Meetings
James Potter was getting desperate.
Never in his life had he stolen from someone when it wasn't part of a prank and he had every intended of returning what he stole. It couldn't even be considered stealing, really, just borrowing for humor's sake. He and Sirius had been willing to do almost anything for the sake of humor. But Sirius was dead, and James was pushing forty, and had never lived on the streets before, either.
Three weeks. Three weeks he'd been out here on the streets, weaving in and out of wizard London, sometimes not sure if he was in a wizarding section of the city or a Muggle section, but it didn't matter much. Not like he could do much magic, anyway, unless he wanted Death Eaters raining down on him. He didn't.
He did want something to eat. Something that wasn't half-rotted and half-eaten, something hot, something worth eating. He needed something to eat, the rest was just luxury, he supposed. Since leaving the safe house, he'd begun to realize just how much of his life had been lived in luxury.
He'd never stolen before. Never. Not like he planned to steal now.
James stood in an alley, looking out over the barely lit streets. This time, he knew he was in Muggle London, knew the people he watched were Muggles, blissfully unaware of the existence of magic right under their noses. None of them expected to be accosted by a wizard in the darkness, but some of them would be prepared for a more mundane attack such as what he planned. James fingered the stick of wood in his hand. Just a stick of wood to them, but it would do; unseen, it could be almost anything. A knife. What they called a gun.
This time of night, traffic on the street was slow, so he didn't have to worry about being seen, if he chose the right passerby at the right moment. The only light were the street lamps, and if he could catch someone between them, there would be more shadows than anything else. A man, not a woman. He didn't think he'd ever be that desperate.
Finally, the conditions seemed right, and the passerby looked right. No one else either direction. A man in a long coat, tired-looking, and fiddling with the watch on his wrist, paying no attention to the world around him. Perfect.
James left the alley, fell into step behind the man, head tilted downward, and at the right moment surged forward and stuck the end of his wand in the man's back. "Your money. Give it to me. Everything."
Never in his life had he stolen from someone when it wasn't part of a prank and he had every intended of returning what he stole. It couldn't even be considered stealing, really, just borrowing for humor's sake. He and Sirius had been willing to do almost anything for the sake of humor. But Sirius was dead, and James was pushing forty, and had never lived on the streets before, either.
Three weeks. Three weeks he'd been out here on the streets, weaving in and out of wizard London, sometimes not sure if he was in a wizarding section of the city or a Muggle section, but it didn't matter much. Not like he could do much magic, anyway, unless he wanted Death Eaters raining down on him. He didn't.
He did want something to eat. Something that wasn't half-rotted and half-eaten, something hot, something worth eating. He needed something to eat, the rest was just luxury, he supposed. Since leaving the safe house, he'd begun to realize just how much of his life had been lived in luxury.
He'd never stolen before. Never. Not like he planned to steal now.
James stood in an alley, looking out over the barely lit streets. This time, he knew he was in Muggle London, knew the people he watched were Muggles, blissfully unaware of the existence of magic right under their noses. None of them expected to be accosted by a wizard in the darkness, but some of them would be prepared for a more mundane attack such as what he planned. James fingered the stick of wood in his hand. Just a stick of wood to them, but it would do; unseen, it could be almost anything. A knife. What they called a gun.
This time of night, traffic on the street was slow, so he didn't have to worry about being seen, if he chose the right passerby at the right moment. The only light were the street lamps, and if he could catch someone between them, there would be more shadows than anything else. A man, not a woman. He didn't think he'd ever be that desperate.
Finally, the conditions seemed right, and the passerby looked right. No one else either direction. A man in a long coat, tired-looking, and fiddling with the watch on his wrist, paying no attention to the world around him. Perfect.
James left the alley, fell into step behind the man, head tilted downward, and at the right moment surged forward and stuck the end of his wand in the man's back. "Your money. Give it to me. Everything."