Chapter Two

1977, September 1st.

London, England.

"This train is a bastard!" bellowed the bitter dad sitting at the table with his newspaper clutched tightly in his meaty fists. His accent, not Irish, rang through the small kitchen decorated in a pale green and the very popular cream that most kitchens had.

"I'm not asking you to go," said the boy at the table with him, sitting across from him and barely containing his excitement. He was going back to school, to Hogwarts. It was far near impossible for anyone to ruin his mood, and his dad was not about to do such a thing. He was counting down the seconds to eleven o'clock, but he'd be waiting a long time, just short of two hours.

"I tell you," said his mother, an apron around her waist and an Irish accent on her tongue, "magic - they're all magic! Yet we have to find our way down to that bloody station?"

"You both complain about this every year!" exclaimed the boy, a laugh on his tongue and an accent like his mother ringing through the small kitchen. It wasn't their kitchen or their house. It was his cousins' home, and every year at this time they went on holiday leaving the place empty and vacant for his family.

To be sworn to secrecy was a very important thing, and to lie to family was no joke either. His aunt and uncle were told that the boarding school he attended was to discipline him, but his parents did not lie when they told the family that he had to get the train at Kings Cross.

It worked out rather well.

"We are practically ten minutes away from the station!" the boy said, scanning over the list in his hand with all of the supplies he needed for his very last year, "if you don't want to come, you don't have to!"

"You want me to stay here?!" his mother gasped, the rags of ripped up cotton almost falling out her hair. She needed a perm, and this was the way to do it. An old tea towel ripped into strips and tied around her hair to create perfect ringlets, "You want me to stay here whilst you go off for another year?!"

"Obviously not, mum!" he near huffed, forcing himself not to roll his eyes, "but if you're going to be dramatic-"

"Don't argue with your mother!" his dad interjected. He couldn't win, not with his parents finally taking each other's side. It seemed as though they could argue until they were both blue in the face unless he was involved, and then they were both very much on each other's side.

"I'm going to check that I have everything," the boy murmured, having enough of his parents. They were stressed, sad to see him go for another year and letting that anger out by shouting in the morning.

"Tom, you get back here!" shouted his mother, but he ignored her shrill voice and hurried up the stairs. His name was Thomas, Tom for short. It was a rather unfortunate name to have as a wizard muggleborn, he knew all about the history of a certain dark wizard and when he first found out he shared that name he couldn't help his shudders.

Regardless of his name and his mother's frantic shouting, he wasn't going to let it faze him. He was preparing himself for a perfect year. Ignoring the war that he didn't need to care about, he'd be safe behind the castle walls and giving pride to the Hufflepuff quidditch team that played before him as the newly appointed captain.

The title was an honour he held gratefully, and he was not prepared to mess up. This year was going to be the best year of his life and he was not going to let that be ruined in any way, shape or form.

The trunk below his bed had everything he needed. It had been checked four times before the trip from Ireland to London. From then until now it had been checked another three times. Everything was tucked in perfectly. His robes for class, his casual wear for weekends and Hogsmeade - his quidditch uniform and every single textbook he'd need.

He even had a stack of parchment that would come in handy for studying and a stack for class. Organised could be his middle name and it still wouldn't be good enough to describe just how perfectly planned his trunk was.

He sat on his bed. Today had been a good day already and it had barely begun. The little things showed him, though. When his breakfast tasted better than usual and he woke up before the sound of the alarm clock ringing beside his bed. Everything seemed to fit perfectly into place and anything that could have gone wrong didn't.

He was up, ready. He was fed and watered, and his trunk was packed to the last book. His owl chirped happily in her trunk and he didn't need anything else for it to be much better. So instead, he sat on the edge of the bed he had been sleeping in and opened one of the letters from his friends he had missed dearly.

He had many friends at Hogwarts, almost all but a few from the same house he was in. The only others were from Ravenclaw. It wasn't like he planned intentionally for his friends to be from select houses, but he had many classes with the Ravenclaws, he was bound to make a few friends.

Some people (girls) called him charming and he liked it. He liked the attention he got when he smiled at people (girls) when they giggled and talked to their friends. He was the captain of the quidditch team (popular), and he was happy with the title. It wasn't his fault that maybe his looks gave him some form of attention (his looks very much did give him a lot of attention).

