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.
A/N: New version, but not much is different. I want to thank my betas Minerva Solo and Lisa, any remaining mistakes are my own.
"You have to promise to never ask us why we fight." - Syster Birgers
The rain didn't seem to be thinking about ceasing anytime soon, and he was soaking wet, every single part of him. Four layers of clothing, all of them in different states of wetness, from damp to drenched. Trying to use the blankets as an improvised cover didn't help much; he needed to find a proper shelter. Suddenly a door opened in front of him and he almost crashed into a person with a red umbrella. He silently cursed the idiot for almost poking his eye out with that devious thing, but took advantage of the open door and sneaked in. Hopefully he wouldn't get thrown out at once, like he had been from the other places where he had tried to seek shelter today. They thought he scared the customers or polluted the neighbourhood or something like that. Bastards! They, if anyone, soiled this society.
The gust of appealing scents that hit him as he stepped through the narrow door scattered his furious thoughts. The warmth and the rich smell of spices, cacao, tea and something else, something familiar, made him dizzy in a nice kind of way. He relaxed and looked around in the small shop he had entered.
To his right where shelves from floor to ceiling, crammed with big metallic boxes that apparently held different tea-blends. He assumed they where tea-blends anyway, since some of the labels read "Earl Grey", "Cinnamon Tea" and "Breakfast Tea" although other labels made him wonder, "Gunpowder" sounded dangerous and "Cactus" was just weird. The shelves to his left bulged under the weight of teapots, big mugs and other tea things. He walked slowly along the shelves and amused himself with reading the hand-written labels.
"Chocolate and cream" - he hoped that that box didn't contain tea, chocolate and cream was all right on their own, but tea was supposed to taste like tea and not like sweets, if you asked him. "Chai" - didn't that mean "tea" in Russian? He couldn't see the point in naming a tea blend "Tea". There had to be at least a hundred different boxes and he soon lost interest and began to look for other things. He examined a round teapot the size of a beach ball. How anyone could lift that when it was filled with tea was beyond him.
At the sound of rustling paper he turned with a start. In his eagerness to explore the interior of the shop he had failed to notice the person sitting behind the counter reading. Him. Again. The man he least of all wanted to see. He had done a fine job avoiding the man lately, only seeing him once or twice. He hadn't exactly stopped to think about why he didn't want to see the man. It had simply seemed like a good idea to turn and walk the opposite direction whenever he saw red hair. Those brown eyes had made him feel so much, and the Knut had stirred memories that didn't need stirring. And now he had apparently managed to run into the shop where the man worked. Great. If this was someone's idea of a joke he was going to kick said someone in the arse if they ever met.
Mr. Black Boots must have felt his stare because he looked up and got sight of him. Recognition and surprise washed over his face. He looked stupid, with his mouth half-open like a retarded goldfish. And was that the Daily Prophet he was reading?
He quickly turned his back to the other man and pretended to look at a shelf crammed with ugly metallic boxes illustrated with teddy bears, kittens and stupid, smiling sunflowers. The time ticked away. It was surprising that the man hadn't thrown him out for scaring off the customers or dripping rainwater all over the floor, and he decided to take advantage of being indoors as long as possible. Suddenly he felt a pleasant wave of heat that seemed to radiate from his bones. He knew that if he would care to look he would see steam rising from his damp clothes and hair. A heating charm.
"Didn't your mother tell you," he said coldly as he turned to look at the other man, "that it's not very polite to cast charms on someone without asking first?"
"You looked cold." the man said, looking guilty, and was that a flicker of pain? The guilty look on the man's face pleased him, but the pained expression that had followed puzzled him. He hadn't even tried to be nasty.
He sniffed. "It's still not very polite."
An awkward silence followed, but the guilt and whatever that other expression had been was soon replaced with a smug grin.
"So" the man said, looking way too pleased with himself, "then you are a wizard after all."
"No" he said coldly, and way too quickly. This conversation wasn't going in a direction he liked.
The man looked surprised at the sudden outburst and the unspoken questions in those brown eyes willed him to continue.
"No" he said silently "I'm not a wizard anymore."
"So you were a wizard." the other man said slowly and the expression in his eyes changed from surprise to concern. Why couldn't the man just let it drop? He was worse than a dog with a mouldy bone!
