NEAR ALLERFORD, SOMERSET, ENGLAND
Continued
Birds called to each other and shuffled through nearby leaves, looking for worms and all other manner of interesting things for dinner.
Hermione was curled on the ground, in the leaves as well, and weakly shook with dry, shuddering grief. It was a bad idea, but she let herself remember how life used to be. The Hogwarts Express, Hogwarts itself, becoming friends with Harry and Ron, her first visit to The Burrow, getting to know Ginny, the equal amounts of affection and exasperation she felt for Mrs. Weasley and, to a larger extent, the twins, how adorable and perfectly kind Mr. Weasley was.
It hurt. The pain was excruciating. Hermione curled up tighter, hugging her arms to her chest, memory after memory playing before her closed eyes, until finally, she fell asleep.
A nearing crunching of leaves woke her an hour later and Hermione tensed, staring around through the pounding of a tear jag-induced headache. She tried to stand, her knees wobbling, and when she had her feet under her, she reached inside her purse for her bottle of water.
Her thrumming heart almost jumped out of her when someone nearby cleared their throat. Turning as if in slow motion, Hermione's eyes widened when she came up short to the long barrel of a rifle.
A low baritone groused out at her, harsh but almost with good humor. "Welll, nice t' meet ye there, girlie. Ye one of them terrorists they're always complaining about?"
Hermione brought one shaky hand up to her forehead, closed her eyes for a moment, and held the other out in front of her in surrender. "Please," she croaked, and then tried to clear her throat. "I'm—" She cleared her throat again, her nerves not helping the rasping. "I'm not a threat," she finally managed.
The old man grunted and did not lower the gun. He stated the obvious. "Ye didn't answer me question there, lassie."
Hermione hesitated and bit her lip. Her mind ran through a series of lies she could use, but she wasn't a liar. "May I—do you mind," she cleared her throat and cringed, then pointed to the purse at her waist. "Water?"
His large, fuzzy caterpillar-like eyebrows arched over his narrowed sea green eyes. Hermione had never seen eyes like his before. He shifted the rifle to one hand and rested it on his thigh, still pointing it at her, and reached into his own shoulder bag and pulled out a bottle of water. He tossed it to her and shifted his rifle back into a more commanding grip.
Hermione tried to catch the bottle, but it slipped through her fingers. She bent over to pick it up, telling herself not to make any sudden moves. She guzzled down the first half of the bottle and his eyes softened, despite his stance. "Thank you, I.…" She faltered and tried for a simple summary of the truth. "I'm not a...terrorist—but I have been in trouble." Her voice cracked on the last word and her cinnamon brown eyes welled with tears. She blinked several times, willing them away, and squared her shoulders.
"Wellll, shoot." The old man lowered the gun and slung it over his shoulder by its nylon strap. "Thought I caught meself a spunky rebel." He paused, considering her for a thoughtful moment. "Name's Christie, Christie Barclay." He stuck out one weathered but large hand and Hermione shook his hand, wishing very much that she wasn't so dirty. Even though she had scrubbed in a stream earlier that day, she felt like she was filthy from the top of her bushy head to the tips of her booted toes.
She bit her lip and squared her shoulders harder. She had a gut feeling Christie could be trusted. The earnest honesty in his eyes reminded her an awful lot of Harry when he was young. "Her-Hermione Granger."
Christie's eyebrows rose even higher at that and he tilted his olive-green fisherman's hat back, tipping it up at a rakish angle. "Welllll. Well. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, lassie. Ye have been in a pickle."
Hermione nodded.
Christie strode over to a large, knee-high boulder and sat down. Hermione sat down in front of another large boulder nearby and leaned back against the rock, stretching her legs in front of her. She was still feeling weak.
"If I may ask, how did you find me, sir? Were you hunting?"
"Sir?" Christie slapped his knee. "No, no. Just call me Christie. Full name's Christopher, but that's too fanciful-like for the likes of me. I come out in these woods all of the time, bird-watching and such. But it seems you robbed me blind." He nodded at the stash under the overhang. Rather than being angry, he was amused.
"I'm sorry." Hermione flushed with embarrassment.
Christie waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "No harm done, lass, doesn't matter none. It sparked me curiosity, though, to be sure, and here we are."
It wasn't long before he was telling Hermione about himself.
"I'm from near all over, guess ye could say. I was born in Ireland, spent me youth there. Joined the Naval Service underage; ah, about sixteen I was. I've seen every shore from here to...wellll, about t' the Arctic."
Curiosity washed over Hermione and it was such a forgotten feeling that for several seconds, her mind reeled. She listened to Christie talk, inserting quiet questions and comments.
Christie brought out three sandwiches from his shoulder bag and handed her two of them, then he ate the other while he talked, punctuating the end of a story with a huge bite.
Hermione took her time chewing, savouring the tenderness and richness of the simple but delicious corned beef on somewhat stale bread, and as her stomach strained and stretched and felt full for the first time in years, she didn't notice the slow, steady stream of tears running down her face.
