Biding Time

Disclaimer: As usual, I own nothing; I make nothing from this.

Chapter 8: Chaos Theory

After that sudden surge of panic that shot through her like a jolt of electricity, things weren’t the same for the young woman called Philippa Shaw.

She began to see things out of the corner of her eye: fleeting shadows where there should have been none, books appearing and disappearing when they shouldn’t have done. She began to hear strange popping sounds – almost as if someone had suddenly apparated in the library and then just as suddenly disapparated. She took to roaming through the stacks, pacing down long row upon row of books, newspapers and magazines. She was searching for something but she wasn’t sure what she was looking for. She began to distrust what she did see. Once at the library, she saw a small, wizened form and tried to convince herself that it was just a tragically ugly child and not a house-elf, as it appeared to be. Once, when she was on the bus, she used the sleeve of her jacket to clear the mist from the window beside her only to find a pair of eyes looking back at her – silver like old coins – from where she had just cleared the glass. The eyes blinked, disappeared, then a man was chasing the bus, arms flailing as he ran. His sleeve slithered back and she could have sworn she saw an undulating serpent and death’s head there on his bare arm. She had muttered “Stupefy” beneath her breath and the man appeared to stumble and fall. Coincidence, she told herself. A trick of the light, she told herself.

She had been so careful. She had started over: a new place, a new name, a new life. She couldn’t believe that it could all fall down around her like a house of cards. What was worse, the dreams came to her more regularly and more frightening than before. She dreamt of being slowly strangled, a pair of white hands pressing into her until she couldn’t breathe – the face of her attacker seeming far off, remote and placid. Only his eyes seemed alive, gleaming like jewels in his skull. She dreamt of that same face coming very close to hers so that she could feel his breath on her face. He licked his lip with the tip of his tongue wolfishly and whispered to her in a voice rough with disuse “Soon, my dear. Soon. I’m counting the hours.” And he laughed, but this time it was not mirthless and malicious. It was as if he had told a good joke. The word “soon” would still be echoing in her head when she awoke. She took to trying to stay awake at night, drinking pots of strong coffee to stay alert, only to fall asleep when the sun was creeping up on the horizon, or falling asleep at her desk, her head pillowed on mounds of books. It was at work, when she awoke from one of her daytime slumbers, that she was suddenly aware of a prickling feeling on the back of her neck, very aware of someone staring at her. She shot up in her chair with a start, her back ram-rod straight, her hands flying to her hair to smooth it away from her face. Her heart was in her throat, pounding like a jackhammer. When she saw who was staring at her, her heart slowed its treble and her breath evened out.

Glenn and Jake. Two decidedly unmagical men. She had gone to university with them, and they worked for the government. They both looked rather like accountants. Mild looking faces, slender in their cuffed shirts and tailored pants. Jake cleared his throat.
“Pippa, we’ve come to drag you away from your desk. It’s time for you to go out again.” Jake had always called her Pippa, which irritated her to no end. She liked the name Philippa. Its diminutive, Pippa, just sounded so undignified. She suspected that if she told Jake how she hated the name Pippa, he’d just call her that even more and more gleefully. She supposed that she should count her blessings that it hadn’t been shortened further to Pip, making her sound like some wayward Dickensian character. She glanced at the clock.
“Guys, I can’t leave yet. It’s much too early.” Glenn coughed and flung his arm out, sweeping around the library.
“It’s empty. I suspect it’s been dead all day. Come on, no more excuses. You’ve missed too many of our gatherings as it is lately.” She looked around. Motes of dust danced in the rays of light slanting through the windows. The tables had a thin veil of dust on them and the books were all slotted away in their proper places. She looked at the clock, then at the empty library, then back at the clock. She sighed, strode to the door and flipped the sign to “closed”.
“Alright. What coffee shop are we all meeting up at today? Or is it another trip to China town?” When they all met up, there was usually at least fifteen of them. Most coffee shop waiters had visions of full tip jars dancing in their heads when they all walked in. Jake took her by the elbow protectively. They had dated a few times, but he was one of the young men who had been burned by her renegade zipper when he had wanted to go further. Since then, they had merely been good friends.
“No, it’s a new place today. Some sort of pub. It wasn’t my idea to go there. We heard about it from someone else.”

