[ Printer Friendly Version ] [ Report Abuse ]
Chapter 2 : II
| ||Rating: 15+||Chapter Reviews: 1|
Background: Font color:
Hermione sighed and swirled the contents of her drink around as she sat inside her hotel, reading The Daily Prophet with no interest in the words at all. Although the sun was bright and the water shining like glinting azure diamonds as it crashed upon the pebbly beach, Hermione had no interest in venturing outside, not with so many people around.
She had not been in Morocco for three days and already she was sick of it; of the smiling faces of travellers and the never ending heat waves causing her skin to get clammy and come out in spots. While the people at the hotel were nice, and the drinks refreshing and well made, she found herself bored with her surroundings and not even the wonderful culture of the locals could convince her of staying any longer.
Picking up her handbag from the bar top, Hermione adjusted the long multicoloured skirt she was wearing in the hopes of fitting in more and slid her feet back into her white sandals and slid out of her chair with a slight stumble before vanishing entirely.
Not one person noticed the sad brunette witch leave the country with a slight pop and a swish of coloured skirts as they enjoyed the beach and fine weather.
India, whilst beautiful and a cultural delight, could only keep Hermione's interest for two weeks before she moved on with only a small trinket to show for her time there. She left China within a day after nearly choking on the smoggy air, deciding it was not the right place to start her life over. She became very well acquainted with an elderly wizard called Irving as she travelled through Vietnam and south to Singapore, but parted company with him when he announced he wanted to visit India. Hermione had already ruled out India for her future life of happiness and continued on south, alone once more.
"Ya do know how t' ride a horse now dontcha, girlie?"
"Yes, of course I do," Hermione lied through clenched teeth as she stared at the rude man called Macca, dressed in ripped jeans and a worn out hat in need of a good wash with dislike. She found the people in Australia an odd bunch, charming and polite one minute, then brash and rude the next. She just didn't understand their way of life which they all seemed to be imprinted with before birth, and how it differed so greatly between the coast and the outback.
The man tilted his head to the side, the harsh outback sunlight catching on his tanned and weathered face. "I reckon you ain't never rode no horse before; you one of them posh sheilas from the Big Smoke, ain't cha?"
Hermione stared blankly at him, trying to comprehend what the man had said, seriously wondering if it was even a form of English he had spoken. How her parents had fallen in love with the country and remained there once they had been reunited after the war was beyond Hermione, when all she wanted to do was sit down the stockman and teach him the fundamentals of the English language.
"Ey, you 'earing me alright there missy? I dun think this is the right job for yeh; yeh need balls to be able t' drove them cattle, and you ain't got them. I think it'd be best if you go'orn home now," Macca said seriously as he rolled a cigarette together in his hand with practiced ease; Hermione had to choke back vomit as he put it entirely in his mouth and rolled it around to seal it. He quickly removed it and set about lighting a match to set the tip on fire, all in the space of ten seconds that left Hermione completely disgusted with the outback, that and she couldn't stand the flies constantly buzzing around her head.
"Very well," Hermione said as she shoved her silly hat that cost a fortune of muggle money back upon her head rather roughly, cursing her ill fated trip so far and wishing to find the perfect place to settle down in to find happiness.
Clearly, the land down under was not that place.
Previous Chapter Next Chapter
Other Similar Stories