The Formidable Destiny Of Robin Wilson

Robin Wilson was a happy man indeed. He and his loveable wife lived happily in a small house in Plymouth's vicinity, in the south west of Britain. It had a small patch of grass at the front, and a garden at the back, like most little houses in that street. Of course, the purple shutters had made more than one respectable citizen cringe, but Robin had gone with it, for whatever his wife wanted, he would sure be willing to give it her, even if it was purple paint. For he really did love his wife dearly, even if her taste in colours was outright bad.

It is now three in the afternoon and he is tending to the back garden, wearing brilliant green gardening gloves, a thick red apron while planting their new apple tree, a marriage gift.

Now, Robin was indeed a normal, respectable citizen, who never had been in any kind of trouble, who had the soundless of sleeps, and the most charming smile. He worked at the Secondary school, not far down the street, as a maths teacher. He never did anything weird, except once, getting married to the most particular woman. Not only did she have a strong character but she was also a force of nature to be reckoned with.

She had the most incredible hair, long curls she would tie back with the help of a worn elastic from Boots. She had a simple complexion. She was neither beautiful, nor ugly, but a plain face which could only be described as nice. It demanded respect. She'd became quite famous for her bossy manners, but would still keep cool with old McGardener, their neighbour, who had the bad habit of letting his pet's excrement's on the Wilson's drive way. "I can't stop my Mulciber from doing his business where he likes, Mrs Wilson" Mister McGardener would reply at her stiff posture early each morning, when they would cross each other's path as she took her car out from the garage to go to work. However, by seven o'clock she would still be off and gone.

Mrs Wilson's work drove her hard, her daily schedule releasing her only after eight at night. She would leave a loving note to her husband on the kitchen table, each morning, next to his breakfast bowl, and call him around four in the afternoon when she had her coffee brake. No one knew what her job was, and it was the first of the list of weird things about her.

She danced like a scarlet woman, insulted Robin Wilson's mother to her face (no one ever did that), refused to join the patchwork club (who had heard of a respectable wife not joining the patchwork club!), painted her shutters purple (what bad taste!), ignored the gossip, took karate lessons (now, whatever for?), could not cook a single meal, (dear dear, did she never take domestic science class back in school?), furiously protested when Mrs Faggot declared that she ought to have children soon and not mess around with work, and least but not all, became Mrs Wilson to everyone's surprise.

Now you see, Robin had been the calmest of children, a smart kid with small to little ambition. However, when he met his wife to be, it all changed. He became a little eccentric, took to smoking his pipe, buying dozens and dozens of red roses (and so the rumour says sexy lingerie), would not live at his mother's house anymore, followed karate lessons as well, and went disappearing from to time without warning. This wasn't worthy of Mrs Wilson's only son, who had brought him up on her own on the model of the Old Ways (schooling at home, the boy's choir at the nearby Church, Sunday School). She had wanted to make him a man of god, just like his father. She had faltered, she would declare; it was her greatest loss when Robin finally got married to that petulant woman.

But Robin was most content with how things had run, and managed to sway his mother's opinion a little by getting married in Church, under God's watchful eye. So, in the end, Robin wed Hermione Granger, who then became the proud Hermione Wilson. Shortly after, they moved in their small, cosy house with a back garden and a patch of green in front.

We can only guess how it came to be: a chance encounter, maybe, then a candlelight dinner followed by friendship and then love, and finally the routine of marriage. While Robin was the normal, life thirsty young man, Hermione really had something particular; she was a witch, and a famous one at that.

Robin had discovered this when he'd visited her without notice. He had entered the second floor flat on tiptoes, flowers in hand, ready to surprise her. Well, he hadn't been warned that there had been a surprise in store for him. He found the kitchen bewitched, magically cleaning itself while Hermione had been flicking a piece of wood about, muttering strange words. Robin was ashamed to confess that he fainted on the spot, an event he would later deny. Well, instead of running away like a fool when he finally woke up, he saw Hermione in a new light. It increased his belief that they were meant to be. The rest is history.

On the chimney mantle piece, an innocent looking picture had been propped up next to the silver antique snuffbox (his grand-father was the last to use it) with the old Wilson crest engraved on its surface, passed on from generation to generation. The picture stood still, three friendly faces looking out, their eyes glinting with mischief, happiness and content, posing on their last day of term, still wearing their black school uniforms. One had striking red hair, the other had gleaming green eyes, and last, between the two boys, was Hermione, looking much younger than today, with her bushy brown hair. Her friends were Ron Weasley and Harry Potter. They were smiling. Their fate hadn't turned out to be as pleasant.

Hermione had told Robin about Harry's passing, how she had never really managed to recover from his death. In Ron's case, Robin had had the pleasure of meeting the man in person. Chaos issued, as Robin soon understood that he had become a rival in the chase of Hermione's heart. Ron had never quite forgiven Hermione from marrying Robin, and Robin understood his animosity, which only served to fuel the wizard's anger.

