Chapter 4: Sleight of Sight

Chapter 4: Sleight of Sight

Left eye closed, right eye squinting; mouth skewered, tongue bitten. If she tilted her head just so to the left... she could almost see it.

Hermione pulled and stretched the knit-work before her, pleading with it to take proper shape and actually look like the woolen hat it was meant to be. She sighed heavily, her frustration waning into despair. Eventually, resignation would begin to take over, curing her of her perhaps misplaced sense of personal pride. Which was more important, she asked herself: that she craft it by hand, or that it look and function as its intention?

An agitated half-moan broke from deep in her throat. Damn it, she would do it by hand, her own hand, without the aid of magic. It was a matter of self-respect, after all. She'd just have to start over. Again.

Unraveling the plush yarn, Hermione periodically snatched it from Crookshanks' paws and rolled it into a ball, studying the knitting instructions all the while. Her mother was so much better at this, but her aid was hours away as both elder Grangers were in the office until late this evening. Considering her current state of creation, Hermione wondered if it was not best to hold off until help arrived. Ginny would find more purpose for her gift were it not resembling a shifty, Angora-laced, cud-chewer's urinary pouch. But in the least, Hermione did have several months to get it right. One would think that a year of knitting hats for house-elves would have perfected her technique. Alas... Exhibit A: Hairy Goat's Bladder.

A shadow crossed her outstretched legs, and a soft flutter broke the stillness of the Grangers' back garden. She glanced up to find a huge barn owl banking just past the apple tree, his new glide path directed toward her. Squinting against the sun, she caught his silhouette just as he passed overhead, releasing a brown paper-wrapped parcel. The package landed just past her sunning toes, dropping with a muted thud into the freshly mown grass.

Hermione moved to retrieve the package, curious who could have sent it. No one knew she was spending her few days off visiting her parents. She hadn't even told Ginny, as it was a last minute decision. Council sessions in Kerry had ended a fortnight ago; since then only with Bailey did she converse regularly.

The parcel weighed heavily in her outstretched hands, suggesting printed matter lay bound inside. Cautiously she released the twine, ever suspicious of unexpected deliveries. Her concerns born of nearly ten years' dark wizard fighting etched such wariness permanently within her. It was by no accident or mere luck she had survived the Death Eater attacks of years past. She wasn't about to relax her guard now.

Fingers deftly pulling away the wrapping, Hermione audibly gasped at the contents. It was a book – a very large, very old book – with only a slip of parchment peeking from between the first pages.

Merlin's Quest for Camelot: A Study in Wizard Counsel of Muggle Affairs

By Tabitha Castlegarde

Raj. There was no question from whom it came. And she had mentioned to him she'd pop by her parents' for a spot before the International Confederation of Wizards Summit next week. But to send her an obviously expensive antique book? First the flowers, now this. What was Raj MacGregor's game? Surely he didn't, well, fancy her. Did he? A thrilling sensation passed through her at the idea. Well, of course she wouldn't encourage it. She was practically engaged, after all. Had she mentioned that to Raj? Come to think of it, she wasn't so sure she'd even mentioned Ron Weasley at all. An innocent overlook, necessary out of a desire for privacy. Yes, that was it.

Besides, most likely he was really just being friendly. She wasn't a beauty, and she knew it well. Oh, she looked right fit enough to pass in those rare instances where fashionable cosmetics and dress robes were –

"Cor love a duck!" she swore aloud. "Dress robes! I forgot new dress robes!" Springing up, her text and materials fell momentarily forgotten to the ground.

Crookshanks merely scowled at Hermione's dashing about, his ginger tail snapping at each pass she made over his prone body. His batting trinket withdrawn, his mistress' bare ankles became substitute target practice, much to her annoyance.

"Crookshanks! I haven't time for your mercenary tactics," she said, disengaging his claws from her flesh. "I've got to get to Madam Malkin's before she closes. The do tomorrow night is important." Gathering her book and remnants of DIY, the frazzled witch hurried inside, her incorrigible half-Kneazle keeping step.

