The wind was cold. As Gwyneth sat there, waiting for her bus, she gazed at the stars. A man sat down next to her. He was in his late to mid 20's, close in age to twenty-four year old Gwynn. He was about average height, thin, with black messy hair and looked like he hadn't shaved in weeks. He was wearing a ragged brown coat over a nice black suit and burgundy tie. He turned to look at her. He had brilliant green eyes that shined like emeralds and was quite handsome.
"Where are you going?" Gwynn asked him.
"Manhattan," he answered, smiling. When he smiled, he was very handsome, Gwynn noticed.
"Me too," she replied. Suddenly a thought willed her head, what if this guy is a rapist or serial killer? Now he knows where you live! She looked at him again. She was having a very hard time being scared of him. Well, Ted Bundy was handsome also. And you live in New York now Gwynn! You need to be careful!
"Have you lived here long?" he asked. Gwynn now detected a British accent in his speech.
"A while," she admitted." I've been here about four years." Stupid girl she was! "How long have you lived here? "she asked.
"About two weeks," he said," he said. His accent was fascinating. So lovely.
"Where did you move here from?" she asked.
"England." He said. That was a stupid question. She knew that from his accent.
"Where in England?"
"North of London. In Surrey." He said. He glanced at his watch.
"Why'd you choose New York?" she asked.
"Why not? It's big and exciting. You can start over here."
"I know," she said.
"Where did you live before New York?" he asked.
"California," she said.
"Long way from home, aren't we," he said with a smile.
"California isn't home, it was just temporary sanctuary." She sighed.
"Where's home?" he asked.
"North Carolina," she lied. She wasn't about to tell him where she was really from, just in case he was another serial killer like Ted Bundy.
"I've been kind of rude," he said. "My name's James Porter."
"Felicity Meristem," she lied again. "Most people call me Lissie though. I don't know where it's from, it just kind of stuck." Lissie was her best friend in the whole world and had been so since the girls were eight. She had found Gwynn her apartment, helped her find a job, and shared her secrets with her. Gwynn herself had made up the nickname Lissie when the two met.
They saw the bus drive up. "Is this it?" he asked.
"Yes. It's a bit crowded," she said as she got on. She sat down two rows from the front. James sat down beside her.
"Are you married?" he asked.
"No, I'm divorced," she said. She didn't know why he was asking. Or why she was answering. There was something mysterious about him. "Are you?"
"Married? No. I was engaged once," he smiled sadly, as if he had a secret.
"Oh," Gwynn said. It was awkward; she wanted to ask him about his fiancee, but she couldn't without being rude and the possibility he would ask her about her ex-husband.
"My mother had hair like yours." He said.
"Really?" She was surprised. She fingered her thick auburn hair. "Usually it's a bit more red than this, but lately it's been more brown,' she commented. She liked how James looked her straight in the eye when he talked to her. She wondered what he saw in her light gray eyes that was so hypnotizing.
"Does your mother live in England?" Gwynn asked.
"No, she died when I was a baby. She and my father both; I only have pictures of them." James replied.
"What happened?"
"Car crash. It was awful."
"Were you in the care too?"
"Yeah. I don't know how I lived though." He said.
"I'm so sorry," She decided to share something. "My parents died in a car crash too, about three years ago."
"I'm so sorry Lissie," James said with real concern. It took Gwynn a minute to realize he was talking to her, she was in such deep thought. "Lissie, what do you do for a living?" he asked.
"I'm a computer consultant," she said. "What do you do, James?"
"I'm an writer," he said. "Do you have any siblings? Sorry for all the questions, I just love…"
"Hearing other people's stories," Gwynn finished. James nodded. "I do to. Well, I have two sisters, ages nineteen and twenty. The twenty year old, Grace, lives in England actually. And Catherine is in Boston."
"That's great," he said so sincerely. They talked until the bust stopped at Gwynn's stop.
"This is my stop. Bye James," she said.
"Bye Lissie. Do you ride this bus every day?" she nodded. "Well, I'll see you tomorrow."
All during the next day Gwynn couldn't concentrate. Who was this mysterious James? It was driving her crazy. She couldn't wait until it was time to go.
He was already there. He had shaved and looked remarkably younger. They talked the entire time. She learned that he had lived with an aunt and uncle as a child, the Dursleys, whom he hated. He was twenty one. He had gone to a London boarding school, the Academy of Wiltshire for Young Boys. But it seemed as he was keeping something from her. Maybe he is a serial killer, she thought.
They met and talked each night at the bus stop. She felt that she almost trusted him, although she shouldn't. She still felt as he had a big secret. She decided to do a little background research.
"Grace, hi!" Gwynn said as she called her sister on the telephone.
"Hey sis. What's up? You don't usually call me until Sunday when we're on three way with Catherine, and it's just Friday."
"Well, I need a little help," Gwynn admitted. "You live in London, right? Do you know of a Wiltshire Academy for Boys?"
"I can find out. Do you want the number?" Grace asked.
"Yeah, that would be great. Do you know what the area code is for Surrey?" Gwynn asked.
"Uh, I can find that out too. What's up? Why all the England things?" Grace inquired.
"No reason, I'm just curious," Gwynn lied. "Call me back as soon as possible, OK?"
"Sure. I still find this highly suspicious, Gwynn. And highly out of character." Grace teased.
"Just find out, OK?" Gwynn said and hung up. Stupid annoying Grace. No, Gwynn was just frustrated. She laid down on her bed and tried to sleep. About an hour later, the phone rang.
"Gwynn, it's me," Grace's voice said.
"What'd you find?" Gwynn inquired.
"The area code for Surrey is 392. And there is no Wiltshire Academy for Boys in London or anywhere in England for that matter."
"No school!" How could this be? He must have lied. But so did she, she reminded herself. "Thanks Grace," she said.
"OK. Is there a number in Surrey you want?"
"Yeah, but I can find it out from here. Thanks Grace," Gwynn said.
"Your very welcome sissy," Grace said and hung up.
This was very interesting. She called the operator for Surrey. "What's the number for a Vernon and Petunia Dursley?" she asked. She wrote the number down, and then called it. A cross woman answered.
"Hello, Dursley residence."
"Hello, my name is Felicity Meristem. DO you have a nephew named James Porter that once lived with you?"
"No, I have no nephew named James Porter," the woman snapped.
"But you do have a nephew though, don't you?" Gwynn asked.
"No nephew here. Why are you calling here? Are you selling something?" she asked.
"No, but your nephew won something. A contest. If he's not living with you anymore, you get all the profits," Gwynn lied.
"My nephew has been gone for four years. When can this prize be delivered?" she asked greedily.
"What was your nephew's name?"
"Harry Potter. Ugly common name if you ask me. When can this prize be delivered," she asked again.
"Very soon. Do you have any pictures of him? Just for verification." Gwynn asked.
"One. Would you like me to fax it to you?" she asked. She was much politer when she knew she was getting something out of this.
"Please. My fax number is 345-654-3235. This would be greatly appreciated." Gwynn smiled.
"Your welcome. When will the prize be delivered?" she asked for the third time.
"After we have verified you nephew, it will be sent in the mail." Gwynn said and hung up. About ten minutes later her phone rang. Don't get it, it's the fax, she thought. The fax machine turned on and started getting the message. It was a very blurred picture, and there was many people, but one boy with black hair and green eyes stood out. The picture was taken about five years ago, but he was still recognizable. The boy was the man she knew as James Porter, Mr. Harry Potter.