The House of Hawke has been called the traitorous, filthy and scum house the entire time that name was known to the living.
Past or future, one would accompany it with the adjective "Horrifying".
It was a matter of grief for the youngest daughter...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Borough of Isleton, London, England, 1977 August 11th, Mildly warm
Our eyes met.
I, like the utter fool I was - sat there, hands hovering above the Daily Prophet at my feet, gaping at the boy.
He, like the beauty he was, tilted his head and smirked.
I knew that smirk was faked. I'd done it so many times in my life myself. That was when I noticed his face entirely.
There were bruises. So many bruises. His whole body was covered in them, his shirt - fuck, was that blood?
"Eleven Sickles," recited Stan for the second time that night, at least in front of me, "but for firteen you get 'ot chocolate, and for fifteen you get an 'ot water bottle an' a toofbrush in the colour of your choice."
The boy paused, turned around to Stan and dropped fourteen sickles in his palm. Stan grinned and brought out a mug from seemingly nowhere, Ernie grunted.
The boy cocked his head towards the bed and Stan clicked his tongue. "Ah! Beds. 'Ave the one next to the girl."
The boy nodded, solemn as he approached the bed next to mine, eyes never wandering too far, never lurking too close.
He was ethereal, jaw so sharp it could have the same effect as a paper cut. His eyes were stormy blue-grey, more smoke-like than watery, diluted and sharp. His cheekbones were gaunt but not in a desolate way, more of a Greek god sculpture way.
I grimaced internally, Greek god sculpture way? I was such a creep. Then again, I'd never been with a boy before.
I'd had my first kiss, of course. But it was just a practise-learning type of kissing. That too, with a part Veela from Beauxbatons. Girls were lovely kissers, how could I refuse?
He's looking at the Daily Prophet at my feet now, his curtains half open. I want him to look back up, his eyes are mesmerising.
He does. I try so hard not to gasp.
"Are you reading that?"
Alright, I'm a hormonal perverted teenage girl and I want to sprint out of this bus because I'm getting sweaty from looking at him, he makes me feel so nervous and self-conscious, I think I'd rather get lost again.
"No." I surprise myself with a steady voice.
Unlike his, which was deep for his age. Raspy in the best sort of way.
"Can I . . . ?" I stare at him like a fool before realising he's asking whether he can read the newspaper or not.
"Of course." I waved a dismissing arm. I need to go home, now. "I was about to shove it back at Stan, anyways."
The boy chuckled. "You travel in this often?"
I raise a brow. "No, this is my first time actually. Yours too, I assume."
