July 9th, 1887 — Wizarding World Market, London

Herbert Fudge loved exotic animals.

Herbert Fudge did not love exotic animals when they were staring at him with hungry eyes, and when he was all that stood between his eldest daughter and her tragic demise.

The wizard stood poised with wand in hand, his free arm extended outwards to make himself seem larger as he backed away slowly.  “Stay behind me, Holliday,” he instructed his daughter calmly, not daring to look back at her.

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It should have been a dream come true: a day with just her and Papa. As the second of six children with only a few months a year at home, Holliday did not often receive such attention for such prolonged periods of time, and so had literally leapt at the opportunity. It had all gone wonderfully until a winged tiger appeared in front of them, and her fear was second only to her curiosity as Holliday did as bid, though peered around her father at the feral feline in perverse fascination.

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“Stupefy!” the wizard cast in measured tone, only the hastiness of his wand betraying his nerves as he took slow steps backwards. The first stunner missed it’s mark, prompting Herbert to cast again—and a third time for good measure, though the second had done the trick.

Momentarily sure of their safety, he turned to Holliday, bending so that he might be on eye level, his calm from before all but evaporated.

“We must be away, quickly! Grab hold of me!”

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Her curiosity was tempered by the newfound franticness in her father’s voice. She didn’t think she’d ever seen Papa worried before—but now was the perfect time to study the beast, while it was stunned and unable to harm them. Heartbreak and panic mingled in her chest as she dutifully grabbed onto her father’s hand, just as the world around them began to shake.

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Just as he was about to apparate to safety with his daughter in tow, the whole world around them began to shake as if an earthquake—but that wasn’t right. In an earthquake, the air did not shake too!

Structures began breaking apart around them and a piece of stone knocked Herbert to the ground.

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The world was spinning.

Dry hacks forced themselves from Holliday’s lungs as the Ravenclaw coughed up the dust that had settled in her lungs. How had she come to be lying on the ground? What was the ringing in her ears? Why was her wrist at that angle oh Merlin this hurt!

“Papa?” she called out, fear and pain evident in the unusual shrillness of her tone as she dragged herself to her feet. “Papa!”

There he was, in the rubble!

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It was a strange sensation, not being able to feel one’s legs. In fact, Herbert felt rather giddy, for all that breathing had become difficult. Somewhere in the distance, far, far away, he could hear Holliday calling for him, but his mouth—caked in dust and something that tasted metallic—couldn’t get the words out to call back to her. Herbert squinted, trying to see her, but the world around him was slowly going dark.

Holliday, the word died on his tongue.

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   Coleman Beasley

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The feeling in his legs did not return, but he could stand, at least—and there she was, just below him! Why did she looks so distressed, though? He reached out to pat her head reassuringly, only to find that his hand looked very different indeed. Herbert stopped the limb in its progress, eyes widening in shock.

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“I-I’m here, Holliday,” he stammered uncertainly in an effort to reassure his daughter. She was not a girl who often cried, and even as disoriented as he felt, Herbert still had the presence of mind to be disquieted by this change in her demeanor. “You needn’t cry, I’m r-right here.”

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She turned ‘round at the sound of his voice, hope filling her chest just as sorrow had filled her lungs, all but drowning her, and almost as soon as it arrived, that hope was dashed upon the same rocks that had crushed her father—apparently absolutely to death.

“Papa,” she breathed, eyes wide with shock, horror, “you’re a ghost!”

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