Chapter Text
Hello, dear reader. Hopefully, this story finds you well! I have quite the tale for you, but before we dive in, allow me to make one small request. If you will, please take a moment to think about the following question:
Do you believe in magic?
You probably weren't expecting me to ask you that. It shouldn't be a surprise, after all, it's the title of the story, so you knew it was coming. You were probably hoping that I'd build it up a bit longer, cleverly weaving it into the plot in such a way that you end up asking yourself the question instead. I'd love to do that, but I can't, and here's why. For one thing, that's quite a complicated endeavor, and this is a simple story. You'll see. And secondly, your answer to that question will determine how you approach this tale.
If you decide that yes, you believe in magic, then congratulations! You are already strapped in and buckled up for the ride. I am relieved that I don't have to convince you that magic is real. But, keep in mind that convincing you, dear reader, is not the goal of this story. This is the tale of someone else's journey, and I anticipate that you'll find her resistance to the whole magic thing quite frustrating. Your work, as the reader who believes, is to walk a mile in her sensible, sceptical shoes.
If you do not believe in magic, that's perfectly okay. You're a lot like our protagonist, and I think you two will get along splendidly. I won't ask you to sympathize with her because that will be easy for you. Instead, I present you with another task. Your goal, cynical reader, is to suspend your disbelief. Not forever; just for the duration of this story. You can go ahead and continue living a magic-free life when you finish, but please remain open to the fact that maybe, just maybe, you won't want to. After all, if there's anything you'll learn here, it's that anything is possible if you believe.
Now for the story, dear reader.
It was vaguely Christmastime. The exact date doesn't matter, but you should know that there was a thick blanket of snow on the ground, a winter storm brewing in the sky, and a lonely red train chugging across the countryside.
Since it was the only train travelling from, as city folk call it, 'the middle of nowhere' back to London, it was crowded. This was quite the joy for me because I love people. I love how they move in crowds, naively thinking they're anonymous. I love how they assume that if they avoid eye contact and mutter their pleasantries, no one will engage them in conversation, and I love how little patience they have for the unexpected.
This was the case for Hermione Jean Granger, the woman who found herself sitting next to me on that train. She offered me a polite smile as she hauled her bag into the overhead compartment. It took her a few tries to get it up there, and a kind man even offered to help, but she waved him away.
When she sat down, she immediately put headphones in, pressed play on her device, and leaned back, eyes closed. On the outside, she looked at peace. Calm, relaxed, and serene. But I knew she wasn't. Behind that zenned out mask, she was a ball of anxiety. I could almost feel it sparking from her bushy brown hair. Some people give off quite an aura.
As you may have guessed, I love talking to people, especially when they don't want to be talked to, dear reader, so I struck up a conversation with one Hermione Granger.
"It's quite beautiful, isn't it?" In my peripheral vision, I watched her blink an eye open.
She waited a moment, as though contemplating if she could get away without answering me. I guess she decided (correctly, mind you) that she couldn't. "What's beautiful, the snow?"
"Yes, the snow," I confirmed.
"I guess it's pretty." Her tone suggested surprise, almost as if she thought the beauty of nature was an odd sort of thing to notice.
"Don't you just love how every snowflake is unique, beautiful in its own way, yet it all comes together into a soft, white blanket of togetherness?" I turned to look at her then and grinned at her reaction. She had raised one eyebrow, and was holding an earbud in one hand, caught somewhere between popping it back in and ignoring the weird man next to her and reluctant intrigue.
To my surprise, she paused her device and answered me. "I'll admit that it's pretty, but I think the inconvenience of snow far outweighs the blanket of togetherness."
Now, someone else might have interpreted her directness as a hint to stop talking and leave her alone. But, dear reader, I am not someone else. I am me, and I was enjoying our conversation.
"Inconvenience?" I pressed.
"Well, yes. Car accidents, travel delays, not to mention how damaging it is to the roads. It's hard to appreciate the beauty sometimes."
