An Australian in Hogsmeade

Disclaimer:

I don't own anything you recognise from the Harry Potter books; if it seems familiar, it's fairly safe to say it's J. K. Rowling's, oh-wise-goddess of the Potterverse. The plot, such as it is, and Jenna, however, do belong to me.

Author's Note:

I'll usually put these at the end of a chapter (or four, as the case my be) but this needs to be said at the beginning.

This is a story that started with a simple question as I was reading some of the many Harry Potter fanfics. The situation of someone landing in Hogwarts has been dealt with many times over. But what if, I asked myself, that person had never read the Harry Potter books? And what if they didn't make friends straight away with a nice, conveniently helpful student, or advertise their complete bewilderment to the surrounding wizards and get themselves promptly Obliviated?

An Australian in Hogsmeade

is my take on this situation. I have tried to keep as close to the facts presented in the actual books as possible. However, I don't actually own the books, so there will be details that I miss or forget. If anyone spots one of these, feel free to point it out in a review and I will do my best to correct it. Same with any incorrect assumptions about the British school system; I am from Western Australia (as is Jenna, conveniently enough) and that is the school system I know. I'm not even sure of the details of schooling in the other Australian states, let alone in England

The title was taken from George Gershwin's An American in Paris, and twisted to suit my own purpose.

And finally, I am an Australian. I will use Australian English - I will put u's in words like colour and favour and I will continue to insist that elephants have trunks and raincoats have hoods. Cars have boots and bonnets. And I will not write those supposed Australianisms like people saying "crikey" at every turn and having kangaroos in suburban backyards. Before you ask, I've never used crikey in my life and just for the record, I don't think I've ever said "g'day" as a part of normal everyday language either. And the five minutes I actually saw of Steve Irwin - in a preview before the CoS movie, oddly enough - I could hardly stand. Just the accent is enough to make me cringe.

Enough of my blathering; let the story begin.

Prologue: Wonderland

What I am writing in these pages is a strange tale. It tells of what I experienced while on holiday once, but it is not a simple tale of travels. These are experiences for which there are few explanations. One, of course, is that it was all a dream and that I was simply playing the part of Alice in my own wonderland. If that is so, it was an incredibly real and elaborately detailed dream, and I am astounded at the abilities of my subconscious imagination. To create a new reality complete with scents and texture seems to me a phenomenal effort to go to simply for my personal enjoyment.

Another possible explanation is that I went temporarily mad and suffered from severe delusions. Which leads us back to sheer astonishment at the creative powers of my subconscious and bewilderment that my conscious brain cannot come up with half so many details in my memories of reality.

And of course there is the possibility, remote though it may seem, that what I experienced truly happened, that there truly is another world side by side with this one and that I found myself there.

Whatever the case, whichever explanation you choose to believe, this tale of wonders is the truth as I perceived it and the truth as I choose to believe it.

Chapter 1: What's in a name?

I would like to say "It all started when.."

Unfortunately, there is no exact point at which this story starts. For every beginning I can choose, there is another still earlier on, at which point I may as well say "It all started when my mother decided that having a kid would be nice." Besides, as openings go, it would be incredibly conventional, ordinary and cliched.

I was in England at the end of summer and the beginning of autumn. I had finished school the year before, worked for six months and then hopped on a plane to Europe. University, I had decided, could wait a year.

I live in Western Australia, in a small town in the south-west of the state. Bridgetown is inland a bit and so not on the map of most tourists. It is cooler than most of Western Australia and actually has hills, unlike the vast majority of the state. Most people there grow fruit - peaches, apricots and cherries in summer, then apples and the like later on. Most of it is for the Perth market, but there is always the stuff that is too small or slightly marked. The fruit growers sell that stuff cheaply at the door to whoever passes, so fruit is always abundant in my home.

Anyway, school had finished in November and I'd left from Perth at the end of June. I'd gone to France, Italy, Austria, Switzerland… sidestepping the big cities as much as possible and going to the little villages, seeing the countryside instead of the grey bitumen roads. I loved it. I visited churches and gazed in awe at the stained glass windows and I went to chapels and admired their organs. In one little village church the priest was there, as it was evening on a Sunday. He let me play the organ there for a while; it was small, only two manuals and not many stops, but it was beautiful all the same. I played Bach and Vivaldi and a song or two from Les Miserable that seemed suit the occasion and finally Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah, choosing the softer, mellower stops like flute that were 8s, not 15s, for the great and swell, and a deep pedal stop. As I was finishing, the light of the late afternoon sun blazed through the rose window, bathing the chapel in the blues, greens and amber of the glass. It was truly beautiful; I am not a particularly religious person, but sometimes there is something so beautiful that I almost have to believe in a higher deity of some description. Usually it's something from nature, but in the chapel that afternoon I felt the same sense of awe. The person who had created that window had been a genius in every sense of the word, not only with the design but the with the positioning that caught the afternoon sun in such a way.

