Persephone Prewett and the History of Magic

Prelude | The Boy Who Lived

Part 1

Saturday, October 31st 1981, 11:58pm

Nothing, not muggle nor mouse was awake in sleepy Privet Drive. It's neat rows of sandy-bricked, suburban houses each possessing ridged gables and square grass lawns, whose inhabitants, it would seem, mirrored reflections of an equally ridged and square nature, had long since retired to their beds after the daily routine. Even it's children, young and excitable trick-or-treaters, still dressed as wolves and witches and other scary monsters, and with bellies still full of sweets and chocolates, crashed as soon as their heads hit their pillows. Nevertheless, in the still of a black, autumn night, the streets of Little Whinging, Surrey were all lit up as if for a procession by street lamps and each as empty as a church. The only sign of life was from the unmistakable silhouette of a tabby cat sitting upright on a garden wall; waiting patiently, like a steeple.

Unblinking, its grey eyes, reflected by halos of dim light, were fixed on the far corner of the road. A number of owls had gathered and were swarming over head, ambulance sirens whaled in the distance; but the feline didn't so much as twitch it's ears or swing it's tail. Why, it didn't even acknowledge the little magpie that had just landed right beside it. A normal house cat would've pounced and the bird would've, hopefully, become supper. On the contrary, the two of them were now both sitting, eyes both fixed; unflinchingly, still as statues.

The quiet resumed for a few minutes or so, when, all at once a cloaked figure appeared so suddenly, almost as if he had materialised out of nothing but the biting, autumn air, did they start to turn their attention towards Albus Dumbledore.

The elderly professor, however, was far too preoccupied in rummaging through his cloak pockets, to notice the four pin-prick eyes staring straight at him. Only until the cat's tail swished against an immaculately pruned hedgerow, did he have the hunch that he was being watched; looking up, he almost chuckled at the sight of the two creatures slowly making their way towards him. The wizard finally found what he had been searching for: clutching what looked to be an sort of conical, silver 'flip' lighter, tucked away in his inside pocket. Flipping back it's lid, an audible clink could be heard breaking the hush-of-night, as he ascended his arm towards the gloom.

However, as opposed to flame expelling from it's chimney, the light from a street lamp was propelled into it, like moth to a flame. This spectacle carried on twelve times until all the street lamps were dimmed and Privet Drive was finally descended into complete darkness. Dumbledore, appeased, slipped the deluminator safely back in his cloak and, not bothering to turn to address the two creatures now perched on a wall beside him, spoke:

"I should've known you'd be here, Professor McGonagall." He paused.

"Ah but Miss Prewett, I'm pleasantly surprised. Well, well, I suppose Hagrid must of told you of my coming here."

The cat and the bird descended off the wall and onto the pavement. However, as Dumbledore turned to greet them, stood in their place were now two women.

The cat: a pursed-lipped older lady, with square glasses, identical to the markings around the tabby's eyes. She wore a sleek, tight bun and a stern expression, as well as a draping emerald robe and a pointed hat to match.

The magpie, contrarily, was a much younger, lanky sort of creature with ruddy cheeks and thick, windswept hair as inky black as the night, accept for a premature shock of white that protruded from her temple. Her bent-collared shirtwaist was bloodstained and her sailor-slacks tucked into her dirt-trodden boots, all shrouded within a torn cloak. An observer would assume she had been dragged through brambles by her collar. Her disheveled appearance greatly amplified standing beside the perfectly prim McGonagall.