What a Novel Idea

As Amelia walked down the blustering streets of Hogsmeade, she ducked her head deeper inside the hood of her wool peacoat, wishing for the life of her that she would have just stayed at the castle. It seemed every time she stepped outside Hogwarts, she wished herself back there, even if she had left because she felt confined.

Truth be told, Amelia felt confined at Hogwarts a lot of the time. Although she excelled there and had no reason to feel trapped, it was often the other people, rather than the stone walls which made her feel as though she were cornered. This had been especially apparent in the last few days, with Christmas break having started. With no classes in session, the common room, empty classrooms, and hallways were far more busy than usual. Amelia was even prevented her usual solitary violin concerts in the study room because so many students were awake so late into the night that it would be impossible to avoid detection.

It was this feeling of being constantly surrounded that had brought Amelia outside Hogwarts, walking against the wind toward her destination. Though she had dressed for the weather in a pair of skinny jeans tucked into boots, an overlarge knit sweater, her coat, a scarf, and mittens, Amelia was still cold down to her very bones. This was no surprise, as Amelia’s body seemed to produce no natural heat of its own, but she still would have preferred to have been a bit warmer considering all the precautions she took to ensure she would be.

Reaching the door, Amelia pushed it open, though the wind gave her a little too much help by slamming it against the wall as soon as she opened it just a crack. With a bang, the door was blown wide open and the tinkle of breaking glass was heard from the other side of the door. Blushing profusely, Amelia struggled to close the door against the wind that was still blowing it open. Once this task had been managed, Amelia reached into the recesses of her many-pocketed coat to remove her wand. Pointing it at the shards which lay on the ground, Amelia muttered Reparo! and the glass bells which had been hanging on the back of the door were reformed from the pieces.

Turning around ready to face many curious glances, Amelia was initially surprised to find not a single pair of eyes on her aside from the owner of the place. That is, she was surprised until she remembered where she was.

Got to love Madam Puddifoot’s, Amelia thought, tucking her wand back into her jacket and giving an apologetic nod to the woman herself.

This truly was one of the only things she loved most about Madam Puddifoot’s. The place was usually crowded, as it was today, full of lovey-dovey couples, and the tea was mediocre at best. But there was one thing that made up for it all: no one in the tea shop noticed anyone aside from the person staring goggle-eyed across from them at the small, round, made-for-two tables. Amelia had entered the teashop with a bang – literally- broken a set of bells, and then returned all of it back to its original state, and no one had so much as looked up. A couple near the door, not even five meters away from the site of the crashing glass, were still snogging like it was going out of style.

Ridiculous… Amelia thought, standing on her tiptoes to try to spot an empty table. Luckily, she seemed to have come in just in the nick of time, because there was only a single table left in a corner near the bar. Having sighted it, Amelia moved through the throngs of love-sick students and community members, excusing herself even though the teahouse guests paid her absolutely no mind.

Reaching the table, Amelia collapsed into one of the chairs, unwinding herself from her mittens, scarf, and coat. A petite waitress with bright pink, pixie styled hair took her order and returned shortly with her tea, steaming in an ungodly small cup with tiny red hearts painted on the outside.

“Thank you, but don’t go far,” Amelia said, relieving her of the tea and taking a sip. As to be expected… Amelia thought, focusing on not grimacing, “This thimble you are using as a cup won’t last me too long.”

As the waitress nodded and scurried away, Amelia pulled out a book from her bag and set it on the table next to her “cup” of tea. The Thirteenth Tale was embossed in gold on the leatherbound volume. It had taken her father years to find the book, for it was written by a muggle and was not at all popular in the wizarding world. If he would have settled for a paperback edition, the hunt would have been much shorter, but considering his taste for all things extraordinary, it was no surprise that he had insisted on a first edition.

Flipping through the pages, Amelia found where she had last left off, though she had read the novel many times over since first acquiring it. Allowing her mind to slip between the pages and into another world, Amelia blocked out the mindless, whispered exchanges of those around her who, truth be told, probably hadn’t even noticed her existence.

((Cue Khaat. Also, the Thirteenth Tale is probably my favorite book (though this list is quite extensive). It is by Diane Setterfield.))

