Disclaimer: Della was created for another fanfic in another fandom and I claim all ownership rights for her. I've said before I get nervous about OC's, I hope you get on with her. Ok, it's a bit of a copout to be borrowing from my other fics but I wanted to look into the minds of some muggles who have a rather different view of magic to the Dursleys, and the characters were there for the taking.

Note: One longer than usual chapter and one shorter than usual chapter instead of two average length ones or one long one: there was a natural split point and it felt stilted in any other format.

Chapter Thirty

Secrets and Spindles

The bookshop was a fairly unassuming place, nestled snugly between a block of flats on one side and a post office on the other. Much like the Leaky Cauldron's façade onto the outside world, it was a place that one could easily overlook if one had no active reason to be looking for it. But Irma did have a reason to be looking for it, and it was this reason that had brought her to an out of the way street in a quiet part of Cardiff. The shop window was dark and showed no signs of life in spite of the 'open' sign that hung on the door, inviting passers-by in with spidery calligraphy. The faded silver letters on the royal blue woodwork above the door read 'Spindles. Proprietor: Della Jones'. She had definitely found the right place. Now the only problem was working up the courage to go in. Irma took a deep breath, adjusted her uncomfortable muggle attire and prayed that she didn't look too ridiculous before letting the breath go again and allowing her nerve to fail her for the third time that morning.

After the 'Incident' as it had come to be tactfully known in the staffroom, Irma had taken Hermione's advice as to looking for books in unexpected places and the two of them had spent quite a few evenings over the past two months going over possible options. They were hampered by the fact that it was fast becoming apparent that the Ministry was keeping tabs on all the castle's incomings and outgoings, so had they sent out any message that was not heavily and undetectably encrypted, it would result in a governmental clampdown, the probable death of the intended recipient and their being even worse off than when they started. Hermione had been very pro-active in trying to develop some sort of secret code, but as the weeks had drawn on and her academic workload had increased, she had been less able to devote her free time to the cause of restocking the library, although she still spent a good proportion of her time in there. Irma had come to the conclusion that she was going to have to look somewhere that no-one else had suggested. It was only an idea, but the more she thought about it, the more she came to the conclusion that it was the only solution. You-Know-Who would never think to look in muggle bookshops for contraband works, so that was where Irma would look. After all, it was not unheard of for magical items to end up in non-magical hands. Didn't the Ministry have a whole team of people devoted to dealing with such cases? The only trouble was that Irma had absolutely no idea where to begin her search, since it was obviously unfeasible to search every muggle bookshop in the country until she found what she was looking for. She didn't know the location of the majority of the muggle bookshops in the country, only those around her local area in Dorset that she occasionally visited when the wizarding shelves yielded nothing new and the owl order service was being particularly slow. When these had proved useless, Irma accepted that she was going to have to start searching further afield.

It would have been far easier if Irma was not so terrified of that mysterious 'further afield'. She had lived in the same house all her life, rarely venturing beyond the confines of her village except to school, the school that had then become her workplace. She preferred to ignore the outside world as much as possible from behind a sturdy shield of books, and when the outside world intruded upon her quiet life without warning, it was always a frightening experience.

Well, they always said to take control of your fears before they took control of you, so Irma had decided to stop hiding behind the issue desk and be an active participant in the search for library stock, and it was this approach that had led her to Spindles. She was taking a leisurely walk around the library and glancing in what few muggle studies textbooks remained, preparing herself for anything untoward that might happen on her trip, when she had bumped into a first-year, literally. Just as she had been about to scold the girl for blocking up the aisle, she had caught the expression of sheer rapture on her face as she drank in her surroundings with the simple and wondrous awe. Irma knew that expression, for it was one that she had worn herself on seeing the Hogwarts treasure trove for the first time. Somewhere within her, Irma had felt a surge of maternal pride that somehow, despite being battered and bruised, her library still managed to be jaw-droppingly impressive. In that moment, Irma knew that she had found a kindred spirit in this young Ravenclaw.

"Impressive, isn't it?" she had said, and the girl had nodded.

"I've never seen so many books," she had breathed in wonderment. "And I live in a bookshop."

At this innocent declaration, Irma's heart had skipped a beat. Maybe, just maybe…

"What sort of bookshop?" she had asked, trying to keep her tone light and easy to mask the fact that her heart had begun to beat hard and fast in her mouth at the possible prospect of having found a place that might bear fruit.

"A magical one." Here Irma's heart sank to her boots faster than a brick plummeting from the top of the astronomy tower. "Well, not really. Not magical like this. My mum sells old books on witchcraft and spirits; angels and that kind of thing. I always wanted to believe that they were real and now I know they are."

