Prologue
There are times in your life that you never can come clean out of. Times that are not forgotten. That changes the world and mostly your perception of it. Time that never can be reversed.
A copy of the Daily Prophet lay before me, as Lucinda Malfoy idly stirred her tea. The cover page was filled with a enlarged close-up picture of Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, flipping between the two. It took the entire cover of the paper and their heads were enlarged to almost twice their actual size. Below, the title read: 'Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley celebrates 15th anniversary of the Second Wizarding War'. A caption read: 'Our heroes shall appear in a parade through Diagon Alley today.' A statement clearly meant to be interpreted as 'All fans prepare for autographs and photographs!'
These parades have been happening annually for years now. Laughter and festivities celebrating the downfall of Voldemort. A small sentiment was made to those who gave their lives for the cause. But so much more people had died than just the amount who fought for the light. That barely mattered in these parades, it was a glorification of war. I quickly flipped through the Prophet. Nothing. It seemed that today's edition was dedicated to the commemoration of the war.
Lucinda's head could have been on that front page.
But, she never had any regrets for making the decision I had made all those years ago. Even when given a time turner, she wouldn't change a thing about how events unfolded. Not a thing.
Tick Tock. Tick tock. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked away just like any ordinary day. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. Overlarge windows rattled with wind and rain. The sound of thunder mingled with
the ever continuing ticking of the clock. Tick tock. Tick tock. Curtains were not drawn as it was only afternoon but the room was already cast in a shroud of darkness. An eagle hammered onto a plague
flapped its wings above the unlit grate. Thick overly ornate tapestry adorned the walls in shades of blue and green. Silver thread marked them with designs of hawklike eyes and patterns as if shiny with
silver blood in the dimness. On one wall, a painting dominated it, whose occupants murmured furtively to each other with barely the rustling of their robes can be heard, sneaking glances once or twice
from behind their powdered wigs at a copy of the Daily Prophet lying closed on a large, oak table beneath their frame. This copy of the Prophet had no creases or any sign that it had been touched at all.
The headline flashed: darkest wizard of all time, he who must not be named sighted. Below read disappearance of Thomas Craven, only son of Amaryllis Craven head of magical law enforcement.
Thunder cackled outside. Lucinda Craven sat bolt upright in her chair whipping her wand from her pocket. Wind whistles through the Manor. A door slammed shut somewhere in the depth of the house. Somewhere else the windows rattled loudly and the flap of heavy curtains could be heard over the howling wind. Her heart thudding in her chest, she stood up. This action, however did little to help in casting an imposing figure. She was only petite, average height with wavy blond hair streaked with a sprinkling of dark brown. Her features however was reasonably striking, very much like her mother, a straight nose that was just proportionate to her pale heart shaped face without a hint of freckles and distinct grey eyes with a tinge of green. However, these usually piercing eyes was lessened by a series of
creases only brought about by constant hint of a worried frown. Dark bags hung below her eyes. The piercing look in her eyes had a dull edge. She raised her wand, taking a tentative step forwards. The occupants in the portrait, murmured gesturing frantically. Footsteps on the hard wooden floor sounded outside the door.
Lucinda raised her wand, stupefy on the tip of her tongue. Her heart thudded with a steady beat, growing quicker with each thud. Hurried footsteps grew louder and louder. The door knob turned. Until, with a loud squeak of protest from the door's hinges, tumbling into the room was a houself. He stumbled, falling onto his nose onto the dark floor at her feet. Beyond the open door, there was darkness, save for the occasional candle floating eerily along the wall. Elongated shadows loomed across the hallway. Lucinda gazed into the dark, raising her wand slightly higher. The air in the manor pressed against her ear drums. Thunder crashed outside. Then nothing.
"Miss! Miss! Bad Knobbly! Bad Knobbly!" cried the elf as he began to hit his head repeatedly on the floor. A heavy thud each time his head made contact with the thick wooden floor. Slowly, Lucinda lowered her wand placing it in her pocket.
"Stop that!" she ordered sharply. Grabbing a sticky bundle of flour sack the elf wore, she lifted the elf up from the ground, "Knobbly, what happened?"
"Bad knobbly, stupid knobbly, naughty knobbly left window open!"
Snorting, Lucinda let the elf unceremoniously drop the floor and ordered him to go. Her heart beat against her ribs, she stood clenching and unclenching her hands. Taking out her wand, lethargy seeping into at every vein, she resumed her vigil by the unlit grate. Slowly she sat down, the chair soft and the upholstery warm, but she did not dare sink fully into it.
Slowly everything settled into the pattern of before. The room was cast in grey grew darker and darker lit up in brief moments by lightening. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Soft furtive murmurs came from the portrait. Windows continued to rattle from the howling wind. Lucinda did not move, not even to light a lamp with her wand. The headlines of the Daily Prophet gleamed, flashing the headlines over and over again. You- know - who is back. Thomas Craven was missing. Her brother was missing.
A picture of him was placed with the article. A devilishly handsome face, flashing a grin out the photograph. He was in Gryffindor robes with his reddish brown hair neatly ruffled. It was taken in his fourth year, Lucinda's fifth. There was no news about his whereabouts. Their mother, Amaryllis Craven had pulled every string she could, and that was a number that most could not dream of, but there was no news of her only son.
Something wet trickled down her cheek. Lucinda's throat suddenly felt dry. She wanted to scream to wail, but she was too tired. Too tired. Tears began to stream down her cheeks. 'Thomas, where are you?' she managed to choke out before sobs racked her body.