A few drunken stragglers stumbled out of the dreary bar, which stood sandwiched in-between two boarded up houses, and toppled onto the cobbles of the narrow streets. Their mindless staggering disturbing the ankle high layer of fog that was drifting through Spinners End.
Crouched by the wall of number forty-six was a small boy, no older than eight or nine, who was observing the street and its drunken occupants with little interest in his dark eyes. Most of his face was shrouded by the overgrown crop of thick hair that hung over his eyes. The tip of a hooked nose just visible beneath the greasy, black mop. His gaunt face showed no emotion, but the dark circles under his eyes suggested this wasn't the first night he'd spent outside in the cold.
A steady rumble of thunder came from the dark clouds gathering above. But the boy stayed put. Pulling the large grey coat, which hung loosely on his small skinny frame, more tightly around his shoulders he pressed himself closer to the cold stone of the crumbling wall. The wind picked up, and the cold drizzle it carried stung at his bare ankles, just visible beneath the tattered ends of jeans clearly meant for a child much smaller than him.
The boy shook the long sleeve of his coat until his hand was free, uncurled his bony fingers from the fist it had been clenched in, and stared at the folded piece of paper pressed into his palm. The edges of the folded up letter were slightly red where the sharp corners had cut into his hand. Flinching slightly, he pulled his favourite possession away from the flesh the tight fist had embedded it into. Unfolding it gently he spread it out on his knees, brushing them down first so the dirt off his jeans didn't rub off onto it. He ran his fingers down the smooth surface of the childish love letter, stroking the curls and loops of the words, giving it as much affection as he longed to show the writer. The name of the original addressee had been viciously scribbled out, replace with his own name which was written next to it in a narrow, slanted scrawl. His handiwork from earlier that day.
He held the stolen letter up to his face and brushed his nose against it, before pressing his lips to the spot where the little girl had signed her name.
Lily Evans.
Carefully, he refolded the letter and held it safe in his clenched fist once more, squirming as it dug back into the cuts. He raised his head to watch the usual miserable scenes before him as heavy rain drops began to plummet from the storm clouds now dominating the sky, disguising his tears.