It was a lovely Saturday morning in the heart of London. Sweet perspiration dripped from the pores of a wavy-haired brunette with almond eyes and one hell of a brain.
Hermione has recently finished rearranging her condo. She stood back with hands on her hips and admired the fruits of her labor. A little environmental change would do her well, she thought.
Her bed was made, dishes were clean, the entire condo was dusted, and she was feeling famished (perhaps a sandwich and some iced tea to cool me off, she thought to herself). She floated to her sparkling clean kitchen with its white granite countertops and white-washed walls and matching cabinets.
The plate and mug gave matching, distinctive clinks on the countertops after she pulled them from their positions in the tidy cabinet. She dropped a few ice cubes in her cup and reached into the fridge for the small pitcher of iced tea, also pulling out the chicken, cheese, lettuce, tomato, and mayonnaise for her sandwich; only, there was no tomato and there was no cheese.
She closed her eyes and pressed her temples with the tips of her middle finger and thumb. "I do not want to do this today,"she told herself under her warm, dry breath. She quickly took a few sips of her tea before grabbing a light jacket, her purse, spritzing on a bit of her favorite perfume, wallet, and then trudged out the front door.
The bus ride to the corner around The Leaky Cauldron was about thirty-five minutes with multiple stops. By the time she made it to The Leaky Cauldron and to the entrance of Diagon Alley, she was already regretting leaving the condo. Her stomach was hurting but there wasn't much else in the pantry to healthily fill her up for the next few days. Maybe her loneliness and the occasional bout of PTSD and depression would generally take over her thoughts, she had not failed to keep care of her body.
She knew exactly where she was going. This time, however, there were others behind the stall with the shiny pine sign reading Hendrix Farms.
A slightly taller-than-average man with familiar short, dark hair and golden eyes. His skin was darker than just about everyone else's in the alley (he would be a bit easy to find in a crowed) and he had the build of a man who had worked outside with his hands all his life. His sharp nose had a slight hook at the end and his cheekbones sat high on his face. Beside him, an average sized woman - though, rather slender - seemed ghostly in color in comparison. Her perfect, pale skin complimented her deep brown hair (fashioned into a tight bun). Her grey eyes seemed to look more like steel, or the clearing grey clouds immediately after a storm.
Hermione approached the stall, a bit nervously. "Hello. I bought some vegetables from this stall last Saturday. I'm wondering where the gentleman is that sold me the produce?"
"That would be my son, Benjamin," piped up the woman, who seemed to be shrouded behind the man Hermione presumed was her husband and Benjamin's father. The resemblance now manifested in front of her eyes.
"Oh, well I just wanted to tell him that I really enjoyed them." This was somewhat a lie; even though she did love the flavor and ripeness, it isn't exactly what she had planned to tell him if she did run into him. Actually, she wasn't quite sure what sort of interaction she hoped to have at all - but him not being there was not necessarily expected. "I'd like to buy some more," she added. This was an honest statement.
"Well," the tall, tan man brushed his dry hands together, "what can we do for you today, Miss?" His accent was incredibly American, but not any particular sort of accent she felt she had heard before. His voice was deep and each letter in the words he spoke seemed to be very pronounced.
Hermione left with a few more than she had planned on. Cora, as the woman had introduced herself, had sold her on a few herbs and roots for the kitchen. The husband and father, Atticus, carefully wrapped all her belongings in a small box covered with brown paper. For their splendid service, she tipped them a couple extra Galleons.
Mr. and Mrs. Hendrix both sold their son out. They told Hermione exactly where he would be at that time, and what special she could order to get him to come from out of the kitchen. 'Twas a sneaky betrayal.
She found her way back into The Leaky Cauldron, which had only a few drunken patrons sitting at the bar and one or two wizards scattered among the tables.
She found a table and placed her package on it beside her. A middle-aged woman with a dirty cream and blue dress and matching bonnet approached her.
"What we havin' tuhday, miz?" She seemed a little preoccupied in her own head.
"Um," sputtered Hermione, hating to feel like an inconvenience regardless if it's someone's job, "c-can I have the, um, fried chicken special? With a side of ... buttered ... green beans ... and mash ... potato?"
