Disclaimer: Anything you don't recognize as Jo's is probably mine (i.e. Angela and the plot)
A/N—The Title comes from the idea that the eyes are the windows to the soul. You will notice that eyes are used to communicate many things throughout this story.
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For at least the hundredth time that day Angela marveled that she was really in London. This was her first time out of the States and to be in this dream of a city was wonderful. She fully intended to make as much of her summer abroad as possible. She was amazed that her grandmother had let her go in the first place. Not that her grandmother wanted her to be miserable, but she was only sixteen, and, though she was quite capable of taking care of herself after years of practice, her grandmother still had the annoying habit of treating her like she was about eight.
It helped a bit that Angela had recently inherited an extremely large amount of money from a relative that she didn't even know she had. This meant, at least, that her grandmother wouldn't have to pay for it. There was really no reason to even ask, except it was the right thing to do. That and an adult had to buy her ticket. But here she was, in beautiful London, alone and truly free to do what she wanted to for the first time ever.
Number one on her list of things to do was shop. She'd never had much money before now and she wanted to be able to buy what she wanted just because she wanted it. After spending a day in Downtown London she started on a small side street full of shops on the second day and immediately saw the bookshop a small distance away. But then something else caught her eye.
Right next to the shop was a small tavern, the Leaky Cauldron. "What a great name!" she thought, "maybe I'll go in and grab something to drink before I go to the book store." While making her way over to it she noticed that no one else seemed to be going in, or, for that matter, notice it. "That's strange. Maybe it's closed. I hope not, I'm really thirsty now," she thought to herself. "I suppose it never hurt to try the door." She reached over and grasped the oddly familiar doorknob and pulled it open.
Through the door was a large room dimly lit by candles, bustling with people eating, drinking, or just playing cards. She stepped in and noticed right away that the people were wearing what seemed to be long robes. The robes reminded her faintly of Mickey in Fantasia and she looked all around her as she made her way to the bar.
"What can I get for you young lady?" asked the old, but pleasant looking barkeep, giving her a toothless grin.
"Just a water, please."
"An American, eh? We don't get many foreigners in here. Are ya just visiting?" he asked, handing her a glass of water.
"Yes sir. Thank you for the water. How much-?"
He cut her off with a wave of his hand. "Consider it a welcome present to merry ol' England."
"Thanks a lot!" She said, giving him a grin.
She sat on a nearby stool sipping the wonderfully cold water that seemed to hit just the right spot. She looked around more, taking in the whole room. There were stairs that led up to what she could only guess to be rooms.
"Like back in the old west" she thought, "How cool is that?"
After a few minutes she noticed a back door, which seemed to be much busier than the front. She watched people going through it for ten minutes before curiosity got the best of her.
"There's got to be something out there." She thought to herself. She turned to ask the barkeep what was through the door, but he was off helping other people. "Well, I guess I'll just have to find out for myself," she thought, finishing her water and setting down her glass before noticing that it was refilling itself.
She set off determinedly through the crowd to the door in the back. When she got there she waited for a particularly large group to come through. Looking around to see that no one else was coming she walked through the worn door. What was behind it took her by complete surprise.
She stood in a small courtyard facing a solid brick wall. She looked around and saw a few trashcans, but none of the people she had seen going through the door. And there certainly wasn't enough room in here for that group that had just come into the tavern.
"Where the heck did they all come from?" she asked herself out loud.
As if in response a brick in front of her on the wall began to glow bright red. She walked over as if drawn to it and did the only thing that she could think was right. She touched it gingerly with the tips of her fingers. In no more than ten seconds she stood in an archway leading to a street filled with a very odd assortment of shops.
She took a step forward and noticed they weren't just any shops. In front of one sat what seemed to be large pots…they could only be described as cauldrons, which the sign above the shop confirmed.
Angela looked behind her and noticed the archway had become very solid brick wall again. Don't panic, she admonished herself, looking around. "Excuse me…" "Ma'am?" "Could you…" She tried to get the attention of the people around her and they all just walked by as if they couldn't see her, too busy with their own lives to even give someone the time of day.