Magic-believers, you'll probably roll your eyes at her right now, but before you do, please note that she made a good point. People tend to place beauty far ahead of functionality. Cynics and sceptics, you already know this, of course.
"Well, we can always choose to see the negatives, I guess," I told her. She smiled politely, masking the scoff underneath. "What is your name?"
"Hermione," she said, her jaw a little stiff. Of course, reader, I already knew that.
"Nice to meet you, Hermione. I'm Albus."
"Pleasure." She eyed my long white beard, her expression curious. It was nothing out of the ordinary, as people tend to take an interest in my beard around Christmastime. I could see a question brewing on her lips, but she held back, seeming reluctant to continue engaging the weird old man in conversation.
"What brings you on this journey?" I asked.
Poor Hermione, she probably just wanted to be left alone.
Her hand paused next to her ear as she was about to pop her headphone back in. "Work."
"What do you do for work?"
Her voice was prickly now. Shrill and impatient. "If you must know, I'm a lawyer. Based in London, but I had to meet with a client out in the middle of nowhere."
There was that phrase again, the middle of nowhere. It's sad, really, because nowhere is everywhere. There's so much to be missed in 'the middle of nowhere.'
I didn't tell her this, of course. She had a limit to my nonsense, and I had almost met it. When you're a handful, dear reader, as I am, you learn exactly how to budget your personality with strangers. "Oh, that's nice. I hope you had fun."
Hermione cocked her head to the side, appearing taken aback by my use of the word 'fun'. As if 'fun' was something that adults didn't have time for. "Just ready to be home."
In a haste, she popped her earbuds back in, as if trying to intercept my next comment. I didn't see her press play, however.
"Another question for you."
She took a steady, calming breath and looked over at me, jaw clenched. "What's your question?"
"Do you believe in magic?"
"Do I believe in magic?" she repeated, eyes raised. "No, definitely not."
"Not even on Christmas?"
"Why would Christmas be different?" she asked. "I don't even celebrate Christmas."
"Christmas is full of magic," I told her. "Only for those who are looking for it, of course."
"Well, I won't be looking for it."
"No, you'll be looking for travel delays, car accidents, and potholes that need fixing."
Reader, you can probably sense the snark in my response. Hermione Granger did too, but she didn't give me the satisfaction of defensiveness. I admired that.
"Yep. And I bet I'll find them," she shoved her earbud back in. "Look, I popped a Nytol about ten minutes ago, and I can feel it kicking in. I hate to end this lovely chat, but if I don't, things are going to get weird."
It's funny because I didn't see her pop a Nytol, and usually, I see these things. But sure, I humoured her. She was wise for her years, and somehow, she already knew that things were going to get weird. Very weird indeed, Nytol or not.
"Very well. Have a lovely nap, Miss Granger."
I watched confusion cross her eyes, and the question almost escaped her lips. But she didn't ask me how I knew her last name. Instead, she turned away from me and closed her eyes in pursuit of sleep, likely assuming she had let that information drop earlier in our chat.
But, dear reader, she hadn't. How did I know, you might ask?
Magic.
x
The train pulled up to Ottery Station about an hour later, grinding to a halt with a screech. It was loud enough to wake up Hermione next to me.
The snowstorm was brewing in the sky, and the conductor must have known that it would be impossible to make it to London in time.
Reader, if you're still with me, this is where I will kindly request that you suspend your disbelief. Somewhere between 'the middle of nowhere' and Ottery St. Catchpole, a fictional town, mind you, something peculiar happened. I will not take direct responsibility for it, but please know that at this point in the story, things were no longer as they seemed.
Hermione yawned and wiped her groggy eyes. "What's going on?"
"The train is delayed due to the winter storm," I told her.
"What? It wasn't even snowing that much." And she was right. It wasn't. Peculiar, indeed.
"The conductor said it's going to be a while. Might as well get off and stretch your legs."
