Standing Under Gray Skies

Cynefin

(n.) a place where a person or animal feels it ought to live and belong; it is where nature around you feels right and welcoming

King's Cross couldn't possibly have been any more crowded than it was right now. Not two steps in, I'd somehow managed to run my luggage cart into three people, as well as a dog that'd somehow managed to escape its owner. My mother's hand on my shoulder, gripping the soft lavender material of my jumper in a gentle clutch, was the only thing grounding me in the chaos.

I owed a lot to my mother, all things considering. Of course, she wasn't my real mother, but she very well may have been with how well she and my father have cared for me over these past many years I've been with them. They made me feel special, warm, and loved. I owed them absolutely everything. I truly wouldn't have been here if it weren't for them–really. They're the only reasons I'm even at King's Cross, trudging through the mass of busy Londoners, wheeling along my luggage cart with white knuckles and sweaty anticipation. All because I know what awaits me beyond these ordinary-in-appearance platforms.

I'll admit, the thought of running my cart straight into a brick wall at full speed felt rather odd, to say the least. To any surrounding plain-folk, I'd've looked positively mental. Tiny footsteps trailed at my heels until I made it though, and the sound of small laughter, and a whistling train, filled my ears with such a melodious sound I thought I might've died upon impact with that wall. Alas, everything I saw before my eyes was far from illusory.

Parents hugging their children farewell was a blessed sight, as birds flew overhead and cats followed their owners' winding paths through the crowd to board the famously enchanted Hogwarts Express. Aboard that train was an entirely new world of possibilities, opportunities, and dreams. I was damned lucky to be here, where I was. For all I knew, my entire life could change from the moment I stepped off the platform. My mother's hand had long since fallen from my shoulder, but as I started walking towards the Hogwarts Express in a trance, it found my arm and pulled me back before I wheeled my cart into a gentle-faced father escorting his fair-skinned daughter, young in age, through the crowd. Another, brighter-eyed man, held the hand of a boy already wearing his Ravenclaw robes, following close behind. Mother greeted the two men as Mr. and Mr. Callaghan, wishing them well on their way. We kept going, but not before Julian, my two-year-old baby brother, jumped up between me and the cart, holding on to the longer part of the handle as I pushed along. My owl, decorated in pristine snow-white feathers and a green plastic bracelet around its equivalent of an ankle, chirped delightedly at the sight of him just below her cage, and lowered her head to better see him.

Had my mother not held her hand over my shoulder, drifting to the spot just below the nape of my neck, I would have already gotten lost on my own. She led me to a large collection of luggage carts, where house elves and kindly-looking witches and wizards carefully loaded each and every chest, bag, and rucksack onto the train, their wands and hands guiding the floating packages with ease. Of course, I knew it was all just a simple levitation spell they'd cast on the luggage to make them hover about like that, but the wonder of seeing so many of them hadn't yet ceased to amaze me. It was astonishing how the wizarding words differed from that of the plain-folk, or "muggles," as most called them. Such an activity in King's Cross would have taken much longer for the hired help than it was for the magically exceptional here. I almost pitied those I'd left behind as I crossed the threshold of Platform 9 ¾ into the world of magic. At least, I wanted to. I knew that I, myself, had to consider myself lucky that I could be here, so I let my mind wander forward.

I never knew my parents. Nor did many others, I'm told. According to many old Ministry files I'd been left with when they were killed-in-action, which my mum had given me when I turned ten, they were of no more worth than any other Auror working for the American Ministry of Magic in New York. At least, that's what the file said. Their will, and their bank vault, said otherwise. Both of which were also left to me. I suppose I should be thankful for that, and thankful for the fact that my parents named good, honest people as my legal guardians should they have been killed in the line of duty. They've let me keep every last knut in the vault, trusting me with the key. I still wear it around my neck...y'know. Just in case. In the eyes of any other student, I may have seemed like little more than just another pure-blooded rich git, but considering I've yet to even touch anything in the vault...that may just have been a loosely based assumption.