A/N: Hey, if you are reading this, please leave a review. I don't mind negative comments, as long as they are rational and honest. Enjoy!
The TriWizard Tournament: Fight to the Death
CHAPTER ONE: The Fiddler in the Park
Twinkling lights bounce around in the distance, shimmering like glitter rain. The surrounding sounds of the night sets a festive mood. Bells are ringing, ringing in the night. A Muggle man, possibly homeless, was sitting on a wrought-iron park bench, entertaining a few people. Children, couples, even teens, all bundled up head-to-toe in winter clothes, were crowded around the older man as he played his heart out on a polished fiddle. People tossed coins into his hat, torn at the brim, and cheered when he finished his fourth song. The crowd dispersed, then was soon replaced by another. What they all had in common was they were all leaving happier, smiling brighter, than they came.
Taking long, confident strides, I walk over to the man, just as his audience dispersed again, tossing a bit of change into the fellow's hat. As I near him, his body intensifies, becoming stiff and unmoving, his shoulders align, chest rising and falling quicker than a few moments ago. Unfazed by his actions, I continue towards him until I am only a few meters away. He eyes me steadily, then roughly clears his throat, causing him to go into a coughing fit. I patiently wait for the man's response to my arrival, because I am sure he has one. After a few more moments of regaining his composure, he spoke up. " 'Ye can't 'ave me gold! I'll 'ave the 'yardies 'ere 'fore 'ye can reach the Glaxen's!" Glaxen's is a nearby pub, real popular with the delinquents and drunks. I merely shake my head, leaving him to assume more about me. A wise man once told me that " You can learn a lot about a man by how he judges others. The assumptions he makes will reflect his own behavior or mindset." So I let him think as he pleases, unaware of all the valuable information he is giving me. He looks me over, taking time to assess my attire, trying to form an opinion, no, an idea, of the kind of person I am.
" 'Ye dress too nice to be a thief. But then again, swindlers dress better than anyone 'round here. So are you a swindler? 'Cause if so, I'll 'ave you know, 'me mum was a schoolteacher, taught me 'everythin she knew, so you should 'giv up now!" This man, voice gruff and raspy, had a thick southern accent, almost Irish, if you ask me. I stood in silence, thinking about his question deeply. Am I a swindler? I thought about it a few more moments, then spoke up before the man grew impatient with me. " No. But I do have a question to ask, if that's okay with you?" I looked the man in the eye as I spoke, his pale gray irises surround his coal pupils. He stared daggers into me before giving me a curt nod, signaling me to continue. " Well, I was wondering, why were you so quick to label me as untrustworthy?" I ask slowly, watching every muscle in the man's face contort into a shameful expression, one that only lasted a second. He quickly recovered, retreating back to his stony face and untrusting eyes. " Well 'fer one, I saw 'ya standing over near 'va lamppost, 'watchin me strum me 'ol 'fid. I wondered if 'ye was waiting 'fer someone, but 'stead 'ya 'jus stood 'oer 'dere, watching! Then I 'sumed you was some 'sorta 'loon, but 'va way you carried 'yerself, like 'ya 'wudn't 'fraid'v nothing! 'An 'vat put me in a fright! But to answer, I didn't trust 'ya 'cause 'ya 'timidated me, and trust, 'vat 'int easy!" He said, somewhat breathlessly. I took in what he said, but stayed silent. " You ain't 'muchuva talker 'ar 'ya?" I shake my head silently, absorbing the information the man is unintentionally giving away. He just shrugged, then reached for his hat off of the ground. I quickly spoke up, stopping him in his tracks. " Wait, sir. Could you play me a song, the one you sung to. I found it quite pleasant." I admitted. He began to object, then he sighed. " I 'fink I know why 'ye was 'standin 'lone. ' Never 'dmit it I bet, but 'ye may be depressed. Me dad died of grief after me Mom's sickness. There was no cure, the 'doc told 'im. He sulked around for weeks 'til one day, 'e just ... dropped." The man's face went from stony to understanding. I stayed silent, waiting for his answer. Without acknowledging me at all he began to play his fiddle, the sound echoing through the night.