As if on my cue, and maybe it was, everyone else on the train rose to their feet and began clumping toward the train's exit.
"We're in the middle of nowhere."
Ahh, that phrase again.
"Nonsense!" I told her. "We're in Ottery St. Catchpole."
"Where?"
"It's a lovely town. I take it you've never been?"
"No, I've never even heard of it," she groaned.
"You'll love it. There's a wonderful cafe just past the train station. They make a splendid Peppermint Almond Mistletoe Mocha."
"What's that?"
"Christmas spirit in a mug, I suggest you give it a chance."
I anticipated her eye roll this time, but she at least accepted the idea. "Well, I could use some coffee. Do you think my stuff will be safe here?"
"Sure do."
She nodded, a bit naive to trust me, I'll admit. She rose to her feet, buttoned up her coat and was soon absorbed into the throng of exiting travellers. I smiled to myself, giddy for what was to come.
You see, reader, I'm old. I've lived a century and a half, and in my time, I've seen things. Some were delightful, some were horrifying. But as anyone my age will tell you, it's important to have a little fun.
Hermione never asked for directions to the cafe, but she didn't need to. Her feet carried her straight to The Burrow, a cosy coffeehouse illuminated by twinkling lights. The windows were foggy from the warmth inside, and she could see its patrons laughing and smiling through the glass. It looked quite crowded, and for a moment, Hemione considered turning back to the train. Reader, believe me when I say that Hermione Granger was not a fan of crowds.
Yet, something was drawing her to the cafe, and without even deciding to, she reached a shivering, mittened hand toward the ornate brass handle, pulled it open, and stepped inside. Warmth engulfed her, and the snow that caught up in her bushy hair melted in an instant, leaving her brown locks tousled by the touch of winter. Hermione never wore makeup, but the quick change in temperature left her cheeks quite flushed, enhancing her natural glow.
Even though the cafe was crowded, there was no one in line. Behind the counter at the far end of the room stood a tall, redheaded man about Hermione's age. His large frame protruded from the brown apron that he wore, enhancing his broad shoulders and strong arms. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and even from the other side of the cafe, Hermione could see the definition of his forearms. I probably don't have to tell you this, reader, but her eyes lingered on his forearms for a second longer than could be considered innocent. When she brought her eyes back up to his face, he was grinning at her underneath a slight dusting of a five 'o clock shadow.
Hermione was not looking for a man. I should make that clear. She was entirely focused on her career to the point where she avoided the dating scene. But as you can guess, there was something undeniably charming about the barista, and the realization made Hermione's stomach lurch. Her walls came up; after all, she didn't have time to be charmed.
"Welcome to The Burrow!" said the barista when she approached. "What can I get started for you?"
Upon closer inspection, she noticed that his grin was a bit lopsided. It was a humanizing imperfection, something that marked him as normal, relatable. This was not good. She would have preferred to meet an unattainable sort because she could write off the potential for romance as impossible, something that only happens in tropey books and Hallmark movies. But that darn lopsided grin ruined it.
"Hello," she squinted at his nametag, "Ron. I'll just have a small cappuccino, please."
"Are you sure you don't want to try our seasonal Peppermint Almond Mistletoe Mocha? It's like Christmas spirit in a mug."
"No, I'll just take the cappuccino. To go, if possible."
"Unfortunately, ma'am, we can't. We only offer Peppermint Almond Mistletoe Mochas. In a mug, no less."
She shuddered at his words — as it turned out, she did not like being called 'ma'am' by a man with such sexy forearms. It sounded a smidgen too matronly. But, she didn't have time to dissect that thought. You'd think, reader, that she'd be relieved to be seen as a 'ma'am', as it would push a romance further from the possibility. But sometimes, our motivations take a little bit of unearthing, and at this point, do we really know what Hermione wants?
Just food for thought.
"What? Why?"
