Post by Remo Jones on Jul 14, 2013 0:41:48 GMT -6
August 28th, 2008.
11:03, on a stifling hot morning in Diagon Alley.
11:03, on a stifling hot morning in Diagon Alley.
This was the first time Remo and his father had ever been to Diagon Alley; his father a muggle, and Remo a halfblood but getting all his magic from a mother who was not around to offer guidance. Though it seemed the one that really needed guidance was Mr. Jones. He was a police office by trade, used to things following rules, or rather not following them but at least there being rules, and logic and sense, by which things could be assessed. This was well outside his realm of understanding but he was doing his best. The wizard that had brought Remo’s Hogwarts letter had been a huge help but there was really nothing to prepare one for this.
Mr. Jones had swapped shifts to free up this day, working two nights in a row and he was barely awake as it was, running on coffee fumes, as his son dragged him by the hand in and out of bustling people in bizarre dress laden with armfuls of bizarre objects. He had to keep blinking, partly to keep his eyes open and partly because the surrealness of the situation was doing its best to convince him he’d fallen asleep at his desk and was dreaming the whole think. Probably he’d spilt coffee on his desk and stained his paperwork. He could smell coffee right now, or was it just wishful thinking? And was that roast pumpkin pie? He was suddenly alert enough to know what he was missing out on as his eyes tried to follow his nose and track down the source of the scent. It was no use though, his son had other ideas and he stumbled slightly as he was dragged through a door into a tall crooked building. A bell greeted them annoyingly cheerfully and a scowl of general disapproval at the run up of events was just beginning to form when his son let out an elongated “wow” of awe. The look of such wonder on his face immediately softened his father’s expression and made the whole day and night shifts oh so worth it, just for that one look.
Eleven year old Remo, with his floppy hair and crooked shirt collar and shoe lace half undone, hand still firmly gripping his father’s stood gaping at all the lines and lines of boxes in the room, floor to ceiling. There was someone ahead of them trying a wand and he watched open mouthed as the child in front found his match in wand in a magical aura of bright light and a fluttering of papers.
As the people in front rung up their purchase Remo dragged his father over to some of the wands that were out of their boxes and on display. He was particularly drawn to the darker colours and the ones with patterned handles.
“Look at that one,” he eagerly pointed, looking up to make sure his father wasn’t missing out. It had a pattern on the handle that looked like a cross between some graffiti he’d seen on an underpass in Bristol by the river and some kind of ancient script. “And that one,” he added, pointing at one with a series of circular patterns, that bisected and overlapped each other.
The tinkle of the bell sounded again, indicating the other patrons had left and he turned to look for the shopkeeper.
