Stage one: Infiltration
It was a bright and sunny day in September. The butterflies flitted merrily on high , sickeningly cute rabbits frolicked about and all the birds in London chirped in perfect tune with one another, creating an incessant orchestra of cheeps and chirps. Babies with enormously wide and curious eyes blinked happily at strangers, pigeons gathered at corners in perfect circles of harmonious existence--in no one's way at all.
It was all just another ordinary day at Kings Cross Station. If you discount the strangely attired few (in dresses!) walking not-so-discretely through walls. Also, there were an abnormally large number of trolleys dissapearing into pillars--and lets not forget the sudden 'POP' followed by the suspisciously magical appearence of those self-same people.
All in all, it was rather simple to figure out that something was not quite right at Kings Cross. In fact, it had not been quite right for some time. For years these strange folk had paraded twice a year through the Station in their embarassing attire, and all for the peculiar joy of walking through an otherwise unremarkable pillar--located comfortably between platforms 9 and 10.
Indeed, these activities were not quite as unnoticed as the perpetrators thought they were. For years the police had been watching Kings Cross on Septeber 1st; for it was on that day--without fail--that the strange procession of all sorts of odd folk would occur. The police had tried repeatedly to follow the strange people, sending agent after agent to the pillar, but invariably, the detectives would return with either massive bumps on their heads ("They walked right through the wall, sir!") or complete loss of memory. It was baffling, and therefore immensly frustrating.
This year the police had come up with a better plan, though. Their attempts to send an adult disguised as a child had clearly failed--so this year, they would send in a real child. It would be dangerous, yes. The child would be walking into a potentially hostile situation utterly blind. But it was worth it--or so the head of the department believed. Of course, as he was calling all the shots, it was perfectly alright for him to speak for all of those beneath him.
A careful survey of possible candidates for the assignment had begun September 2nd of the previous year. Most of the candidates were found to be woefully inadequate--this assignment required brains (to survive), beauty (to charm), humor (to weasel out of sticky situations), and a certain tendency towards the sneaky (to glean information). Out of 453 children, only one fit all of those requirements: Brandy Bishop, sixteen years old, from Liverpool.
After almost a year of training in every area of combat possible, as well as learning how to negotiate effectively, the careful arts of manipulation and other such innocent things, Project Nine and Three-Quarters was about to commence. All that remained was actually walking through the wall--successfully, that is.
Brandy had a trolley loaded with the random objects the police had observed on children's trolleys the previous years. She was dressed in the same odd fashion as the suspects, and even had the wide-eyed-but-somehow-disdainful look down to a pat. So with a final, 9-second intake of air, Brandy squared her shoulders and pushed her trolley towards the wall behind a group of human carrots.
The smallest one--a girl of about 15--turned in her direction and flashed a quick smile. Returning the gesture with a vague attempt-at-a-smile, Brandy quickly turned to her right, suddenly realizing just how fascinating the railroad tracks were. Or at least, she hoped the gesture looked like anything but an attempt to avoid conversation.
After a few tense seconds, the undercover agent snuck a glance towards the left. Good--Carrot family vanishing rapidly through the wall. Brandy swallowed hard. At least she had made it this far without losing her memory. Now came the real test. Eyes narrowing in determination, she clutched the trolley with hands gone white from tension and raced full speed towards the wall. It was too much to watch, she had to close her eyes. Any moment now, and she would ram into the pillar.
Any moment.
Brandy brought the trolley to a halt. One hazel eye peaked open, and the other quickly followed along with a gasp as she looked around. She had done it. 53 unsuccesful attempts by other agents, and she, Brandy Bishop, had made it through.
Victory is indeed sweet.
But--hold on. Now what?
The slender girl glanced around. See what the suspects are doing first, then follow. Erm, right. Little kid running with toad--unimportant. Middle-aged woman in purple robe? Nope--she dissappeared with another of those obnoxious "POP"s.
Oh wait--Perfect. Carrot girl from Platform 9.
Nodding happily to herself, Brandy pushed the trolley over towards where Carrot was boarding the obscenely red train ('The Hogwarts Express'--or so the gaudy gold lettering proclaimed) and manuevered in line behind her.
Glancing around, time passed sooner that she thought as her mind filled with wonder and skeptisism at the sights surrounding her. One of the suspects (there had to be more than two-hundred! The organization was definately bigger than Leadership thought) waved a twig at another and shouted in what seemed to be a fairly northern dialect of Gibberish. Suprisingly enough, the second suspect suddenly found himself with a fine head of hair--coloured pink and purple, that is. All across the platform other suspects were performing equally baffling feats.
"Ticket please." Brandy jumped slightly at the voice. A wizened old man stared back at her, eyes twinkling like mad as he repeated the request.
"Already?" she congratulated herself for disguising her hysteria so well.
The man (conductor?) sighed good-naturedly and shrugged before replying. "Yes, we've had to change the policy this year-- too many first years chucking tickets in the bins once they're on the Platform. Think the tickets for the portal, they do." he chuckled, "Course, 's'not like the 'Spress really needs tickets--she knows her own, she does." He fondly patted the side of the train.
Right. One too many pints there, conductor? "Oh, erm. Well, you see," she faked a blush--acting lessons were beautiful things--"this is my first year as well, and my ticket--" she shrugged hopelessly, sporting an expression of bashful embarassment.
It worked like a charm. "You look a mite old for a first year--transfer are you?" She nodded. "Ah, well, if anyone asks, I took your ticket--faulty charms on it, of course." He winked and waved her on.
Scarcely daring to believe her good luck, Brandy sprung onto the train and dragged her trunk behind her. Finding a miraculously empty compartment, she slipped through the door, hoisted her trunk up, and nestled into the corner seat for a trip to the unknown.
The adventure had finally begun.
The plotline popped into my head during lunch, and wouldn't leave me alone. Should I continue with this? Input would be greatly appreciated!