Chapter 6: To Fear the Unknown

Chapter 6: To Fear the Unknown

The redhead was going to be an issue. Impeccably poor timing with a leech-bound disposition to boot. Her return from the loo had halted progress toward his prey, and he stood momentarily undecided.

"Where you goin'?" Kent called suspiciously just behind.

"Spend a penny," Stubby shot back over his shoulder, eyes never leaving the far table. Nothing for it, now. He'd have to bide his time, catch her alone. Strategies built and fell in his head as he wandered off in the opposite direction, fulfilling his cover story. After four straight whiskies, he really could stand a trip to the loo.

-o-

Bugger it all. If only they hadn't ordered dinner already.

Hermione's eyes followed the departure of the hoodie man, relief easing her breath. He unnerved her. His stares, so concrete in the dusky pub... She couldn't shake the feeling he'd targeted her somehow, and though her wand gave her an obvious advantage, she didn't want to test that theory. A clean exit in his absence, her instinct begged.

But they'd already ordered.

"If you fancy a trip to the ladies'," Ginny announced as she fell into her chair, "I'd suggest a quick Scourgify before you do anything personal. Don't believe they've quite mastered the art of soap and water as a pair, yet. Ah, our drinks," she noted without pause, pulling a sour face as she sipped the cloudy beverage.

"Just in time, too. Give me another quarter hour and I'll be back to Scourgifying." She chuckled in spite of herself. "What's with you?" Hermione's preoccupation resounded in their deserted corner.

Hermione caught herself, dragging her attention back to her company. "Nothing. Just idle thought, really. Sorry," she added with chagrin. "So... what does Harry have to say? He and Ron flaking about as usual?" The attempt at levity was met by a thoughtful frown.

"I haven't heard from Harry in some time. Over three weeks, to be precise. That's not like him." Pursed lips mirrored her strain. "I'm a bit concerned – well, I'm always concerned – but usually he's owled me by now."

"Maybe where they are, it's not safe to owl you." Optimistic hope lined her voice and words.

"That's what I'm afraid of." The tight reply choked on real fear. Silence fell again, no encouragement forthcoming. Unsafe to owl, unsafe to bodily well-being, only more so. Bright going there, Hermione. Both hands wrapped about her lemonade glass, thumbs methodically rubbing at the lip-shaped smudge below the rim. No safe, engaging subject sprang to mind. Pub grub would forestall forced conversation, but it wasn't yet ready. Hermione had never before so longed for the now-missing aptitude of house-elves. They would have to wait. In silence. Uncomfortable silence.

"Now there's a right sight," Ginny commented, her right brow cocking in mild curiosity.

Head snapping around toward the door, Hermione followed the interrogating gaze. Tarts, both of them. Hanging desperately onto the other, giggling at nothing discernable, the sloshed pair stumbled ungracefully into the sparse pub. One a platinum blond, cut pageboy; the other a purple infusion on black in frizzy long curls. Unnatural colored leather minis, peek-a-boo lace tops and occasional glimpses of wildlife knickers brought a high-brow stare from the stillborn patrons. Even the two hoodlums in the corner had stopped their vocal sparring for a shufti.

"Attain the highest rank of scarlet women, don't they?" Hermione remarked dryly. "Even by Ron's expert standards." Ginny choked, bitter citrus spraying as she fought to settle her glass upright on the scarred table.

"Don't do that," she chastised in a strained whisper. An innocent expression met her watering eyes.

"Do what?"

Ginny was spared answering by the entertainment the Tweedle Twins offered upon reaching the bar. For a full minute, the entire room was enthralled in morbid fascination. Fishnet stockings upon the stool... the bar... still encasing the knee as the knobby joint floundered about for purchase. Indigo girl was prowling, attempting to curl up amongst the Guinness and whisky bottles. Sickle-head aided her friend, shouldering her bum to boost her atop the oaken counter. The sight would leave the young witches scarred for life, Hermione decided.

