WARNING! This encyclopedia is under construction/beautification. Will be undergoing a lot of changes to (hopefully) make it coded nicer, but the essential information should all be there.

name.
		March Yeung
dob.
		03.19.2015
gender.
		male? (will explore his feelings on gender in later years.)
blood-type.
		half-blood seer. awaiting approval by index team currently unaware of that fact, and believes himself to be a muggle-born wizard.
wand.
		21.4cm chestnut wood and dragon heartstring. stiff, rather powerful, but requires to be firmly handled and expects conviction from its owner. left-handed.
boggart.
		TBD. his grandmother, ill and on death's door.
amortentia.
		TBD. tangerine skins, the bitter juices of crushed herbs, laundry detergent, minty salt and lemon candies. (later, the smell of cauldron smoke and fresh soil after rain.)
patronus.
		TBD. Apus apus. common swift.

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION

Reducio

March stands at a grand total of 4'9" (144.8cm) with willowy, unathletic limbs and a rigid, ramrod spine. Only when he is studying, does he lose his stiff posture, slouching forward to peer down at his work, with his nose just hovering above the paper. His left hand grips his quill harder than necessary, and ink stains his prominent writer's callus and smudges onto the shell of his hand. He keeps his soft black hair cropped neatly, reaching no further than the base of his skull, and (to his chagrin) silvery grey stress hairs have begun to sprout. March typically keeps a rather curt, overly serious expression fixed on his face. A more watchful gaze, however, might catch the wrinkle of his nose when deep in focus, or the grinding of his teeth in frustration, or the brightening of his eyes in interest and excitement, two round stones of bitter dark chocolate catching in the light. With blunt words that ring like a clear bell and a soft lilt to his Mancunian accent, March can give off the impression that he's an honest, straightforward kid. The truth couldn’t be any further.

March's school uniform is always up to standard regulation, and it’s a rare sight for him to be seen without his green and silver striped scarf. He wouldn't ever admit it out loud, but he takes secret joy in the novelty of swishing around in his wizard cloak and his wizard hat. It also happens to have the added benefit of being nice and warm; March finds himself getting rather cold rather easily, ears turning red in the hazy Highlands fog. Outside of his school uniform, March is always layered up in sweaters, jackets, and comfortably worn jeans, courtesy of his grandmother's fussing. Each clothing tag tucked into a waistband, collar, or seam is marked with his initials in Sharpie, M.Y.

While the cloak and hat were purchased brand new from Diagon Alley (on account of owning no wizard garb in the first place), the rest of his clothing is second-hand. His grandmother had taken special care to choose only clothes that were well-fitted and well-cared for from the thrift, so March takes his own special care to keep them clean in return. Dress neat, stand tall, and give no one a reason to look down on you. It’s both a warning and a hope to fit in among the hallowed halls of Hogwarts Castle. Maybe things will be good here.

Maybe, just might.

MENTAL DESCRIPTION

Reducio

March tried his best to be an easy child to raise. He had learned a long time ago that it was best to quietly manage his world on his own, and that it went a long way to ease the burden on the people who cared for him. And indeed, everything about him was rather text book: obedient and studious, conscientious and helpful, and above all, mature for his age. A well-behaved son, and a pleasure to have in class.

But that couldn’t be all there was to him. No, there were other things that he just couldn’t seem to fix. He didn't like to roughhouse, he didn't like to get dirty, he got winded from running outside quickly. He was too bossy, too perfectionistic, and honestly, a little rude. He was better than the rest of them, but overly prideful and thus, overly sensitive, primed and ready to blow. And worst of all? He was an unrepentant liar. In truth, March often found that all his efforts to be easy paled in the face of his quick temper, in the face of his moments of disobedience, and in the face of the selfish little ways that he was a child.

Because at the core of it all, March still was just a child. He sought love and approval, just as any child would, and wanted to show off the things that made him good, and curl defensively around the ones that made him not. His anger and his solemn nature were a tough front against the world around him, and with this shield fixed in place, he was determined to make something of himself, to achieve, and to succeed.

One way or another, hell or high water.

