I'd like to dedicate this story to everybody who became a statistic. Because every time a newsreader says '100 killings in London this year show the crime rate is decreasing', those 100 people have lives and families. So remember them. Cheers.
Disclaimer: insert witty comment here
Statistic
The streets of Diagon Alley were crowded, even on this rainy day. The clouds were gathering overhead; already a fine mist of drizzle floated down over the heads of the crowds. Umbrellas were being shaken out and put up. The street was quiet- people hurried around, heads down, minding their own business. One young woman stood out. Her hair was dark blond and curly- it was swiftly becoming dark and straight as the rain hit it; she had neglected to put up an umbrella. Maybe she didn't have one, maybe she couldn't be bothered. Either way, she was getting wet.
A man stood in the doorway. His hood was up, and his face was shadowed, but a pale protruding nose poked out of the cloak. He stepped casually from the alcove, melting effortlessly into the crowd, another frightened shopper. Silently and stealthily, he crept after the woman, following her surreptitiously as she walked quickly towards the bank. Suddenly, in a movement obviously practised, he drew his wand, pointed it at her back, muttered something.
A green light burst from the end, enveloping her for a minute. She crumpled forward with a slightly surprised 'oh'. The light vanished from her eyes at the same time as her attacker did.
In a building where the windows were charmed to fake the weather, in a cubicle plastered with pictures of motorbikes and four friends, a young man with dark hair and grey eyes looked up as a person came walking into the room with a grave expression. His heart thudded unevenly, and inside him it broke.
For every statistic there is someone who loses.
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