This time of year, Hogsmeade was different. The leaves were burnt orange, curling into themselves as the trees retreated inwards, scrunching up against the bracing winter winds that whipped down through the high street. The little cafés dotted along the cobbled street changed their menu options to reflect the altering seasons. There was a tinge of Christmas in the air, too, as though the air was steeling itself, readying its bluster for the coldest dead of winter that was only made bearable by the spark of joy. Well, joy for most, anyway.
That morning, Florence Gibbon had pushed her body into the soft arms of a new winter coat and furled her tried and tested scarf around her neck. It always grew colder in Scotland first. Inevitably. That knowledge didn’t detract from the surprise she always felt, though, when she left the relative warmth of the dungeons and felt the bristling air against her cheeks. She even slid her fingers into a pair of gloves that kept her palms toasty until she was in the village, well clear of the castle.
She made her decision quickly whilst there. Florence ducked into the first café she came across, her stomach rumbling for something good to eat. She counted out her sickles and paid for a toasted sandwich and a coffee before taking a seat by one of the windows, unfurling a newspaper that she had picked up from the rack by the door.
Looking up from the sports news at the sound of a voice, Florence realised with a start that she was being spoken to. She blinked and set down her mug before turning her wrist to look at her watch.
“It’s a little past eleven. I hope you don’t miss her.”
She didn’t, it just felt like the customary thing to say. Offering a ghost of a smile, Florence let her eyes settle briefly on the woman before skirting down back to the newspaper, back to obscurity.
by Imogen Blackburn Mon Oct 17, 2016 7:47 pm
