Wedlocked
Chapter 30: Order Business

"THIEVES!"

The goblin's gnarled, arthritic finger shot out and pointed at them as his other hand reached behind and grabbed hold of a smaller lever. Sirius spun in his seat, wand drawn and face fierce. Seeing who it was, he only grew angrier.

"No, just my wife and idiot Godson, who both ought to know better," he growled.

"Your—"

Gaping, Hermione barrelled over the goblin's words. "I'm the one who ought to know better? You know full well how worried we were when Remus was gone for a day and a half! After you went on about his… business, you think I'm not going to follow you when you give me the same vague excuse?"

"My wife always thinks I'm stepping out on her, too," the little goblin patted Sirius on the back and turned back to the lever.

"I am trying to keep you safe, you bloody swot," Sirius hissed and threw a spell at her. She flinched, expecting a hex, a light stinging hex at least, a fully-body bind at worst, but she felt warm and dry. He flicked his wand at Harry and at himself, then turned his dry, though frigid, shoulder on them.

She knew that she had not acted as wisely as she could have, but there were things she needed to know and if sneaking around was the only way to get that information then that was what she would do. If it was Order business then it affected Harry; if it affected Harry, then it affected her. She was fully justified in her actions, however foolish they might appear. What right did he have to yell at her for doing no worse than he had done at seventeen?

Feeling resentment at her treatment and validation of her methods, she opened her mouth to assault him with a second barrage.

"Don't," he warned.

"How could you possibly know what I'm going to say?"

"I know you."

She crossed her arms and huffed angrily.

"I thought you were lying about her being your wife," the goblin laughed, "but that's just what mine does when she's angry with me. Poor sod." He took his hand from the small lever, assured in the integrity of his passengers.

"Don't you start, too!" Hermione snapped.

"Yes, Mrs Black," replied the goblin quickly.

She fumed for the last vomit-inducing stretch of the ride, too furious to notice how sickening the sharp twists and sudden descents were. The cart came to a quick stop. The goblin, whose name Hermione still didn't know, climbed out easily and led them down a short path carved into the bedrock. She expected to see vault doors, but there were none. Instead there was an archway leading to a high-ceilinged rotunda that smelled overpoweringly of unwashed wild beasts.

"Stay close to the wall and do not stray behind," the goblin advised as he lifted a metal device and began rattling it to make a loud and annoying noise. "It's a Clanker. The dragon has been trained to fear it and will not come near."

"Dragon?" Hermione repeated and gripped the nearest arm, not caring that it was Sirius's and that they were angry with one another.

Rushing through the entrance at the pace set by the little goblin and his Clanker, they pressed themselves against the wall beside the vault door in relief. It was terrifying seeing a dragon so close, but more than anything Hermione was horrified at the condition of it. She had seen dragons in their natural state, strong and beautiful and free save their temporary use as obstacles to the Triwizard champions. This dragon was nothing like those. It was thin in the chest from being unable to exercise its flight muscles. The leathery skin of its wings was filthy and torn from living in its own muck and from the abuse used to 'train' it.

No magical being deserved such treatment.

"Leave it," Sirius whispered, running a hand down her back to soothe her growing outrage. "Timing is important to the battles we choose. Crusade for dragon rights once we're safely above ground."

She huffed, though it sounded more like a breath of laughter. He really did know her.

"Only a relative of the family may touch the contents," the goblin warned. "I advise your wife and Godson to remain outside the vault." He placed his palm to the filthy metal, and the door opened.

"Stay," Sirius ordered sternly.

"Don't you talk to me like I'm some moronic dog," Hermione fumed and stomped after him. Her ire vanished as she came to an abrupt stop, staring in open-mouthed wonder not at her husband's horrified face but at the glittering contents of the Lestrange vault. It was like the coffers they always showed in movies when some treasure hunter stumbled into the long-lost kingdoms forgotten by time and buried by sand or jungle growth. It was shining and beautiful.

"What the hell are you doing?" Sirius growled.

Hermione stared at the toppled piles of Galleons near her feet. "Sirius, if the Black Family Vault is even half as grand as this," she said in a hushed voice. "I have absolutely no qualms about letting you lavish me in books."

A quiet chuckle escaped him, though he silenced it quickly. "We have to get out of here alive first."

"What?"

"You didn't have the joy of meeting Bellatrix back in June," he replied darkly. "Trust me, Hermione, there is probably nothing in here that isn't cursed against someone like you."

She looked from his face to deceptively beautiful contents of the vault, finally realising the sort of people who had stored these items away; the fanatical purebloods would doubtless have placed curses on even the smallest or most innocuous of their possessions on the off chance that it might one day fall into the hand of a Muggle-born. Edging away from the spilled coins back toward the door, her heart started to beat wildly in panic. The space was too narrow, she felt caged. Even with her arms wrapped tightly against her body, her elbow hit against a towering bronze statue. She drew her wand in anticipation of the lethal reaction. Nothing came.

