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Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter; I make no money here.

AN: Many thanks to my beta, dreamy_dragon73 for all her help; she makes it all readable.

"Oh. Hi, Boss. You made it back, I see. Did you get all your errands taken care of then?"

"Yes, Paddy. How did it go here today? Did the Shamrock Tour bus make the scheduled stop? Any problems I should know about?"

"Yup, everything went fine. Well, except we ran out of the potato soup, but Corrine subbed the chicken rice in, no big deal. The beer order was short a case of Guinness, but we should have enough in stock 'til the next delivery comes through."

"Very good," Russ replied as he began to total up till.

"Oh, yea. There was a cute little English bird askin' about you."

"Me?" He froze, but his face didn't reveal any concern. "Someone was asking for me?"

"Well, not you by name exactly."

Russ relaxed, his grip on the edge of the bar eased.

"She asked about the owner, said someone told her to give you his regards. She thought I might be the owner at first. Oh, funny thing too, boss. When she first saw me, she said I reminded her of a bloke from back home, someone named George. That's that same thing you said when we met, isn't it? Wonder if it could be the same one, do you think? Can't be all that many guys named George wearin' this ugly mug can there?"

"We can only hope not, Paddy." replied Russ grimly. "So...what was she like, this little bird?"

Paddy considered carefully. "Well, at first glance, I'd say a plain brown sparrow. But on closer study, I'd say a small hawk or a falcon perhaps."

Russ pinched the bridge of his rather prominent nose and rubbed in between his eyebrows. "I didn't actually mean for you to describe her like a bird. What did she look like...in human terms."

"Oh, sorry, Boss. Well, she was kinda petite-like, you know?" Paddy held his hand up just below his shoulder height. "Smallish build. Wild curly, brown hair and brown eyes too...that's what reminded me of a sparrow first off, don't you see? At first glance she seems a bit plain and all...kinda mousy, but if you take a closer look you see she's not at all. An' her eyes boss, those eyes, Lord have mercy. That's what put me in mind of a falcon, a kestral maybe, like she's smart, really smart, there was a keen knowledge there behind her eyes. But they looked like they've seen great evil or experienced a terrible sorrow."

"It seems you were studying this little bird quite closely, Paddy. Did you happen to get a name by any chance?" asked Russ sardonically.

Shaking his head, Paddy replied, "I didn't catch it, Boss. It was right in the midst of the lunch rush. I felt bad 'cause she remembered my name right along."

Russ snorted and flicked his finger tip against Paddy's name tag, but Paddy blushed and explained, "No, she called me Padraic 'cause when I told her my name I said it proper. Padraic McEvoy. And she remembered it later, but I told her to call me Paddy. So I felt bad that I didn't remember hers. I'm sure I'll find out though when she comes back in."

Russ looked up sharply. "What makes you think she'll be back, Paddy? Wasn't she just traveling through on the tour bus?"

"Oh, no, Boss. Didn't I say that? She was already in here when the bus stopped; she lives here in the village... er well... just outside, that is. She's old Maeve McNamara's niece or great-niece, I guess. She inherited Bluebell Cottage from Maeve or somethin'. So she's livin' not too far from you, up on Witches' Ridge."

"How appropriate," muttered Russ under his breath.

An hour later, after the till was totaled, the floors swept, the bar wiped down and all the set-up done for the next day, Paddy and the night staff went home. Russ sat at the corner of the bar and poured his third shot of Jameson. He sat ruminating, wondering exactly what his next move should be.

He was sure that Paddy's mystery bird was Granger. The question was, why? Why was she here? Had she sought him out intentionally for some unknown reason or just to prove she could? Had someone leaked his location? The people who knew where he was numbered fewer than the fingers on one hand. Was it purely coincidence that the spot he had chosen to settle just happened to be the home town of Granger's great-aunt, Maeve?

Should he pack up and run? He didn't want to do that. He'd spent eight years building a life in this place and he liked it here. There were no twinkling Headmasters to command him, no Dark Lords to curse him; it was quiet, boring and comfortable, and he reveled in it. He didn't want to abandon it unless it was a matter of life or death. He pounded back another shot of Jameson; it wasn't Firewhisky, but it would have to do.

~**~

In the end, Russ Spaveene decided not to do anything rash. Better to take a wait-and-see approach. He waited a few days, but Granger didn't show up at the pub again, so he began to think that perhaps she wasn't stalking him. Ironically, he began stalking her instead to find out what she was up to.