STATISTICS

STA 3 ⭒ EVA 8 ⭒ STR 0 ⭒ WIS 7 ⭒ ARC 4 ⭒ ACC 8

ABILITIES

seer's intuition ⭒ ... ⭒ ... ⭒ ... ⭒ ... ⭒ ... ⭒ ...

BIOGRAPHY

March doesn’t have a very strong grasp of what his family used to be like, back then, before everything changed. There was no stronger lock and key in the world than a family shame, he supposed, considering the way everyone snapped their mouths shut as soon as he began to pry.

So what March had gathered thus far went a little something like this: he was born on the last winter morning of the year in the maternity ward of Saint Mary’s Hospital. The pregnancy had been an accident, and his mother, April Yeung, suffered greatly all the way up until the moment of delivery; she had lost too much blood and nearly succumbed to death in the process. But thanks to the wonders of modern medicine, the two of them returned mostly intact to their tight little apartment in New Islington, Manchester, U-of-K. For a while, it was just him, his mother, and his father, Anthony Yeung. Then, when March turned two, his grandparents moved in. They were growing old, and YeYe was getting weaker and sicker, so this was the most cost effective solution, to keep everyone nice and cozy and close.

According to MaaMaa, his mother did not like this new living situation. And according to the nasty little kid in the apartment down the hall, nobody else liked it either. His parents would argue up and down at all hours they shared together. March remembers this part a little bit. The stress of being a housewife and a mother and a nurse was too much. His father, however, was unyielding. The men and the women in their household had to each play their parts, and his was to provide, while hers was to submit. (The problem was, however, that his father wasn’t providing enough, and his mother wasn’t submitting enough.)

Life carried on, in its noisy, messy, frightening way, until finally, his mother disappeared when March was five years old. The police came and went, ruled out foul play and homicide, and that was that. The case went cold and stayed cold.

From that point on, it was just him, Baba, MaaMaa, and YeYe. March would learn to respect his father and run errands with his grandmother and care for his grandfather, the way his mother must have done before. He would learn the bus routes to the food bank, and learn the orders from the apothecary, and learn the chores that needed to be done to keep the house beyond reproach. And then, he would learn how to shrink down small; small enough to dodge his father’s anger, small enough to hide from the mean kids in school, small enough that it was almost as if he were never there at all.

That is, until his temper comes burning forth, ruining all his chances at being easy and good. He really was just like his father in this aspect. It made March wonder: what about his mother? What aspects of her did he take? He asks himself these questions again when his letter to Hogwarts arrives, pinched delicately in the beak of an owl.

The answer was far more than he knew. March would believe himself to be a Muggleborn wizard, but in truth, he was a Half-blood. His father was a Muggle, yes, but his mother was a Pure-blood witch formerly known as Aprilis Kwong. The noble blood of the Kwongs ran centuries. They were prestigious, pure-bred, and prolific. Their legacy carved rivers deep and true, flowing and fanning out into streams and streams and streams. As such, there were many familial branches within the clan, each one vying for success and favor from the head of the main family. With favor, the branches were able to make use of the many pots that the family had their fingers in. With misfortune, they ended up like Aprilis’ branch.

Whispered, ridiculed, and shunned, they consisted of a witch mother from a once favored family, a wizard father divorced in shame, one child who became a witch, and three others who stayed Squibs. Aprilis was the only one among her siblings who could perform magic. Aprilis was their only hope of regaining any standing within their clan. Aprilis was their only miracle left. Aprilis could do it all.

And at first, she did. She was academically gifted, socially adept, and obedient, above all else. She became a registered owl Animagus at a young age, graduated, and set her eyes upon working her way up into a role within the wizarding government of Hong Kong. Soon, she found herself beginning to intertwine with the ongoings of those close to the main family. It was working.

The burden kept stacking, and life continued to carry on in its dizzying way, until finally Aprilis couldn’t take it anymore and disappeared. She left behind all the weight sitting on her shoulders, and resurfaced in Muggle Britain where she would meet a Muggle man, and on the last day of winter, have a son that she wrongfully believed to be a Squib. She would write drafts of letters to her mother in regret, enchanting them to appear blank to unknowing eyes, and burn all but one of them. She would never tell a soul the truth about her identity and the existence of magic. And then she would leave and disappear again, when everything became too much once more.

There really was no stronger lock and key in the world than a family shame.

MOTHER.

