Prologue -

There was nothing out of the ordinary that would suggest that this particular Wednesday was unlike the others. The slight breeze was welcomed in the warm September
weather, and the hustle of passers-by and morning traffic was to be expected on the streets of London.

An old retired man sat by the window of his favourite table, in his favourite coffee shop to which he visited religiously. He had picked the table many years previously, and he suspected that the owner – who had become a close friend over the years – had conventionally reserved it for him, and him only.

It was no secret to anyone who knew the man that he adored the city with a passion; there was always something so… magical about the place. Whether it be the business-driven men that passed by or the ambiance of importance surrounding the city – he always counted himself lucky to represent such a place.

One of the renowned features of the quaint coffee shop, and one that managed to attract customers like clock-work, was that it was located right next to Kings Cross Station. The old man watched as men in well-tailored suits carrying briefcases made their departure, and families sent each other off with sombre waves and lingering hugs.

After a few moments, the owner came by the man's table with a promise of his usual cappuccino on the house. "What's a friend who owns a coffee shop for if not to provide free coffee?", he often said before leaving his friend to his own company. A young waiter came by not soon after, carrying his coffee with oblivious clumsiness, sloshing the drink all over the table while he sang an off-key tune that sounded vaguely familiar. Vaguely. When he did notice the mess, however, he bowed awkwardly, muttering apologies before hurrying behind the counter and shaking his head at his own absurdities.

He was clearly new, the man decided; he had bowed of all things.

The man took his napkin, wiping residue of cappuccino froth from his cup, before moving his gaze to his window that on-looked the streets. It wasn't, however, until he noticed a rather dubious family passing by that the man realised that this certainly was not like any other Wednesday. He choked and spluttered on the hot liquid as he stared at the family with raised eyebrows.

The father was quite a large man who screamed an aura of importance. His gaze was fixed unwaveringly on the three small children in front of him as if they would disappear before his eyes if he so much as blinked. The smallest child, a boy, walked quickly with his head down in a reserved manner and his arms stuck to his side like stiff planks of wood. Slightly in front of him, and quite a contrast to the small boy, held a boy and a girl. They looked about the same age. In fact, as he looked at them properly, there was no doubt in the man's mind that the two were twins; everything about them, from their raven-coloured hair to their mischievous grins, was identical. They raised an amusing ruckus, pushing each other roughly and making silly faces, and continued their antics until they came to an abrupt stop and turned their heads sharply to meet their mother's gaze warily. As the man looked at the mother, he took note of the children's nervous expressions and whole-heartedly agreed with them. She took a very strict demeanour, her hair pulled tightly into a low bun, fixed with an ornamental hair clip that looked as if it costed more than his car. Her firmly pulled face showed no sign of aging besides the few wrinkles on her forehead that he fathomed to be from frowning at her children; in fact, if it had not been for the horrid scowl that was etched on her face, he would have thought her rather attractive. She was considerably frightening in that sense.

However interesting the family in general was, it was not this that attracted the man's attention in the first place. It was, in fact, the way they were dressed. They all wore interesting, cloak-like robes that draped their bodies. The boys all wore similar, plain black robes, whereas the girls wore tighter, emerald-green ones that resembled dresses. Clinging to the heart of all their robes was a gleaming, silver brooch that read: Toujours Pur.

In all his days (and there certainly was quite a few of those), the man had never seen such an abnormal way to dress. He thought it rather eccentric and deemed them foreigners of some sort. Perhaps, he thought as he noticed the trunks that the parents carried, they were going to Kings Cross to return home.

Full-length robes? In September?

No, definitely not locals.

At this point, the owner returned to his table with a newspaper in hand and eyed the family through the window.

'Yes,' he said sceptically, 'I see quite that lot quite a bit around this time of the year. Always around the start of September, come to think of it. Never seen an odder bunch, in my opinion. Must be foreigners.'

And with that, he reverted back behind the shop, leaving the man to dwell in his curiosity, only managing a weak shake of the head before picking up his newspaper. Perhaps this could take his mind off of any out-of-the-norm behaviour, he thought.

A young girl giggled quietly as her twin brother nudged her side playfully. She pushed his shoulder in reciprocation, however slightly harder than she anticipated as she watched him stumble sideways. His eyes were slightly dumbfounded from the attack, however, as he looked at her, mischief building in the same stormy-grey eyes she shared, her momentary hesitation was all he needed to shove her with both hands.

Roughly.

"Why I outta-", she began before pouncing, shoving him just as hard, beginning their daily round of 'push the other twin's buttons (or shoulders) until one surrenders'. As they pushed and shoved, flicked and grabbed, they dissociated from their whereabouts and were startled back into reality when a low, growl sound erupted from behind them. Both immediately stiffened, whipping their heads around to meet their mother's cold, disapproving stare. Buzzkill, the little girl thought as she returned walking in a more dignified way. Her brother followed her actions, and soon the two children fit in perfectly with the boring, high-class family they were notorious for being. As the young girl turned her head slightly to look inside the window of a small muggle café she would have been chastised for taking notice of, she spotted an old man staring at her intensely from behind his newspaper. She also noticed the lack of interesting, moving pictures in his newspaper, and wondered how on earth muggles got by without magic to spice up their lives, and poked her tongue out at the man before turning to look at her brother, smiling a mischievous grin.