My Sister's Shadow

Chapter Four - Spy Game?

As I marched down St. Giles Street with a baguette and a bottle of wine in hand, it occurred to me that I could never make it as a spy. Thank God for literary research, because espionage was definitely out as a career choice.

I adhered to Hermione's instructions and kept a low profile, but it seemed that every measure I took to avoid getting noticed only served to draw more attention to myself. Following her lead from the previous evening, I craned my head round every two seconds and looked over my shoulder to make sure I wasn't being tailed by the bad guys, whoever they were. And I am certain that all of this only served to make me look lost, stupid, or worse, mentally ill. Passersby gave me puzzled glances, and worse, pitying ones.

I tried to ignore them by thinking about the evening that lay ahead. Did wizards even eat French bread and drink Australian merlot? I supposed I was going to find out.

Number 10 1/2 Bramwell Lane, Hermione's measured cursive read on the scrap of paper she had given me. Turn left at the antique book shop on St. Giles. I didn't even know there was Bramwell Lane in Oxford, but fortunately, I was well-acquainted with the

antique book shop.

"Are you lost, dear?" a kindly looking-middle aged woman asked as I paused on the aforementioned corner and looked round cluelessly for any sign of Bramwell Lane.

"No!" I snapped, and it was then that I realized I was acting as skittishly as Hermione had the night before. I really had to stop that. I muttered an apology to the woman and looked down at the slip of paper in my hand.

Number 10 1/2 Bramwell Lane, I read again. Idiotic me, I should have realized there wouldn't be a street sign. I turned right onto a narrow, cobblestone lane that was little more than an alley, hoping that this was the right place.

20...18...16...14...each dilapidated building passed by in sequence until I came to what I thought had to be the place--a dreary-looking bake shop that was perched on the edge of an alley leading off the lane and bore the number twelve. Across the alley, what looked to be an old iron works, displayed a number ten in ornate wrought

iron. I peered into the dank lane, which looked damp and chilly despite the summer heat. This couldn't possibly be it. People didn't live here, not if they could afford it. Mum and Dad wouldn't allow it, certainly not for their Hermione. I must have gotten the directions wrong. I stared down at the address scrawled on the scrap of paper, but just as I did so, the paper rose out of my hand and disappeared into the air with a small pop.

"Well, isn't this interesting!" I said aloud, growing annoyed. And then I saw it.

Around the corner from the bake shop stood a door, nearly off its hinges. And above it, was the barely visible the number 10 1/2, surely a vestige of the days of Bramwell Bronte, who was perhaps the street's namesake. Taking a quick look around me to be sure I was alone, I ventured toward the door and cautiously pushed on it. It swung open with a hulking creak. I peered inside to find a lopsided, narrow set of stairs, and seeing that I had only one way to go, I ascended them.

I arrived at a landing at the top of the stairs, which appeared to be nothing more than a storage space for the bakery below. Bags of flour and sugar and tins of berries were stacked haphazardly, and everything told me I had arrived at the wrong place. Surely, this was a dead end. Silently cursing my sister's name, I decided to leave and go home to drink the Australian merlot and eat the freshly-baked baguette myself.

"Sorry!" came a breathless voice from the bottom of the stairs and I spun around. It was Hermione, with a black-haired man about her age trailing behind her. They were both clad in long black capes and seemed out of breath, their hair disheveled and clothes torn in places. I could have sworn I saw the dark-haired man conceal what looked to be a bundle of velvety fabric beneath his cape.

"Roz, this is Harry Potter," Hermione said quickly. "Harry, this is Rosalind, my sister."

"How do you do," I said extending my hand to Harry. He was, evidently, quite well-known in Hermione's world. I had remembered her prattling on incessantly about him and Ron during her holidays from school. But Hermione had never brought Harry home to meet us. I had only met Ron once, and they'd been together for what seemed like forever.

With introductions over, Hermione murmured a few words I couldn't make out properly, and before my eyes, the stacks of flour bags and various tins shifted apart, and a plain wooden door appeared between them.

