Run || Harry Potter FF

i || expect the unexpected

Of all the things I expected out of my day at work, the events that ultimately unfolded were not among them. There I was, sitting at the old-fashioned cash register, ringing up an elderly man with a Hitler mustache who was buying a rusty contraption that was apparently supposed to weigh eggs, when he walked in.

He was tall and strikingly blonde. His eyes were framed with black shadows and his frame was thin--too thin. And though all these features were distinctive, none of them stood out like his demeanor. He looked over his shoulder frantically every few seconds as he pretended to browse the corroded antiques in the shop. He was standing so straight that I could have swore he had a rod through the middle of him. And weirdest of all, he had a long stick in his hand that he gripped as if it would disappear at any minute.

I told Hitler to have a good day as he walked out, and my eyes went straight to the blonde stranger. My first thought was that he was on drugs--the kind that made you paranoid. But upon further inspection, he didn't look inebriated. He just looked...nervous. And very, very stressed.

As his fingers--not the fingers with the stick, they still held tight--ran across an armoire, he kept his eyes on the window. They looked colorless from here, just like his complexion, though they were probably gray or a very light blue. I couldn't tell.

During my thorough inspection, I got so lost in cataloging his features and analyzing his movements that I didn't realize he was looking back at me until it was beyond the point of a stalker-stare. I met his eyes for a split second--they were gray after all--and immediately pointed my stare back down at the counter-top.

Shoot, I thought. He's going to think I'm a psycho. But when I looked back up, his gaze had returned to the glass. I became curious. What could he possibly be looking at for so long? I looked too. But the only thing that registered was the fact that I needed to clean the window. Tiny fingerprints covered the surface and distracted me from anything that was going on outside. Maybe that's what he was looking at too...

But then I saw them. A group of three men with long, billowing, black robes. They too had sticks. I scratched my head with the tip of my index fingernail. Maybe they were playing a game? I looked back to see if there was any recognition in the blonde stranger's face, but he was gone. Vanished.

"Hello?" I called out, making my way around the counter. I looked down the aisle he was in. Nothing. I went to the next aisle. Nothing. When I reached the final aisle, he was there, crouching down, clutching his stick close to his chest and breathing heavily.

"Um... Do you need help with something?" I asked awkwardly, not versed in these types of situations. 

"I would get out of here if I were you," he said in a sober tone, not even bothering to look at me.

That's when my mind started doing what it does best: overworking. Could there be robbery about to occur? Are those guys a part of a gang? Are they coming to kill him...or me? With sticks?

My thoughts came to an abrupt halt when the bell, signaling that the door was opened, rang overhead. There they were, with a distinct air of danger around them, hanging out in the doorway, surveying the shop for whatever they were looking for--which was probably the guy crouching next to me.

I knew I should be afraid, and I was, just not enough to cower down in fear. "Can I help you?" I asked, trying to hide the weakness that I felt.

They didn't answer but the beefy one in the middle called out, "We know you're in here, Malfoy. You might as well come out now and save us the trouble of killing this poor muggle... Of course, we might just do that anyway."

I wasn't exactly sure what a muggle was, but I had an inkling that he was talking about me. My heart raced as I sank down to a crouch. I felt like an idiot, a helpless, pathetic idiot. But what was new? This situation, certainly, but this feeling was definitely not.