Khaat braved the cold in order to go to the apothecary that morning. She still had a bitter headache from yesterday. She was dressed warm. Faded American jeans, boot cut, and tucked into her tan suede boots, Her heavy, beige colored knit sweater, done in a Fisherman's cableknit, her full length black wool cloak, and her warmest gloves and scarf--in black, of course. And, as always, Archangel was on her shoulder. She could barely go anywhere without the bald eagle at her side, much less after the scare he had had in thinking he would lose her yesterday. He nearly had. Khaat's nerves were still a bit rattled, and her brains felt a little jarred still from remembering what her thoughts had been during her suffering of the cruciatus. No, don't overthink it, she told herself, A good strong cup of coffee. That should do it.

Her necklace started to glow its green light, annoying Khaat. She presumed there would be those with the werewolf curse here in the busy shop. This was a different age than when Uncle Remus put the enchanted necklace on her so many years ago. She tucked her scarf over it, selfconscious of it, and trying to make a vain attempt at "shutting it up."

The tea shop was more crowded than usual, and Khaat hated crowds. But it was the holiday season, and it was unusually cold. That, she presumed was the cause of the unusual bunching at the teashop today. She scanned the room and was about to leave when she saw a oyoung woman alone at a far table. She decided that perhaps the woman would let her join her, if she promised not to bother her. Khaat quietly apparated her favorite book from her bookshelf in her study--a very large, leatherbound rare collection of the Sherlock Holmes stories by Arthur Conan Doyle. She liked the classic detective stories, and it would be fun reading so as to lighten the heaviness in her mind today.

She stopped and talked to a young waitress and ordered a cup of french roast coffee and ordered a plate of apple slices and berries for her eagle. The young waitress suggested she try to make a space for herself, and suggested the same table that Khaat had looked at. Khaat guessed the young woman was a student. She might be uncomfortable if she knew Khaat was a teacher--even if just a substitute. But Khaat could usually put people at ease. She made her way through the crowded tables and cleared her throat politely, "Um...I'm sorry to disturb you," She said politely, "But there are so few chairs in here today. Could my eagle and I borrow a corner of your table so we can warm up, please?"

After only a few minutes, Amelia had all but entirely forgotten where she was. As far as she could tell, she was walking through a decrepit mansion, a shadow of its former glory, with Margaret Lea. It was a treacherous path, taking all of her focus not to fall through one of the decaying boards to the ground level.

Amelia had a tendency, when she read, to disappear into the story itself. It was one of the main reason Amelia liked to read – because it allowed her to be somewhere else for a while, and sometimes even to be someone else for a while. Instead of facing the problems or pressures of her life, she could just escape between the pages and forget about it all. Even among the lovebirds in Madam Puddifoot’s, whose whispering would have made their conversations that much more tempting to eavesdrop on if Amelia didn’t already know that they contained no more than “sweet nothings”. That phrase alone almost warranted an eye roll.

But Amelia heard none of it, including the approach of a slender woman to her table. It wasn’t until Amelia heard a throat being cleared – a clear call for attention – that she was pulled from the depths of the novel and back to the scene at hand. She was plucked from the imagined scene in her mind and placed back into the crowded teahouse, except now she did not seem to be the only single female in the establishment. Looking up, she saw the woman who had interrupted her reverie, standing above her with a polite expression on her face, making a request to share the table.

The woman was definitely older, though she hid it well. Amelia guessed her to be in her 40’s, though she couldn’t be sure without a more thorough observation. She too was dressed for the weather, but with an addition Amelia would never have thought to add: a bald eagle perched on her shoulder. The creature was nearly as tall as the woman’s torso, and yet she did not buckle under its weight on her shoulder. It was a vaguely intimidating sight, this woman with her pet, but Amelia was not easily affronted. Actually, she was more a little peeved at being interrupted, considering the primary reason she came here was for the anonymity and invisibility, both of which had been snatched from her after only ten minutes or so.

She hasn’t done you any harm, and she likely won’t stay long. You aren’t exactly great company, her subconscious soothed.

Thanks, Amelia retorted sarcastically before putting a small smile on her face that she hoped would come across as at least welcoming and not as disingenuous as it really was.

“Be my guests,” Amelia said, gesturing to the last open chair in the teahouse as the waitress arrived with what Amelia assumed was the woman’s order. Before she could scurry away, Amelia raised a hand to catch her attention and the waitress begrudgingly turned her way, clearly still skittish from Amelia’s less-than-friendly words earlier.

“Another cup, when you get time,” Amelia said, focusing on not being so socially caustic. With little practice or patience, Amelia often came across as cold or cruel, but it was more that she wasn’t tapped into her emotions that made her that way. She was quick-witted, brutally honest, and to the point whenever she was forced to speak, but most of the time she just kept her thoughts and words to herself.

