In all honesty, it hadn’t even occurred to Emma to look into going to Oktoberfest. She frequently found herself so ‘stuck’ in her little British Ministry bubble, mired in her work (though not always in a negative way) and so focused that she sometimes forgot that there were hundreds of other cultures to explore and the whole rest of the
world out there. It was an easy trap to fall into.
But when she’d overheard a few co-workers talking about the start of the festivities on the sixth, she’d been intrigued. She rarely drank alcohol except for maybe a glass of wine in the evenings a two or three times a week, and wasn’t really much of beer-drinker; but the overall appeal of the experience was strong. She certainly loved soft pretzels, in any case. It would be loads more fun to go with friends, of course, but it was often difficult enough for them to coordinate local things at the last-minute, never mind an international festival. No, going solo was perhaps the best option. Maybe she’d meet a nice German guy – or, better yet, make a few new German girlfriends.
Tracey had been cajoling her to get out and travel more, anyways. Perhaps this would kick things off in earnest. And she should probably make plans and leave before she had a chance to change her mind or second-guess.
Scribbling a quick note to
Harri explaining where she’d gone (and with an open invitation to join if she so wished) once she’d returned home, Emma packed a quick bag and made for the nearest scheduled Portkey.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
The first thing she’d noticed on arrival was the noise: clinking mugs, roars of laughter, drunken choruses of belted songs. And the second was that nearly
everyone seemed to be dressed in traditional or traditional-seeming attire. Given her exceptionally last-minute decision, Emma wasn’t dressed anywhere near as festively. In any case, if she were to spend money on a
dirndl, it would be here in Germany and certainly not in London; authentic, not Halloween-costume-quality.
Fortunately it hadn’t been difficult to find a shop; within forty-five minutes she had been fitted, dressed in, and ready to pay for her
new dirndl. Emma had stared blankly for a moment when the shop attendant who had helped her asked if she was married, single, a virgin, or a widow. And once she’d explained, the Slytherin wasn’t entirely certain she wanted her relationship status to be broadcast to all of Bad Tölz… but had told her ‘single’ in the end. The other woman had proceeded to tie the apron’s sash in a bow over Emma’s left hip with flourish, giving her a hearty wink and gesturing her towards the counter; but not before firing off something in rapid German that Emma did not understand but strongly suspected had to do with her relationship status.
Managing to twist her short hair into some semblance of a French braid before leaving the shop, Emma brushed away a stray tendril as she meandered down the lane, following the enticing swell of music and laughter. Her step faltered slightly – it wasn’t entirely wise to come alone to a new country where everyone and their mother would have more alcohol than blood flowing through their veins from sunup to sundown.
Joanna would probably haul her bodily away if she knew. But Emma was always vigilant, always careful. She’d told Harri where she was and when to expect her back; the women looked out for each other.
She found a seat at one of the long tables that seemed to have the least raucous occupants and settled in more quickly than she’d anticipated, chatting pleasantly with the people closest to her – though she needed to shout to be heard even across the table. A young woman about her age in a purple dirndl climbed up onto the table about a half-hour in, and Emma quickly moved her mug so it wouldn’t be counted among the inevitable casualties she’d already witnessed at other tables.
But it was too late – within seconds, the poor thing had toppled clear off the table and directly onto Emma, sloshing beer all over the pair of them and nearly knocking Emma clear off the bench.
“
OOF!” she echoed at almost exactly the same time, gasping for the breath that had been unceremoniously knocked from her lungs. Feeling distinctly annoyed (she was, after all, easily the most sober person there), before she could find her words again the other woman planted a rather large, rather
wet kiss on her cheek – presumably in apology – and vacated.
But it was the woman’s familiar voice that really caught Emma’s attention, more than her hand on her shoulder or the reassuring pats on the back she got from her fellow occupants. A voice she hadn’t heard in quite some time, but still remembered well. She looked different, though – had she lightened her hair?
“…Trey?” she began incredulously, a grin splitting her lightly-freckled features. “Merlin, you alright?” She put a steadying hand out as a precaution, for the younger woman was swaying alarmingly. “Here, come sit,” she added hastily, attempting to guide her former DA friend to the freshly-vacated spot next to her.
