The Storyteller
The storyteller flexed the fingers on his right hand, and then he flexed them again. It was a habit that he had developed during his recovery, and he had never quite managed to break it.
The shop had not changed in almost twenty-five years. Ownership had changed hands once or twice, yes, and they had no doubt repainted the interior several times, but the sign above the door still read Flourish and Blots, and the old man could swear it was the same one that had hung there in Ninety-Four. Or was it Ninety-Five?
"Literature is timeless," the storyteller declared, "but men are not."
The shopkeeper peered down at him over the banister.
"Are you being dramatic?"
The shopkeeper was a young man who, at first glance, seemed like he would be more comfortable on one of those Muggle "mortal-sickles" – and what an odd name for a method of transportation – than in a bookshop or other place of study, but the storyteller knew all too well that looks can be deceiving. Young Teddy Lupin had proven himself quite the scholar during his conversations with the old man, and, truth be told, had been instrumental in helping the storyteller write for younger audiences.
He offered Teddy a grin, hardly the charming smile he had sported as a younger man, but certainly more genuine and deserved. The storyteller of yesteryear had certainly matured as he had aged.
"Dramatic? Me? I don't know what you're talking about."
Teddy laughed and descended the staircase.
"How do I look?" the old man asked. "Presentable?"
He ran a hand through his greying hair. He wore it far more simply now, parted on the right and combed, his sideburns extending into a short but neat moustache and beard. After all, he had decided, one must never lose one's sense of style.
Teddy nodded.
"You look good, mate."
"Marvelous."
The clock chimed eleven, and Teddy approached the door.
"Are you ready?"
"Give me a moment, please," replied the storyteller. "It's been a very long time."
He flexed his fingers again, and straightened the small pile of books he had stacked on the table.
It did feel different this time, he realized. The shop was the same, but he had changed. Oh, how he had changed. He had earned his value this time around, he hoped. His success had been his own.
"I'm ready."
He was Gilderoy Lockhart again, and despite his age, he felt new.