Chapter Seven:
Letters Bring Death

On the night of the thirtieth of August, I found myself straddled upon the back of Tom's Tinderblast with my eyes clenched shut in fear, my arms clasped tightly around his middle. I could not bring myself to look down at the sleeping muggle town, for I knew it was unnaturally far below us.

We flew through a cloud, and I could feel his muscles tense after I tightened my grip on his waist, burying my face in the back of his shoulder.

He laughed and shifted uncomfortably. "We are not so high, not yet!"

I moaned. "Are we remotely close to Diagon Alley yet?"

"Open your eyes, why do you not, and see for yourself!" he joked while trying to loosen my hold.

I shook my head violently. "Not until I feel my feet touch the ground, thank you very much!"

"I am not going to let you fall," he retorted, steadying the broom as best he could to prove it.

"I know that, I just do not like flying, is all... or heights..." I swallowed and re-buried my face.

"I am not about to let you down until you open your eyes."

"Wha-? That's not-but! Tom!" I protested at the unfairness. He turned his head and looked at me, smirking as I nervously squinted open one eye.

Then I gasped.

"Tom! It is beautiful!"

Stretched before me was an endless sea of stars, each tiny point of light glimmering in the distance. The sky was composed of a multitude of blue hues, aquamarine curling around midnight-navy in mist-like tendrils that seeped to the outermost regions of the night. Clouds were but delicate, ethereal wisps of light gray.

I glanced below me, and my breath caught in my throat. The town was but a collection of shimmering specks kilometers below us, arranged in an endless grid-like pattern. I could barely see the red and white lights of muggle traffic. In fact, the only way I recognized it was for the movement.

The leather straps of my trunk flapped noiselessly behind us, Rowan's empty cage dangling from one end.

As my fears seemed to lessen, I let my hair dance loosely in the wind, freeing my hands and boldly lifting them to the luminescent orb of a moon. There, I laughed openly, my voice becoming lost in the rushing air.

"I thought you detested flying!" Tom called, his smirk still apparent.

"What are you talking about?" I teased.

He jerked the broom playfully, and caused me to nearly lose my balance. I shrieked happily, flailing my arms about to keep from falling. "Ah! Do not!"

"I thought you were not afraid!" His smile broadened to an evil grin and he tilted the handle of the broom, falling into an impossibly steep dive.

I had honestly never realized he could fly so incredibly well. It was pure brilliance, the way he handled the Tinderblast. It was as if he had invented the model himself.

Tom did not strike me as the athletic type, for he had never shown any signs of his ability before. I doubted anyone else knew of it. (Though, clearly, tonight, he was showing off.)

I readily admit to enjoying every moment of it, despite my former fears, as there was nothing quite like what I was experiencing. It was one of those feeling where it made me want to laugh and cry at the same time.

But it was one of the last nights we would be able to act as so until the true horrors began.

-

We successfully boarded the Hogwarts Express with only moments to spare. Rowan had returned the night before with a dead mouse dangling by its scrawny tail in his beak, a large envelope clutched in his fierce talons.

Dear Miss Parmellie, it had read,

It is with regret and a heavy heart that we must inform you of the deaths of your mother, Elizabeth Nell-Parmellie, and your father, Alexander Parmellie, both passing last Sunday evening. Headmaster Armando Dippet will speak with you personally upon your arrival at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. We are deeply sorry for your loss.

Yours sincerely,

Belinda Warrick
Ministry of Magic

I stared at it numbly, not willing to believe what my eyes had told me. It had not made sense. My parents were much too young, or so I had believed.

Professor Dippet confirmed my suspicions after I was ushered into his office and seated nervously in front of him.

"I'm terribly sorry," he began, wringing his hands, his eyes filled with pity; something I hated to see. "We do not know the exact cause of your parents' deaths, I'm afraid, but we do know that they were indeed murdered." He gazed at me sorrowfully. It made me feel ashamed of myself, having not even begun to mourn for my loss. But perhaps fifteen was too young of an age to really process the fact that the ones who had birthed and raised me would never return; would never kiss my cheek each summer night, promising me sweet dreams of bliss so long as my eyes were closed; no one would be there to welcome me home upon my return from Hogwarts and arrival at Platform 9 3/4, drowning me in their warm embrace.

Or perhaps I still suffered from the initial shock that I was then an orphan...

An orphan...

Those words stung bitterly on my tongue as I emerged from the Headmaster's office. Tom was there, perched near a crumbling statue, waiting for me. He insisted on accompanying me to the entrance of the Ravenclaw common room after that, for we had missed the feast–no great sorrow, hunger was nothing–and the students would be returning from their dormitories with their bellies full. And, I had not been informed of the new password, he sat with me, though in silence.

After what seemed like hours–though it couldn't have been so long as that–he spoke. "You know," he said thoughtfully, his voice slightly gravelly from not being used, "both... both of my parents... are no longer alive..."

I blinked in surprise. "Oh, Tom, I am so sorry!"

He shook his head. "I hardly remember them, least of all my late mother. She was the witch, but my father... That is beside the point. So, I... I realize how you must be feeling..."

I managed a smile. He was trying so hard to lift my spirits... spirits that refused to be lifted. "Thank you," I murmured, giving a tired sigh and leaning my forehead against his shoulder.

Once more, I found myself drifting away in slumber in His presence. And I was sorry I had not felt his fingers subtlety caressing my hair as I dozed.

-

I clear my throat and wet my parched lips with my tongue. My voice has already been exhausted, though so much more I have to tell. I notice a youthful twinkle in Albus' eyes, and I cannot help but smile. But I sense he is also troubled by something. Something that has tormented me for years, ever since Tom had vanished.

How could such a kind boy have grown into such a heartless killer?