Chapter 5: Encore Presentations

Chapter 5: Encore Presentations

Suspended. Her body felt suspended, draped above the ground, heavy. Indistinguishable chatter and movements crescendoed suddenly in her ears as consciousness returned.

"Hermione?" The voice was concerned, hushed, near. "Hermione, milady?"

Hermione shifted, allowing her head to loll against solid body. Her eyes pried apart, taking in the crimson material. A face loomed into view as her guardian adjusted, setting her weight upon her own feet, though his arms remained about her in precaution. Blinking, Hermione focused upon his eyes, surprise and confusion furrowing her brow.

"What are you doing here?" she asked with a hint of accusation. He seemed unruffled.

"My job." His own brow creased in suspicious concern. "What was this all about?"

This was obviously her momentary lapse in coherent mobility. Embarrassed defensiveness demanded ruffled sniping.

"This is doing my job, Raj. You knew Bailey was attending and that I'd assist." She straightened her pose, gathering strength from indignation. "And you never answered my question. What were you doing, sneaking up on me like that? It was a horrible thing to do, not to mention rude."

He considered her for a moment, cocking his head slightly as he took in her frazzled demeanor. She was expecting someone else, perhaps? Or had something happened? He allowed the silence to lengthen, debating as how best to proceed. The nervous flicker of her eyes decided for him.

"Forgive me," he finally answered, his tone placating as though she was an anxious royal. "It was not my intent to startle you." He smiled humbly, his doleful eyes enticing a hinted smile from her.

"I was merely entranced by your appearance. You are a vision of discreet charm..." He brought her hand to his lips, delicately depositing the kiss while his eyes remained upon hers. "Subtle in your beauty yet striking all the same." His hold lingered, fingers gently squeezing in intimate suggestion.

Lips parted in blushing surprise, Hermione stared, unable to conjure a reply. His smile was friendly, but tinted in something more. She couldn't quite place the form. Amusement? Mischievousness? No, neither. But close. Something more... personal.

Flirtation. He was flirting with her. The realization struck her suddenly, and this time she gaped blatantly, heat rising in her cheeks. He merely widened his smile, his white teeth stark against his tanned skin. Black eyes regarded her with humor as he released her hand. Abruptly she turned from him and moved back to the beckoning painting. From one entrancement to another, it seemed. Somehow she felt the two-dimensional one the less dangerous. She wasn't afraid of Raj, just of her reaction to him and his... suggestions. If he didn't act like that, she would be quite comfortable with him, remaining simply curious about him, his past, his knowledge. But his overtures were disquieting. She sighed. Ron had been gone too long. She was lonely, nothing more.

Her thoughts returned to the present as her eyes focused on the lady again. She reached out, lightly running her fingers down the carved, guild frame. "Who are you?" she whispered to the painting. The lady dropped her hood fully and returned Hermione's gaze intently. A gentle smile played at her lips.

"I am your gift."

-o-

"Blue," he admonished through gritted teeth, "will you move, please?" Stubby swatted in agitation at the drummer before him, shooing him and his giggling, draping fans out of his line of sight. Damn it; she had been turning toward him, a chance to see her properly, and Blue had gotten in the way. Well, run him over, more like. Intoxicated laughter had the drummer stumbling forward moments earlier, drink sloshing dangerously over the goblet's rim. In self-preservation Stubby had ducked, Blue's flailing arms just missing crucial cranial features. Nigel'd set him upright but by the time Stubby had recovered his own feet, his attempts to see the mysterious witch were thwarted by Blue's weaving and animated friends. Finally clearing his view, his frustration mounted. Now she was looking back down the rest of the gallery. What was she looking for? Her date? He'd not noticed anyone with her before. He had to get closer. There was just something about her.

Disengaging himself from the gathering was easy; the middle-aged aristocratic groupies doted on Nigel and Blue, a few hanging on Kent's every poetic word. Stubby maneuvered about the ever-growing crowd, his focus purely on the witch standing solitaire, her back to him once again. He rubbed his eyes, the sweat and stage paint collecting in their creases. He was weary yet startlingly alert. The alcohol, the heat, the performance – it all drew from him. But his spirit was refreshed in this renewed hope. Perhaps she knew who he was, and would end this cruel mystery.

