The New Beginning
When the Hogwarts Express pulled into Kings Cross Station, Platform Nine and Three Quarters, the excitement levels did not leap as expected by the station staff. They had been told to prepare for the train's unusual arrival. It was an unplanned event that had naturally created rumours amongst the porters.
One of these porters put all thoughts of the rumours out of his mind. His name was Richard Farrow and he, unlike his colleagues, knew the truth. He had a young daughter, only twelve, who attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and as soon as she had known of the Headmaster's death, she had sent the news tot her parents. Although, Richard himself was a Muggle, he understood the significance of this Dumbledore figure. He wondered how this man – this wizard – had died. Had someone else killed him? If so, in what way? A poison? A dagger? A curse? Richard knew he had little knowledge of magic spells and enchantments, but in his desperate attempt to keep up with his wife and daughter, he had read books explaining Muggles like him, basic things, including spells to be wary of. One of these was called 'The Killing Curse' – it was an 'Unforgivable Curse', understandably – and there wasn't much more to say, Richard wondered if that was how Dumbledore had been killed.
But the next question would be, who? An old friend who knew too many secrets? A pupil who was fed up with detentions? A teacher who wanted a pay rise?
However, Richard's ponderings were immediately cast away when the carriage doors were thrown open and students spilled out onto the platform. The other porters rushed forwards, eager to help the youngsters with their luggage, until they could find their parents. Yet, Richard stood aside, scowering the crowds for a glimpse of his daughter. The familiar call of 'Daddy!' made his head flick around, already drawing a smile to his face.
As father and daughter embraced, he looked over her shoulder and watched as one of the older pupils, – sixteen or seventeen, maybe – a girl with long, brown, bushy hair, helped a dark-haired boy – the same age – collect his trunk and bird cage. Even when their hug broke apart, Richard continued to watch the teenagers – whom had now been joined my lots of other red-haired children. He didn't understand what intrigued him so much, but there was something about the dark-haired boy. His expressions were so solemn it was unnerving, and his face seemed to have aged unnaturally. He had such a vacant look about him.