"Well, we wouldn't want people taking their coffee and running off! They'll miss out on the whole experience of sitting in a cosy cafe, sipping away on a warm cup of holiday cheer."
Ron spoke as though it were obvious, and every coffee shop could afford to place its 'vibe' above meeting the convenience needs of its customers. Maybe this was the first red flag, alerting Hermione that things were not as they seemed, sparking an interest in why the Burrow resembled a mere setting backdrop rather than a functional business.
"What kind of coffee shop only has one type of drink and no takeaway cups?"
"The kind that's the only one in town," shrugged Ron.
Hermione was surprisingly quick to accept his lacking explanation. She must have really needed coffee. "Fine. If it's my only option, I'll take a peppermint whatever. To drink in."
"One cup of Christmas spirit coming right up!" said Ron. His lopsided smile returned.
"How much do I owe you?" she asked, digging into her pocket for payment.
"On the house."
"No," she stated, her voice firm. She scanned the man again, this time with a judgmental twinkle in her eye. He wasn't her type, after all. She wasn't looking for a man right now, and even if she was, she wouldn't have pursued a small town barista. Plus, she hated chivalry. Hermione Granger was a lawyer who could afford her own coffee, not some damsel in distress who needed a man to take care of her.
"Sure, let me get it for you," said Ron, who, unlike me, wasn't privy to her defensive thoughts.
"Please don't do this."
"Do what?"
Hermione groaned. "This," she gestured between them. "Don't cover my coffee and make it look like a favour because all it does is belittle me and make me feel like I owe you something."
Ron chuckled.
"What?"
"I'm irritating you, aren't I? Just a little bit," he said, smirking at her.
"Yes," said Hermione. "You are."
I should mention here, reader, that Hermione felt a wave of relief. The redheaded man was quite irksome, and she assumed this tidbit of information would keep her grounded should her eyes wander to his forearms again.
"You like it," said Ron. "Bickering with me."
Hermione narrowed her eyes at him and scoffed. "No, I do not!"
Reader, you'd be wise not to believe her for one second.
"Relax. I'm just flirting with you," said Ron, sliding a mug in her direction. "Here's your Peppermint Almond Mistletoe Mocha!"
"Thank you," she bristled. "And here's this." She slapped money onto the counter with more force than necessary.
Ron laughed. "I guess there's no point in arguing."
Hermione reached for the mug, which was warm to the touch. Not too hot; it felt like a hug for her hands. She shook her head as if trying to banish the cheesy thought from her mind and scanned the cafe for an empty seat. "There's nowhere to sit!"
"Sure there is!" Ron pointed to an empty barstool at the cafe counter.
Hermione nearly spilled her coffee when she caught sight of the stool — it definitely wasn't there just a moment ago.
"How did that happen?" she asked, pointing at the chair that seemed to appear out of thin air.
"Magic."
"I don't believe in magic," she said with an eye roll. Reluctantly, she took a seat at the stool.
"Not even on Christmas?" asked Ron as he put his elbows on the table and leaned over the counter in her direction.
Reader, I couldn't have planned it better myself.
"Why do people keep asking me that?" asked Hermione, most likely recalling her conversation with me back on the train.
"Because it's a valid question," said Ron.
"No, it's not!"
Hermione averted her eyes from Ron's piercing blue stare, but her gaze landed on his arms. Maybe she tried to prevent it, but a look of lust flashed across her face, and it didn't go unnoticed by Ron.
"Are you admiring my forearms?"
"What?" she asked, flustered. "No."
Ron laughed. "You definitely were."
"No, I wasn't." She was insistent, but trust me, reader, her flushing cheeks gave her away.
Ron stood up and flung a dish towel over his shoulder, somehow making the accessory of a dirty rag alluring in the way that only sexy baristas can. "Admit it. You don't like me. I'm too chivalrous, so you assume I'm sexist. My small-town roots must mean I'm too simple and old-fashioned. And my job as a barista is a redder flag than my hair. You want a man who's ambitious and career-driven. When that time comes, of course. You're not even thinking about dating right now, not until you make Junior Partner at your law firm. That's why it bothers you so much that I have really nice forearms."