Defeat admitted after four mutually entangled mishaps to the gritty floor, the booster set her fishnet friend upright upon the stool, ordered from the barkeep and methodically toddled away to her left, the aged music machine calling to her. Support in standing was granted by the convex glass case, and her splayed hands and ample cleavage made use of the generosity, imprinting their images against the warm glow from within. Studying selections, she pulled a coin from her dislodged red heel and, after several failed attempts, dropped it into the slot with a resounding clunk. Burgundy talons punched haphazardly at the selections box.

National treasures boomed in bluesy grit throughout the maudlin room. Keith's stringed melodic phrases reverberated against the faded, mute-yellow plaster walls. Mick called out in invitation, vocalizing the actions he suggested, the sultry sliding echoing in both sound and words. Harlem Shuffle-ing he demanded; London floundering he got.

Amusement danced in Ginny's eyes, and Hermione would not break the rare spell of happiness for anything, even to broach the subject of her former preoccupation. Said subject was now returning from his venture. He paused in the far shadows, observing the scene of leather-and-lace marionettes flamingo stepping about the tables, unstable arms stretched out in erring balance. Someone was going to break their bleeding neck.

His head movement suggested he had turned his attention to herself, and Hermione shied away, turning to instead engage Ginny. If she ignored him, he would eventually leave her be. Wouldn't he?

"It could be worse..." she commented over Bill's bass line. Ginny kept her eyes on the women, tilting her head toward Hermione in an effort to hear. "She could have chosen Milli Vanilli."

That did it. Ginny whipped around, an incredulous look upon her freckled face. "Who?" Hermione chuckled, a dry, witty reply tickling her tongue. But it remained unspoken.

"Would either of you ladies care to dance?" Hand outstretched in gallant supplication, charm riding valiantly on his carefully spoken request, a tall, very lean man in dark leather stood waiting patiently before Ginny. Tawny-streaked blond locks tipped his shoulders, falling boyishly about a long, not-unattractive face. He glanced at Hermione, but returned focus on Ginny. A relaxed pause ensued, but only for a moment. "Promise I'm light on me feet," he added wryly. "Name's Nigel." A smile broke.

"Ginny." Astounding her companion to soundless mouth-gaping, Mrs. Potter elegantly placed her slim fingers into his open palm in acceptance. Leaning quickly over her own shoulder to Hermione's ear, she whispered, "First notion of funny business, slap a Bat Bogey on him for me, will you?" A Cheshire grin brightened her face as she pulled away, stood, and followed Nigel to the open area of tongue and groove.

Perplexed facialities crossed her, and she stared after the couple. Well, she honestly couldn't fault Ginny for wanting a bit of fun. Rare enough was a quiet evening away from reminders of Harry's prolonged absence. A night out with dinner and dancing... the detailed facts around such shall be ignored in lieu of the bigger picture. She was smiling, laughing. It was all that mattered.

"Mind a step or two, miss?"

Aaah! Startled jump and spin, blink rapidly, bright, quick squeak escaping. Dear all that is magical and myth! He'd snuck up on her, and she'd rather not he had. Military-buzz brown hair tightly framed a full, muscular face. Bulldog stocky, his leather-draped shoulders blocked her view of the corner, but she knew the creepy one was returned. And most likely... watching.

"Er, no... thank you." A barbell-pierced eyebrow cocked, whether in dismay or concentration it did not matter. She was leery of him, this ruffian mate of the hoodie man. Without a by-your-leave, the brute flipped a chair about by its back, settling astride the scarred pine seat and leaning forward on the backrest. Taken aback, Hermione's words tumbled out, barely audible over the strains of the Muggle band.

"I mean, er, I'm not much for dancing." His imposing invasion intangibly pushed her back from him, her spine straightening to lean away. Her eyes darted quickly toward the unseen presence in the far shadows, calculating just how much he had to do with his mate being here, cornering her. Witch or not, she was feeling quite uneasy, more so by the ever-passing minute. "Never was," her addendum nervously touted. "In fact, I've two left feet and am horribly clumsy." She was talking rapidly now, glances increasingly frenzied.

