Chapter Four: The Woes of Working Retail

A week had passed, and it seemed that I had proved myself to be correct. There was no sign of James Potter anywhere, although according to the iDaily Prophet/i he was known to frequent Diagon Alley, where I spent most of my time.

If anyone in the Muggle world were to ask me what I did for a living, I would respond that I was "a shopgirl, but attending night classes in order to make myself more marketable for future employers." Like most of the personal information that wizards and witches tell Muggles, this statement was a half-truth.

I iwas/i attending "night classes," as I liked to call them, but I preferred to think of myself as the teacher, not the student. After all, when someone knew as much about the dignified art of pool as I did, how could she not impart some of her knowledge to her students? (For a ismall/i fee, naturally. Education doesn't come cheap these days.) Of course, my idea of a night class was vastly different from a Muggle's conception of one, but career choice is not a topic that I prefer to dwell on in social situations.

The part of my occupation that was the most truthful was the "shopgirl" part. Whether you have a respectable position in the Ministry of Magic or you only come out at night like the patrons of the Shooting Star, the face that you present to the world is the one that must meet the approval (or at least, begrudging agreement) of your parents.

That's the way it worked in our house, anyways.

And so, I couldn't just make a living getting rich off of cocky drunkards. I had to take a job dealing with the public.

After I graduated from Hogwarts, my mother urged me to look for work in the Alley. Much to her disappointment, I was dead in the middle of my class with a total of two passing NEWT scores—nothing special, but nothing too awful, either. That wasn't good enough for Mum. She expected nothing less than perfection, but she didn't get it from me.

Hufflepuffs have a reputation of being slightly dumb, slightly sweet, and having a slight tendency to blush in awkward situations. As such, people assume that working with the public in a shop or a tavern is a Hufflepuff's most desired career choice.

Utter baloney, if you ask me. Look at Hattie—she was near the top of the class in our Hogwarts years and she passed her Healer exams with flying colors last autumn. And I may not have gotten many NEWTs, but I would like to think that I'm not dumb. Or sweet, for that matter…

But NEWTs in Arithmancy and Care of Magical Creatures don't really lend themselves to a lucrative and illustrious career—at least, not in the Ministry of Magic. The only thing two completely unrelated classes are good for is a career working retail in Diagon Alley. (And I'm pretty sure that the examiner just gave me an A in Magical Creatures because the hippogriff was about to start a stampede…)

Of course, I couldn't tell her that I already had a career lined up, that Freddy Weasley had approached me right after we threw our pointy black hats up in the air so that he could give me his personal congratulations and talk business with me. So into the crooked little Alley I went, searching for places who would hire a girl fresh off the train from her last year at Hogwarts.

Job searching is no picnic. From the outside, it might look like you can stay at home in your pajamas and glance at the "Now Hiring" section of the Daily Prophet, then send in an application with no fuss, but that is simply not true. I walked up and down Diagon Alley every day for a month in business casual and high heels, getting nothing but blisters and wolf whistles for my trouble. (Even outside the casino, wizards can be pigs. It's a serious flaw in our society, but the only thing that the Ministry was concerned about in those days was voting on trade restrictions with Wizarding Central Europe. Bah!)

Finally, finally, my prayers were answered and a "Now Hiring" sign appeared in a shop window. Without glancing up to see which shop I was entering, I darted in out of the rain and demanded to speak to the manager. (It was a polite demand, though. No harm done.)

Despite my utter lack of job experience and credentials (and NEWTs, for that matter), the manager liked my confidence and aplomb. He hired me on the spot, and I'd been there ever since.

Stuck amidst the Quaffles and broomsticks of Quality Quidditch Supplies.

I was sure that there was some irony in this, but as I looked out the window into the grey, rainy afternoon, I couldn't see it. The shop had been particularly slow on that gloomy Tuesday, and I'd been there since it opened at eight in the morning. People outside the shop scurried by, ready to get home after the long work day. Nobody had any desire to buy Quidditch supplies and put me out of my miserable boredom.

"Are you looking for something to do, Anne?" my manager asked, poking his head out of his office.

Barry Goldbloom was a powerfully-built man, tall and sturdy with the muscles of a Beater. In fact, he'd played Beater for the Wimbourne Wasps up until a few years previously, when his injuries forced him into an early retirement. As such, he had a tendency to be surly, especially when it rained and caused his injuries to ache. He was just the sort of person to scold you for not doing anything, even though he wasn't doing a whole heck of a lot, either.

"No, Mr. Goldbloom," I called, trying to sound as pleasant and as busy as possible. "I was just going to reorganize the Keeper accessory aisle."

That was a lie. I had already organized that aisle a few hours earlier. But it satisfied Barry, who retreated back into his office the way an octopus retreats into a small glass jar—slowly and with great difficulty. (The modern office setting was not designed for use by burly ex-Quidditch players.)

I puttered around near the far edge of the shop, trying to stay out of Barry's view. Just because I'd kept this job for three years, didn't mean that he wouldn't fire me on the spot in a fit of irrational temper.

