"-and this is my mom's office. You better not go in there, not only is it really messy, but she hates it when people invade her privacy." Charlie rolled her eyes and smiled that saucy grin I'd seen on her face a lot in the brief time I'd known her. "But I love her. Is she the one that let you in?"
I shook my head silently, mulling over some conclusions that I'd come to. First of all, Charlie seemed innocent enough. She didn't appear to know anything was going on. I'd also figured out that she was a lot sweeter than she looked. Though she put on a tough, rebel, I'm-an-individual-and-you-can't-stop-me front, she was kind-hearted and sensitive.
And she was also very gorgeous. A long, thick curtain of shiny, straight brown hair fell down her back and huge, piercing eyes, deep, wise, and warm with intelligence and spirit were the first things a person noticed when they looked at her. But she also had a unique smile with straight white teeth and full lips. Everything about her was narrow and thin: her torso, her legs, her arms, even her nose. It all fit perfectly together.
Cho was the one who had taught me how to appreciate a person for how their appearance reflected who they really were. She used to say a person that was worth getting to know was someone that wasn't afraid to dress and look however they wanted to. Those were the ones with an amazing personality. Cho was a perfect example of that.
Charlie was wearing a black T-shirt over a white silk one, and the slinky fabric peeked out at the collar, sleeves, and waist. Baggy brown tunnel pants with gold lining rode low on her hips, and mismatched socks (one gray, one white with a red stripe across the toes) covered her feet. The T-shirt was interesting: white block letters across the front read "Linkin Park", and they were faded from too many washes, meaning she'd gotten good wear out of it. Silver bracelets, the antique ring, a long cross, and a linked chain were her only jewelry.
I noticed details.
"One of our bedrooms is empty, so you can stay in it. But you'd have to pay," she explained, leading me into the kitchen we'd just exited from and plopping down on a small window seat.
"Pardon me, what was that?" I asked, following her obediently and sitting opposite her on the tiny padded bench. "Pay?"
"We run Becker's Bed and Breakfast here. I thought you would know, since the sign's right at the end of our driveway. That's why you came here, isn't it? To get a room for the night?" she explained curiously. "That's what I figured when I was showing you around…"
A sudden idea began formulating itself in my head. "Oh yes, that's right. Sorry. How much will that be?" I asked, reaching for my wallet. I always carried a wad of Muggle cash and some traveler's checks with me just in case.
"Um… about 37 dollars, I think. A single bed, right? No wife?" she smiled teasingly, standing up.
I smiled up at her, a little sadly. "No, no wife." Not even a chance of one anymore. We locked eyes for a second, and I could tell she read the depth of pain in my stare. Quickly I broke eye contact, ripped a check out of the small booklet and filled it out. I signed with a flourish and handed it to her. Our fingers brushed slightly, and I jerked back.
It was silent while she carefully folded the check in half and tucked it into a large pocket in the back of her huge, worn pants. Then she folded her arms across her chest, leaned against the table, and stared at me, her eyes piercing right through me. Strangely, I felt she could read my mind.
Something that no one but Cho had ever been able to do.
"So. Mr. Potter. Tell me about yourself," she demanded gently, still prodding me carefully with her gaze.
I averted my eyes to a water color painting on the wall. "That's really good," I blurted as I studied it carefully, standing up and moving closer to the smooth wooden-paneled wall, where the picture was hanging behind glass. "Do you know the artist?"
"Yeah. She's a local," Charlie smirked again, a trademark I was starting to get used to.
"Really? Who?" I asked. The artist had blended the colors well, and the sunrise cleverly faded from orange to deep purple. "That's… really good, better than good, it's gallery work."
"Thanks."
"What?" I spun to face her, starting to smile in surprise. "You…"
"Yep," she said, smiling back and tilting her head to the side. Her hair again slid over her shoulder. I quickly looked back to her face. "I'm an artist, in more ways than one."
"That's so cool," I complimented, stuffing my hands in my back pockets. I couldn't think of anything to say. I'd never been that gifted with my hands. I had some common sense, logic, and street smarts, but they didn't do for good conversation with someone who could paint like that.
We stood silently for a short minute, listening uncomfortably to the clock tick. Finally, she broke the silence by clapping her hands. "Well! Now that you've paid I can officially show you to your room. It's upstairs, next to mine, if you'll follow me…" and she moved off down the hallway.
I followed her, still going over the idea I'd quickly come up with. Since she didn't have a clue to who I was, I would stay at this small, out of the way Bed and Breakfast until I could move to a more secure environment. Tomorrow, using an Out of Country Owl, I would contact Dumbledore to see what was going on immediately. And then, I assumed, lie low.
