Pages from the Turning Times Book I: The Cycle of the Serpent

Alfermus Calfii rummaged through the submissions before his desk. Countless headings, both grand and mundane, streaked past his eyes like blurring visions by the roadside on that lone automobile ride he experienced many, many years ago. He scurried through the articles with the precision of a hawk waiting for a worthwhile prey.

Having been the editor-in-chief of the Daily Prophet for close to two decades now, Alfermus, or Alf to his colleagues, glided through the hopeful pieces with the efficacy of a grizzled veteran, his 52 year old fingers perfected by this daily routine. Oh yes, he missed a day or two in all of his tenure, brought about by the failed attempts of the Integrationalists to burn down the Timeline Towers wherein the Prophet was housed. But he prides himself as never being remiss with his editorial duties. And this day was no exception.

The titles in bold were an amalgam of fancies. "Ministry Intensifies Northern Defense", said one, which he dismissed as boring, but compulsory. "Collector Pays 17 Million Galleons for Lockhart´s Year of the Yeti", said another, which he admitted might find a place in the Obnoxious Oddities section in page 43. "Mysterious Plague Haunts Bulgaria", read a line, which he thought would look good on the Forecast of the Farlands section. "Quidditch Hall of Famer, Kelmare, Dead at 72", mourned another, which he decided should necessitate an Obituaries page for the next day, or, at the very least, the Sports page´s prime story.

Alfermus lived and fed off news with every breath he took, so much so that his conscience has become immune to its tragedies and terror. It did not matter when a headline was happening before his very eyes, threatening his very life and limb. For him, such events were but passing tales that would soon be encapsulated in words that will be published through his stolid guidance. He had become numb with reality, a small price to pay for the stature he was given, so he believed. What are feelings, after all, compared to being the driving force of the centuries-old chronicler of the magical world´s lore?

He continued his mechanical deliberation of the submitted reports, setting aside those worthy for publication and rejecting those which are not, all with the automated motion of indifference.

He plowed and furrowed and dug...

Until a report yanked him from his years of emotionless stupor! His eyes widened, his lips paralyzed with seeming horror! It was untitled, but Alfermus had mastered the art of skimming, and what he did skim did not bid well. The words were simple, the exposition straightforward, but the end reeked with subtle terror, the kind whose vagueness conveyed a fear that creeps to the very heart of those who remember.

He read the report, slowly this time.

And a whirlwind of memories flooded Alfermus´ mind. Of those years as a junior scribe when he dug up anything and everything that was written about the Year of the Turning and the Triumph of the Order. Of those tea sessions he spent with Aberforth Dumbledore during the latter´s last days, a privilege afforded by his family´s ties. Of the dreams he nurtured of writing the most comprehensive book about the heroic deeds of the boy who lived and the vile ways of he who cannot be named. And he knew, as only a few people could possibly know, what Grand Seer Creevey was trying to say.

The Phoenix failed, and the stench of death was upon them all.

_____

It was a day like none other.

For Gryffindor Solomon, this was the day before he would depart to fulfill his destiny. By the next day, Gryffindor would be boarding the train that ferried great wizards from the past to the grandest academy of them all, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And once he steps inside the famed institution, he would march towards the Sorting Hat and lay claim to the fate that awaited him. He would be sorted to the honorable house of Gryffindor, for which his proud parents have named him, and from then on, he would commence his journey to be the best, if not one of the best, wizard that has ever been molded in honor of Godric Gryffindor.

"I want to be an Auror," said Gryffindor that morning, fresh from bed and striking a gallant pose before the mirror. He stroked his long, wavy hair and gave his reflection an arrogant smirk, as his other hand pointed to the mirror with a confident approval. He was quite thin compared to other eleven year-olds, but that did not stop him from indulging in that morn´s dreams of grandeur.

"Griffy, breakfast is ready," cried his mother from downstairs.

