An Australian in Hogsmeade

Chapter 5: Once, twice, thrice

***

Next morning I awoke at around eight. I lay there for a while, enjoying the indulgence of what, for me, was a nice sleep-in, before finally throwing back the doona. I moved over to the window, pulling back the heavy curtain and looking out. The view was not of the main street as I'd expected. Instead I could see a grassy area leading away from the pub. After a while it began to gently slope away from where I was before forming into a full-fledged hill. The hill was everything a poet - or artist - might look for; large, smooth, green and rolling and even had a castle at the top. To one side of the castle I could see a darker green against the grass that suggested there was a forest there.

I turned away from the window and went over to my pack. I wanted a shower despite my long soak last night; I hate not being freshly clean in the morning and it wasn't as if I had to worry about water shortages like we had at home in the summer.

After a short shower, I went downstairs to collect breakfast. I decided to have breakfast in my room so that I could get started on trying to figure out where on earth I was. I set the breakfast tray on the window-side table, inhaling as I did so. Breakfast was not skimped on; beneath the covers lay what seemed to be a three course banquet. Scrambled eggs with mushrooms and some of those fat little sausages were on one plate, on another was some lightly toasted fresh bread and in a small bowl was some fresh fruit. There was a pot with hot water in it and a variety of teas beside it; several little pots proved to contain jams, honey and butter. There was also a metal pitcher which had more of that pumpkin juice in it and a little jug with milk.

I can handle this

, I thought as I sat down to my little feast. The only thing that appeared to be missing was some vegemite, which didn't really surprise me much. However, I hadn't left Australia unprepared; that little oversight could be easily remedied by a quick search through my pack. There are some things which are simply meant to go on toast and in my opinion vegemite is one of them.

Happily full after breakfast, I sat down with pen, paper and a cup of tea. It was time to start considering my situation.

The first thing I had to figure out was how long I had until people began to worry. No-one was expecting me to arrive anywhere; I hadn't booked anywhere, intending to find somewhere I liked when I got there. The only people who would expect to hear from me would be my friends and family back home. I'd sent a group email the day before yesterday, as well as sending off the package to my family.

I had, then, maybe one and a half to two weeks before people bacon to worry. I sent emails to my friends every two weeks; the week and a half was for my family, who I contacted once a week. By the end of a fortnight my mother would be ringing and asking my friends if they'd heard from me, and they, in turned, would begin to worry. Two and a half weeks would see my friend extremely worried and my family frantic, by three weeks a search would be called.

If I know nothing else, I know my friends and family.

To save everyone stress and worry, the British and Australian police forces a lot of money and the diplomats some extra work, I needed to get in communication by a week and a half's time, two weeks at the latest. It'd also save me from the strings of lectures once everyone realised I was fine, and from the guilt trips I knew I'd send myself on from time to time.

My deadline sorted out, I turned to the things that were different between the normal world- mine, if you will - and this strange new one I'd found myself in.

I decided to ignore the merely unusual things - like bright purple bath froth (not bubbles, but froth) - and go straight to the things that just shouldn't be.

One: a currency that involved galleons and sickles. Not pounds and pence, dollars and cents, cedi, yen, rand, pesos, rupiah or any other currency I'd ever heard of, but galleons and sickles.

Galleons and sickles.

That struck me and I frowned. I was sure I'd heard those words in a similar situation and that I wasn't just getting deja vu. The feeling of memory was too recent, if that makes sense. Then I remembered: Tom, at the Leaky Cauldron, had asked me for galleons, sickles and knuts when he'd taken my order.

I frowned. How likely was it that two different places - one in a different world to my own - would both ask for galleons and sickles as currency, if the other place was not also of this new world?

Once is chance

, the saying went.

I thought about any other similarities I could come up with.

Lots of people wearing robes, cloaks and odd headwear, some in colours - and colour combinations - that were definitely not part of the current fashion by any stretch of the imagination.

Twice is coincidence.

Neither place had electric lights. Instead both used some form of flame for all their lighting as far as I had seen.

Three times is conspiracy.