This could prove interesting, she thought, taking a final glance back at the wall before setting off down the street. She looked all around her, not really paying attention to where she was going, hoping that there would be a way back out onto that small side street, or any familiar street where the people weren't dressed in robes and the shops didn't look like they were from before the Industrial Revolution. To their credit the same people that would pay her no notice did manage to avoid running into her. Unfortunately, Angela wasn't paying enough attention to where she was going to avoid other people when they couldn't avoid her. Which is exactly what happened two seconds later when she and a young man carrying packages collided rather solidly, causing him to drop all of them and her to fall over backwards.
"Oh! Oh! I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed, rushing around on her knees to retrieve the dropped packages.
"Hey…hey!" The young man grabbed her arm and she was forced to look up into the most amazingly green eyes she'd ever seen in her life. They were set on a handsome face, though he couldn't be any older than she. "These're fine. Are you alright?"
Angela's eyes couldn't help but notice the small scar shaped like a bolt of lightning running across his forehead. "I'm…" she tried to lie and say fine, bit the word just wouldn't come. "Not really, but it's not your fault. I'm trying to get out of here, and no one will help me…don't suppose you could?"
The young man smiled at her, a brilliantly lopsided grin. "Of course I could, but only if you allow me to treat you to a sundae."
Angela couldn't help but smile back. She helped him to gather the last of the now dust covered packages and he led her over to an ice cream parlor just a bit up the road.
After the waiter had taken their orders (he had ordered a strawberry and hot fudge, Angela just got some vanilla ice cream) they started talking.
"So, you're an American?"
Angela nodded, looking around the busy street. This seemed a popular meeting place for lovers, and several people around them were kissing.
She looked back at the young man, seeing the amused look in his eyes. "And you're English. Now that our nationalities are established…my name's Angela."
"Right…I'm Harry."
"What is this place?"
"Diagon Alley. I'm sure you have something similar to it in America. You go to Salem, right?"
"Salem as in…the city in Massachusetts, or the city in Oregon?"
"Er…well, I thought it was the Wizarding school in America."
"Wizard?" she asked incredulously "Is that what these people are? Wizards?"
"And witches. Wait. Are you telling me that you aren't?"
"Um, no. I knew a Wiccan guy once, but that's about the closest I've been to a wizard or a witch."
"How did you get in here?" Harry asked, looking very surprised.
As she told the story of how she had gotten there, Harry's looks of surprise getting more intense with every sentence. "And then I ran into you, and well…"
"You've got to be joking. You're telling me that you could see the Leaky Cauldron and that the right brick glowed red and opened for you when you touched it?"
"Uh, yeah, that's pretty much what I said."
"And you have no knowledge of being a witch?"
"No. Why would I want to be a witch? My parents raised me in a Christian home and I'm somewhat certain that witchcraft is against the teachings of Christianity." Angela said, sounding condescending, even to herself. Thankfully, Harry seemed to understand.
"Well, there are good witches and bad witches, just like there's good and evil. It's more of an ability than a religion, contrary to what most people think. Tell me, have you ever done something that you can't really explain?"
"Not really. I'm pretty good at explaining anything."
"Not even when you angry or upset?"
"Well, I don't tend to do either of those things very often, so I can't really tell. Sorry." She gave him a look that told him that she really did want to help him, but knew she somehow couldn't.
"Well, ok then. But what we should really do is find someone to talk to…I wonder if Dum-"
He was cut off by a long-fingered hand on his shoulder.
"Hello, Harry." A man in long navy robes with silver moons on them spoke up behind Harry. He wore half-glasses and had light-blue eyes that twinkled as if he had just heard a very funny joke.
"Professor Dumbledore! We were just talking about coming to see you. Or rather I was." He added, seeing the confused look on Angela's face. "Do you mind if we talk to you for a minute?"
"Not at all Harry, but shouldn't you be in Surrey?"
"Oh, yeah…" Harry turned a very bright shade of pink, obviously having been caught at doing something that he shouldn't have done.