Narrow eyes studied her. He was silent. She fidgeted. Edgier, increasingly frantic internally, instinctually warned. Below the table her hand surreptitiously located vine wood, edged it into proper palm placement, gripped with adrenaline. Then he stunned her.

"Oh, I see what's what, how it is. Don't play coy with me, either, lit'l miss," he forestalled, showing his palm to her. "It's Stubbs, is it? Got your fancy, does he?"

Momentarily shocked, she forgot to be nervous. "Stubbs?" What the living hell was he talking about? Certainly not what she was expecting.

"Yeah, Stubbs," he confirmed as though obvious, jerking his head back to his lonely table. "I see ya makin' eyes at 'im. But don't go getting' any pretty ideas 'bout 'im. Sure, he's the looker of the group. Won't deny it. But since he got back, he's a bit halfway round the twist, if ya know what I mean. Not sayin' it was the drink, mind you, but he had to relearn every song of ours like he'd never even heard 'em, he did. An' right state he was in, too, when Nige an' I found 'im. Right nesh, he was. Still ain't quite sorted, yet, but he's singin' all right, I 'spose."

Confusion radiated from Hermione's face. Throughout his yakking, all she discerned was that his shadowy friend there in the corner was a mental case. Right good job there, if she wasn't already concerned over him. Her guest's face suddenly lit up in apparent understanding, as though this new information he was about to impart was the key to his acceptance.

"Ah, sorry! Didn't mention we was musicians, did I?" His smile grew; Muggle birds fell all over themselves for rock stars.

"Er, no." No ease or comfort came from that revelation, and Hermione only wished he would depart, preferably taking his creepy friend with him. Shifting unnoticeably to her right, she spotted said fiend's figure in his usual position... staring right back at her.

Eyebrow-ring man began chatting again – where had she heard that voice before? – but Hermione tuned him out, her mind actively searching for a plausible escape. Suddenly his voice rose in volume; the Rolling Stones had ceased their jam session and the pub was relatively tranquil again. Even the newcomers had settled down at the bar, half draped upon the countertop.

"Oh look, Hermione," Ginny called as she resumed her seat breathlessly. "Our meal's arrived."

Blessed be thy cook, Hermione thought, relieved for the second time that night as the barkeep arrived. Hermione offered the bank notes as Nigel bid his dance partner adieu, snagging his mate on his outro. A small reprieve, but one granting answers, hopefully. She tucked into her pie, hungrier now that she had to plan.

-o-

"You bloody wanker."

Kent had no more than touched his bum to the conifer when Stubby's greeting split through the air in a hiss.

"Sorry?" Moody, sure, but Stubbs was becoming a right psychotic nutter tonight, Kent observed. The younger man's brooding eyes glared, rattling a shiver down Kent's spine.

"What'd you say to her?" His tone was accusatory. Kent was right baffled.

"Who, the looker back there?" He indicated the opposing table with a slicing look. Stubby didn't answer. Not verbally, at least. His silent scowl spoke eloquently enough.

The Page Three Girls had caught his immediate notice when he'd stepped back into the main room, but even their antics and livened atmosphere had only held him moments. She was alone, Nigel frolicking with her girlfriend on the makeshift dance floor. That had his full attention.

Feet moving in tandem with his pulse, four steps unconsciously edged toward her. But again, it was not to be. Kent – the arse – had made for her like a bee to honey. And all he could do was wait.

"Chattin' 'er up is all. Layin' on a bit o' that Devonshire charm, like, displayin' me best qualities an' feelin' 'er out for –"

"– What's her name?" Stubby aggressively interrupted. Aged predatory plans meant little to him at present. He leaned forward upon the table, stretching across to eye Kent closely. The bassist shrank back, wary.

"Er, Helen, I think. Yeah, that's right; Helen. Heard her friend call 'er that. She di'n't say much 'erself. Jus' that she di'n't like to dance or somethin'." His lips stilled as Stubby relaxed back into his chair, leaning back on two legs, himself quiet, contriving. His sulk had returned, but with a glint of passionate power just below. Boardman was too interested in the chit. It wouldn't do to tell him she'd been eyein' him as well. Don't want to get him started again. Kent had learned these past few days: when Stubbs was in a nark, leave him be. 'Twas safer for his own personal well-being, it was.

