Chapter Text
If there was one thing that Mitra wished she knew before becoming a trolley witch, it would be that the trolleys were heavy as fuck.
“Thank you! Have a great term,” she said with a smile before taking leave of her most recent customers, a pair of students whose compartment had pieces of wizard chess strewn across the table and floor. As soon as the door to the compartment slid shut, the smile on her face dropped and she sighed at the thought of pushing the trolley further down the train car. Stop it, Mitra, she scolded herself, checking to make sure that no treats had fallen off the cart before starting to push it again. No complaining. This is exactly what you signed up for when you came here.
Actually, it wasn’t what she signed up for when she was preparing for her apprenticeship at the esteemed wizarding university, Hogwarts. What she thought she’d be doing was learning the tips and tricks of the kitchen staff— valuable experience for an aspiring restaurateur such as herself. However, Mitra had hardly spent any time at all inside of the kitchens during the summer that she began working at Hogwarts. Instead, the headmaster, Dumbledore, had thrust her into the arms of the trolley witches, deeming it necessary for her to learn the basics of customer service before stepping foot into the kitchens. She couldn’t find it in herself to refute as he was, in all ways, correct; though she considered herself to be well-mannered, she had no experience whatsoever actually selling food or dealing with customers.
Curse that old man for being so practical, Mitra grumbled inwardly while ringing the bell on her trolley to let the students in the private compartments know that she was there.
She was only half-serious when she called him an old man since she had nothing but respect for the wizard, especially after he was gracious enough to grant her an apprenticeship for the school year. In truth, her mother had wanted her to attend Hogwarts like she had in the past (“I was a prefect, you know,” she liked to brag), but with her step-father doing nothing but drinking all day and she herself not making much as a pub waitress, Mitra’s hope at attending university was practically nonexistent. That’s why, right when she finished her secondary schooling, she was thrilled when her mother had given her a letter from Dumbledore himself stating that she was accepted into the school as a kitchen apprentice. Apparently, her mother had all but begged him over letters to give her daughter a job, a place, a purpose— she was just shocked that he had even agreed.
Bless that old man’s heart, the witch thought, handing a chocolate frog to a student. I’d probably be rotting in my room right about now if it weren’t for him. Or stuck at some shady pub like Mother. Either way, I’d rather be pushing this load of bricks.
She was about to continue down the car when a high-pitched scream came from a compartment to her left. Before she could react, the door was ripped open and a girl sprinted out at speeds Mitra didn’t even know were even possible on foot. A tall boy stepped out of the compartment, yelling, “Wait! He’s harmless, I swear!” in a forlorn voice. When the girl didn’t stop running until she was in the next car, the boy hung his head sadly, clutching something to his chest.
A dainty hand patted his back. “It’s alright, Neville. How were you supposed to know she was afraid of toads?”
The boy (who Mitra assumed was this “Neville”) turned around, his dejected expression now on full display. A particularly fat toad sat in his open palms. “I know,” he said to the disembodied hand. “I just feel—” With that, the toad hopped out of his hands and in the direction of the girl who had just run away. “Trevor! Get back here!”
Mitra watched as Neville chased the toad into the next car, trying (and failing) to grab his pet before somebody accidentally stepped on it. A girl (the owner of the disembodied hand, she assumed) stepped into the doorway of the compartment and watched him with a sigh, shaking her frizzy brown curls. “Who knew 18-year-olds could be so childish?” she muttered— no sooner had the words left her mouth did she notice Mitra standing there with the cart, an eyebrow raised. The girl blanched. “M-my apologies, it’s just…” She pinched the bridge of her nose, clearly irked. “Sometimes I just don’t understand people my own age. I mean, I could understand if it was a ghoul, but a toad? Is that really a good reason to cause a commotion?”
The pair glanced over at Neville who was still fumbling around on his hands and knees, occasionally smacking into compartment doors and making their owners open them in confusion. “No! Trevor!” he wailed when the toad hopped into one of them, causing the people inside to screech.
“...Well, I suppose it is,” Mitra shrugged, biting back a giggle. The witch in front of her ran her hands down her face with a groan.
“I can’t believe this. If I had my wand, this whole thing would have been long over.” Mitra vaguely remembered one of the trolley witches mentioning that students weren’t allowed their wands on the train in case they caused a ruckus. Not like that isn’t happening now. “I would kill for something to help me forget this mess.”
A lightbulb went off in Mitra’s head. “Well, I have something on my cart that might do the trick if you’re interested.” The girl turned her curious gaze onto her. “Let me just…” Mitra rummaged around in the bottom of the cart before popping back up holding a small paper sack. “Ta-da! This right here should help you feel better in no time.”
“A sack?” the witch asked incredulously. Mitra grinned.
“Actually, it’s what’s in the sack.” Reaching inside, she pulled out a small white orb dusted in flour. “They’re called mochi. It’s a muggle snack from Japan. I charmed them to make them taste like a happy memory for whoever eats them.” Her slender fingers dropped the piece of mochi into the witch’s hands, who eyed it curiously. “Let me know what you think! The other trolley witches said that if I get enough good reviews, they’ll sell them on their carts next year.”
The witch peered at it for a moment longer before popping it into her mouth. Mitra watched with bated breath, hazel eyes filled with anticipation. After what seemed like an eternity, the other girl broke out into a small smile, humming with satisfaction. Mitra gave a cheer. It’s a success!