Ten minutes and a scrawled note later, Hermione Apparated to Diagon Alley, just outside the back entrance to the Leaky Cauldron. It was early afternoon, and she had just enough time to collect some gold from Gringotts and make her way to Madam Malkin's for a rush job. She'd forgotten all about tomorrow night's charity gala until Bailey's mention yesterday prior to her departure. Unfortunately, when she had pulled out her dress robes from the cupboard, she found she had overestimated their storage life and underestimated her growth. In truth, she'd not grown much since her fourth year at Hogwarts, but she had filled out some in the intervening five years. And who knew moths found dress robes a magical delicacy?

Shops all along the high street were surprisingly busy for a summer Friday. The kids were not yet to school for another six weeks; the patrons were predominately adult witches and wizards. So many faces, Hermione thought. And so many of them held resemblance of those she knew at school, yet – older. Well, of course they were older, but it seemed more a matter of experience and life rather than years, as it had not been that many since her Hogwarts days.

Passing Quality Quidditch Supplies, a streak of gray hair and yellow eyes caught Hermione's sight – Madam Hooch. The flying instructor was haggling over a prototype racing broom on display. She chuckled. It was good to see some things never changed. She shuffled through the crowd, reaching the towering wizards' bank a few minutes later. Her gaze traveled further down the street, falling on the dilapidating shop that once was Ollivander's. A rough-hewn board lay across the cracked display window: "Coming Soon: Paints Preserve Us Portrait Studio." Sadly, some things did change.

Ginger darted past her, pulling her eyes and thoughts from the old wand Shoppe. Hermione spun around, but the gangly wizard proved to be an errand boy for the apothecary, his outer robes proclaiming his venue. She sighed softly; she never realized just how much she missed her friends. Er, friend and boyfriend, she corrected herself. Every bespectacled dark-haired wizard warranted a second glance from her, an illogical spot of hope expecting each time to reveal Harry's flashing green eyes. But each time she was met with painful disappointment, expected though it may be. Regaining herself, she turned and alighted the steps to the golden doors of Gringotts, a polite nod to the security goblin as she entered.

Proceeding down the great marbled hall, she sought out an unoccupied window. It seemed as though half of Britain's magic folk were transacting financial business. Bodies pressed past, robes flashed. Snippets of conversations echoed, blending in her ears.

"– new vault for my grandson," a diminutive witch in sunny yellow robes was requesting.

"– wife's withdrawing faster than I can –" complained a lanky, middle-aged wizard in dingy white. His grumbling found a smirk on her face. She continued, her step slightly lighter.

A tall, black-haired wizard in hunter on her right spoke in low tones, but as she passed his words carried. "– man, that's right. Creature, yes..."

Hermione caught herself on a golden stanchion, preventing her demise to the floor. She wheeled around, eyes wide. Kreacher? His profile was intimately familiar, his long black hair edging his aristocratic cheekbones, yet his robes were aged and faded. Black stubble shadowed his refined chin but for the thin scar nicked to the left jaw; nobility draped his graceful stance. Bloody hell if he didn't look like –

The wizard must have felt her stare, as he turned just enough to meet her eyes. Blue. His irises. Not gray. Hermione released her seized breath. How silly, she reproached herself. Of course it wasn't. Yet, still... She gathered herself, an embarrassed smile her apology, and made as though she had merely slipped on the marble. Turning, her flustered self made its way down the line, seeking an unengaged goblin on the end.

Honestly, Hermione, she chastised herself, if you continue this little preoccupation with Sirius, I'll have deduced you've truly gone mad. Admittedly, however, the resemblance was striking from the profile. Even face-on he favored Sirius, but to a much lesser degree. But I'm looking for him to be, she considered. Her loneliness was compounding daily, and she grabbed at any comforting familiarity she could find. She needed a holiday, she realized. Time off with friends. She vowed she would floo or owl Ginny next week, after the Summit. It was imperative for her emotional health.

Concluding her business, Hermione rushed out of the bank and two doors down to Madam Malkin's, Galleons jingling in her canvas handbag. The shop was occupied, two elderly witches seated near the counter, deep in gossipy discussion. The jingle of the bell above the door triggered a haggard, "With you in a moment," from the back rooms. Mentally sighing at her untimely wait, she took an oak bench perpendicular to her fellow patrons.