Irma very nearly broke her own golden rule of library etiquette and screamed her happiness from the top of her lungs. Not only had she found a muggle bookshop, she had found a muggle bookshop specialising in old occult books. She managed to retain her composure enough to continue her surreptitious questioning and learn that the young Ravenclaw had grown up above her family's shop in Cardiff, a little place named Spindles on account of Sleeping Beauty being her mother's favourite fairy tale and its being 'as good a name as any for a bookshop'.

And here she was, standing outside it and knowing that she was going to have to go in at some time soon. It wasn't that Irma was scared of muggles per se, it was that she'd had so little contact with the muggle world that she didn't know how to behave in their world in a way that wouldn't draw attention to the fact she was most definitely different, and she was always uncomfortable around any people she didn't know; magical and non-magical alike. That was why she had always retreated into the safety and the solitude of the library. Irma had always known where she was with books. Books were predictable. She could count on the majority of them not to do odd things out of the blue like people were wont to do. There were, of course, always some exceptions, but Irma was used to them. People were wholly unpredictable, and it was this unpredictability that made her so wary.

She took a step closer to the door, half of her mind reasoning that despite the open sign it really didn't look all that open, and maybe she should just give it up as a bad job and come back tomorrow, but she knew that if she didn't try now, then her courage would fail her even more dramatically once she was back in the safety of the castle, and she would not venture out to Cardiff again. This was the only chance that she had and she was going to take it, if she could only make her feet move.

Before she could take another step, before she could even take another breath, the shop's door opened, startling her into emitting a frightened squeak.

"Can I help you?"

The woman who was leaning out of the door looked blessedly normal apart from the fact she was wearing heavy purple doc marten boots that seemed wholly out of place with her slight frame. Irma had read about the muggles who called themselves 'white witches', and had come to the conclusion that they all looked rather like Sybil Trelawney on a bad day. The bookshop owner, thankfully, did not look to be of the same calibre, but Irma knew more than most that one should never judge a book by its cover. Irma fished around for a reply, her voice having suddenly deserted her and left her throat horribly dry.

"You look a bit lost," the woman in the shop continued.

Irma swallowed painfully and finally found her voice.

"This is Spindles bookshop?" she asked, knowing full-well that it was Spindles bookshop since she was standing just below the sign. The owner made no mention of this fact and nodded.

"Do you want to come in and have a cup of tea?" she asked.

Irma accepted the offer gratefully, and the woman disappeared into the darkness, leaving the door open for the librarian to follow. She stepped into the shop and closed the door behind her cautiously before looking around at her surroundings.

She had entered a muggle's idea of a magical wonderland, the nearest she could get to the genuine mysticism of Flourish and Blotts without using magic. Books were piled on every available surface, towering precariously on the floor and on chairs that were destined never to be used for their original purpose again. They were packed up to three deep in the book shelves that ran floor to ceiling around the walls and stuck out into the main body of the shop at various random intervals. Finally, they appeared to be holding up the cash desk instead of table legs. Irma didn't like to think what would happen if a customer wanted one of the editions in such a precarious load bearing position, because there were at least fifty books piled on the desk itself. The room was only a fraction of the size of the Hogwarts library and held only a fraction of the stock, but Irma was fairly sure that it had one of the highest book-to-available-space ratios that she had ever seen in a bookshop.

She sat down heavily on the only available surface that wasn't covered with books – the bottom rung of a rather rickety looking step ladder that was no doubt used to reach the uppermost shelves in the absence of summoning charms. The woman, undoubtedly the Della Jones whose name was painted above the door, was humming tunelessly as she moved around in the back room preparing tea.

"Milk and sugar?" she called.

"Please."

Della reappeared with two mismatched mugs and handed one to Irma, not seeming to be in the slightest bit startled by her choice of sitting position. She leaned against the edge of the desk, taking intermittent sips of tea.

"So, what brings you to Spindles?" she asked. "Are you looking for something in particular?"

Irma tried to think of a suitable excuse. As grateful as she was for the cup of tea, she had hoped that she would have been able to come into the bookshop, find what she was looking for and leave with the minimum of fuss.

"I…" She paused and thought logically for a moment. They were very obviously the only ones in the shop: she, the witch, and Della, the mother of a witch. Irma couldn't believe that it had taken her so long to realise that Della would know about magic. "My name is Irma Pince. I'm the librarian at Hogwarts school."

Della's politely inquiring face broke into a smile.

"Carrie told me about you," she said. "How do you do?"

"Very well, thank you." Irma paused and sipped her tea. "I'm looking to replace some of our stock that was… misplaced" (Irma still couldn't bring herself to say 'destroyed') "a few weeks ago."

"I'm not sure that I'll be able to help you," Della said doubtfully. "I don't really deal in what you know as magic, just our cheap muggle imitation of it."

