Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognise. This is for fun only, please don't sue.

Chapter 1: Observing a different world

He had arrived at the cattle station via light aircraft. Circe! He loved flying on a broom but being inside an aeroplane and not having any control was a frightening experience. Here he was doing an exchange programme for the next three years to get some wider experience in endangered species management. After the UK and Romania, the heat here was oppressive and it was their winter season or, as the locals called it, the dry season.

The station cook at given him some freshly baked pumpkin scones and a good strong cuppa since he must be parched, even though it was at least 27ºC. It was interesting to note the size of the refrigerator and how even the jam was kept in it.

The cook had shooed him out onto the front verandah telling him to have a snooze or read a book, as the station manager and all the ringers were out doing stock work but would be back in a while. She had been out and fed them at lunch. "Now, out. I have to put dinner on, as I am expecting at least 30 hale and hearty appetites."

The heat lulled Charlie Weasley to sleep in the large comfortable chair. It was wood and canvas so that you did not stick to it from perspiration, and could be cooled by the slightest breeze. It was some type of colonial design, as he had never seen a chair like this in good old sunny England. The seat was slightly like a deck chair in that the canvas was slung between two poles or supports but it was not as low to the ground as a deck chair; this chair was more like an armchair but stripped down to the bare frame. The base of the wings for the armrests had extra slats of wood, which could be swung out to enable the individual seated in the chair to put their feet up. The only real cushioning on the chair was the padded pillow which supported the head or the upper back of the sitter, depending on whether their feet were on or off the floor.

Sitting in the shade looking across the runway and nearby fields, Charlie was reminded again how different this landscape was to the lush green fields of his homeland. He was in a tropical savanna area where there were large plains of grass and small patches of trees. At the end of the dusty runway, was what the locals would call a billabong, while he knew it as an oxbow lake. It was easy to see that he was on a large flood plain and during the horrendous wet season this tributary bow lake would probably rejoin the local large river which snaked its way through the landscape.

Charlie was feeling unsettled as he really did not like going to sleep in the middle of the day, and yet he had. There was something that had disturbed his sleep. Standing up, he took a tour of the front verandah and looked in through the mesh fly-wire doors at the kitchen. Bess appeared to be working like the dickens. When he had asked if she had anything he could help her, with the cook had laughed and said she had everything under control.

Looking at the clock, Bess advised Charlie, "They won't be long now, as we have less than two hours of light and they wanted to bring that mob into the yards tonight." His unsettledness increased and the hairs on the back of his arms started to prickle. Bess checked on a couple of her pots on her industrial stove before coming out to see if there was any sign of the station ringers.

Watching Charlie rub the back of his neck for the third time, Bess said "You must be pretty sensitive to your environment. I can tell you've worked in the field, so you're not just a pretty face. By the looks of it, you can hear the subsonics of the herd they are bringing in. It means they will be here in about forty five minutes by my guess. See the dust over there?" She was pointing to a spot on the horizon. "I would say it will take them under an hour, if the duffers behave themselves."

Since there was some time before the station-hands and manager would be in, Charlie decided that he would have a little walk around this front fenced-in garden. It was bit of greenness in the middle of yellow sandy browns, along with rust coloured dirt patches. The paddock to the right of the main station house appeared to be for horses but currently there were only two horses in this field. The fencing was not pretty like the sterotypical white paling fences you saw in England. It looked like they had rough felled the local timber, using rough standing poles for the supports and half split timbers for top rails. There was some wire strung between the standing poles but since it did not have any barbs it was a sure indication that this was a horse paddock.

The house was interesting, as it was made of wood. The whole house was on stumps, lifting the floorboards off the ground level by about three feet. It had been explained to Charlie that this was done to allow airflow under the boards to cool the house and to deal with the rising of water sitting on the flood plains during the monsoon. He noted that there was a gravel band around the edge of the house and it seemed to go under the joists, from what he could see under the dark shadows of the house.

Charlie could hear the low rumble that was steadily getting louder. Yes, they were moving the cattle in. The dust cloud that had been a tiny smudge on the horizon, was now more noticeable. After another 15 minutes the noise was incredible as the animals were walking quickly. It seemed that they had picked up the pace from their slow dawdle, as they had smelt water and had now decided to be a little more difficult. There was the crack of bullwhips being used quiet frequently to prod any individual animal to return to direction in which the station-hands wanted this cattle herd to move. In amongst all the noise, dust and cattle, there were figures on horseback. They all seemed to be wearing the same uniform of cotton shirt, moleskins and the ubiqtious akubra hat. There appeared to be a number of different styles for the akubras.

