The New Yorkers

A young woman with thick curly hair and bushy eyebrows sat cross-legged at an alfresco cafe. She sipped slowly from an ivory teacup while reading her newspaper. Her eyes flitted up to see her server mesmerized by the back page. She quickly folded it and crammed it into her black beaded bag.

“I swear I saw a person on the back page move,” he said. He pointed at the bag.

She pushed a loose brown strand behind her ear, and ordered. “I would like another earl grey tea while I'm waiting for my company and more croissants, please.” She lifted the dull silver platter of crumbs for him to carry away.

His face registered disappointment, but he took the plate and left.

She took her newspaper out once again and reread the banner: Harry Potter Defeated the Dark Lord Again! Underneath the banner was a black-and-white photograph of three teenagers – a girl with mousy brown hair and a flaming red-headed boy, wearing an awestruck expression standing next to a black haired, bespectacled boy breathing heavily. A smile crept up on her face as she stared at her closest friends and herself.

“I saw it again!” the waiter cried. “The picture is moving.”

She promptly closed it and stuffed it again into her beaded bag. “Honestly!” she roared, “you really believe that a picture is moving.”

Discomposed, he spilled her tea as he sat it down on the table and croissants fell off the plate unto the floor. He tried to clean it up the tea with his dishrag, before she shooed him off.

“I'll clean it up,” she told him.

His face reddened slightly as she took her napkin and dabbed at the brown stain on the white tablecloth.

“I'll seat you at another table,” he offered.

She penetrated his vacant black eyes and chuckled softly. “I'll be fine, thank you very much.” She picked up an empty ivory plate and sat it over the stain. “An easy fix, see? All is forgiven.” His eyes lit up and the reddish tinge disappeared. His face was jovial and youthful.

“I hear an accent,” he remarked in his boyish tone.

“I'm British,” she replied.

“What brings you to New York?”

She noticed that he inched closer. Even though the tone lightened, it wasn't enough for him to enter her personal space. She moved from the edge of her seat to the back of the chair.

“I'm traveling the world until I return to school. My next stop is Australia, I believe.” She looked around hoping to see a familiar face.

“Really? Sounds cool. What school do you go to?”

Her attention pierced his vacant, dark eyes. “You've never heard of it.”

He nodded. “How do you like New York City so far?”

“Beautiful city, it is, but not enough of my kind here,” she replied honestly. She missed her friends and her parents, which she hoped to see after leaving the United States, if she could find them.

“You're right. I hardly ever see that many British people here.”

Her smile broadened.

“I know a good spot you can go to. You'll wish you were American!”

She laughed skeptically. “I doubt it.” She scanned the emptying patio for the redhead from the newspaper. “Don't you have another table to attend to?” she asked off-handedly.

He scribbled something down his notepad, then ripped the paper, and dropped it on the paper. Apparently, he hadn't heard her. “Give me a call tonight. By the way, my friend has a killer Oasis collection. He loves British artists, except of course, the Spice Girls. But I'm sure you love them.” His voice trailed and that reddish tinge glowed on his cheeks.

Her eyebrows raised, but she remembered her surroundings and nodded absently. She didn't listen to Muggle music, so she had no idea who these bands were. “Not a fan,” she said hesitantly.

He picked up his serving tray and left the table. Relieved, she nibbled on a croissant.

Before long, she saw that familiar face and his fire engine red hair following the hostess through the rows of tan wooden chairs and white clothed tables. Behind him, a couple followed him. His bright eyes lit up as her eyes met his. “Hermione!” he called.

She stood to welcome his embrace. “What took you so long?” she admonished him. “I couldn't figure out the Muggle train system. The money is completely different from the muggle money in Britain. The police stopped me, but I couldn't figure out what they were talking about. Luckily, I found these two.” He introduced them. “Allison Jefferson and Darren Smalls.”

Allison smiled genially and Darren nodded his blond head politely.

“The police were about to haul him away, when Darren stepped in,” Allison continued the story.

“Ron, you find trouble wherever you go,” quipped Hermione.

“I hate to say what they told those Muggles.”

“Should I say, Ron?” Darren asked, combing his long blond hair back with his fingers. Allison nodded enthusiastically.

A slight breeze chilled Hermione's arms. Today was an unusually cool day for the dog days of summer. As long as the wind did not blow, she was comfortable, but with the slight breeze picking up, her arms prickled and she shivered. The others showed no signs of discomfort, even though they wore the same light summer clothing.

Darren picked up the story after a long pause. Ron's face slightly reddened. “I rushed over to the police to tell them that he was my foreign exchange student whose English wasn't that good and he didn't understand American norms. They were so dim that they didn't even realize that Ron had an English accent! They released him to me, and gave me a ticket for him jumping a turnstile.” Darren exclaimed.

“I could hardly believe it!” Allison cried. Her black hair remained Hermione of long dark ropes that could be climbed.

“Please sit,” Hermione offered her new guests.

Ron sat next to Hermione and the other two sat together.

“Thank you for saving Ron, Aden,” she said. “He's a wreck sometime – I can't keep up with him.”

Ron rolled his eyes.

“Who are you all anyway?”

“We're wizards too,” Allison answered. Her dark skin sparkled in the noon light. “We live here in New York in a secret alley behind Times Square called Tell-tell village.

The patio began to fill up with the lunchtime crowd, but luckily the server returned. “I see that your guests have finally arrived.” The server's eyes landed on Ron and then on Ron's hand rubbing Hermione's back. “What can I get you, miss?”

“A cobb salad please with bleu cheese dressing, thank you,” she replied.

“We're not hungry,” Aden said, declining lunch for Allison and him. His pearly skin reddened as the sun beamed down, and now began to warm the day up.

The server turned without asking Ron and started to walk away. Ron called, “You forgot me!” He turned, dejected, but feigned contentment. “I'm sorry. I assumed.”

“No problem,” Ron said oblivious. “I'll take a hot, juicy American cheeseburger with chips.” He corrected himself, obviously impressed by his knowledge of American names. “I'm sorry, french fries.”

The server wrote down the order, and then stared at Hermione. She looked into his pained eyes, but quickly averted them, because they were no longer vacant, but full of conflict.