She pushed open the door in the darkened hallway we had left about a half-hour ago. Inside, the room looked basically like hers, except it didn't have a personal touch to it. The bed was a high brass queen-size, and a huge stone fireplace lurked in the corner of the room. On the mantelpiece were a large grandfather clock and some family pictures in pale wooden frames. A window seat was next to the fireplace, and a warm afghan was folded on top of the faded velvet padding. A small pillow sagged against the plate of glass. The room was cold, but the bed was piled high with fluffy, thick pillows and a seemingly hand-stitched quilt. A rocking chair creaked slightly in another corner, caught by a small, flickering draft.
"Where's that door lead to?" I asked, pointing to the object in question.
She gave me a half-smile. "I regret to inform you that from this moment until you leave, you have to share a bathroom with me." She shrugged, shoving her hands into her back pockets and rocking forward slightly. "I'm not that bad: at least I don't leave wet towels lying around or junk on the countertops like some guests. But my mom says I stay in the shower too long. And use up all the hot water." Again, the relaxed shrug. "I'm sorry if it bothers you."
"Oh know, definitely not," I waved the apology away. "Thank you, though. I don't mind when a person takes a long shower. I know how it can get when you've had a rough day and you just need to unwind or cool off. Trust me on that."
"Okay, I will," she said cockily. Then, moving towards the door of the room, she said, "So, are you settled? You don't have any bags with you. Do you need some clothes? There should be some generic stuff in the dresser or wardrobe." At this, she pointed to the tall, shiny oak piece of furniture that stood on the other side of the fireplace.
I smiled warmly, relieved that this quaint little home hadn't converted to modern, impersonal ways of life. "Thank you so much. I don't know what I would've done without you. You're the first place I've passed that has room for me."
"That's odd. It's the end of tourist season. Maybe there's some sort of convention going on downtown. Anyway, we don't have any other guests. If you're looking for excitement, I don't think you're in the right place," she said, opening the door.
"I've had enough excitement for quite a while, thank you," I answered tiredly, plopping down on the bed and taking off my shoes. "I believe a short nap would do me some good right now. Can I ask you a favor? Will you wake me up for lunch?"
"Oh, of course," she answered. As I tugged the sheets and quilt down, she still didn't leave. Finally, I looked back up at her. She studied me curiously. "You know what, Harry? I'm getting some kind of vibe around you. I don't know what it is yet, but I'll figure it out. You seem to have been through some tough times. I hope you do okay in the world."
"I try my best," was the last phrase I remembered uttering before I was as dead to the world as a fat cat sunning itself on a warm summer day.
I shook my head silently, mulling over some conclusions that I'd come to. First of all, Charlie seemed innocent enough. She didn't appear to know anything was going on. I'd also figured out that she was a lot sweeter than she looked. Though she put on a tough, rebel, I'm-an-individual-and-you-can't-stop-me front, she was kind-hearted and sensitive.
And she was also very gorgeous. A long, thick curtain of shiny, straight brown hair fell down her back and huge, piercing eyes, deep, wise, and warm with intelligence and spirit were the first things a person noticed when they looked at her. But she also had a unique smile with straight white teeth and full lips. Everything about her was narrow and thin: her torso, her legs, her arms, even her nose. It all fit perfectly together.
Cho was the one who had taught me how to appreciate a person for how their appearance reflected who they really were. She used to say a person that was worth getting to know was someone that wasn't afraid to dress and look however they wanted to. Those were the ones with an amazing personality. Cho was a perfect example of that.
Charlie was wearing a black T-shirt over a white silk one, and the slinky fabric peeked out at the collar, sleeves, and waist. Baggy brown tunnel pants with gold lining rode low on her hips, and mismatched socks (one gray, one white with a red stripe across the toes) covered her feet. The T-shirt was interesting: white block letters across the front read "Linkin Park", and they were faded from too many washes, meaning she'd gotten good wear out of it. Silver bracelets, the antique ring, a long cross, and a linked chain were her only jewelry.
I noticed details.
"One of our bedrooms is empty, so you can stay in it. But you'd have to pay," she explained, leading me into the kitchen we'd just exited from and plopping down on a small window seat.
"Pardon me, what was that?" I asked, following her obediently and sitting opposite her on the tiny padded bench. "Pay?"
"We run Becker's Bed and Breakfast here. I thought you would know, since the sign's right at the end of our driveway. That's why you came here, isn't it? To get a room for the night?" she explained curiously. "That's what I figured when I was showing you around…"
A sudden idea began formulating itself in my head. "Oh yes, that's right. Sorry. How much will that be?" I asked, reaching for my wallet. I always carried a wad of Muggle cash and some traveler's checks with me just in case.
"Um… about 37 dollars, I think. A single bed, right? No wife?" she smiled teasingly, standing up.
