☆2☆
September 1, 1994
Astrophel patted himself down to make sure he had everything that he needed.
'Gloves, on. Jacket, on. Scarf, on. Uh, right, fuck I almost forgot.'
He moved hastily towards his mattress, the floorboards creaking underneath the sudden motion, and reached for his silver scroll metal-plated cigarette case. He found it in an alleyway, down in the more populated part of the village, when he was searching for a place to stay, he thought it was pretty... so he kept it.
Pocketing the case inside his trousers he grabbed his battered school trunk, headed downstairs, and through the backdoor with a hard push.
Once he stepped a booted foot outside the pub, he was assaulted with the sharp wind, the weather didn't seem to calm down overnight. He tugged at his scarf and pulled it over his nose to protect his face; now, with only his eyes visible, the icy pinpricks ceased.
The overnight storm had left the village blanketed in thick, glistening snow. The wind howled fiercely, its icy breath piercing through the stillness. Astrophel advanced through the street, paying extra attention to his footing so that he didn't slip on the bouldery road. It was clear the sun wouldn't be making an impression anytime soon; thinking more of it now, Astrophel rarely sees the sun, perhaps that's why his skin is so pale. On second thought, it may be genetics. Not that it matters anyway, Astrophel never paid much thought to how he looks.
With his trunk held in his right hand weighing him down, he found it tremendously harder to walk up the hill leading to the destination for his travel. He genuinely needs to buy a new trunk, but he can't afford to spend that much money and extension charms prove to be useless over time.
✩☾︎☼︎☽︎✩
"Took you long enough, drittsekk," Arnold Buckthorn welcomed him in his house, his walking stick hitting the floor heavily with each step, "thought you have finally given up on that school o' yours." Astrophel caught a hint of relief in Mr Buckthorn's gruff voice as if he was glad he was returning to the devil's den; the man already had one foot in the grave. Therefore, he just let it be.
"No, of course not, why would I do that?" If Mr Buckthorn caught onto the sarcasm in his voice, he didn't mention it, but he suddenly shut the door behind him and turned to look back at Astrophel.
"Voice dropped, eh? Got a lot taller too. I was your height once, took all the ladies." He boasted, "Don't get too full o' yourself though, that's how you end up like me, haven't felt the touch of a woman in years, anyway, c'mon let's get you to that station."
Astro couldn't help the wince that he let out; it seemed that Arnold had lost his sense of privacy; he did not need to acquire that knowledge. Now a very disturbing image of Mr Buckthorn with a lady surfaced to the front of his mind.
Quickly shaking his head, he followed after the limping man into the living room, it didn't look that lively in his opinion, and towards a fireplace.
"Go on now, if you need a bit of gold don't be ashamed to ask, din gris." Mr Buckthorn grunted out the last part, as if affection was a disease that that he was trying to avoid.
"Thank you," Astro mumbled from beside the old man; it was genuine, that's for certain. He didn't know what else to say, so with a pat on the man's back, he stepped into the fireplace, with a handful of floo powder in one hand and the other cradling his trunk.
"Durmstrang Station!" Green flames erupted from beneath him and enveloped him, taking them to the next location.
Arnold Buckthorn may seem like the grumpy, mean old man that he is, but one could say he grew a tender spot in his dense heart for the young Black; thus, whenever he sees his deport, he couldn't help the swarm of loneliness that encompassing him.
Huffing, he went into his bedroom and sat on the bed. His head has been hurting a lot lately.
He should start brewing potions again.