Okay. I'm terribly sorry, I completely forgot about this story until I stumbled onto it a few minutes ago. Well here is chapter two.
I do not own Harry Potter, or any of the characters in it.
It was the same routine every night, she would hurry down the street, and he after having waited for her to pass would close the shutters and turn off the light. It had been going on for months now. Ever since the first time the women had decided to use that particular street as a short cut one snowy night. It was totally by chance that he had seen her. He had gone to the window to close the shutter, and had glanced down.
He had been completely struck by her beauty. But it wasn't just that. No, she was familiar. Eerily familiar. He was sure he knew her, but from where?
The next day, he had wait for her to pass and she did. And the next day and the day after and the one after that. Still, all he knew was that she had a government job, from a cell-phone conversation he had over heard her having, and that she pasted by the street as a short cur and was about his age. Slowly it became a routine for him; it was no longer a question of finding her identity. Of what it was, he was no longer sure of.
But, now months later, on that particular rainy night, he had recognized her. For the first time, he had clearly seen her face, wet and red from the cold fall day. He knew her, how could he not? After all she had always been there it seemed. The realization of just who she was exactly terrified him. How could he not have not known?
The man leaned his head against the cool glass of the window. He drew a deep shaky breath and sighed as memories flashed before his eyes.
Again short but sweet. Who's the man?
The French Orchid.