Ella sighed. She was always sighing. Her eyes affixed to the clock on the wall, the young woman stood impatiently behind the counter at Madam Pimpernelle's. She drummed her manicured fingernails on the wooden countertop while the other hand hovered over the 'CLOSE' button on the till.

Three, two...

The second hand aligned with the minute hand at the top of the hour. She mashed the button. Then, her slim frame darted to the back to grab her woolen peacoat. It slipped onto her shoulders with ease, and a handful of beautifying potions slipped into her pockets even easier - like there was some kind of magnet pulling them there. The whole ordeal seemed to unfold like a dance: practiced, smooth, polished.

Nothing could ruin her day, not even the fact that her key kept sticking. Although her fingers struggled to twist the lock closed, Ella hummed blissfully to herself. She may as well have been frolicking in a field of flowers. The furrow of her brow threatened the mechanism - which immediately yielded to the threat of her annoyance.

There, she thought, smug, before darting into the foot traffic on the sidewalk without even a second glance.

Samuel's day went well, up until he'd gone to Madam Pimpernelle's for a Pep-up potion and to pick up a few ingredients for a dreamless draught. He'd remembered his drink being a purplish hue, an odd coloration, and opening it for a first swig at the register. Ella had been behind the register.

Ella had been on his thoughts.

Ella had invaded his mind's sanctuary.

"Hey!" He ran up to her as she jetted from the store, closing it for the night. "Hey!" Should he have put a formal complaint in? "Yes, you!" Sam pointed at Ella. "Ella, right?" Of course he knew and remembered Ella Jameson, the Slytherin that made his life at Hogwarts a living hell. He was small, scrawny and hit his growth spurt late in his teens. By the time he'd have towered her, she left -- never to come back.

Ella’d heard the shouting, of course. But surely it wasn’t for her. She didn’t talk to strangers - she hardly acknowledged them.

But the shouting was for her, and as Sam approached - rather briskly - the young woman stopped in her tracks and sunk down a bit as if preparing to be struck.

But he didn’t strike her.

Heart pounding, the prim and polished girl pulled her posture straight once more and swallowed. Her hand poised itself gracefully over her clavicle - had she any pearls they’d be clutched.

“I beg your pardon,” she snipped, “but there is no reason to approach a lady that way.”

Her nostrils flared in disgust as she dropped her hand back down to her side. It came to rest in her purse. Was it her money he was after? Ella surreptitiously slipped one foot back as she prepared to bolt.

“What is it?” She demanded rather than asked.

"If I didn't, you'd have run away, Ella." He tried to glare at Ella, but the bubbles in his chest floated up his chest and made him feel giddy. The princess graced him with her presence and he was so lucky to hear her distain towards him.

"Something in that pep-up potion...Don't get me wrong! You're the most wonderful person I've ever met in my life." Sam sighed, smiling, his cheeks hurting. He was so lucky right now, like Ella Jameson was the best thing to happen in his life. It didn't matter that she couldn't remember who he was. Or why she looked afraid of him.

He laughed, "I just wanted to spend some time with you. Remember me, Ella. It's lil' ol' Samuel Chavez." Would she remember who he was? If she could remember him, recall him, it would mean that all of this was meant to be. Like destiny came together to bring them together. Like his soul mate was standing right in front of him, ready to take her purse and run.

"No, I assure you, your approach is EXACTLY what makes a woman run." Ellas wiped down the front of her coat and exhaled, thankful to have escaped injury.

"Yes, well, you do seem rather peppy, yourse-" She looked up from the buttons on her front and regarded him with wide eyes.

"Samuel?" She half-whispered in astonishment.

Samuel Chavez: the loser pipsqueak from school with the dowdy clothes and thick glasses. No longer a pipsqueak, of course. Now he towered over her, and it wasn't even close. His style had... improved. Slightly. Ella's heart quickened. Her mouth stood open, agape with quivering jaw as she tried to stammer out a single syllable - none of them remotely close to an apology.

Eventually, the woman simply shut her mouth. It wasn't becoming of a lady. When her lips closed, they naturally assumed a flared frown, the one that had always plastered itself on her face when she saw Samuel in the halls of Hogwarts.

'No way is this happening,' she thought. 'No way.'

A normal Samuel would have taken Ella's comment's to heart, catastrophizing over her fright. Instead, he stood gawking at her, her acknowledgement enough. He scratched his tight curls, then nudged his glasses, blushing, while looking down at Ella.

Did...did she say his name outloud?

Oh GLORY! The way the words whispered from her pursed lips, her mouth opening in astonishment. He could only guess that she was amazed he'd found her. She must have been so bamboozled by his admission that the words in were stuck in her throat. He watched her expectedly, "Ella, Ella, are you okay?" He reached his hand out, tapping her shoulder with the tip of his fingers, ever-so-gently. Then as quickly, withdrawing his hand and looking at his fingers. He. Touched. Ella Jameson.

"I know you weren't expecting me. I couldn't stop thinking about you though, so I knew I needed to see you again." He added affirmingly. There was something about the circumstances that made no sense.