He casually asked around to gather information. He mentioned to Mrs. Foy, the old lady who ran the post office, that he'd heard he had a new neighbor and wondered what she knew about her. He actually was a neighbor. Although he did keep rooms above the pub for nights when he worked extremely late, he also rented a small home just over the hill and down the road about a kilometer from Maeve's cottage... well apparently Granger's now. Mrs. Foy loved to gossip and was as old as sin, so she knew everything about everyone in town. She recalled when the girl had been a child and had come visiting with her parents several times. Then, she had actually stayed the whole summer two times with her Aunt Maeve when she was about ten or eleven. But then, she'd started up at some fancy, exclusive boarding school in Scotland, and her folks had wanted her home in the summers after that, or at least she supposed that was the case.

He talked to young Timothy Murphy, the pimply-faced boy who worked at the grocer's. Tim was more than willing to tell him all about the lovely English lady living at Bluebell Cottage. It seemed strange to hear Granger referred to as a lady when he tended to still think of her as a child. Tim reported that she had come into town every few days for supplies at first, then he had personally delivered her groceries to her doorstep last week. It was quite obvious by Timothy's enthusiasm that he had a schoolboy crush on the girl...the sodding little pervert. It seemed that she had enlisted Shaun O'Brian, the local mechanic, to resurrect Maeve's ancient VW, so she could get around on her own. It appeared that there would be no more visits to Bluebell cottage for young Mr. Murphy, damn his horny little soul to hell.

Russ pulled up to O'Brian's shop in his Audi S4 on the pretense that it was making a strange noise. He felt the car lent an appearance of normalcy to his life; he couldn't very well just pop in and out all the time. And besides, he loved his car. It really wasn't making any unusual sounds, and he usually didn't bring his baby to this backwoods mechanic. He normally took it to the dealer in Galway, but he wanted to pump O'Brian for information. He mentioned that he thought he'd seen old Maeve's VW back on the road and wasn't that odd? O'Brian revealed that he had gotten the beast going for Maeve's niece but not without trying to convince the woman to buy a newer, more reliable vehicle. She'd told him in no uncertain terms that she only needed to travel short distances and didn't have the money to purchase a new car.

~**~

She had come into town again for lunch at the Green Dragon one day, but he'd managed to slip out before she could see him. Then he'd watched her unobserved and noted that she didn't seem particularly upset when Paddy told her that the boss had apparently stepped out. She'd simply replied that she'd try to catch him another day. Was it possible she really was unaware that he was here? That her presence here was mere coincidence?

Once she'd left, he slipped back into his office unobserved and reviewed the information he'd gathered so far. It appeared that her background really did check out: she was Maeve McNamara's great-niece and had inherited Bluebell Cottage. It seemed that she was trying to fit into the local community, walking into the village, having lunch at the pub, buying supplies in local establishments. She could have just as easily Disapparated to a wizarding community, gotten her food stuffs or whatever she needed then popped back in. But then locals would have started gossiping; they did so love to gossip. How was she getting around without transportation? Where was she buying her food if not here? It also seemed she was unwilling or unable to spend money on a better car and had no plans to be driving longer distances; hence she really did plan to stay in the local area.

~**~

A week later, Hermione sat and stared gloomily at her depressingly spectacular views. Her writing debut had not gone as smoothly as she'd expected. She had all sorts of ideas, her novel was all mapped out in her head, but it just wasn't coming together for her. Turning to glare at her blank computer screen, she wanted to scream, she wanted to cry, she wanted to beat it bloody with her fists. She hadn't written anything coherent as of yet. Not one friggin' thing all week. Everything that she had written, although it sounded brilliant in her mind, somehow became pure and utter Thestral crap when it went from her brain through her fingers into the keyboard onto the computer screen. Every morning when she'd read what she'd written the day before, she'd immediately deleted it all. Every morning for the whole fucking week!

It wasn't supposed to be this hard, was it? It really shouldn't be, she was sure of that. She loved to read, always had. She adored stories and had all these marvelous ideas that would make wonderful books, she just knew it, but she just couldn't seem to translate what was in her brain onto the page. In desperation, she'd even tried writing long-hand with quill and parchment, thinking maybe trying to do things the Muggle way on the computer was stifling her creativity. She'd taken long walks through the countryside, she'd taken long soaks in a bubble-filled tub; nothing seemed to help. How could she have writer's block when she hadn't actually written anything yet?

"FUCK! Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck! Arrghh!"

~**~

When he didn't see her around town for a few more days, he decided to spy on her...he was an ex-spy after all; it was what he was best known for. He Apparated to the woods behind her home, Disillusioned himself and watched the cottage for signs of activity. Before long, he saw her pacing back and forth in front of the windows of one of the upper rooms; she seemed to be talking to someone or perhaps just muttering to herself. Then she sat at the desk for a while, and he realized she was writing on a computer. She must have figured out a way to prevent her magic from interfering with her electronics. After about a quarter hour she stopped, looked over what she'd written then started banging her head on the desk. Really? What was wrong with the girl? Just before he Disapparated, he heard her shout in frustration.

"FUCK! Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck! Arrghh!"

What on earth was that all about?

tbc