She clambered into Glenn’s tiny car. Jake climbed into the back beside her. Glenn looked in the rearview mirror and winked at them.
“No funny stuff back there, you two.” He said dryly. Hermione shot a glance at Jake. He was looking at her, a blank look on his face. His hand had grasped her arm again.
“What’s going on? Why are you being so clingy today? It’s been years since we dated, Jake. What’s going on?” The blank look was gone but his eyes were clouded, as if he were thinking of something far, far away.
“You think you know someone.” His green eyes were flat. They had once reminded her of Harry’s eyes – warm and sparkling like emeralds. Now, they reminded her of cold, mossy stones at the bottom of a glacial stream.
“What? What do you mean?” She tried to catch Glenn’s gaze in the rearview mirror, but he wasn’t paying attention. Jake didn’t answer for a long time. He held his silence as Glenn wove his way through traffic. He wove down narrow streets that Hermione had never seen before. The houses there looked odd, asymmetrical, and unbelievably old. The spires of the Parliament buildings hovered on the horizon, suddenly seeming very far away. Jake’s cell phone broke the silence, making hiccoughing sounds in his pocket. He flicked it open, muttered a sullen “Hello”, waited a moment, and then handed it to Hermione.
“It’s for you.” He ran his hands through his spiky hair, making him look like a rumpled, sulky child. She brought the phone to her ear and whispered “Hullo”. A high-pitched whine filled her ear. She whispered a greeting again only to hear strange mechanical hisses and pops. She flipped the phone closed and handed it back to Jake.
“Bad reception, I guess.”
“Really? It was fine when I answered it. He asked for you by name.”
“Who?” She felt a chill shooting through her – not just up and down her spine but down her legs to the soles of her feet and down her arms to make her fingertips tingle. She had a feeling that if she brought her hand to her head, her hair would be standing on end.
“I don’t know. Some guy.” Then, he turned to stare out the window. Glenn pulled over to the side of the road, stopping so abruptly that Hermione lurched forward in her seat.
“Well, we’re here. Finally.” He muttered the last word as if his passengers had been unruly children on a field trip. “Here”, when she looked outside, sucked the air from her lungs.

It was a tiny building, stone with a thatched roof and mullioned windows like an English cottage. But something was odd about it – a crooked turret reached skyward from the rear of the building. A split curtain, like those that hang in the entranceways of Japanese restaurants, hung in the doorway. Half of the noren had a stylized serpent twisting across the fabric. The other half of the noren had a gold-embossed griffon. Strange flowers she had never seen before nodded in the breeze – scattering electric blue and fuchsia petals onto the path at her feet.

“Where are we?” She looked around. The cottage seemed to be surrounded by wheat fields. She could have sworn that they hadn’t left the city.
“Don’t you know?” Jake’s voice was grim. She shook her head.
“No. You’re the ones who brought me here. Who told you about this place?”
“Some guy visiting at work – from some other ministry. He saw a group photo from our last gathering – remember, from Canada Day – and said that this place might be nice for our next gathering.” Hermione craned her head around as they walked to the door. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a sign swaying in the breeze. It was hung over the door, its paint was faded, and it had a faint outline of a painting. She squinted and the image rose to the surface like an optical illusion. An intricately carved wand was crossed with a shining dagger. Beneath the painting, calligraphy-styled letters spelled out “The Spell and Scepter”. Jake gave her a gentle push on the shoulders and she tumbled through the curtain.

Inside, the cottage was cavernous. A stage loomed at the far end, heavy scarlet curtains hung at each side, pooling to the wooden floor. Several round tables dotted the floor, covered in shiny cloth that seemed to change colour with each change in the light. Shadows danced in the corners and wherever else the light from the wall scones and the candles on the tables didn’t reach.
“Where is everyone?” She hissed. She was feeling a very familiar sense of panic flitting up her spine, turning her on edge.
“Over there.” Glenn took her by the arm and half dragged her to the table. Sure enough there was a tidy little group there. Her friend Gemma, with a ring neatly punched through her nostril and her hair dyed a curious shade of lime green, gave a little wave. Beside her was Rina, her hennaed hair glinting in the candlelight, the lapels of her severe suit dark against her olive skin. Hermione slowly pulled out a chair and slumped into it. The cottage was half full. All of the other patrons were caught up in their own conversations, their faces a blur. A crisp looking waiter strolled by, handing out glasses of wine. Gemma cleared her throat then rose to her feet. She tilted her head towards Hermione.

“Glad you could make it, Philippa. About time.” She snorted, then regaining her composure, she straightened her spine and lifted her glass in a toast.
“Here’s to revelations.” She intoned. They clinked glasses. They were about to take their first sips of wine when a familiar voice behind Hermione said clearly:
“Here, here.” A hollow clap of hands behind her punctuated the words.

Hermione spun around and looked up at Ron Weasley.

