--Heathrow Airport; London, England—August 13th, 1997.
"One ticket for New York, please."
Glancing up, the stewardess came face to face with a singularly odd-looking man. He was of medium height with narrow, sloping shoulders that gave him a slightly sickly appearance. His pallid, angular features were framed by longish, jett-black hair that he kept tied loosely back, and as she looked into his cold, obsidian eyes, she felt a flicker of fear form in her chest. "Er," she stammered a little, "Which flight, sir?"
Looking momentarily startled, the man glanced around nervously, as if he was looking to see who might be watching. "The soonest one possible," he replied sharply, "I'm on urgent business."
Glancing back down at her computer screen, she bit her lip, "The next flight to New York leaves in an hour sir. Would you like to buy a ticket?"
"Yes," the man replied distractedly, "I think I'll do that."
"I'll need your name sir."
At this, he started. "Name?" he murmured, "It's, er…Tobias Scarr."
As the woman handed him his ticket and he sat down, 'Tobias' grimaced. When he had made his plans for escape, he had not taken this into account. Still, he mused, it was ironic that he should temporarily assume the first name of one of the few people he hated more than himself. It didn't matter though. Tobias Snape was dead.
Running one hand through his unusually (at least for him) silky hair, he sighed inwardly. I should have never taken that damnable oath, he thought to himself, I never thought it would come to this…if only her sister hadn't been there insisting on the blasted thing, this would've never happened. Glancing at his pocket watch, he grabbed his bag and walked toward the terminal.