"Hmm, "Khaat said thoughtfully as she studied the young woman and her own pitifully small cup. Khaat took off her cloak and put in on the back of the chair and sat down. She took a gentle sniff from the coffee in the cup. Not bad, just not enough of it. She gave a gentle little circular wave of her hand, more of a wrist movement, actually, and changed the cup to one of her own large stoneware cups from home, and added to the cup. "That's better, "she smiled with satisfaction. "It's a shame they don't have larger cups. Would you like me to help you to a larger mug for a proper cup of tea?" she asked the girl.

The woman wasted no time taking Amelia up on her offer and quickly settled into the chair. As she removed her coat and set it on the back of the chair, Amelia could see that the woman dressed for function over form. This was clearly not the norm, as Amelia had passed quite a few frilly dresses and sleeveless tops on the way to the table, girls who were hoping to impress their dates by showing some skin, but she pitied them once they had to step outside again. To Amelia, it was impressive that they still had all their limbs considering the biting cold.

The woman having taken her place, Amelia dropped her eyes to the book again. It wasn't intended as a rude gesture, but rather Amelia did not see the purpose in entertaining the woman. She had asked to share the table, and Amelia had obliged. As far as she was concerned, the exchange was over.

Her eyes darted down to where she had left off, but she did not even finish the paragraph before the woman spoke again. This time, Amelia did not hesitate to look up, but she did have to focus on keeping her features plaintive, instead of revealing the annoyance she felt. It wasn't this woman in particular - it was more people in general. Amelia liked her solitude, but it seemed she was alone in this sentiment.

This is what you get for going to a public place, she was reminded, People expect you to be social in a social environment.

Is the book not a hint that I'm not feeling social? Amelia asked herself, but none of her inner dialogue presented itself in her features. Instead, Amelia's eyes darted to the mug in the woman's hands, raising an eyebrow as she took in the much larger size. If the size were not enough, the lack of frilly paintings or romantic scenes on the side of it indicated that this was not one of Madame Puddifoot's supply. Although there was no wand to be seen, Amelia doubted very much that the woman had produced this cup from a purse or coat pocket.

Wandless magic... Amelia thought, raising an eyebrow unconsciously in slight surprise. It wasn't everyday that one encountered a witch or wizard capable of that advanced skill.

Before Amelia managed to formulate an answer to the woman's prompt, the waitress returned and set Amelia's second cup down next to the now empty one. She didn't look at Amelia as turned from the table, clearly having taken up the opinion that many had of Amelia: Ice Queen. Avoid at all costs.

Looking down at the dismally small cup and then quickly back up to her new table mate, Amelia shrugged nonchalantly, pushing the mug a bit closer to the woman.

"If you're offering," Amelia said with a shrug, waiting to witness a confirmation that the woman truly had performed wandless magic. Amelia already believed it to be true, but she based her knowledge only on fact - speculation was unreliable at best.

"Gladly, "Khaat smiled warmly. She repeated the wrist circle over the young womans cup, producing another large, homey handmade stoneware mug of her mother's with its simple but colorful swirl glaze. It was an inviting shade of reddish orange with one wide artistic sapphire blue swirl radiating around the outside of the mug. It matched Khaat's own, and matched several she had in her home. The handles on the mugs were large enough that someone could comfortably get all four fingers through the handle if they so chose to stablize their grip, but Khaat never needed to. The mugs were always so perfectly balanced, in Khaat's opinion, that she never had need for Madame Puddifoot's little "foo-foo" teacups. The cup refilled itself with steaming hot tea as a final part of Khaat's wandless magic spell. "Try that. By the way, I'm Khaat. Khaat Lupin, and this is my best friend, Archangel." As she reached in her leather tote for berries for Archangel, her scarf came undone, and the magical green necklace made, what Khaat thought was an embarressing display of shining a beam of bright green light across the room. Khaat quickly wrapped her black knit scarf back around her neck. "Sorry, "she apologized, embaressed, "That stupid thing has a mind of its own sometimes." She got out her berries and her book, and fed Archangel some raspberries, one at a time, and he joyfully took each one and swallowed it whole.

Although she had anticipated it, Amelia was still slightly surprised by the woman’s display of wandless magic. Her hand moved as if it were holding the magical strip of wood, but it was nowhere to be seen, and after a few moments Amelia’s dainty teacup had been replaced by a large piece of stoneware, deep and wide at the lip. The decoration was minimal, the way Amelia preferred adornment to be – in her opinion, what was in the cup was far more important than whatever had been painted on the outside.