"The ports of South Africa, now, that's something t' write home about..."
Hermione leaned her head back against the rock as she listened, her eyes growing heavier and heavier with each passing second. Her grief was still there, but the miracle of having someone to talk to helped to take the edge off. Her breathing deepened and she drifted off. She slept with the last half of her second sandwich cradled in her two hands.
"Wellll, I bored her plain t' sleep." Christie chuckled and stood up and stretched. He walked to the trees nearby and began to search for decent firewood. It was going to be dark soon and the chill in the air was becoming more pronounced. He made quick work of gathering up an armful of medium-sized sticks.
The sharp caw of a nearby crow brought Christie's eyes up and he looked around until he found three a short distance away.
Nasty buggers, crows. He despised them. Out of all God's feathered creatures, they were the only ones he didn't like.
He itched to set the wood down and pull his rifle up and give them a parting shot, but with a grumble, he let them be. "Tis your jammy day, biddies, that's all. Ye stay away from me garden, ye hear me, ye feather-brained menaces?"
The crows began cawing at each other. Probably laughing at him, the daft buggers. Christie turned his back on the bothersome lot and walked away, muttering under his breath.
The poor lass was still asleep. Christie crouched under the overhang and settled the sticks in a careful pile at one end and then went back to gather a bit of dry grass. There was plenty of undergrowth nearby, and in less than a minute, he was back, prepping the makeshift fire. He rummaged in his shoulder bag until he found his lighter and one of his notepads and flipped through the bird-watching journal, ripping out a blank page at the back. Twisting it, he set the end on fire and sat back with satisfaction as the flame crinkled through the dry grass and built into a small but hearty blaze.
With an unnoticed creak in his bones, Christie leapt to his feet. The lass had turned and was huddled up against the rock, her head lying on the top of the boulder. It was enough to make his neck crick. Hesitating for a second, for he didn't want to scare the poor girl out of her wits, he finally cleared his throat once, and then a second time, louder.
Nothing.
"Girlie?" Several seconds passed and the lass made no indication she heard him. With a shrug, Christie approached her still form and leaned over and carefully situated her in his arms so that he could pick her up. He stood up straight with some surprise; she was as light as a feather, much more so than he had expected.
Christie backpedalled to the low overhang and settled her at the back wall, near the fire. He shuffled through his shoulder bag again and pulled out an old flannel shirt. Lifting her head gently, he slipped the folded shirt under her cheek, the closest thing to a pillow he could manage at the moment. He retreated to the rock he had been sitting on and turned up the collar of his coat. The soft snoring a short distance away brought a smile to his weathered face.
Two hours later found Christie sitting on the large rock out front, skinning a rabbit and whistling. He didn't raise his eyes from his handiwork as a bemused Hermione stumbled over, stretching and rolling her shoulders. She stepped towards him. "Thank you," Hermione whispered, handing his flannel shirt back.
Christie grunted in acknowledgement and went back to whistling. Hermione couldn't help the small smile that lit up her face and she sat down on the other side of the rock. She noted another rabbit at his feet and offered to skin it for him.
"Thanks, lassie, but tha's alrigh'. I don't mind skinnin' it 'fore I head back t' me castle."
Hermione nodded, a wave of sadness washing over her. She dusted off her hands and was about to reach into her purse for her bottle of water when Christie spoke again.
"I got a proposishun for ye, lass. If ye are ineristid."
"Ineristid?" Hermione chuckled into her hand. "You sound like an old...an old—"
"An old whaaat, exactly, lassie?" Christie interjected, his tone playful.
Hermione bit the inside of her cheek and shook her head. "A cowboy," she admitted. "Don't tell me. You spent a few years herding cattle?"
Christie stood up and set the skinned rabbit on the rock where he had been sitting. He hiked up his trousers self-importantly and spit on the ground nearby for good measure. "Yessiree, girlie. Ye're gawkin' atta two-year cowpokin' veteran." He crossed his arms, his eyes daring her to laugh again. "Aye. Besides. I love me a grand L'Amour western."
Hermione smiled.
Christie shuffled his feet. "Och, ye gonna listen o' not?"
"Aye."
Christie's right eyebrow rose, and he gave her a cheeky grin.
He was like a little leprechaun, Hermione mused, with his light build and spry, mischievous manner. She forced back tears, thinking how much the twins would have liked him.
"I could use some help 'round the house. That is, welllll...I can't exactily cook. Sure am sick o' sandwiches. I don't much like cleanin' neither, to be sure, to be sure. In short, lassie, I'd—welll, I would offer ye room and board. If yer willing t' work."
Hermione's eyes welled up and she looked down at her empty, chafed hands, trying to stifle the rise of emotion. Her head bobbed once in affirmation, her throat too swollen with the threat of oncoming tears to speak.
Christie cleared his throat. "Well." He grunted and patted her on the shoulder. "I'll just..." He retreated to the overhang to gather everything up, giving her a much-needed minute to herself.
Jammy (British slang) :: undeserved luck
