"So I told him, 'I was old enough to buy a car when you were born, mister. I don't appreciate your attitude.' Then I asked to speak to a manager but they made me wait for hours until the manager was done with another customer. Can you believe that? I mean, really, I have bought five vehicles from that dealership and they just… I need to let you go Fanny. That odd couple from next door are at it again." Mrs. Beachem hung up the heavy telephone receiver onto the wall and looked out the window, sneakily shifting the sheer curtain to the side so she wouldn't be seen, to stare at the odd young woman and the dark haired older man while they peered down at their front garden.
Something was odd about those two. Mrs. Beachem couldn't put her finger on it, but she knew something was off. They had a car but almost never drove it. They preferred to walk or ride their bicycles. He spent far too much time in the garden than a man should. Gardening was women's work for pete's sake. They wore odd clothes. Just the other day, Mrs. Beachem saw the curly haired woman wearing trousers. Didn't she know that women shouldn't wear pants? Her mother said women should wear dresses or skirts and her mother had always been right. But the most odd thing of all? They had accents. British, she supposed, but that just wasn't natural for the respectful folk of Wisconsin. Why, she had lived in this county her entire life and had never met anyone with an accent. They were very odd indeed.
Mrs. Beachem thought they might be witches. She had heard of a story on the television about some witchcraft book taking the world by storm, corrupting young minds into believing magic was real. Something about a young boy who goes away to school. She did remember it was British. Mrs. Beachem narrowed her eyes as the couple moved a few feet over to look at bush. British indeed. They were definitely witches or wizards or whatever they were called. She wrenched her hands together, suddenly nervous. Who did she call about that? The police? They would probably call her crazy again, like that time she called when she heard a man walking around on her roof. She grabbed the Yellow Pages from the shelf near her phone but couldn't find anyone listed under "Witch Hunters." She went back to the window and saw the couple sitting on the steps to their porch talking. Obviously about something nefarious. Maybe she should call her priest. He would probably know what to do. Picking up the phone, she dialed her church and demanded to talk to Father Mark as soon as possible.
Across the street, seated comfortably next to his wife, Severus Snape snickered when he saw the curtain in Mrs. Beachem's window fall back into place.
"Do you think she's going to call her priest again?" asked Hermione, fingering a flower she had picked from their garden.
"I do not doubt it," he replied, the mental image of the last time Father Mark came over, rolling his eyes while he asked if he and Hermione were witches.
"Being a muggle wasn't so hard before I went to Hogwarts. Remind me again why we're doing it now?" she asked with a sigh. She knew why and she agreed with his reasoning but it was still a pain.
"Because our children must come to appreciate muggles the way we did so they do not fall into prejudice."
"Since we don't have children yet, maybe we should practice the act some more?" she said with a wink. He growled and scooped her up, taking the steps up the porch two at a time. She squealed and laughed, shutting the door with her foot when they crossed the threshold.
The curtains in Mrs. Beachem's house window moved again and she looked disapprovingly at the flower laying haphazardly on the porch steps. "Witches," she muttered.