A/N: Sorry it took so long to update. For those of you who don't follow me on Twitter, I am working 3 jobs at the moment and while I enjoy it because the money is good, it's slightly frustrating because it doesn't give me an adequate enough time to write. Anyway, thanks for your patience.

Also, there's a NEW POLL up on my profile, so check it out & vote! It's very important to me, because I'm doing some research & I need feedback!

This chapter is meant to inspire the "What the hell?!" reaction, but please trust me enough to know that I will try not to leave you in the dark for too long.

Finally, to my wonderful beta, thank you so much for putting up with my neuroses & insecurities. I love you, Amy.

Chapter Twenty-Five: A Startling Revelation

"I didn't cause too much trouble, running out like that, did I?" Sirius asked when Hermione approached him outside the gallery several minutes later. He was leaning against one of the building's marble pillars, looking out at the pouring rain that had suddenly appeared. Hermione thought it slightly convenient, considering how it matched their moods.

"No more than usual," Hermione tried to joke, managing a weak smile as she pulled her cloak around her tighter. The chill whipped around them and drew an involuntary shudder from her body.

Truth be told, the reason Hermione hadn't immediately joined Sirius once he had made his rapid exit was due to the fact that, in his haste to leave, he had bowled through a group of American tourists. Hermione had had to spend several minutes apologizing for his behaviour, all the while trying to convince one particularly unpleasant American witch not to sue any and everything in sight.

It had been one of the rare times that Hermione was grateful for her fame, as one well-placed assertion that Harry was not married yet had the same unpleasant witch's demeanour changing completely. After a few autographs and a promise that she would "put in a good word" with Harry, Hermione was able to stumble out of the gallery in search of her husband.

"I'm sorry," he said, turning to her, and Hermione was suddenly taken with just how light his eyes were as they glistened with tears.

"Oh, don't worry about that silly nonsense," she admonished gently, trying to make her smile convincing. "Are you going to be alright?"

He let out a ragged breath as he looked out into the rain.

"I carry so much guilt," he finally said heavily. "Once Harry told me what really happened to Regulus, I…I just…" He heaved a shuddering sigh. "He haunts me, you know. We used to be so close when we were children. But then I went to Hogwarts and it all changed. He used to have such…such dark thoughts. He was the very picture of the tortured artist, really. It scared me sometimes. And then I…I just pushed him away. James…and Remus…and even Peter for a time, became my new family." He choked down a sob. "Maybe if I had paid more attention to him…been more of a brother to him…" He trailed off, a single tear escaping and sliding down his angled, aristocratic face.

Hermione looked at him, unsure of what to say – if there was even an appropriate thing to say. Though she also found herself plagued with ghosts of her past actions, most of her regrets were still mercifully reparable. Her romantic faux pas – Oliver and Remus – and the subtle, but still present conflicts within her friendships with Harry and Ginny were miniscule by comparison to the pain Sirius seemed to try so hard to bury. But his hurt was not as easily locked away as Regulus's memory in the Black mausoleum, and Hermione didn't know how to respond to such deep anguish.

"It's not your fault," she said softly, placing a hand on his arm though she knew her words would not quell the feeling of culpability, "Really, Sirius. There were so many factors…"

"I just…I need to be alone right now," he said, running his hand over his face and wiping the tears from his eyes.

Hermione swallowed the lump of hurt that was threatening to catch in her throat as he pushed her away.

"Of course," she said, taking a step back from him with a supportive smile. "I…I suppose I'll see you back in the room, then?"

He shrugged, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

"Nowhere else to go, kitten," was all he said before pulling up the collar of his faded leather jacket and disappearing into the rain.

Hermione watched him disappear into the grey rain and let out a puff of air, leaning against the pillar Sirius had just vacated. She tried not to think about how she could still feel his body heat against the smooth stone. She felt oddly empty without him near, having spent the past week or so almost always in his presence.

The thought that a mere week had tethered her emotionally to him made her tense. It was completely ridiculous that she would feel so vulnerable on her own. She was sure her stomach's uncomfortable churning undoubtedly had something to do with the rich breakfast she had consumed earlier.

Pulling out her pack of cigarettes, Hermione placed one between her lips and lit it, trying to figure out her next move. Unlike Sirius, she had no compulsion to enter the unpleasant downpour but at the same time, the idea of going back into the exhibit by herself was somewhat daunting. She was by no means squeamish, but she still did not want to face those types of horrors alone.

