Pres Holding
- Status:
- Half-blood
- Birthday:
- 19 Nov 2008
- Nationality:
- Scottish
- Residence:
- St Andrews, Scotland
- Function:
- First year, Gryffindor
- Wand:
- 28,2 cm aspen wood and unicorn hair
The things that always hurt most were the ones that left before you’re able to remember them.
Pres Holding, as ironic as it might be, felt as if his life had been on hold the second his mother left him and his father. He felt as if he shouldn’t be too attached to someone he could barely remember, but whispers of her memory seemed to be her trail of things she had left behind.
He could remember only a handful of things. Her glittering emerald eyes, the way she’d smile and the room would shine, and the last time she fed him as a child.
How could he forget the way her beautiful smile and her shining eyes turned on him, a mix of horror and fright was all he saw in those eyes as she backed away from the childsware that now resembled a pack of mice.
It had taken weeks for them to get the mice out.
If only it had taken that long for Pres to forget the way she cried to her father that night.
‘“I can’t take it anymore,”’ she had wailed so sorrowfully his heart panging up against his chest, ‘“Last week I woke up to half his stuffed animals turned to toads”’.
Pres remembered that. He vividly remembered the sounds of his laughter mixed with the creaking of the stairs, and eventually a scream.
He remembered large hands, directly contradicting the slim ones that used to carefully pick him up, and place him into his crib that he managed to ‘magic’ himself out of.
Those slim hands never touched him again.
He was barely two when this happened, and since that day his mother seemed to remove herself from him, piece by piece until there was nothing left to remind him of her, even herself.
She left the night of his 8th birthday. They had gone out for ice cream an hour before and came back to a lopsided cake baked by his father.
Before the knife could have cut cleanly through the cake his mother barged out of his parents bedroom, her emerald eyes in a haze and her smile long lost.
‘“I’m done,”’ she hissed and as the front door swung close, Pres felt as he had been stabbed.
He knew she needed space but he had never thought she needed 1,200 miles of it.
His father eventually found a phone number that worked and called only once, but in that five minutes of connection he watched everything he admired in his father drift away.
He was more shadow than human.
His father worked late shifts with the Ministry of Magic which stalled his coming home, but frankly Pres didn’t miss the shadow, he missed his father.
Some nights Pres would go to the bathroom mirror and simply stare, hating everything from the way his eyes glimmered green like his lost mother to the way his brown hair curled like his shadow father.
Some days he'd brush through the curly mop of hair with trembling hands as his mother would have, and stare back into the mirror to find her pained emerald eyes stare back at him.
He thought he’d never see a glimpse of either of his parents again, that was, until his letter came in the mail.
When his father sat him down his mind immediately raced through everything he had done wrong in his life, shattering mirrors by looking at them, finding doorknobs missing when he wanted to be alone, chasing his mother off.
But none of it mattered when his father gave him the envelop, stamped proudly with the school symbol, and smiled. He smiled.
And with that the empty house of two years was broken apart with his father’s happy ranting.
‘“Hogwarts? Can you believe it? My son, going to Hogwarts?”’ His happy chatter seemed to fill all the cracks that had resided in him since his mother left.
‘“Why, it had been so long since I had gone! I remember soaring through the air in Quidditch and pulling pranks with my friends, and of course Potions, my favorite class”’.
He smiled all through the night, and seemed to light up the walls of Diagon Alley as the pair of them chartered through stores like a few of old friends catching up after years apart.
His father taught him how to hold his wand, his father helped him fold his clothes and organize his school items, and his father drove him to King’s Cross where Platform 9 3/4 stood in his Muggle truck.
It was almost like it used to be.
Some of the days in between things would go the exact same way they used to, and he would worry that the last few days were a dream, or a figment of his imagination. But then his father and him would have dinner together for the first time in years and would talk about Hogwarts, the one singular thread that held the wizard and his son together.
And finally as he prepared himself to enter the train station, as he prepared to spend a whole of 9 months surrounded by other wizards and witches, his father gripped him by the shoulder and nodded.