Just steps away now, deep red robes arrived to block his view. Bloody hell his luck was off tonight. He side-stepped a distance to his left, skirting the philanthropic wealthy amassing to view the wares. Unfortunately they moved with him. Looking ahead, Pumpkin Lady there in orange and gray velvet robes was the bend round which he had to sidle to get back on track. He approached. She was not cooperative. The crowd about her kept him penned in, dependent upon her to not continue moving back into his makeshift path. Thus, that's just what she did do.

No amount of subtle prodding of elbow to fleshy back moved her forward, and Stubby was getting desperate. His wand was not on him, and he didn't trust to magic himself out of this, anyway. Discreetness was called for, and a Levicorpus would draw just a hair too much attention, he considered. Glancing about for implements of use, his eyes settled on his shandy. A devilish grin broke on his face; his quest had been answered.

The droplets caught against the faerie lights, glistening on ruddy pink skin. The corpulent neck twitched, a gloved hand swatted behind. Flick, flick. Stubby's fingers were agile, the lager-lemonade mix shooting from them with gusto. Like birdshot they spread about upon Lady Pumpkin's bare neck, the heavier globules breaking tension, running in streaks down into her dress robes. Flick, flick. She flinched, her shoulder blades jerking in response to the runaways down her spine. Realizing it wasn't quite enough, Stubby blew lightly on her neck, the wet areas catching the faux breeze.

Her hand slapped back, encountered unfamiliar liquid, and she stumbled forward into her group, craning her head upward in a twist in search of aviary subjects. The hole was created and Stubby made for it before it closed again. Darting through, he came out a good ten meters from his subject, though at least she was in clear, full view now. And what a view it was.

A tall, dark wizard in blood red was holding her limp body. Had she fainted? Concerned, he started forward. But then she was standing, still in her protector's arms. He wasn't closed enough to hear their words, but her expression was annoyed. A lover's quarrel? Somehow he didn't think so. When the wizard took her hand in gallant gesture, Stubby was sure they were not yet so close.

He remained still, watching. His subject suddenly jerked about and walked to a painting, her back rigid against her visitor. She seemed focused upon the portrait, caressing it, and he wondered if she was merely interested in purchasing it, or if she had a connection to it.

Now what made him think of that?

"Stubbs, mate. C'mon; break's over." Kent tugged Stubby's arm, pulling him back into the here and now. It was back to business; he hadn't time for stalking.

-o-

"Brilliant, this one, from our Witches' Brew album," Sid Vicious monologued from the stage. A slow, seductive beat drove from the drummer and bassist, hypnotizing lower bodies to sway in time. The lead guitar cut in, highlighting the rhythm. "Perhaps you've heard of it. It's called 'Creature of Habit' and it goes something like this..." Screams of elation suggested that yes, indeed, they had heard of it.

Hermione shook her head. Were these truly key figures and leaders in the wizarding world? Or were they school-age fanatics at a rock concert? Honestly; some decorum was in order. It was a formal charity gala, after all.

A minute later, however, Hermione had to agree the tune was catchy. It was like a slow Muggle blues song, the same I-IV-V riff sauntering through the air, and she found herself relaxing in an involuntary swing. Problem was, it was within Raj's arms.

When the band had returned, Raj had pulled her from the painting, suggesting a dance. Her thoughts elsewhere, she had agreed without consideration and soon enough found herself in the tall wizard's firm hold. He was a gentleman, she acknowledged, though she still felt uneasy with him. Then again, she still had failed to point out her current relationship's existence to him. Guilt, perhaps? There just did not seem an opportune time to bring it up, and to simply burst out with the information would be tactless.

Several attempts at conversation were demolished, the music too loud for anything less than screaming. So Hermione resigned herself to finishing the dance in silence, her mind drifting with the surprisingly soothing croon of Sid Vicious. Eyes closed involuntarily and scenes of her life flashed to her mind's eye, echoing...

