A/N: I haven't written a fanfiction in a very long time. I'm still out to complete my others, after years of sitting still in the archive, but when this popped into my head, there was no ignoring it.
I'm uploading this "Prologue" to see if there's any interest in it. If there isn't I wont bother to continue. You wont have to here from me until some other Fiction starts playing on my mind. I think I'm just a bit too eager to get on and read HP7. I'm hope Angelina is in it!
Montague, Angelina Johnson and all reference to the Wizarding world belong to JK Rowling
"And If I don't make it known that
I've loved you all along
just like sunny days that
we ignore because
we're all dumb & jaded
and I hope to God I figure out
what's wrong"
Our Lady Peace (4am)
Prologue: A Change from the Ordinary
It was an ordinary start to yet another ordinary May morning in Little Hay-borough Way, the grey of the clouds over head were stubborn to neither rain, nor give way for the sun to shine down on one of London's most prestigious streets, threatening to plague the following twenty-four hours with its glum, bitter, ordinariness. And just as it had occurred the following morning, and an uncountable array or mornings before that, did a little boy sit glumly on his front lawn.
As uninviting as it may seem to many, the little boy sat there early that morning in his darkly decorated front garden and stared vacantly down at the neatly mowed earth, not a single thought echoing through his mind. He was very used to switching himself off from the world and allowing himself to think of nothing at all. It was in the mornings that this little boy found he could concentrate the most, and on that particular morning in May he found himself quite enjoying it.
This little boy had very dark, vacant brown eyes (courtesy of his mother); of which when looked upon without careful studying would appear black. Black eyes – people always said – that when stared into for too long would frighten your soul into leaving your body and kill you before you had a chance to look away. It was said that he had black eyes void of feeling. The little boy didn't know it yet, but it was the power he could retain through his eyes that would one day have Wizards and Witches alike (to some extent) worship his very existence. He had pale, creamy alabaster skin, and dark brown hair that had recently been shaved to a very miniscule amount, appearing to anyone who cared to take notice like an eight year and ten month old skin head. The look wasn't something he entirely supported, but children his age were prone to catching things, and before his mother had taken the shaver to his once curly mane, his father had told him that nits were not a nice thing to catch.
For a boy who was in two months time to be celebrating his ninth birthday, he was quite small for his age. A lot of children in his year at school currently stood a few inches taller than him, and seemed to look at it as a reason to ignore him. No one wanted to have to look into his dark, soul eating eyes, and therefore found it safer and more convenient just to pretend he didn't exist. At times he didn't mind this, it at least gave him time alone to think, or as he preferred; just not to think at all.
As the little boy sat there, thinking of nothing in particular, a small chestnut coloured squirrel ran unnoticed past his front gate and scurried quickly up a nearby tree.
"Don't go!" A tiny voice carried down the road, followed almost imminently by the clattering of hurried footsteps. "I have peanuts and-" There was a load thud and a small whimper, and the little boy looked up from the ground and at the occurrences that were suddenly taking place outside his front gate.
The scene before him wasn't particularly normal for such an ordinary morning in Little Hay-Borough Way, and he looked upon it with a sudden air of interest. For on the pavement only a few metres ahead of him was a little girl, sprawled in a tangled mess after it seemed having taken quite a nasty fall. It appeared to the little boy that her body would lay lifeless for an eternity, for she didn't move and he was almost certain she had stopped breathing. The thought occurred to him that he should probably hurry home and alert someone about the little girl who had just died outside his house, but before he had begun to get up a small sound escaped her lips and he decided it was probably best to stay put.
With great effort, the girl pushed herself up from the ground and tugged at the back of her skirt, cherry printed knickers no longer on show. Rolling onto her rear she sat up and took a better look at the damage she had done to herself. Both her knees now oozed red liquid that went on to stain her white socks, her palms were grazed from where she had tried to stop the fall, and the left side of her face was scratched and smeared with blood.
