Wednesday, September 1st, 1993
The murky greys of the rainclouds and the emerald greens of Scotland's rolling hills blurred as the Hogwarts Express traversed the countryside. Lone trees swayed gently in the harsh breeze, their leaves rustling like whispers in the air. Beyond the rolling hills, the setting sun painted the sky in hues of orange and pink, signalling the approaching twilight. For the past six years, including this year and on this day, the heavens have opened their flood gates. The rainclouds: some saw them as an omen, while others saw them as Lady Magic weeping as the arcane returned one generation at a time.
A stray ray of sunlight, filtered through by sharp-edged clouds meandering lazily across the sky, landed gently on the face of the sleeping girl. She seemed to be in her late teens, with freckles marbled across her face. Her auburn locks partially covered the bottom half of her face. She was leaning against the fogged-up window. The distant whistle from the front carriage of the train threatened to wake the sleeping girl, but the allure of dreamland was stronger.
Sitting next to the sleeping girl was a blonde with a pair of blue eyes you could mistake for the ocean. There were traces of baby fat and chubby cheeks remaining. She was wearing her prefect badge. The badge was made from a bronze alloy with an eagle carved into the top right corner. Her name, Jennifer Pinnock, was chiselled in a readable cursive font with the designation of 'Prefect' underneath.
Jennifer's ocean blue eyes remained focused on the front page of the Daily Prophet she had purchased moments ago from Mrs Trolley Lady. "Sirius Black Sighted" and, more importantly, "Muggle-Manic Maddock Must Quit Magpies." The former chaser was caught trying a Muggle sport that uses 'peculiar metal sticks' to hit 'non-flying balls into holes in the ground'.
"Gabs, look at this." Jennifer turned the paper around to face the girl opposite her and pointed to the section in question.
Gabrielle raised her eyes, casually glancing at the corner of the front page before returning to the small mirror on the table. She returned to blending in the blush with her foundation.
"Putain," the French-born witch Gabrielle muttered.
"I thought you'd be happy. Your team can finally sign him," Jennifer said as she turned the paper back to her.
"No, that is fine, but this is not," Gabrielle said as she picked up a small container. "This blush is the wrong couleur. It ruins the whole outfit."
"I think it looks fine," said the girl next to Gabrielle.
"Bien sûr you'd say that. What colour is that?" Gabrielle asked as she tilted her head, glancing into Priscilla's eye.
"This…" Pricilla said as she pinched the Bertie Botts Every Flavour Bean. She shut her left eye and pulled it close. "… High Fashionista Gabrielle..." Priscilla spoke in a mock French accent, much to the displeasure of her audience, before returning to her native and beloved Norfolk accent. "... is red."
Gabrielle and Jennifer, at the same time, closed their eyes and exhaled through their nose. Priscilla raised the bean towards the overhead light and opened her left eye while pushing the bean to about a forearm's length away. "Actually, it's green... No. It's red. I'm certain it's red... You know what: there's only one way to find out."
The moment the bean graced her tongue, her eyes widened. Her lips puckered. Her cheeks contracted inwards as her tear ducts began. "Sour! Sour! It's green, not red," Pricilla said as she swallowed the bean whole.
"Pricilla! Show some grâce. You're almost seventeen," Gabrielle said as she shook her head.
Ignoring the two girls who were awake, she turned to the boy next to her. The boy was enthralled by the notebook he was writing in. The boy had just finished writing a sentence and was about to dip his quill into the ink well sitting on the table before he noticed his fellow Ravenclaw trying to grab his attention.
Sitting on the table next to the inkwell was a willow box with a crankshaft mechanism on the side. There was a stylus, stationary in position, bouncing up and down alongside the grooves of the circular vinyl. It was a vinyl of the Weird Sisters' newest release 'This Is the Night'. Instead of the usual sound horn of a gramophone, this slim model has the newest Mercadier in-ear headphones attached to it. It was quite reminiscent of the Muggle contraption called the 'Sony Walkman' but simply better.
Next to the personal audio device was a prefect badge almost identical to the one Jennifer Pinnock was wearing, except the name read "Percival Ebonwood". He was sporting medium-length hair, styled by the natural movements of running his hand through his hair, and it was parted on the left-hand side. His face was quite angular, his jawline sharp, both softened by his haircut. His eyes were mousey brown, with violet undertones, as dictated by his family lineage. Placing the quill down, Percival removed the in-ear headphones and ran his hand through his hair.
"Would you like a sweet?"
"Yes, please. Thank you."
Grabbing a small handful out of the red-and-white striped jamboree bag, Pricilla placed a variety of confectionery items on the still-drying ink of the boy's notebook. The sweets on the page contained classics, such as Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, and Sherbet Lemons, as well as a few popular muggle sweet treats like traditional seaside rock sweets and black liquorice.
Noticing the yet-to-dry ink contaminating his sweet supplies, the Ravenclaw prefect retrieved a handkerchief from one of the many expanded pockets in his robes and swept under the sweet treats, taking care not to smudge his notes. Moving the notebook to the side, Percival placed the handkerchief in the spot that was previously occupied. Percival helped himself to a sherbet lemon and returned to his notebook, content to listen to his friends bicker.
A tremor ran up his spine as a cold wind from the open window travelled down the collar of his robe. There was a shiver and a numbness and a tingling. But the tingling refused to fade after a few moments. Looking outside the window, the clouds had darkened and seemed like they moved faster than the Hogwarts Express. The condensation from the temperature difference between inside and outside had begun to crystalise.
"Has winter come early?" asked the only boy as he used the handkerchief to wipe the condensation for a better view.
