The day is cold. Grey. The clouds shifting almost restlessly, weather alternately between a fine drizzle and heavy droplets of rain that splatter the pavement loudly, making an eerie drumming sound on the roof of the tiny café.
Your drink is lukewarm coffee, but you don't really pay attention to what you're sipping. Eyes focused on the door. Always careful.
It's been eight years and you're still careful.
Sip. The drink is worse than you first thought. You make a face and receive a glare from the grey-faced waitress.
The door opens. A family of four enters. A huge man, a bony, horse-faced woman and two boys. One absurdly skinny, the other absurdly large.
Sip. Another face. You put down your cup. Disgusting stuff.
You hear the voices of the new arrivals.
"Duddy, dear, what do you want?"
The mother, presumably. She's simpering, fussy.
Oddly familiar.
But no, it couldn't be.
A quick glance in her direction and your suspicions are confirmed. Petunia Evans. The thin golden band around her fingers suggests she's married now.
Memories pierce your heart.
You need something stronger than the feeble coffee. You weren't prepared for this.
More memories assault you. And a recent one brings your wandering mind to a halt. The two boys are sitting side by side on the bench. Your eyes follow the skinny one.
Black hair. Green eyes. Lightning scar.
It's scary, the resemblance. For a second you forget that James Potter is long gone, and your heart is full of rage.
Thump.
You slam the coffee cup back onto the table with unexpected force.
The saucer cracks cleanly in two, and the waitress shoots you an outraged look.
The fat boy and his parents head over to the counter. The boy is left at the table.
Glare. You can't help but glare.
All of a sudden he meets your eyes. Brilliant green. Killing curse green. Evans green.
You remember those eyes.
The boy is staring. His eyes flicker to your broken saucer.
He stands. He really is absurdly skinny.
Hesitates. Then walks slowly towards your table, stopping about a metre away.
You wish he would just go away.
Wince. Eyes flick upward to the lightning scar and back down. Fingers drum on the table top.
"Are you okay mister?"
Young. So young. Perhaps nine or ten. Too young. Dumbledore will kill you for this. You were not meant to run into Harry Potter on your trip to London.
"Fine." The words are harsh and the boy flinches back, his green eyes wide. Her eyes.
You suddenly find the cracks in the table very interesting.
"Oh…" the boy is sweet really. Not that you care. The brat is probably just being polite to strangers. Potter always put on a nice face for the teachers, after all.
"Well, sorry for disturbing you."
Pause. Then he steps away from your table and back to his family. They are watching you suspiciously, the large man glaring with small, beady eyes.
You drain your cup in one.
Another wince. Another disgusted face.
Maybe it's time you went back to the Leaky Cauldron.