Ravenclaw Head of House, Short 2, Prompt: Begging, WC: 673
AU, Harry is homeless after the Dursley's threw him out.
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His corner was darker than the others, shadowed, sheltered, and out of the wind. He reached out a hand into the dying sunlight, begging for something more than an unkindly glance or undisguised ignorance. There was nothing but icy glares and the faintest hint of a raindrop falling into the base of his palm. It was going to rain. Looking up at the dark sky, he knew it would be a particularly dreary stint, as well. Possibly all night. He would maybe have to meet up with another lonely soul for some company, body warmth, and just a little human interaction to keep him sane.
People were drawing away from the city centre now. It was gone six o'clock, so the majority of office workers had left, and the retailers' rush was petering off. They had all come in their droves, hustling for their warm cars, their warm homes, and their warm beds, while he was there asking for enough money to buy a cup of tea because he hadn't been able to afford a sandwich earlier on. And the soup station was too far away. He would risk someone else taking his perfectly good corner, where there was shelter, at least.
In the last six years of his life, living out on the streets, begging, in the coldness of day and night, and the coldness of other people, he had become significantly less hopeful. He used to believe in magic. He used to dream about bright green lights, flying motorcycles, and the stretching of a glittering, shimmering future. Those visions were nothing more, though, only fragments of his unconscious mind. He didn't have anywhere to dream anymore, only the dank, stone floor on which nightmares would occupy the little time of sleeping he would be permitted.
Harry Potter wiped away a smudge of dirt from his glasses and peered out a little further into the street. Rain splattered down, forming a small puddle at his feet. If he wasn't careful, his only pair of shoes would become sodden. Then there was the horrifying possibility of trench-foot, or flu. He had gotten flu the first year after the Dursleys - his aunt and uncle - had thrown him from their house for a series of crimes. Insubordination, supposed thievery, and his knack for odd things happening to him around them. Like when he had been furious, and then suddenly the lamps in the entire house had shattered. They had blamed him. But why?
A clattering of heels brought his attention skyward.
First, he saw the boots. Bold burgundy leather, with a shiny golden buckle adorning its side. Then he watched the bottom of the floor length material shudder in the rain. It was almost as though the cotton was alive, and coated in some sort of glitter powder. From every angle, even in the drizzling rain and the darkness of the hour, it caught the light and burst into iridescence. And lastly, Harry's eyes moved to the man's face. Surprisingly, he saw kindness there.
The man was ancient - that much could be realised from his crinkled eyes and pure white beard, hanging in wisps from his chin. But he was smiling, and it made Harry feel warmer and more at home than he had done in his entire life. He drew back his hand from the usual, begging pose. It felt rude to do so in this man's presence, which was peculiar.
He stood there, and Harry thought he ought to stand up too, but the man gestured for him to remain.
Silence hung between them. It felt as if they might have known each other in another life.
His smile resplendent, and his piercing blue eyes twinkling, the older man reached into the pocket of his mauve cloak. From it, he pulled a huge, golden coin. Harry had never seen anything like it before, and assumed the man must be foreign. It would explain the lack of conversation.
But Harry didn't get the chance to ask anything more, as the older man walked away.
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Thanks all!