His hair had darkened to a coppery shade over the years. The candlelight made his hair shimmer. His skin was still milk pale. He wore a plain white dress shirt, cuffs turned up neatly at his wrists.
“Pippa – I believe you’ve met Ron before.” Jake said “He’s the one who so kindly recommended this place to us.” Ron was grinning, looking rather pleased with himself.
“Hullo, ‘Mione.” And with those two words, all of her illusions about herself came crashing down. All of her hard work, her secrecy, was in tatters.
“Why didn’t you tell us your real name, Pippa?” Jake said the last word with a grin, teasing her. She rose from her chair and grabbed Ron’s shoulders.
“What are you doing here? How did you find me? Why did they have to be involved?” She nodded at the expectant faces at their table; candlelight flickered ghoulishly on their faces.
“They’ve been involved for a rather long time, ‘Mione.” Gemma giggled softly behind her hands and Hermione shot her a dark look.
“Sorry, Hermione” Gemma said “but I’ve known about you all along. I did see the “Daily Wizard” after all. It ran a very unflattering series of stories about you about ten years ago. You know, when you left Ron here at the altar. When you showed up at the university as Philippa Shaw, I thought you looked familiar. I looked up the old newspapers and found the photographs. You haven’t really changed much over the years, you know. I’m a squib, you see. I’m not really magical, but I do know all about you." She waved a rolled newspaper, which had just apparated into her hand, in the air. Hermione snatched the paper from her hand. It was that day’s edition of the “Daily Wizard”. A large colour photograph showed Hermione’s back, her shoulders straight, and her head tilted back as she looked over her shoulder at the photographer. Her amber hair spilled over her shoulders like a shawl. In large, scarlet letters the words “Witch Spotting” were stamped across the image. A tiny Canadian flag was printed at the end of the words.
“All I wanted was my privacy.” She whispered “All I wanted was to be normal.” She buried her face in her hands. She felt a warm hand on her shoulder, and Ron sank down beside her.
“It’s not so bad, is it ‘Mione? They all know about who you are, they accept that.”
“It certainly explains a lot.” Jake said, patting her on the shoulder “When you were tired, your accent would come out. We all noticed, but we never said anything. Also, there were times that you wouldn’t answer to the name Philippa.” She looked around the table and saw their smiling faces, their thoughts of her unchanged.
“It’s okay? I lied to you all and it’s still okay?” She sounded outraged.
“You’re still who you are at the heart of it all. We can all kind of understand – who hasn’t wanted to take a vacation away from it all? Your vacation was ten years long, that’s all.” Rina smiled softly.
“See, ‘Mione. It’s all okay. They all still like you; I’ve forgiven you for the whole wedding thing. I was mad for a while but I think I understand. Merlin, even my mum’s forgiven you for leaving me at the altar. Isn’t that right, Mum?” He called over his shoulder. A woman at a neighbouring table turned in her seat. Molly Weasley beamed at Hermione from beneath her mop of russet curls “Of course, Hermione dear.”

“Oh dear,” Hermione’s inner voice exclaimed “what have we here?”

“And you’re still the most brilliant witch Hogwarts has seen for generations. Your record is unbroken.” Ron continued, but Hermione wasn’t listening anymore. Her gaze was sweeping over the other tables and she was picking out faces that looked quite familiar. Two tables away a bubble-gum-pink-haired woman was bouncing an equally pink-haired baby on her knee. At her left, a slender, nervous-looking man had his arm slung protectively round her shoulders. It couldn’t be Nymphadora Tonks and Remus Lupin, could it? A woman at another table had her silver-threaded hair piled on her head, her dress severe but immaculate. Not Minerva McGonagall surely? The woman looked at Hermione, pursed her lips into a soft smile, winked and gave a little wave. Yes, it was the Headmistress. The more she looked, the more faces she was able to pick out. Hagrid was looking strangely inconspicuous at a far table – still shaggy and disheveled like an overgrown Newfoundland dog. He hollered across the room:
“Good to see you, ‘Mione! You should see what I’ve got for a pet these days.” Then, he shot a guilty look at the Headmistress and stopped talking.
“What are they all doing here?” She hissed. Ron stopped his babbling and looked at her.
“They thought it was time for a reunion of sorts.”

“Reunion,” Her inner voice rambled “splendid. Reunions are usually planned. I don’t like the look of this. Not at all.” Hermione squelched the inner voice and turned to say something to Ron. The words never left her lips though. A figure was ducking under the noren and entering the room. The spare light flashed on his glasses. He was luminous in a white dress shirt.
“Harry?” Her voice was soft, strained “What are you doing here?” He smiled broadly, his eyes shining.
“I wouldn’t miss the reunion for anything.”

Thoughts of the flooed letter, the triad charm, shot through her mind.
“You can’t be here. You’re going to have to leave.” She cast a sidelong glance at Ron. “One of you has to leave – now!” The last word echoed in the cavernous room, her panic undeniable. She rose to her feet to push one of them out the door, and she stumbled.
“What is that?” Gemma asked, her voice breaking through Hermione’s panic. She looked at Gemma, who was pointing a black-lacquered fingernail at her. Hermione looked down and gasped. Her simple black pant suit was gone. In its place, she was swathed in layers of white lace and tulle that fell in delicate layers to her ankles. A wedding dress. The ring between her breasts glowed like an ember.

“This can’t be good” Her inner voice muttered. “Really not good.”

“What….” She began, spinning around, searching the faces for answers. No answers were offered.

“Am I the last to arrive? Pity.” A voice drawled behind her. The voice was dry, with a faint current of amusement running through it. Then, a dark figure swept through the noren, leaving the curtain fluttering in his wake. Professor Severus Snape stopped in his tracks, looked at Hermione, and a slow, wolfish smile spread across his face.