Frigid air collided with the witch’s skin as an old wooden door closed behind her. “
Merlin,” she whispered to herself, her breath visible in the air. She was a mess before she’d even walked out that door, to be honest, and this February chill was doing her no favors. She blinked rapidly behind her black sunglasses, taking in her surroundings. Diagon Alley? She winced, memories from the night before slowly worming their way back into her mind. “Diagon Alley,” she confirmed aloud, shaking her head slowly as she rummaged through the pockets of her
leather jacket.
Her sandy blonde hair was falling in thick, coiled waves, fluttering about her face in all directions. It was frizzy and unkempt, though she hadn’t the time to be concerned about that. She felt relieved as she slid a small white cigarette from her pack of
Parliaments, and wasted no time in striking her lighter. She let the smoke out of her lungs, a thick cloud drifting from her lips as the cigarette smoke mixed with the vapors of the air’s chill. Her hand found its way to the back of her neck, where she gently massaged a tender spot as toe of her boot twisted idly into the ground. She turned back, glancing up at the second floor window of the room she’d just found her way out of. A small laugh escaped her.
She honestly had no idea what his name was. Months ago, this might’ve made her feel something, but as of late it was simply becoming a pattern. She did remember that he was very cute, naturally, but that was pretty much it. The chill began to bite at her body, and she began shuffling back and forth in response. She thought hard as she stood idly, her cigarette slowly dwindling as she flicked ash to the ground. They’d been at a club in London, that she remembered, and he’d wanted to bring her back to his place, which seemed fine at the time. Now, in the cold light of morning, she regretted it. Diagon Alley felt far too… classy for a walk of shame. The muggles of London never paid her any attention (unless she was looking for it), but here, as traditional witches and wizards bustled about with their children in tow, she felt very much like some sort of harlot. “This is why we don’t get sloppy drunk, Annelise,” she said to herself through gritted teeth.
Her eyes cautiously scanned the passer-bys, fruitlessly wishing for an invisibility charm to take hold of her. Then, Annelise spotted her: a tall rosy-faced brunette, and the blonde was enamored. She slid her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, peering out over the top of her lenses. It wasn’t the girl’s beauty that had caught her eye (though she was without a doubt
beautiful), but rather something about the spring in her step. She held a myriad of bags in her hands, gliding confidently across the cobblestone streets of the magical alley. She looked immensely happy, not terribly unlike some of the gleeful young witches and wizards toting along behind their elders. Fleetingly, Annelise wondered what it would be like to be her; to be that joyful.
As soon as the thought crossed her mind, the half-smile that had spread across her face faded as the girl toppled to the ground. Annelise’s mouth fell open as she watched the girl’s bags fly through the air and land hard against the cobblestone street. Annelise suddenly felt very responsible, as though her own dour mood had somehow affected this stranger. Without another moment, the blonde tossed her cigarette aside and moved forward, the chunky heels of her boots striking the stone beneath her. Quickly, Annelise sunk down, kneeling beside the girl. “Are you alright?” she asked, noticing the expression of pain on the girl’s face. “Can I help?” she added a bit cautiously, suddenly realizing she didn’t
really know what to do. She assessed the situation, and noticed the split heel that had been the girl’s downfall. “Your
heel,” she said, sympathy running deep through her words. Not only had she fallen hard, she’d broken a perfectly beautiful shoe. Insult to injury. “I’m so sorry,” she said, plainly. She may not know exactly what to say, but that sure felt like a good start.