"I'm telling you, Zelda, it's a trifle suspicious, Romulus taking all these overnight business trips." The broad-boned witch in jade paisley squinted her eyes to stress her view. "Couldn't just Apparate home after work like an ordinary wizard. Oh, no... had to stop off at the pub, you know. And wouldn't chance it after that; not sure where he'd end up, splinched and hurtin'."

Her small, grandmotherly companion nodded in concerned agreement, her shocking pink robes detracting from her matronly appearance. Her bony hand reached automatically into the brown paper sack that sat between the two, her eyes never leaving the other. "Sketchy, that one," she replied, placing a sherbet lemon in her mouth. Hermione smiled; Dumbledore would have approved.

"Always figured him a bloke who couldn't pass a pint," she continued in a pleasantly soft voice. She reached for another candy.

"Right you are, Zelda. Right you are. When I met him, I told myself, 'Millie, you know not to go on about the drink. He's a closer, that one.' And seems I was right. But there's more than Guinness involved here, all I'm sayin'."

Millie opened her mouth to continue, herself popping in a candy, when suddenly Zelda turned to face Hermione directly.

"Hello, dear," she cooed gently. Surprisingly, it wasn't the creepy greeting Dolores Umbridge had reduced a cooed dear to. Instead, it was friendly and innocent, an energetic spirit hiding beneath the weathered exterior. "Sherbet lemon?" she offered, her outstretched hand offering the bag opening to Hermione. The latter didn't miss the brief perturbed scowl Millie threw Zelda. Apparently, neither did Zelda.

"Not your cup of tea, dearie," Millie quickly qualified, pulling Zelda's hand back as unobtrusively as possible. "Girl your age would prefer the wizard sweets, I'm sure."

"Actually, I love Muggle candy," Hermione said, slightly affronted at Millie's impudence. She turned to Zelda, the small witch smiling encouragingly. Spite suggested she take a proffered confection, but she wouldn't start a feud between two friends over simple personal pride. "But I just ate. Thank you for the offer, though."

Zelda dipped her head in acknowledgement and the two returned to their gossip, Millie's hand possessively grasping the bag. Hermione turned her attention to the room, her foot tapping quietly beneath her robes. Impatience was her weakness as of late. She looked around at the displays of fabric, some shimmering of their own accord, other bolts fading into shades of their original colors. Trinkets dangled off wall scones; accessories draped the counter. Not much into fashion, Hermione soon became bored again and returned her attention, by default, to the women before her.

Millie's monotone drabble, Zelda's amiable replies and their nearly static postures began to lull Hermione into a daze, her overactive mind wandering off to play. Images took shape, unbidden: a library, old, tainted. Musty shelves inundated with dusty volumes; slimmer guides lying atop thick tomes, wedged against the shelf above. Faded light bearing dust mites aloft gave form to the single-ringed hand, drifting along the spines as though in search of a peculiar title. Faded gold leaf etched upon heavy cloth. Cebarando Dragònes...

Wait. Her organic eyes focused suddenly, their attention rapt. She had almost missed it, but for the odd angle at which she sat from her subject. The scene before her had not changed, yet... Lowered into the bag, sweet retrieved... Zelda's hands captured Hermione's attention. Something wasn't quite... right. She observed closely, attempting to identify the anomaly.

Wrist flexed, raised to mouth, sweet ingested, hand lowered to lap, elbow raised, other hand shifted... Hold it. Right there. Elbow raised? Hermione leaned slightly forward, watching the procedure again, intently, unsure. A few minutes dragged painfully by, Millie going on about her indiscrete beau. Come on, come on, she silently pleaded. After what seemed an eternity, Zelda moved again for another candy. Yes, yes, Hermione prodded. Yes, a dip into the bag, flexed wrist –

There! That's it! Hermione's eyes grew wide. She was nicking extra bits of candy from Millie's precious stash. Two, not one, sherbet lemons found their way into her picking palm. Withdrawn from the bag, she flexed her wrist inwardly, dropping her spare into her robe sleeve. Original candy in mouth, her hand dropped subtly to her lap, her elbow rising to jog the candy out into a pool on her lap, covered discreetly by her free hand and loose robe. Stifled giggles lodged in Hermione's throat. She tried desperately tried not to release them, silently shaking with the effort.