I smiled up at her, a little sadly. "No, no wife." Not even a chance of one anymore. We locked eyes for a second, and I could tell she read the depth of pain in my stare. Quickly I broke eye contact, ripped a check out of the small booklet and filled it out. I signed with a flourish and handed it to her. Our fingers brushed slightly, and I jerked back.
It was silent while she carefully folded the check in half and tucked it into a large pocket in the back of her huge, worn pants. Then she folded her arms across her chest, leaned against the table, and stared at me, her eyes piercing right through me. Strangely, I felt she could read my mind.
Something that no one but Cho had ever been able to do.
"So. Mr. Potter. Tell me about yourself," she demanded gently, still prodding me carefully with her gaze.
I averted my eyes to a water color painting on the wall. "That's really good," I blurted as I studied it carefully, standing up and moving closer to the smooth wooden-paneled wall, where the picture was hanging behind glass. "Do you know the artist?"
"Yeah. She's a local," Charlie smirked again, a trademark I was starting to get used to.
"Really? Who?" I asked. The artist had blended the colors well, and the sunrise cleverly faded from orange to deep purple. "That's… really good, better than good, it's gallery work."
"Thanks."
"What?" I spun to face her, starting to smile in surprise. "You…"
"Yep," she said, smiling back and tilting her head to the side. Her hair again slid over her shoulder. I quickly looked back to her face. "I'm an artist, in more ways than one."
"That's so cool," I complimented, stuffing my hands in my back pockets. I couldn't think of anything to say. I'd never been that gifted with my hands. I had some common sense, logic, and street smarts, but they didn't do for good conversation with someone who could paint like that.
We stood silently for a short minute, listening uncomfortably to the clock tick. Finally, she broke the silence by clapping her hands. "Well! Now that you've paid I can officially show you to your room. It's upstairs, next to mine, if you'll follow me…" and she moved off down the hallway.
I followed her, still going over the idea I'd quickly come up with. Since she didn't have a clue to who I was, I would stay at this small, out of the way Bed and Breakfast until I could move to a more secure environment. Tomorrow, using an Out of Country Owl, I would contact Dumbledore to see what was going on immediately. And then, I assumed, lie low.
She pushed open the door in the darkened hallway we had left about a half-hour ago. Inside, the room looked basically like hers, except it didn't have a personal touch to it. The bed was a high brass queen-size, and a huge stone fireplace lurked in the corner of the room. On the mantelpiece were a large grandfather clock and some family pictures in pale wooden frames. A window seat was next to the fireplace, and a warm afghan was folded on top of the faded velvet padding. A small pillow sagged against the plate of glass. The room was cold, but the bed was piled high with fluffy, thick pillows and a seemingly hand-stitched quilt. A rocking chair creaked slightly in another corner, caught by a small, flickering draft.
"Where's that door lead to?" I asked, pointing to the object in question.
She gave me a half-smile. "I regret to inform you that from this moment until you leave, you have to share a bathroom with me." She shrugged, shoving her hands into her back pockets and rocking forward slightly. "I'm not that bad: at least I don't leave wet towels lying around or junk on the countertops like some guests. But my mom says I stay in the shower too long. And use up all the hot water." Again, the relaxed shrug. "I'm sorry if it bothers you."
"Oh know, definitely not," I waved the apology away. "Thank you, though. I don't mind when a person takes a long shower. I know how it can get when you've had a rough day and you just need to unwind or cool off. Trust me on that."
"Okay, I will," she said cockily. Then, moving towards the door of the room, she said, "So, are you settled? You don't have any bags with you. Do you need some clothes? There should be some generic stuff in the dresser or wardrobe." At this, she pointed to the tall, shiny oak piece of furniture that stood on the other side of the fireplace.
I smiled warmly, relieved that this quaint little home hadn't converted to modern, impersonal ways of life. "Thank you so much. I don't know what I would've done without you. You're the first place I've passed that has room for me."
"That's odd. It's the end of tourist season. Maybe there's some sort of convention going on downtown. Anyway, we don't have any other guests. If you're looking for excitement, I don't think you're in the right place," she said, opening the door.
"I've had enough excitement for quite a while, thank you," I answered tiredly, plopping down on the bed and taking off my shoes. "I believe a short nap would do me some good right now. Can I ask you a favor? Will you wake me up for lunch?"
"Oh, of course," she answered. As I tugged the sheets and quilt down, she still didn't leave. Finally, I looked back up at her. She studied me curiously. "You know what, Harry? I'm getting some kind of vibe around you. I don't know what it is yet, but I'll figure it out. You seem to have been through some tough times. I hope you do okay in the world."
"I try my best," was the last phrase I remembered uttering before I was as dead to the world as a fat cat sunning itself on a warm summer day.
