I flipped through a Vogue magazine that was lying on the counter. It was a bright and sunny Saturday morning, and I was running a shift at my mother's vintage bookstore. I looked up when the bell chimed, signaling a customer had walked in. It was a young man, a few years older than me.
I smiled, "Bonjour, je peux vous aider avec n'importe quoi?"
He replied in broken French, "Non merci, juste à la recherche,"
I nodded my head, and returned to my magazine, figuring he was probably a tourist. I couldn't help but detect a British accent. He looked around a bit, then picked out a book and walked up to the counter to purchase it.
"Merci, au revoir," he said politely before walking out the shop.
That evening when I was closing the shop was when I thought about the British guy who had walked in this morning. That meant he could speak English. I hadn't spoken English with anyone besides my family in three years. It was odd, and I felt a pang of excitement. I hoped he would come back.
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The next time he came back was six days later. It was an unusually rainy day, considering it was summer. I hugged my cardigan tighter around myself, wishing I hadn't chose to wear a skirt this morning. I immidiately perked up when he walked in. I gave my usual greeting, but with a bigger grin. He greeted me back, and I knew it was now or never to ask.
"Excusez-moi, mais êtes-vous britanniques?" I asked a bit nervous, although I didn't know why I would be.
"Oui, je suis,"
"So, you speak English?" I asked cautiously.
"Yes," he replied smiling.
I almost wanted to jump for joy, "Really? That's amazing! I haven't spoken English in ages!" I rambled.
He chuckled, "I'm on vacation here, what's your excuse?"
And, that's how I met Neville Longbottom. At that time I didn't know he was going to be such an important part of my life.