A snort betrayed her, and she covered it with a pseudo coughing fit. My, her acting was improving today, she observed. She looked up to find both woman throwing glances at her; Millie's eyes reproachful, Zelda's smiling mischievously. This only brought Hermione further amusement, and she had to stand and walk around in order to gain self control.

She strolled about the shop, ever-so-subtly repeating the motions she had witnessed from Zelda. The sleight of hand was well-versed; she never would have noticed had she not caught such an odd angle of sight.

The entry bell called with a brisk cling-cling as the front door opened again, admitting a tall, lanky wizard, his bright ginger hair long and unkempt. Hermione watched his entrance with only vague interest, her logic telling her to stop looking for familiarity. He turned, and she shrieked with girlish glee.

"Fred!" She called excitedly to him, running to embrace her friend.

"Hermione!" He wrapped his arms about her affectionately. "What are you doing about? Last I heard you were in Ireland."

She drew back to face him, her smile ever widening. "That was last week. I've a few days holiday before returning to the Ministry, so I'm visiting my parents. What of you? What brings you here? Time to change in these obnoxious tents you call robes?" she added with a chuckle.

Fred flaunted his glowing purple robes, copious amounts of shimmering material interspersed with charmed designs: exploding candies, pygmy puffs chasing bats, cauldrons melting and reforming. His cheeky grin answered her fully.

"Never, my dear Hermione. Clothing is our cracking advertisement, next to word of mouth.

"No, George and I ordered some new robes for Ginny," he continued. "She's been feeling a bit, well, frumpy lately. Thought we might cheer her a bit, take her out to dinner, with new robes and all."

"Poor Ginny," Hermione said, her smile falling. "And with Harry gone, it's all the more difficult, I'm sure. I planned to owl her next week after the Summit. Do you think she'd feel up to going out of a night next week?"

"Brilliant idea. Exactly what she needs to pep her up. She'd enjoy your company more than ours."

"Mr. Weasley... I've your order ready," Madam Malkin called, her young patron exiting the back rooms with her and joining the Sweet Sisters, as Hermione had dubbed them.

"That's my cue, Granger," Fred said with a last hug. "The shop's a bonus; we've more orders than we can fill. If you need an extra post, stop by; discounts on all merchandise to employees. A right sight more fun than Ministry work, I'd wager," he added with a grin and wink.

Fred concluded his transaction with the seamstress, said his goodbyes and departed, Hermione watching his leave wistfully. It was good to see someone she knew well. She even missed his and George's questionable – read: illegal – antics, she was so dejected.

"Steady on, m'dear," Zelda said sweetly next to Hermione. Her approach had been unnoticed by the preoccupied witch. She took Hermione's hand in both hers in a grandmotherly gesture. "Your young man will settle his wild ways and return to you," she comforted. Zelda thought she and Fred were together? Whatever gave her that idea? "True love requires patience; but he'll be worth it. In the end, he'll come round."

Before she could sputter an explanation, the elder witch squeezed her hands tightly and turned to leave, calling to her companions at the door. "My, Millie, isn't our Cassie most enchanting? So becoming in her new robes."

"Aunt Zelda..." the pre-teen's tone pleaded. Her voice trailed to faded mumbles as the door closed behind them.

How bizarre, thought Hermione. A tad barmy, that matron. Honestly. She – and Fred? They were so blatantly just friends. Such imagination. Had she never been close with a guy friend before? Or was Hermione's enthusiasm over seeing a friendly face too over the top? Did she come across as greeting a lover? No, surely not.

Dropping her hands as she turned to meet Madam Malkin, she realized she absentmindedly clutched a dainty, pale pink handkerchief. Wrapped within – a handful of sherbet lemon.

That witch was good.

-o-o-o-

Faerie lights flickered amongst the ground foliage and conifer limbs, offering festive elegance to the estate grounds. Dusk had settled only minutes before; evening was claiming its inheritance quickly. Hermione watched the wait staff scurry about like white mice, correcting and adding last minute touches. House-elves had retreated to the kitchens, their talents now reserved for the cuisine.

The clipboard she held bore the elite guest roster as they arrived. Bailey's purpose for her this evening was multi-fold: keep track of those attending, act as a liaison between himself and his peers, represent his office with diplomacy and grandeur, and attend him as needed. Oh, and enjoy the event, he had added. Uh-huh.