"Miss Granger? I'm sorry…Mrs. Black?" a genteel voice said and Hermione turned to see Enrico de Medici walking over to her, his dark hair slicked back and his tall, lean body clothed in a pair of immaculately-pressed grey linen trousers and a white Oxford shirt, unbuttoned slightly at the neck to reveal a sprinkling of dark hair. Over this he sported a very elegant grey cloak that billowed majestically behind him. Hermione had to admit that the man was one of the most attractive she had met in a long time, but she oddly felt no compulsion to flirt or make herself attractive to him.

She reminded herself of the fidelity charms on her marriage vows and gave the approaching man a smile.

"Please, signore, call me Hermione," she said, blushing slightly as he swept down gracefully to kiss her hand.

"Then you must call me Enrico," he replied with a smile. Then he looked around. "And where is your charming husband?"

"He…he wasn't feeling too well so I sent him to bed," she said.

"Nothing too serious, I hope, if you'll forgive the pun. I have warned Lilia that her breakfasts can sometimes be a little too rich for…"

"Oh, no!" Hermione interrupted hurriedly, not wanting to get the kind little elf into any trouble. "I'm sure he's just…tired," she finished lamely.

Enrico gave a conspiratorial smirk.

"It is my experience that older men get tired a little more easily, do they not?"

His eyes sparkled as he gave her a wink and Hermione was suddenly overcome with a deep compulsion to giggle. Not in response to his wink, but in her realization as to why she had never felt anything other than comfortable in the limited contact she had had with him. Meeting his knowing grin with a coy one of her own, she arched an eyebrow.

"I suppose we need to compare experiences one day. I'm sure yours are infinitely more tantalizing than mine."

"That's not what I hear, if the stories are to be believed," he teased, which she found oddly refreshing. "Forgive my impertinence, though, Hermione, but I was under the impression that you went for the more athletic type. Were you not dating the Puddlemere Keeper, Oliver Wood?"

She arched an eyebrow again and he had the good grace to blush.

"I only ask in…how do you say? Envious interest," he added.

Hermione laughed.

"Oliver was a boy. And I needed a man," she said with a smirk.

Enrico grinned.

"I do admit to a little jealousy. Il Nero is…quite good-looking."

"Yes. Yes, he is," she replied, ecstatic that she had found an easy camaraderie with someone while so far from her own friends.

Then she sighed.

"So," she said, taking a drag of her cigarette. "What brings you here in such horrid weather?"

Enrico glanced at the building in front of them.

"I manage this gallery," he said. "It was my mother's job before she died. She had such a great appreciation for art, and I learned to love it through her. So I manage this gallery and help my father sometimes. He is stubborn and insists he doesn't need the help, but I know he gets lonely sometimes in the palazzo."

"I can imagine. I didn't realize your mother had passed away. Sirius led me to believe that she was still around."

Enrico shook his head.

"She was also great friends with your husband. I believe they had a small…how do you say? Fling?"

Hermione tensed as she felt the unfamiliar emotion of jealousy start to creep up her spine.

"Your mother…and Sirius?"

"Yes. Long ago, though, Hermione. When they were just out of school. Sirius introduced her to my father, you know. They were both free spirits at the time."

Hermione simply blinked, more concerned with the emotions she was starting to feel with the new piece of information. It was one thing to hear vaguely sordid stories from Sirius about his past paramours. It was quite another to hear about it from other, innocent third-parties. It didn't seem as vague or irrelevant that way.

"So," Enrico said, seemingly sensing her growing unease and moving to change the subject. "Papa said you and Sirius would be here so I came to offer myself as a guide. Perhaps I am too late?"

"No, not really," Hermione replied, smiling softly. "We had barely been inside for five minutes when Sirius…felt ill."

If Enrico knew that she was stretching the truth, he didn't comment as he simply nodded.

"Yes, it is not a very pleasant exhibit. Exquisite, but disturbing."

"Yes," she agreed, putting out her cigarette and drawing her cloak tighter in an effort to force her body to concentrate on something other than Sirius.

"But you must be freezing!" Enrico exclaimed, and before she could protest, he had pulled his cloak from his shoulders and wrapped it around hers. "Come. I'll show you around."

Hermione was about to give in to her protests, but realized that she really was cold, and didn't have anywhere else to go except inside to finish the exhibit which seemed to hold a deeper level of interest now that she knew her deceased brother-in-law was one of the artists. Taking Enrico's proffered arm, they entered the building and she smiled slightly when the bored desk clerk straightened up immediately upon seeing Enrico.

