Chapter 6: The Pigeon War
November settled over London like a gray blanket, and Adam Wright had almost achieved something resembling routine. Almost being the operative word.
He sat on a park bench in Russell Square, protecting his hard-won sandwich like it contained state secrets. The sandwich represented forty minutes of careful observation, waiting for the right moment when the bakery owner wasn't looking, then a whispered "Accio" that had made the food fly directly into his waiting hands. Lunch, acquired through magical means and considerable patience.
A pigeon landed three feet away.
Adam's eyes narrowed. The bird was large for its species, with gray feathers that had the oily sheen of something that had survived too many London winters. But it was the eyes that concerned him—small, black, and fixed on his sandwich with the intensity of a laser sight.
"Don't even think about it," Adam told the pigeon seriously.
The pigeon cocked its head, considering this statement. Then it hopped one step closer.
"I'm warning you." Adam pulled the sandwich protectively against his chest. "I fought three other homeless guys for the right to steal this. I'm not giving it up to a flying rat."
Another hop. The pigeon's head tilted the other way, like it was calculating angles and distances. Around the park, Adam noticed other pigeons beginning to converge. Word was apparently spreading through whatever communication network flying vermin used.
"This is ridiculous. I have magic. I can handle one stupid bird."
Adam raised his free hand and whispered, "Wingardium Leviosa."
The sandwich rose gently into the air, floating three feet above the pigeon's reach. Adam smiled triumphantly. Magic solved everything, eventually.
That's when the System decided to interrupt: [Daily Mission Available: Cause Minor Chaos. Reward: 20 SP].
Adam's concentration shattered. The sandwich dropped like a stone.
Fifteen pigeons materialized from nowhere—bushes, trees, the very air itself seemed to spawn them. They fell on the sandwich with the coordinated precision of a military strike force, tearing it apart in seconds. Within thirty seconds, nothing remained but crumbs and Adam's shattered dignity.
The original pigeon looked up at him with what could only be described as smugness.
"I hate you," Adam told it with perfect sincerity.
The pigeon cooed in what sounded suspiciously like laughter.
War was declared.
Over the next week, Adam escalated the conflict with the systematic thoroughness of someone who had nothing better to do. He tried using Reparo to fix a broken umbrella for rain protection—pigeons stole the fabric mid-repair for nesting material. He used Accio to summon dropped coins from tourists—a particularly bold pigeon intercepted one mid-flight and swallowed it whole. He attempted to practice Lumos for night reading—pigeon droppings extinguished the light with sniper-like precision.
It became personal.
Adam found himself wasting precious MP casting minor hexes at pigeons that dodged with infuriating ease. He tried using Alohomora to open a bird feeder and steal the seed for himself—the pigeons mobbed him like feathered fury incarnate, forcing him to retreat under a barrage of beaks and claws.
"Kid, you're gonna lose."
Adam turned to find Old Tom watching the latest battle from a bench twenty feet away. The homeless veteran was grinning, clearly enjoying the show.
"Pigeons own this city," Old Tom continued. "Been here longer than humans, adapt faster, breed quicker. You're fighting a war you can't win."
"They stole my lunch."
"They steal everyone's lunch. That's what pigeons do."
Adam glared at the birds, who had arranged themselves in what looked like a victory formation on the nearby fountain. One of them—larger than the others, with a particularly vicious gleam in its eyes—seemed to be staring directly at him.
"That one's the ringleader. I'm sure of it."
"There has to be a way," Adam muttered.
"Sure there is. Stop fighting them."
It took Adam three more days of escalating pigeon warfare to admit that Old Tom might have a point. His MP reserves were being depleted by increasingly creative attempts at anti-pigeon strategies. His food supply was under constant threat. And worst of all, he was pretty sure the birds were learning his patterns.
So Adam tried a different approach: diplomacy.
He used his last few pounds to buy actual bird seed from a pet shop, creating a designated "pigeon zone" at the far end of Russell Square. Every morning, he scattered seed there while eating his own breakfast on the opposite side of the park.
It worked. Mostly.
The general pigeon population seemed willing to accept this peace treaty. They collected their tribute and left him alone during meals. But one pigeon—the large, vicious-looking one he'd started calling "Bastard"—refused to honor the truce. It continued its campaign of targeted harassment with what Adam could only describe as personal malice.
"You're holding a grudge, aren't you?" Adam asked Bastard during one particularly tense staredown.
Bastard cooed mockingly and promptly defecated on Adam's shoe.
"Right. Fair enough."
But even enemy pigeons became part of the routine. Adam found himself looking forward to his daily confrontations with Bastard, the way soldiers might develop grudging respect for worthy opponents. It was stupid and petty and completely absurd—which made it oddly comforting in a life that had become entirely too serious.
Mrs. Chen noticed the feeding routine first. The elderly Chinese woman came to the park every afternoon with her own bag of birdseed and bread crumbs, moving slowly but with obvious purpose. She spoke little English, but her actions were clear: she cared about the pigeons, even the obnoxious ones.
When she started leaving food for Adam too—dumplings wrapped in newspaper, containers of rice that appeared on "his" bench when he wasn't looking—he almost cried.
"Thank you," he told her one afternoon when their paths crossed near the fountain.
She smiled and patted his shoulder with grandmother's gentleness. "You good boy. Feed birds. Birds remember kindness."
Adam glanced at Bastard, who was currently attempting to steal food from a toddler.
"Some of them do, anyway."
That night, completing his daily mission by teaching a flock of pigeons to swarm a businessman who'd been rude to Mrs. Chen, Adam found himself actually smiling. It was a small expression, barely there, but real.
His life had become completely insane. He was homeless, living on stolen food and charity dumplings, engaged in psychological warfare with London wildlife. But somehow, in the middle of all that chaos, he'd found small moments of connection. Mrs. Chen's quiet kindness. Old Tom's gruff wisdom. Even his ongoing feud with Bastard had developed into something almost companionable.
"This is my life now. Fighting pigeons and practicing magic in abandoned buildings. Could be worse, I suppose."
The System chimed: [Mission Complete: Cause Minor Chaos. Reward: 20 SP].
Adam accepted the reward and settled into his current shelter—a storage room above a closed restaurant, accessible through a skylight that yielded to Alohomora. Outside, London's night sounds filtered through broken glass: sirens, car engines, the distant hum of ten million people getting on with their lives.
But while Adam battled birds and scraped together survival, the wider world continued without him. Newspapers reported strange incidents at Hogwarts—flying cars, memory-modified teachers, whispers of ancient dangers stirring in the castle depths. The real story was happening just beyond his reach, with characters he'd never meet and adventures he'd never share.
Harry Potter was fighting monsters and saving the day. Adam Wright was negotiating truces with pigeons.
"Not quite how I imagined my magical education going."
But it was something. And for now, something was enough.
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