Lumos

Chapter Thirteen: "Dittany"

Hermione

January 27, 2003

Hermione stood, arms folded, staring down at the bed. The backpack she'd found in the depths of the closet was covered in dust, but it took the extension charm easily enough. Her clothing for the trip was already packed away, close to the bottom of the supplies to cushion the more delicate items.

Next came the rune texts—great, vast codexes that a reader could get lost in. These were layered between towels and her sleeping bag. Then came the materials for transcription—copying what they found into fresh sheathes of parchment.

Finally, spread across the duvet were the extras. The things she might need, just in case. They'd be gone for up to two weeks, and the likelihood of being caught in the elements unprepared was unnerving. It didn't help that after almost a month at the flat, she still didn't know how many of her former possessions were available, or what resources that she might have but not recall. So, Hermione stuck to searching out the items she remembered—the ones she understood.

The faded, red clutch rested on her pillow. Clearly, she'd nearly emptied it out ages ago—she recognized artifacts from the journey cluttered around the flat's bookcases. But still, perhaps what she needed was kept inside. It had to be falling apart at the seams by now—the thick cardboard softened and torn from repeated use.

She reached in up to the elbow and felt around. Her fingers closed on nothing but the bag's silky interior. Drat.

Hermione let out a sigh. Perhaps she'd thrown it away. That didn't seem right, though. She tried to remember back, before the gaping veil of lost time that felt like yesterday and ages ago, all at once.

She wouldn't have tossed it.

"George," she said, backpedaling from the mattress and towards the open door.

Silence.

He must be in the workshop, as the sky was dark, and the tills would be closed. He'd been working there more frequently this week. She supposed it was good that he was returning to some semblance of normalcy. She had yet to visit his workspace. Perhaps this was as good an excuse as any.

Not that she needed an excuse to peer in on him. She had a legitimate question, after all.

The flat's floors were noiseless under her socked feet.

She paused at the door to the stairwell that led to the shop's back hall, waving her wand. "Accio slippers," she said. A large, fuzzy pair, fashioned from worn, blue terrycloth tumbled from the study, floating into her outstretched hands. Hermione slipped them on, then blinked. These weren't hers. They were far too big.

They were George's. That was strange.

Hermione shrugged and proceeded to the stairwell. It was no matter. They'd work just as well for now. She started to regret her choice halfway down the spiral, as she nearly lost the left slipper for the third time.

She wrapped her robe tighter around her middle and stepped onto the first floor. The hall was dark, but she remembered the workshop door from the handful of visits she'd taken years ago.

The handle was warm to her touch, and she swung it open soundlessly. Music spilled over her. He sat, hunched at his workbench, leg jogging up and down to the beat of the song playing softly on a player across the room.

It was an Abba song—one of the sillier ones.

"There's that look, in your eyes. I can read in your face that your feelings are driving you wild."