Who: Jack Sloper and Harry Potter When: Oct 23, 2001 Where: Hyde Park What: Chance meetings in the Park Warnings: TBD Rating: TBD Status: Semi-Private/incomplete
After been told the previous day that the next couple days would be dedicated to the Starting team, Harry skivved off practice since he was just Reserve. He figured they wouldn't mind, since he'd probably end up sitting on the bench pulling blades of grass out(or his hair). He slept in and instead of having Kreacher make him something for breakfast, he dressed in a warm emerald jumper with a beige 'H' in the middle, his favourite semi-snug jeans, and the trainers he loved so much(too much, perhaps, as they were literally falling apart), and made his way out the front door.
Harry couldn't remember the last time he'd slept in past noon; he felt invigorated, but somehow restless. Picking up a large mocha and croissant on the way, he munched happily and enjoyed the chill that was settling in the air as he walked. He loved winter and being able to bundle up beneath layers of warm, comfortable clothing. He remembered how unpleasant it made playing Quidditch, but at the same time there was something lovely about snuggling underneath a blanket on the couch watching the snow fall down outside the window.
Allowing his feet to carry him wherever they wanted, he ended up walking along the main footpath in Hyde Park; he hadn't been there in several years, at least that he could remember. The trees there were beautiful, their leaves vibrant shades of reds, oranges and golds. When the sunlight hit them just right, they appeared to be on fire. There weren't that many people in the park, mostly elderly women and their dogs.
Harry paused as he came upon a bloke sitting at a kiosk; tall, he assumed, from the way he was currently bent over slightly. His hair shone a dark copper in the sunlight. A woman probably in her 40's sat nearby; Harry stepped closer to watch as the young man's hand seemed to fly with deft strokes over the sketch-in-progress in front of him. He couldn't help but grin as the sketch developed from mere lines on a page to a comical depiction of the woman's profile. She looked like a swollen beaver with pig tails. Why a woman assumedly in her 40's was wearing pigtails in the first place, he didn't know. But he had to admit, even though it was exaggerated, it was a pretty darn accurate depiction. She was sort of unfortunate looking. </lj>