8. The girl in the churchyard

Hermione apparated into an alleyway just off Turnmill Street. Since she always dressed like a Muggle, she wasn't worried about drawing attention to herself as she stepped out onto the street. She hadn't changed out of her work shoes: she could move quickly enough in them if needed, which happened quite often at work.

She crossed the road and headed in the direction of the railway bridge, looking like any other office worker. The bridge lay in the full glare of the sun. There was no sign of autumn that afternoon, and it was hotter than she expected, although that was fairly typical after spending a day underground.

She had quite a lot of faith in Demelza's judgement, and so she found herself quite confident that she had really seen Harry the day before. So stupid of me to be so confident. I'm setting myself up for disappointment. But if it was him, there was the possibility, the dreadful possibility, that he hadn't been cursed and had instead simply cut his ties with his friends, her included. But then he wouldn't be walking around five minutes away from the Ministry, where he could bump into a hundred people who know him. So maybe it wasn't him after all.

Demelza was sitting on the railway bridge, scrutinising each person as they passed. It had just gone 4.45. She waved to Hermione as she reached the bridge.

'Sorry I'm late,' said Hermione, as Demelza jumped lithely down off the wall. 'It was a bit of a problem getting away from work at this time.' Demelza was wearing an olive green top, a long grey knitted cardigan and maroon trousers, Hermione noted. Dress as much like a Muggle as you can, she had briefed her on the phone the night before. Good enough, Hermione thought. Demelza's eyes blinked rapidly as her gaze flitted over each person who crossed the bridge and fanned out onto streets that led away from it. She has phenomenally good peripheral vision. Hermione remembered Harry raving about her qualities as a quidditch player more than once.

'Which way did he come from yesterday?' asked Hermione, as they positioned themselves at the end of the bridge, just across the road from the junction between Farringdon Road and Clerkenwell Road. 'From up that way,' Demelza replied, pointing up the hill.

They leaned against the brick wall of the bridge. Hermione half-feared that someone was going to come up and berate them for staring, or worse, start trying to chat them up. Being in direct sunlight on the exposed bridge was starting to get unpleasant. A mass of grey clouds was welling up over to the west, and she found herself willing the clouds to come and cover their part of London.

Demelza suddenly gripped Hermione's arm and pointed at a figure coming down the hill.

'There he is. That's who I saw yesterday. What do you think?'

She almost couldn't bear to look. Even from a distance, the way he walked was familiar. But why the beard and the long hair, are they supposed to be some sort of disguise? From the angle she was looking his face was obscured, but she already felt sure it was him. She would have to talk to him, no matter how difficult or painful it might be.

He entered the junction, now scarcely ten feet away from them. He watched for a break in the traffic, not looking in their direction. Eventually he spotted his chance, crossed the road quickly and turned onto Clerkenwell Road.

As quickly as he had appeared, he began to disappear back into the crowd. Hermione slipped her wand from her bag and cast a tracking charm, her wand barely moving as she held it against her bag's open zipper.

'Just in case,' she murmured to Demelza. 'Let's go.'

They crossed the road and headed onto Clerkenwell Road. They followed him at a good distance all the way down Hatton Garden and watched as he crossed Holborn. At this point he strayed from the route he had followed the previous day, meandering onto Fetter Lane. The street was quieter, so they dropped back further. Then he turned onto Fleet Street, back into the roar of the traffic and the thronging crowds of pedestrians. They redoubled their pace, weaving along the pavements to avoid losing him.

'He seems to be doubling back on himself,' remarked Demelza. 'Do you think he knows we're following him?'

'I don't think so,' replied Hermione, a little out of breath. 'I think he's just following a quieter route to wherever it is he's going.'

'I wonder whether he's planning to take a bus from Fleet Street,' said Demelza.

'That could take him in any number of directions,' said Hermione. 'If he does, and we have to get on the bus with him, you'll have to make yourself inconspicuous. Even though it's the rush hour, he might spot you.'

He continued along Fleet Street, making his way calmly through the mass of pedestrians, before suddenly disappearing out of sight. The girls began to walk even faster.

'He must have turned down a side street,' said Hermione. She looked up for a moment.

'We're very near St Bride's Church here.'

They turned onto the side street. At first they saw nobody. Then Hermione grabbed Demelza's arm and gestured to her to look up. The nave of a church rose up before them, built at a higher level than the narrow lane onto which they had turned. To the side of the church were benches, arranged neatly behind iron railings in the stone churchyard. He was standing in the churchyard, in the process of choosing a place to sit. It's him. 99% it's him.

She turned to Demelza and pointed to the pub on the other side of the lane.

'Wait for me in there. It'll look suspicious if he sees you. I'm going up there to talk to him.'