Reducio

The last morning of winter had been beautiful, so beautiful.

April Yeung thought briefly about disappearing into the cold fog and steel blue sky as the muggle doctor gingerly placed a tiny bundle of fabric and flesh in her arms. Six pounds, two ounces, wriggling, damp, and copper scented. It cried, and her eyes tracked the rise and fall of breath with every piercing wail. One bitten fingernail acted as a seismograph and drew a wavering line down the curve of the shrieking thing’s cheek. Deep brown eyes, bordering on the edge of black. They mirrored her own shaking gaze, and her heart tremored, and tremored, and tremored.

In forty-seven minutes, she would hemorrhage 3.3 litres of blood. In ten days, she would be discharged from the hospital. In six and a half months, she would marry her fiancé at a small and modest wedding venue. In nine months, she would draft a letter to her mother and burn the sealed envelope on the stove. In eleven months, she and her husband would argue and smash plates and scream, the muggle way. In eleven months and two days, they would kiss and make up, the muggle way.

In twelve months, she would celebrate her son’s first birthday. In thirteen months, she would draft a letter to her mother and burn the sealed envelope on the stove.

In twenty-four months, she would celebrate her son’s second birthday. In twenty-five months, she and her husband would argue, the muggle way. In twenty-seven months, her parents-in-law would move into her and her husband’s cramped apartment. In twenty-eight months, she would draft a letter to her mother and burn the sealed envelope on the stove.

In thirty-six months, she would celebrate her son’s third birthday. She would draft a letter to her mother and burn the sealed envelope on the stove. She and her husband would argue, the muggle way. In forty months, her husband’s father would fall ill and require an extended hospital stay. She would draft a letter to her mother and burn the sealed envelope on the stove. She and her husband would argue, the muggle way. In forty-one months, her husband’s father would return home, needing help and care with his daily living. She would draft a letter to her mother and burn the sealed envelope on the stove. She and her husband would argue, the muggle way. She would draft a letter to her mother and burn the sealed envelope on the stove. She and her husband would argue, the muggle way.

In forty-eight months, she would draft a letter to her mother and burn the sealed envelope on the stove.

She and her husband would argue, the muggle way.

They would celebrate their son’s fourth birthday.

In sixty months, she would draft a letter to her mother. The stove clicked, click, click, clicked, as she blinked at it in the dark hours of early morning. The other night, she and her husband had argued, the muggle way. She sighed, reaching up towards the shelf of the kitchen altar. Fluttering, pale fingers found a tall thin plastic tube with delicate sticks of sandalwood. It was… odd, this blend of muggle and wizard habits. Wandless, wordless, the tip of the incense lit up at her will, and she watched the glowing red cinders gently bloom. Smoke curled out in a snaking pattern of perfume, and she breathed it in. She really could just get rid of her letters without this drawn out routine, she thought, as she prodded the stove with the incense and let the gas belch out a flame that burned away the whiff of sulfur. A list of chores and tasks churned through her mind, a sludging deluge of to-do, to-do, to-do.

One. Cook breakfast, prep early for lunch. Her tongue slipped out, and she wet the flimsy envelope she had purchased from Poundland. The glue tasted vaguely savory.

Two. Wash dishes. Sweep, then mop the floors. The smudge of mud by the front door from March’s shoes was still hiding under the doormat that had been thrown over it; LaaiLaai was bound to comment on that if she saw it. She sealed the tacky end and flipped over the letter to stare at the sender and recipient. Her finger traced the spot where the cheap ballpoint pen had begun to run out of ink. Her maiden name.

Three. Check the weather forecast, get the clothes ready to be hauled downstairs to the coin laundromat for washing and drying. She drifted back to the stove, glancing only momentarily out the window. The steel blue sky was beginning to lighten. She looked away.

Four. A birthday cake for March, from the supermarket with the display case window that he always loved to smush his face into. Medicine for LouYeh, as soon as he woke up. A charm to clear away the smoke sat ready on the edge of her mind, to hide the smell of her sickness for home, to hide the charred remains of the life she used to have. Her hands squeezed the letter tighter.

Five years of this. Many more to come.

An owl screamed out in the cold morning still. Crepuscular. It was alive, here, in the hours between night and day, guided by instinct. The sun was going to rise soon. There wasn’t much time left. If there was ever a moment, it was now.

