These fan fics are to show appreciation to Ms Rowling for her amazing imagination.

All characters mentioned are her copyright exclusivly and I only use them here as an appreciation of her huge talent.

I was born in the village hence I was one of the workers. Most of the village residents were the workers; you could tell those who had bought holiday and commuter properties as they had the time to do nothing and owned the larger properties. This pushed the young working villagers into the terraces and apartments and even those cost a small fortune. I, and most of my peer groups who had remained in the village, either had huge mortgages or paid a rent that was nearly as much. Hardly anyone could afford a place of your dreams in the country although we lived here all our lives. Most of my friends had had enough of this and moved up North. They had amazing houses for the same amount of money but there was something about Wiltshire that I loved. It was hard to put your finger on it, something in the air, the history, and the scenery whatever it was I loved travelling but I always loved coming home to my dear Wiltshire the best.

The village is quite typically English. It has a lovely square with a war memorial and garden in the centre of a small roundabout. There are five roads coming into this area and one the main road there is a little organic food shop, this is owned by my parents and is where I work. My folks own a farm just outside of the village. We sell through our farm shop and on the Internet; both these ventures are run from this little outlet at 5 High Street, Flowery Fields, Wiltshire.

I have a young man working with me, Mike, he is nothing to look at, and I’m sure he is OK with me saying this, but he is great company and excellent at his job. We are very lucky to have him. The only trouble is that he doesn’t drive. No that is not quite right, he can drive he just can’t afford to pass his test and rent his house so he drives the tractor on our farm sometimes but it means I have to do all the deliveries. We deliver to most houses in the village that are owned by locals, they get normal rates. Holiday residents and commuters get special rates, if you know what I mean; I have to make some money somewhere. This is the case in most villages, all the signs give the special rate and the locals know how to work out the real price.

Young men, now there is something that there are not many of. At least there aren’t many that you would do anything for. There are a few Matt Brewer at Salad Days, just across the border in Devon, is a bit of a looker, but he is married to Frankie who is expecting their forth child, and to be honest is to nice to interfere with. The guy at the hospital is quite a hunk, I think he is called Mark, but as I am far too healthy I hardly have to go there. One of the out of town postmen is a bit of a hunk calls himself Leo, but he is the spare and not around too often. But when he does turn up he is always good for an innuendo or two, which passes the time of day with the daydreams they create. Just wish they came to more than that, pie in the sky daydreams. Why would he be interested in a lady farmer?

So that is about all I do. Every day is similar, getting the box schemes ready, delivering the boxes, supplying the school, setting the flowers in the church, hospital and the funeral parlour and doing all the other things village life contains. Business is brisk and the church fills a lot of my other time. One thing I do enjoy that I haven’t mentioned yet is history near and ancient. I guess it comes with living so close to Stonehenge but I do have a thing for anything unusual. Sometimes this can clash with my Christian beliefs but this also helps me balance and put things in perspective.

What sort of person am I? Well some say I got left behind when the decades moved on from the sixties, I have a problem with that, as I was not born until the seventies. Anyway I like long skirts, very flowing, long coats, flared sleeves, Indian influenced jewellery and a natural look. Fabrics I love are velvets, cheesecloth’s, Indian cotton, silk and similar. I just love anything flowing and romantic.

As you may know every English village has it’s nutcase and weirdo, usually they belong to the same family too. The village nutcase is harmless, he just goes round calling our village weirdo’s witches and wizards; I admit they are strange but everyone knows witches and wizards are things of children’s stories. I think he has spent to long studying the ancient stones; he is rather streetwise and lives by himself in a caravan near what could be classed as the outskirts of town.
Our village weirdo’s however is a little out of the ordinary. To start with the family are incredibly wealthy, however the lady at the post office says they never get any post and they also don’t have a ‘phone line. According to a neighbour, of some distance, they never have any visitors or go in or out of the gates but they always seem to have company. I think I am one of the few locals who actually go in the grounds. I deliver the vegetable boxes, Sam delivers some meats and Dave delivers general provisions. As far as I know that is about it.

You should see the house; it is more of a manor, the biggest house in the parish, just. The gardens go on for miles and house an incredibly ornate greenhouse, a small dense wood, an incredibly ornate flower garden, a maze and a graveyard. Even these items are strange I mean the greenhouse does not grow crops I recognise; being a gardener this is highly unusual. The wood is very dark, with a clearing in the middle, to the west of this is a small graveyard, I know it sounds weird but it looks like one. Nearer the house is a maze surrounded by an incredible flower garden which itself forms a labyrinth with the maze at the centre.
The flowers are laid out in a colour sequence from indigo to blood red, and in between and curling round each sequence is a coil of green fern like plants and foliage like a huge serpent. The flowers are almost bewitched, they flower during the day and night the same, with an incredible perfume you can spell as soon as you enter the grounds, but never outside the gate; I have often wondered why.

