The first day of September arrived sooner than I had anticipated; it felt as if the summer holidays had only just commenced, yet the September chill crept into my room, seeping through every gap in my duvet cover. The sun's sluggish rays filtered through the drapery's crevices, gradually ascending the sky and casting light upon the room's barren expanse. The worn, grey rug laid on the floor, illuminated by the feeble morning light. Despite the grandeur of Warwick Manor, my room remained sparsely furnished—a testament to how little I owned. A lone dark-oak desk stood, adorned only with a tidy stack of papers, precisely arranged inkwells, and a handful of books from my summer studies.
At the room's opposing end, a stark wooden wardrobe stood, its surface etched with intricate dragons that seemed to writhe in the dim light. Within, a mere half-dozen articles of clothing hung—a collection of oversized striped shirts, jeans, well-worn sneakers, and an exquisite sparkled dress reserved for rare formal occasions.
But the true enigma lay above my bed—a colossal oil painting depicting my family. Their eyes bore into me from the canvas, observing my every move and intruding upon my thoughts. Over time, I had grown accustomed to their vigilant scrutiny, though on occasion, when the pale moonlight cast eerie shadows upon the painting, their gazes appeared almost lifelike, igniting a shiver that danced down my spine.
Almost instinctively, I quickly pulled the cover back over my head, ridding the childish thoughts of midnight monsters and drowning out the irritating sounds of knocking against the door and the shrill voice of my mother from the foyer.
"Miss Warwick, it is time for you to wake up. Downstairs, your mother is waiting. Dooky thinks mistress is getting annoyed," said a soft voice from the small crack within my door. I waved my hand dismissively from the edge of my bed before retreating it back into the warmth. "Miss Warwick had also missed breakfast." I let out a sigh, knowing this pestering was never going to end. As the summer days rolled by, the green leaves turning amber and the blue skies bleeding grey, I wished I could stay in the summer villa just a little longer; Hogwarts didn't seem that exciting anymore.
"Tell Mother I'll be down in five minutes. Thank you, Dooky," I ordered. She curtly nodded, closing my door allowing me some privacy. I strode towards my wardrobe, picking a simple, red-stripped V-neck shirt with well-fitted blue jeans and some red trainers; there was no time to fish for my uniform within the mountain of clothes within my trunk. I gave my lengthy, inky hair a quick brush, yanking a few uncompliant knots I had amassed throughout the night. Just beside my wardrobe was my trunk with a delicate, sandy letter sitting on top. My name was neatly written at the top with the Deputy head-teacher's fancy signature sat at the bottom. Sitting next to the letter was a lilac pouch filled with one-hundred Galleons, which should last me the school year.
The trunk itself was new, its body smooth, shiny and well painted. My name was hot-pressed into the edge of the trunk. The hinges holding the handle to the trunk were as shiny as polished, golden nuggets. I grabbed the letter and pouch, placing them both within my back pocket before hoisting the trunk over my shoulder. I made my way towards the staircase, watching the depressed faces of Warwick family members painted upon the walls. The black marble banister glistened under the piercing light of the chandelier. At the end of the stairs, I was welcomed to the sight of my mother circling my brother like a vulture, picking at all the small imperfections within his uniform and any loose hairs springing from his head.
His hair was slick back by a slab of gel, highlight the perfect blend of brown and blonde creating a sense of volume. My brother could never admit to how much he loved my mother doting upon his appearance, but the small smirk and admiration glimmering within his eye was hard to hide.
He wore a shadowy robe with green, silk lining around his hood and sleeves. brought out his eyes with his emerald-silver stripped tie. His dark-grey V-neck jumper and velvet white shirt sat perfectly around his frame; not a crease could be found in his jumper. The Slytherin crest replacing his breast pocket shone proudly under the light of the chandelier. "Olympia, dear, hurry up! You're going to make us late if you continue to walk at the pace of snail," my mother demanded, not batting an eye towards my presence as he continued to gently her finger tips over my brother's shirt.