"Final proof that she's really your wife, then," the goblin said sounding rather disappointed that the contents of the vault had not reared up and attacked her.

"I think I'll stay over here," Hermione said. "Just to be on the safe side."

"Good plan," her husband called, his voice heavy with sarcasm that she did not appreciate.

Her accidental touching of the statue had apparently given Sirius more confidence in his right to claim the vault. Where a moment before he was edging around objects with careful consideration to the placement of his feet and hands and elbows, he now moved purposefully through the thin space not bothering to pause or flinch if his robes brushed against a vase or statue. He was searching for something, that much she could tell, though she had no idea what. There were so many shining treasures locked in the vault it was difficult to say what would be of value to the Order or to Sirius.

As she watched, breath held tightly in her lungs, Sirius stopped and directed his attention to a golden cup resting on a high shelf. It was small and looked as if it could barely hold enough water to satisfy the least thirsty of men. In a vault filled with such finely-crafted objects, the tiny cup was hardly worth looking at, even in Hermione's opinion, yet Sirius did look. He stared up at it. She wanted to see his face, to know the expression he wore when looking at it, and found herself moving again into the vault without any conscious direction from her brain.

"Hermione," Harry hissed but made no move to come after her.

The girl was clear across the vault by the time Sirius did anything more than stare at the cup. She saw the want in his eyes, the naked hunger she had never seen before, though she could not understand why he would be showing it. Sirius lifted his wand, waving it in the familiar motion to summon an object. The cup refused to even wiggle weakly, sitting on the shelf as if Sirius had not just sent a charm at it.

"Hermione," he said and pointed to the cup. "I'm going to levitate you up to reach that cup."

"That doesn't sound like a very good idea," she replied nervously. "Couldn't I levitate you up to it instead?"

He considered her a moment before nodding. "Smart girl. It might be rigged against Muggle-borns."

She glanced back at the cup and wondered why he would think it booby-trapped when the statue had proven safe. Her hand had brushed against an enamel vase, her feet had stepped on at least five hundred Galleons as she followed him, yet it was the tiny cup that was dangerous? It seemed ludicrous, but his face was drawn. He was serious. "Are you ready?"

He nodded.

She waved her wand, swishing and flicking and sending Sirius up into the air. He hovered parallel to the shelf, reached out and grabbed hold of the cup. As he ripped it from its home, Hermione struggled to keep him aloft. Holding Sirius up had been difficult enough, but it felt as if she were now levitating two men instead of just the one. The resistance she felt against the spell was almost too much for her to withstand, and she hurried to bring Sirius back to the floor before she lost control and sent him crashing to it.

"Well done," he said, dropping the cup into an inner pocket of his robes. Oddly, he looked more grim. His task was complete; the cup had been retrieved, so she failed to see why he looked as if the hardest part still lay ahead.

"Ladies first," he said with a bow. His attempt at lightness failed to distract her; she could still see the tightness around his eyes and mouth and hear the strain in his voice. Whatever the cup was, whatever his next task, it scared him.

"Sirius—"

"Not here," he cut her off. "I don't trust this place."

An argument was on the tip of her tongue, but she bit it back. The vault or its contents made him more nervous than she had ever seen him. It was nearly enough to make her laugh; she had wanted to find the one thing Sirius was not good at, and she had found it. It was not the sort of thing she could use against him, though. She would never dare take advantage of so understandable a fear, not even to knock him down a peg or two.

"What's so special about that cup?" Harry asked eagerly.

"Nothing that concerns you," Sirius said with absolute finality.

The boy scowled. "So what happens now? Since we're not allowed to be helpful."

"Now, I take you both home, where you should have been since breakfast, and lock you in your rooms until I finish my work."

In the cart once again, Hermione and Harry sat in the back, silent and cross, glaring daggers at the back of Sirius's head. The wild ride through the underground vault system did nothing to distract either of them, and, as soon as the cart stopped, Harry launched his protest.

"Why are you keeping secrets from us?" the boy demanded. "You of all people should know how dangerous that can be! My parents died because of secrets, Sirius. You nearly died because of them!"

The man sighed, grabbed them each by the arm and pulled them through the bank. "When it's all over, I will tell you everything," he promised. "Until then, the less you know, the safer you'll be."

"Sit at home, quiet and confined?" Hermione sneered. "What year were you born – 1959 or 1759?"

Sirius offered no reply and his face was carefully blank, but the volume of his Disapparition spoke to how angry he was. "Get in the house," he ordered quietly.

Harry stomped up the steps, either unaware of his Godfather's real mood or too angry to care. He stormed up the steps to his bedroom and slammed the door shut. Hermione was not so willing to hide in her room, and waited for Sirius to offer some kind of explanation. She stood in the entrance hall as he added wards to the door, something he rarely bothered doing since the house was Unmappable.

