WHO: Harry and OTA WHAT: Harry has a very bad Sunday WHEN: Sunday CONTENT DESCRIPTORS: Violence, Sexual Themes, Language
Harry had stopped by Grimmauld Place just minutes before going to his meeting. He had to pop in, have a beer with a contact from the French Ministry, and then he was going to go home and finally do what needed to be done. He was going to propose. He had the ring in his pocket and stepped out of the pub with a little liquid courage in him.
By wizardry standards, Harry Potter was extremely cool. He was a world-famous hero who had turned down a prime spot as a professional athlete, playing the most talked about position on the team, to kick bad-guy ass. He was rich, important, and his girlfriend was ogled by countless other blokes in Quidditch Monthly centerfolds. The problem was, by muggle standards Harry was anything but cool. When he stepped into muggle London he was nobody but a skinny guy with messy hair and glasses. It was nice, in a way, but sometimes Harry wished he could be considered just as cool no matter who he was face-to-face with.
Harry stepped out of the pub and looked around. The other trouble with the separation of worlds was that apparating became very difficult in crowded areas. London was too busy and it made privacy for apparating very rare. Harry stepped around the corner into an alley. Unfortunately, the empty alleys were also good places for crime. Harry thought he would be alone, but just as he reached to grab his wand and twist on the spot, he noticed a young muggle with baggy pants and bright patterned hoodie leaning against the wall, smoking, "Pat Malone (Alone)."
"Oh, sorry," Harry said, ready to pretend he was lost and turn the other way.
"Got change fer a fifty?"
"Uh, no, sorry." Harry turned and found that three other muggles had filled in behind him and were standing across the entrance of the alley.
The one in the middle stepped right up to Harry, looking down a few inches at him and tipping his chin with his lower lip sticking out to look tough, "That's alright, we'll just navan blake yaaahr credi' cards then, OK?"
Harry was being mugged and he couldn't use his wand. Just great. He'd had enough run-ins with muggle secrecy problems in his youth to risk any more of that nonsense. One major trial was enough. "You really don't know who you're talking to," Harry said, trying to look confident. "I suggest you turn and pick another sucker before you regret it."
"Blimey! Is 'e freatenin' us? I think 'e is! I said give me yaaahr fuckin' wallet, bitch. Nuff said, yeah?" He reached towards Harry's coat. Harry grabbed his wrist and with one quick motion had it twisted up behind his own back. The smoker got off the wall and ran towards him. Harry kicked high, catching him in the lip before he pushed the first attacker, still held by his wrist, into him and into the alley wall.
One of the flanking muggers pulled a switch blade. Harry kicked it from his hand and watched it skitter down a grate to the sewer. He was turning to punch the first attacker, who had gotten up from falling over his friend, when he felt cold steel touch the back of his neck. The only one to be so far unharmed by Harry had drawn a gun. "Don't fuck offor I'll duck bill you!"
Harry froze, panting, and held his hands where they could see them. The first to reach for his wallet was flexing his hand, trying to alleviate the pain in his wrist. The smoker was crying, his face dripping blood. "Waste 'im, Scotty."
"No way! I ain't going to jail 'less this wanker asks for it."
The leader, the one with the hurt wrist, took a deep breath and grabbed Harry's coat, pulling out his wallet, wand, coin bag, and the ring box. Harry felt sick. He handed the things off to his friend who had lost his knife and then punched Harry hard in the gut. "Think yer James Bond now?"
Harry clenched his stomach and coughed a few times.
They started sorting through his belongings while Harry stood motionless with a gun pointed at the back of his head. "Wha's this? A stick? Was 'e plannin' ter attack us wiv a stick? Is 'e a ninja now?" They snapped his wand and dropped it into the grate. His first wand. He told himself he still had the wand he'd defeated Voldemort with, he'd be okay, but he felt his face turn red with anger anyway. That wand had saved his life and some ignorant muggle had just snapped it like a twig.
He jingled the coin bag next and looked inside. "Pirate coins?" He shrugged and handed them to the leader. He popped the black velvet box open. "Holy shit! We're rich. Butchers Hook at dis diamond." He pocketed the ring. Three Hundred Galleons, gone. He'd spent months holding onto that ring.
They opened his wallet. Harry didn't have any credit cards, just cash. They pulled out his photos though, including a snapshot taken at the beach last summer on Hermione's digital camera. "Dis who da rin' was for?"
The leader snatched the photo. "Shit. I'd like ter billy bragg 'er."
"What is she doin' suckin' 'is tiny pecker?" asked the one who had lost his knife. "Don' she know what a real man look like?" He took Harry's glasses off and dropped them on the ground before crunching them under his trainers.
"Nice tits, ya?" asked the leader. "Gimme her digits so I can look 'er up, show what she's missin?" He grabbed his crotch. "Bet she takes i' up the arse. Looks like a real dirty girl, innit? Got 'a be easy if she gobbles dis one."
Harry snapped. He could take them stealing his money, breaking his wand, but nobody talked like that about Ginny. Harry heard a terrifying bang behind him and the gunman screamed. The gun had jammed, misfired, something had happened and now he was rolling on the alley floor, his thumb blown off, bleeding and screaming. His friends shouted in alarm and pushed Harry aside. The leader had the sense to punch shocked, blind Harry and then knee him in the gut so he couldn't follow.
"Git 'im to a horse piddle, shit, he's gonna die!" Harry wasn't sure who was screaming now. He was kicked a second time as he lay on the ground, feeling hot blood beneath his cheek, sure it wasn't his own. There was a scrambling of rubber-soled trainers on concrete and then he was alone. Harry pushed himself up, coughing. His lip was split, his stomach and ribs were bruised, and his glasses were broken, but he was alive.
And he was pretty sure he'd been the one who had set the gun off. Harry crawled out onto the sidewalk with no money, no wand, and no way to apparate.