It had been a wild morning. One of her regulars had called her to check in on a Kneazle that he had purchased from a shop in Diagon Alley. They were notorious for having vastly different personalities after all, and he already owned one foul mannered female. The shop he was purchasing from, Where the Wyld Things Are, was actually one of Brooke’s favorites. They handled the process of turning over the ownership of magical creatures very well, and she never had anything bad to say about them. Still, she wouldn’t turn down the pay for something as simple as checking out the creature’s temperament.
Although Brooke viewed her runs as simple, they almost never were. Combine the near unpredictable nature of most magical creatures with the unlearned minds of most wizards and witches, and you had encounters worthy of storybooks. Fortunately, this hadn’t been one of those situations. The female Kneazle was merely young and rather volatile. She had spent half of the morning trying to reason with it, but how could you reason with an immature Kneazle? Felines were haughty creatures, but Kneazles took it to the next level. This female just wouldn’t let the groomers get near her without folding her ears and brandishing those hooked claws. Getting scratched up was one thing, but biting was a whole different issue. The groomers refused to try anything until Brooke had spent a good two hours settling the creature down and then another thirty minutes reassuring them it was safe.
All had commenced smoothly until one young wizard lifted the Kneazle’s back leg at an awkward angle. The female almost instantaneously had a fit, leapt off the table, and wedged itself into a corner beneath shelves. Brooke’s last hour was applied to trying to coerce the Kneazle to come back out. In the end, it took every ounce of her patience and several scratches before they recovered the Kneazle and finished the grooming and checkup.
After assuring the shop’s workers that she was alright, Brooke stepped out of the shop and procured her journal and self-writing quill. Pressing her back to the wall of the shop, she began to note aloud what she’d just observed. “Fairly young female, appears ta’ be in good health, dislikes abrupt approaches, prefers gradual introductions, —“ The self-writing quill continued to jot in the journal while spoke, fixing an unseeing gaze on the building across the way. It wasn’t until she fell silent for a second that she looked down at her clothing. Tan fur clung to her dark green cardigan here and there, and she had a good snag in the material along the bottom. The stinging was also setting in. Scratches marred her hands, and she had one particularly nasty looking one near her collar bone. She had it in mind to leave them for a time rather than healing them right away. It was always a good idea to remind her of what may happen when dealing with creatures “Nasty little thing,” She muttered, and the quill obediently wrote that done. Wide eyed, she blurted, “Scratch that!” The quill put a line through her comment, and she sighed. The last thing she wanted to deal with was an upset client.
Brooke pushed herself off the wall, and moved into the street’s pedestrians without first checking which way traffic flowed. She was so preoccupied with reviewing her notes that she was only a few steps into the street when she ran right into someone. The collision caught her off guard, and she quickly said without first seeing who it was, “I’m so sorry!” Her hand shot out to pluck a tuft of Kneazle fur that had transferred to the stranger’s clothing. “Och, I’ve gotten fur all over-“ She started to say apologetically, and looked up at the individual, “-you.” Her throat was suddenly so dry that she practically croaked out the last word. Standing there in front of her was someone she hadn’t seen in years, but would never forget. Brooke was abruptly self-conscious. There he was, Brian McShane, in all his curly-haired glory, and here she was riddled in scrapes, cuts, and Kneazle fur with her clothing all snagged up.
“Brian,” She struggled with what to say, her mind overrun with so many thoughts that she couldn’t just pick one. She opted for, “Hi,” and took a tiny step back as if she needed more room to breathe. Her face was even faintly flushed beneath all those freckles. She hadn’t even thought that he may not recognize her. Goodness.