I wandered through the cities as well, but only briefly, seeing things like the Sistine Chapel and the Eiffel Tower, things that I couldn't be in Europe and not see, but I left any city I was in after only a few days. They were all busy and crowded, especially compared to what I was used to.

I went to London for a few days at the end of July. After that I intended to head for Scotland and spend a while there, wandering the countryside. On my last day in London, I was walking around thinking that it was probably lunchtime. Even if it wasn't, my stomach seemed to think it was and that was good enough for me. I remembered a pub I'd seen nearby - just around the corner, in fact - while having a drink at a cafe across the road from it. Well, I'd not so much noticed it as, well, forced myself to believe it was there until I could see it. Once I could see it, I realised that not so many people seemed to go into it as went into other pubs. This didn't surprise me much - as a building it was comparatively uninviting, even once you could see it.. Still, fewer people entering meant it would be less crowded inside, always a plus as far as I was concerned.

I myself only realised it had to be there while I was watching passers by from the cafe. I had noticed something odd during my observations - some people seemed to vanish around the point where I now knew the pub to be. It was nothing so dramatic as a sudden invisibility, more like going out of sight behind a person or car and then failing to re-appear. It was subtle and I only noticed it at first because some of these people dressed oddly. Not threateningly, just differently and strangely, especially for summer. Long, loose garments that screamed "robes" at me - even though I was fairly certain that robes these days were worn only by leaders of religious orders, and then usually only during services - and quite a few creative hats. A stuffed vulture as head-attire is noteworthy in itself, but it is even more so when it - and its wearer - disappear. So I watched closely and eventually, possibly in part due to my flat refusal to believe that these people were vanishing into thin air, I began to perceive the glimmerings of a building. Gradually it became more solid and real, until I was wondering how on earth I'd missed seeing it before. Persistence can work wonders.

As I rounded the corner and looked up the street to my destination and saw the stuffed vulture again. I almost went somewhere else at that, until I saw the name of this oh-so-unremarkable little pub; The Leaky Cauldron.

I am an avid bookreader, with a strong preference for fantasy, and I take delight in all things that sound even remotely as if they don't belong in the world of science and machines. There is a restaurant in Perth called The Witch's Cauldron; even if it didn't have an excellent reputation, I would love to go there just for the name.

So the vote was three to one - probably reasonably uncrowded, a fantastical name that conjured images of bubbling, glowing potions being made in a dungeon, and a by-now-rumbling stomach versus some people with an odd taste in clothing. There was no contest; lunch would be at The Leaky Cauldron.

Chapter 2: A boar by any other name would smell as sweet

The Leaky Cauldron on the outside was dull and unremarkable. So much so it passed into the realm of less-than-ordinary and utterly un-noticeable. The sign with the pub's name was so dirty it was barely legible.

The inside was incredibly different. It was like a whole new world, completely removed from the one on the other side of the small door. The interior was dim and smoky, lit by torches, oil lamps and candles. I noticed some of the candles had a bright bluebell coloured flame, and I made a note to check my chemistry textbook when I got home. Sodium and magnesium burned yellow and bright white, I knew, and I thought copper burnt green, but the only thing I could think of that gave blue was gas. There were even fewer people than I'd expected and assumed that there must be other rooms out the back, for meetings and whatnot. The people who were there seemed friendly enough, despite wearing not only the odd robes but also some of the strangest colour combinations I have ever seen. One creation was orange and puce green; after that I did my best not to look at the colours to closely. Despite the smoky torches the air smelt rather nice and I figured they had some aromatic oil mixed with the pitch.

I took another breath through my nose and detected something that said "food" to my poor neglected belly and "roast pork with apple sauce" to my tastebuds. I made my way over to where the barkeep was. He was bald and seemed to know nearly everyone in the room but he turned to serve me readily enough, ignoring a couple of greetings as he did so. I asked for the lunch special which, sure enough, was roast pork complete with crackling and apple sauce and baked potatoes on the side - "with sour cream, of course". I grinned at that; I was slightly proud of my nose and my ability to decipher scents in a room. That, and baked potatoes with sour cream are an undeniable favourite of mine.

"Sounds wonderful," I said and he grinned in turn as my stomach grumbled in agreement.

"Been a while since breakfast, eh? What would you want to drink with that? A beer?"

I almost grimaced. Beer is alright, I suppose, but I will never get used to drinking it warm. Especially in summer.

"I'd prefer something non-alcoholic. And cold," was all I said.

"Pumpkin juice then?"

I nodded, a little surprised but willing to give pumpkin juice a try, odd though it sounded. On the other hand, my mother had had a phase of making cucumber juice once (not something I recommend), so who was I to say anything?

"Right then, that'll be seven sickles and fifteen knuts."

Any surprise at the sound of pumpkin juice promptly fled in the face of this. Had there been a sudden currency change that I'd somehow missed hearing of?

"Err… I'm sorry, but what's that in pounds?"