I took her lack of attention as an opportunity to roll my eyes, joining my siblings in the line. On my left stood a smiling Ludovic, while to my right, stood Rosalind, who was always stuck within a book. Despite sharing the same birthday, Ludovic and Rosalind were complete opposites. Rosalind had an uncontrollable habit of slouching, eating with her mouth open and tutting her teeth. Her robes were often dishevelled, with the silver lining of the Slytherin crest as dirty as the gravel road within the garden. Her tie hung loosely around her neck with an unappealing knot at the centre. My mother had given up making her look perfect years ago, which meant it was impossible.
My mother finally drew her attention from my brother, her eyes trailing my outfit and acknowledged me with a sigh. "Urgh, we have no time for you to change! You'll be the death of me soon, child," she seethed, tugging at my jumper so it would fit me better.
"Sorry, Mother," I apologised, a small smirk dancing across my lips as she began to huff and puff, enjoying the inconvenience it brough upon her for her children not to match.
"Alright, dears, it's time to go!"
The elves were incredibly small creatures, only reaching my hip and were so skinny, they looked like they hadn't eaten for a week. Their eyes were beady, almost as if they were about to pop out their sockets and their various sizes of their head and body was unpleasant to look at. But, despite how skinny their arms were, they still loaded our trunks and birdcages into the back of the car, stacking them perfectly. A burly man stood at the front, his suit flawless and his hands sitting comfortably on his belt buckle. It had been polished spotlessly, sparkling against the growing rays of sun. He began to run the car as Rosalind entered the car, letting out a comfortable hum, and without a word we began to drive away.
Mother sat with her legs crossed, rhythmically tapping her toe. Now and then, she'd sweep her fingers through the cascade of dark silky hair that I, unfortunately, inherited. Her gaze fixed on the outside world, where blue skies and verdant trees painted a picturesque scene along the gravel road. The silence grew dense, an almost suffocating presence, punctuated only by Ludovic's contemplative gaze, mirroring Mother's, as they watched the landscape flash by. Rosalind, on the other hand, remained engrossed in her book, seemingly distant from the family dynamics playing out around her. Suddenly, breaking the stagnant air, Mother turned her attention to me with a taunting, smug smile. "Olympia, are you ready?" she inquired.
"Yes, Mother, I am," I replied, not rising to her little games so early in the morning; I've learnt better than that.
"I'm still utterly astounded by how that lunatic manages to cling to the title of headteacher," she mused, resurrecting a decade-old grudge that seemed to defy the natural course of fading with time. Her remark garnered a few smirks from Ludovic, who harbored a palpable disdain for our current headmaster's inexplicable presence at the school. Meanwhile, Rosalind's eyes delved even deeper into her book, holding it so close to her face that it practically threatened to merge with her nose – a clever tactic to evade Mother's watchful eye. As for me, I found myself idly twirling the ends of my shirt around my index finger, relishing the sensation of fabric cinching around my joints and momentarily constricting the blood flow. My heartbeat synchronizing with the rhythm of my pulse offered a quiet solace, a rhythm that held me steady under the penetrating scrutiny of my mother.
A searing pain shot through my wrist as my mother's talon-like nails sank into my skin, viciously wrenching my finger from the tightly wound fabric of my shirt. The force was so sudden and intense that I nearly toppled off the car seat, teetering precariously on the edge as if at the mercy of her volatile rage. "Stop it, you foolish girl! We won't waste money on more shirts if you persist in tearing them to shreds," she spat out, her face turning a fiery shade of crimson, her furrowed eyebrows forming a menacing V-shape. The familiar flaring of her nostrils accompanied her anger, a clear sign that her wrath was on the brink. Ludovic's derisive laughter added salt to the wound, and although I refused to grace him with my attention, my blank gaze was a silent protest.
As the seemingly endless drive finally concluded, we arrived at King's Cross. Though I'd stood on this platform twice before, bidding my siblings farewell at the start of each school year, the experience never failed to leave me in awe. The bustling activity enveloped the platform, bathed in the eerie glow of light streaming from the glass ceiling, yet a shiver ran down my spine. The scent of smoke lingered, coiling around the station like a phantom's embrace, both familiar and unsettling. I leaned over the yellow line, peering at the tracks stretching toward the horizon, framed by the towering 'sky-scrapers' rising from the ground.