"Here we are," Hermione announced, as if this was an everyday occurrence. She spoke a few more words I couldn't quite understand, and the door creaked open to reveal what appeared to be quite a cozy (and sizable) flat.

The door shut securely behind us, but we still lingered in the entrance.

"You look a state!" I exclaimed to my sister, once I could finally appreciate how ratty her typically frizzy hair--a trait we, unfortunately, shared--looked. "Where have you been?"

Hermione and Harry exchanged glances.

"Oh, you know, running errands, last minute things for dinner," Hermione said quickly, still a bit out of breath.

"Oh," I observed. Both of them were empty-handed, and I felt reason to doubt what my sister was saying. "What things did you get?"

A look of panic washed over both their faces, but fortunately, they were saved when the ginger-headed bloke I knew to be Ron Weasley saw us standing in the entryway.

"Oi! You two gonna give me a hand with this or not?" he demanded gruffly. He was ensconced at the kitchen stove and appeared to be labouring over a dish of some kind.

"Ron wanted to cook. Without magic," Hermione explained, waving her hand at the kitchen, which was giving off an odd combination of smells.

"Spaghetti Bolognese, 'cept we didn't have any minced beef, so I had to use sardines instead," Ron shrugged. "Could be all right. Got this recipe from Hermione's book, The Joy of Cooking or something. But I didn't know what all that grams and teaspoons business was about, so I had to guess on the measurements."

"Oh God," I heard Harry mutter as I had to banish images of the fairy godmothers in Sleeping Beauty baking a cake without using their wands.

Their flat was quite warm and inviting, with a large living area that opened onto the kitchen. In the right corner of the room, there was a doorway, which I assumed led to the bedrooms.

Harry cleared a large stack of newspapers and heavy-looking books off the slightly threadbare but still fluffy sofa and indicated for me to take a seat.

"Hermione's light reading material," he explained offhandedly. I sat on the sofa as Hermione quickly hung up the capes she and Harry had been wearing--for what reason I was still unaware--and took the baguette and merlot into the kitchen.

After several minutes of slightly awkward small talk, Ron shouted "Bon Appetit!" and we gathered, with some trepidation, around the carefully-set dining room table.

Ron's Spaghetti Bolognese was more like a soup of tomato paste and sardines with a few soggy noodles mixed in. But I was so famished, I didn't care. And after a few glasses of merlot, no else one seemed to care either about the horror of Ron's culinary disaster.

"So what exactly is it you three are doing in Oxford?" I asked during a lull in the conversation. Perhaps it was the wine that made me so bold, but I really was dying the find out. Ron and Harry exchanged glances and immediately looked to Hermione.

"Roz," she began in an almost sing-song voice, shooting me the shut up, please look. "I thought I already explained what we're doing here to you last night."

"Well, not really," I contended.

"Hermione takes things a bit too seriously," Ron chuckled, placing his hand affectionately at the nape of her neck. An awkward silence filled the air.

"We're here to gather intelligence," Harry put in when it was clear Hermione had no desire to elaborate on the subject. "On special assignment."

"Oh!" I exclaimed, intrigued. "That sounds...exciting."

Hermione's fork fell to her plate with a strident clang.

"Ron, would you help me fetch the tea service for dessert?" she asked suddenly, standing up.

"Why do we need the tea service?" Ron asked, put out. "We can just use the kettle and the mugs from the kitchen."

"Ronald," Hermione repeated coolly, placing a hand on his shoulder. Ron sighed softly, standing and following her out of the dining area and into the hallway.

Harry let out a small whistle when the two were gone.

"Oh, Ron, Ron, Ron," he said archly.

"Does this happen a lot?" I asked.

"Not so much as it used to. Ron knows better what not to say in front of Hermione, but sometimes...he forgets."

"Why do I get the impression none of you are telling me the whole truth?" I asked frankly.

"Because we aren't," came the candid reply.

I nodded. "Of course," I said wryly.