“This is brilliant,” the witch said, hand in front of her mouth as she finished chewing. “I can’t believe you thought of this yourself. You look so young, I wouldn’t have thought…” she trailed off, eyes widening. “Not that I didn’t think you could! I just mean…”
Mitra laughed at the witch’s frustrated huff. “It’s alright, I’m not offended. I don’t think I’ve seen an 18-year old trolley witch before either— or any under 45, for that matter.”
The girl perked up at that. “We’re the same age! Are you perhaps a student as well?”
Mitra shook her head. “No, though I’d love to be. I couldn’t afford the cost. Dumbledore was kind enough to let me be a kitchen apprentice for the year since I want to start a restaurant one day.” Now that I think about it, am I going to get paid for this? she thought. I was so excited about starting over the summer that I didn’t think to ask. Maybe I should bring it up the next time I see the headmaster.
“Well, you definitely have the talent for it,” the witch smiled, and she said it so confidently that Mitra couldn’t help but believe her words. “If we ever run into each other on campus, I’d love to try another one of your brilliant concoctions. Perhaps we could go over the potentials for different charms as well… Oh, I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I?” She stuck out a hand. “Hermione Granger, first-year. And you are?”
“Mitra…” she caught herself before she could make a mistake. “...Waggoner.”
Before Hermione could ask why she looked like she just swallowed a spider, more screams sounded from the neighboring car. She rolled her eyes. “Well, I suppose I should at least try and put a stop to that. Best of luck with your mochi, Mitra.” With that, she strode down the hall and into the next car, black robes billowing behind her.
When the door had shut completely, Mitra allowed herself to slump over her cart. Waggoner. Waggoner, she repeated to herself. Mitra Waggoner. That’s who you are. That’s who you’ve been for the past six years. The you from before is long gone. You need to forget her already. She straightened up with a sigh, running a hand through her dark hair. You’re Mitra Waggoner. You’re Mitra Waggoner.
Mitra Deren is gone.
The witch continued her duties until she was near the end of the traincar. She was close to running out of treats and dreaded the thought of dragging her cart two cars over to the supply room; the other trolley witches were able to conjure treats on command whenever they were low on stock, but Mitra had always struggled with even the simplest transfiguration spells, so she had to get what she needed herself. Maybe I’ll get lucky and nobody will buy anything, she thought. Or maybe I’ll bump into another trolley witch and she can summon more treats for me. Merlin, please let this be so!
Unfortunately, Merlin was not on her side. Her heart sank when the door to the last compartment in the car slid open and a boy with a rather round face poked his head out. “Oi, over here, miss!” he called, waving his arm wildly as if she couldn’t see him ten feet away. She put on her best customer service smile and made her way over, praying that he wouldn’t want anything that wasn’t on her cart.
As she got closer, Mitra heard more voices come from the compartment. “You don’t even have any money with you, you oaf,” came another boy’s voice. Round Face turned to the side with a devious smile.
“We don’t need money, Goyle. We’ve got Mal—”
“You’ve lost it if you think I’m paying for you, ” a voice sneered, causing Mitra to freeze in her tracks. Something about that tone was…oddly familiar. She shook off the weird feeling and continued on until she was in front of the compartment, preparing herself for the inevitable disappointment that would come when the boy realized she didn’t have much to offer.
“Hello, sir,” she greeted, causing the person sitting beside the large boy to snort. Her eyes briefly flickered upwards to see a rather tall man barely containing his laughter as he stared at the boy beside him who had whipped around to face him.
“Why’re you laughing, you git?”
“Don’t you think the title ‘sir’ is a little too much for you, Crabbe?” the tall one grinned. Crabbe turned red in the face.
“It is not! My house elves call me ‘sir’ all the time!” he insisted, his friend simply chuckling in response. Crabbe turned back to Mitra, who had no idea what face she was supposed to be making at this time. He’s definitely a pureblood if he’s got house elves. Do they know me? No, they shouldn’t. I’ve only met one pureblood who was my age, and that was a long time ago… Merlin, how long have I just been standing here? Do I look suspicious? Did they figure me out? No, that’s impossible. Remember, Mitra, to everyone here you’re just a trolley witch.
She settled on politely clearing her throat. “Is there anything specific you’d like? I don’t have much left at the moment, but I do have a few things left.”
“Got any chocolate frogs?” the boy next to Crabbe asked, earning a smack on the shoulder.
“Shut it, Goyle!” Crabbe frowned. “She was asking me, not you. D’you have any of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, miss?”
Mitra gave him a sympathetic look. “My apologies, I’m fresh out.” Crabbe groaned. “I do have some cockroach clusters, peppermint toads, and…” she rummaged around the bottom of the cart. “...A couple of liquorice wands. Could I interest you in any of those?”
Crabbe looked as if the world had come to an end while Goyle burst out into another fit of laughter. “Those are the worst ones!” he cried. A low rumble sounded and he clutched his stomach. “But I’m so hungry… Fine then, since I must, I’ll take a liquorice wand.”
At least he didn’t put up too much of a fuss, Mitra thought, reaching for one of the liquorice wands on her cart. She knew from firsthand experience that many purebloods tended to be troublesome to deal with, especially when they didn’t get what they wanted. This is going smoother than I thought it—
“Must be a dump of a school if it can’t even afford to stock its trolleys properly.” Mitra froze for the second time that day. That voice! “If we get there and it’s as disastrous as the service is, I’m demanding that my father transfer me to Durmstrang.”
Slowly, Mitra turned, and there he was.
Icy blonde hair.
Piercing grey eyes.
Arms crossed over a white button up.
A permanent scowl etched on his face.
Draco Malfoy?