Barking laugh, deep, robust. Matching giggles from the surrounding females, tears flowing in mirth at the anecdote. Remus smiling in spite of himself; Harry's head falling to the kitchen table in doubled-over laughter. Ron curled in fetal position near the hearth, breath coming in gasps. The storyteller's piercing gray eyes dancing, his words sing-song in their recapitulation. A voice rasping yet soothing...

What? Hermione's eyes broke open suddenly. Disoriented, it took a moment to discern her position relative to the stage. Locating it, she stared vehemently at the vocalist. He was tall, slender... trimmed, spiky black hair laying over in drenched locks upon a refined brow. Why did his voice suddenly sound so much like Siri...

"May I cut in?"

Hermione's head whipped around as she started. Sod off the caffeine, Hermione, she scolded herself. Gulps of warm air brought her physical reaction under control as Raj studied her with a critical eye. Their intruder missed the looks, instead staring balefully at Raj. The young witch was the teenage daughter of Lord Chamberlain, and obviously infatuated with Mr. MacGregor.

Finding her tongue, Hermione recovered gracefully. "Um, yes. Yes, that would be lovely." She smiled in a friendly gesture, moving from Raj's embrace. She gently nudged the young woman into his arms, encouraging her to take her place. Barely throwing an apologetic glance to Raj, Hermione swept off to the perimeters of the dance area, choosing the outskirts furthest from both the band and crowd. A passing server paused before her, allowing her choice of a wine. Needing all the strength and settling alcohol could bring her, she accepted a merlot gratefully, murmuring her thanks.

The etched glass rim contorted the scene's edges before her as she steadily sipped the liquid courage. She was going mad, wasn't she? Seeing him in the bank, on the stage, recalling him in vivid detail and asking his opinion of her in the middle of a possibly dire situation... She was obsessing over a man long since dead these many years. What was this sudden ailment that has left Sirius Black in her every waking fiber? His spiritual presence was only shadowed by him... him and that place, that painting.

Yes; she was definitely going mad.

"Hermione? Hermione Granger?" came an excited hush next to her. "It is you!"

Hermione bit her lip in a plea for patience, closing her eyes in a moment of resignation. How many more surprises could she manage tonight? At this point she decided she could withstand anything short of Voldemort personally returning. Steeling within, she turned.

"Susan?" she questioned in genuine surprise. "Susan Bones?" The young witch laughed, nodding heartily.

"Yes, it's me! Well, it's Creevey now, you know," she explained with pride. "Colin and I married two years back this November. He's here on assignment, photographing for the Quibbler. Luna was able to secure him a post. It's not much, primarily sightings and such, but..." She trailed off, seeming to deflate in the admission.

"That's wonderful," Hermione answered with gusto. The last she wished was for her old schoolmate to feel ashamed. She was simply happy to see a familiar, friendly, in-the-flesh face. "I remember him being a talent with a camera at school. It's a step to a wonderful career, I'd wager. And congratulations on your marriage; I didn't know."

The young woman blushed in the moonlight. "We eloped. With everything going on, You-Know-Who showing up and – Oh! I'm sorry!" she apologized abruptly, throwing a hand to her pursed lips. Her eyes widened in the horror she perceived she'd created.

A wave washed over Hermione, breaking her elation. But only momentarily. The masque fell into place and she smiled softly, understandingly. "That's all right, Susan. Really. I understand what you mean, though," she continued, a smooth segue away from the subject broached. She cherished speaking of the second Ministry battle even less now than she had in Ireland. "A proper wedding is a bother to plan. And the end result is the same. You're happily married, and that is all that matters."

Relief spread over Susan's face, her obvious discomfort ebbing. "Well said. And yes, I am happy. I never could have imagined back at Hogwarts getting with Colin, but a night out with mutual friends and one thing led on to another... So here we are." She shrugged, a whimsical smile playing at her lips. "What of you? Husband? Family? We all imagined you and Ron Weasley would be married by now, you working for the Ministry of Magic or some such, Ron running off with Harry Potter to save the world..." She laughed, taking a sip of her wine while awaiting Hermione's response.

Odd silence hung about them; Hermione chewed her bottom lip. Was she truly that predictable? Susan had obviously meant it as a joke, but the accuracy was too much.

"Er, well..."