Demelza nodded, watching as Hermione ascended the little stone staircase that led up to the churchyard. The clouds were building over the spire of the church: it would soon be overcast. The sun was still shining, but the shadows were longer, the shade deep among the tall buildings.

By the time she entered the churchyard, he had sat down on a bench with his back to the lane. As she came through the gates, she glimpsed him take out a cigarette and glide it deftly into his mouth. He's smoking now? Or am I actually going mad and trailing a complete stranger? She looked at him again as he leaned back against the bench and looked up the church, puffing on the cigarette. No, it's definitely him.

She made for an unoccupied bench that was within his eye line and sat down. The exertion of trailing him at such a pace through the busy and polluted London streets made itself felt as soon as she sat down. Her brow was hot and her legs felt weak. Crossing her legs, she took a paperback out of her bag, opened it at a random page and looked down at it, looking over the edge of her book and across the way.

Soon she felt his gaze on her. She looked up abruptly and briefly made eye contact before looking back down at her book. She allowed a few moments to pass and looked up again. Again she caught his eye. The eyes were green. They're his. Three times she tried to read the same sentence in her book but couldn't put it together. This is ridiculous. We're like two lonely office workers making eyes at one another during our lunch hour. The only thing we're missing is a sandwich and a coffee in one of those cardboard containers.

She glanced up again. His eyes narrowed for a moment, as if he was trying to place her. She looked away, towards the tall, sombre windows of the church. He's still looking. She turned her head and looked straight at him deliberately.

'Hello,' he said sedately. The voice that carried across the little expanse of churchyard separating them was instantly recognisable.

'Hello,' she replied, a little hesitantly.

He leaned forward in her direction, putting his hands on his knees.

'Sorry for how ridiculous this is going to sound, but I'm sure I've seen you before.'

For a moment she didn't reply. You have, Harry, you have!

He seemed to be trying to gauge her reaction.

'Seriously. I'm not just saying it. I wouldn't normally speak to someone like this.'

What does this mean? Amnesia certainly, a memory charm most probably, but obviously the memory loss isn't total.

'What is it that makes you think you've seen me before?'

Her voice came out more coolly than she had intended. Her reply seemed to put him off a little. No Harry, that didn't come out right. She almost wanted to go over to him and slap him around the face. You're damn right you've seen me before, Harry Potter …

'I have a terrible memory,' he said earnestly. 'But you remind me of someone from my past. A friendly face from the past. Sorry,' he said suddenly, lowering his face and covering his eyes with his hand. 'I must sound like a weirdo.'

'No,' said Hermione quickly, half standing up. 'Don't worry. I … uh, was just having the same feeling. I think I know you too.'

The tactic was slightly dishonest, but it was better than slapping him, or even worse, taking out her wand and trying to de-curse him.

He stood up and came over to her bench, gesturing vaguely at the place next to her.

'Please,' she replied, smiling at him, half-starting to get up and then sitting back down.

He offered her a cigarette. She refused politely.

'Didn't think you would somehow,' he said with a smile. 'You're right not to smoke. You don't mind if I …?'

'Of course not,' she replied, making a little waving gesture with her hand. 'Have you been smoking for long?'

Ridiculous question.

'Not so long,' he replied, lighting the cigarette once he'd finished speaking. 'But long enough to get hooked.'

'I'm glad,' she said, resisting the temptation to touch him on the arm or the knee. He took a drag from the cigarette then took it away from his lips. The breeze blew the smoke away from them.

'Thanks,' he said, looking at her with what she wanted to think was a look of complicity. 'I'll try not to. Get addicted to them I mean.'

A pause imposed itself, as she didn't know how to reply.

'So…' he went on, 'do you think we might have gone to the same school?'

'Maybe,' she replied. 'I went to a boarding school.'

He seemed to analyse this piece of information.

'So did I,' he said finally. 'What was your school called?'

'Hogwarts.'

She shook his head.

'Never heard of it, I'm afraid.'

He seemed to her a little disappointed, but she might be imagining it.

'Where is your old school?'

She smiled in spite of herself.

'Oh, somewhere really hard to find,' she said. 'I suppose you'd say it's in the Highlands of Scotland.'

'Sounds interesting,' he said. 'My old school was somewhere quite remote too. Thing is, I can't remember much about it.'

He leaned a little closer to her and said in a lower voice:

'I've got a problem with memory loss.'

Shall I tell him now? For an instant she thought about grabbing his arms, shaking him and telling him who he was.

'I'm sorry,' she said softly, suddenly deflated. 'What happened to you?' She wondered what on earth he was going to say by way of a reply. For a while he didn't answer, as if he was trying to remember that detail too.

'Were you in an accident?' she suggested after a few moments.