And then there was that pumpkin juice - served in metal goblets and pitchers at both places. Come to think of it, the bottle I had from Tom were also metal.

Perhaps if three times were conspiracy, four times was war.

So I concluded that the Leaky Cauldron was part of this world, and by some quirk of fate, or possibly sheer happenchance, I had wandered into it just the day before the platform debacle. Going by what Tom had said, I could probably safely assume that the new currency consisted of not just sickles and galleons, but knuts as well. And I had none of any of them, so I decided that getting some of them should be placed at the head of the priorities list.

Both Tom and Madam Rosmerta had fortunately known of pounds. Perhaps I could ask Madam Rosmerta to change some for me. The other good side to that point was that it suggested that there were links between this world and the other, and therefore presumably ways back and forth between them.

I could write a book,

I thought. Jenna's World and How It Vanished.

It sounded like the title of a children's book. Maybe in the 10-12 age group.

Next significant oddity: the local fashion. Either there were enough leaders of religious orders in this world for everyone and their pet to have their own personal priest, or robes, cloaks, etc. were considered normal attire here, at least among adults. Most of the kids seemed to wear normal clothing; the obvious exception to that being when I'd stepped off the train yesterday evening. Then they'd all been wearing black robes with silver clasps.

I decided that particular phenomenon was due to school uniform, and therefore not to be considered normal. Our school had made us tuck in our shirts, after all. Technically we were even supposed to do so for PE, but everyone, even a teacher, has their limit. So younger people wore normal clothiing by choice which was good as far as I was concerned, as it meant I could continue wearing what clothes I had without being considered too much of a freak.

As for where I was, all I could come up with was "somewhere quite a bit north of yesterday morning" and that was based purely on the temperature. Of course, we could have gone south and run towards the southern hemisphere's early spring, but I doubted that was the case. For one thing, it would have taken a lot longer than a day by train and for another trains weren't capable of overseas travel unless they went under them via convenient tunnels. None of which went that far south.

That seemed to cover pretty much everything, except for the inexplicable floating flames and that there was some little detail niggling at me that I couldn't quite grasp. I knew from past experience that there was no point trying to tease it out; if I left it alone it'd hit me like a sledgehammer and leave me wondering how I could have missed something so obvious.

I left the desk and decided to unpack. My stuff didn't even begin to fill the wardrobe; I'm good at packing lots of stuff into a small space, but not that good. I turned a spare shelf into a sort of pantry, putting my few food necessities on it. The I took out the bag I used during the day, put some essentials - sketchbook and pencils being among the first - in it, pulled on my boots and left the room, taking the breakfast tray with me. It was time to explore the rest of Hogsmeade.

***

The main street of Hogsmeade was quite different by day. The night before it had been deserted; that morning there were people walking in both directions, not hurrying, but not exactly dawdling either. Shops were either opening or were already catering to the morning passers by. I could see people in one window putting up a new display; chocolates and caramels and toffees were brought out and arranged. The shop was called Honeydukes and I made a note to pay it a visit when I had some useful money.

I moved on down the street. On my left a sign bade me welcome to "Zonko's: All your joking needs!" I was sure that the teachers loved the products from that one.

Another store seemed empty, until closer inspection revealed that there were counters, tables and chairs inside, and people doing things, but it just wasn't open. There was a notice on the window saying that the Hogsmeade branch of Florean Fortescue's Icecream Parlour would be having its grand opening on the fifth day of autumn and that all present would be given a free double scoop icecream in the flavours of their choice. I could hear the people around me chattering excitedly about it.

"…Florean himself is coming…"

"…special fireworks, not just those Filibuster's…"

"…the school's allowed down - Dumbledore's giving them a surprise weekend here because of it!"

"Really? Well, they need some fun after last year - "

"- yes, that was a terrible business. It'll be good for business too, having them down…"

I moved on. Suddenly I felt homesick, for the first time since leaving, and I wondered why now. Was it because suddenly I had no way to contact my family and friends that I knew of? Was it because I was in this world where most of the time everything was normal, and then something blatant would come and hit me in the face and say "you are not home, you are not in your world, you do not belong here?"

