One can only hope.

TO BE CONTINUED