It was mid-afternoon and the sky was royal blue. This was lunchtime for most, but not for the boy who lived off scraps and could cherish a loaf of bread for a full month. Ambleside was horribly poor, but he looked a bit like a divine creature knocked from the skies. Precious and petite, his dark hair was uncut but clean, and his shirt was patched, cheap and ruffled, but laundered in the river that very morning.
The watcher sat on the edge of a footbridge that crossed the railway tracks, legs dangling as he gazed out over the station to Hogsmeade and watched everyone else having their lunchbreak. Two ladies on their way to the tea room, parasols raised against the beating sun. A young boy walking his terrier while devouring a sandwich. And a group of Wellingtonshire socialites pouring into a restaurant, ready to spend more Galleons in one sitting than Ambleside could earn in a lifetime.
The watcher sat on the edge of a footbridge that crossed the railway tracks, legs dangling as he gazed out over the station to Hogsmeade and watched everyone else having their lunchbreak. Two ladies on their way to the tea room, parasols raised against the beating sun. A young boy walking his terrier while devouring a sandwich. And a group of Wellingtonshire socialites pouring into a restaurant, ready to spend more Galleons in one sitting than Ambleside could earn in a lifetime.
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