"That's none of your business!" he snapped, "Maybe I was... I was a wizard," he forced himself to say and slowly slid down with his back against the wall, anything to avoid those piercing eyes. "Long time ago." he continued, "Not looking back." He suddenly felt very tired again. It was difficult to find the words, and to put them together to sentences. This weakness scared him. He heard the sound of wood scraping against wood and then footsteps. Soon enough those black boots were standing in front of him again. Deja vú. Only this time the man wore black jeans, last time his trousers had been grey. Odd how small details like that had stuck to his mind. He sighed. Glaring wouldn't solve any problems so he closed his eyes and concentrated on the sharp corner of a shelf digging into his back instead. A hand gingerly touched his shoulder but he shrugged it off; he didn't want his touch, and didn't want his pity. No one was allowed to touch.
The guy with the boots sat down right next to him instead. His skin prickled with unease. Too close. He could feel heat radiating from the body next to him and he didn't like it a bit. He wanted, no he needed, his personal space, thank you very much. But he wasn't ready to get up from the floor just yet; instead he pulled up his knees and put his arms around them. The presence of another human being so close still unnerved him, but it felt a bit better to have shielded himself somewhat.
"How can you stop being a wizard?" the man asked softly, stupidly.
"They killed my wand, that's bloody how!" he yelled, silently hoping that the violent outburst would shut the man up. It did. The shock-factor could be a useful tool, but he wasn't foolish enough to think that it would last very long.
Deciding that attack was the best defence he put his hand in his pocket and withdrew the Knut. From the corner of his eye he could see the other man watching him silently. "Why did you give me this?" he asked and slowly turned the coin between his thumb and index finger. He had the time to turn it two and a half time before Black-boots answered.
"I... honestly I don't know." the man stuttered, "It seemed like a good idea at the moment."
It wasn't a very satisfying answer. In a way he was scared by the fact that this guy seemed to have known that he was a wizard all along. The fact that the whole thing about the Knut might have been a deliberate act also made him slightly uneasy, although a small part of him was glad it wasn't just a mistake.
He sat in silence. It felt strange to have any kind of conversation with the man without knowing his name. Not that he really cared, but he had a desire to put labels on things. He needed a name to call him, if only in his head. "The guy with the boots". Black-boots? Black? No. That felt even more peculiar, to name him after the first criminal that had managed to escape from Azkaban ever. The thought of Azkaban made him shudder instinctively, and he hugged himself tighter.
The other man was holding his breath as if he was about to say something.
"Did you want something?" he asked impatiently when the other man showed no sign of uttering a word.
"Can I have it back?" Black-boots finally said.
"No." he snapped before his curiosity got the better of him, "Why do you want it?"
The man looked embarrassed and gave a small sigh before speaking, "I... It's a long story really. You know, just forget it. It's stupid."
"Fine." he said sourly and tucked the coin back in his pocket. They sat in silence for what felt like a very long time. In reality it might have been less than two minutes, but awkward silences tend to stretch the time and make it run slower than cold syrup.
"Is it raining still?" he finally asked to break the embarrassing silence.
"I don't know." Black-boots answered and leaned over him to get a better view of the door, "No. I don't think so."
"Then I'd better go." he said, and tried to pull his now much drier blanket from underneath the other man.
"Where?" the idiot asked, "Home?"
"I don't have a 'Home'." he snarled and gave him a nasty look. It would have been easier to lie and tell him that he was indeed on his way home, but it was almost worth it just to see the look on the mans face.
"I'm sorry!" Black-boots blurted, blushing slightly "I didn't think... Is there anything I can do to help?"
"What?" he almost yelled.
"I'd like to help. It's hard to see a fellow wizard suffer."
"I'm. Not. A. Wizard. Anymore." he hissed through gritted teeth.
"I'd still like to..."
"Leave it." he interrupted harshly and managed to free his blanket with a violent tug that almost made him fall backwards.
"You don't have to be so..."
"Yes I have to!" he yelled, but the shock-factor didn't seem to work at all this time.
"I just thought..."
"Well. Maybe you where wrong." he hissed and quickly got to his feet.
He managed to stomp on the other mans foot and also "accidentally" give his leg a kick on his way past him. Judging by the gasp from the man his kick had caused at least a little pain. Without apologising he stormed off, smirking as he slammed the door. A dark devious joy filled him. That had felt good. Had he cared to look back before leaving he would surely have been pleased by the look of hurt and confusion on the other mans face.