"So, Nige... want another round?"

Stubby balanced his chair, his head resting on the corner wall. Helen... It didn't speak to him, didn't nudge visions of his life before the Boardman Show. But he couldn't shake she was a part of that life, that unknown past that scared him so.

They were eating. They would leave soon. The friend was carrying; she wouldn't pub crawl this evening. They'd leave soon, and he'd insure he caught her for word before she did so. The night was young, he reminded himself as the whisky burned down his prized throat. He could wait.

-o-

"What say we pop over to an ice cream shop for afters?" Hermione queried, her fingers crossed in silent pleading beneath the table. Their meal had been reduced to scraps, their drinks refreshed and sipped back down again. Throughout all, she'd not missed the veritable burn of his gaze. A nagging sense told her his patience dwindled, his intent soared.

"Sounds lovely, actually." Audible breath released in reply, but was drowned in a muffled Für Elise exalting itself from Hermione's jeans' pocket.

Mobile to her ear, she strained to catch her mum's words. Continuous garble forced her to excuse herself to Ginny for a moment, the reception inside the building too poor for signal.

"I'll just run to the loo while you're at it. Meet you back in here when you're done," the redhead suggested. Hermione nodded, shrugged into her subdued long coat and maneuvered her way to the exit, still trying to keep her mum on the line. A blast of chilled night air caught her bare face as she stepped through the door, nodding in thanks to the large bloke holding it open for her, he and his mates entering as she passed.

"Come again?" she asked into the mouthpiece. London was wide awake, the streets crowded with merrymakers' taunts and promises and calls of drunken glee. Drawing her warmth closer to stay the biting wind, Hermione stepped further down the façade brick, rounding the corner to the narrow alley of trash bins, litter and grime. Now she could hear.

Her mum continued; Hermione paced further, eyes searching blindly down the walls, the crevices, the filth. She'd left her wand in her chair, where she'd placed it next to her for easy access while she ate, just in case. Damn.

"Now there's no need for you to come straight home," her mum was saying. "I just wanted to warn you so you wouldn't be surprised when you came in and guests were kipped out, all right? Darlene is an old friend, and her nephew is quite the gentleman, round your age, actually." Motherly meddling purred that tune, and Hermione was having none of it. But she remained silent. Perhaps she'd just precipitate the not-so-subtle set-up suggestion, and rather evade it altogether.

"Er, Mum, I think I'll be staying with Ginny tonight. She's lonely for girl-company, really, and we've hardly chatted for ages. We've just had dinner and we're off for ice cream."

Step over the puddle laced in iridescent oil, strains of the streetlamp and partial moon catching foreign objects too questionable to ponder. Tilt head to the wind, cradling the mobile, straining to make out each word from its counterpart. The disappointment her mum would have to deal with; she was not coming home tonight only to be shoved toward some nice honest bloke in the morning whose aunt played marbles with her own mum in fifth form. Just wasn't going to happen. She had enough to deal with in her life at present, thank you very much.

"Love you as well, Mum," she ended, and rang off with a snap of the phone, dropping it back into her pocket, her hands seeking shelter in her coat crevices. She'd get back in to Ginny then they'd leave this suspect area and return to civilization. Once inside a well-lit, respectable shop, she'd fill in her friend this latest scheme.

Turning, she –

Bam!

A brick wall had just moved in front of her. Thrown back, the wall grabbed hold of her shoulders, curtailing her fall. She stumbled to the side, looking up to orientate herself.

That was no brick wall. Creepy hoodie man stood before her, his hood shadowing his face still, but the grimace of his set mouth was perfectly visible in scruffy three-day stubble. She stumbled further back, this time her back finding the pub wall legitimate. He closed in, fingers tightening through her woolen protection, digging painfully into her shoulders. She was thoroughly pinned. Why didn't she consider he might follow her out? She knew – knew – he was watching her, intent upon her. Why didn't she listen to herself? Hermione, you dolt! And you're too deep into the alley for some passer-by to be of help. Damn!

