The Muggle

Chapter 2

By LeoGryffin

A/N: Thank you so much for the comments and reviews, both here and in my LiveJournal. I appreciate the kindness and the time you spend giving feedback more than you can imagine, and hope the story continues to be enjoyable for you. For those who have asked about updating: the current plan is to add a chapter each week until the story is finished.

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The next morning, Hermione awoke to bright sun streaming through the window. She intended to work at home; there were no other plans for the day except for a quick walk to the market, so she'd be free to tackle her design project in peace.

Dressing in jeans and a light jumper for the bright October day, Hermione pulled her hair back in a ponytail and donned trainers for her trip down to pick up vegetables. Walking quickly through the streets, she played over the unnerving experience of the night before. It truly had felt like a wizard - or witch, she reminded herself - had been walking behind her. Perhaps someone in an invisibility cloak had followed her? It was possible...

But what purpose would that serve?, she asked herself sternly. She was persona non grata; she had nothing to offer anyone who would own such a cloak. Perhaps someone needed a nice potions ingredients website design, or something. She snorted at the thought of anyone from her former life using the Internet instead of parchment and owls, and suddenly felt considerably more at ease and cheerful. Despite the momentary terror of the day before, she was now thoroughly convinced she had imagined the entire thing and overreacted to random fluctuations in the magical energy that lit up all of the city. It was just too implausible that someone would have singled her out for particular notice, other than derision.

After making her purchases in the sun-dappled stalls of the outdoor marketplace, Hermione decided to stop by the corner pub. Coffee and breakfast out were rare indulgences in her usual bland world of tea and toast taken in quiet solitude on her balcony. The pub was nearly deserted at ten o'clock, between mealtimes, so the barkeep busied himself making her a fresh pot of coffee and chattering her ear off about a huge row he'd broken up the night before. Hermione was just about to regret having come in for breakfast when she felt the unmistakable prickle of magic, directly behind her. She wheeled around, but saw nothing.

"Did you see someone standing behind me? Just now?" she asked the barkeep.

"No, m'dear. Sorry. I'll check on your hash, now, be right back." The bartender departed for the kitchens, leaving her to once again experience a curious mingle of fear and curiosity. "Who's there?"

There was no answer, but a family of four sitting nearby looked askance at her. She turned away, staring into her coffee cup and willing the spirit of Sybill Trelawney to help her interpret the swirls of cream. She could not shake the feeling of being watched, and again foolishly wished for a wand. A simple spell could force anyone nearby to reveal themselves. She could not perform a simple spell, either in defense or even simply to transfigure a matchstick to a needle. This thought, so frequent in the early days, rarely hit her with the force it did now. She was naked and vulnerable.

The rational part of her mind reeled with the options - why were they interested? Which dysfunctional bloody wizard was stalking her? What the hell are you going to do, Granger?

The barkeep reappeared with a steaming tray of hash and eggs, to find his customer gathering her packages and withdrawing her purse. "Can you package that to take away, please? I...something important...has come up."

Package in hand, she nearly ran home to the flat, feeling that presence with her the entire way. Keys at the ready, she ran up the stairs, and quickly turned the lock. As she opened the door, a bolt of blue fire suddenly shot out from out of nowhere and closed the door again. Another hand firmly grabbed her arm, and pinned it back against her, causing her packages of vegetables and hash and eggs to clatter to the floor. Before she could struggle, she heard a curiously familiar female voice murmur a binding spell and found herself completely trapped.

Struggling blindly against the magic that held her, she felt a surge of panic. Oddly, however, she had been entangled in so many magical scrapes in her childhood, that for a moment the familiarity of fear was bizarrely comforting. Furthermore, the emptiness retreated a modicum when she realized that this was the first real contact she'd had with magic in years - even this negative attention felt strangely compelling. An unbidden flashback from the Shrieking Shack of Snape lying on the floor came to her. If she'd lived through that year, surely she would live even now, right?

She was roughly lifted by cold, silent hands, and then abruptly yanked down and thrown against a wall to the right side of her door. She winced at a sharp crack coming from the direction of her legs. She was still bound, and now facing the wall so that she could not see what was happening. Through the haze of pain from her knee and uncertainty, Hermione heard a male voice utter something she couldn't quite understand. There was a flash, some shuffling sounds of steps, a muffled angry wail, what sounded like a slap. Another flash.

