12. Esoteric and occult

His head was sideways on the table when he came to, his eyes staring across the room. A pain shot through his head as he raised it from the table, but died away as quickly as it had come, replaced by a numbness that wasn't all that much better. He pulled himself upright, his hand slipping once on the table's polished surface. He looked down at his hand. Last time I saw it I was holding a knife. Why would I have a knife? A memory began to form, but he pushed it away. I wanted to stab someone. He remembered the confrontation on the balcony, the man's relentless and inexplicable hatred. He remembered the cold, mocking eyes of the teenaged boy standing next to him, and the girl all dressed in white, drunk or high, or just crazed. He remembered Armin, but struggled to remember his own name. He only saw his hands. The hands that held the knife, the hands that choked a girl. He saw a flash of light, one that he thought was going to elucidate everything, but the next moment it was gone.

He got up from the table and moved slowly across the living room floor, the rough carpet brushing against the soles of his feet. It was at that point he noticed that he was in pyjamas. He was making for the fireplace, to look at the framed photographs propped on the mantelpiece. He snatched the first of them and looked down at it in his hand: a dark-haired girl of about ten in a long dress stood on a stone balcony, a green, forested hillside rising up behind it. The balcony and the hillside looked foreign to him: somewhere in Italy was his first thought. He put the first photograph back and took down the second: it was him, sitting in a bar, a girl next to him, her arm over his shoulder. An Irish pub in Greenwich. It was the same girl as in the first photograph, only ten years later.

'James?'

A voice called to him from the door. Her voice. She was across the room in an instant. Putting one arm around his waist, she caught the corner of the photo frame with her free hand. She looked down at the two of them in the photo then turned to look at him, smiling a warm, discreet smile. She was wearing a white rustic blouse and blue jeans. Like him, she was barefoot. She doesn't often wear white. It suits her. Without saying anything, she kissed him on the cheek and ran her hand up and down his back.

'How are you feeling?' she asked gently.

'Better,' he replied. 'But confused.'

She slid the photo out of his hand and put it back on the mantelpiece. Then she pushed herself against him and put her arms around his neck.

'That's normal,' she murmured, running one of her hands through the back of his hair.

'I don't think I even know what day it is.'

He put his hands around her waist.

'The party was the day before yesterday,' she replied. 'You remember the party, don't you?'

He did. Up to a point.

'How's Armin?'

'He's fine. He's at work. He's giving you some time off.'

'How did I …?'

'We stayed overnight at the house where the party was. My friend Paola found us a quiet room.'

'I passed out.'

'You woke up from time to time, but mostly you were unconscious. Sleeping.'

She reached up and kissed him once, very softly on the mouth.

'I was causing trouble.'

She shook her head.

'It wasn't you, it was that idiot looking for a fight.'

'What happened after I…?'

'Nothing. He left pretty quickly.'

'Who was he?'

'Oh, an irrelevance. He's no friend of Paola and Juan. A friend of a friend or something. They didn't even invite him. It's a shame you didn't have a chance to speak to them; you would have liked them. Juan even gave us a lift home the next day.'

He had a vague memory of being driven in a car through unfamiliar neighbourhoods of London. Passing in and out of consciousness.

'You must pass on my thanks, and tell them I'm sorry.'

'There's nothing to be sorry about, my darling.'

Locking her hand in his, she led him back to the sofa. He slumped down into its soft fabric, his legs splayed wide apart. Ilaria hopped up onto the seat next to him and sat facing him side-on, running her hand along the nape of his neck. He stared straight ahead then started to clench his fists.

'What's wrong, my love?' asked Ilaria.

'I've done something terrible,' he said plainly.

'What? When?' Her other hand was on his cheek in an instant, turning his face so that it faced hers.

'I don't know the details,' he said, the tautness weakening in her gaze. 'I don't know who I did it to, or when. But I'm guilty of something. I hurt a woman. Or worse.'