"It's probably due to us arriving closer to Hogwarts. My aunt said the Ministry has authorised the use of Dementors to act as a safety precaution against Sirius Black in case he returns to Hogwarts to finish his mission," Pricilla said as she once again tried to guess the colour of a sweet. "A large number of Wizengamot members tried to persuade the Minister against his own hubris, but he is surrounded by yes-wizards and witches."
Still looking outside the window, Percival noticed the rain starting to hit the window and the carriages harder and faster as the rain droplets slowly transitioned into hail. As they inched closer to Hogwarts, the temperature continued to drop further, and every inhale and exhale was highlighted by fog they produced. The condensation from the wipe a few minutes ago resulted in a few streaks, and water pooling up at the bottom had now begun to freeze over.
Noticing the cold settling over in the carriage, Percival stood up to close the window. As he closed the window, the pungent smell from the cattle farm they passed wafted into his nose, making the Ravenclaw gag little. When he sat back down, the rattle from the engine had quietened down and was now muffled.
Seeing everybody else in the carriage refocusing on what they were doing, Percival decided to continue writing in his notebook. Putting the notebook back in its proper place, he picked up the quill, reinking it, before hovering it above the last words he wrote. The page seemed a little different. There was a smudge marked, which he assumed was caused by Priscilla dropping the sweets on the page.
Using his teeth to pull the left cuff of his undershirt under his robe, he used the cuff to wipe away the smudge. With one quick swipe, the smudge disappeared, transferring onto his cuff. Re-tucking his shirt, he refocused on his notebook. Placing his quill above the last few words again, he noticed the stain was still there. However, it appeared thicker.
Using the tip of the quill to nudge the ink stain and pulling away, he noticed a string of ink still connecting them together, except it had the consistency of tar. The words written on the page also seemed different. The font seemed to be thicker and bolder, bolder than what the quill could possibly ever do. The words continued to expand until the page was the same colour as ink.
The glossy black surface of the page began to ripple as if a pebble were skimmed on a lake. The feeling of cold earlier settled a little different. Deeper, and it had an unnatural twinge about it. The canvas shifted and reflected the warm glow of Percival's childhood kitchen at dawn in black and off-white.
Although the moving picture could not make a sound, Percival heard every sound as he sank himself into the memory. Percival was four, in his pyjamas, standing in front of his kneeling father as they maintained eye contact. Percival's father smiled, but it didn't quite reach his chestnut brown eyes. He whispered, "Happy birthday." Percival was certain his father said something else, but it was washed out by the chime of the grandfather clock striking at eight o'clock.
"Listen, … I know what you wanted so badly. I tried. Truly. We made a pinkie promise. I swore on the life of a unicorn that I'd get you the present. But not today. You have to wait a few days. Can you do that for me? Hey, kiddo, look at me. Percy, can you do that for me?"
The crushing disappointment swelled in the child version, while shame filled the older Percival, observing them. Remembering the heat in his cheeks and a lone tear stream down his face, Percival could hear his younger version saying the words he hated himself for: "Liar. You promised. I hate you." Percival watched his younger self in the canvas turn around and run upstairs to his bedroom.
The ink swirled violently as it washed away Percival's childhood kitchen into the cold, damp cobblestone of Diagon Alley. Percival remembered his moment too. How could he not? That day, the air was thick, and to him, sound was muffled as if he were underwater. Walking down Britain's main economic zone with his mother's hands intertwined in his, behind two Aurors. Their torn cloaks guided them through a crowd of onlookers to a clearing.
There was a sense of familiarity when young Percival arrived at the scene. The victim was wearing a standard-issue Ministry uniform and carrying a standard-issue Ministry carry-on, with boots that most clerks in the Ministry wore. It was unnerving. The mother noticed it first and cried on the shoulder of the female Auror. The male Auror placed his hand on young Percival's shoulder, stopping him from getting closer, but young Percival was always curious.
Walking closer, the victim was facing the other direction, young Percival noticed as his shoe crackled upon crushing a bead string on a satchel. The bead string was all too familiar with the older Percival observing the scene. In a bout of morbid curiosity, young Percival circled the body. Unmoving. Young and older Percival muttered at the same time, "Father."
Percival remembered his mother's wailing sounded distant as the female Auror explained a splinter cell of the Death Eater remnants caused this and were currently being hunted down. The canvas reacted as young Percival fell to his knees. Older Percival remembered how the rough stone bit into his skin and how his eyes glanced at the bag he was clutching to his chest. Percival watched as the ink version of him reached for the bag.
The page trembled a little as the bag was opened. Inside was the present that he had wanted. Looking up from the toy set to his father's face, his eyes were blank and staring up at the dull, grey sky.
"Please …", a pathetic, choked whimper cut through the silence. Young Percival looked up to see his mother still wailing. Older Percival was confused, as that had not happened on that day. Percival's eyes started blinking rapidly, like a million volts of electricity were coursing through his arteries. The image of the cobblestone street receded into the neat notes from before, with the smudge marks gone as well. Raising his head up, Isabel's head was thrown back, and the whites of her eyes could be seen as a towering hooded figure loomed over her, draining the remaining warmth from the carriage.
As Percival tries to stand up, a skeletal, rotting hand clamped down on his left shoulder. The feeling of plunging into a frozen lake on a cold winter morning overwhelmed the boy. Despair rolled all over him as joy was ripped from the fibre of his being. As the feeling of slipping away was taking over, a blinding, brilliant silver light violently erupted through the compartment door as the howl of a wolf echoed through the train before Percival's vision went black.