Being married to a witch had its ups and downs. Hermione had always been frustrated by the fact that her husband would never be aloud to approach any wizarding building, never enter the Leaky Cauldron, or Diagon Alley; not after the Ministry Act on Muggle Circulation was passed. It minimised contact between the two worlds, the muggle and magical one. Hermione had fought long against it, still did in fact, but the Ministry wouldn't sway. She finally drew out of the magical community, severing many ties, but not all of them. She was still in touch with the large Weasley Family, and a couple of useful contacts.

So, it was now the summer holidays, and Robin was off work for the moment, enjoying the warm afternoon gardening and talking to Mister McGardener who would pop his head over the fence every so often to have a friendly chat. Robin was quite enjoying his afternoon. When the clock struck five, he went inside to prepare tea, and had Mrs Faggot over (she had been passing by out of 'chance' and literally invited herself in for a cup of something and a piece of cake he had made that morning).

"Is dear Hermione around today?" she asked, her beady eyes investigating the white tilled kitchen, trying to find any sign that Hermione had skipped work today.

Robin smiled warmly, knowing where this conversation would finally lead. "No, she's at work today. She won't be back until eight, Mrs Faggot. Why, did you wish to talk to her?" His tone was pleasant, amusement tainting his words.

Mrs Faggot bristled, taking a minuscule bite from the fruitcake. "Mh... this is delicious. I suppose you made it," she told him. "Has Hermione got around to cooking yet?" She had ignored Robin's question.

"In fact she has," Robin confessed. "She made a meatloaf last night. But have you come around to speak of Hermione's non-existent culinary skills or is it something else, Mrs Faggot. What brings you along?" He fingered his plain golden ring, something he would often do out of sheer spite, so that Mrs Faggot could have a good look at it so she could keep her criticism in check.

"Well, I'm having a barbecue next Wednesday, and I thought naturally, that you might like to join us in our festivities. Maybe your mother would to come down for the event. Geraldine will be there, of course." She was smiling broadly now, clearly proud of her idea. But Robin could see the scheme behind it all.

Geraldine was Mrs Faggot's daughter. She and Robin and grown up together. Their friendship had consisted of her ordering him around, being snobbish and all, util she realised that Robin wasn't that bad after all and was quite a handsome young fellow. Geraldine was, pretty, single, and available. Since then, Mrs Faggot had tried to put him up with her daughter, but to no avail. She didn't stop trying even after Robin married Hermione, to Hermione's frustration.

"Now, Mrs Faggot, I thought you knew that Hermione and Mother aren't on the best of terms. Besides, Hermione and I have already got plans of our own. As you are aware, it's her first day off work since last month, and I've decided to take her out into town for the day. But I'm sure Mother would be pleased to come down just for you. I'll call her tonight and make arrangements."

Mrs Faggot's smile thinned. Mrs Wilson senior was not the most pleasant woman either. In fact, she despised the mother just as much as Hermione. "What a good idea!" she said, but her voice was a little throaty with disappointment.

The cordless phone rang. "That must be Hermione calling. If you will excuse me." Robin got up and took the telephone into the next room, taking the call.

"Hello darling, how you're doing? Not overdoing yourself I hope..." Robin laughed a little at his wife's reply. "Thought so... Nah, don't worry." He took a peek in the kitchen at Mrs Faggot who was pretending she wasn't listening to the conversation. He closed the door for good measure. "Mrs Faggot came around for tea inviting Mother and us to a barbecue next Wednesday...Of course not! And I've told her so. Wednesday is our special day out, I wouldn't forget."

Robin approached the chimney's mantelpiece, eyeing the framed photos, the one with Hermione and her school friends, and another taken at their wedding. She was wearing a well-cut gown (without lace, she refused to have any lace on it, besides, Robin couldn't stand lace), flowers in her hair looking absolutely gorgeous, and he at her arm, grinning foolishly. He took this picture and sat down on the couch, gazing at it fondly as he listened to his wife on the telephone.

"Yes, she did mention Geraldine. She still has hope. Unfounded hope that is," he added for good measure, or else Hermione would be having his hide. "No worry. Maybe I should take the wedding photo into the kitchen. She might finally acknowledge it... Mh...It's to consider. But it's a fat chance if you ask me... I'll make something nice for supper. And then maybe some..." A smirk spread on his face at the thought of tonight. "Take care till then, Hermione... I love you too, honey." The line went dead.

Robin cast the telephone aside on the couch, replaced the photo back next to the antique snuffbox and Hermione's school picture and joined Mrs Faggot in the kitchen.

Well, I really wanted to write this down. And so here it is to share. Hermione Granger has married plain Robin Wilson. Does it sound that strange? I don't think so.

M.G.