A young lad, who appeared to be about the same age as Charlie's youngest brother, Ron – all of fifteen or sixteen – rode ahead to the station house complex and seemed to be that checking gates were closed or open as required. The noise was now deafening. And the lowing of the cattle clearly indicated that they were tired and cranky, wanting a good drink and a chance to feed as it had been a number of miles since the last watering hole. There were also dogs who seemed to be either red or a blue-grey colour, with long legs that enabled them to stand tall enough not to be easily squashed by the cattle but were agile enough to get out of the way of a flying hoof when one of the dusty cattle objected to getting a nip to the back of the hooves.

The cattle were now moving smoothly into the stockyard paddock, only needing the occasional crack of the bullwhips to regain a steady momentum in the right direction. "It was such a well-oiled process," observed Charlie, "that many of the dragon handlers back at the Romanian reserve could learn about teamwork." While they may be different types of animals the need to control the stock herd was the same problem.

Now standing leaning up agains the front fence of the station complex, Charlie noted a rider who did not seem to have the same type of horse or physical build. While many of the ringers appeared to wear a bucket-style hat, this rider wore a more circular hat that probably, if it was in black, would not be out of place in Spain. There was something else. Ah, it was a petite woman. One of the cows decided to break away from the group and there on her smaller pony, she nipped the breakout very quickly. The agile pony was quickly directed and turned in an incredible, tight turn to return the straying animal back in the direction it was suppose to be heading. She rose in the stirrups and he heard the crack of the whip as she used the sound to encourage the cow to haul its break for freedom and return to the packed stockyard.

Charlie was facinated watching the stockmen and women who worked the cattle in a similar manner to a century ago. Time had seemed to stop still here in the Outback, as it appeared that modern machinery could only do so much before the old methods had to be used. The Americans had cowboys and cowgirls, while the Australians had stockmen and women. The generic term was the same but in the distinct regions, the local name for the profession changed. They may be jillaroos or jackaroos, ringers or even, as one old timer called them, jackie craws.

After the cattle where all corralled in the stockyards, most of the stockmen brought their horses into the horse paddock and proceeded to care for them. One or two individuals brought their mates' horses while they were doing the feed distribution for the 200 or so cattle. The saddles were removed from the horses and hung over the fence railing. Hooves were checked and coats were curried. Feedbags were placed on some horses, while others were fed out of large plastic buckets. It appeared that the owners and riders of the horses had their own customised mixes of feed that they preferred their mounts to eat.

It was an interesting sound to listen to the water pump feeding the troughs. The metal windmill, which was placed well away from the house, was the tallest object in the skyline for miles. Round the station house complex, there appeared to be multiple galvanised iron tanks that collected water from every roof-top.

Suddenly chickens appeared in the front garden and Charlie retreated to the front, enclosed verandah of the main house. Bess came out into the front garden with a bowl of kitchen scraps, which were placed in one of the garden beds, and the chickens promptly rooted through the vegetable matter. Apparently the carrot scapings were a firm favourite of the bantams as there was squarks and many ruffling of feathers over them.

Looking round, Charlie noted that he had not seen the pony rider dismount and care for her animal yet. Bess, seeing his concern, asked, "What's wrong, Charlie?"

"Where is the pony?" he inquired.

"Oh, there are no ponies amongst the mustering crew. You must mean the missus boss' stockhorse, which has more Timor pony in it than most. She was cleaning up out the back. Her mounts are held in the house field and the dog runs are there as well. The Missus Boss will be making sure that all the dogs are alright and well looked after. Knowing her, she will be tracking mud across my floors tonight when she's done. Some of those herders just love the water and she's such a softy, running the hose for them so they can play. Her grandfather, God rest his soul, would be turning over in his grave. I can still hear him in my mind muttering 'they're working dogs not house pets, so stop babying them,'" explained the long time station cook and housekeeper.

Old Bess had been at the station since she was a young stockman's wife over fifty years ago. Her stockman husband had risen through the ranks to become the overseer and then station manager. Now her son was the station manager in his place. The Old Man and her lover had long since passed into the next world, leaving Connellan Downs to the next generation. The station had been the young Missus' place since she was 10 years old. Most of the year, Missus Boss was off at boarding school in the old country but she flew like a bat out of hell to be back here for the dry season muster.

"Come on, Charlie, my boy. We have a hungry mob to feed. They'll all be washed up soon and the billy needs to be boiled," advised Bess, as she shuffled her matronly figure back into the kitchen. Following her, Charlie found himself being set to work, laying out cutlery and dishes for the diners.

Coming back into the kitchen, he pulled up short when he noticed a young woman in a summery skirt and white cotton blouse. Her long curly hair, damp from the shower, reached down back almost to her waist. It was then that he gasped, as she turned to bring some of the big bowls of salads out to the large dining room that overlooked the flood plain, enabling them to observe the sunset.

Looking at her amber coloured eyes, Charlies recognised it was Hermione Granger. What was going on?