"I´m coming," Gryffindor shouted back, as he rushed to pick up his slenderly designed glasses from the table. It´s not the he had poor vision, his near-sightedness have been cured by Cassandra´s talisman which his father brought back from Greece when Gryffindor was five. But his spectacles were his lucky charm, so he thought. Without them, he felt dumb and less than ordinary.

Hurrying to the dining table, he was gladdened by what his mother had prepared for breakfast. Elven Pot Roasted Beef (so named after its recipe which was said to be of legendary origin) and Mayan Muffins. Surely, these weren´t everyday offerings, he surmised.

His father was seated at the table with his mother. Gryffindor joined them, as his father set aside the book he was reading.

"You know what, son," his father started with a warm smile, "you´re not the only member of this family who would set out for a new world tomorrow".

"How come dad?" Gryffindor answered, a bit perplexed.

"Well, I have been assigned by the Company to the Japanese office," his father said, "it seems that there´s a resurgence of supernatural activities in the Nagano area that needs deeper observance."

Gryffindor´s father has been working as a head researcher for Bagshot´s Reports, Inc., publishers of various monthly journals concerning demography, world studies, and novel magical applications. He´s one of the prized employees of that company, and the above standard pay he was being given has assured the Solomon family a luxurious life.

"That sounds exciting dad!" said Gryffindor.

"It is," added his father, "but I´m worried about your mother over here, she might get lonely and all considering both the men dearest to her would be away from home".

"Don´t worry dad, I´ll write to mom as often as I could, and I´ll write to you as well," Gryffindor pledged.

"That´s my boy!" exclaimed his father, genuinely pleased.

"Oh Griffy," his mother added, sharing his father´s sentiments.

"By Gryffindor´s sacred honor, I promise to let you know how I´m doing as much as I could!" he said, beaming with confidence.

"Make us proud, lad," retorted his father, as he took his first bite of the day.

The sun´s rays touched the window, and illuminated their breakfast table. The Solomon family ate with satisfied smiles and nurtured anticipation for the scent of promises the succeeding chapters of their lives were teasing. It´s a good start for a good day, when the tears of parting take a backseat to the joys of seizing tomorrow´s bounties. An ocean of wondrous possibilities was before them, and Gryffindor was at the helm.

ooo000ooo

It was a day like none other.

For Rebecca Weasley, this was the day before she would join some of her cousins as well as her two brothers at Hogwarts. Her pony-tailed red hair swayed from side to side, as she merrily hopped along the busy streets of Diagon Alley. She was accompanied by her three female cousins, Polaris, Vega and Thubian, together with their mother and Rebecca´s aunt, Libra.

Polaris, Vega and Thubian were triplets, and incoming first year students at Hogwarts, just like Rebecca. Though the girls shared some similar features, they hardly resembled each other. Polaris, the acknowledged first born, was a healthy young lass with short hair. She wa quite temperamental, as she would easily get irritated with, among other things, her sisters´ perceived obnoxiousness. Vega, on the other hand, was slim and pretty, and very feminine. She had curly, long hair, the soft edges of which reflected light with a tinge of beautiful orange. She was perky and friendly, and would never run out of things to say. So many times before, her curiosity had caused a world of trouble for the sisters, much to their parents´ shame and Polaris´ hatred. Thubian was decidedly different. Shy and silent, she hardly concerned herself with active affairs, save for adventures with her sisters which she was forced to join by association, a thought she surrendered to with a sigh. She was quite gangly, with long, perpetually fixed hair, not as straight as Polaris´, but not as curly as Vega´s. She wore glasses to compensate for her vision that suffered due to her preference of retreating to the warm refuge of books ever since she learned how to read.