And her wand was inside. Double-damn!

Think, Hermione. Think. There must be a way out of this...

"I've been observing you all night," a hoarse croak broke through her formulating theorem. No shit, Sherlock. What's your next clue, Watson? she mentally quipped. Well, there was something to be said for attitude, even in a dire moment such as this. Stilling her trembling form – she'd blame the cold – she forced a hostile gaze at her opponent. And yes, he was an opponent. She would not go down without a fight.

Stubby studied the woman before him, her stance warning enough that she was no victim. However, he knew her wand lay inside, having noticed it as she stood to leave, talking into one of those blasted Muggle contraptions. Alone, wandless – his best opportunity to chat her up. He needed to know.

"Sorry for the circumstances, but the need for privacy was most urgent." Her scowling smirk suggested she thought his wording ironic. "I'm not going to hurt you; I just need to talk to you." The eyes narrowed further. She didn't buy it at all.

Proceeding cautiously, Stubby chose his words carefully, trying to both put her at ease yet hold her attention to a matter most important. Important to him, at least. "Understand, please... I need to –"

Finding her moment, palms shoved with full body weight against his chest. He gripped tighter with a step backwards. She struggled... violently. He pushed her hard against the wall, attempting to force her stillness. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he noted she had not yet screamed. No one would likely hear her, it was true, but no attempt, either. She was far too angry to be scared. Somehow, it fit her.

Lunging, she caught him off guard and off balance, and he overcorrected by throwing himself – and her – into the wall. A hollow thump resounded as her head knocked against the brick, and he let up his grip in concern. No fool, her hands flew to his neck to force him back, instead catching his cotton hood. It fell.

Her eyes caught sight in the stream of orange streetlamp glow. Struggling ceased. She stilled. Eyes widened impossibly. Sharp intake of damp smog, held. Then dry, gulping swallow, shallow breaths. Within the dim alley, her paleness was evident.

Liquid pewter focused through the minimal luminosity, a fathomless expression in their almond shaped encasements. No. It can't be – No. Impossible. You're – No. He saw you, they saw you... fall... No.

No, I said!

Head shaking side to side, her eyes fixated on the specter before her... hand to mouth, draping the slack-jawed opening. Arm protectively wrapping torso. Back against the wall, sliding slowly, raggedly down to the ground, nausea washing over, belly tightening, threatening her last meal.

Stubby watched in horrific amazement, letting her slip down out of his grip, his arms falling limply to his sides. This was no act. She was traumatized by the sight of his face. She knew him; that was definite. But the man she saw drove unequivocal fear through her. A man unknown to him.

He didn't know if she realized she was speaking aloud her chants of refusal. Hand loosely cupping mouth in protection, her words wound their way from behind the palm, encircling him. These were words of recognition, reflections of who he was. He bathed in them.

Tears spilled from lost little girl eyes, and one finalized word fell brokenly from her lips.

"Sirius."

"Stubbs, let's go! We gotta get outta here!" Shouts accompanied by fast footfalls broke the moment for him, and he turned to see Kent and Nigel making for him as fast as the pissed lads could manage, half stumbling through the obstacle course that was the alley. Bin lids rang out in their meetings, dislodging from their cans as Kent plowed through a pair in his flee. Nigel's tall, lean frame cleared them.

A fist clamped onto his hoodie and dragged him in a running stupor further into the alleyway. It was Nigel. Kent, huffing in breathless condition, had fallen back, hands on thighs, gasping. He glanced back to the mouth of the break fretfully, then back to his companions. "Nige!"

Fumbling to a stop, his hold on Stubby true, Nigel turned to his mate, his tagalong snapping back from the reversal, nearly colliding with the guitarist.

"We're far enough! Let's App here! Before they make it out!"

In apparent agreement, Nigel called back roughly, "Our flat!"

And before he had a chance to question, Stubby found himself Side-Along Apparating, his last sight a crumpled young witch in the foul of lower Muggle London, in the cold and rain, frightened near death.

Of him.