Disclaimer: It should be noted that this document is a work of fanfiction and therefore any recognizable characters, events, ect. do not belong to me.
Chapter One: The Boy on the Street
Diagon Alley, Just before Whitely Fawley's first year
The streets were never quiet here. Even now, as a large white feline pranced past a purple storefront, sped up when the opening of a large orange door almost smacked its tail end, and was shortly followed by a young girl. Whitley Fawley was not particularly quick on her feet; something, her father noted, that meant she'd have to work up to learning a powerful shielding charm in her rapidly approaching school days. Whitely's mother always tutted at that thought though because to her, the little girl scant be in danger anyhow. No, the most nonsense Whitely had ever participated in came only after she tugged on her elder brother's coat sleeve and begged to be brought along and now, it seemed, when she followed her feline whom—not to not be mentioned—had hopped out of her arms before Whitely had even had the time to rub the kitty behind its ears and give it a name.
Indeed, the open doors of Magical Menagerie were disappearing ever so hopelessly in the distance. With a quick curse towards those open doors—and the owners wonder how their clever crows always end up escaping!—Whitely dove towards her newly purchased pet. This action resulted in three sounds: the first, a tight gasp as Whitely scrapes her knees across the harsh stone pathway; the second, a long mewl of disappointment as she simultaneously wraps her arms around the white cat; and third, a strangled groan when she next lands on something softer than the stone she had dragged her knees across.
Looking down, Whitely sees a boy, about her age but distinctly older in both the way his jaw was shaped and his robes smelled. She would never place that smell but she'd find it again on her sleeve and in her potions lesson a few years later. "You wouldn't fancy getting off me would you?" wheezed the boy before Whitely even realized her elbow was jammed in the spot below his ribs.
"So sorry," she blushed while clambering up with the large un-named kitten in her arms.
The boy stood up himself, adjusting to full height more than a few good inches above Whitley's own head, and gave the fluffy mange a good pet. "Has it got a name yet?" he asked, his eyes looking softer on the feline than his stature would suggest being plausible.
Whitely adjusted the now purring cat and sighed, "she… no. Should've known she was the last kitten in the box for a reason. Bloody kit ran off before I could think of one."
The boy laughed at this, "kitten?" he seemed astounded, "she's huge." Whitely regarded her oversized pet with a small gleam of pride—for some reason owning an oversized adventurer of a cat seemed very much like an a compliment in that moment—and it seemed to purr even louder at the comment. "Well, she's got to be named," the boy continued to insist.
Whitely thought the boy seemed rather like her father's friend Newt Scamander, with all his fondness of creatures, so she hummed softly before clicking her tongue in decision. "Give her a name then…" she paused at the crinkle in the corners of her new comrade's eyes, "I mean do you have any suggestions?"
"Wadcock," he stated definitively.
She laughed loudly at this but neither the cat nor the boy startled anyhow. "Quidditch fan are we? Well I'm not quite privy to Wadcock but I'll take her first name, Joscelind." The trio all seemed to agree with this, the newly named Joscelind giving a contended stretch of her claws, and both wizard as well as witch seemed to be remembering long past quidditch games. Whitely herself recalled visiting the used-to-be pitch of Joscelind Wadcock—'famed chaser scores highest number of goals for the British league in this century! What shampoo does she use? What flowers must you buy her to woo her heart?' were the headlines—to watch the now aged witch's past team Puddlemere United. The Scamanders live in Dorest so close to the field that you can hear the cheering when Puddlemere is having a particularly good night.
"Well I'd best be off now," the boy interrupted her memory, "off to the quidditch shop… they released the new Cleansweep model today at noon and it's a minute past!"
He was gone before Whitely could even take a breath; and she realized then, as the other magic folk called back at forth across the street to one another, that even though he had named her cat she did not have a name to call the boy on the street himself.