'No one's been able to tell me,' he replied. 'But I think it's quite likely. I remember some sort of … I don't know … heavy impact. It was in a forest, I think. Something very hard and fast and hot collided with me. I seem to remember blacking out, seeing a kind of light, then waking up again.'

I could tell you a lot more about that night, Harry. I could tell you what hit you in the woods, even if I wasn't there.

'It sounds like you had a kind of out-of-body experience,' she said instead, mutely cursing herself for her cowardice.

'Yeah, something like that,' he agreed.

Suddenly he looked rather forlorn.

'I must be coming across as a weirdo again. Sorry about that.'

'No, it's ok,' she replied quickly. 'I don't think you're a weirdo.'

'You know. It's quite easy to talk to you,' he replied, almost in a reverie.

You can tell me anything. She closed her fists, digging her nails into her palms.

'You know, I think … I seem to see you without the beard. Your glasses were different too.' She gestured towards his current glasses, which had thick black rims.

'You must have a very good memory for details. I can't even place you, and you remember that I changed my glasses.'

'Oh, girls are good at noting those kinds of details,' she replied. 'You did have different glasses then.'

She felt her confidence rising.

'I did. I used to have round ones. They made me look a bit geeky.'

Hermione smiled.

'I reckon they would have suited you.'

'Oh I don't know, I prefer these now. They're more resistant anyway. My old glasses used to get damaged a lot.'

She looked away for a moment.

'And you really don't remember where you've seen me before?'

'I'm not sure. But as I said earlier, I have a terrible memory. So much of my past I can barely remember. That comes from not having any parents. I was brought up in an orphanage.'

'An orphanage?'

'Yes, a small one. But like I said, I can't remember that much about it. I just remember they weren't very friendly. I had my own room, which was something I suppose, but it was small and rather dark..'

'God, that must be so sad,' said Hermione. 'I have so many good memories of growing up, of my school, of my friends. We went through all sorts of hardships, faced dangers even, but it was the happiest time of my life. I miss those times.'

'You know, I wish I could have been one of your friends.'

She looked down at her lap, squeezing her nails into her palms again, stronger this time. As she looked up, a tear rolled down her cheek before she could stop it. She wiped it away hurriedly.

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'This is weird, isn't it? It was out of order of me to start on my sob story.'

'I don't think it's a sob story,' she replied, her voice half-choked.

'I haven't even told you my name.'

'What is your name?'

'It's James. James Black. And I really am harmless by the way.'

A nervous little laugh escaped her. Slightly hysterical, control yourself.

'James Black?' She stuck out her hand. 'Pleased to meet you, James Black. I'm Hermione Granger.'

He paused before shaking her hand, as if her name seemed to perplex him. She probed his gaze, looking for any sign that her name might dislodge something in his brain. But his expression regained its former serenity. He took her hand and shook it firmly.

'So what do you do?' he asked politely.

'I'm … a civil servant,' she said, smiling again in spite of herself. 'What about you?'

'I work in a bookshop on Exmouth Market. Specialised in the occult.'

'The occult?' She hoped she didn't look too surprised. Are you playing with me, Harry, after all? Is this all some kind of horrible joke?

'And what's your opinion of the occult?' she asked..

He smiled a warm, almost contented sort of smile.

'Neither for nor against it. Pays the bills. But we do have some interesting books there. You strike me as the sort of person who'd be into books.'

She sat up a little straighter.

'Books? I love books. At school you would always find me in the library.'

'Well, you should come in and have a browse sometime. I could do you a staff discount of course.'

'Of course you could!' she said, and laughed again. 'But why did you choose to work in an occult bookshop? Something must have attracted you to it.'

'Well, what attracted you to being a civil servant?'

'Do you really want me to answer that?'

'You can if you want.'

She felt a breeze blowing across the churchyard and realised she was cold. Her jacket, rather inconveniently, was stowed in her bag. It will look a little strange if I pull it out of my bag, unfolded and perfectly uncreased. A bit like a conjurer pulling coloured scarves out of a top hat. For a moment she debated with herself what effect a sudden display of magic could have on him. Trying to shock someone out of a memory charm is very risky, it had said in the book on memory charms she had found and borrowed from the Ministry library.

'It's really not that interesting. Maybe another time.'

The suggestion that they might meet again seemed to please him.

'Working in an occult bookshop sounds much more interesting,' she continued. 'What did attract you to working there?'

'Well,' he said, 'it had to do with dreams. I tend to have very vivid recurring dreams. And I saw this book in a shop window, The Dreaming Mage, by J. Brabizon Barrett. It had this strange symbol on the cover that I'd never seen before. So I went in. Just randomly. I didn't have the money to buy it. They were looking for someone to work there.'