He looked up from where he was writing the order - with a quill?- and nodded in seeming understanding.

"Of course, didn't realise, sorry… ten pounds fifty."

I winced a little at that. I'd just bought myself a thirty dollar lunch. Damn the low Aussie dollar.

I sat at a table and pulled out my sketchpad and pencil and eraser. I'd decided the pub must have some olden days theme or something. That would explain the lighting and the quill. As such it was definitely worth a sketch, and the whole atmosphere just appealed to me - again making it sketchworthy. This was something I often did, quickly sketching scenes as I saw them, sometimes taking a photo and doing a detailed one later.

After a short while the barkeep brought my lunch over. When he saw me sketching he paused and then went to get another candelabra.

"Thanks," I said, looking up. "Makes life much easier. You don't mind me sketching, do you?"

"No, it's fine. I was just thinking it was rather good, actually."

I flushed a little and took a sip of the pumpkin juice to hide it. I've never been able to take compliments easily. Then I though for a bit.

"Would you like me to do you a sketch? If you don't mind me taking a photo I can do a proper picture, not one of these rough sketches. I'm leaving London tomorrow but I'll be back in a month or so - I can give it to you then."

He looked delighted at the idea.

"Are you sure? I mean… it's your work, you should keep it, I can't just take it."

"I'm sure. I like doing pictures for other people if I know they'll appreciate it. I can do one for myself anytime if I've got a photo and some rough sketches. It'll give me something to do on the train tomorrow."

I had a bit more of the pumpkin juice. It was surprisingly good - heavenly if I took into consideration the expectations of vegetable juices that the cucumber juice phase had left me with. It was icy cold, condensation forming on the outside of the metal goblet it was served in, but otherwise much like pumpkin soup, thick and delicious. I remembered a guava juice I'd had once that had been thick enough to stand the straw up in and I suspected that if I'd had a straw for the pumpkin juice the same thing would have happened.

"Still doesn’t seem right, I can't accept your work for nothing."

I looked at him and considered.

"Tell you what, I'll exchange you a picture for some of this wonderful juice to sustain me on my travels."

He grinned.

"Done. I'll give you a bottle now and some more when you bring in the sketch."

He held out his hand and we shook on it. I felt a faint tingling in my hand and put it down to leaning on my elbow too heavily. It seemed there was a reason behind that age-old, irritating rule of no elbows on tables.

"Just a moment - who do I ask for when I bring you the picture?"

He'd been about to go and serve some other customers but turned back briefly.

"Tom. And you are?"

"Jenna."

***

I left The Leaky Cauldron a while later. My sketchbook had quite few rough sketches in it from inside the pub and I'd finished the film in my camera in there as well. It surprised me a little that Tom had trusted me so readily. I supposed that to him it was just a bottle of juice, but all the same it was nice to know that there were still some places where strangers were trusted.

I wandered into the bookstore next to the pub. The fourth Harry Potter book was out in England and I wanted to get it for my sister's birthday, which was coming soon. She'd love having it before it actually came out back home.

Despite the recommendations of my sister and several of my friends, I hadn't read the Harry Potter series. Whenever someone told me I should read them I'd just say I'd get around to them. I would, some day, but I preferred to find my own books. I loved prowling through libraries, finding elusive, interesting looking books. It was how I'd first come across the fantasy genre - sheer chance and a title that suggested horses and riding, which at the time I did during school holidays. I still enjoy riding when I get the chance.

I found the book and glanced at the cover; the artist side of me said "Why can't I colour like that?" while the student who'd done high school physics said "How on earth do they expect that poor dragon to fly? It's almost as bad as the one in Shrek! And broomsticks must worse than bike saddles." The never well-suppressed bookworm in me observed that the book was nice and thick and would probably last me a couple of days, depending on how much sleep I felt like sacrificing for it. Which for a single volume was pretty impressive.

Sometimes I feel like there are at least ten different minds hiding in my head, just waiting for me to give up on sanity so they can fight over who gets control rights to the body.

As I left the bookstore, Harry Potter number four in my bag, I nearly ran into another of those oddly dressed people. I apologised, and moved out of the way. This time the cloak had been emerald green.

I went looking for somewhere to get my film developed and a post office. Also to find an internet cafe - it was about time for me to send my friends an email. I generally tried to once a fortnight, partly because of the virtual abuse they sent me if I didn't. You wouldn't think threats via email would work too well, but what my friends lacked in physical presence they made up for in physical presence they more than made up for with creativity. One of them wrote something about Ulgo knives last time she wrote - perfectly explicable, as she'd just been reading Polgara the Sorceress, but still somewhat scary. And the fact that they don't exist in this world isn't really that comforting, because I know I left out a yet and that that friend can be very resourceful.

As I left the street I took a final glance at the unremarkable pub with the wonderful - to me - name. It really didn't look big enough to have enough rooms to account for its relative uncrowdedness, given the number of people vanishing into its dim interior.