Realizing her faux pas, Susan blanched, profuse apology spilling from her embarrassment. "Oh God, I'm sorry, Hermione. Really, I had no idea. I didn't mean, well -"

"Hermione, dear." God save the dignitary. Hermione was never so happy to hear Bailey's cheerful voice. "Apologies, m'dear, but I'm afraid I am in need of your excellent services." He turned to Susan, a slight bow to his head. "Forgive the interruption, but duty calls, eh?"

Awkward goodbyes said, duty called Hermione to Bailey's side in a political discussion across the grounds and into a study. The brandy flowing, the delicate transfer of conversational power alluring, her only mental occupation lay in how true-to-preconceived-form her life was turning into. Was she that easy to read? Were her actions simply follow-up to everyone else's expectations? If she was really in love with Ron, why hadn't they gotten married? Or at least engaged to be? Actually, they'd never even discussed it. As for her career... Eye-opening have these past weeks been, sly palm shakes and pseudo charisma. The more she saw, the less she conformed. But then, as of late was not indicative of her accurate nature. Barmy dreams, illusory sightings and a nervous disposition were not Hermione-like. What was happening to her?

Mechanical functioning got her through the evening, her words to Bailey and the rest rote and unimaginative. The last handshake and whispered assurance found Hermione exiting the grand manor onto nearly deserted grounds. It was late. The guests had mostly retired; the band had left the stage; the painting had been claimed. What was left?

Sighing heavily, she ran her hands upon her face. The weariness would not leave.

"Superb work this evening, m'dear." Bailey had followed her out. He sounded chipper; his meeting had gone exceptionally well. Withdrawing her hands, she stared out at the gardens, visually following the house-elves as they tidied. Another sigh broke involuntarily.

"You sound tired," he said, worry evident in his words. She could feel the steady stare of his round eyes, the fatherly attention he was now bestowing. As though he'd come to a sudden conclusion, his tone brightened. "You've had a busy fortnight. We're well ahead at the Ministry, and as I was considering a little holiday m'self, why don't you skive off a few extra days, hmm? In fact," he added, puffing out a bit, "ease off until next Monday. Start a fresh week. Sound all right?"

Pondering the trouble she'd bring herself should she answer, Of course I want some bleeding time off, you nancy berk, she nipped her inner cheek then turned to him, her face impassive.

"Yes, sir; that would be lovely."

-o-0-o-

"Are you sure you're up to this?"

"Flippin' A!" Layers of frustration and restlessness broke in the younger witch's response. "Honestly, Hermione, if I don't get some new scenery in decent company soon, I'm going to hex every bloody one of them! Mum's ready to drive me nutters. Ginevra, do sit down, off your feet. Ginevra, don't eat that. Sweetheart, you shouldn't be out nighttime carousing in Muggle London." Ginny's akimbo stance mirrored the Molly Weasley vocal imitation, her scowl admitting her irritation.

Hermione could only stifle her giggles, earning a reproachful glare from Sweetheart Ginevra. "Sorry, Ginny. You just paint a picture, is all. Besides, I'm not chastising you; I just want to be sure you feel up to this tonight. We can go anywhere, really. A mate at uni once suggested this place, and I thought it might be nice to go somewhere Muggle, where you won't be known."

"Great Merlin's beard, Hermione. At this point, I'd be on for a tour of Filch's office," she admitted with a snort. "It's beginning to drizzle again, and I'm cold and hungry." She shrugged deeper into her heavy parka. "Now, shall we grace this humble abode with our presence?"

Agreeing, the two stepped through the blackened glass door and into the pub, unprepared for its swashbuckling atmosphere. Hermione eyed the room skeptically, narrowing her vision as she took in the distressed mahogany bar opposite the door, the dim lighting suggesting an unsavory clientele.

"Right," said Ginny, her own inspection revealed upon her pale face. A deep breath spoke her turn of outlook. "Well, it's dry, warm and dead quiet. And I can smell a hot meal without the side order of blasted mollycoddling instructions. Come on; let's find seat." With that she stepped on in, weaving through tables displaying half-eaten meals and greasy pint glasses awash in Guinness.

