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By Former Members
(It may not be quite in-between, but it's pretty long ago, and I was really itching to write it out.)

6:45 am
February 16th, 2010
King's Cross Station, London

The station was already bustling. Nobody looked awake. That had been the first thing she'd noticed when she'd come here for the first time, months ago -- and then it had been the middle of the day. No one seemed awake here, and it looked as if it were intentional. Sezja Sokolova folded her arms around herself, pulling her nondescript double-breasted black coat closer about her to fight the chill. She watched with wary eyes as a train pulled up the platform at which she sat and more tired-looking people poured out, refusing to look at each other, each doing little dance steps to avoid touching another human being. The world had been overturned two days ago; who knew who that lady with the little dog could be, or her pinch-nosed husband? If Walter Crane could be Harold Masters and Trevor Williams could be the Lord of wizarding UK, then they could be anyone. Death was anywhere and everywhere.

Sezja gingerly smoothed out the paper that she held in her gloved hand, her eyes going over it for the millionth time. It was half in English and half in Russian, hurried and desperate. Ink blots abounded. My sister... do not risk it... the attacks are targeting... qualifications make no difference... no safety in England... And no signature at the bottom. No clipped, professional little Adaline King with a flourish on the final 'G'. No time, perhaps? In the months of peace that marked the end of 2009, Sezja had dared to hope that Ada might resurface, or at least some promising rumour of her whereabouts. Perhaps she was one of the many in hiding. Feeling a tear make it's way down her cheek, she hastily brushed it away to halt it's progress onto the precious, final missive from her friend. If she was not in hiding, than she was a slave, a prisoner or dead. Let her be hidden. Let her be safe.

Sezja thought back to two weeks prior, when she had caught a thief and in the process gained some purpose: The Order of the Pheonix; S.A.V.I.O.R. The wand shop had been a diversion at first, a reason to keep going among the death of all that she held dear. She felt terribly alone. Her entire family was gone now and she was in a strange country with no friends, a half-blood where anything less was without rights. Now, in addition, she was part of an organisation whose members were prime for execution if caught by the government. Was she cut out for this? Did she have a choice? She needed a miracle.
Two figures made their way off the train. Unlike most, their faces were concealed by the hoods of their jackets, their heads down, their hands in their pocket. The taller of the two seemed to look about as though scared. The shorter one seemed to trudge on in a daze. Just one foot in front of the other. When the shorter figure seemed to wander more than a few feet ahead or fall more than a few feet behind, the taller one hurried towards him, grabbing his upper arm firmly and scolding him. The shorter figure would practically be joined at the hip for the seconds following then manage to separate again.

"Sit here!" the taller figure hissed, his temper seemingly short. The voice was undoubtedly that of a man, and the shorter figure's hood fell as he looked up at the man and rolled his eyes before slumping down on the bench, the man pulling the hood over his face before sitting down himself a comfortable distance away from the boy, though his arm stretched out over the back of the bench towards him as though worried one moment without contact would cause the boy to disappear.

"Why are we in bloody England anyway?" the boy muttered, not looking at his father. "Thought for sure you'd be glad to be rid of her. Could do what you wanted, then. Snog Kara, maybe even shag her?"

The man's fists closed tensely and he held his breath, releasing it with an internal count back from ten. His body relaxed--somewhat, but he didn't speak to the boy. How dare he say such a thing?! He wanted nothing more than to lash out at the boy, give him a backhanded slap to the face, but he couldn't. The boy was already callous enough--had been since his mother and sister had been murdered. He couldn't blame him for that, but much of what he said these days was far too hurtful for Casey's tastes.
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