I met him while I was in the service, traveling from country to country like the mindless lemming I was broken down, and trained to be. At the time I was working the sterile position of aeronautic administrator, filling out orders and running paperwork for a helicopter crew, a glorified secretary. I went where the crew went though, assisting them on missions and such; I'd like to call that a perk but in all reality it meant nothing but playing babysitter for a crew of half grown man-children in a strange, new country.
For the record, I have been everywhere; that is not an exaggeration by any standards. Where the navy hasn't sent me I've gone by myself, just to see what it was like. You see, I came to the conclusion that America wasn't at all its cracked up to be years ago, and when I joined the service I promised myself that I would spend my time in scouring the world for a more suitable home-base; while at the same time getting my degree and saving up all the money I could. I would like to think that I was successful at that, but what constitutes a success, anyway?
I was born in Richmond, Virginia though I don't remember it all that well. My mother was always moving us around and going from husband to husband like it was nothing at all. I never had a dad, not that I know of at least. By the time I was eighteen I'd been through 6 marriages, five divorces, and one funeral. We put John in the ground on my birthday actually.
I spent that entire day enduring my mothers faux sobs and the vast array of drunken strangers who felt the urge to point out how little I looked I like my mother, and every so often had to correct someone when they thought I was related to them, the deceased, or the help; as high society assholes so lovingly call them. I was never as beautiful as my mother, who's come hither look could draw not just a crowd, but a crowd of devout mute monks. Yeah; it was like that.
I'm about five foot eight with thick, wavy dark hair that reaches to about the middle spot between my shoulder blades, though I rarely have it down. My eyes are blue/green with little speckles of yellow around the middle of my right eye that made them look like two different colors when you look deeply into them. My nose is a small decline that eases into a cute little button that I like to think complements my oval shaped face rather nicely. I pity extravagantly beautiful women like my mother because their beauty winds up becoming a curse in the long run. Don't get me wrong, by no means am I ugly; just . . . not terribly extraordinary. At twenty four years old
I look like I'm eighteen years old but I'm used to it now; I've always looked a lot younger than I really am. In fact it's a biological gift that has gotten me out of a lot of trouble in my day; then again it's also gotten me into a lot of trouble too. After John's funeral my mother started to get into some dark voodoo crazy stuff so I decided that was my que to leave.
Not wanting a confrontation (or a hex put on me) I collected as much stuff as I could into a duffle bag and a cardboard box and caught the first flight out to New York to stay with my mom's first husband Nigel. It probably sounds weird to someone who doesn't know what my childhood was like but because I didn't have a dad and I've never met my Grandparents Nigel was the first male influence that I had ever had before. Even after the divorce he and I kept in touch and he even made arrangements so that I could spend bits and pieces of my summers with him. I finished the last few months of high school in New York and couldn't decide what to do with myself. After another six months of work I became fed up and joined the military (this is where the Navy comes in).
I took a short vacation back home, went to San Francisco, and left for boot camp; eighteen weeks of hell (cant forget A-school!) later, I was worked out, toned up, respectful, respectable, and actually doing something with myself. . . the fact that every penny put into my bank account was for the most part spending money didn't hurt, either. To my personal delight I was stationed on a little base in Greece, not that it particularly mattered; my crew and I were always here, there, and every where. One specific trip landed us in the suburbs outside of London; I never knew much about the missions that we were sent on so I pretty much just organized hotel rooms, food, and supplies and such.
When I finished all my work for the day I was allowed to wander and do as I pleased; almost like a pseudo vacation of sorts. Well, shortly before I joined the service I made a pact in jest with my friend John that if I ever had the chance to roam England freely I would make it a point to search for the real Harry Potter. I know its just a book, John always made fun of me for reading them as vehemently as I did when I was a kid, so he gave me six years to find Harry as a joke to prove to me how stupid my obsession with the fictional story had been. Well, with nothing better to do but wander I decided to take him up on his little offer, all the while seeing the sights and getting better bearings in the city should I ever choose to go back there. I finished my paperwork for the day and changed into my civilian gear so I wouldn't freak any of the natives out.
I wandered into and out of shops and stopped for fish and chips at a small, questionable looking stand. I began to wander aimlessly, with no set direction; to be honest I wasn't even paying attention until I realized I was no longer in the busy heart of London where I had been what felt like mere moments ago. The buildings were smaller, dirtier, and in a more urgent state of disarray. While there were still many people on the sidewalks they walked quickly, I sensed fear in them as they strode past me. I, myself had an odd feeling but ignored it as I took notice of an especially run down building; I choked on my fish and chips as I read the sign that held the businesses name.
Sure enough 'The Leaky Cauldron' stood worn and faded as it hung loosely from two chains above the entrance. I got chills as I stared down the building, silently willing it to disappear while at the same time praying to what ever god that happened to be listening at the time for it to be real; the military tends to look down upon paranoid schizophrenics these days. What I found especially odd about the scene before me was the fact that no one seemed to be entering the building, or even looking at it for that matter; I began to get the feeling that the place really didn't exist, and I should have stopped at a more reputable establishment for lunch. Surely I was coming down with a deathly case of food poisoning… or maybe mad cow disease, they still have that in England don't they? Maybe the stand's owner just dropped his lsd in the fish batter . . . a girl can dream, right!?
Just as I was considering turning myself in for temporary insanity the door opened with a loud creak and a man in a traveling cloak stepped out into the morning light, causing a young woman to scream in fear and run the rest of the way down the now almost barren street. That woman had seen what I had, so I couldn't be crazy! This must be one of those shops that opened because of the popularity of the story! Joyously, I made my way across the street and almost made it to the door's handle before a very odd sensation came over me; one of fear, excitement, and something I hadn't felt in quite a while: danger. I took my hand from the handle and made a quick check of my person.
Like always, my pistol was safely in the inside breast pocket of my pea coat hovering protectively in front of my heart; very against military procedure but at the same time it laid my mind to rest while I wandered strange cities on my own at odd hours of the day. With more confidence than I had begun my newest mission with, I quietly opened the door and stepped over the thresh-hold, and immediately I wished that I hadn't. The place looked exactly like I imagined it would, whoever designed it did a better job than the set designers for the movies, I'll tell you that. There were dusty bottles of fire whiskey everywhere, and I got the impression there were more cobwebs in the place than wallpaper and paint.
There were over turned tables and shattered glass everywhere, a woman was sprawled out in the middle of the floor weeping over a corpse that I assumed to be her lover or husband. All the pub's other customers were loosely encircling her, some mumbling condolences, others simply drinking in the scene like water. No one seemed nearly as emotional or surprised as the woman shrieking from the floor, though; not until I lost my grip on the door and it slammed behind me, that is.