High Street was actually good for plenty of things, and most of them beyond reach. It had the best shops, but she didn't have enough money. It had the best-dressed crowds, but she didn't have the right clothes. It also had the best security, and that was something to keep an eye out for. One thing it had, best of all, was a wide palette of opportunities. Opportunity was free of charge, after all, and who could argue with free?
There were no coins jingling in the pockets of the young, street urchin. That would have been a bad move anyway. Make one wrong turn past a copper, and those jingling coins would go straight into his pocket, that's the god's honest truth! Might be that they survived long enough to get spent, in which case they'd just wind up in some merchant's pocket, but at least that'd be in exchange for something, usually small and not enough to fill a growing belly but tasty and good to eat. Worst of it, they might wind up in some bookie's pockets, and that meant nothing to eat unless some poor soul would take pity on a starving child on the streets.
Best days for that was Tuesdays and Thursdays. That was market days, when even the people who didn't dress the best came out, too. They were a little freer with their coin, don't ask why. Could be they knew better what it was worth. Give a rich man a galleon, and he'd forget all about it the next minute. Give a poor man a galleon and he'd never stop thinking about it even after it was gone. That made it easier to beg from a poor man, he knew that coin wasn't going to stay anyway. Should have made it easier to steal from the rich man, too, but that wasn't how it worked.
It wasn't Tuesday either. Or Thursday. No, it was Wednesday. Worst day of the week, and hungriest for the scrappy urchin tucking the cap lower over the ginger curls underneath. The belt wouldn't go any tighter to keep the stomach from complaining, so maybe the tighter cap would keep the brain from thinking about it. Can't do much about food if there isn't any, and there was, but who could afford it? Not on a Wednesday. All the market-goers, flush with coin, were back home on Wednesdays. They'd come back Thursday, a little less flush, and a most a little less distracted. Gotta pick up the order that's come in, or what the missus wanted, no time for all that carefree idleness on Thursdays after all.
Still, today was Wednesday. As if the hungry eyes of the street urchin needed reminding of that, peering out from underneath the brim of the cap. With hands stuffed into trousers pockets and shoulders hunched down so low the shoulders of the red vest, tattered around the edges, rose like flags, others on the street paid little mind to the scrawny figure walking among them. This was no Market Day urchin, one to keep a wary eye on but who might have as good of coin as anyone else. No, this was a Wednesday urchin, barely better than a nobody.
Nobody was skulking outside of a particular shop, either. It wasn't an easy shop to pass by, easier on the other side of the street where the smells wouldn't twist an already-empty stomach into tighter pangs. Somehow, the urchin had wound up on this side of the road and a desperate stomach was greatly regretting it, until desperate eyes caught sight of the nobody.
One thing about Wednesdays, it was a day where some people let down their guard after a successful and satisfying Market Tuesday. A good day for nobodies, that's for sure. This one must have had the same idea, because the Nobody was acting pretty funny around Honeyduke's to be a Somebody. So they had to be a Nobody. And somebody just might miss out on what a Nobody got up to, especially on a Wednesday, but not the street urchin with desperate, hungry eyes.
Parking up against a nearby wall, deep in the shadows, the street urchin named Charley watched nobody in particular, but in particular one Nobody hanging around Honeyduke's. The smell nearly overpowered resolve for Charley, but pressing a hand into that hungry stomach kept the Nobody in focus.
If Charley's instinct was right, her stomach would agree it was worth the wait.
There were no coins jingling in the pockets of the young, street urchin. That would have been a bad move anyway. Make one wrong turn past a copper, and those jingling coins would go straight into his pocket, that's the god's honest truth! Might be that they survived long enough to get spent, in which case they'd just wind up in some merchant's pocket, but at least that'd be in exchange for something, usually small and not enough to fill a growing belly but tasty and good to eat. Worst of it, they might wind up in some bookie's pockets, and that meant nothing to eat unless some poor soul would take pity on a starving child on the streets.
Best days for that was Tuesdays and Thursdays. That was market days, when even the people who didn't dress the best came out, too. They were a little freer with their coin, don't ask why. Could be they knew better what it was worth. Give a rich man a galleon, and he'd forget all about it the next minute. Give a poor man a galleon and he'd never stop thinking about it even after it was gone. That made it easier to beg from a poor man, he knew that coin wasn't going to stay anyway. Should have made it easier to steal from the rich man, too, but that wasn't how it worked.
It wasn't Tuesday either. Or Thursday. No, it was Wednesday. Worst day of the week, and hungriest for the scrappy urchin tucking the cap lower over the ginger curls underneath. The belt wouldn't go any tighter to keep the stomach from complaining, so maybe the tighter cap would keep the brain from thinking about it. Can't do much about food if there isn't any, and there was, but who could afford it? Not on a Wednesday. All the market-goers, flush with coin, were back home on Wednesdays. They'd come back Thursday, a little less flush, and a most a little less distracted. Gotta pick up the order that's come in, or what the missus wanted, no time for all that carefree idleness on Thursdays after all.
Still, today was Wednesday. As if the hungry eyes of the street urchin needed reminding of that, peering out from underneath the brim of the cap. With hands stuffed into trousers pockets and shoulders hunched down so low the shoulders of the red vest, tattered around the edges, rose like flags, others on the street paid little mind to the scrawny figure walking among them. This was no Market Day urchin, one to keep a wary eye on but who might have as good of coin as anyone else. No, this was a Wednesday urchin, barely better than a nobody.
Nobody was skulking outside of a particular shop, either. It wasn't an easy shop to pass by, easier on the other side of the street where the smells wouldn't twist an already-empty stomach into tighter pangs. Somehow, the urchin had wound up on this side of the road and a desperate stomach was greatly regretting it, until desperate eyes caught sight of the nobody.
One thing about Wednesdays, it was a day where some people let down their guard after a successful and satisfying Market Tuesday. A good day for nobodies, that's for sure. This one must have had the same idea, because the Nobody was acting pretty funny around Honeyduke's to be a Somebody. So they had to be a Nobody. And somebody just might miss out on what a Nobody got up to, especially on a Wednesday, but not the street urchin with desperate, hungry eyes.
Parking up against a nearby wall, deep in the shadows, the street urchin named Charley watched nobody in particular, but in particular one Nobody hanging around Honeyduke's. The smell nearly overpowered resolve for Charley, but pressing a hand into that hungry stomach kept the Nobody in focus.
If Charley's instinct was right, her stomach would agree it was worth the wait.
![[Image: 5KRbCcV.png]](https://i.imgur.com/5KRbCcV.png)
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