Now.

Now!

April turned off the stove. She rushed to throw open the sliding door to the balcony, not caring, for once, for stealth or reason. The letter fell to the floor at the threshold, and she leapt across as bones hollowed, arms folded, flight feathers sprouted, and talons curled. In one breath, April was a woman, a wife, a coward, a mother. In the next breath, she was free.

The Animagus perched on the metal railing.

Her head turned, slowly, 360, and she peered into the apartment in the silence.

No sound.

No movement.

No one noticed.

Then, a rattled doorknob, and a small boy crept out into the space of the living room.

He froze, his sleep-muddled eyes meeting piercing brown ones, bordering on the edge of black.

The owl looked away and disappeared.

FATHER.

Reducio

The missing person's case had split Anthony Yeung into two pieces.

He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t eat. He hardly showed up to work on time.

When they began to investigate the possibility of his hand in murder, it split him into two more. And then two more. And then two more, and two more, and two more, and two more, and-

The missing person’s case didn’t make any sense. The only piece of evidence they had was an envelope, signed by one 鄺秀英 (Kwong… that’s not right- she took my name when we married, so it should’ve been Yeung-) and addressed to no one at all. The letter inside? Seemingly blank. There were no signs of foul play, no forced entry, no forced exit, no note, no clues, no trace, no reason, no explanation, no conversation, no thing in the world that could make it right anymore, because how could it be right anymore? April was gone, and she wasn’t going to be here anymore.

That was the best way he could explain it to March, who asked insistently, over and over and over again, when April was going to come home? When, when, when, when, when! It was obvious, apparently, that he was about to boil over from it all, because his mother deftly stepped in and herded his son away from him.

How did things all go so wrong?

Anthony had been, he admitted (foolishly) to the cops, arguing more and more with April lately. Neighbors had submitted noise complaints for all the early morning yelling, midday stomping, and late-night slammed doors. The “happy” couple weren’t popular with the rest of the residents in the complex. But- but! -it was the stress; he fumbled to recover, realizing his mistake. The arguments, they were worse recently, yes, but their lives were changing and moving a lot! There were financial pressures, supporting his four-person household on his own, with unexpected medical debt from his father’s stroke piling on top like a bitter cherry. And April was always struggling with this small space they lived in, feeling claustrophobic as their son grew bigger and ran and climbed and got into things more and more. And since the start, motherhood has been a lot of hardship and all for her. The doctors told us that it was normal and that she’d get better; she just needed more time! April and I argued a lot, but what couple doesn’t? It doesn’t mean I-!

Twelve months passed. Anthony was no longer considered a suspect. The case went cold.

April stayed missing, and Anthony, he stayed split.

For those twelve months, he was listless, going through the motions. March’s neediness quickly became more and more intolerable. He needed space to think, to breathe. To stop seeing all that remained of April, that damned empty letter and the endless crying, crying, crying, crying! He didn’t have any answers, of course he wanted her back, but there wasn’t anything he could do! Boys don’t cry. Stop crying! Where was April? Where did she go? How was he supposed to do this without her? He was a provider, not a child rearer; he couldn’t do this without her! She had married him and they had promised each other! In sickness and in health, till death do us part, and for every vow, he had meant it, and in the end, she had-

Anthony laid alone in the dark, eyes bloodshot and unbearably dry. Was she lost? Taken? Was she hurt, or killed? Did she leave? Abandon all of them? Run away like she said she had wanted to, all those screaming matches ago? His mind ran circles, and his heart ran circles, and his legs ran circles as he began to throw himself more and more into work. There would be no memorial service for April; it was too expensive, and he still had a family to feed.

Get up. Clock in. Clock out. Grab a pint. Go home. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. Pick up extra shifts. Work overtime. Pay the bills. Go home. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

It was there that he found peace. With the constant grind, he didn’t have to think about things anymore. There was no more missing wife. No more whining son. No more sickly father. No more worried mother. Just the steady cycle of work in his hands, no matter now exhausting, no matter how grueling. The hustle of the restaurant during lunch and dinner hours, steadying. The spray of soap and water and the clatter of dishes, familiar. The dumpsters in the back, a small haven of its own; Anthony leaned against the wall and lit his cigarette, click, click, click. A bitter haze of tobacco and nicotine curled out in a snaking pattern, staining his teeth and clinging desperately to his clothes, hair, and tongue. The ashes fluttered and flared angrily with every inhale, red in the night. He held it for one heartbeat.

