Darling

Prologue

J.K. Rowling obviously owns the Harry Potter series. It is not my own work, nor will it ever be (I wish). She owns the characters, plot line, etc.

ANDY

The spitball flew through the air, increasing in speed as it spiraled towards its destination. Moving too fast to control, it shot past its target, causing a smirk to appear on the face of a pimply teenage boy.

"See?" Jackson Douglas, the owner of the pizza face, said. He crossed his arms in triumph. "Impossible. Looks like I win."

The person he was talking to held up his hand. "Wait."

As soon as the words came out of his mouth, the spitball froze in its path. It hovered in midair for a moment before shooting off back the way it came. It was like watching a movie in rewind, and Jackson couldn't believe his eyes.

"What the..." he mumbled.

The other boy just pointed.

Jackson's eyes followed the path of his companion's finger, watching in astonishment as the wad of saliva made its way into the sleeping professor's nose. The professor jolted in his seat before settling back down on his desk.

Jackson turned to his pard, who just smirked. "I told you she could do it," he said.

The "she" in question was a fellow cellmate in room 124's detention named Andy Darling. Jackson had seen her many times after school in this room, and many times in other rooms as well, as she seemed to constantly be in trouble. She also seemed to constantly be with the boy Jackson was talking to, Skinner Baley. It was rumored that they were relatives or something, but that was never confirmed. Only thing that was confirmed about the duo was that he was the only person she ever talked to. Otherwise, she remained to herself. Some figured she was just shy, but most knew it was a superiority complex. She would always turn up her nose at those brave enough to strike up a conversation with her, though no one knew why.

Jackson passed over the money he owed Skinner for losing the bet. When the other boy grabbed it, though, he didn't let go. "How?" he asked.

He wasn't simply referring to the spitball miracle he just witnessed; no, he meant the twelve spitballs up the same teacher's nose that had landed Andy here in the first place. Professor Pally had gone through almost half the day without realizing they were there, and when he did, he was furious.

The question was aimed at Skinner, but Andy answered, speaking the first word he heard from her in the entire time he had known her. "Magic."

Jackson rolled his eyes. He could practically feel her smirk from here. "Seriously," he implored Skinner.

Skinner just smiled. Three short taps on the window saved him from further questioning.

Jackson turned toward the noise. "When did this classroom get a--oh shit," he swore, shocked at the appearance of a large mass of feathers, claws, and beak staring soullessly through the glass. He took a few steps away from the window. "That is one huge-ass bird."

"It's an owl," Skinner replied, as if that would somehow calm Jackson.

"An eagle owl," Andy corrected. "The most high-flown and turgid of all the birds."

Jackson giggled. "She said turgid."

Andy rolled her eyes and strode confidently over to the window. "Of course someone like you would only focus on that," she sneered, opening the window. She lifted her arm to the owl, who perched on it like it belonged there. "Good girl, Tyra," she whispered gently to the bird. It dropped the letter into her hands and nipped her finger affectionately, but at that point she was too distracted by the envelope in her hands to notice.

Whatever she saw on the back must have made her furious, because she ripped the item open with such force that Jackson almost felt sorry for it. Reading the paper inside, her face grew darker and angrier as she made her way down the page. Finally, she shooed her bird away and stomped tumultuously towards the door, letter in hand.

"Skinner, we're leaving," she barked, throwing the door open. The boy hurried after her.

Jackson witnessed this scene in complete silence, observing from the moment she opened the letter to when the door shut with a loud boom, the professor still snoring away in the background. None of this truly mattered to him, though, as his mind was preoccupied with one thing: "Who sends letters anymore?"