Among the triplets, Rebecca felt closest to Thubian. Perhaps it wa because of their shared fondness for books, or maybe their choice of reclusion. Rebecca, being the only girl among her siblings, never really had the opportunity to open up to her brothers. She would choose to spend her time dreaming of the things she read, or doing household chores like cleaning their home or cooking for her family. Her mother died when she was two, and she has but a vague recollection of how her mother was. But based on her father´s story, her mother was a picture of warm beauty, a sight that was enough to console the saddest of hearts. Her father loved her mother dearly, Rebecca believed. He talked about her with longing, often recounting tales of how he fell in love with her and the many times he fell in love with her all over again.

"Let´s go get some wands first!" Vega shouted with glee.

"Stupid, the wand shop is still far," replied Polaris, irked at her sister´s lack of foresight, "let´s get the things we need along the way".

"But wands are important," Vega said with a frown, "how can we cast spells if we don´t have the right kind of wand?"

"And how, pray tell, could you use a wand without knowing any spells?" Polaris asked. "Let´s visit the bookstore first, it´s just right around the corner".

Vega sighed. She always knew the mandates of Polaris´ decisions, a privilege of being born first, she thought. Yet she still tried by feigning a tantrum.

"Now, now, luvs," their mother interjected, "no need to argue. Mommy has a list and based on her list, we´ll visit the Flourish and Blotts bookstore first".

Polaris´ eyes brightened while Vega´s face painted disappointment. Thubian, silent as she was, managed to express a slight smile. Polaris ran towards the direction of the bookstore, tugging Libra´s hand, as her sisters were forced to keep up with the pace. Rebecca was lagging behind, so she started to walk faster.

This was Rebecca´s third trip to Diagon Alley. The first time, three years ago, was when she accompanied her Dad and her brother Relfin to buy what the latter needed for Hogwarts. When it was Ramsey´s time a year ago, they did the same thing. Nonetheless, Rebecca was still awed by the various fancies that this shopping center offered. She passed by stores with odd names like Kweeki´s Cauldron Creations, Banjo´s Bag of Bargains, Prypine´s Priceless Picture Gallery, and Carnore´s Captivating Capes. But one shop that caught Rebecca´s undivided interest was Samuel´s Sports Station where a large number of boys huddled. Rebecca decided to check what the fuss was all about. Amid the throng of young boys and silent murmurs and gasps, she heard things that answered her curiosity and plunged her interests to unsalvageable degrees.

"By Dumbledore´s beard, it´s the Firestar Version 2.0!" cried a boy with a shrill of excitement.

"This will beat the Nimbus Vintage releases by a mile!" shouted another, with equal respect.

"That´s the same broom that David Chivalry is using," said another, referring to the Quidditch Cup´s recent most valuable player.

She may be a girl, but Rebecca knows more about Quidditch than most boys, so she was compelled to interject, "Actually, David Chivalry is using a Version 1.0 modified to suit his liking".

Everyone looked at the direction where the female voice came from. When they saw a little girl with red hair in a Sunday dress, they laughed and dismissed her as a know-it-all.

"It´s true," defended Rebecca, "don´t you guys read Quidditch Quarterly?".

She spoke to no avail, as the boys continued with their "oohs" and "ahhs" over the new broomstick model. This angered Rebecca, but before she could say another word, someone spoke.

"Actually, David Chivalry is using a Version 1.5," said a reserved voice behind Rebecca, which was clearly a boy´s.

Rebecca turned around to look at the lad who spoke such words. She was surprised to find an average sized boy, around her age, with messy hair, and whose bangs cut across his left eye. He was shyly smiling at her, which Rebecca took as quite wryly, a frail attempt of ridiculing her, she thought.

"Hi, my name´s Henry," said the boy.

"And that is none of my concern," answered Rebecca, trying to act haughty before this lad who just tried to humiliate her. "What did you just say? Version 1.5? There´s no such thing!"

"Well, you will never know because it was never released," he uttered, still with a shy smile. "It was a prototype model that they thought was too fast for a commercial release, so they modified its maximum speed for the public´s safety. That´s why we have that Version 2.0".

