The Silver Three

There is the rattling of trunks on the platform. The scarlet engine looks more like blood than scarlet. It is staining the metal, drenched. The letters on the side are gold and prominent, making a statement. Smoke curls from the front of the engine to stretch upwards, wisps of fingers grabbing at the air.

Anxiety blooms in my chest. There is a lot of parents taking their children to the train, yet mine are not taking me. My petite house servant is walking next to me, carrying my large trunk. She is careful not to knock it over, knowing it will earn a severe glare from me. She can’t perform magic- a squib. At age eleven, I can do more than she could ever dream of. I use this as often as I can against her.

I don’t know any of the faces. I don’t hear a name I know. I listened harshly for any names that sound purposeful. Mirkwood. Bulstrode. Zabini. Malfoy. Any names that match my surname in stature and prestige. A surname should have pride rolling of the tongue when spoken, jaw up, lips quirked at the corners.

Blackburn. Now that was a strong name, passed on through my father’s side of the family. Mother’s was Flint, and old but prestigious name. Somewhere on the platform is my cousin Marcus, but I don’t look for him. He had the cruelty of a Flint, but the halfwit mind of his Bulstrode side.

Father doesn’t like halfwits. He’s always told me I am far from a halfwit. Father thinks I’m brilliant, and he’s helped me become so.

Someone runs into me and an unpleasant noise leaves my mouth. I whirl around, adjusting my fine, black coat. There is a boy who twists his mouth into a sneer, his eyes the color of hardened ice. He has hair that is nearly bone-white, and he is dressed in pressed, expensive clothes.

“Watch your step,” I huff, flicking my dark hair over my shoulder. “I’ll have you know that it’s a Blackburn you’re walking into.”

“A Blackburn?” he asks, making my name sound like poison. I clench my teeth and my fists. My name wasn’t supposed to sound like it was annoying. He was saying it quite wrong. “You may be a Blackburn, but I’m a Malfoy.” He pauses, crossing his arms. I glare, lifting my jaw to show him I will not back down from a staring contest. “We could be powerful friends, you know?”

“I do know. But not if you’re going to trip into every person on this platform. Some of us know how to walk, okay?”

The Malfoy boy sticks out his hand towards me. I look at it distastefully. “You’re not a pushover.” He grins like poison dropping and spreading in water. “I’m not either. My name is Draco.”

I stuck out my hand, grasping his firmly. My hand squeezes his tight. While mine are dry and warm, his are frigid cold. I drop his hand once I’ve decided that he knows how to shake hands well enough. “I’m Eleanor Blackburn.”