Without saying anything at all Pres nodded back, never understanding more and less in his life.
The things that hurt the most weren’t the things that left before you’re able to remember them, they’re the things that your heart can’t leave behind.
No matter how hard you try.
Pres Holding, as ironic as it might be, felt as if his life had been on hold the second his mother left him and his father. He felt as if he shouldn’t be too attached to someone he could barely remember, but whispers of her memory seemed to be her trail of things she had left behind.
He could remember only a handful of things. Her glittering emerald eyes, the way she’d smile and the room would shine, and the last time she fed him as a child.
How could he forget the way her beautiful smile and her shining eyes turned on him, a mix of horror and fright was all he saw in those eyes as she backed away from the childsware that now resembled a pack of mice.
It had taken weeks for them to get the mice out.
If only it had taken that long for Pres to forget the way she cried to her father that night.
‘“I can’t take it anymore,”’ she had wailed so sorrowfully his heart panging up against his chest, ‘“Last week I woke up to half his stuffed animals turned to toads”’.
Pres remembered that. He vividly remembered the sounds of his laughter mixed with the creaking of the stairs, and eventually a scream.
He remembered large hands, directly contradicting the slim ones that used to carefully pick him up, and place him into his crib that he managed to ‘magic’ himself out of.
Those slim hands never touched him again.
He was barely two when this happened, and since that day his mother seemed to remove herself from him, piece by piece until there was nothing left to remind him of her, even herself.
She left the night of his 8th birthday. They had gone out for ice cream an hour before and came back to a lopsided cake baked by his father.
Before the knife could have cut cleanly through the cake his mother barged out of his parents bedroom, her emerald eyes in a haze and her smile long lost.
‘“I’m done,”’ she hissed and as the front door swung close, Pres felt as he had been stabbed.
He knew she needed space but he had never thought she needed 1,200 miles of it.
His father eventually found a phone number that worked and called only once, but in that five minutes of connection he watched everything he admired in his father drift away.
He was more shadow than human.
His father worked late shifts with the Ministry of Magic which stalled his coming home, but frankly Pres didn’t miss the shadow, he missed his father.
Some nights Pres would go to the bathroom mirror and simply stare, hating everything from the way his eyes glimmered green like his lost mother to the way his brown hair curled like his shadow father.
Some days he'd brush through the curly mop of hair with trembling hands as his mother would have, and stare back into the mirror to find her pained emerald eyes stare back at him.
He thought he’d never see a glimpse of either of his parents again, that was, until his letter came in the mail.
When his father sat him down his mind immediately raced through everything he had done wrong in his life, shattering mirrors by looking at them, finding doorknobs missing when he wanted to be alone, chasing his mother off.
But none of it mattered when his father gave him the envelop, stamped proudly with the school symbol, and smiled. He smiled.
And with that the empty house of two years was broken apart with his father’s happy ranting.
‘“Hogwarts? Can you believe it? My son, going to Hogwarts?”’ His happy chatter seemed to fill all the cracks that had resided in him since his mother left.
‘“Why, it had been so long since I had gone! I remember soaring through the air in Quidditch and pulling pranks with my friends, and of course Potions, my favorite class”’.
He smiled all through the night, and seemed to light up the walls of Diagon Alley as the pair of them chartered through stores like a few of old friends catching up after years apart.
His father taught him how to hold his wand, his father helped him fold his clothes and organize his school items, and his father drove him to King’s Cross where Platform 9 3/4 stood in his Muggle truck.
It was almost like it used to be.
Some of the days in between things would go the exact same way they used to, and he would worry that the last few days were a dream, or a figment of his imagination. But then his father and him would have dinner together for the first time in years and would talk about Hogwarts, the one singular thread that held the wizard and his son together.
And finally as he prepared himself to enter the train station, as he prepared to spend a whole of 9 months surrounded by other wizards and witches, his father gripped him by the shoulder and nodded.
Without saying anything at all Pres nodded back, never understanding more and less in his life.
The things that hurt the most weren’t the things that left before you’re able to remember them, they’re the things that your heart can’t leave behind.
No matter how hard you try.