Dismantle the Sun

4: Christie

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 that 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 Jospeph, lassie. Ye have been in a pickle."