She almost started to tell him that she knew the book, that she'd seen it in Hogwarts library, that J. Brabizon Barrett was a proper wizard. But she didn't.

'What sort of recurring dreams do you have?'

'Oh, there are a lot of snakes. And a castle, by a lake.'

She looked at him.

'My school was in a castle, by a lake.'

He looked at her quizzically and for a moment there was only silence. She took a deep breath and tried to affect an offhand tone of voice.

'So do you believe in magic?'

He looked at her strangely again.

'Well, I don't think I've ever witnessed any real magic, but if I did, then I suppose I would have no problem believing …'

A mobile phone started ringing in his pocket. He broke off his gaze, reached into his pocket and answered the phone.

'Hi. No, I've left work. I'm just on my way to Blackfriars. You? Great. Oh Ilaria, shall I get a bottle of wine for tonight?'

'Ilaria!' exclaimed Hermione.

He looked up at her and frowned a little.

'Sorry,' she said. 'It's just that I knew someone at school named Ilaria.'

'Your school keeps coming up,' he remarked, rather circumspectly, she thought.

'It's an Italian name, isn't it?' she said quickly.

'Yes, it is.'

He looked down at his watch and stood up.

'Well, Hermione,' offering her his hand again, 'I'm going to have to get going. It's been really interesting. Maybe we'll...'

She got to her feet too and shook his hand goodbye.

'Maybe,' she replied. 'Although this is London, so…'

'But I'm guessing we work in more or less the same area, so you never know...'

'That's true. My work is quite close to Exmouth Market.'

Yes, an unmeasurable number of metres directly below it, most likely.

'Yeah, feel free to drop in. I'm serious about the staff discount. Armin won't mind.'

She smiled.

'Well, I'm sure I'll find something to interest me.'

'Excellent. Well, bye then.'

'Bye.'

He started to walk away.

'Err… James?'

'Yes?'

'Try not to get addicted to smoking.'

He nodded, smiled, then walked quickly to the steps that led down and out of the churchyard. She watched him walk down the steps and disappear around the corner.

She was sitting on the bench when Demelza found her.

'Was it him?'

Hermione nodded, no words coming out of her mouth.

'Did he …?'

She shook her head.

'No, he didn't … well he sort of did. I mean he had some slight recollection of me. He thought we must be some kind of vague acquaintances.' A sob rose up in her throat as she said the word 'acquaintances', making her voice go up in pitch in the middle of it. Demelza sat down and put her arm around her. She tilted her head until it was resting on Demelza's shoulder.

James Black stood on the platform. Darkness had fallen and a chill breeze had started to blow up off the Thames and down its length. The rush hour was nearing its end, but the platforms were still crowded.

He stood some way back from the platform edge, glancing up at the departure board too often and otherwise staring across the tracks at the platform opposite. After a few minutes he started to walk away from the other passengers, passing out from under the station canopy and out into the open air. The night didn't feel so close down near the far end of the platform, where fewer people were waiting for their train. An empty train languished by the side of the next platform, its lights all switched off.

His head felt strange. He struggled to analyse the sensation, to describe it to himself. The image that finally came to mind was that of an opaque sphere, only the sphere had a crack in it. It was as if the sphere was around him, or around his brain, like a second skull. Beyond it lay a darkness, an inviting darkness beyond the gloom that enveloped him, muffling all sound and making all light hazy. Above him the clouds in the evening sky seemed to coil in on themselves. The platform that stretched across the river suddenly seemed to be moving of its own accord, pulling away into the distance, while the stationary train remained fixed in place, motionless on the rails. He looked down at his feet, the edge of his boot protruding over the edge of a small pool of water on the platform. A diffuse light flashed erratically in the reflection, and the darkness beyond it seemed to him like the opening to another world.

Finally his train came clanking into the station. He boarded it in the first carriage. The carriage was half empty and he dropped down on a seat where there was no danger of anyone sitting down opposite him. He remembered the girl in St Bride's churchyard. Her face seemed to emerge from the gloom, like that of a passenger on a train passing in the other direction. It had been the right decision not to offer her his phone number, far better to make the possibility of any further meeting dependent on her coming to the shop. She had seemed to know him, though. Perhaps it had been a mistake not to ask her more about where she knew him from. But he would have come across as even more of a weirdo than he already had. And there was something else which gnawed at him, something to do with her. Possibly. Or maybe it was all just rubbish. There was plenty of that in his head.

At last his train pulled out of the station and began to crawl into the suburbs of London. No, perhaps it was better if she didn't ever come into the shop. That was more likely anyway. He closed his eyes, shutting out the sterile light of the train carriage. No more opaque sphere or anything like that. It was better on this side.