"Look," Harry offered, "I grew up in a Muggle house, so I know how strange the wizarding world probably seems to you. I'm sure...it'll probably make sense to you in time."

The tone of finality in his voice told me that was the best answer I was going to get.

"Well," I said. "Should we start cleaning up?" Harry and I grabbed the plates and silverware on the table and set them in the kitchen sink. I reached under the sink, which seemed to be stocked with everything but cleaning products. "Uh, where do you keep the dish soap?"

"Oh, I'll take care of that," Harry offered, reaching into a cupboard.

"It'll go faster if we both do it. Do you want to wash or rinse?" I asked gamely.

"Mmm, well actually," he started and held up a bottle whose brand I didn't recognize. "I just use this."

Harry sprinkled what looked like dishwashing liquid over the plates and cups and silverware piled in the sink, and within moments, everything was spotlessly clean. Then he pulled what I assumed had to be his magic wand (magic wand!) out of his back pocket, murmured what sounded like gibberish to me, and in a flash, the plates and cups flew into the cupboards.

"Okay, maybe it's quicker if you just do it," I noted glibly.

"Yeah," Harry laughed. "Wish I had this stuff when I was living with my aunt and uncle."

"Would have made life a bit easier?"

Harry raised his eyebrows and let out a small sigh.

"Yeah. A bit," he replied shortly, a pensive look on his face. This seemed to be a bit of a touchy subject, so I thought it best to change it.

"Um, where's the toilet?" I asked, perhaps a bit too urgently.

"Oh," Harry exclaimed. "It's at the end of the hall." And so I started down the hall. There were two doors on the right and one on the left, bedrooms, I guessed. And then I heard the sounds of my sister and Ron's voices wafting through one of the slightly cracked doorways. I know I shouldn't have, but I stopped just shy of the doorframe when I heard my name mentioned.

"Thought you were a bit harsh on Rosalind, Hermione," Ron said plainly. "You can't blame her for being curious."

"Well, how did you expect me to react, Ronald?" Hermione retorted. "The less she knows, the better."

"Do you actually think she's going to blab about us to the first Muggle she sees?"

"No, Ron, I don't. My sister's very smart."

"Then why don't you treat her like she is?"

Touché, Ron. I leaned forward to hear Hermione's response, and the floor creaked. Their heads snapped toward the door, and Hermione wrenched it open all the way to look me straight in the face.

"Roz!" Hermione exclaimed, her face immediately coloring. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Oh, not long at all," I lied. "I was just walking by...I'm looking for the toilet."

"It's down there at the end of the hall," Hermione said in a measured voice, eyeing me suspiciously.

I padded nervously the rest of the way to the toilet. Overhearing that conversation did nothing to allay my curiosity.

It was nearly midnight when I finally looked at my watch and realized I should get home and go to sleep if I wanted to be at least remotely useful to Dr. Holman the next day.

I bid my sister and her friends good night and started out the door. Harry insisted on seeing me safely to a cab on St. Giles Street, which dropped me off in front of my residence hall at Magdalen.

I was a bit tipsy from the merlot but still fully capable of walking the twenty feet from the street to the door of my residence hall, which stood still before me, a great noiseless mass of stone and glass. Or so I thought.

I can't fully recall what happened the moments leading up to it, but my memory remains sharply intact from the second I heard my keys hit the stone steps with a metallic clang. I felt myself yanked backward into the building's shadow by a gloved hand snaking round my neck. Completely unaccustomed to having someone's fingers at my throat, it took me a moment to realize that this person was attempting to strangle me.

"Miss Rosalind Granger," a voice I couldn't identify as either male or female hissed close to my ear, "how nice to finally meet the mudblood's little sister."

The gloved hands tightened their grip, and I could only choke out a few incoherent murmurs. There had to be at least a few of my fellow students inside who could hear me. I had to rustle them from their sleep somehow, scream or something, but this figure seemed to have other plans.

"What a fool she was to think we wouldn't find you here," the voice sibilated menacingly. "Safely stowed away in Oxford...out of harm's way..."

