Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
He barely noticed the few beggars along the streets anymore now. It was so different compared to when he first came here; the homeless people had surprised him and made him feel bad about his new-found wealth. He had a job and a home and a caring family. He had been poor most of his life, but he had never had to live on the streets. He had given much of his first salary to the homeless he met on the street, trying to calm his own aching conscience by sharing his money with those less fortunate. Two days before his second pay-day he had given his last household-money to a homeless kid on this very street. The next day he had met the youngster again, high as a kite, and that had finally turned him from charity. He still gave money to beggars sometimes, but he had almost stopped noticing them. They had become a part of the scenery and that scared him sometimes. He didn't like the way he had turned cold.
Normally he wouldn't have seen the young man under the pile of filthy blankets as he hurried home to his empty flat. He wouldn't have noticed him at all if someone hadn't kicked the paper cup in front of the man and scattered coins all over the pavement. He slowed down when the cup spun to a halt in front of him, but it was the hoarse voice that made him turn around instead of sidestepping the obstacle.
"Stupid fucking Muggles!"
He froze in mid-stride. Muggles? Now that was a word he didn't hear everyday. He quickly bent down to gather the lost change and the paper cup before the people on the street kicked it around more.
"Leave it, it's mine!" the same voice snarled desperately. He picked up the last coin and put everything back in the cup. The voice owner literally tore it from his hands as he offered it to him. The man with the blankets immediately started to put the money away in his pockets, only leaving a couple of coins in the cup before placing it in front of him again. The man didn't even look up to see who had rescued his money, and that annoyed him slightly. It would have been nice to receive a simple "Thank you", but the guy didn't even seem to acknowledge his existence.
"You're welcome," he said sarcastically, trying to get a reaction from the man. Maybe he was deaf? He put his right hand in his pocket and searched for the little coin he always kept there. The feel of cold metal usually made him calm. His oldest brother had taught him to control his temper by holding a Knut in his hand and slowly count to ten. It had become a habit for him to do so, not only when he was angry, but also when he was nervous or scared. It had become like a kind of amulet for him, and he never felt like he was loosing control if he held it. And if he did lose control anyway? "Well", his brother had told him, "you hit much harder if you're clutching a pile of change in your hand anyway."
Breathing in slowly he looked down at the man in front of him. It was something odd about this guy; he had seen homeless people before, but no one like this man. It was something stubborn and proud about him. The man sat very straight up under his filthy blankets, staring angrily at the boots in front of him as if they where the cause of everything bad. Suddenly the man raised his gaze and looked straight into his eyes. It was something familiar about those eyes, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was. They weren't remarkable in any way. Plain grey eyes glaring from under the filthy, mouse-brown fringe. Sharp features, the face would probably be considered pointy under any circumstances, but an uncertain time on the streets had hollowed the cheeks and transformed pointy to almost unhealthy. How did you end up here? He tried to figure out the person beneath him. Could he be a wizard? He could see different emotions flicker past in those grey eyes, until they settled in the expression of a rabbit trapped in the headlights. It took a few moments, but suddenly the man seemed to snap out of his rabbit-mode.
"What are you looking at?" he snarled. Every fibre of the small body screamed at him to get lost. The man's body language was clearly defensive, shoulders hunched and arms crossed, but those grey eyes now held him captive. He shook his head to clear the thoughts. He couldn't stand here all day looking at a person who reminded him of someone; he had to do something or walk away. This was stupid! He didn't even know who this man eventually reminded him of. He made a decision and took a step towards the man, pulling his hand from his pocket. The reaction was stranger than anything that had happened so far. The man winced away from his outstretched hand and shut his eyes, as if he was expecting a blow to come. He stopped his movement but the man didn't open his eyes, so he shrugged and stuffed the money he had held in his hand into the cup.
With a last puzzled glance at the shivering person under the tattered grey blankets he turned away to leave. As he made his way through the crowd he could feel those grey eyes piercing his back. He resisted the urge to turn around and take a last look at him. Thoughts swirled in his head. Why had he done that? It was insane to give so much money to a homeless man on the street. Not that it was so much money to him, he would manage without that, but it had to be quite a lot for someone whose income consisted of other people's change. Anything is much more than nothing. That guy would probably buy booze with every penny anyway.
He put his hands in his pockets, but he no longer had the little piece of bronze to calm him. That was the most insane part. He had no proof whatsoever that the man was a wizard. He could have hallucinated with his ears or something. The man might have cursed or said something that sounded like "Muggles". It was probably an ordinary man who just happened to live on his street, not a wizard-outcast, but why did he recognise him?
"Breathe in deep, and let the air out slowly. Breathe in deep... Breathe, damn it!" If that man was, or had been a wizard, he would recognise the Knut. He could only wait and see if they met again. He had made his move, now he just had to wait for his opponent to make his.
But what was he to do when the other one didn't move when it was his turn? In chess-competitions he had attended they had used a time charm, forcing the players to make their moves within a given time frame. His time limit had expired only once - the feeling of his chair suddenly heating up below him was not a pleasant experience - and from that day he always made sure to make his moves on time. There was a similar time limit in ordinary wizard chess-games too, sort of. The chess-pieces were easily bored and used to walk away if they had to wait for too long.
That was probably what he ought to do, to walk away, but he couldn't let go. And how can you walk away from an image that's haunting you, the memory of someone you've only met once.
He missed his Knut too. He hadn't got much wizard money in his flat, he didn't need it after all, therefore the pouch where he kept his spare money held a grand total of three Galleons and eleven Sickles. No Knuts, he had checked. There was a lot more than that in his vault at Gringotts, half his salary was transferred there every month, but in everyday life he used Muggle money. To visit Gringotts to get one Knut from his vault was just ridiculous, and he didn't want to buy something unnecessary just to get some change - he had all the Beetle Eyes he needed, thank you very much. A bit of twisted logic told him that it would be easier to try and get his old Knut back from the homeless man. A probably much saner part of his mind also told him that he didn't really need that tiny piece of metal. He would have to try to listen to the voice of reason.
Parchment and ink from the drawer, the rooster-feather from the vase on the bookshelf. He was supposed to get some work done, but instead he wrote a letter to his mum. That usually helped him when he was confused.
He never sent it.