Her Kelly green tea-length gown and matching fitted robes tugged against her intimately. Self-conscious was an understatement, but she could not fault Madam Malkin's deft wand stitching. The creation was a miracle considering the time and monetary constraints, but the seamstress appreciated a challenge.

"Bugger it all, Nige! That bird's a bleedin' mess!" Hermione started, turning from her stone balcony refuge to peer through the growing shadows. Two figures emerged from the bend of the manor, each toting guitars in gig bags.

"Cor, Kent; don't get your bloody knickers in a wad. I'm not bangin' 'er... yet." A rough snigger accompanied his revelation. As they drew closer, apparently headed to the far end of the grounds where the makeshift stage stood, Hermione could make out their Goth-punk look. Black leather, chains, painted faces... must be the Hobgoblins. A reunion show, the evening's program touted. After twenty years of silence, the 'goblins had returned to reclaim musical domination.

"Listen, mate. You start pissing around with that fanny and a stonker ain't all you'll be gettin'. Right nutters, that one. Blew off a bloke's ear, she did, when he couldn't..."

Strained though her ears were, she missed the rest. The short, stocky musician mumbled to his companion, the lanky latter merely grunting in amused surprise. All she caught as they passed by was Kent reiterating, "Put it paid to, Nige, else you're as good as..." More mumble. Bloody hell. If you're going to gossip loud enough so everyone must hear, don't specially drop your voice at the few interesting parts, Hermione inwardly fussed.

Fellow troubadours met the sex gods halfway to the stage. One new face was average height, blue flowing hair and dressed in a chain mail shirt. "Best wish for dry skies tonight," Hermione quipped. The other simply appeared as Sid Vicious from this distance. Hippie Muggle parents taught her something, at least.

She half-heartedly watched their departure to the stage for sound-check, then focused on the new arrivals from the arbor entrance to her left. The charity gala had officially begun.

-o-

Ivy draped the stone wall like a cloak of darkness, its breaks – rays of burnt gray in the torchlight. The crescent moon shadowed those paintings that slipped behind the moss' and vines' clinging shrouds. Those remaining clear hung in proud display, their silent bid boxes hovering, a slight hum of anticipation encompassing their contents.

Murmurs of intrigue escaped the gilded frames as the subjects withdrew to their cliques, excited by the evening's coming events. The renown bestowed upon the painting auctioned highest was an honor indeed, and each coveted it greatly.

Hermione moved about with genteel steps, studying each scene with mild interest. In the last two hours, the crowd had multiplied, the music had soared, the scents of roast and perfume and human heat had swelled. The mixture stifled her, and she sought refuge in the bower, the din muffled in its confines. As she neared each magical pallet, the subject returned long enough for her admiration. Satisfied she'd seen her fill, they once again visited, knowing intrinsically she was not there to bid.

"The band and I are gonna nip out for a breather. Grab a pint of best or cider; you'll need the pep." The lead vocalist was hoarse and heavy-breathed through the garlanded lattice, but Hermione thought his voice familiar. Oh, get over it, Hermione; you think everyone's familiar nowadays. Holiday, m'girl, holiday...

With the band silent, conversations prevailed the night scene. Soon the hobnobbing would include the gallery as it had the last musical interlude. Her solitude was endangered. She'd had enough pompousness to last her entire summer holiday, thank you very much. Though a fair number were pleasant enough in their manners, their mannerisms bespoke only political campaigning. Was anybody allowed their own opinion anymore? Is this what a post in the Ministry meant for Hermione's future?

Growing mingled voices brought her back to the now, and she returned back toward the beginning of the collection near the large entryway.

Nearing her exit on her right, a flicker of movement from her left caught her peripheral eye. A painting she had missed, undoubtedly. She paused, turning to face it properly.

Blood drained from her face, her breathing hitched. A shiver sluiced down her. It couldn't be...

-o-

Stubby Boardman nursed his shandy, his gaze steady on the witch meters before him. He took in only briefly her stylish yet practical dress, focusing instead on her brown coiffure tight against her, falling in loose curls about her back. It wasn't that she was stunning; his interest lay much deeper – more importantly – than attraction. No; she seemed... familiar. But the sensation lay on the outer fringes of his mind, and he could not recall just why she did.