There is something about the wood that is unusual; some say there is a clearing in the middle where strange things happen. Miss Brown 2 said that according to her sister (Miss Brown 3) there have been flashes from the area, strange smoke, smells and noises. Miss Brown 2 says she, this sounds ridiculous, saw something flying. The Miss Brown’s are spinsters and are 2 of the only triplet sisters in the village. Miss Brown 1 (the eldest) passed away in unusual circumstances after these rumours started to circulate. They are in general quite dependable, but it was just before their sister’s death they started to speak about a young person flying on a broom in the clearing. As I say the Brown’s know about most of the goings on in the village, they are so talkative about everything but the sister that passed away and that manor you wonder what they know and how they are connected.

Once a week I deliver our complete range of fruit and vegetables to the manor, in general it is on a Tuesday. Usually there is no one in and I leave the box in the outhouse, Every now and then they request another delivery by leaving a note on the table.

On the odd occasion I have dared a peep at the magnificent flowerbeds, they are glorious. I have a fondness for fragrant flowers as I spend most of my life with fruit and vegetables and these flowers are quite exquisite. Even the star gazing lilies small pleasant, which I am sure, is impossible.
It was on one of these forays that, was I seeing things I could not be sure, I saw a little creature with pointed ears, bulging eyes and, of all things, a pillowslip on for an outfit! Whatever it was, when I rubbed my eyes it had gone. I am sure I saw something, just what was it? I dwelt on it for a few days and asked around the village about the occupants. From what I can gather there are two adults there now and a teenage boy. They are rather opinionated by all accounts and look down on just about everyone locally. The boy attends boarding school although nobody knows which, or how he gets there.

And so village life continued. The gossip in the pub changed to the school children who were starting their pantomime at weekend and most of the regulars were discussing who’s kid was doing what. I felt quite left out here as I was in my late twenties and still no husband or child on the Horizon.

I buried myself in work so I was always first in the shop and got on with retrieving the mail from the Internet, nothing interesting just a few orders and 4 mail’s offering to make me a million dollars overnight, 2 from Uganda asking for help getting money out of the country, 1 from Barclays to clarify account details; strange I have no account there; and 13 for viagra and other such essentials (!). Oh well I must remember to speak to Terry about stopping this rubbish when it hits the server. I didn’t mention Terry did I; he handles my web site and is the best server a girl could wish for. I can call him day or night and he will help if he can. He also has a voice that is rather addictive. We seem to be very similar in many ways to do with our outlook on work and the web. He enjoys talking too, which is always nice for a change. In a way he provides a little escapism for a while.

Then I start by selecting flowers to go on top of the vegetable boxes. It always makes them look nice, a woman’s touch. It would be nice if today the hunk delivered. I could do with some interesting conversation, even if it is all pie in the sky, anything but kids and pantomimes.

Well, the post came and went, just bills and more junk mail. Why is life so predictable? However later on that day I received a very strange letter on what could only be parchment sealed with a wax seal. It was delivered, I assume, by hand as it just appeared on my desk and no one saw by whom and the CCTV had run out of tape, doesn’t it always when you need it. Mike didn’t see who delivered it, as he was so bothered about an owl that suddenly appeared in the shop. Owls are not that strange around here but they are quite clever, one would think clever enough not to get stuck in a shop. I picked up this unusual letter and I must say it seemed to fly out very easily for a stuck owl.

When I say letter it is a bit of a misconception as it was more of a scroll really but for ease I will call it a letter. This did not look like something I could open in the shop so I pocketed it and took it home to open with a glass of red wine and some privacy. A benefit of living alone, although my pocket did not appreciate it there were some advantages.

All day it’s very presence filled by stomach with butterflies; I slid my hand over the extraordinary seal. I hadn’t noticed before but the seal bore an image of a snake coiled around the letter ‘M’. Where, no who, did it come from? I knew no one whose name started with the letter M that lived in the village. I could see today was going to be a long day. All day my hands ended up touching the scroll in my pocket and then retracting waiting till this evening. Would the day never end? I seemed to catch every set of red lights on my deliveries. The manor gate was locked for once, with no other way in or out I was a little put out as it was someway of my track. But the amount they spent, it was well worth it. Not today however, oh well no chance to look and smell the flowers today. I had had no complaints about the last delivery; I wonder if they forgot to tell me about a holiday or something. Oh well I still had tonight to look forward to, 3 hours to go.

I arrived home exhausted; it had been a hard day. I know I sell organic stuff but tonight it was a menu master in the microwave. After this I had a hot bath with some beautiful soul music on the stereo, after which I poured a glass of wine and looked again at the little scroll in my hand. Slowly, carefully and with a little apprehension my fingers broke the wax seal with a little crack.