Her eyes were dark, searching his face for some trace of the details he didn't have.

'I don't believe you could do such a thing. Not those gentle hands.'

But I'm sure I did.

'You shouldn't be so certain. I was on the street, remember? Whatever I was running from couldn't have been something good.'

'You were trying to get away from some pain in your life, I'm sure of that.'

She pulled him against her chest and wrapped her hands around his shoulders and head. The fabric of her blouse had a freshly washed smell about it. As she held him, one of her fingernails caught against his skin, gouging and scratching a little. The tiny tremor of pain it caused seemed almost like a relief.

'I have an idea, James,' she was saying. 'A proposal. I think it's time we went on a little holiday. What about Paris?'

'Umm… I don't know.'

'You said you haven't been there before, didn't you?'

He supposed he must have said that. He certainly couldn't remember ever going there.

'No, I haven't been,' he replied, with put-on certainty.

'It'll do you so much good,' Ilaria went on. 'And I have a friend we can stay with.'

'Can we afford it?'

'I have some money saved up. It'll be more than worth it. You need to take advantage of this time-off. London has too many bad memories for you.'

That seemed to be true. Only they were bad memories he couldn't remember.

Leaving a concealed exit of the Ministry of Magic behind her, Hermione followed the winding course of Mount Pleasant until it spewed her out onto Roseberry Avenue just where it met Exmouth Market. She had paid a brief visit to the Ministry, meeting Demelza in one of its quiet outer precincts, before heading off on the mission she had set herself. She was accustomed to taking the back streets in that part of London, where some of the Ministry's minor entrances lay hidden and where she would often come across wizards hurrying past on Ministry or personal business.

She slackened her pace as she stepped onto Exmouth Market, relieved to be away from the traffic, and allowed herself to gaze at the shop fronts as she passed by. It was mid-morning: people were at coffee in snug bars, office workers passing quickly on errands, workmen seemingly lounging on street corners.

Reaching a broad, brick-fronted church, she turned and looked at the shop fronts on the other side of the street. It should be about here. In among the bars and boutiques was a cramped and rather stale shop window, incongruously down-at-heel in comparison with what surrounded it. She crossed the street and looked in the shop window. Arranged on a dusty, velvet cloth was a display of ancient-looking books and objects. She looked up at the name above the shop: Vlaminck's (esoteric and occult). She pushed against the heavy door and entered the shop, her heart beating a little faster.

Inside was a narrow space that seemed to go back a long way, with several rows of shelves crammed into it. An unidentifiable odour pervaded the space. There were few customers browsing in the shop. Hermione glanced about her and saw a thin, perspiring young man, who seemed not to want to be seen as he ran his eyes over titles on a shelf, a tall dark-haired woman with a faraway expression, and a severe-looking man with a shaven head who scowled at her when she caught his eye. Looking around the end of an aisle, she spied the shop counter. But instead of seeing Harry, or James Black as he called himself, she saw a tall, gangling young man with long, straw blonde hair, who seemed to be peering down at something on the counter top in front of him.

She started to examine a display of Egyptian artefacts, without much interest, before coming across a section on divination. I wonder if Professor Trelawney ever comes in here. Smiling to herself at the thought, it struck her that there was something in the shop's stale but vaguely exotic atmosphere that was reminiscent of divination class at Hogwarts. She made her way among the bookshelves and display cabinets, glancing at random at the titles of books. Some struck her as preposterous and completely misguided, whereas other works she recognised from the library at Hogwarts. She even found a copy of The Dreaming Mage. She took it down off the shelf and opened it to a random page. After reading a few lines, it occurred to her that maybe it didn't matter if books by real wizards were in muggle bookshops. Muggles who believed in magic weren't taken seriously, and those who didn't could read an entire book by J. Brabizon Barrett and think it was either nonsense or metaphor.

