James Sirius Potter's coffee was black as a burnt-out cauldron. He barely functioned at this ungodly hour, in last night's clothes and with no shower.
A woman in the next booth shoved something into her mouth and washed it down with a grimace. Vitamin, he assumed. She'd grab her Muggle briefcase and trudge off to some respectable job, and then he'd slip into the men's room unnoticed, and follow the instructions that the note had laid out.
His profession only had one rule: don't get caught. But last night, they'd knocked him out cold and taken everything in his flat, including his wand.
He stared at the pill in his hand. "Go on, take it," his brain urged, "and no one has to know how badly you screwed up this time."
Fed up with waiting, he walked past the woman into the restroom and examined the pill in the light. The translucent capsule was supposed to mask the flavor of the potion inside. He could smell it: must, with a hint of shellfish.
James swallowed it whole and forced it to stay down.
The transformation took. He checked his disguise in the mirror. It looked good, but it didn't change his rumpled shirt. He smoothed down his hair and pulled his belt tighter. When the change was complete, something bounced on the floor. His wand! He picked it up, feeling for resonance. No, not his. But any wand was better than no wand.
The woman in the booth lifted her head as he passed her again. The note. He should have known that five years was too long to go unnoticed in this game. At the end of each deed, he'd turned down the proffered exit strategy. Acquisition and redistribution was simply too much fun. But that last job must have ended up pissing off someone else in the process.
A deep pocketed, influential someone who broke into his magically secure flat and took all his stuff while he slept, apparently.
James stepped behind the cafe and Disapparated with a crack.
He'd never been to the British Museum of Natural History, not in broad daylight, ushered past security and asking for a ticket, please. No one paid attention as he wandered through the prehistoric bones. People seemed to vanish into other exhibits, conveniently leaving him alone to work his special magic.
A shrill voice rang out and he turned to see the woman from the cafe running towards him. "Riddiculus!" she shouted, aiming her wand at him.
When the spell fizzled into nothing, she sheepishly lowered her wand. "Matt? Is that really you?"
Dragon Dung! James thought furiously. He'd just blown his chance to get his life back. He crumpled the note in his fist. They'd skin him alive. Or worse.
Before he could think about digging for his spare wand, the woman stuck hers up his nose and pressed in, hard. James smelled finely polished oak, a hint of cinnamon and a set up.
"You're not Matt, are you?"