This year was already shaping up to be a good one, he could feel it - it hadn't even started yet and he was positive that the happiness he felt wouldn't fade any time soon. He didn't want it to fade anytime soon, he wanted a year with little distractions. He wanted to win as many games as possible as the newly appointed captain and he wanted to get on with his work, head down in his textbooks.

His mum would be proud...if she had any idea what he was talking about. Magic wasn't something she could very easily wrap her head around, and it had only been since his sixth-year last year that she could openly talk about it without it getting too overwhelming. The thought of her son flying on a broomstick almost gave her a heart attack never mind that he was responsible for an entire team of kids all flying broomsticks! It was blasphemous.

He could very clearly remember, back in his second year when he stood in the kitchen downstairs. Just a few hours before their trip to Diagon Alley, he had sat his parents down at the small round table and declared that he was going to join the quidditch team.

"You're going to join what?!" his father said. He had even lowered the newspaper in his hand, "are you having a laugh, Tom?"

"No, dad!" twelve-year-old Tom huffed, "it's a sport...a magic sport. They play it at school and I can try out this year!"

"That sounds nice, dear." His mother always wanted to make him feel as comfortable as possible talking about his...second life, but sometimes that came hard for her.

"I just need a broom!"

That was it. His parents were entirely against the whole concept of Quidditch when they found out what it entailed. How could parents, magic or not, allow their children to do such things - how could the school allow such things!

These were all sentences that spurted from his mothers' lips in a passionate fit of worry. Tom, back then, didn't care what his parents said. It wasn't like they would be there to stop him, and he very much had his heart set on joining the quidditch team the very day he found out what quidditch was!

Things hadn't changed since then, Tom knew not to talk about the sport around his parents, so he could spare a very unneeded lecture.

He rummaged through the drawer of the old rickety desk situated in the very corner of the small box room. It wasn't the nicest home, but neither was his back home, it was very similar in fact. At least his aunt and uncle had the glamour of the city instead of a horrid little village that is always wet and muddy to come home to.

As soon as they arrived at the home, the first thing he did was hide his book. It wasn't a diary, he would vouch his life to tell anyone that it definitely wasn't a diary. It was a place for everything...poetry (when the overwhelming feeling of teenage angst was getting to him) and for stories of his day. It may sound like a diary, but it definitely was not.

It's the first day back.

He scribbled down the first sentence, short and simple. He could leave it there and it would still mean a lot to him, but he had a lot of time to spare.

Seventh year. The last year. I wouldn't tell mum this or dad really, but I'm scared. They don't know about the war, I figured it was best not to let them worry because they're not involved so they don't need to worry. I'll be safe at the castle, I suppose - I hope if I'm honest.

I've convinced myself all this time that the castle is the safest place, it's hard to believe otherwise. I need to believe that it is because I will not let anything spoil this year. I can't.

The feeling of uncertainty fills me when I think of the future. I don't want to ever think about it too much or I swear I'll go mad. A man, a wizard - a dark wizard wants me dead...essentially. That's the basis of it, isn't it? this fucking twat faced lord fucker wants me and my muggleborn friends and my family dead and what the fuck could I do about it? cry?!

There's not one part of me that doesn't want this guy dead, I swear. I can't think of that though, I need to think of everything else. Like quidditch captain, and Cass and my friends. All I have now is hope and I can't let that go, I hope this year will be good, so it will be. There's magic in this world for a reason, I'm sure, and I'm magic for a reason so the least the universe can do is use that magic to make this year a good one.

I suppose if I talk about it too much the universe might get sick of me, so I'll shut up about that. I suppose that's me then, Mr Book. Until Hogwarts.

He closed over the book decorated in a deep navy. His friend Mitch got him it for his sixteenth birthday and he had used it ever since. He wasn't surprised by the navy blue, Mitch was a Ravenclaw after all.

"Tom?!" the sound of his mother who had finally calmed down from her pre-Hogwarts meltdown called from the stairwell, "are you ready?!"

"Yeah, mum!" he shouted, opening his trunk for the last time and stuffing the book into the left side. He lifted his wand from the bedside table, a smug smile on his face when he lifted the trunk from his bed and it floated behind him. He was in the comfort of privacy, and the fact he didn't need to lug the trunk downstairs like years previous made him sure that his year would be a good one.

"This is it," he murmured, "one year to go."