"He is not very enthusiastic, but he does his job well enough," Enrico whispered in her ear as they made their way down the marble stairs. "Plus, he's not bad to look at, eh?"

Hermione gave a small chuckle.

They fell into a pleasant conversation about the art when they entered the gallery and Hermione was grateful to have a knowledgeable companion to talk to as they looked at the paintings. He was a fount of information on the composition and style and Hermione allowed the excited student within her ingest the new material with unwavering attention, realizing that, in spite of her own rigorous study into the cultural arts, there were some things that just couldn't be learned from a book.

She avoided the painting of the werewolf, a fact that Enrico had blissfully not questioned, and as they paused in front of a smaller room that attached to the larger exhibit, he turned to her with a worried, almost brotherly concern.

"This is what they call the Unforgivable gallery," he said, nodding to the slightly darker ante-chamber. "Three very graphic paintings are housed here, including the two most famous that might or might not have been completed by the original artist. They are quite horrific, and I just want to make sure that you are okay to go in."

Despite her misgivings, Hermione couldn't help but throw him a withering look. He knew as well as anyone else that, as a member of the illustrious Golden Trio, she had faced the Unforgivable curses in person. And while a part of her was wary, the Gryffindor side of her scoffed at the idea that some paint and canvas would compare to her experience.

As if reading her thoughts, Enrico steered Hermione wordlessly into the room.

Her first thought – rather superficially – was that the ambiance was spectacular. It was all dark and dimly lit, the wall sconces throwing eerily-dancing shadows all over the room. Her second thought, however, was decidedly less admiring and more drawn in morbid fascination to the first painting in front of her.

There were two witches in the painting, one lean and wirey – all muscle and sinew – with long ebony hair and cool, appraising ice-blue eyes. The other, slightly taller but plumper, had a round face and intelligent brown eyes that were covered by thick-rimmed glasses. They were backed into a wall but still seemed to work as one unit and as Hermione chanced a glance at the title of the piece, she felt a wave of nausea hit as she realized who the two witches in the painting were.

"This is the Imperius Curse," Enrico said softly from her side, their eyes riveted to the painting as a younger Bellatrix and Dolohov leered at the two trapped witches.

Hermione swallowed hard, horror overwhelming her as she saw the two Death Eaters raise their wands in perfect synchronicity and suddenly, a glazed, befuddled look appeared in the eyes of the bespectacled girl. As if moving a marionette, the maniacal pair willed Meg to raise her wand, pointing it at a now-stricken, pale-faced Amy. Hermione's heart ached as she saw a tear fall from an ice-blue eye in the second before she was struck by a flash of green light, a momentary hint of agony before life was snuffed from her and she collapsed in a heap on the ground. The look of utter pain and anguish on Meg's face when she finally realized what had happened shook Hermione to the core, and she had to will herself to watch the inevitable screaming and tears before the grief drove the girl to her knees, her wand before her as she spoke those two horrible words. There was a brief second of relief, then nothing as she collapsed next to her best friend.

"I sometimes fine myself crying when I watch that painting," Enrico's solemn voice penetrated the ringing in Hermione's ears. "You must have seen real horrors not to be taken to tears by that, Hermione."

Silently gulping large intakes of air, Hermione managed a nod.

"Yes," she said absently, moving to the next painting. "Real horrors."

A glance at the name of the next painting had a hot bubble of hate sear through her body. In front of her sat three people she knew in intimate detail, though two of whom she had never met in her life. The smiling, carefree face of her best friend's infant self, however, was unmistakable as he gurgled happily on his mother's knee, and for the first time, Hermione got a good look at Lily Evans Potter. Her dark, auburn hair and her dancing green eyes seemed so familiar – yet so foreign in the same moment. The adoring, tender smile she had for her son was not a look Hermione could even imagine on the face of a woman who seemed Lily's exact twin and was the only distinction that separated Lily from Selena.

Hermione's eyes floated to James Potter – the man Harry seemed to grow into more and more – and her heart tugged as she saw him lean down to place an affectionate kiss on his son's head.