She bit down on her lip and tried to overcome the stinging sensation. Wiping away a single tear that had managed to escape her glassy eyes, the little girl turned, then startled once she noticed she was being watched.
"How long have you been sitting there?" She inquired, looking straight towards a rather ghoulish looking little boy who sat solitary in his grand front yard. She noticed he had very peculiar eyes.
When he didn't answer, she shrugged and got to her feet, collecting the fallen packet of peanuts she had attempted to feed to the squirrel.
"Who are you?" The little girl asked, walking towards the gate. She looked over the little boy and concluded within an instant that he was a bit strange. She wondered whether she should take the time out to speak to him, as she wasn't sure she should be talking to such strange people on the morning of her second day in Little Hay-Borough Way.
"Who are you?" The boy asked defiantly. She looked happy to see he could speak.
"I'm Angelina Johnson." She grinned. "Who are you?"
Angelina Johnson was a tall girl for her age (eight years and eight months old), the rest of her body failing miserably to catch up with her long, awkward legs. She had slim, oval brown eyes and sepia brown skin, accompanied by a long face (courtesy of her father) and a wide grin. Her hair was raven black, thick and wavy, and on that morning in May she had tied it into two low messy bunches at either side of her head.
"Thaddeus Montague." He said shortly, after watching her attempt to stifle a chuckle. "What's so funny?"
"That's a weird name!" She beamed, considering who in their right mind would be so cruel as to name their son Thaddeus.
He shot her a dirty look. "Not that it's any of your business," he stated "but Thaddeus was my granddads name. And anyway, it's not half as weird as Angelina."
Angelina frowned and discarded his comment. The boy was obviously very easily offended. Besides, she had more pressing matters to attend to; Angelina was now bleeding into her shoes.
"Could I come inside and borrow some plasters?" She asked, quickly changing the subject.
Montague (as most people called him), muttered something under his breath about stupid little girls wasting his time.
"I'm sorry, what was that?"
He growled and looked away from her. "I said no."
Angelina's mouth formed an O and she looked awkwardly up at the sky for a while, pulling different faces. "Well why not?"
Montague looked up at her as if she'd gone insane. Why was she still speaking to him? She obviously didn't know what was what around Little Hay-Borough Way. "You should probably run back home before I turn you into a pig or something." He started to say "I can do that now you know. My dad taught me. People around here don't talk to me because they know how powerful my family are. We could wipe your whole blood-line out in a second." he snapped his fingers for effect. "So I'm warning you now before my dad comes out here and finds you standing on his property. Go home and get your own stinking plasters."
Angelina ignored him entirely. What was he talking about, blood-lines and turning people into pigs? It was obvious to her that the boy was prone to telling lies, but her evaluation never quite matched the right reasons, and only later on in her adulthood did she come to understand the meaning of what Montague had been saying that day. As for turning her into a pig, it wasn't a likely possibility, as he wasn't yet old enough to posses him own wand. Even with his toy one he couldn't quite seem to get a simple Sickle to hover three inches from its surface.
It was her decision to brush aside his arrogant, slightly odd personality and try to befriend him anyway that forms the beginning of this story. Angelina couldn't quite put her finger on it, but there was something stray about this "Thaddeus Montague" that she rather liked. They were both only eight then, so the future was nothing either tended to ponder on for too long. However, Angelina often wondered sometime in the near future, what would have happened to her if she had just walked past the odd little boy and continue about her day. Would she be caught up in the same ordeal she currently had to face? The deaths, that feeling of dread and betrayal, the terrible pang she felt in her heart whenever she looked at him, this man of power and hate? What would have happened, if all those years ago, she hadn't decided to give him a second chance? It disappointed her whenever she thought about it, just the wonder of what might have happened if she hadn't chased the squirrel down Little Hay-Borough Way and stumble upon the boy with peculiar eyes.
Little Angelina shook her head, opening the gate to Montague's garden she found herself a place beside him and got comfortable. "Would you like a peanut?"