Alternate Version of Prologue

You can find the original version of this chapter as you scroll past this edited version. I decided to edit this chapter as many people found it boring, and I suspected that the original prologue was driving away potential readers with its boring prose. This new one might not interest you very much, but I thought it was slightly better than the old version…

Stasya


Colours danced across the indigo sky to paint a canvas of sunset. A seagull circled an isolated beach once, twice, flew away. Beautiful as the scene was, no one was present to admire it in its beauty. But that didn't matter. It'd be back the next day, and the next day, and the next, and for all the next days of eternity.

A streak of black across the canvas was the first one to announce nighttime. More streaks came, fast and bold, adorned with twinkling stars, otherwise known as cold, otherworldly witnesses to the world, or symbols of light and hope. A tawny owl was the first sign of real life to soar across the canvas of inky black sky, and then dipped below, swooped down, and down and down…finally halting expertly at a stained glass window with music blaring from behind.

A girl, slim and average of height, was the first to approach the brown creature. Fussing and cooing over it, she gingerly untied an unusually thick letter from its legs, opened the letter, and wide-eyed with surprise and delight at its contents, patted the owl fondly and it was off once more into the depths of the night. Copper locks fell into her green eyes, which darkened ironically, as she read the last line of the letter, and stormed back into her room as she contemplated her last year at school.

-

The sky was gradually darkening as a youth, not a boy but not quite a man, carefully scrutinized a mahogany broomstick lying on his bed, and decided that he was satisfied with it. He then sat at a desk, grabbed something from a shelf, and flipped open a leather covered photo book, turning the pages till he came to an empty one, and proceeded to slot in pictures of a rat, a dog, a stag and a weary looking boy of his age with sandy brown hair.

At that moment a curiously coloured owl, decidedly brown but red in some places and white in others, chose to come rapping at his window. With a casual gait unlike that of the girl who had so eagerly rushed to her mail, he strode over and ripped the letter away with a nonchalance that drew an indignant hoot from the owl. And his lips twisted into a dry smile as he noticed the much coveted item, and then grinned as he read the last line of the letter. But yet another line caught his attention, this time bringing out a scowl from his handsome features, and he glanced wistfully at the finely polished broom lying on his bed.

You gain some, you lose some: that's what they say after all.

He returned to the photo book and flipped to yet another page where a copper headed young girl was chatting jovially with a friend, unaware of her photographer.


Original Version

The setting sun cast the indigo sky into a spell of fire. Hogwarts proudly adorned the iridescent colours of the weather, basking in all Mother Nature's glory.

A blanket of velvet black slowly masked all light there was in the sky, enveloping the Earth in darkness; just like an old man with rheumatism struggling to wear his coat, then succeeding.

It was now night.

The moon shone through the clouds, the brightness seeping through in a stream of light over the dark, rippling lake.

Then the ever fickle weather changed its clothes again.

Dark clouds congregated in sky, then, almost as if they had arranged to fall at that exact time together, colourless drops fell. They pummeled towards the ground, striving to reach their destination.

The shuddering leaves huddled in fear as the raindrops battered them mercilessly, though they knew that the water would do them good…Sometimes we do not like things that can help us, for the process of helping us, or actually accepting the help, can sometimes be horrible. Just like taking medicine when one is ill.

The weather was not satisfied with just raindrops.

A bolt of lightning pierced through the sky like a white-hot knife, followed by the rumbling sound of thunder like a hungry stomach. A thunderstorm.

The sky was a violent dark gray, portentous in its gloom, dangerous in its furious thunder and lightning, and vicious in its large drops of water that smacked to the ground in a sudden forceful moment and veiled the air in a misty cloud of rain.

The trees reached towards the sky beseechingly, almost as if they were begging for it to halt the storm.

The weather was tired. It had had enough for the night; it needed sleep. The next day would be a long one. It fell asleep.

The storm subsided.

Hours later, the new day dawned in hues of pink, orange, red and gold. The young sun blinked uncertainly, unsure of its newfound power…

It was the first of September.