People. Everywhere. The night is cold. Not freezing, but they are all wearing scarves and gloves. And I am not. Lights, lights, lights, and the smell of food. Hot food. Everywhere. I try to concentrate on the lights, but the food is stronger. Every two or three minutes I glance at the sizzling sausages, steaming dumplings (yeast dumplings - the ones you would only find at a Christmas market) and watch people queueing at the stands where they sell fries, hot drinks and sweets of all sorts. Only inches away from me they sell Fish & Chips - or what Germans think Fish & Chips is. It does not look like the real thing at all.
But I am doing it again. I am once more thinking of the place I do absolutely not want to think about, though it has been penetrating my mind every minute, every second I have spent at this rotten place called Hamburg: I am thinking of England.
A woman catches my eye. An elderly, overweight lady, who sells mulled wine at the stand in front of me. She addresses me. Waits for an answer - obviously. Bloody witch... though - probably not, come to think of it. I shrug. She keeps talking.
Do you think I can understand a word you are saying? She is obviously making an effort to sell me some wine. I decline. Politely, but with a stomach-ache. Hot liquids. Steaming liquids. Steaming cauldrons. Potions. How long has it been now - a month?
A jazz band plays "In A Sentimental Mood". A group of young people - students perhaps, who enjoy their performance so much that they do not notice the audience has stopped listening long ago. Still better than the single violinist this afternoon. Unbearably awful that one. I had difficulties keeping myself from walking over and strangling the indefatigable little brat. But I had been too hungry anyway. I still am. The woman gives me a last glance, then I walk over to a sweets stand.
Big mistake.
A chubby-faced, middle-aged man buys enough sweets to feed a family for a month. Or maybe he is just making provisions for the journey home. In case he starves. I try to look indifferent, but cannot take my eyes off the huge lumps of candy-floss that are sticking out of his bag. Give it to me! Give it to me!
He walks away. Fat ass! Can't you recognize a hungry man when you see one? Though - I wouldn't have taken it anyway.
The band has stopped playing. Some people clap, but I can see right through them. They just hope for the music to stop so that they can get back to their Christmas shopping. One of the students takes a step forward. Don't sing! Please don't sing!
He sings. I leave.
A bit further down the street I suddenly come across another of those red cloaked figures who, under their ridiculous red hood, so strongly remind me of the very person I had hoped to be able to forget.
A false-bearded Dumbledore steps in my way and gives me a huge, false smile.
"Merrry Chrristmas," he says and adds some German gossip - or is it Chinese? He opens his huge sack and lets me have a look. Food? Toys. I will not sink this low.
"No, thank you!"
To my great surprise a gleam of recognition appears at his face. "Ah, Amerrican?"
You do not want to know what I'd do to you if I still had my wand. Another painful memory. I frown.
"British."
"Oh, sorrry." He is trying to be polite. So am I. But it is getting harder with every hour you haven't eaten. "Vere exactly do you come frrom?"
"Hogwarts," I reply with a nasty grin. He considers for a moment.
"I have perhaps heard sat alrready."
No, you haven't. "Yes, perhaps."
I can do this. All it takes is determination. Am I a Slytherin or not? I will get you to buy me some food in no time - or a cup of coffee at least.
"I vas only in England once before," he says, "vis my vife. Ve vere in Shottland."
Make up your mind, you stupid bastard. Polite. Polite! "Scotland, indeed? It is quite cold, isn't it?"
"Oh yes, but ve still liked it."
"Glad to hear it."
He nods and turns. Hello!?! You are supposed to feed me, Santa. But he seems to think the conversation is over. And I will certainly not beg.
I move. Have to. Otherwise my legs will go numb again. I slide down the precinct, probably resembling a giant, black cat or anything, trying to ignore the people and (most of all) the food. I imagine what it must be like to watch myself from a different angle - a broom, perhaps. It is disgusting. An ominous black figure, moving through the city of Hamburg in the middle of December, struggling not to die of cold and hunger. Pitiful? Hardly. Rather despicable and pathetic. I hate myself for this.
"Four or five days," had been his words. "A week, perhaps, and you'll be sobbing in the snow, pleading for mercy... ready to die!" Had he guessed the truth? How long would I be able to bear this?
A child catches my eye. A girl. She is holding her father's hand, who is queuing at one of the many stands, obviously bored. Poor maltreated child. How long has your father been dragging you through the cold now? Three hours? Four? This is what I call cruel. Who's complaining about my teaching methods? I imagine Potter in her position and cannot help grinning at the thought.
By a mere chance, the girl raises her head, sees me and smiles. I nod slightly. The girl puts her little arms around her shoulders signalling, "Cold, isn't it?"
I nod again. She smiles once more. I decide to escape the situation. This short period of time, however, has had its effect on my stiff body. I realise that my feet have frozen, only when it is too late. I stumble. I fall.
The damage is done. "Ooh," cries the girl. "Puppy, cook!"
It takes a while for me to realise whom she is talking to. I lift up quickly, looking very superior, though soggy. The man gives me a scrutinizing look. Our eyes meet for a second. Then he turns and says something to his daughter, assuming a most contemptuous tone, making her leave without looking back. He shouts something at me which I do not understand, of course, but which is still unmistakably rude. I am seething with rage and reach for my wand.
Only that I haven't got one.
The child vanishes from my view. So does her father. Hatred such as I have never known creeps up from the inside of my stomach. And helplessness. Complete helplessness. I hate being defeated! A feeling, which I have not felt for a very long time - is it vulnerability? - makes me clutch my fists and bare my teeth.
"Control yourself," I silently command, "or you'll be exactly where he wants you."
But it is difficult. I can hardly move, my face is red of cold, I have not had a proper meal for more than three days and people treat me like scum. I can hear the jazz band again.
"Someveeeeeere over se rrrainbow."
Something makes me want to throw an object of considerable weight at the singer's head. But I don't. I continue walking.