They say everything that happens is ultimately a result of one small action. Perhaps your future as a lover may have been instigated and sealed with as minimal a gesture as succumbing to your cookie craving and deciding to visit the market. In other words, perhaps you may meet your forthcoming spouse on a midnight snack run. I hope you remembered to wear your face! One tiny decision led me to where I was now – regretting nothing but the opportunity to be with him forever. Would it be too late to get what I want?
I clutched my armful of books tighter while raising my left hand high enough to see my watch over the miniature leather-bound tower I balanced on one arm.
10:10
I've got fifty minutes, I thought to myself as I looked around for a reputable place to grab a drink quickly before dashing to the train station.
Getting back to London, I stopped abruptly, glanced up, and noticed the rustic wooden identification of perhaps the most logical place to acquire libations anywhere near Diagon Alley – the Leaky Cauldron.
Backing into the doorway as carefully as my balance would allow, I inched inward and took a seat at a long benched table. I dropped my books in a stack beside me and inadvertently caused a few to tumble off the top and land disheveled on the table in my hasty dismissal of their weight from my clutches. The sounds of livelihood were heard all around the interior of this nostalgic establishment; screams of children, clashing of cutlery and plates, and the joyous sounds of fellowship could be identified through the mix of conversations and entrees.
On the bench on the other side of the table from me rested two tattered trunks. Either they were newly acquired secondhand vessels, or had been passed down for generations.
I turned my attention away from the luggage and focused on what I would get to drink. As there was no menu, I quickly racked my brain for the various magical drinks I could choose from - when something disturbed me from my thoughts.
"I don't care what you have to do! Find my things and find them quickly! I have a train to catch!" a voice shouted above the sounds of the inn.
I shot a quick glance in the direction of the voice and noticed it came from a man whose face was marked with age and battle scars. His hair was parted to the side in a gentlemanly, yet messy manner, oddly reminiscent of a puppy dog. I stared longer at his scars, noting the appearance of a struggle of some kind. I wanted know how they were acquired, what had happened, and, most strangely, I longed to run my fingers over them and probe further into this mysterious man's life. My abnormal thoughts were again disturbed by a shout, though not from the same man.
"Marille!" the innkeeper bellowed loudly as he slammed his hand down repeatedly over a small attention bell.
A moment later, a stout woman, dressed in modest cleaning attire, scrambled down the one story wooden staircase and stumbled toward the counter. Her loosely curled hair was thrown up in a rather messy bun, more hideous than fashionable, and her expression was one of sheer boredom and un-amusement.
Before acknowledging her superior, her entire body heaved in a great sigh of attitude, an obvious gesture of disapproval at being whistled for like a slave or a young child.
"Yea, sir?" she said in one great breath.
"This gentleman appears to have misplaced his baggage. Go upstairs and rumm-" he was not even finished speaking before she boldly interrupted him.
"Is's noh upstairs anymore, sir, 'tis righ heeah!" she croaked out in a thick accent while pointing at the tattered luggage I had been analyzing only moments before.
A smile lit up the gentleman's face and he instantly rushed to the table to retrieve it, stumbling a bit over the bench and shoving the table into my chest slightly.
"Oh, I'm sorry! My mother always told me I was born with two left feet!" he joked in an effort to wash away the embarrassment.
"Don't worry about it!" I exclaimed gently, even though I was slightly annoyed.
His face turned a deeper shade of red when he looked fully into my face after moving the table back to its original position. The man continued to stare, perhaps too long, into my eyes
He chuckled abruptly and declared "I don't believe we've been properly introduced! I'm Remus." He held out his hand in token of friendship, which I accepted instantaneously and gave my name, "Martha," with a grin.
I was not dressed as a student, but truth be told, neither was he. He wore long gray slacks, a loose grey jumper and wingtip shoes, a fashion accessory rarely seen on men under age 30, thus automatically placing him in the category of 30+.
I had always been attracted to older men – in my youth, I had found older men much more enticing simply because they were more mature and responsible than the boys my age. I didn't exactly look like a student myself, however. My long, flame-colored hair and blue eyes had most fooled into believing I was at least in my twenties when I was only seventeen. Starting puberty a year before receiving my Hogwarts letter had provided me with an outlook of one years ahead of my actual age.
Just then someone came by to take my drink order.
"What'll it be?" the middle aged woman asked haughtily.
"Two butterbeers, please," Remus said quickly and the waitress pranced away with no further ado. I glanced at him with a confused look on my face.
"I figured after physically disturbing you with my clumsiness, the least I can do is buy you a drink," he said with a grin.
"Fair enough," I laughed in retort.
"So, Martha, tell me a bit about yourself," he politely demanded.
"Wait a minute, your clumsiness is the reason I'm in this spotlight now – I think you should go first."
The very last thing I needed to do was tell a man I had just met, a man obviously years older than myself, that I am a seventh year student at Hogwarts, no job, and live with my parents.
"Fair enough," he intentionally quoted my earlier response.
The waitress came back immediately with our drinks, allowing the chatting to ensue while quenching our thirst.
"I'm a great reader," he stated, but chuckled as soon as he realized that meaning could be taken in a juvenile way. "I mean, I do enjoy reading very much."
I gestured to my immense stack of books with a smirk before replying. He laughed rather delightfully, leaning his head over slightly, attempting to glance at the gold titles on the binding of each book, curious to know whether my tower of books was for business or pleasure.
We continued in this manner – dancing back and forth between each other's lives – revealing very little, but just enough to keep the other interested. I eliminated the fact that I was a student; he left out his profession. I concealed my age; he didn't begin to explain how his face earned its markings. Just as I began to realize I may be happy listening to his voice for the rest of my life, I remembered the train.
"Oh no!" I exclaimed abruptly as I glanced down at my wristwatch.
10:45
"What? What is it?" he asked, concerned.
"I'm -I'm meeting someone – I've got to go!" I yelped ungracefully as I rounded up my books in a hurried fashion.
"Will I see you again?" his eyes widened desperately as I turned to go.
"Let's leave that to fate, shall we?" I winked back at him and turned to run through the doorframe – hoping – praying – that we would meet again.