When I started working at Quality Quidditch Supplies, I didn't know the first thing about Quidditch. It never really held my interest at Hogwarts, and the British and Irish Leagues confused me to no end. But as the years went by, I picked up some knowledge about the ancient Wizarding sport and all of its gruesome attributes.

For one thing, the fans were awful. They were pretty much worse than fans of football. If a fan happened to walk in the shop on the day of a game, you had best have the WizTelly tuned to the right match, or else. And if the particular jersey that they were looking for didn't come in the right size, it was your job to make sure it was flown in on the fastest owl before someone sued you for "wasting time."

But if the fans were bad, the players were worse. If Oliver Wood happened to walk in to inspect the latest broom model, the red carpet was rolled out and the schmoozing from all sides began immediately. The Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly had long been known to turn up "by coincidence" when a famous Quidditch player came in to purchase some of Alistair's Finest Broom Wax or Madame Malcontent's Anti-Chafing Balm. (I never asked what this was for. The answer was probably something that it was better not to know.)

On the dreary, drippy Tuesday, as I straightened up the Broomstick Servicing Kits for the thousandth time, I cursed the fans and the players alike for being so rude and entitled. They came in and stayed for hours sometimes, and for what?! To buy some overpriced merchandise and mess up half the store?!

No wonder people thought that manners no longer existed.

Somehow, in the three years I'd spent in the garish sporting goods shop, I had never run into the likes of the Potter Monster. I mean, sure, I saw his mum sometimes and his agent, a flighty girl with a penchant for gossip, came in almost monthly. But up until that moment, I was never in the shop at the same time as him.

The obnoxious chime of the bell above the door drew me to my senses. Finally, a humanoid life form had come into the shop, no doubt to ask me questions that I did not know how to answer and to knock the perfectly-straightened merchandise askew. I dusted my hands off on my attractive (read: not attractive at all) black apron and went to greet the customer with a smile as fake as Splenda on my face.

His voice, coming from the front of the store, gave me pause.

"No, Mum, I'm not at the bar. I'm at Quality Quidditch, where d'you think?! Yeah, I'll be over at yours in time for dinner. Yeah. Uh huh. Love you. Bye."

My luck began and ended with pool. I swore that there was no way I would ever see James Potter again, and lo and behold, I had jinxed myself. He was here. In my shop. And that annoyed me.

Fortunately, James Potter had a WizPhone and a loud, obnoxious voice. Now that I knew who my customer was, there was no way on earth that I would reveal myself to him now, not with that awful encounter in the casino still hanging over my head. I ducked down and began to check that each box of merchandise was perfectly straight.

"Hello?!" he called, sounding impatient. "Is there anyone here?"

Curses. His voice carried, and Barry was no doubt getting angry. He constantly made it clear that customers who came in near closing time were my responsibility.

I had no choice but to face him and pray that his facial recognition skills were as terrible as they were at the casino. Reluctantly abandoning my post in the back, I crept slowly up to the register, hoping to prolong the inevitable.

Up at the front, Potter stood next to the register, drumming his fingers impatiently and staring out the window. He wore a wrinkled Kestrels jersey and a wicked scowl. In all honesty, I should have been the one scowling, as he was dripping water all over my floor. As soon as he left, I would have to clean up after him, and doing Charms after a long day of work was not my favorite thing.

Still, I tried to sound like the bubbly Hufflepuff shopgirl that people seemed to think I was.

"Hello. Did you find everything you were looking for?" I asked brightly, sliding behind the register.

Throwing an object down on the counter, he continued to glare out the window. "Took you bloody long enough to get up here. I just want these Keeper gloves."

My heart leapt with anticipation and joy. He really didn't recognize me, did he?!

"Absolutely, Mr. Potter," I nearly squeaked, ringing up his purchase. The mental slap that I gave myself would have knocked me off my feet if I had administered it physically.

Potter's head whipped around. "What did you say?"

"I—I said… Here you go! That'll be twenty Galleons, please!" I tried to cover for my mistake, but it was too late.

Potter drew out a dragonskin wallet, scrutinizing me harshly. "That's highway robbery, it is. Do I know you?"

Oh no. The unfortunate tendency to blush, while not being an inherently Hufflepuff trait, was one that I had inherited from my dear old dad. I could feel it warming my cheeks as I accepted his money. How was it possible for me to be so calm and collected at the Shooting Star, and yet so nervous and embarrassed at Quality Quidditch Supplies?!

"N-no. I don't believe we've met before," I said. His look of scrutiny relaxed, and he took his purchase with no further argument.

"Well, thanks… Anne," he replied, squinting at my name tag before turning to go back out into the rain.

I watched him walk out the door and down the street before I slumped against the counter, sighing in relief. "That was a close one."

"Did you say something, Anne?"

"No sir!"

"Did you help the customer?"

"Yes sir!"