Amelia’s eyebrows raised in genuine surprise at the woman’s actions, but she lowered them quickly to prevent the stranger for garnering anything of her thoughts. Despite the kind gesture of the cup, Amelia still knew nothing about this woman, a stranger to her. What little she knew was that the woman was capable of wandless magic – a true accomplishment to be sure – and that she didn’t hide this fact. That kind of display of power could be interpreted one of two ways: cocky, or nonchalant. Without knowing more about the mystery woman, Amelia couldn’t determine which it was.

At the woman’s urging, Amelia brought the mug to her lips. It was much nicer to have a solid piece of dishware to hold between her hands, for Amelia was not always the most graceful of beings (case in point, entering the teashop). At least this way, Amelia needn’t have been so conscious of accidentally snapping of a spindly handle or fluted bottom.

Same mediocre flavour, but the mug is an improvement, Amelia thought to herself after a brief sip, her eyes trained on the woman who had just introduced herself as Khaat Lupin. Amelia nodded in recognition of the introduction, lowering the mug from her lips and holding it between her two hands, trying in vain to warm up her always-freezing fingers. Amelia recognized the last name from her eavesdropping around the castle, for nothing at Hogwarts stayed a secret long. Though the tales of Remus Lupin were from many years ago, many of the more adventurous students still dreamed of topping his antics at the school, both from when he was a student and his days as a professor.

“Amelia,” she said, offering up no more than a first name for now. Amelia was a naturally defensive person, even with people she knew. This woman was still relatively foreign to her, despite the fact that Amelia was beginning to put a few pieces together, and she would be wary until she knew she could be in control of whatever situation she now found herself in.

As Amelia took another drink of the tea, her companion reached into her pack for something. This action would have given Amelia no reason to take note, but the falling scarf revealed a beam of emerald light, which flashed obviously in the semi-darkness of the candle-lit teahouse. Amelia’s attention as immediately piqued, but she worked hard to keep her facial expression plaintive, to avoid embarrassing the woman further. Amelia knew what it was like to have unwanted attention called to oneself, and the look of humiliation on Khaat’s features was the same one she knew flashed across her own freckled face when she found herself the object of scrutiny.

“Interesting necklace you have there,” Amelia said, disguising her voice as nonchalant even though she was very intrigued. She lowered her eyes to her book once again to remove the pressure from Khaat, adding to the illusion that this remark was merely a way of making conversation, instead of a pry for information that would give Amelia a better idea of who exactly she was dealing with, “I don’t suppose they sell those down at Dervish and Banges?”

She already knew the answer to that question – Dervish and Banges never had anything remotely more interesting than a Sneakoscope – but Amelia was interested to see what the woman’s response might be. Amelia could read a lot into what people said and did, constantly observing and formulating a file of everything she gathered. Khaat’s may have just started, but Amelia was in no way hesitant to see that it was filled.

"No," Khaat said quietly, "I'm afraid not. It was a gift from my Uncle Remus when I was a baby. Darned thing has a mind of its own sometimes. My uncle was very protective. I'd much rather have him than this silly thing any day." She thought often of her beloved uncle and the time they had spent together and how she would have given anything to have had that back. And anytime her necklace pointed out what it thought was danger, it reminded her of him and how very much he loved her, and vice versa. She was making a mental note to herself to bring his wizard portrait from her room at her parents' large house to her cobblestone cottage in Hogsmeade. She liked seeing him smile and walk around and move. It made him feel, to her, a bit less dead. Not so far away.

" Sorry--I'm babbling," Khaat caught herself, "And you did want to read. I brought a book of my own. That book you're reading is on my list of ones I want to read. I just chose some light reading for my own amusement. Its' been a very busy week, and I just wanted to unwind a bit. I still like Doyle and his stories of Sherlock Holmes. Somethingn about the classics I really treasure."

Her eagle grew impatient with her for not paying attention and decided to help himself to the berries. He dipped into the bag and retrieved his own berry. It made Khaat laugh warmly. "I'm sorry, Pal," she stroked him. "You know I would never willingly forget you. Here." She fed him one and then took a sip of her coffee slowly. Fair. Not excellent, but at least fair. "Now, let us read, Boy," she said softly to Archangel. "I'm sorry, " she said to her tablemate, "I truly didn't mean to interrupt your book. I like some solitude myself from time to time."

Amelia was surprised by the honesty of the woman’s answer, providing much more information than Amelia would have if the roles had been reversed. Instead of a succinct, bare-bones answer, the woman had provided additional information, and without hesitation. As Amelia had picked up on earlier, her last name matched that of Remus Lupin, and he words had now confirmed what Amelia already suspected. Her mention of her uncle’s over-protective nature suggested a close bond between the two of them, and her wistful tone supplied Amelia with the information that this woman missed the former Hogwarts professor dearly.