"Go upstairs," he told her. "I'll explain later."

"You'll explain now."

"Hermione," he sighed, sounding as if her demand was causing him physical pain.

"Who was the one who insisted on absolute honesty?" she reminded him.

"For you to tell me the truth about how you feel," he spat, "not in every-goddamn-thing we do. Do you really think I care how many hours you spent at the fucking library?" The fire was growing in his eyes, a dark anger verging on resentment. She had not even seen such rage when she faced him on their wedding day, fuming and shouting, surrounded by the shattered contents of his kitchen cupboards. Right now, Sirius hated her.

Dressed in his fine clothes, eyes burning into her, voice not his own, he was frightening. Strangely, that made her angry. What right did he have to intimidate her? She was his wife. She was a garment to compliment and complete and comfort him,not a carpet for him to trample all over.

"No, you probably don't care, but I would tell you if Dumbledore ordered me to run all alone into the village on some stupid mission," she countered. "Something like this matters. Absolute truthfulness, you said."

"It wasn't my truth to tell, you stupid girl," he shouted, and took a staggering step back, shocked by his own volume. When he spoke again, he was quieter, though not by much, "It wasn't my place to say."

"Not your place?" she repeated, hardly believing her ears. "You're Sirius Black. Since when do you have a 'place'?" She could tell that he had taken her words as a compliment and continued quietly, "You could have given me some hint instead of leaving me to worry. Just give me something I can research. I'm going insane being locked away and kept in the dark. Tell me what that thing is."

Too quickly for him to knock her hands away, she tore into his robes, digging into the inner pocket and pulling the stolen cup free.

As she stepped back, cup in hand, the resentment melted from him. She could see the relief in his posture and face, as if the cup had been a terrible weight on his body and conscience. Seeing him relax had the opposite effect on her; seeing his diminished anger made hers grow, though if forced to put her reasons into words she would not have been able to.

"What is this?" she demanded, turning her hard glare from him to the cup.

It was beautiful, the gold shining as if it had just been polished, the patterns on the handles so delicate. She wanted to hold it in her hands forever, to keep it safe and unharmed and close. Her stiff spine and squared shoulders softened as she stared. Sirius must have seen the change in her. How could he not when he knew her so well? He wrapped his arms around her, as if hugging her from behind, though his fingers slid lightly down her arms and grasped her hands. He made no move to steal the cup away, so she ignored him; he was a buzzing fly trying to distract her from protecting the magnificent cup, her magnificent cup.

"Pet," Sirius whispered into her ear in the way that always made her shiver; now it just annoyed her, "I think you should put that back."

"You just want to take it for yourself," she said, eyes locked on the cup and tongue licking hungrily at her lips.

"Not for myself. For Dumbledore."

"What could he want with something so precious?"

He paused a brief moment, but continued, "To keep it safe. Powerful man, Dumbledore. The only man Voldemort ever feared."

That was true. Voldemort never dared attack the school during the first wizarding war. Dumbledore was too strong, too clever, too tricky. If anyone could protect the cup, it was such a man.

"Let's take it to him," Sirius whispered, low, seductive, pulling her slowly back toward the door.

"Yes."

He guided her through the door and out to the street, though he could have been guiding her anywhere for all the good her eyes were doing her; they were too busy caressing the cup's every detail as she held it gently in her hands. Even through Disapparition and the walk from the gates of Hogwarts to the Headmaster's Office, she knew only the beautiful little chalice. Dumbledore was there, talking, but she could not look away. Why would she want to? The cup was what she had been seeking her whole life without ever knowing it.

"Hermione, the cup," Sirius prompted.

The force of will required to rip her eyes from her cup was more than she had ever imagined, but she did look away to the smiling face of Albus Dumbledore.

"Come, Mrs Black, I cannot do my part if the cup remains in your hands."

"Yes," she nodded. "Keep it safe, please, Professor."

She set it down on the desk before him and watched as he lifted his wand.

"You chose correctly, Sirius," the old wizard confirmed. "This is most certainly the cup of Helga Hufflepuff. Let us finish this."

"Finish?" Hermione repeated dully, unable to think clearly even with the small distance she had put between the cup and her skin.

"Stand back, my dear," the Headmaster advised gently. "Sirius."

Sirius stepped into her field of vision, shoulders squared and jaw set, looking every inch the dashing knight excepting his lack of armour. He did, however, have a sword. Shining brightly, the silver sword looked lethally sharp; no mere decoration to be hung on the wall and admired, it had been made for real use, and use it Sirius would. He set his sights on the cup, adjusting his grip on the ruby-encrusted hilt.

As he raised the sword high, a sharp cry pierced the air. Hermione gripped her head as if it might shatter from the noise. Eyes watering from the pain, she looked to Sirius. The man was frozen in place, pale and pained, startled at first by the ear-splitting noise, then by the sight emerging from the cup.