Biding Time

Disclaimer: I own nothing - I also make nothing from this.

Chapter 6: Renaissance II

She should have felt glad that the extent of her new life, her new name, were not known to the Headmistress. She felt strangely satisfied that she had been so difficult to track. Somehow, though, she felt anxious, unnerved. But she went through her daily life and she felt like she was finally moving on with her life – quietly building a new one for herself.

It wasn’t that there weren’t times when she was direly tempted to use her magic. She always had her wand at hand, more of a security blanket than a possible weapon. She just felt more powerful, more in control, with her wand at hand. It reminded her that she wasn’t a regular Muggle. But she felt a strange, niggling fear about what would happen if she were to use her magic. When she was left waiting at an especially long traffic light, she was tempted. When she had to get through mounds of paperwork, she was tempted. Yet, something always held her in check. A fear of discovery, perhaps. Not by the Muggles – most Muggles wouldn’t recognize magic until they’d been hexed to within an inch of their life. She was afraid that any spells or charms she cast would act as a beacon to the witches and wizards at Hogwarts, at the Ministry of Magic, and anywhere else. She was afraid that any use of her magic would undo all of the work she had done over the years. So she kept her wand resolutely tucked up her sleeve or tucked at the side of her boot – always at the ready, but never to be used.

She set about building her professional reputation. She could leave the magical world and all its trappings behind, but she still couldn’t shake some of her old habits and comforts. She found work as a librarian at a large city library. She still felt more at ease with papers and books than she did with most people. There was just something so inspiring about being surrounded by stacks of books – all the ideas, effort, and potential that was encapsulated in paper. She liked the dusty, musty smell of old books, the gleam of the old leather-bound volumes. She was eager about her work, almost too much so. Her coworkers teased her about being in love with fictional characters. And, though she tried to ignore it, she had to admit that she was half in love with some of the characters: Sayers’ sophisticated Lord Peter Wimsey, Austen’s haughty Mr. Darcy, Grimes’ smug Melrose Plant. There were real boys, men, she had dated but, to her horror, those relationships all ended the same way. She would be tempted, desiring them, only for the young man to run his hand across her stomach and get burned by her zipper as he tried to free her, or to discover that the tiny metal teeth had welded together, only coming undone long after the young man had left and his ardour had cooled. Once, Hermione had even found her skirt plastered to her legs, as if glued there, not allowing any access. So, she eventually gave up on dates beyond the occasional coffee or lunch. She wondered if she had unwittingly cast a charm on herself in those instances – that perhaps some small part of her wanted to remain faithful to her betrothed, even though she had tried to leave her magical life and him behind. So, she focused on books, her work and her friends. She had forged a small, ferociously loyal group of friends out of her peers at University. They dragged her out to dinner or to clubs from time to time – just often enough to keep her from burrowing too far into her world of books and knowledge. And she was grateful for them – they made her feel normal. They made her feel safe and secure, even if they were poor substitutes for Ron and Harry and the friends she had left behind. She wondered how those Muggle friends would react if they knew the truth about her.

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The portrait of Albus Dumbledore coughed gently, and Minerva McGonagall jumped in her seat.

“Must you always scare me like that, Albus?” Her mouth was pinched, but her eyes were bright and twinkling. She always pretended to chide him, and he always pretended to be ashamed. It was all a fairly predictable act.

“So sorry, Minerva. Just wanted to inquire about my little matchmaking venture.” She shook her head grimly.

“You know, I really don’t know what your reasoning behind the union is but I still don’t quite see the purpose in it.” A smile danced across the painted lips.

“At the risk of sounding childish – that is for me to know, Minerva. I have my reasons, just trust in that.”

“Well, I have followed your directions. Miss Granger has been warned about the triad charm. Wherever she is, she has been quite successful at keeping herself hidden from the magical community. There have been no unusual, out-of-the-ordinary events or usages of magic that can be traced back to her. She, almost certainly, has changed her name. Otherwise, she would have been run to ground before now – she was rather infamous after she left Ronald Weasley at the altar. Her name and photograph were splashed across the more tawdry publications for weeks after the fact. You know, I don’t know why you had me cast the triad charm on her really. I know I wrote that it wasn’t “sporting” of her to not give Severus a chance to find her, but I think that is just nonsense.” Albus Dumbledore chuckled gently, his painted beard trembling.

“She can’t have her cake and eat it too, Minerva. If she truly wants to be quit of her responsibilities and life in the magical world, she can’t be communicating with Ron and Harry. They are a part of that other life, and she will need to decide ultimately what life she truly desires – a Muggle one or a magical one. She cannot have both. Therefore, if she tries to meld the two by having – what is it the nastier Slytherins called them so sarcastically – oh yes, the “golden trio” reunite, the decision may just be made for her. That is if Severus wishes to locate her to fulfill the obligations of their union.” His periwinkle eyes flashed cunningly, in silent amusement, and Minerva McGonagall could only sigh.

********

The owl was not quite as harried looking this time. Gone was the fear of being roasted over an open fire. There wasn’t a well-aimed wineglass to bid it farewell. Instead, a hand the colour of bleached bone reached out and ruffled its feathers tenderly, gently stroking it. The other hand unraveled the parchment as the man’s eyes scanned the words. After reading the parchment, the man smoothed the paper with his hand, his fingers trailing over certain words, as if caressing them. Then, he clasped a wineglass filled with strong-smelling liquid, raised it in the air as if in a toast and then carefully drank, holding the liquid in his mouth, savouring the flavour for a moment before lustily swallowing the liquid which burned like fire down his throat.

“A simple charm. Yes, so simple.” He whispered – his voice soft and low from disuse. “Simple but also quite easy to break.” He laughed loudly, a little cruelly, startling the bird.

“And so it develops. I am getting rather bored and tired of being here, alone. All I must do now is bide my time.” He chuckled again, as his smooth hand patted the bird.