The customers she had seen so far in the shop struck her as people with no connection to the real world of magic. She wondered what they were looking for: groping in the dark for something they weren't sure existed, or else convinced of ideas that were a sad parody of the truth. She was about to make for the counter when she spied a trilby hat passing in front of her from the other side of the aisle. She kept her eyes fixed on the hat until its wearer emerged from behind the bookshelf. She saw a shortish, middle-aged man in a pinstripe shirt, denim waistcoat and bottle green trousers. So wizards come here after all. She followed the probable wizard with her gaze until he headed into a tight corner of the shop and passed out of sight. She started to follow him when she realised she knew who he was: a Ministry wizard named Carter. She'd even seen him talking once to Ron's father.

Leaving Carter to browse the shelves in peace, she made her way to the counter. The tall blonde man was still at his post, apparently looking through some sort of catalogue.

'Excuse me,' she began.

He looked up. He was very fair-skinned, with flushed red cheeks and piercing pale blue eyes. He had his arm in a sling. Not a wizard.

'Yes?' he said.

'I'm looking for James Black.'

A sharp, quizzical look flashed in his eyes.

'You're out of luck,' he said in what sounded to her like a rather ironic tone. 'He's not at work today. He's on holiday.'

'Holiday?' repeated Hermione, immediately suspicious. She coughed ceremoniously.

'Do you know when he'll be back?'

'I expect him back next week,' came the reply.

'On Monday?'

He frowned slightly.

'No, not Monday. He's gone away for a 'long weekend'. I don't expect to see him here before Wednesday.'

She looked down at the counter, considering what to do next. She couldn't bear to wait that long.

'He's gone away with Ilaria, I suppose?' she asked. Her voice came out rather more waspishly than she had intended.

He put down the catalogue and stared at her with an odd expression.

'Well, I suppose he has,' he replied after a moment's hesitation. Evasive, definitely evasive.

'And did he say where he was going?'

'Yes, on holiday,' came the deadpan reply.

'I'm not checking up on him or anything,' she said, changing tack. 'I bumped into him the other day, for the first time in ages, in fact. I work quite near here, so I thought I'd drop by to see where he worked. This place sounded quite interesting.'

The man digested this information in silence.

'If you like, you can leave him a message,' he replied at last, in a disinterested voice. 'I'll see that he gets it.' He folded his arms. 'Or come back next week if you like.'

'No, I don't have a message,' she said, deciding on the off-chance it was better not to leave a name.

'Well, feel free to have a browse. In my humble opinion there are plenty of interesting things in here.'

She shot him a brief, ironic smile, which he kind of mirrored then went back to his catalogue. An unmitigated disaster. She took a step away from the counter and looked around her for a moment. Then she went back to it.

'You have a pretty decent Mesopotamian section,' she began, with an altered tone. 'Do you have Incantations of Eanna?

He looked up swiftly from his catalogue.

'I wish we did,' he said rapidly, a look of renewed interest in his eyes. 'That's not a title that many people come in asking for.'

'Oh well, I was just curious. I had a look through a copy once in a library, and it seemed fairly interesting. I've never seen it anywhere since. My understanding is that it's the earliest known …'

'Book of spells.'

'That's right.'

'Where was this library where you happened to look through a copy?'

She smiled to herself. Quite possibly she was in one of the few places in the country where the knowledge she had gleaned over the years would be appreciated.

'It was my school library.'

'Your school library?' His eyes bulged wider. 'What school did you go to?'

'Oh, it's not a well-known school or anything. Just a boarding school. One that's a very long way from here. Rare books can end up in the most unlikely places, you know.'

'Eanna is more than rare.'

She looked with curiosity at the wide-eyed expression on his face. He knows his stuff after all. She was quite glad she had given him the benefit of the doubt. He really is on the threshold. The title he knew as Incantations of Eanna must be the translation from the ancient Greek, which was itself a translation of a translation. The translation was sound, but because it was written by a non-magician, it gave only a sort of rough gloss of the incantations. There was a different translation in Hogwarts library, one done by a real wizard, one who had seen the text in cuneiform.