The barmaid rolled her eyes as she scribbled out the order entirely and took it to the back. Hermione could hear her yell at someone from the front ("Oi, Benny! You've got your bloody American special for dine-in!").
When she heard his name, she could feel slight goosebumps riding the edge of her skin. She brushed them off as a smoky goblet was placed in front of her by the barmaid who left without another word.
Due to her anxiety, Hermione had downed the entire goblet before her food had arrived. Now, she was squirming in her seat; in desperate need of the loo.
She raced to the restroom door she had been in a hundred times during her stays before school terms, and released her bladder. When she finished, she checked herself in the mirror and gave herself a pep-talk. Perhaps she should have just finished her business and left. Because when she exited the restroom, a young man sat at her table that now had a plate of odd-looking food for The Leaky Cauldron.
His black hair was ruffled and his eyes seemed to droop a bit. His washed-out, black t-shirt sat loose but showed off the muscles in his back, shoulders, and arms. This she noticed as she got closer, her body tingling slightly.
"It's good to see you," he said quietly, motioning to her seat where the smell of the food began to fill her nose.
"This smells amazing. I don't believe I've ever had this," she said after glancing at him and slowly sitting in her seat.
"Yeah, this is very American. You gotta be careful if you've got cholesterol problems, though," he smiled as he said this. She noticed he had a mixed accent. He sounded much like his father, whom she met outside and was slightly intimidated by his deep, 'Native American' vocals. It was now apparent that only a few words he spoke sounded British.
"I can't believe I didn't notice before," Hermione told him, looking right at him as she cut her fried chicken with a fork and knife - odd, but that's Hermione.
"Notice what?" He asked.
"Your voice. Your accent. I've only ever heard it in American films, and then with your father just outside."
He smirked, and a short breath could be heard escaping his nose. "Yeah, I, uh, had a feeling them two were the reason you ordered such an, how do I say, un-patriotic meal."
"How did you know it was me that ordered it?" She asked him, quite puzzled.
He looked away from her to down at the table in front of him. He sat as if acting like it was something that wasn't supposed to sound like a big deal.
"I just, I, yeah, could smell your perfume when I brought out the plate. Y'know, I figured you were my mother coming in but she, she doesn't smell like that. Then I remembered-" he trailed off, shaking his head with his eyes pursed shut.
"Oh," Hermione replied quietly, her cheeks feeling very flushed. She put the first bite of chicken in her mouth and it was if her taste buds started a party. She checked to see if he was staring before shoveling a bit of the 'mashed potatoes' to mix with the chicken.
This was bad. No. This was good; she was starving and she felt like she could shovel all of this unfamiliar, delicious dish into her mouth and have it gone before you can say Quidditch.
"This," Hermione said, covering her mouth with one hand and pointing down to the plate with the other, "is one of the best things I have ever eaten in this place. My compliments to the chef."
When he smiled at her accolade, her stomach fluttered.
"I'll leave you to eat in peace now," Benjamin replied as he stood up and pushed the chair in behind him, "you should come by more often. My scheme has worked well this far." He gave a tired smirk as he walked away, taking her goblet with him and handing it to the barmaid to be refilled.
Hermione had cleared over half the plate before the barmaid came back with a filled goblet.
"Anything else?" The woman asked annoyingly.
"No.. thank you," Hermione replied, trying to remain polite.
Being in The Leaky Cauldron in such a way had brought back memories of when she would arrive a few days before the Weasley's and Harry before the school term starter back up. A feeling of comfort washed over her briefly before it was interrupted by a loud noise against the table.
A not-so-neatly wrapped box - matching the wrapping from the Hendrix stall outside - sat in front of her.
"Cook sends 'is best," the barmaid muttered to Hermione.
"What is it?" Hermione inquired.
The barmaid smacked her lips a few times as she chewed on something, perhaps a gum or taffy, before telling her it was a slice of apple pie.
Hermione collected her things in a slight daze and made for her way back home.
When she arrived, the place felt a bit different. The accent colors seems brighter and all the white seemed to smile and welcome one in rather than only being background.
Regardless of her physical attraction to the rugged gentleman named Benjamin, she had felt in her heart that maybe, just maybe, she had made a new friend.