The grip tightened, and tears began streaming down my face. Stars I had not seen before began to pierce my view, and I could feel my legs begin to collapse beneath me. Was this what it felt like to suffocate?

But just then, a few voices broke through the moonless night, and the figure turned its head with a start, loosening its grasp for a moment. A boisterous group of students, fresh from a night on the town, came into view along the pavement about 20 yards away, laughing and carrying on loudly. The figure grew agitated and yanked my head back further, hissing into my ear, "I have no doubt we'll meet again soon!" before shoving me forcefully against the stones on the ground in front of the door. When I looked up, it was gone, and so were the students. They had obviously not noticed me there.

Coughing and gasping, I staggered through the doorway in a delirium borne of oxygen deprivation and a few glasses of wine. The living area looked empty, and for that I was thankful, as I didn't want anyone see me in this state. Hot tears stung my face, and I could feel bruises forming on my neck and cheeks as I stumbled toward the stairs. I was a miserable, wretched mess.

"Jesus, what happened?" someone demanded. I looked up to see Henry's head poking up from behind one of the living area couches, where he was sprawled out with a book, headphones on his ears.

"Someone was...outside the door to the hall. I didn't see him. He came up behind me and grabbed my throat and..." I couldn't complete my thought. The incident caught up with me, and I could feel sobs wracking my body.

A look of horror passed over Henry's face, knitting his brows together, as he jumped up from the couch, tossing his book and CD player aside.

"Crikey," he exhaled. "Come on then, let's get you fixed up." Henry placed a protective arm around my shoulders and led me upstairs.

When we arrived at my door, I handed him my keys, thinking I was probably unable to unlock yet another door that night. Henry ushered me inside and I sat down on the bed.

"Be right back," he said curtly and disappeared out the door. Minutes later, he was returned, a small plastic bag full of ice in his hand. "Don't want to wake up with a pair of shiners, do you?" I winced as he gingerly pressed the ice against my face and opened

the small first-aid kit he carried in his other hand.

"You're very prepared, aren't you?" I asked.

"Yeah, well, when you've been hit in the face playing football as many times as I have, you learn to be," he replied.

"Ah, hit with a football, that must be the explanation for the state of your face." I couldn't help myself from saying that. Didn't want to appear weak, after all.

Henry chuckled and shook his head.

"Glad to see there was no damage to that searing wit," he quipped but quickly fell silent again. He rummaged through the first aid kid, producing a bandage and a tube of ointment.

"Roz, you know you've got to report this to the campus safety officials," he said as he smoothed some ointment on the cut on my face and then covered it with a bandage. "If some lunatic is out there waiting in the bushes to attack any girl that passes by, they need to know."

They have no idea what's lurking in the bushes, I thought, And neither do I.

"Right," I nodded hesitantly. "Yeah, I'll tell them first thing tomorrow."

"And Roz, um...well maybe I shouldn't be asking this but, did anything...else...happen to you?"

"No, Henry, it didn't," I said firmly.

"Okay," he nodded, standing there silently for a moment. "Good."

"Well," I began, "S'pose I should be getting to bed."

"Yeah, me too," he nodded again but didn't turn to leave. "Look, Roz, uh, if you'd feel...safer, I guess, I could stay here with you tonight. You've got that extra bed anyway, I could just sleep there," he added quickly.

I braved a smile. Tempting as it sounded, I figured I'd be okay.

I stood up to see Henry to the door and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. My blotchy face now sported a rather attractive bandage across my bruised right cheek.

"Think I'll have a bit of explaining to do to Dr. Holman tomorrow," I noted glibly.

"Nah, just tell her she should see the other guy."

"He got away without a scratch, I'm sure."

"Well, at least you got away, too," Henry noted softly. "Good night, Rosalind," he said, placing a soft kiss on my forehead before turning and walking out the door.

Every inch of my body seemed to ache as I stepped out of my clothes and put on pyjamas. As I lay there in bed staring at the ceiling, I came to one conclusion before sleep claimed me. Hermione had some explaining to do.