Hermione gaped at him, unsure how to answer without confirming it all. She bought herself some time with a big gulp of her drink. It was surprisingly delicious.
She landed on questioning the most objective piece of revealed information. "How do you know I work for a law firm?"
"I just do." Ron shrugged. "I know what you're thinking. I'm probably a stalker. But, romantic comedies don't worry about stalkers, and neither should you."
Hermione stiffened. Who was this man? Was he really a stalker, or was he just flirting in a questionable, small-town way?
"Well, Ron, life is not a romantic comedy."
"Very true, Hermione. Life is not a romantic comedy," he gestured vaguely around the cafe, "but this is."
"What is?"
"This. You're in a romantic comedy. And this is a meet-cute."
"No. That's impossible," said Hermione, because unlike you, reader, Hermione had not yet agreed to suspend her disbelief.
"Sure you are, and I'll prove it! Look outside." Ron pointed out the window, where snow was pummeling down like fluffy white grenades. And reader, Ron was right. At this point, the snow really did resemble fluffy white grenades, exploding menacingly on the pavement into mushroom clouds of cold whiteness. "Does that look like a real snowstorm? Or a bad description of a snowstorm you might read from an amateur romance writer?"
Hermione looked outside and gasped at the winter warzone beyond the window. Snow was already blocking the front door, the frigidness of the air evident only by a creeping fog on the window that accentuated the cosy facade of The Burrow. Hermione then eyed the cafe with a scepticism usually reserved for random acts of kindness at work or unsolicited compliments from men. She kept her expression neutral as she searched the kitschy decor for the truth behind the fakery, naively thinking she knew better than to embrace The Burrow's homeliness. She wanted nothing more than to run far away from the red-haired man who somehow knew her name and profession, and find a way to wake herself up from what was certainly a Nytol dream, but thanks to the blizzard, she was now trapped inside the cafe. Trapped inside, dare she even think it, a romantic comedy.
"Am I dreaming?" Hermione asked, even though she knew full-well that no one in her dreams would ever admit to being a figment of her imagination.
"No. You're not," said Ron, which of course, confirmed nothing.
Hermione groaned and placed her head in her hands, unwilling to ask any further questions regarding train schedules or accommodations in town because that would mean admitting something about all of this was real. And magic definitely wasn't real.
"There's a bed and breakfast upstairs. I can show you your room," said Ron, as if reading her mind.
Hermione downed the last sip of her Peppermint Almond Mistletoe Mocha, set the empty cup back down on the counter, and followed him toward a spiral staircase in the back.
"Please don't tell me you work there too."
"Of course I do!" Ron smiled. "You'll be seeing a lot of me during your stay here."
"Well, fork."
As soon as the word slipped out, Hermione's eyes grew wide, and she slapped her hand over her mouth. As you can guess, reader, she hadn't meant to say fork. "Why can't I say fork?"
Ron chuckled at her exclamation. "Because this particular romantic comedy is for general audiences."
Hermione wasn't one to swear often, but knowing that she couldn't even express her frustration properly only made her want to unleash a powerful string of expletives, even if only to feel something. "So I can't swear at all?"
"Sure you can. But only once or twice, so save it for a major plot point."
"Finding out I'm in a forking romantic comedy doesn't count as a major plot point?"
"I guess not!" They had ascended the stairs and were now standing in a narrow hallway lined with old, creaky doors, all painted a different bright colour. "You'll be in the crimson room," said Ron, motioning toward a red and gold door with an engraved lion. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a key, and handed it to her. "And your stuff is already inside."
"How did it get off the train?" she asked, but Ron was already halfway down the stairs, and she barely heard his response. But reader, at this point, she shouldn't have had to ask.
"Magic."