A Witch Out of Time

「 chapter one 」

          The Second World War wasn't the only war that had ended. It wasn't until a year ago that Edmund and his siblings had returned to Narnia to protect the realm from the Telmarines. One ought to assume such dangerous adventures would bring people closer together, yet the atmosphere between them had grown more tense than ever. Was it the depressing rainy weather in England, or the fact that they were all back to being treated like ordinary kids?

          Aslan, the king of Narnia, had promised Lucy and Edmund would return, but that had been a year ago, and slowly but certainly, Edmund doubted his words. Yearning for something that might never happen, with all your heart and soul — that was the real pain of it all. Not saying goodbye to your beloved home, like his older siblings had. They could move on. They were free. But for Edmund, Narnia still lingered like iron fetters, stopping him from finally starting to live.

          He was on his way home from school, cold drizzle bedewing his dense raven hair (he'd lost his hat). It was a dark winter afternoon and Christmas holidays were about to start. As he hurried down the streets, something made him stop. Abruptly. It was as if magic was happening somewhere. He could feel it. Was Aslan calling him back? Was it about time?

          Edmund stopped, frantically looking around. The busy crowd rushed past him, bumping him. An older man with an umbrella cursed the boy who blocked his way so rudely. Edmund didn't even care to apologise, there was only one thought on his mind: where had the magic come from?

          As the drizzle crescendoed to a heavy rainstorm and thunder rolled from the skies, he was forced to go on. His coat and school uniform were drenched by now as he entered the nearest shop for shelter, frustration weighing down on him. He was still in England. Maybe he was imagining things. God, maybe he was going mad.

          With a gloomy expression, Edmund paced about between the old wooden shelves of the shop. It was an antique book shop, nothing like the one he usually visited together with Susan. The air smelt of yellowing parchment and coffee. Besides an old man sitting behind the counter, there was nobody inside. Thick layers of dust gathered on most book titles, and the old music coming from a record player contrasted the pattering of rain against the windows, uncontrollably and angrily.

          What was he doing in there? Just run to the next train station, he told himself, but his feet wouldn't move. As if something kept him there. As if it was expected of him to wait.

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Hermione's gaze elevated to the dimming sky as a drop of precipitation collided with the tip of her nose. Thankfully her hoodie would provide shelter for her head, but the proceeding wind countered the material and forced it to surge back with her hair; great, she sarcastically thought. Her initial objective was to locate a recognisable entrance to the Ministry of Magic — or Diagon Alley — but Hermione encountered the task to be challenging under such circumstances. She was cold, wet and incredibly scared. By the time Hermione hiked anywhere into civilisation, the heavens had opened.

Floods of diligent bodies pushed and shoved through the high streets, presumably hurrying home or avoiding the dreadful weather. She had never witnessed anything like it! Hermione could only assume the amount of pedestrians was due to the lack of vehicles, which wasn't very reassuring. As the rainfall — or now almost sleet — lashed down upon the crowds, she couldn't help but tug her hood up to protect her frizzing hair. Sure, this generation gave her some funny looks, yet somehow it was worth it. Hermione did make a mental note, however, to acquire some era-specific attire.

Continuing to work the streets, it soon became apparent she was lost. The brunette came to a standstill, edging towards a wall to avoid the bustling population, to give her surroundings a focused analysis. Her only conclusion was that her feet were burning like hell. She needed a break and soon. Wincing, she glanced across the street. An older looking store caught her attention, it was rather narrow and appeared worn — just like Ollivanders. Hermione doubted she could've coincidentally located the wand shop, but any store was better than no store. She gradually hobbled across the street and pushed open the door.

          The pads of Edmund's long fingers brushed over the back of an old book, leaving traces upon the layer of dust. He already owned a copy of Sir Arthur but not the initial issue from fifty years ago. He took the book from the shelf, flipping it open and blowing at the pages, showering a pile of yellowing magazines with flakes of more dust. He was about to make his way over to the counter, forget about the whole magic rubbish he had imagined earlier, run home, plop down on the couch and read all night—

          A faint chime rang. Hermione was convinced she heard it over the howling wind. The pretty noise was repeated as she promptly forced the entrance closed, the required effort increasing due to the force of the wind. A sigh of relief exited her chapped lips.

          The boy's attention was immediately captured by the bell. A petite girl entered the shop. A few wet, brown curls sprang from the den of her hood, and that was all he could see of her. But a hood? And she wore trousers! That wasn't even the weirdest thing: his sense of magic dramatically grew the instance she arrived.

          Hermione spun on her heel to investigate the store. She was right. Books filled the shelves instead of wands — which left her quite disappointed. The store was warm, and dry, so she would happily stay until it closed. But then where would she go? She steadily approached the front counter, nonchalantly leaning upon the dust since it relieved some weight from her feet. The rest of the world was so blurred Hermione didn't notice the faint music, never mind third person stalking behind the shelves.

          "Hello there," She simpered, seeking the man's attention, "Sorry, um, but you wouldn't know of any nearby hostels would you? And the year, sorry, what year is it?"

          Edmund observed from the short distance. The brunette wasn't from his time. And as someone who had first-hand experience of varying times in different worlds, who knew where she was from? He wanted to help her, but the teenager hadn't a clue how:

          Hey, are you a time traveller? Nice. I'm also something of the sort so maybe I could lend you a hand.

          No. He shook his head.

          Even with Hermione's overly-polite apologies, the only response she received from the man was a careless shake of a head and the front page a newspaper. She murmured some thanks before scanning the front page for the details.

          Edmund detested the treatment the female received when she had been so polite. A stern glare and ignorant flash of the news, she didn't deserve that. He rolled his eyes. The raven-haired boy approached the counter from the girl's rear and the book was placed on the top.

          An awkward silence.

          ". . I'd like to buy that."