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A Lot Of Time To Kill by Scrivenshaft WinnerAlya1989262

Rating: G. Created: October 31st, 2005. Updated: October 31st, 2005. Read Reviews (3)
Disclaimer: Characters, the magical world, etc, is property of J. K. Rowling and Warner Bros, not the owner of this fic.

Here we go. 7 o’clock in the morning, I’m disguising as a mature dark-haired woman and am boarding the underground train with Dawlish. We were supposed to go to Hogwarts on this fine morning of September 1st as we’re both going to be stationed in Hogsmeade, and I was so eager to get there. But it turns out we have to meet Kingsley at Arsenal station to investigate the latest Muggle killing that has taken place in the Underground. And, to top it all off, we’re not allowed to Apparate.

Nobody pays us any attention as we step on the train. We sit down next to a woman accompanied by a noisy little girl of about six years old. Of course. The train is half-empty, and my stupid colleague just had to choose the spot nearest to an annoying brat.

The girl is babbling to her mommy about her latest Reading mark. Ugh. Reminds me of myself in my first year. I have the urge to shut her up, but instead just settle for cringing. After all, it’s not exactly usual to see a forty-ish woman strangling a schoolgirl on a train… Despite myself, the thought of the sight we’d make has me smiling. The mother smiles back at me. Neat. Now she thinks I love children.

Seven stations to go. The mommy is holding a bag of sweets, allowing her daughter to have three. The girl picks her three jellybeans and, in her delight, drops one of them. With a look of sorrow at the fallen soldier, she reaches again into the bag.

‘You’ve had your three, sweetie,’ the woman says softly but sharply.

‘But it fell on the floor,’ she whines.

‘Well, that’s your own fault, now, ain’t it?’

Expectedly, the brat throws a tantrum. Spotting the dark looks of the passengers, the woman scolds her daughter with a look of intense embarrassment. ‘Nymphadora!’ My heart leaps in my throat. Realisation then dawns on me, and, in spite of all, I notice the girl’s scowl, and feel a rush of sympathy towards her.

My mind is wandering, and I find myself imagining a conversation with the lady next to me. A conversation where she asks me about my mother and the reasons of her choice, and she would help me understand my mom better. I would talk to the girl and advise her on how to deal with that burden – those boys making fun at her at school won’t know what hit them! And with such an unusual name, they may well turn out to be witches… How neat would that be?

With three stops to go, I’m thinking, ‘Now you just have to strike the conversation.’ And it would be easy.

But what does it matter? It’s happened, hasn’t it? What does it matter, really, if this lady next to me I won’t ever meet again is left unawares of the words she’s uttered in my head?

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