Post by Charlie Jones on Nov 5, 2009 1:05:55 GMT -5
You know, after living quite a few months in the city, she might have known better than to be careless with her money. It was one thing to learn the tricks and trades of a scheming urban area, but it was another to realize that places like London weren't the only culprits for such petty theft.
For today, "petty" was the spot-on word.
Charlie had didged and dodged her way through a busy Sunday morning crowd that spilled over in the streets of Diagon Alley. There were mothers school shopping, businesspeople chatting about new prospects, artists here and there talking about the meaning of life... and then you had Charlie-- little known, overambitious major league Quidditch reserve squad player. The long title would have bored others, flustered some, but it brought a soft glow to our dear beater, who was thismuch closer to being what she drew with colored quills and parchment as a little kid.
And so, this face-- as adorable as it was-- was no good for her, as in a moments notice she was noticeably bumped by a guy with greasy hair. "Dude, what the heck?!" She said as she immediately broke out in a scowl.
The man only gave a slight smile. "Oh, you Yanks are the best," and he was off to blend in with the crowd. Charlie looked at him in slight confusion, as she barely ever heard a mention of her American accent unless it had to do with American sports. It probably had to do with the Qudditch cup shirt she had on to support the US team. Go figure.
The internal process of trying to break it down was enough time for another greasy lurker, this time blond, to slip a few twig-like fingers into her pocket and take her money. She and they were already separated by stores and people when she dug her hands in her coat pockets to feel nothing where she kept her change.
Charlie literally stopped in the street to feel every pocket. "Frickin' Merlin. That was last my two galleons!"
(open, i'll try to write but i can barely promise it)
For today, "petty" was the spot-on word.
Charlie had didged and dodged her way through a busy Sunday morning crowd that spilled over in the streets of Diagon Alley. There were mothers school shopping, businesspeople chatting about new prospects, artists here and there talking about the meaning of life... and then you had Charlie-- little known, overambitious major league Quidditch reserve squad player. The long title would have bored others, flustered some, but it brought a soft glow to our dear beater, who was thismuch closer to being what she drew with colored quills and parchment as a little kid.
And so, this face-- as adorable as it was-- was no good for her, as in a moments notice she was noticeably bumped by a guy with greasy hair. "Dude, what the heck?!" She said as she immediately broke out in a scowl.
The man only gave a slight smile. "Oh, you Yanks are the best," and he was off to blend in with the crowd. Charlie looked at him in slight confusion, as she barely ever heard a mention of her American accent unless it had to do with American sports. It probably had to do with the Qudditch cup shirt she had on to support the US team. Go figure.
The internal process of trying to break it down was enough time for another greasy lurker, this time blond, to slip a few twig-like fingers into her pocket and take her money. She and they were already separated by stores and people when she dug her hands in her coat pockets to feel nothing where she kept her change.
Charlie literally stopped in the street to feel every pocket. "Frickin' Merlin. That was last my two galleons!"
(open, i'll try to write but i can barely promise it)
