The Harry Potter DDLJ

Mrs and Mr. Singh of No. 12 Grimauld Place were perfectly normal wizards, thank you very much. They were the kind who would keep their cauldrons clean, backyards de-gnomed and lineage pure-blooded. Mr. Baldev Singh was a tall, sturdy man, the height of whose ambition was realised in owning a magical supplies store, at a comfortable distance from Trafalgar’s Square. Mr. Singh loved feeding pigeons there. He had a divine fondness for this bird. Such was his passion that he had written to the Ministry on several occasions; sternly professing that pigeons replace owls, as message carriers. The move he suggested, had several advantages, the primary being that this had been a common muggle practice and better served the clandestine nature of their existence, enshrined in the International Statute of Secrecy, than owls flying about in the morning, which was contradictory to their nocturnal nature. Mrs. Lajwanti Singh was a small, plump, unassuming woman. She encouraged her daughters to dream but to never seek to fulfil those dreams. Imagination was to, on no occasion, be followed up with initiative. 

They had two daughters; the older one had been promised at birth to a man hailing from a family, whose ancestry was all pureblood. Simran had just graduated from Hogwarts. She had taken NEWTS in Charms, Herbology, Divination, Muggle Studies and Care of Magical Creatures and was resigned to an uninspiring future of marital complacency. Rajeshwari was in her fourth year at Hogwarts - a Ravenclaw, captain of the Wizarding-Chess team, a chaser on the Quidditch team and a philosopher at heart. She was quite taken with Ms. Lucy, the Muggle Studies teacher.

It is on the day of Simran’s NEWTS result that our story begins. To celebrate her three Os, Mr. and Mrs. Singh made that rare trip to Diagon Alley. Simran insisted on a gift from Borgin and Burkes and unheeding her parents’ vehement objections, settled for an ornate diary. She sought solace in words; an escape from what was to become of her life – a placid existence, which had no higher purpose than merely being and going about the rehearsed motions of life. It was an elegant purchase, bound in gold rendered parchment-like; the pages seemed aglow with a golden sheen.

This diary was to be her confidante, her companion through the morbidity of a marriage, the sole recommendation of which was being married to a person, of old name and pure blood. Simran opened her diary that night with a reverent, childlike ingenuity; as she put quill to parchment, it became resplendent, emitting a dazzling golden glow. The diary was becoming progressively warmer. With the first few flourishes it had a fiery brilliance and was scalding to the touch. Simran wanted to withdraw her hand but could not. She was not in control of the words she was scribbling. The diary suddenly cooled and let go of her. Etched across the parchment was the phrase...Come Fall in Love. 

(To be continued)