The Oriental Pureblood
By: SM. Humaid Adil
Chapter 1 - An Uncomfortable Existence
Sep, 1971. Akbar Mughal, a small, smartly dressed boy stood uncomfortably poker straight beside his luggage on Platform 9 ¾, waiting for the Hogwarts Express. On the bustling station, with families milling around and students chattering, he seemed almost frozen in time, stiff, staring into the brick wall across the tracks. While most people who laid eyes on him, would pause for a moment out of concern for the lonely, still boy, they would quickly go about their business, forgetting about him not a moment later, but it is this boy, his future, and his past, that concerns us today.
If a person were to describe Akbar Mughal, they would - almost always - start with his eyes, eyes so dark that it was difficult to determine where the iris was. They had an unsettling impact, two black holes that made Akbar look soulless… His face was otherwise nondescript, oval, with a slightly protruding chin, flat cheeks that were neither shallow nor full, making him seem older than he really was. He had high cheekbones and a small, thin nose. His hair was black, not quite as dark as his eyes but if the light was right, just right, or on a sunny day, they almost looked brown with a clean parting running down the left side. His mouth had a full lower lip but he never seemed to smile. His skin, however, was what set him apart from everyone around him. It wasn't white, nor black, but a soft brown colour that would remind you of parchment paper. His skin was this colour because he was not from England, nor anywhere else in Europe but from far across the continent, past the Zagros and Hindu Kush mountains, he was, as you might have guessed, from the land of India.
His standing was one of quiet whispers amongst the Pureblood families of Britain. He belonged to a family older than the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black itself, yet was completely foreign to this land, his wealth and nobility outstripped every one of the sacred twenty-eight, yet his family held no accolades from the Ministry of Magic, no-one from his family had ever sat upon the Wizengamot and nor had they ever accepted an Order of Merlin of any Class. Yet, here they were, older, wealthier and more illustrious than any other, yet completely isolated. Akbar Mughal was the heir to his family name and it's fortunes, and he was well aware of his family's history and legacy, for their mark upon the world stretched from the city of Samarkand to the southern tip of India. His family's name, was the House of Timur.
Yet, as he stood alone on that platform, besides his suit and statue-like stance, nobody could glean anything about him, he was, as he had always intended, invisible to those around him.
A little way along the Platform was another boy, who could not be more different than Akbar Mughal in temperament and behaviour, for his name was James Potter. As he ran his hand through his hair to mess up the absent straightening his father did out of habit whenever James was nearby, he pushed his round glasses further up his nose to stop them from falling down, his face gleaming with excitement for the year that lay ahead.
"I have no idea where your mother has gotten lost on the platform, James, she was right behind us", said Fleamont Potter, already absently reaching for his son's' hair again, as he tried to look above the heads of people around him.
"Dad, can you please stop doing that, or I will wait somewhere else for the train", James replied, grabbing his father's arm, "and I am sure Mum's found a friend and gotten lost in conversation", he said putting emphasis on the last word as he finally locked eyes with his father.
"Yes, yes, you're probably right, we only got back from France a few days ago," Fleamont Potter said as his attention now returned to his son, "the train should be here any moment - ah yes! Here it is."
Just as the scarlet train pulled into the station, smoke, slowly issuing from the machinery below the carriages, crept onto the platform as the grinding noise of its wheels coming to rest dissipated, James Potter's mother, Euphemia, came shuffling into view,
"I am so sorry I got held up, but I just met the Weasley's and you know it is -"
"Yes, yes, of course I know how it is," muttered Fleamont as James playfully elbowed his hip,
"Anyway," Euphemia Potter continued, "James - you better behave, I want to hear of good test results before I do of detentions", to which James merely smirked, "And do make sure you owl regularly?"
James had already began moving his luggage, large as it was, towards the carriage, Fleamont stepped forward and helped his son get his luggage onto the carriage. Fleamont whispered to him, "Remember, do not lose the cloak." James locked eyes with his father, a moment passed before he nodded, hugged his dad and turned around to find a seat.