"No, I told you, I don't know a Friar Lawrence, and trust me, I've never been any good at making sleeping draughts," Harry informed the Elizabethan girl for the umpteenth time as it occurred to him that by now he was probably going to miss his potions exam entirely. "I just need to find a goblet... a gold one. And would you please come down from there? I'm having trouble hearing you!"
He stood just below a balcony, craning his neck to look up at her. After trying unsuccessfully to stop a passing waiter and grab a goblet (a task that proved surprisingly difficult), he had finally determined that the best way to get back to Hogwarts was probably to stay with this girl. She seemed to be integral to whatever crazy plot this world he was in was supposed to follow. Unfortunately, she couldn't understand him at all, and he had trouble following most of what she said, too. He had tried to follow her to her quarters, but she had pushed him away and gestured impatiently toward a spot just below it, conveniently marked with a large tape 'X' on the ground. They had been trying to communicate for the past half hour, and although he couldn't understand a word, he was pretty sure she thought they were soulmates or something, now.
"Good sir, my love, my only, how is it
That I cannot, for words, discern your speech?
My beauty, my attraction to your wit...
How cruel is Fate, that such a pair should meet?"
He saw her for but a fleeting instant, and at once she was gone. He had
caught her reflection in the goblet he held, her soft eyes reflecting in
the golden light, like the sun. That was it. She was exactly like the
sun. He would have to remember to tell her that when their paths next
crossed. But, as he lowered the goblet, he saw that she was gone, and
his gaze instead met the eyes of a young man with vibrant red hair. He
was so taken aback by this sudden transformation that he didn't notice
as the grand feast that had laid before him, goblet and all, disappeared
as quickly as she had. Instead, he was focused on the man in front of
him.
"I say, that shade of fiery red does blind
Mine eyes which just before beheld a maid:
Young Juliet, the Capulet who chanced
To look my way just now. But stay!"
He
was about to ask where Juliet had gone, but he was interrupted by the
visibly alarmed young man with the red hair, who turn to a woman of
roughly the same age who sat beside him and exclaimed:
"Hermione, I think something's happened to Harry!"
There was a blinding purple flash of light, followed shortly by an orange checkerboard pattern scrolling across Harry's eyes. And then he saw her. She was drop-dead gorgeous, at least a 9 if not a full on 10 - that was the first thing he noticed. The second thing he noticed was that something seemed very, very off about her. She was close to the same age as him, maybe a few years younger, but her hair wasn't red, she was slightly taller, and she was wearing clothing that was, although very attractive, definitely from the Elizabethan era.
Come to think of it, so was he.
"Well...shit."
Dear John,
By the time you read this, I will be long gone. I wish that
I could be there in person to tell you this, but fate has denied me that
luxury. Instead, I hope that you can find comfort in this letter, our most
important piece of correspondence.
What follows may have actually happened, or it may have been a response to a writing exercise. Believe what you will....
As I stepped out of the corner store, my eyes caught it. Double breasted, broad lapels, horn buttons, slit cuffs. None of that mattered. I pressed myself back into the entranceway, steadying myself. Looking at it made my stomach churn. It was an impossibility, too thick. I remembered the thickest wool I'd seen, a 32 oz. felted winter blanket. I looked again. This was maybe eight times thicker, or maybe eighty. Tension, then pain. The thought couldn't fit in my head. Distorting with every loop, a mic too close to the amp. My mind was being overdriven.
Yes, too thick. They don't make needles that big. You can't wear something that can't be made. Was it even being worn? It smudged my thoughts. Surely everyone else on the street had missed it, or they'd have done something. Right? I'd been watching for half a minute now. I couldn't believe it'd gotten away with it for this long. Any second I expected a shopkeeper to hurdle through their display window and throw it to the ground and stomp it into nothing. They'd be a hero. Like someone diving on a grenade. I watched as its woolen dissonance started to catch on the brick storefronts, tearing off in wads, dampening all reason. It was getting harder to hear myself talk. I'd be the hero. I was right. And I knew it.
