Harry Potter: The Harpies Lineage [OC]

AMARANTHINE [PRO.]

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It was an awful early morning when Corvin had gotten up from bed, a dreary feeling settling upon his chest as his eyes followed down the crack in his wall to his dusty calendar. The past few weeks had killed him inside and out, the aching fatigue in his bones and the bubbles that formed in his throat when he tried to talk. He had assumed it was because he had just gotten out from his time at school- how horrid that was.

July 24th, 1991.

That was the date on the calendar. There wasn't anything significant about it; but it had caught Corvin's eye when he had examined it. The long-haired boy had shaken the misery off his chest before lifting himself from his duvet and letting his body get used to the feeling of sitting upright. He had taken a large breath before planting his feet on the cold hardwood floors.

Corvin had always felt empty and lost in this house after his mother had left. Being stuck alone with his father was his sentence to a personal hell, but he didn't have the energy to argue to the world for cursing him the way they did.

The boy had scratched his arms, feathers falling from his skin to the floors as he watched them in a nauseated way. Corvin was a harpy- or some variation of one. It wasn't that he hated the fact that he hated his feathers or how he was born; it was just the difference, the specialty. He hated being apart from other kids, and he couldn't even tell anyone how that felt. They were all fully human, anyways.

Corvin had slipped his way out of his door, careful to avoid the creaky floorboards on his way out. He had made his way down the stairs in an unostentatious way, quietly and unembellished. The sun was still peeking its way through their curtains closed around the house- it had to have been six in the morning or so.

His scarred hands made their way over the fridge handle, pulling on the dilapidated door as it opened. He had grabbed a small jar of milk- his father had a habit of separating things into containers, so they didn't bother each other's portions. They weren't poor by any means, but his father had a way of acting the part of poverty, living minimally, he had guessed.

He had popped the cap off of the jar of milk, taking a small sip before he had heard their mail-flap open. He had turned his head over to it in a cautious manner. He placed his jar down before walking over guardedly, looking down at the aged letter that had just been slipped out of the other side of the door. 

Corvin had stared at the letter for a moment, before he had picked it up and flipped it over gingerly in his hands. He had examined it, the fine lettering on the back addressing it to him. He had scrutinized the light stains across the edges of the envelope and the perfectly placed wax seal.

In that moment, a door had slammed from somewhere in the house. He had frozen where he was, unsure of what to do. It was apparent in that moment that his father must have gotten up.

Was there something he had forgotten to do; Something he should've already thought about moments before? He probed his brain and surroundings for an answer before he realized he had never brewed the coffee in the pot. He had pocketed the letter into his pajama pants' pocket before almost slipping on the floors and scampering into the kitchen.

He had frantically opened their cabinets, grabbed the coffee tin and scooped the grounds into a coffee filter as he set the pot. His hand shook with vigor as he tried to properly time it to brew before he had heard his father's voice chime from behind him.

"Crow." The man's voice croaked; his tone leaned toward irascible and Corvin had known he had to be easy in his words as to not anger the freshly awoken man.

"Yes, Father?" Corvin had responded, his voice heedful as his eyes wandered for a distraction. He hated how his father would call him that, Crow. He was painfully aware that Adrian, his father, had called him that to disrespect his mother's going in giving him the middle name Corvin, after his birth in accordance with the Corvus constellation shining on its brightest night.

One Crow was bad luck, he reminded himself.

"The letter." Adrian spoke; his hands outstretched as Corvin had recoiled violently. "The letter?" Corvin spoke absentmindedly, before remembering the aged letter in his pocket. He had rushed to pull it out as he offered it quickly to his father.

Corvin watched his father's face contort into anger, and then recognition, and finally nothing-ness. The final emotion was what scared Corvin the most. That numb and quiet expression that Adrian often held, almost a resentment toward his own kin.

"Get your things together. We will be leaving shortly."