"And how did you know this?" Rebecca asked sarcastically, as she never tried to conceal her obvious doubts.

"I...I can´t tell you that," Henry answered, as he bowed his head.

"Ha! You claim something but you don´t want to say where it came from?" Rebecca said, "you´re a poor liar!".

"But I´m not lying, honest," Henry pleaded.

"Suit yourself," Rebecca said with a satisfied smirk, "now if you´ll please excuse me, I´ve got some shopping to do".

"For Hogwarts?" the boy asked. "Are you attending Hogwarts too? First year?"

Rebecca paused for a while, realizing that this pretentious boy named Henry might be going to Hogwarts as well, and they might belong in the same batch, and worse, they might get sorted into the same house.

"Ahhhh....uhmmm....no, I´m not going to Hogwarts. I´m too young for Hogwarts," she finally said.

"Oh, okay, see you in the next few years, I suppose," Henry answered as he turned around and slowly walked away.

What a queer boy, Rebecca thought. With that impression, she jogged towards the direction of the bookstore where her cousins and her aunt have proceeded.

The sun was dawning on this day of days, and soon, evening will claim the sky. And various children from all over the land will find it hard to sleep that night, in anticipation of their first day at Hogwarts. It is the first step in consummating their dreams. New friends will be made, as well as some enmities. New things will be learned, as new challenges await. It will be a period of delightful possibilities and dangerous uncertainties. But in this era of light, the things that are to unfold shall be met with eagerness and glee. And for Rebecca Weasley, no one can take away the promises of tomorrow.

ooo000ooo

It was a day like none other.

And at this day´s twilight, some thirty kilometers west of Hogwarts, a hooded boy was walking barefooted on the rocky road of Endington´s Pass. Clothed in black cloak, made gray by accumulated dust, this boy was braving the emerging cold of the night. His head was bowed, as he painstakingly watched every single step he took towards the famed school. Neither a frown nor a smile can be seen from his face. Rather, there was an unmistakable resolve to reach his desired destination.

How long has he walked, no on can be certain. But judging from the dirty clothes he was wearing, and the blisters on his feet and legs, he had trekked a great distance. His smell was so foul that neither flies nor any other insects dared to cross his path.

Along the way he encountered two tall figures, likewise cloaked, but their entire bodies were covered, unlike his. The air fled before them, making a screaming sound with the sudden parting. A pair of lost souls. Dream devourers. Nightmare Wraiths. Dementors as they are known to most. Their very sight can drive a man insane with fear. These vile creatures, once known to be the hounds of Azkaban, that impregnable prison for wizards who have deviated from what is right, have scattered across the world after the Great Negation. Free from the magic that have kept them under control for so long, they have wandered the land aimlessly. Confused or hungry for purpose, no one will ever know. Fortunately for the populace, both of wizards and Muggles, the Dementors who have escaped preferred the solitude of the night and have contented themselves to seek refuge in murky places during the day. From time to time, though, some hapless traveler encounters them, and in but a few seconds, he would know why these cloaked wraiths are justly named.

The two Dementors eyed the boy, hissing some terrifying sound that would have given an ordinary man a lifetime of tortured dreams.

But this boy, with a body frail and sickly, just looked at them, emotionless, and the Dementors bowed and made way for him. He slowly walked between them, with impoverished royalty like a vagabond king who was indifferent of his misguided flock.

And when the boy passed them by, the Dementors walked the other way, as if they were reminded of the shelter they sought and the relief they were afforded.

The boy reached the end of the road. He looked up to see what seemed to be an endless growth of trees. The woods. The Forgotten Forests, whose perpetual labyrinth neither man-made contraptions nor magic have ever breached. This was the school´s frontier of protection. And it could only mean one thing.

Hogwarts was near, and by this same time tomorrow, he would stand before its gates.

And for the first time during his mysterious journey, and most probably, for the first time in his life, the boy smiled.