Irma hid a smile; at least the bookseller was honest.

"But occasionally I get the odd book that isn't quite…" She struggled for the right words. "Isn't quite right," she finished. "I used to think that they were just very old or written by madmen, or indeed both, but after Carrie's letter, I began to think a little differently." She dived under the desk, pulling out a battered cardboard box. "I took them all off the shelves after that; didn't want them getting into unsuspecting hands in case something untoward happened."

She balanced the box on the edge of the desk and took out a battered work, blowing dust off the cover.

"Secrets of the Darkest Art," she read off the title page and grimaced accordingly. "There's some pretty horrible stuff mentioned in there." She returned her attention to the box. "Mrs Beeton…There's something very odd about that woman… Most Potente Potions…"

Irma sprang up from her sitting position on hearing the title of the most-wanted book in the restricted section. How had such a book ended up in an ordinary muggle bookshop? She picked her way across the floor, avoiding the piles of books as best she could, and she peered into the box. There was no doubting that the volumes therein were magical. She recognised most of them from her own shelves, pulling them out of the box individually and running her fingertips gently over the titles as if she was greeting old friends. She felt the tears welling in her eyes as she pulled out The Power of the Light: Advanced defence theories and their practice, a volume that she had thought to be lost forever, the only copy that the school owned having gone up in smoke at the end of the summer.

"Familiar?"

Irma looked up to see Della absently shuffling a deck of cards, about the only thing on the desk that was not a book or the cash register. She nodded.

"Some of these are exceedingly rare," she said, the old defence book still weighing heavy in her hand. Irma didn't want to let go of it; having it there in her grasp made certain that it was definitely real, and if she put it down then there would always be the possibility that it might suddenly vanish for no reason.

The deck stilled in Della's hands. On closer inspection they revealed themselves to be tarot cards, exquisitely painted and inked, and Irma began to think that her initial appraisal of the young bookseller as nothing like Sybil was perhaps a little premature.

"Are they valuable?" she asked.

Irma nodded, and then cursed herself inwardly. Della was no doubt going to ask a ludicrously high price, and Irma did not have all that much muggle money with her.

"You'd better take good care of them, then," said the bookseller. She pushed the box towards Irma. "Go on. On the house."

Irma looked at her incredulously.

"Believe me, I'll be glad to be rid of them," Della said darkly. "Especially that one." She indicated Secrets of the Darkest Art.

Irma had to take a sip of now-cold tea to recover her nerves. Della watched her with a small smile, dealing the first card of the pack.

"How appropriate," she said on looking at the picture. "Major arcana number five. The Heirophant. Associated with teaching, learning, and the acquisition of knowledge." Her eyes found Irma's again. "I don't take it incredibly seriously, but you can interpret it as a sign if you want to. I think I might have a little faith this morning." She glanced out at the rain that had begun to fall steadily in the time that the two women had been talking inside the shop. Irma knew that she must have been looking through the books in the box for a lot longer than she thought she had. "I'll fetch a lid for the box."

It occurred to Irma that she could simply use magic to seal the box against the rain, but it would probably be impolite to suggest it so she remained silent as Della disappeared into the back room in search of a lid. She ran her fingers over the cards and sneaked a peek at the next one in the deck before the books once more captured her attention and she fell to reading the nearest one.

"Here we are then," said Della brightly as she reappeared, cramming a lid onto the cardboard box and wrapping the whole thing in a plastic rubbish bag to make it slightly more watertight.

"Thank you," said Irma. She had no idea how to put into words the sheer level of gratitude that she felt towards this straightforward woman, but Della seemed to understand.

"Glad to be of service," she said. She paused, evidently thinking of whether to speak again. Finally she gave in to the urge. "Is my Carrie ok?" she asked. "She said she was fine in her last letter but every mother worries."

Irma nodded, feeling slightly awkward. She had not really had any contact with the young Ravenclaw excepting their one conversation in the middle of the library.

"I think she's doing well," she said, and this was enough to appease her mother.

"Give her my love if you see her again," Della said wistfully. Suddenly she straightened, pulling herself out of her melancholy as quickly as she had fallen into it. "Well, it was a pleasure doing business with you Madame Pince."

"Likewise, Mrs Jones."

After the necessary formalities, Irma left the shop, wishing that she had thought to bring an umbrella with her. She couldn't do any sort of magic until she was back in the little alleyway into which she had apparated, and by then it would be too late and she would be soaked to the skin. So caught up was she in trying to protect the box of books from the worst of the weather, Irma did not notice the shape moving in the shadows as she disapparated. If she had, she might have paid slightly more attention to the card that she had overturned in the shop…

Note2: And anyone with a vague knowledge of the major arcana has probably guessed its identity… Never mind. Onwards!