She looked away, glancing around the shop again.

'Does the name Vlaminck have anything to do with the Flemish esotericist Lucas Vlaminck?'

Now she really had him.

'Lucas Vlaminck founded this shop. He came to London from Antwerp in 1693 and settled here. His original shop was on Crutched Friars.'

'Wasn't he chased out of Antwerp on suspicion of witchcraft?'

He raised his eyebrows and examined her in silence.

'There was a lot of it going around at the time,' he replied laconically. 'Where did you say you knew James from?'

She paused for a moment.

'I think we used to know each other years ago, but I can't be sure. But I want to find out.'

He looked curiously at her.

'It would be quite something if you did,' he replied. 'He doesn't know anyone from his past.'

'So he told me.'

She paused for a moment.

'So Ilaria's not from his past?'

He shrugged.

'I don't think they've known each other for more than a year.'

His eyes drifted to the catalogue on the counter.

'Did you say you didn't want to leave a message?'

'No … Maybe I'll come back another time. It's not out of my way to come here.'

'Suit yourself.'

She started to step away from the counter again then hesitated.

'Has he been working here long?'

'Getting on for a year.'

'I bet he's an asset to this place.'

'He's a strange one,' he replied. 'Claims to know nothing about the occult but from time to time comes out with something that only someone in the field would know.'

'Oh, I expect he's just being modest,' said Hermione, folding her arms.

'Is that so?'

She nodded and smiled at him.

'What about you? Have you been in the field long?'

'Born and raised in it. I'm a direct descendant of Lucas Vlaminck himself,' he said proudly.

'That is impressive,' said Hermione. 'So this is a family business.'

He nodded.

'I'm Armin. Armin Vlaminck.'

He held out his hand and she shook it.

'I'm Hermione.'

'Pleased to meet you, Hermione.'

At that moment, the wizard she had spotted earlier shuffled to the counter and thrust a musty-smelling hardback at Armin, muttering 'Excuse me,' to Hermione. He glanced at Hermione, a look of vague recognition on his face. She thought he seemed rather embarrassed to be seen in Armin's shop.

'I'm sorry, I've been keeping you from your customers,' she said, bowing out gracefully and turning to leave.

'Is there anything else I can help you with?' he called out after her.

'No thanks, that's all,' she called out over her shoulder.

'Well, come back anytime! I'll tell James you dropped by.'

She walked slowly back down the narrow shop, pausing for a moment to look at a yellowed skull in a glass display case that looked like something from Borgin & Burkes. She had just opened the door to leave when she felt a tap on the shoulder. It was Armin, who had run from the counter to catch up with her.

'If you've got a few minutes I want to show you something.'

She looked at him with surprise.

'All right then.'

He put up a sign in the shop window that read 'back in ten minutes'. Then he led her into the back room. The room was even more cramped than the shop itself, piled with boxes and books, a layer of dust covering everything. Armin went first to a drawer and took out two pairs of white gloves. He put on one pair and gave the other to her. He lifted one pile of books to one side and put it on the floor, revealing a small wall safe. He briskly entered the combination, and took out an ancient looking manuscript.

'It isn't Eanna,' he said in an animated voice, 'but it's the closest thing we have to it. This is the most valuable book in our possession.'

Carefully he handed her the manuscript, which was bound in leather. There was no title on the binding, so she opened the book. The title was written inside:

The Testament of Sie.

Her eyes widened in surprise.

'This is rare,' she said. 'I suppose it's a recent translation.'

'Seventeenth century is relatively recent, yes,' he replied, apparently with no trace of irony. 'Translated by Lucas Vlaminck himself from an earlier Latin version, based on an earlier Greek version that was in turn translated from Armenian. No one's ever seen the original of course.'

