A.N. Hello, there! This is just the prologue- a quick introduction to my story so that you know who is who and what's going on in the next chapter, which should hopefully be updated soon. The story is set in World War Two, so if you have controversial views about it, please think twice before reading. This is an OC/OC story, with no related Harry Potter characters, only the Universe in which they live.
This is a fictitious work, and any related names, characters or events are purely a coincidence.
Disclaimer: I own only my own characters. Any recognised material belongs to J.K. Rowling, or is a part of history.
She was standing at the kitchen sink, her hands red and raw beneath the surface of the scolding water as she scrubbed the pans from dinner clean. Her dark hair was done up in its usual knot at the nape of her neck, and a below-the-knee navy blue dress with sleeves just above her elbows clung to her modest frame, a white ribbon tied elegantly around her waist. Her feet were bare and she sang along to the radio as she worked.
Her son sat on the dinner table- separated from her only by a small wall running between the kitchen and dining area- engaging in an in-depth conversation with his teddy bear. She looked back from the sink and into the dining area every now and again to check that her boy was still alright, and she smiled to see him still talking to his only friend each time.
She worked determinedly at the old pans, and looked up as her husband entered the dining area and smiled at him. He did not smile back and a small frown creased her delicate brow.
"Is something wrong, my love?" She asked, and put the last pan on the drainer to dry, wiping her wet hands on the tea towel.
He strode into the kitchen and over to the radio on the windowsill. Without uttering a single word, he turned it off and shut the blinds, causing his wife to frown and his son to look up, startled at the sudden quietness.
The house fell silent and rigidity hung over the household as each waited for another to speak. She did not want to speak first because it was not her place. He did not want to speak first because he did not want the words to leave his mouth.
"Dada?"
He sighed, walking over to the table and picking up his son. He looked down at the boy who looked so like his mother. He had the same heart-shaped face, the same straight nose. He had the same grey eyes, the same soft lips. But he had his father's hair- thick, silken curls of copper.
He handed the boy to his wife and took a deep breath. "I'm going."
"Going?"
"Our country is at war, my sweetest; the second in history to scale the whole world. It is but my duty to fight alongside the other men."
The colour drained from his wife's face, and her grip on their son became tighter, making the boy look to and from each of his parents as he tried to understand the words he did not know.
"Are you sure that that is a good idea, my love?" She asked in as calm a tone as she could muster.
"It is my duty, Mary. I cannot let other men die for my family, and yet still be here as though nothing is wrong."
"But, Richard, most of those mendon't have a family- that is why they were conscripted. If they wanted you, they would have knocked on our door by now." She supported her son with her right arm, taking here her husband's hand with her left. What else could she say?
Richard looked down at her, and for a single second, there was a flicker of doubt in his eyes, but it was gone as soon as it was there. "My decision is final. I have signed up, and have been allowed tonight with you. I leave at dawn tomorrow."
Mary let go of her husband's hand and turned silently, walking upstairs to lay down the boy to sleep.