I pulled out my wand to blast the wet floor with a Drying Spell, but before I could mutter the incantation, the bell chimed again. "Hello, welcome to Quality Quidditch Supplies, biggest and best supplier of all your Quidditch needs!" I chirped. It was yet another customer to prolong my day, but at least it wasn't—

"Hi."

Oh no. I looked up to see none other than James Potter himself, smirking at me devilishly. His wet hair dripped more water down his collar and onto the counter, and I knew that I would have a bigger mess to clean up than before.

I tried to adopt an air of nonchalance, a la Shooting Star. "May I help you, sir?"

"Oh yes, I do believe you may." Two can play at a game of chess, as it is said, and though I cast my gaze downward, I knew that he had arranged his features into a look of utmost pomposity.

"What do you seek in our shop today? A new broomstick, perhaps?"

"How about a pool stick, hmm?"

Oh, this was too much. I looked up again, glaring. "I am afraid, sir, that we do not sell those in this shop."

His look of aristocratic superiority dropped back into his old familiar smirk. "Cut the crap, doll. I know you know who I am."

"And what if I do? It's not uncommon knowledge at this point, is it?"

"No, but that's not what I meant!" he cried, gesticulating wildly. "You were the one in the Shooting Star! You played that fat guy under the table! You are…" His voice trailed off and he looked around before whispering, "The Pool Master."

There was nothing I could do but laugh. "What sort of a name is that?!"

It was now his turn to blush and duck his head sheepishly. "Dunno."

"A bloody stupid one, if you ask me," I chuckled, turning my back to him. "Good day to you, sir."

He caught my wrist and pulled. I spun around and was greeted by the sight of his face, which was closer than before, as he was leaning over the counter.

"I'm not finished with you yet."

I shook my hand free of his vice-like grip. "So what? I'm finished with you. Get out of my shop, and take your personal space issues with you!"

"Teach me how to play pool like you do."

"No."

"Fine."

And with that, he drew out his wand and pointed it at his other hand, which was splayed across the counter. I eyed his display suspiciously.

"What are you going to do?"

"Well, if you don't agree to be my teacher, I'm going to cast a Temporary Sticking Charm to my hand. One that only I can remove. And then you'll be stuck here, because I know that Barry won't let you leave until every customer has been helped." As he finished speaking, he raised his wand to cast the spell.

"Wait!" I grabbed his hand to stop him. "How do you know about that?!"

"My cousin used to work here. So, will you or won't you?" His smirk had settled into a playful grin. Potter actually thought this was a game.

And yet, if it was a game, he was currently winning. I was stuck in between two equally stupid options: incur the wrath of Barry by having a belligerent customer, or teach James Potter how to play pool.

As much as I complained about my day job, I didn't want to lose it. Mummy dearest simply wouldn't approve of that. There was only one possible way to go.

"Fine, fine," I sighed, letting go of his hand. "I'll teach you how to play pool if you promise not to stick your hand to my counter."

His answering beam could have blinded someone. "Thanks, Anna Banana! When can we meet?"

"Call me that at your own risk."

"Oh, sorry. Should we meet at the Shooting Star or—"

"Not there," I interrupted. It was simply bad business to mix work and… whatever this was. "Muggle London is a more ideal location. Find a nice, respectable pub somewhere and we can meet next Tuesday at eight."

He nodded. "Yes ma'am. You got it. Nice pub, next Tuesday at eight." Before he left for what would hopefully be the last time, he extended his hand. "It's going to be a pleasure to work with you, Anne."

I shook his hand, rolling my eyes. "I'm not so sure about that."

His only answer was a smirk over his shoulder as he left the shop.

Scarcely thirty minutes later, just as I was preparing to go home, a feathery object hit the front window.

"Anne, what was that?"

I sometimes regret using my middle name at work. My manager has a tendency to overuse it. A lot.

"It was nothing, Mr. Goldbloom. I'm leaving for the night. Goodbye."

All I received in return was a grunt, Barry's universal syllable. As one of his grunts could be interpreted in a variety of ways, I took it to mean "Yes, that's fine. Have a lovely night." Grabbing my umbrella from behind the counter, I strode to the door, bracing myself for the gale outside.

The mysterious feathery object greeted me with a soft "whoo?" as I exited the shop. An owl! The poor thing collided with the window and appeared to be getting its bearings, but when it saw me, it held out its leg.

I detached the letter from it, and the owl flew off again into the storm. Poor bird.

The sender of the letter had messy handwriting and the ink was almost unreadable on the rain-streaked parchment. Still, I could understand what it said.

"Anne—

I found a pub in one of those goofy Muggle phone book things. It's just off Tabard Street. The Snoozing Dog. See you at eight on Tuesday

—James"

As I read the note, I grinned. Tuesday evening would certainly be interesting if we were going to the Snoozing Dog.


A/N: It's been a while since I've posted on , whoops! If any of you would like to read past chapter four, I have eighteen chapters over at HPFF (under the penname UnluckyStar57), and I promise to post here more frequently.

Thank you to Irelandlover, who was the first to review. :)