...

Exhale.

Blue light flashed as he fished his phone out his back pocket, mingling with the warmer glow of the yellowing lightbulb that flickered over the back door. A moth flit past his ear. He looked at the date and time display. March 19, 4:58PM. Two minutes remaining before his break was over. Inhale. Exhale.

Anthony flicked the cigarette away and crushed it under his heel. Time to get back to work.

SON.

Reducio

His family was weird, the other school kids would tell him, as his grandmother came to pick him up and walk the few short minutes down to the westbound bus stop.

He would huddle close to her on the too-big seats, press against the puffy little vest she wore, and ask, MaaMaa, why won’t Baba tell me about Mama? He had worried that they were right; maybe they were a little weird. She would shush him every time, then start by asking him what he was learning in school. He would reluctantly play along. (Fractions, I’m pretty good at it.) Were the other kids being nice to him? (They don’t really talk to me, but I like to be inside during recess anyway.) Where did you get that scrape from? (...I tripped.)

MaaMaa reached into her purse. One alcohol wipe pressed on his knee burns white hot, while a second one wiped squeakily on the lens of her glasses. March is a big boy, he doesn’t cry.

First stop, the supermarket. MaaMaa would let him pick a slice of cake from the display, and he would choose the same one, every year, without fail. He could almost taste the cold buttercream and cheap sprinkles through the little plastic box (Funfetti was the best) and insisted on carrying it himself to the register. MaaMaa would have him count out the right amount of money, more coins than bills, and the worker would grumble at being forced to count them all. They would then climb back onto the bus, and March would eat his cake on the ride to their next destination (“Do you want some, MaaMaa?”). Better not to leave evidence of this wasteful purchase for his father to find.

Second stop, the apothecary. They were lucky to live such a short ride away from the Chinatown in their city, MaaMaa would comment as they pushed open the creaking door. The air here was dusty, earthy, savory, and bitter. He would walk up and down the aisles of herbs and roots, peer at the more expensive pieces tucked away behind glass. Tiny dark bitter pills, round as pearls and small as sand; a fragrant eucalyptus oil that relaxed YeYe’s tired muscles and offended the other kids in school; a sickeningly sweet cough syrup that was thick to choke down, but instantaneously soothing. These ones were very familiar. His eyes scanned the labels, Mandarin and English, and his ears listened to the chatter of the shopkeep in Cantonese. Monkshood, cordyceps, chrysanthemum. Wormwood, cinnabar, G. lucidum. MaaMaa makes her purchase, and he peers into the bag when they sit together again on the bus. What’s that one? (黄旗 Astragalus.) And this one? (党参 Codonopsis.) And what about these ones? (淮山 Dioscorea radix.) She’d smile and praise him for identifying the rest of the ingredients by sight, jujube, goji, and longan.

Final stop. As the doors opened, March would rush to get off first (no more jumping down, she had said). MaaMaa would then take careful steps down the steep exitway, holding onto his hand for balance. She would tell him that he was a good boy, and to always be good for his father. He works so hard, and the hospital bills for your YeYe haven’t been easy for us. I’m getting old too, so you have to be good, okay? Then we won’t ever have to worry about you. It’s important to be good.

March would struggle to bite back his sour expression. He knew all this already, but he wasn't looking to be scolded for talking back.

The keys jingled in the door to the flat, and the entrance was dark as it swung open. Baba wasn’t home, as usual. Working hard, March’s mind supplied as MaaMaa turned on the lights and gestured to the kitchen table. Homework first. He already knew how to be good. He knew all the tricks and lies to keep everything ugly tucked away, and he knew how to be smarter, faster, better than the rest. He could hurry up and be more mature for his age. He could rein in his temper. He could stop playing so much, and start doing all the work he could do to get ahead of the rest. He could be sweet and pliant and laugh and smile at the right moments, be respectful, more respectful, make friends, but not too many, be active, but also studious, make his father acknowledge him, but don't piss him off.