Not surprisingly, damn it. He ran his free hand through his short, spiked black hair, its gel giving way to the sweat of his performance. He couldn't recall a single bloody personal detail prior to a month ago, when he'd awoken from a supposed drunken stupor to his band mates' care and hospitality. They'd called him "Stubby," and had pressed on how twenty years was a damn sight of time to go without seeing your best mates. They'd remarked on his wasted appearance, touting the evils of living solely on the hair of the dog. Embalmed in firewhisky, they'd said. But there was hope for them all; the Hobgoblins would return. Putting the band back together... It was a mission from Merlin.

They had it all worked out – rehearsals, wardrobe, promotions. They'd even fattened him from death rail to merely slender, courtesy of Blue's mum. Cleaned, shaved, trimmed. Even a refresher on the lyrics of all their songs (damned drink). A scheme worthy of Churchill, but for one issue...

He didn't know who the hell he was.

Never did he let on this bit of information. Instinct told him to let it ride; his mind would return of its own accord. And it had... some. It wasn't what he knew to be true, but what he knew wasn't. He wasn't Stubby Boardman, former (and current) lead vocalist of the Hobgoblins. He wasn't the traveler of a world concert tour, trashing the pubs and hanging out a 10-story Muggle building by his foot (though that did hold a grain of familiarity). He was....

He didn't know who the hell he was.

Nigel and Kent flanked each side, Blue before him to his left, all in inebriated chatter. The hangers-on obstructed his view, but only momentarily. That witch in green was the first sense of recognition he'd felt in four weeks. He had to get a better look. He had to get closer.

-o-

Hermione felt faint. It simply couldn't be.

The image drew her unconsciously, her feet obeying its silent command. Her eyes could not find the logic, ever search though they may. But if it was before her, here, then maybe... perhaps... an answer could be... found.

The Mystic of the Mists read its inscription. Ethereal described her, her richly blue cloak wrapped about her in comfort and disguise. The loch's ripples lapped the primitive oaken vessel, rocking its cargo gently. Through the flowing, fine mist, the lady of untold power gazed beseechingly at Hermione, beckoning her yet nearer.

The loch, the grainy shore, the damp breeze... elusive dreams brought before her in tangent recall. Hermione shivered. She could feel it. Closing her eyes...

She could feel him.

Fine hairs bristled in eager foretaste. He was here. He was near. He was approaching, hesitantly but with purpose, his intent her very being.

A ripple of something beyond anticipation riddled her nerves. Her breath slowed, stilled. Oh, God. It was time. His identity was hers. Just turn around.

Intensity taut her like a recurve bow. She forced her eyes apart, trustingly calling to the lady of the lake. Her response was only of conviction without guidance. A steeling breath in, she fought the unseen forces and turned her head slowly over her left shoulder, and there...

Was no one. Directly behind her, anyway. In the slight distance a fawning crowd gathered about three of the band, Sid Vicious being conspicuously absent of said fawnage. Her heart plummeted. Desperate confusion racked her; tears gathered in disappointment. She didn't understand. Her dream. It was here. It had to be. And she had just felt him; she truly had.

But that sense of his presence was gone. She glanced hopefully, painfully back down the way of the gallery, seeking his intent gaze. Nothing. Just an old official and his escort, admiring the portraits. A pleading look to the lady of the lake returned only the same, a wistful smile gracing her lips, lips that declined to offer revelation of her secrets. Dejection began to set in, overwhelming emotion sacrificed to the altar of reality. If she was wise a'tall, she'd –

There. Again she felt him. Closer yet. But no, she'd felt him before, yet he'd not been there. Was he a ghost? A non-corporeal spirit? Or was it truly all in her head? She was working on a co-ed room with Lockhart, is what she was doing.

But it was growing, his presence. Ignoring the illogical wasn't an option; he pulled her to him by his very gaze. Breathe, Hermione. Just breathe. It's all in your head. You've had a trying two days. Not all is as it seems. All the sightings of the dead, of the absent, just tricks of the eyes. Just ignore –

The touch was light, but quite solid. Fingertips brushed her shoulder, tugging slightly with gentle pressure. Tunnel vision set in. The din obscured all legible sound. At his flesh's insistence, she turned full body, peering up into his face and...

Promptly fainted.