AN: This is where the main story starts, but we're not at the main action yet. That will happen when we'll reach Hogwarts. Which will happen after we've explained the reason for this story to exist i.e. how come it's different from other ff and canon.
Act 1, Chapter 2: Crumpets in my sights at King's Cross.
On the King's Cross railway station the day was passing with the usual central London's hustle and bustle. There were crowds of people on the ground floor, that were looking at the information displayed on the LED panels.
Crowds formed the queues to the shops selling food and trinkets that ensnared eager tourists. Crowds that stood in queues to the ticket machines scattered throughout the building. But above of all, there were crowds entering and exiting the station.
The station itself was divided into two sections. One that was there for commerce, the other was there for trains. One had many shops, restaurants, and information booths. The other had a row of gates dividing it from the former, and sets of train tracks running its entire width.
Overlooking it all, leaning on a guard rail, was a pair of bespectacled green eyes. A curious trinket that coincidentally matched colors with its owner. He was hard at work diligently skimming through the crowd passing underneath. The guy was a clean shaven bloke, with dark hair, who, judging by the wrinkles around his mouth, was in his late thirties.
Being of moderate height and build, one could describe him as an example of an unassuming person.
Today it was doubly so, wearing a grey flannel shirt, light blue jeans, and a pair of not branded sports shoes his look practically screamed "Among breakfasts, I'm the porridge of people". Bland and bland.
At least that would've been the case, If not for a surprising amount of scars. How do you even fit so much scar tissue on a man, without making him look like a some kind of freak of nature? Underneath clothes that's how.
With an attire that's completely out of place in the hot summer afternoon, the lamo - cameleon lurks unnoticed. But a buttoned up shirt and no rolled up sleeves in this weather? Give me a break, brother, hasn't fashion and personal hygiene been hurt enough already? When will the suffering end?
For the last two hours he bared the scrutiny of passersby, and since there were no complaints or loud comments forthcoming, that must mean that the disguise is working. Really, the pit stains were just overdoing it. Still, the predator became part of the crowd, waiting for his time to pounce.
Suddenly, his eyes focused on a person that just entered the station. Realizing just who exactly graced King's Cross Station with his presence, they closed for a second in sheer delight. At last, he'd finally see to something that eluded him for years.
Adrenaline seeped into his veins, and with a sly smile dancing across the lips he abandoned his post, came down a flight of stairs and joined his mark on the ground floor. Walking in the direction of the food courts with each passing second the distance between them closed.
With less than thirty yards separating them, he estimated that the somewhat tall, brown haired man in front of him sported a rather thick figure beneath his expensive jacket. Possibly over 200 pounds of fat and muscle.
With a smile he that it is all for the better, the bigger they are, the harder they fall, after all. At twenty paces away, his mouth escaped sounds of humming "London bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down…"
With just the last ten to go, he advanced at a run. Running at top speed after just a few bounds, he brought down the unsuspecting man as hard as he could. Before hitting the ground the violent movement jerked the jacket open and everyone around gasped.
People in the queue did so, because it was all so sudden and unexpected. The guy on the floor just had his breath knocked out of him and received a possible concussion, and our hero gasped from anger. That was his way, to stop himself from screaming a stream of curses.
The reason for his anger poked its stupid face out from the jacket folds, mocking him out from its hiding place, and enjoying the newfound freedom. The expected formal white shirt that his prey was going to be wearing today, was missing. Wrong person sunny boy Jim, whoopsie daisy, you won't fix it with a simple "sorry" this time.
Putting people's fashion sense aside (that jacket, with a t-shirt, really?), a tee with the graphic of the American bald eagle with words "FREEDOM" and "PATRIOTS", although clashing with that particular jacket, could be forgiven. However, the mistaken target, and the resulting scene now unfolding, was a different matter entirely.
When at this point most people would be shouting profanities, or demanding explanations, the guy on the ground was not one for such trivialities. Judging by his expression a true installation of democracy was about to take place. With his bearings taken, and target locked in his sights, all of his attention was focused on the now cringing assailant.
In that short moment, he had to have reached a conclusion along the lines of: "Set protocol: I'm taking this little twerp down. Reasoning: he could be sporting a deadly weapon, therefore he must be immediately rendered harmless forever." It had to be, because in less than three seconds the guy was up, and a can of pepper spray shined in his hand.
Meanwhile, his assailant made it to "else…" in a mad dash through the words that, given more time might've been a start of a reasonable explanation but alas... Saying that one is sorry, and -"It's just a tragic mistake I swear", - was all for naught. The consequences happen regardless of intentions.
Moreover as he was already being pepper sprayed in those lovely greens of his, an open mouth only made things worse for him, but then a helpful uppercut came to close it, and made it all, all right.
A passing police foot patrol bore witness to the events, and before more helpful embraces could follow, they intervened and put a stop to the kafuffle. The whole thing didn't even take a minute but that was enough for the coughing to start.
As the pepper spray mist spread, everyone in the vicinity of Orangeface-greeneyes, started coughing, dry heaving, or both. Seeing this, the London's finest displayed the famous British common sense, and decided that they'd help most by leaving.
It was in no time at all, that the bastard responsible for the orange fog had his hands in plastic cuffs, and was being led out of the station. Gotta pad those police crime stats, we mustn't forget about them, my precious. Pepper spray is a forbidden item in the UK after all.
Barely seeing this through the haze and watered eyes, one of the bystanders yelled after them, halting their retreat halfway to the station's exit.
-What about us? - That gave the bobbies a pause. They whispered a few words to each other and turned back towards the group standing by the restaurant.
-Hey, buddy! - They yelled back.
-Aye? - The buddy replied.
-Walk it off! - The bobbies concluded.
