Phases (editing)

twenty four

AN- Chapter songs: Sign of the times by Harry Styles, Falling Harry Styles, Ribs by Lorde

24th December 1995

Third Quarter

"You are not to touch the drinks on the floating trays," my father ordered. His firm finger was poking the air in front of my face, causing me to go cross-eyed.

"Sure, whatever." I snapped back. The Ministry Christmas Gala was notorious across Wizarding Britain for being exclusive to the higher class–or should I say purebloods with more than a few galleons to their name. Hermione compared it to the Met Gala the muggles are all obsessed with. I shrugged when she said that, it was a foreign language to me, so I had little to compare it to.

"I mean it, Aspen." He retorted. "You are not to go near the alcohol tonight."

Feeling annoyed, because my father still talked to me like I was twelve, I went wide-eyed and nodded. "Mhm, okay."

My mother sighed and hooked an arm through my father's arm, using her free one to brush out non-existent flaws on her gown. Her gown was over three hundred galleons with a surplus of charms sewn into them, which did beyond plenty for her figure.

"I believe that man over there is Conrad Fawley," my mother said and pointed towards a cocktail table not too far from the live performers. "Darling," She announced to grab my attention, "your father is meant to strike a deal with the Fawley's, we will be in conversation with them over there. Don't get into too much trouble while we are away."

I nodded in submission, again.

"Wonderful," She brushed a delicate hand down my hairline and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.

"We'll find you when we are done," my father stated and fixed the cuffs to his deep green, almost black, formal dress robes. The colour of his attire pulled the piercing green eyes I shared with him and contrasted my mother's waterfall of inky hair, which I shared with her.

There were many times growing up when I found myself sitting and analyzing my parent's features, pulling the small details that I found on myself. I counted on my left hand for my father and my right for my mother to keep score of who's genetics were stronger. My mother always out beat my father. I held ownership of his eyes, lips, and skin tone. But beyond the few I shared with him, the older I got the more I looked like my mother, without the elegance. Many times, I found myself standing in front of the mirror scrutinizing my genes for failing me. I had the shoulders of a keeper, the hands of a beater, and the bone structure of a seeker. There was nothing elegant about my build, I looked more manly and muscular than toned.

"If you have a dire emergency," my mother began to say, "summon Ponroy."

The classic 'we are busy so you are the house-elf's responsibility' card. My father could care less about being a pureblood, but my mother was slaying dragons to return to her 'rightful' seat at the table. Having a needy fifteen-year-old daughter would put a damper on that plan.

I again nodded in submission and then began scanning the surrounding ballroom. The atmosphere reminded me of the Yule Ball. The falling false snow from the charms on the ceiling, the string quartet playing Beethoven–who was a wizard that used magic in his symphonies, which led to his centuries-old success– and attending with Ron. My body stiffened, as I winced with the reminders of him. His foul words sliced through me like a white-hot blade, the last time he spoke to me, then not even an hour later being broken up with in the most nihilistic way.