He could do it. His hand gripped his pencil tight. He could do it all.

That night, March curled in bed and watched an owl flit past the window. He closed his eyes and dreamed that it looked back at him, with dark brown eyes.

FIRST INSTANCE OF MAGIC

Reducio

March stared down at the tooth sitting in the middle of his palm. It was a milky white, jagged at the end where it had broken off from his mouth, and tipped in a mixture of blood and saliva. His tongue prodded the spot it had been previously, still in shock. Sure enough, there was a gap where his right side canine was supposed to be. He could taste a tinge of iron in his mouth.

Losing a tooth wasn’t supposed to come as a surprise; after all, it had been wiggly and loose for almost an entire week, and biting into that baby carrot during lunch hadn’t really helped it much. But it was his very first time, and he hadn’t anticipated it to just… fall out in the middle of a lesson about prepositions. (His tooth was outside of his mouth.) The teacher, turning around at just the right moment, rushed over, and March flushed at the sudden attention of all the students in the class.

“Oh, would you look at that!” She smiled at him, bending down to peer at the little thing. “I’ll write you a note for the nurse’s office, dear.”

The eyes followed his exit, and soon, he found himself swinging his legs as he waited for the nurse to come look at him. He stilled them as soon as she walked in, and nodded along as gravely as he could to her diagnosis. A bit of cotton gauze for the gap, a tooth-shaped capsule for his tooth-shaped tooth. A pat of reassurance on the back, and a reminder to tell his parents and tuck the tooth under his pillow for the tooth fairy.

Tooth fairy? March snorted incredulously on his commute home with MaaMaa. He was eight, not stupid. He already knew that the tooth fairy wasn’t real. It was just a made up story for spoiled little babies… but even still, the tooth rattled in his coat pocket the entire ride back. When they finally got inside the elevator up to their apartment floor, March tugged on MaaMaa’s sleeve and showed her the canine and the missing space. She listened to his story of how it happened and asked if it had hurt. March shook his head bravely no, and that was the end of that.

So now he lay awake in bed, doing his best not to toss and turn on the cramped queen sized mattress. MaaMaa lay snoring to his left, and to her left was YeYe, who was a horrifically light sleeper. His eyes fell upon the wall and followed a drip of paint up, up, up to the clock that ticked gently. It was waaaayyy past his bedtime. He should be sleeping, not… whatever this was. March squeezed his eyes tightly shut, trying to will sleep upon his body. No such luck. He opened them again and was greeted by the sight of the tooth-shaped capsule, sitting within arms reach. (His tooth was on top of the bedside dresser.)

The tooth fairy wasn’t real. March knew that already. But… but, maybe just for fun, he could pretend…? Nobody would know, right?

In one careful, silent motion, he popped the cap open and shook the canine out into his hand. Then, he tucked it inside of his pillowcase and settled back down with a deep sigh. Just for fun. Just to pretend.

The next morning, March would shake out his pillow and watch in utter confusion as a silver coin plopped out. It wasn’t a 5p coin or a 10p coin. In fact, it wasn’t any type of coin that he recognized at all. He turned it over and over; both faces were blank and devoid of any features, smooth all the way around. He dug deeper into the pillowcase, eventually turning it inside out and shaking that too. No luck. He couldn’t find his tooth at all, only this strange coin that had taken the place that it should’ve been. Where had it come from? Where had his tooth gone?

With no clue what to do about it, March simply dropped the mysterious coin into his piggy bank. It clinked to the bottom, without fanfare.

THE SEER.

Reducio

The Gift of the Sight was a fickle thing.

The Kwongs, March’s maternal family members, coveted their Seers greatly; the moment one was discovered among the branch families, their family would be almost instantly elevated in the eyes of the head family. His great-grandfather 鄺宇轩 Kwong Yuxuan was the last Seer of all the Kwong families and the head’s right hand man. Offering intuitions and visions into the best possible future, he was able to advise the head as to which business ventures would be most lucrative, which family members were seeking to challenge his authority, and which gambles were worth the risk taking. Many of the current generation of Kwongs had their name chosen by Yuxuan, who held the final say on what was auspicious and what was not.