With victory for the New Scotland Yard hard earned, they carried on and out of the station. The people in the queue also carried on. Coughing and with his glasses covered in gunk, Scarface carried on and found a vacant table nearby. It was abandoned due to the mist around him in case you were wondering, my dears.
Once seated he took a napkin from the table and tried his best to clean both the glasses and his face.
The mistake cost him five minutes tops. During that time no trains were scheduled to depart, and no customer was served as all of the station staff paused what they were doing in order to sneak a peek.
Now though, just as quickly as it began, the spectacle was finished. Everyone resumed what they were doing before, and the clock was again ticking. It was time to hustle. Yet before he could even move a muscle someone from the queue for the tea and crumpets started asking questions.
-Do you enjoy being a nuisance for everyone else? - Said the blurry shape.
-Excuse me? - He replied.
-You're making it difficult for other people to breathe, haven't you noticed how everyone around you is coughing? – The Shape explained snarkly.
-Well… - Caught off guard, Scarface stayed off guard, his emotions mixed.
-Why don't you just scamper off to the toilet, and wash the pepper off of you? – The Shape persisted with its crusade for clean air.
-Um.. – Although still with no clear course of action in mind, Scarface began to dislike the Shape.
-Besides you shouldn't be sitting here anyway. – Still the Shape continued with its yapping.
-Oh? And why is that? – Asked Scarface, feigning politeness, but hoping for the Shape to bugger off.
-Having not bought anything, you're hogging a space that's meant for the customers. As in: not you.
- The Shape explained it, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world.
-I can't find my way to the toilet without my glasses, and they're full of gunk from that spray. – Scarface explained putting as much desperation into his voice as he could, not that he was hopeless and therefore desperate for the Shape's help, no, no, no. He was just desperate for the Shape to leave him alone.
-Trying to steal me away after exchanging just a few sentences? Behave! ...Or at least buy me a dinner first. – Said the Shape, changing the tone of conversation with a twist and a twirl, though actually standing still.
-Fine. Get me to the damned toilet, and you got yourself a deal. – Scarface said exasperated, and wondered if he was going to regret that change of tone of conversation.
-I know a nice pub in south Kensington. As it's only a couple of stops from here it wouldn't be much trouble. – The Shape offered, with hope in its voice.
-That's nice, but I was just going to give you the cash and rush away. – Scarface politely declined, questioning in his mind whether the Shape was actually flirting with him.
-What a shame. – The Shape sounded disappointed.
-Innit? – Scarface responded accordingly.
-Ya man. Bummertown. – The Shape said continuing the disappointed theme.
-Had it been some other time I would have, sorry mate. – Scarface replied trying to placate the Shape, despite himself. After all, he owned the Shape nothing, it was nothing to him, and he was on an active assignment. Heck, he couldn't even see it properly!
The conversation hit a snag and an awkward silence descended. But then the Shape grabbed his wrist and they headed to the gents. Now that he was up close with this person even without his glasses he noticed that he was being led by a man dressed remarkably similarly to the guy that he just tackled to the ground.
Although, come to think of it. With those white cuffs peeking out of the jacket's sleeves, the shape resembled his target even more than even the guy with the pepper can. Being a man that doesn't believe in coincidences he concluded that either his vision got somehow damaged, or that he finally cracked under pressure and started seeing his target everywhere.
There was a rumor that the Macbeth Syndrome sometimes happened to professional assassins and because of it, many had to retire. But what was he supposed to do mid assignment? Run for the hills? Leave his target here, and notify "them" of his failure? Start a massacre in the center of London?
Further thoughts and speculations got cut short as they've arrived at their destination. The men's bathroom like any generic public washroom in a public location had tiled floor, row of urinals, row of stalls, and a row of sinks separated by a wall.
Above the sinks were mirrors and embedded soap dispensers with paper towel boxes and air dryers on the side. The Shape withdrew a couple of steps, and he began scrubbing the gunk off his face and glasses. Finished, he dried and turned around to face the stranger.
-Nice assortment of scars you got there. Must be quite the story? - Asked the stranger, eyeing his face with curiosity.
-Well, you know life… - Came our Macbeth's absentminded reply, his focus temporarily occupied by patting down his fringe back in its place with one hand, with the other taking out his wallet.
-Well, I know, I came here for a business meeting, and now I doubt I'll be employed much longer, however I don't think that my little vacation can compare with you looking, as if you took a face full of molten shrapnel to the face. - Casually leaning against the wall, the stranger forth came with casual despair.
-As I've said, I'm in a bit of a rush, so here is the promised tenner. - Surprised, by the sudden bout of openness he replied in a surprised tone while handing out a business card along with the banknote.
-If in the near future you find yourself looking for employment check out the website on the card. We're hiring, and if you pass the video interview, we'll cover the travel expenses.
-The Stranger took it, thanked him, gave his own contact details, and after saying their goodbyes, Macbeth left to find the rest of his target's doppelgangers that he will with no doubt be seeing today at the station.
Despite all that's happened he had a spring in his step and a single thought in his mind. Buying a solution to his current predicament for only ten pounds was a deal that could only happen once in a lifetime.
For him it was the time that was precious and money that was cheap. Thanks to that guy, he now had a way to complete his mission even though he's gone looney. Grateful for that, he didn't even mind the loss of sanity, as it was bound to happen sometime. Easy come easy go...
About a dozen of contrived small talks and job offers later Macbeth was on his way home to Islington. Going up the steps he sang a strange version of "Barbie girl" under his nose: -"…life's fantastic, as a spastic…", - and skipping back to HQ, admired the moon visible on the midnight sky.
In his case the future was going to be all right, and knowing that, sleep came easily that night. All of the interviews were already scheduled for tomorrow, all of the emailed conversations concluded. And all of the candidates would arrive at a remote location in Surrey.