Nodding in response to her answer, Amelia filed away the bits of information she had been supplied, slowly piecing together the puzzle that was the woman who had chosen to share her table, rather than find another institution at which to buy medium-grade coffee. Amelia took another sip of her tea, appreciating the thick stoneware once more for the way it kept its contents warm; dainty teacups had a tendency to conduct heat away from the beverage, which wasn’t usually a problem because Amelia often drank it too quickly for it to get cold at all, but when she lost herself in a book and resurfaced a half hour later to find her tea cold, it was a less-than pleasurable experience.

When Khaat admitted to babbling, Amelia did not correct her. Often times, when someone said something like this, their conversation partner would counter with something along the lines of, “Oh no, not at all!”, but when it came to conversation, Amelia was anything but typical. Khaat was right, she had been babbling, and Amelia was not about to reassure her of something that wasn’t true. What perplexed Amelia was that even after realizing she had been rambling, the woman continued to talk, adding at least three more sentences to the scale that was already weighted in her favor when it came to conversation participation.

Amelia did perk up at the name of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, though. It wasn’t often that people she encountered were well-read, and even less often that they were versed in muggle literature. Amelia’s eyes darted to the book in the woman’s hands, a thick volume which read across the spine The Complete Stories of Sherlock Holmes. Amelia was intrigued by the choice, but puzzled by the woman’s reasoning for choosing it. She had mentioned using Doyle to unwind, but Amelia had never found him to be the type of writer one used as a method of escapism.

Caught up in trying to figure out what the woman had meant by her words “reading for my own amusement”, Amelia was not overtly observant of the woman’s interaction with her pet. She did noticed that Khaat seemed to express her sentiments for the bird in both word and action, for she treated Archangel in a manner that would be fitting of a best friend. When Amelia was formally dismissed of her obligations to participate in the social interaction with her tablemate, she took the opportunity and returned her eyes to her book, trying to disappear as she had before.

Amelia’s eyes scanned the pages, covering about six before she was forced to stop. Although she had been reading and taking in the words, she was not disappearing into the story like she usually did. And the reason was that there was still a part of her mind which was tied to reality – the part which still wondered about Khaat’s choice in literature. It was not that Amelia did not approve of Sherlock Holmes, not by any means; the stories were excellently crafted and carried the reader’s interest compellingly. Rather, Amelia could not wrap her mind around the woman’s description of the books.

Frustrated that she was being kept from escaping into her own story, Amelia looked up at Khaat and knew she needed to get an answer before she would be able to continue. Sighing, she tucked a stray curl behind her ear and set The Thirteenth Tale down on the table, a strip of laminated paper to mark the page.

“What part of Sherlock Holmes, exactly, do you find amusing?” Amelia asked, her words more blunt perhaps than would be considered socially acceptable, “Sure it is an interesting read, but I would not consider it relaxing literature. Doyle is a man of logic, rationality, deep thinking. Holmes is an intellectual, a character who requires serious thought and skills of deduction in order to keep up with him. One cannot read those stories without feeling compelled to think critically, as the characters do. The book itself is excellent, but I cannot understand your ‘amusement’,” Amelia added, legitimately confounded by the older woman’s description of Doyle.

Khaat took a sip of her nice, hot french roast before replying. "I like Holmes. He amuses me. Oh, yes, he is logical and calculating enough, but he also has a wonderful sense of dry humor that he tries hard to conceal. Watson does not catch his jokes often, but they aren't lost on me. I find I am more frustrated by how little John Watson understands his friend. And I also like to challenge my mind with Holmes' deductive reasoning. It helps me to redirect my thoughts away from things I'd like to avoid and also helps me escape being emotional and being more logical. I like that. "

Khaat fed a couple more raspberries to Archangel, and then picked up her own book and opened it to "The Copper Beaches", just more or less at random. She liked all the stories equally as well, but she did want to avoid reading "Hounds of the Baskervilles" again. It was the first place she turned when she was stressed or overwhelmed, and today would have been a fine time for that, but she avoided it. Especially away from home and with someone else here. Not that they would know which story she'd chosen.

She hated finding herself feeling self conscious, and she did everything she could to hide it. The last thing she was going to gegt into was how she had almost been killed defending Shacklebolt at his arrest and how badly she had been wounded. And how confused it had left her.