Hermione couldn't help but physically wince when the door was blown open and a tall, hooded figure stepped into the room. At what seemed like a command from James, Lily – holding her son close to her body – dashed from the room as James stole around for his wand. He had barely curled his fingers around the piece of wood when a bright green light struck him. He gave an inaudible scream and fell to the ground, motionless. The hooded figure barely took a moment to look at his victim before leaving the room in pursuit of his next one.

Hermione frowned. It all seemed so quick – so clinical – in the precision of the assassination. It made her even more resentful of the squirming, two-faced, blissfully-dead Peter Pettigrew, and she was glad Harry was not around the witness the painting.

"It continues," Enrico whispered and Hermione moved, spellbound, to the next painting, watching as Lily tried fruitlessly to ward the door of Harry's room, cringing and holding the baby tighter when the wooden object was blasted off its hinges. Voldemort stood at the doorway and Lily, defiant, put Harry in his crib and turned to face her fate, determined to save her son.

But then something happened that Hermione did not anticipate.

Voldemort was talking. What he was saying, Hermione did not know, but Lily was speaking too. Having never been very good as a lip-reader, Hermione managed to decipher the words "never" and "willingly" from Lily's mouth before Voldemort was speaking again. Hermione couldn't see his face so she couldn't begin to know what he was saying, but she watched as Lily squared her shoulders, hot tears running down her face, but her lips remaining decidedly final:

"No."

Voldemort's wand was up now, but there was no evil green light jetting through the air towards Lily Potter. And yet she was hovering slightly, her body tense in excruciating pain, her head tipped back so her long auburn hair blew slightly in the residual breeze of the curse. Hermione's brow furrowed. Lily had been tortured? Glancing at the name of the piece, Hermione saw the words Cruciatum Transdictum but the words meant nothing to her.

She looked back at the painting just as Lily's body hit the floor, but still no green light had issued from Voldemort's wand. The man himself circled Lily twice before turning to face Hermione. She instinctively took a step backwards, the man's evil seeming to translate even in paint. Swallowing again, she focused past him, fixating on the reflection of his back in the window the artist had painted behind him. He was tall and imposing, still hooded, and Hermione was beginning to wonder what he was doing just standing there looking at her until she realized something and her eyes widened.

He wasn't the only body in the reflection.

Two women, one Hermione recognized and one she didn't, were reflected in the glass. They were both looking at Voldemort – one solemn and supplicant while the other was clearly horrified by the scene in front of her. He was talking to them and as she watched their reflections take a step into the room, the painting reverted back to the beginning.

Hermione blinked. Her head was reeling. There had been witnesses at the Potters' attack? She was certain one of the women in the painting had to be the artist posing as Regulus, as Regulus had been dead for almost two years during the Potters' murder, and though she recognized one, she had no idea who the other was.

And how had Lily Evans Potter really died, if not by the killing curse? Had Voldemort discovered a new way of murdering people? And if so, why hadn't he used it during his second rise?

"I suppose it comes as no shock to you that the two paintings detailing the Potters' deaths were what made these paintings particularly famous," Enrico said, his hand on her shoulder as he registered her tense body language. He seemed ready to leave, trying to coax her out of the room, but she wouldn't budge.

"When was the last time these paintings were in England?" she asked.

Enrico frowned.

"Never. Everything in the adjourning gallery was shipped to Paris anonymously in 1976. The Imperio painting followed in 1977, then nothing until 1981, when they were about to close the gallery in Paris. To my knowledge, these paintings have been touring Europe in underground art galleries for decades. I always assumed it was because they were banned in England."

Hermione was watching the painting again, going over every detail with a critical, intelligent eye. Nothing seemed out of place until Lily fell to the ground – unconscious, no doubt, after being hit with Voldemort's Cruciatus Curse – and lay there motionless as Voldemort circled her.

He seemed very precise in his movements, Hermione thought. One foot slowly in front of the other as he circled Lily twice – no more, no less.

"Enrico," Hermione said urgently when Voldemort turned toward her – and what she now assumed was the doorway – again, "Look at the reflection in the window behind Volde-- He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Do you see those two faces?"

Enrico's brow furrowed, but he took a step forward to look. He started visibly when the two women appeared and his face turned pale.

"Impossibile," he muttered in disbelief before looking at Hermione, "There were others there?"

Hermione nodded.

"I think so."

"But…" He turned and looked at the painting again, uncomprehending. "Who are they?"

"I only recognize one of them," she said softly, taking a step forward and tracing the air over the solemn face. "She was my wedding planner."

Thanks for reading! I hope you liked it!