The Definition of Love |James Potter|

oo| prologue

pro·logue
/ˈprōˌlôɡ/

noun
1. an event or action that leads to another event or situation.

And so we begin.

~*~*~*~

Wisteria Rose Cresskle stood on platform 9 and 3/4 with her breath caught in her throat and her grey eyes glued to the scarlet train.

She had been waiting for this moment for as long as she could remember.

Perhaps there was nothing new or surprising about that fact, considering every magical child did the same, but she was certain that none of those other children could possibly feel as she did in that moment: especially considering she wasn't completely sure how she felt. Her palms were sweating, her heart was racing, and she couldn't seem to take in any oxygen. Was it possible to have a heart attack at eleven years old?

"You know, Flower, it's not as scary as it seems."

Her mother's voice calmed her in an instant, allowing her to breathe once more. Setting her jaw with determination, Wisteria shook her head. "I'm not nervous. I'm excited," she said in a rush.

A soft chuckle, round in sound and promising safety, floated out of the older woman as she placed a hand on her daughter's shoulder. "Does it say somewhere that you can't feel both?"

The small girl furrowed her brow, eyes darting left to right as though reading from a book that only she could see. Finally, she shook her head. "I suppose not. They aren't antonyms of each other."

"Exactly." Margaret Cresskle crouched down, tucking a stray auburn strand of hair behind Wisteria's ear. "So if their definitions do not contradict one another, and they certainly aren't antonyms, then what can we conclude?"

Wisteria watched her mother. The woman was tall and thin, and clothed in a tailored green dress to extenuate that fact. Her cheek bones were like perfect gumdrops, and her freckles matched the one's that dotted the eleven year old's face. Everyone told the girl how she looked like her mother had when she was her age. Except for the hair. The hair was a striking difference between the two: Margaret with bright blonde and Wisteria with deep auburn. Finally letting out a long sigh, she answered, "We can conclude that the two may exist at the same time and that this is normal and I will be just fine."

Margaret smiled, cupping the child's cheek. "That's my girl." With a quick kiss to her forehead, she stood and held out her hand for the girl to hold onto. Despite all of her grumbling the weeks prior about not needing her parents because she was eleven now and thus an adult, Wisteria was quick to latch onto the support. She loved her mother more than anything, and suddenly the idea of being called a wimp or a mommy's girl paled in comparison to the four months she would have to face without her. "Oh look," the older witch said, pointing with her free hand. "You're father's finished loading your trunk."

The pair of them made their way over to the auburn haired man, a perfect match to his daughter's. "There's my favorite lassies!" His grin was wide and paired with his thick Irish accent, it couldn't help but coax one from the young girl in return. "Got you all set in there, Wisti. You're with your sister toward the front of the train." Wisteria nodded, trying to keep her racing pulse in check by counting the words in each of his sentences. 4, 7, 10. She thought. That averages to 7 words per sentence.

The train whistle blew loudly, warning them that it was almost time to depart. At the sound, all of the counting in the world couldn't help Wisteria. "Alright, Flower. Off you go!" Her mother pushed her forward with a smile and an encouraging nod.