My Lord, I have forsaken you - PROLOGUE
"You don't mind if I sit here, do you?"
A large woman with very teased curly hair pressed herself into the seat diagonally across from him without waiting for an answer.
"Boy my dogs are tired." She had a strange accent, definitely American. Reminiscent of old cowboy movies. He thinks that they call that accent 'Southern.'
To his horror, she removes her gigantic orthopedic shoes and slams her thick legs onto the seat beside him, exposing part of her purpling thunder thighs, which are barely hiding under her white dress with the huge red flowers on it.
"I been walkin' all day around this here city. So much to see here. Ya'll people ain't the politest."
He sighs lightly, not bothering to say anything because fortunately so, she hasn't addressed him yet. Thank the Dark... thank goodness.
"Boy this train sure is real nice. I could get use to things like this. What's your name? I'm Bertha, I'm from the USA." She pronounces "USA" like an immigrant teacher trying to get a student to write something - "You, essay."
"Real is an adjective," is all he says. "You cannot use it in the context of describing another adjective."
"You speak English real good," Bertha says, smiling. "What's your name? Are you from Paris?" Paris, Paris, "pair is." Does it sink in yet?
"You speak 'really' good English," he corrects her. "Really good."
"Thank you!! I'm from the You Essay!" Bertha's enthusiastic response.
He stares through her, as if she weren't really there. He feels a slight tightness in his heart. He wants to go back. He wants to be able to pull out his wand and shout. He wants to press his fists into her ugly, fat face. He wants to rip off her ugly dress with the big red flowers and the off white background, he wants to mess up her hair, give her a bath, and put her on a diet.
"Wow, I think I'll take a nap. It'oll be a real long time till we get to Lundun."
He shivers at the way that she murders the name of his city. As soon as she finishes the sentence, she falls asleep fast as if she were undergoing hypnosis.
He reaches into his side pocket and strokes his wand like a delicate object. He doesn't remove it, feeling it's smooth, unsplintered mahogany and it's rounded off pointed tip. He finally lets out a sigh, as if the wand were some part of his body instead of a piece of sharpened wood.
'No magic. Remember what Albus Dumbledore said. No. Magic.'
He swallows and notices that his throat is drier than he realized. His clothes are Muggle and slightly shabby, a graying pair of black jeans and a solid black shirt. It doesn't look right, makes him look somewhat like a poor muggle farmer. His hair is shabby looking and uneven in most places, greasy and heavy looking. He scratches it and a brown, oily substance appears in his fingernails, accompanied by a white, dusty substance on his fingertips. How could he have such thoughts about someone when he looked so awful himself? Couldn't he be better than this? Wasn't he above all of this? Didn't he-
I will take you back to a time when he cared...
"You don't mind if I sit here, do you?"
A large woman with very teased curly hair pressed herself into the seat diagonally across from him without waiting for an answer.
"Boy my dogs are tired." She had a strange accent, definitely American. Reminiscent of old cowboy movies. He thinks that they call that accent 'Southern.'
To his horror, she removes her gigantic orthopedic shoes and slams her thick legs onto the seat beside him, exposing part of her purpling thunder thighs, which are barely hiding under her white dress with the huge red flowers on it.
"I been walkin' all day around this here city. So much to see here. Ya'll people ain't the politest."
He sighs lightly, not bothering to say anything because fortunately so, she hasn't addressed him yet. Thank the Dark... thank goodness.
"Boy this train sure is real nice. I could get use to things like this. What's your name? I'm Bertha, I'm from the USA." She pronounces "USA" like an immigrant teacher trying to get a student to write something - "You, essay."
"Real is an adjective," is all he says. "You cannot use it in the context of describing another adjective."
"You speak English real good," Bertha says, smiling. "What's your name? Are you from Paris?" Paris, Paris, "pair is." Does it sink in yet?
"You speak 'really' good English," he corrects her. "Really good."
"Thank you!! I'm from the You Essay!" Bertha's enthusiastic response.
He stares through her, as if she weren't really there. He feels a slight tightness in his heart. He wants to go back. He wants to be able to pull out his wand and shout. He wants to press his fists into her ugly, fat face. He wants to rip off her ugly dress with the big red flowers and the off white background, he wants to mess up her hair, give her a bath, and put her on a diet.
"Wow, I think I'll take a nap. It'oll be a real long time till we get to Lundun."
He shivers at the way that she murders the name of his city. As soon as she finishes the sentence, she falls asleep fast as if she were undergoing hypnosis.
He reaches into his side pocket and strokes his wand like a delicate object. He doesn't remove it, feeling it's smooth, unsplintered mahogany and it's rounded off pointed tip. He finally lets out a sigh, as if the wand were some part of his body instead of a piece of sharpened wood.
'No magic. Remember what Albus Dumbledore said. No. Magic.'
He swallows and notices that his throat is drier than he realized. His clothes are Muggle and slightly shabby, a graying pair of black jeans and a solid black shirt. It doesn't look right, makes him look somewhat like a poor muggle farmer. His hair is shabby looking and uneven in most places, greasy and heavy looking. He scratches it and a brown, oily substance appears in his fingernails, accompanied by a white, dusty substance on his fingertips. How could he have such thoughts about someone when he looked so awful himself? Couldn't he be better than this? Wasn't he above all of this? Didn't he-
I will take you back to a time when he cared...