But the enchantment shattered abruptly as a forceful yank brought me face-to-face with my mother's flaring nostrils and frigid gaze. Her grip clamped down like a vice, causing me to squirm, my attempts at escape futile against her unyielding hold. Her voice, barely above a whisper, slithered into my ear, a chilling demand that held no room for refusal. "You better write back, do you understand?" The words, laden with a potent mix of threat and dominance, left no room for ambiguity.
Her hot breath tickling my earlobe sent a cold shiver down my spine. She suddenly let go, letting me almost topple over my trunk and into the many passers-by. "Yes, Mother, I will," I nodded, rubbing the sore area of my arm while my other clenched into a tight fist around the handle of my trunk.
"You know Warwick's do not appreciate failure, and you are a Warwick, aren't you?" she asked, her usual cocky smile tugging at her lips. She nudged me forward with the back of her gloved hand, almost immediately wiping it at her side and removing the glove to place in her pocket. I walked towards one of the train conductors, handing him my trunk before hauling my backpack and birdcage into a carriage. The carriage was brightly lit with lanterns sitting between each window to my right and rows of compartments separated by glass-sliding doors. I strolled down the passageway, trying hard to avoid the peering gazes from fellow first years and tried look for some familiar faces.
With a mix of anticipation and resignation, I entered an empty compartment, throwing my hoodie over the chair and elevating my birdcage above it. My fingers traced the leather seats as I settled in, preparing for the lure of sleep. The journey to Hogwarts, nestled in the heart of Scotland, promised to be a long one, made even more arduous by the prospect of raucous and intrusive classmates. The thrill of excitement bubbled in my stomach, yet its fiery glow was swiftly engulfed by an abyssal pit as I glanced out the window, only to lock eyes with my mother's scrutinizing gaze.
As the train's ascent along the tracks began with a jolt, I tore myself from her gaze, my heart pounding, and pressed my back against the seat. The breath that escaped me was a mixture of tension and relief, a tangible release, as my mother receded into a mere speck on the platform, blending with the masses of families left behind.
After hours spent gazing at the hills racing alongside the train and the aimless journey of fluffy white clouds across the sky, I was on the brink of dozing off when the slide of the compartment door caught me by surprise.
Before me stood a girl with a lion's mane of mahogany curls, blocking my path. Her fawn-colored eyes exuded a palpable confidence, and a light tan graced her skin, revealing subtle freckles that danced across her nose. Her top lip partially revealed her two front teeth, giving her an unapologetic charm. She held her posture with an air of intimidation, a gaze that locked onto me with unwavering intensity. Much like Ludovic, her uniform was impeccable—each detail perfectly in place, her tie sporting a flawless half-Windsor knot. As much as I resisted, a small smirk tugged at my lips, surrendering to the inevitable amusement she invoked.
"Lost something, have we?" I drawled, arching an eyebrow as she looked at the girl with the wild cascade of mahogany curls.
Her eyes flickered with a mix of annoyance and determination. "Yes, something. Neville Longbottom has lost his toad. Have you seen it or not?"
I leaned back, a smirk playing at the corner of my lips. "Sorry to disappoint, I haven't had the pleasure of stumbling upon any wandering toads while being in this compartment."
Her lips pressed into a thin line, her arms folding across her chest. "Well, if you do happen to come across it, I suggest you give me a heads-up. It's quite important."
"Oh, I'll be sure to alert the wizarding world's toad rescue squad if I come across a fugitive amphibian," I quipped. "By the way, names are a thing, you know. I'm Olympia."
The girl's expression softened, a begrudging respect lurking beneath her annoyance. "You're right, Olympia. I'm Hermione Granger."
"Delighted, Hermione. Here's to a year of thrilling toad-hunting," I said, my smirk deepening.
Hermione's lips twitched. "Thrilling indeed. Don't let me interrupt whatever you're doing."
"Wouldn't dream of it. Catch you later, Hermione," Olympia replied, watching as Hermione exited the compartment.
As the door closed, I couldn't help but chuckle to myself, feeling a spark of excitement for the upcoming year's undoubtedly eventful shenanigans.