Whatever the reason, I wanted to be at home, sitting at the kitchen table while my mother made bread, I wanted to be in Fremantle eating a two scoop icecream with mocha grande and caramel malteser and talking to my friends about everything and nothing, I wanted to be sitting in the lounge and playing my piano, all at once. I could feel an ache in my throat and blinked back a few tears. I would not, will not, cry in public. I very rarely cry even in front of my family, and then it is usually because I am incredibly angry, not unhappy.

I turned right into a side street and then right again, heading in the direction I had come from but one street over. I repeated this zigzag a few times, heading for the edge of town and then leaving it altogether. I deal with feeling lonely by going off alone; paradoxical, I know. Perhaps it is because I was an only child for quite a few years; my sister is six years younger than me, and I was used to privacy when I was a child. I still value it and have found ways to keep it, even when I was in boarding school.

When I am alone I write, or I sketch, or I read, or I listen to music, or I walk. Or I do all and any of the above. Anything, really, that will occupy my mind and that means I will not have to see other people until I am ready. If I do see someone I am usually rude and say things I do not mean until either they or I leave. I have never known anyone to stay if I do not wish it. Afterwards I usually regret my words and I apologise, hoping they understand that I did not mean it.

That day I left Hogsmeade and walked up the hill I'd seen from my window. The castle should be good for an all-day sketch. Then there was the forest I'd seen, too, which seemed promising walk-wise. There was a path winding up the hill, taking gentler slopes to me, but I preferred the exertion of the steeper climb, so I ignored the path.

As I neared the top of the hill - and the castle walls - my route and the other path coincided once more. I realised that there was only one gate in the wall, and while it was open the path led straight through it. I sighed, realising that to get into the castle grounds I would have to travel the beaten path at least a little way. I passed through the open gates, under the shadow of walls that would have been at least a couple of metres thick, and into the sun beyond.

The castle itself was spectacular, all the more so since I'd been expecting a sort of fairly intact ruin when it was actually in complete repair. It looked like an architect's dream and a builder's nightmare, an artist's painting captured by a poor engineer and made to work without spoiling the image. I could imagine the arguments during its construction even now: "Thou cannot put that there, for thou will ruin the line!" - that would be the lordly architect, and the poor builder, finally at the end of his tether, would bellow "With all respect, sir, if I don't put that stone there the whole ruddy thing will fall!" And the architect would leave in a huff and the builder would do likewise, while the poor overlooked apprentice would sit and plan and figure until he had something that would both maintain the line and stay up.

There were turrets on towers that soared above battlements, along which I could so easily picture guardsmen marching, armed with swords and bows. Just as easily I could envisage dimly lit dungeons plunging into the depths of the earth below the castle.

Manicured lawns - it always seems such a ridiculous term to me, but in this case it was entirely appropriate - stretched away from the path on both side. There were no "keep off the grass" signs, for which I was thankful. What is the point of having beautiful lawns if you cannot walk barefoot across them, feeling clean grass beneath your feet and between your toes?

I took off my boots and socks and proceeded to do exactly that, finding some comfort in the faint tickling sensations. I walked to a lake that had been on my left as I faced the castle, the same one, I assumed, that I had seen the sun glinting off from my window that morning. The wall extended some way out into the lake, but not all the way across. The lake itself was very large and looked as if it would be quite deep. There was a small beach at the edge of the lake, but I stopped just shy of it, preferring to flop belly down on the grass. Living in Western Australia has spoilt me a little; I am used to white - really white, not some yellow shade, but white - beaches of incredibly fine sand with almost no-one on them. The lack of people doesn't happen in the city, of course, but in Dunsborough, Gracetown, Denmark, Esperance - all the small seaside towns - even one other family on the beach seems crowded, so you move on to the next, which will probably be empty, even in summer.

I pulled out sketchpad and pencils and set to drawing my homesickness away. The castle, with its towers and turrets, arches and battlements, was a sketch that promised to take hours.