- Joined
- Apr 12, 2016
- Messages
- 3,020
- Reaction score
- 2,745
New Beginnings
The year is 1977. Composure has waxed into combat. Festivity has twisted into fear. The wizarding realm of Britain is engulfed in a grim war between the the armies of Lord Voldemort and the fading vigor of the Ministry of Magic alongside the Order of the Phoenix. The future is all but unknown, and as the days turn darker, despair permeates the world. Tread lightly, whisper quietly— and keep your wands at the ready.
For it is at Hogwarts, the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, that our story unfolds.
@Vosrik @Shalken @Cameron Foster @Megilwen @BLADE @Green Ranger @Ecclessey @Benvenu7 @Diva Tumi
For it is at Hogwarts, the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, that our story unfolds.
@Vosrik @Shalken @Cameron Foster @Megilwen @BLADE @Green Ranger @Ecclessey @Benvenu7 @Diva Tumi
Chapter One
The corridor was iridescent in the reticent glow of daylight. The afternoon was drawing to its bittersweet conclusion, palpable by an ebbing sun. Students continued to wander the many halls and courts of Hogwarts, striving to ignore the approaching end to the weekend as they dawdled among friends. Tomorrow, classes would once again resume, but for now— Alistair had business to take care of. He traipsed down the hall with each muffled step. Books tucked under the confines of his arm and a rooted green tie fastened around his collar, he moved ever closer to his destination: the Library. Home to unfathomable reaches of archives and records, it was the perfect venue for his needs. No doubt it would be brimming with students on the hunt for knowledge, but that was of no concern to him. All Alistair needed was a single book, and he would be off.
As he twisted around the corner, the library doors stood poised in all its grandeur. Yet inside, only a handful of students roamed the endless shelves, a tenuous amount compared to what he had expected. Not like that was a problem, though. The less, the better. Offering a feigned smile at the librarian, Alistair found himself a table perfect for his lonesome. Settled in a distant corner, from there he could left to his own devices.
Given several moments of awkward shifting as he attempted to remain comfortable in the seat, Alistair overlaid a chunk of the desk with a myriad of notes and parchment caked in sinuous swirls of ink. For the past several months since the start of school, he had persistently studied both potions and spells capable of satiating his lust for undying adoration from the student body. For years, he had sought to the perfect charm— and finally, he was as close as ever.