"Don't worry Harry. We'll have you back there soon. With all of your purchases." He added after seeing the rather large pile of packages, some now with dented corners and dirt smeared on them. "What was it you wished to talk to me about?"
Just then the waiter brought them their sundaes and seeing Dumbledore made one appear out of thin air.
"The usual I presume, professor?"
"Of course Florean. Thank you." The waiter left, Angela staring at the sundae that had just been made from nothing. "Now, Harry, what was it again?"
"Well, it's Angela." He said, nodding his head to the overwhelmed looking girl across from him.
"It's very nice to meet you, Angela." Dumbledore said, extending a hand. Angela shook it and was suddenly overcome with a rush of déjà vu. She'd been here before, shaken hands with this man, exactly like this…it was the sense that she always got when she had dreamed something and then watched it come true.
Her dreams had started a few years ago and had become more and more frequent as time had passed. She'd only told her best friend about it, and even Melissa laughed it off as silly. But she knew that it wasn't. She had promised herself then, though, that she would not tell anyone else about it.
She smiled at the old
man. "It's very nice to meet you too,
Mr., I mean, Professor Dumbledore."
"Ah, an American! ("What is it with these people and Americans? Geez!"
Angela thought) you must know Professor Walker, headmaster of Salem! Great friend of mine."
"See, that's the thing, Professor. She doesn't go to Salem. She doesn't know about witches or wizards or magic or any of it."
"I see." Professor Dumbledore frowned slightly at Harry, who quickly understood it's meaning.
"I didn't bring her here! She was in London and saw the Leaky Cauldron and the brick glowed red and she touched it and it opened. She ran into me right over there." He finished by pointing out into the street where Angela had collided with Harry not a half an hour before.
"Indeed!" Said Dumbledore, looking interested, then thoughtful. His eyes suddenly brightened as he looked at Angela again. "What did you say your last name was?"
"Well, I didn't but it's Harte. Why do you ask?"
"Oh, no reason. Just curious." All the same he had a knowing look on his face. "Would you care to go for a walk?"
"Uh, sure." She looked over at Harry, who just shrugged and looked as confused as she felt.
"Professor Dumbledore?" They had been walking for a few minutes but he had said nothing. He seemed to be deep in thought and as much as she hated to disturb him she had to know.
"Yes, Angela?" He looked at her with the kindest blue eyes. He had to be at least a hundred years old, perhaps older, yet he seemed to radiate the energy of a twenty-year old.
"Why did you want to walk?"
"Well, I wanted to ask you a few questions. First, your parents. Charles and Catherine, correct?"
Angela was a bit taken aback. "Yes sir. How did you know?"
"I met them once. A long time ago. Tell me, have you ever done anything that you couldn't explain, especially when you were angry or upset?"
"Harry already asked me that sir. I've never done anything that I wasn't able to explain and I don't get angry or upset very often, so, I'm not really sure when I would have."
"Of course you don't…of course you don't" Dumbledore seemed to be in thought again as he mumbled to himself. "You have siblings, no?"
"Yes sir, three brothers."
"And, are you all alike? In your dispositions I mean?"
Angela's brow furrowed in thought. "I've never really thought about it before but no, we're not really. They are all alike, but I'm much calmer, much more…thoughtful. Not as rash I suppose. I guess it's because I'm the only girl."
Dumbledore smiled at her, that knowing look once again in his eyes. "Just one more question Angela. Your dreams of the future, have they started yet?"
This time Angela was caught completely off guard and she forgot about not telling anyone. "Yes, well, a few years ago they did…wait…my dreams? How did you know about my dreams?" She looked up at him defiantly.
"You look like your mother. Has anyone ever told you that?"
"Of course they have. And please don't change the subject. How do you know?"
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows slightly. Angela sheepishly realized that most people don't talk like that to professors and mumbled an apology.
"It's quite alright. You have a fire like your mother did."
"How exactly do you know my mother? I don't think she's ever mentioned anything about witches or wizards…or being British. Now that I think about it my mother is from Montana." Angela was getting more and more confused by the second until Dumbledore stopped and looked down at her.
"Not your birth mother. Your soul mother."