Sometimes the Muggle way is better.

It was cold out that day. I remember because I hate the cold almost as much as I hate pea soup. Walking home from the shop that day was a pain since I had forgotten my scarf and had nothing but a thin jacket. That was also the day I met him; the strange young man who talked to me about funny things and had an odd scar on his forehead. All he needed was an ear, so I lent him mine. He told me about amazing things, about a war I didn't even know was going on, about magic. He didn't seem dangerous, only slightly loony, which is why I never left when he spoke of spells and enchantments.

He told me about some dictator trying to take over his world, what was his name? Moldywart? I don't remember. He told me about all these horrible things that what's-his-face was trying to do, and how he and his friends had managed to make the guy mortal but now couldn't get close enough to kill him without losing their wands (loony, remember?). He talked about how they were trying to get close enough but the guy always managed to block their spells. I remember how I turned my head to look at him then. Why don't you just shoot him? I said. This black haired stranger had been speaking so passionately about his world I had forgotten it wasn't real.

He looked at me, at first in shock, and then in excitement. He sprung up from the bench we were sitting on, thanked me for my time, and then dashed out of the park passing from view behind a row of trees. I remember waiting for him to reappear on the other side, the only sounds in the park were the birds chirping and a car backfiring. He never appeared. As I continued on my way home I worried about what I had said to him. Over the next few weeks I kept an eye on the news, looking for a report on a dark haired man who had shot someone to death. It never came. So I shrugged it off, continued with my life, and soon stopped thinking about the stranger who told me about magic. But I never forgot; I would see someone with black hair or round wire-framed glasses like he had been wearing, and remember him. I would wonder what happened to him, and how his life turned out. It didn't matter I never knew his name, it was that human connection, that from the one time we spoke we would always have that slight connection you have with someone when they become more than just a passing face. I never saw him again though, but not once did I regret that chance meeting.