LEVIATHAN MORNINGSTAR: SEPTEMBER, 1996
Leviathan was a first year at The Academy this year and he could feel the anxiety thrumming in his veins. His hair had accidentally changed colour over eight times this week alone, his father was beginning to get quite exasperated but Leviathan couldn't help it.
He was eleven-years-old and he was entirely convinced that he was prepared to take on the big, bad world of warlocks and witches. Looking back, he knew that it was a childish ambition; but he gave himself points for the thought.
Leviathan had boarded the train that took students to The Academy with a broad smile on his face, stretching his lips as thin as they could go. His cousin, Simon, had begun at The Academy the year before. Ian had told Simon to show Leviathan around The Academy, so Leviathan's first course of action was to seek out Simon.
Leviathan was a small boy, by every definition of the word. He had barely reached 4'6", which was shorter than the average for eleven year old boys (Simon had been the one to inform him of that). This meant that Simon, who had been 5'0" (which was two inches above the average for twelve year old boys), towered over him. Leviathan didn't mind that, he would've looked up to Simon even if the boy wasn't taller than him. Simon seemed to mind a lot, though, since he always mentioned it.
For example, the moment the door opened, Simon's voice spoke; "Hello, Tiny." It was the way Simon had taken to greeting Leviathan, which had begun over the summer and never stopped.
"Hi, Simon." Leviathan gave a small smile, mildly intimidated by the group of boys in the compartment already. "Can I sit?"
"If you'd like." Simon hummed, but he didn't move. Leviathan awkwardly made his way to an empty space at the end of a seat and placed himself in it.
A boy's head swiveled to Leviathan's place on the seat, craning to look at him. "What are you?" He questioned bluntly, Leviathan's brows furrowed.
"What do you mean?" He asked slowly, ensuring that he enunciate his words clearly. He had been taught the Pureblood way of speaking (which was simply to make your accent a bit less thick and make sure everyone who spoke English could understand you perfectly, as far as Leviathan could tell), of course; but he never felt the need to employ it. Until now.
"Are you Pure?" the boy questioned bluntly, Leviathan didn't see the point in asking. He really didn't see the point in answering, either. He figured his last name may as well have spoken for itself, but everyone in the compartment was staring. Not even Simon was speaking up. Simon isn't Pure, a voice in the back of his head nagged (even though Simon, by a technicality, was Pure), why are they asking me when Simon isn't even Pure?
"Yeah," Leviathan answered after a moment of intense silence, the words coming out as an exasperated sigh. "Should be, shouldn't I?"
"Should be?" the boy stressed, leaning towards Leviathan. "Should be or are? They're different." A boy next to him set his hand on the inquisitive boys' shoulder.
"Shut up, De Marchi." The boy with the hand spoke, giving a name to the inquisitive boy. Leviathan wracked his brain for any De Marchi's he knew, but he couldn't think at the moment. He never excelled at thinking under pressure.
"Shove it, Yaxley." De Marchi snapped, shoving Yaxley's hand off of his shoulder. Leviathan realized he wasn't sure if he knew any Yaxley's, either. A boy across from the two sighed. Leviathan wondered if this was a common occurrence. "What're you sighing for, Leatherwood? Your dad's half." De Marchi was hot-headed, Leviathan noted. He also noted that he did, in fact, know Leatherwood's. He had been told to stay away from them, they weren't to be trusted.
