The scene is set for the year 1943. The second world war unfurls like a steady burn, and the wizarding world begins to descend into a chaos of its own. Gwendolyn Gawmdrey leaves prestigious and dark Durmstrang Institute to attend Hogwarts School of...
The grey gravestone glinted in the dappled autumnal light. A raven squawked in the distance, alerting passerbys to a disturbance somewhere in the ether. It was the kind of day where the air burned your lungs with chilly kisses as you breathed in, frosting your nose in a numbing nip of red, your lips in a chapped disarray, and your hair in tangled peach fuzz on the nape of your neck.
The man sat on his knees, his thick wool trousers stained with the earth's wetness, but he didn't mind. The dewdrops that collected on the fabric somehow helped ease his guilt. He hadn't visited in months.
Nevertheless, the flowers bloomed, oblivious to his negligence. Snow crocus pushed through the earth and other autumn buds clawed their way through the dirt. Life had continued on.
London had rebuilt itself. There was no longer rationing, and the city was undergoing huge social and economic change. A new Queen was in charge of the country. She was vibrantly popular, and everywhere anyone went, hope hung in the air for a new era. It almost seemed like they had forgotten what had happened. Only those willing to remember remained haunted.
In the aftermath, he had taken up photography. In fact, took his Leica everywhere with him. He had become even more dependent on the contraption than he had his wand. Black and white, women in bell skirts and stockings browsed Portobello Market alongside their husbands, men and women enjoyed cigarettes outside the local boozers and couples basked in the sun outside Notting Hill estates.
Somehow, it made him forget the horrors of reality. To capture the way the sun set on the Thames or the way a mother looked at her child nestled in a pram seemed to erase the hardness of the world—the scars from both the Muggle War and the Global Wizarding War, as historians now called it.
He seldom entered the wizarding world these days. The Sacred Twenty-Eight had maintained a quiet life after the end of the war, careful not to stir up too much talk in case the Minister for Magic decided to press charges. He never would, of course. Too much money involved.
He supposed he had grown somewhat disillusioned by the way things had shaken out. Justice seemed to be unfavored when efficiency was presented. And he had learned firsthand that there was no justice for those with inequitable circumstance.
There had been no funeral, only flowers on a grave.
Anger had once been the dominant emotion in his heart, but after seven years had rolled by, he was only left with a deep sense that the world had unfairly robbed her of life. What once had been a burning pit of anguish evolved into a pinpointed strand of sinking nostalgia and melancholy daydreams.
He had struggled to pull himself out of the despair, admittedly. At times, the dreariness sunk into his bones, and he melted into his bed, unable to move due to a phantom paralysis. In those moments between wakefulness and sleep, he would hear her laughter, shrill and unabashed. It carried on for months like this. He lived in a shabby apartment in downtown, a far cry from his family's lavish abode, where the cold of winter would somehow sneak in and he subsisted on buying soup from the market downstairs.
For a while, he sold papers on the street. It was mindless, but after months of coming home with ink-stained fingertips and a hoarse throat, he had had enough. Not to mention, if he dared read the headlines, he was reminded of how terrible the world truly was.
He had met her at his next job. He had applied to be an apprentice at an old clock shop. He reasoned that there had to be things better than selling tabloids, and he had once so enjoyed fixing things—figuring out how things worked underneath all their casings—solving the puzzle. He hadn't a clue the horologist had a daughter.
Their relationship was slow to progress. She was shy and he seldom looked up from his work. It took him two years before he finally asked her on a date. They went for a walk in Hyde Park. Then, it was another three years before he proposed, and a year-long engagement riddled with outcries from his parents. He didn't listen to them.
Now, they had been married a year. And now, he didn't see his family.
Magic was a tumultuous topic in their relationship. It made her nervous, scared even, so he had refrained from practicing much. He had always preferred to use his hands anyway. It was only on this yearly occasion where he would find himself compelled to use it. Most of the time, his wand gathered dust in the drawer by his bedside.
He pushed his glasses up his nose as he heard the church bell ring. The tune of Oranges and Lemons wiggled its way into his mind, much to his chagrin. The distraction pulled him out of his reverie and for the first time in thirty minutes, he turned to the right to sneak a look at his companion.
In many ways, she appeared the same as when he first met her. Her posture was immaculate, and her face often revealed little. She had grown slightly, and her frame had filled out to be the body of a woman. Her golden curls were softened, and her hair was shorter. But her azure eyes still held a sharpness that was sometimes unnerving, albeit they were also tainted with a haunted gleam that dulled their inner complexion.
She stood facing another grave, her face blank as her eyes stared at the headstone of the child. It read:
IN LOVING MEMORY OF ADINA THOMPSON 1939-1944
He could tell she was deep in thought. The bell tolled yet again. He cleared his throat.
"Are you ready?" he asked softly.
Slowly, ever so slowly, she pulled her gaze away. No tears streamed down her face framed with golden tendrils, but the line of her mouth told him another story.
"I never am," she breathed as she waved a slender hand. A crop of white flowers, petals delicate like the intricacies of ice and web, sprouted from the earth, eternal with magic—so unlike the bodies that lie beneath the ground.
He had never heard truer words.
They left the graveyard side-by-side in silence.
Йой! Нажаль, це зображення не відповідає нашим правилам. Щоб продовжити публікацію, будь ласка, видаліть його або завантажте інше.
Hi! Please vote and comment any questions you might have! This chapter depicted Simon and Gwen's annual trip to visit Jane's (and her family's) grave in London. The next chapter will be yet again another time skip. It will not be in chronological order so make sure to pay attention (: Thanks!