When Yuxuan fathered children, everyone had waited with bated breath to see if any of his progeny would awaken their Inner Eye. None did. His children then had children of their own. No Seers. Only wizards and witches, and embarrassingly, a gaggle of Squibs. When Yuxuan inevitably passed, his grandchildren lost the favor that they had once held from the head of the main family. They were no longer useful, and, in the eyes of some, they were hardly magical.

The Yeungs, March’s paternal family members, had no obvious ties to the Sight nor the Inner Eye. At least, not as far as they were aware. Such records of the Sight had been lost to movement across continents, the fallibility of memory, and the secrecy of time, but the fact remains; generations and generations upon generations ago, a Seer married a muggle man, and with the urging of her visions, they ran from her wizarding family together. They would raise children of their own, but this latent genetic gift would not show its face again within her lifetime, or her children’s lifetime, or grandchildren’s lifetime (and so on and so forth).

It would not show its face, that is, until the evening of December 21st, 2024.

…The man was following them.

March could feel a chill squeeze nauseatingly into the marrow of his bones, and he gripped MaaMaa’s hand tighter. He wasn’t sure how he knew where to look, but he had made eye contact with the unfamiliar stranger more than just a few times, catching him through the dwindling crowd of people. Each time his eyes had lingered, and each time, March ducked his head quickly, not wanting to draw any more attention to himself or his grandmother.

Maybe it was just a coincidence. Maybe he was just another friendly pedestrian. It got so dark and cold in December, so quickly. The lights from the street didn’t feel strong enough against the night sky, as he and MaaMaa made their way to the Blue Line.

Maybe they were just headed the same way. Three sets of feet moved in unison. He and MaaMaa stopped, waiting for the tram to arrive. The third slowed, just a few paces away. Foolishly, stupidly, idiotically, March chanced a glance up in that direction.

The stranger was already smiling at him.

They got on the tram, all together, and March tugged his grandmother to sit closer to the doors. The eyes kept staring, staring, staring. March watched the stops fly past as the tram continued blissfully on its route. The number of stops till home was counting down, kept counting down. When was the man getting off the tram? Why wasn’t he getting off the tram?

Their stop arrived. Three sets of feet stepped down and out into the street.

March felt so cold.

The man was following them!

MaaMaa wasn’t stupid either. Her hand had come to circle around March’s thin wrist, squeezing it almost painfully.

"Walk closer," She warned as they set off briskly towards home. March sped up his pace to match her strides.

The asphalt crunched beneath them, and as they swerved around the corner, momentarily outpacing the stranger, something broke in March’s chest. He didn’t know how to describe the exact moment that his intuition struck. It was just… as if a glowstick had snapped, somewhere between the walls of his lungs and the curved bones of his ribs. It filled and constricted the space with a slippery, freezing cold fluid, and he rasped out a shuddering gasp, not knowing that this was his Gift.

All he knew was that he and MaaMaa needed to duck behind the black sedan sitting in the driveway to their right side, right now. Or else.

"This way!" March broke into a sprint, tugging her sleeve violently.

They both dropped down into a crouch, just as March caught a flash of the man who had been following them this entire time. He squeezed his eyes shut and willed the man to leave them alone. Please. Please.

The stranger’s footsteps slowed, once more, this time in bewilderment. He paused. Walked closer to the hiding spot where March and MaaMaa lay, shielded by the front of the car and a stinking rubbish bin. He didn’t move for a few minutes, only turning in place, silently scanning the empty street around them. March could hear how close he was to finding them. Only a few more steps away. He held his breath, afraid that the man would see the fog of it rising into the cold air like a smoke signal.

...

...

...Then, at last, the stranger stopped. The footsteps receded, one by one, back the way they came.

March and MaaMaa stayed hidden for a long time after that. The moon was high in the sky by the time they finally stood up, shakily making their way home.

GLOSSARY

Reducio

"#000000." - Dialogue spoken in Cantonese.
LaaiLaai 奶奶 - Husband’s mother.
LouYe 老爺 - Husband’s father.
MaaMaa 嫲嫲 - Paternal grandmother.
YeYe 爺爺 - Paternal grandfather.
Baba 爸爸 - Father.
Mama 媽媽 - Mother.
鄺秀英 - Kwong Xiuying, April’s maiden name.