And then, nothing but silence.

Fear suddenly gave way to anger in the next several seconds. She couldn't see her attackers; moreover, nothing else had happened to her for nearly a minute, causing her to channel what was left of that buried Gryffindor bravery. And to make matters more insane, she was lying in a pool of congealed breakfast and bell peppers, with a badly bruised knee. "Who is there? Show yourself, coward!" she yelled, more sternly than she actually felt.

No response. She could still feel a presence, of that much she was sure. Someone was there.

"Either kill me, or let me up. But be quick about it. I'm hungry and tired and..." Her voice was shaking as she trailed off. She knew her attacker wouldn't be fooled by her pretend nonchalance. Jesus, Hermione, you used to be very good at subterfuge. What the hell happened to you, anyway?

Finally, she heard the male voice again, murmuring words to let her out of her body bind. Before she could say anything, she could feel the magic leave her presence. A sudden relief flooded her, mingled with a curious disappointment that she didn't find out who, or what, was responsible for the incident.

*~*~*

Still trembling, she gathered what was left of her packages, entered her flat, and sank down at her desk. She started typing a very strange entry into her LiveJournal. She knew it wouldn't make much sense to her friends, but somehow, she needed to get some of these emotions out of her system; writing things down had always helped her analyze herself in the past.

Some years ago in school, I was a part of a group of people that have since shunned me. It was a whole different life; all-consuming, something I felt I'd be a part of forever. Due to decisions and situations entirely out of my hands, and my own weakness and inability to fight off the power of suggestion, I was forced to leave this group and renounce everything I had been a part of and had fought for. I had no choice in the matter. I had to forge an entirely new life for myself, which was incredibly difficult, but I've managed to get by.

Five years have passed, and today I had a close brush with my old life. I've intersected marginally with it from time to time, seeing those that I once counted as my friends on a train platform or on the street, but in this case I came more-or-less face-to-face with people from my past - and possibly none that I would have been happy to see when I was a part of that world. As uncomfortable - and, dare I say frightening - as the situation was, I here and now admit to you people that was thrilled by the contact with my old life. There, I've said it here, so it must be so. It wasn't a pleasant experience, and yet I crave more. I have questions - I want to catch up. But, as much as I feel like I want this, I know that I can never return to my former life.

No need to comment, I'm just plotting my emotions here for my own self-indulgence.

Mood: Pensive
Music: the clinking of my wine glass, even though it's still morning

It was a few moments before comments started to be posted in response to her entry. Most of her friends seemed to be of the opinion that she should hang the past and move on and stop dwelling on it, but some advised revisiting her old life and satisfying her curiosity about it.

The most interesting response, naturally, was from QuIdiot. "I sense there is a lot you aren't telling us about your mysterious former life, BW," he wrote. "I'm thinking that to shake it out of you, a good pub drunk is in order this evening for our Londoners. Anyone else game?"

As tempted as she was to reply in the affirmative, she held back. She knew her online friends had met up for drinks several times, and had invited her along. She had always decided it was better to remain anonymous; she didn't want these people to turn into real-life friends. The prospect frightened her almost more than the Petrificus Totalus from earlier, truth be told. She wanted to simply be a very quiet, private, citizen. Pay her taxes, eat solitary meals, cry herself to sleep with loneliness. Why complicate things with actual human friends?

She felt the pull of QI's suggestion, though, especially when others began to join in with "What are you doing right now? Let's go out and have an all-day drunk, whotsay?" She knew that QI was male, and had often wondered about meeting him.

"I'm game," more responses came. Trust her LiveJournal acquaintances to turn her plea to make sense of her life into a party. They began posting pub suggestions, and oddly enough, settled on the pub right down the street - the one where she had nearly had breakfast before she had run, terrified, before being accosted outside her door. She felt even more unsettled. Should she go only a few steps away to be around people that ostensibly cared about her - and give up her anonymity and enforced distance? Should she stay home, drink alone, and blot out the pain again?

Resolutely, she shut off her computer, and got into bed, pulling the pillows over her head. She knew she simply couldn't afford the intimacy, and was too shaken from the events of the day to wish to venture outside into the unknown again for a while.