my, my, what do i see here? OPEN

The steam billowed over the platform like a cascade, momentarily blurring everything from view. It was still the same platform that he had embarked on six years ago, and yet it seemed to shrink in length and width every year he came back there. Both son and Mother had the same expression about their face: a sort of lofty repulsion to the amount of smoke interrupting their farewell, and probably corrupting their well-pressed, elf-laundered clothes with a stench. Sometimes one would look at a family and find it troublesome to match their genetics; but with Alistair Dolohov and his Mother: they were painstakingly related.

She was a lighter shade of blonde, but her nose curled upward in the same way that his did: it was slender, her nose, but quite pointy. It complimented her large, blue eyes that were slightly too large for her face and mouth - which was small. But she was the sort of person who suited her imperfections: they were imperfections that were striking, not generic, and she wore quite a lot of make-up. High heels. Long, red talons for nails.

They dug into Alistair's shoulder as she gripped him, pulling him to the departing embrace. His brothers followed suit, each receiving a goodbye from their Mother. Somehow, her perfectly curled up-style didn't fracture even an inch and she didn't smile: it was her philosophy that women should act like they were constantly in mourning, to fight away wrinkles.

On boarding the train, the brothers split away with a few, unenthusiastic notes of acknowledgement. They each had their own places to be, and the thought of having to listen to people discuss Quidditch for the next six hours was undeniably nauseating. The middle brother was more into that sort of stuff. So, Alistair, rolling his luggage down the corridor and projecting an air of confidence (or was it arrogance?) in his stride, sought out the front carriages - where he would be meeting with the Head Girl and prefects.

When arriving at Hogsmeade Station some time later, Alistair thought the meeting had gone fairly well. Clearly not everyone wanted to be there, but he ignored their notes of disinterest: if they felt their time was being wasted, they were probably going to waste his time further down the line. Being Head Boy had its first repercussions, as he was expected to chaperone students into the carriages - ensure it was done in an orderly, sensible manner. That sort of thing.

By the time he reached the castle, he felt worn out. The walk through entrance hall, to the great hall was something of a fizz in front of his eyes. As soon as he took a seat at the Slytherin table, he released an exasperated sigh: this had all been a lot less glamorous than he had first anticipated (but at least his hair was still slicked back and neat). He wouldn't usually do this at a dining table (the feast hadn't arrived yet; so he counted it as a mere desk), but Alistair lent his elbow on its surface. His thumb skimmed over his lips.

He blinked, slowly, hazily, until his eyes rested on Evie Warrington.

They had classes together and he had nothing but warm thoughts towards her, but whether they were friends or not remained to be seen. She looked good with her hair in a long braid, he thought. Well-presented.

"I'm a little disappointed that you weren't made Head Girl, Evie," He told her, with something of a derisive smile tugging at the corners of his lips, "But I suppose having two Slytherins would be seen unfair. Unless you have any indiscretions that I should know about..." He was teasing her.