Choiceless, Hermione followed suit. She reached Ginny's pick of tables just as her friend was shedding her woolen coat, draping it upon a wonky slat-backed chair. She seated herself, propping her feet in the adjoining chair and settling back to view the room. "There, that's better."

Imitating her method of staking claim by outerwear, Hermione settled next to her. The Wednesday night crowd was closing on nil, and she honestly wondered if that was a positive trait or not. She'd promised Ginny an evening out, but that scheme had included the company of the outside world. However, the pub's appearance suggested that perhaps they were lucky in their choice of an off-night.

Hermione toyed with the cork beer mat, its emblem of a rose-strewn crest faded and worn. Attention drawn from the image, she looked up at the three-dimensional rendition above the mirrored backdrop of the bar. Catching her glance, a stocky bloke came round the bar, his apron streaked in a multitude of stains. Gathering the crockery and glasses in one stout hand, a damp dishtowel followed in the other in a quick sweep across the table they'd passed moments before. Items still in hand, he approached the girls in their corner table, a weary smile touching his expression.

"What'll ye have, ladies?" Polite, yes, though blatantly worn.

Ginny pursed her lips in thought as though a child being granted choice of a single toy. "I'd like to have a rum Mudslide –"

"– Ginny!"

"– but instead I'll just have a plain lemonade," she stated in volume, casting a dark glance at her best mate. "And an order of fish and chips, plenty of vinegar."

Negating a written tally, the barkeep turned to Hermione. "And you, miss?"

"Um, I'll have a plain lemonade, as well. And a shepherds' pie, please." As questionable as the pub appeared, she was hungry. "Oh, and a Horlicks, if you don't mind."

With a curt nod, the barkeep retreated to kitchen, leaving the women to ponder their evening.

"Horlicks? Ready for a kip, are you?" Ginny looked questionably at her friend.

"No, just something to relax me. I've had a trying week."

"Well, just don't go to sleep before we've ventured further than here. Too rare are my escapades away from home." Lines of tension remained visible on Ginny's face, the poor light barely diminishing them. Hermione knew her words were only too true, and she felt guilty for her selfish thoughts.

"I've got to go to the loo," Ginny suddenly stated, rising from the table.

"What, again?" Hermione questioned, rolling her eyes. The resulting dirty glare answered her.

"Listen, Hermione. You ask me that when you're five months pregnant, and I'll feel you're justified an answer." She dropped a hand to her swollen belly, well hidden beneath the draping blue button-down. "Until then, my bladder answers to no one." A smirk crossed her features before she turned and set off, maneuvering between the strewn chairs with agile grace.

Deposited drinks before her gave Hermione something to occupy her hands as she swept the room again with a critical gaze. White tuffs stuck out from beneath a battered cap; the old bloke in an oil-stained boiler suit, his mate bedecked in a grimy Macintosh near the bar before her. A solitary weathered old woman sat at the bar in the far corner, nursing an amber liquid in a malt glass. To Hermione's right, along the wall and past the door, the shadowed corner concealed another three figures donned in leather jackets and a hoodie. The only guest noise in the room came from them, their voices raised in laughter, subdued in naughty tales.

Peculiar prickling danced down her body, and Hermione realized the feeling came from that corner. She stared from behind her mug, distinguishing the source of her unease. There. The punter in the oversized dark hoodie. He was watching her fixedly, lounged back into the corner. His mates chattered animatedly on either side while he sat impassively, intensely, the lone wall sconce reflecting unmoving eyes. The dim light left him featureless but for the black locks and facial scruff. She was unnerved.

Chivvy along, Ginny, Hermione begged. Unsavory men leering at her wasn't what she had had in mind. Note to self, she thought. Punch James Collins at start of term for recommending this place.

-o-

God in Heaven above, he must have been a martyr in his amnesic past. The Fates were smiling upon him for sure. A Muggle public house in London, a mid-week night, a low-class joint, and in she walks.

After the show Saturday evening, he'd searched meticulously for her, even following her crimson-robed companion, but she had disappeared. No amount of inconspicuous questioning had revealed her identity, either. And so he'd stropped all week, miserable in his failed venture. But redemption had arrived, and attractively so in well-fitting jeans.

Stubby rose from the table. He wasn't going to lose her this time.