'Sie is not the name of a person,' said Hermione as she scanned the text. 'It means priest in Urartian.'

'You do know your stuff,' said Armin.

'I've read about this book, but I've never seen a copy.'

She looked carefully through the pages.

'You know what it's about though?' he said.

'I only know what I've read about it,' she replied. 'As far as I know it's the account of a sorcerer's journey through the spirit world. How he enters it, and whose dreams he inhabits. Supposedly you find echoes of it in the processes behind shamanistic journeys.'

'There's more to it than that,' Armin replied. 'The book talks about something called the Seven-Pointed Circle. Inhabiting the dreams of other people is just one of the levels of it. The other levels cover a whole range of magical techniques. Theoretically at least.'

Hermione looked intently at him.

'And have you tried to master them?' she asked in a soft but commanding voice, the book open in her hand. He held her gaze for a few moments then looked away.

'They're written in a sort of code. It's become rather impenetrable as a result of passing through I don't know how many translations. A bit like Eanna.'

She handed the book back to him.

'What do you make of it?' he asked. 'Do you think it's possible?'

'Well, like you say, the meaning's got lost in translation,' she replied. 'But if you knew what the original incantations were meant to say, who knows? You could try them at least.'

The incantations in Eanna can be done. But she could hardly tell him that.

'Anyway,' she continued in as much nonchalance as she could manage, 'it's not as if you could get this book out of the library, take it home and after a couple of weeks' study hope to be travelling the spirit world.'

Armin nodded enthusiastically.

'In the book it says that it took years to perfect it,' he said. 'And once the practitioner is in the dreams of their host, they can visit the dreams of others whose image is particularly vivid in that person's mind.'

They were interrupted by the sound of someone hammering on the door of the shop. Armin closed the book and put it back in the safe.

'Duty calls,' he said.

'Yes it does,' she replied. 'Thanks, Armin, for showing me that.'

'No problem,' he replied. 'You seem like someone who would appreciate it.'

They exited the back room together.

'To tell you the truth it's a bit annoying that James has gone off on holiday on such short notice,' Armin remarked.

'Oh, it was short notice, was it?' Hermione asked innocently.

'I mean, fair enough he needed a couple of days off to recover after the party but not this much.'

'One of those parties, was it?' she asked, rather disapprovingly.

'Probably, but it wasn't what you're thinking,' he replied, unlocking the door to the shop. 'There was this weird incident and then he just passed out.'

'Really? What weird incident?'

But by now the customer who had obviously just been hammering on the door was already barging past them into the shop, giving Hermione a rather withering look as he went by.

'I don't know exactly,' said Armin, who was starting to follow the customer back into the shop. He stopped for a moment and turned back to Hermione, who was still standing in the open doorway.

'An object sort of flew across the room,' he said in a low voice. 'Or that's what it looked like to me.'

Hermione was about to ask him more when the customer returned, demanding Armin's attention. He turned away, apologising to the customer.

'One last thing,' Hermione called out. 'Where did you say James was going on holiday?'

Armin looked up from a bookshelf, a flustered look on his face.

'Uh … Paris,' he replied. 'They're leaving tonight on the Eurostar.'

'Thanks Armin!' she shouted and stepped out onto the pavement, blinking in the sunshine. She stood for a moment in front of the shop and looked up at the brick façade of the church opposite, wondering whether it was the Vlaminck family's idea of a joke to open an occult bookshop just yards away from a church. Her gaze wandered from the church, and with surprise she found that she was being watched from a café across the street. A wiry man of about 40, with short-cropped hair and wearing a smart grey suit was looking at her through the glass of the café window, a look of intense concentration on his face. Wizard or muggle she thought to herself, returning his gaze for a moment. Definitely a muggle. She turned and walked purposefully back down the street, looking for the nearest alleyway from where she could disapparate in safety. She returned to her room at the Leaky Cauldron to consider her next move. Then she went to the Owlery.