Penwick

Diagon Alley was supposed to be fun. Preparing for a new school, new opportunities, new adventures. His uncle-in-law, a muggle-born wizard now living in London, had invited Devon and Marion to stay with him for a couple of weeks to prepare for school help make sense of this new world. Devon had only been slightly exposed to the world of magic, what with having spent a few summers with his father in his younger years. He had his own bouts of magic that began a few months prior, a single moving photograph of his mother, and the attestation of Marion that magic was real, yet it still felt like a dream. Unreal. Scary, even. He didn’t know the half of it yet.


Diagon Alley was supposed to be fun. And it certainly was at the start. The not-quite London (or was it still London? The Fondatore family certainly would not know) sky was decorated by the colours of a summer sunset, Devi had received his first ever chocolate frog, and was simply wandering from display to display, ignoring Marion’s calls to slow down and stay by her side. “We don’t really know much about this place,” she’d remind him. “Better safe than sorry.” A lesson he’d have to learn the hard way.

Diagon Alley was supposed to be fun. And it was, until the sky went from pastel pinks and yellows to profound blues and purples, and flames began to spark to life in the lanterns lining the street. And then, it wasn’t so fun anymore.

If Devi had been attentive, he’d have realized there was a figure trailing him. If Devi had been careful, he wouldn’t have poked down a side alley for “just a moment” to look at the flying buttresses by himself. If Devi was smart, he wouldn’t have died.

Diagon Alley was supposed to be fun.

The capture was quick, practiced, with deadly precision. A casting of the full-body bind curse found Devon unable to move as he found his body being hoisted into a stranger’s arms as the figure quickly made its way into Knockturn Alley, finding a quiet and empty corner of the seedy area to squirrel away in. It was in the jostling of Devon’s body in this paralyzed state that he saw blood on the face and hands of his captor. Unknown to him at the time, it spelled disaster for the young boy. It was a dhampir.

The dhampir was desperate, that much was certain. What exactly for was unknown, as much of the events of that evening were for Devon. He doesn’t remember how exactly he was turned, what the process was like, or any one moment of transformation. It was a blur of adrenaline, then the absolute certainty he was going to die. He stood on what he can only explain as a tall white column, watching as what seemed to be the fabrication of his very self rot away. And then, he was no longer on the column, he was sprawled out on the cobblestone street, two teeth lying next to his face.

He remembers a sense of purpose instilled within him as his eyes landed on the figure, not yet alert enough to make out the details.

The events after that are a blur. Red sparks. Yelling, lots of yelling. A scream that sounded like it belonged to Marion. The sense of loss as the figure disappeared from sight. A strange looking hospital, his uncle explaining something very serious to Marion. It was in the days after that Devon had explained to him the details of what had occurred that night. What had been done to him. What he was.

Many questions were left unanswered about the happenings of that night, but those questions would need to be laid to the side as Devon was faced with a new reality. The Fondatore family did not have the luxury of “why” or “how” at a time like this.

Marion, perhaps in a fit of denial or perhaps in a ploy to allow Devon as normal of a life as he could, became very solution oriented towards many of Devi’s new changes. Missing teeth? She ordered a flipper for him to give the appearance of a full set of pearly whites, convincing on a passing glance. Red eyes? Coloured contacts would shortly arrive in the mail, and new ones would come by owl in a timely manner every month once Devi was at Penwick. A strong set of nail files and clippers found their way into Devon’s toiletries. There was not much that could be done for his complexion, but could be explained away by placing the blame on “autoimmune disease” and praying no one investigated further.

Yes, Devon Fondatore looked like a normal human once more. Pale and tired looking, but normal. And yet something fundamentally had changed within Devon that night. He did not understand why he felt he was missing a small part of himself since being separated from whomever turned him, the fleeting sense of purpose he felt that night.

A brain not developed enough to process such trauma will simply pack it away for the time being.

So, when asked how his first experience in the wizarding world went by teachers and peers alike, Devon had a very practiced answer. Diagon Alley was fun.