March 31st, 2004 - the birth of Y/N Crimson.
Two years before the First Wizarding War (1995-2006) ended, the newlyweds - Caspian and Amaryllis - welcomed a beautiful baby girl into the world. A blessing from God himself accorded upon the good Brit...
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"So, how does the dormitory system work here?"
Robert Hilliard, the prefect for the Ravenclaw house, glanced over at Seraphina. Then smiled and said, "It's pretty simple, actually. Once we get inside, you pick four other people you want to live with. You all head over to the House Totem together, and if everyone's on board, the castle grows a new room for your group right then and there. It's bigger on the inside, obviously, so you don't feel cramped."
Aurora raised her hand, and Sophie snorted at the sight. "What if someone's a loner?"
"The Totem handles that too," he said, waving a hand toward the corridor ahead. "If you don't find a group of five, the magic just waits until the stragglers are all that's left. It'll bundle the remaining two or three of you into a smaller suite. You still get a room; it just scales down the floor plan so you aren't rattling around in a space built for five."
He paused for a moment. "Actually, some people prefer it that way. Less competition for the bathroom. The only limitation is that boys group with boys, and girls group with girls."
Sophie made a face. "That almost sounds civilized."
"It is civilized," Robert said. "We are Ravenclaw, after all."
The corridor ahead widened, the torchlight thinning as they moved deeper into the castle. Y/N kept pace near the middle of the group, hands in her robe pockets. Aurora drifted closer to her side again, then seemed to regret doing it when Y/N glanced at her.
"What?" Y/N asked.
"Nothing."
Y/N gave her a look. "Then stop acting weird."
"I am not acting weird."
"You are."
Robert cleared his throat, not even trying to hide how little he cared about their drama. "Keep the chatter to a minimum, please."
Robert turned left at the end of the corridor, then up a narrower flight that forced everyone into a loose line again. The steps were worn out just enough to dip in the middle, and the railing bore small prints where hands had passed over it for years. No one said much while climbing; the sound of shoes against stone carried on its own.
At the top, the space opened into a circular landing. The ceiling curved low, painted a deep blue that caught the torchlight in dull patches instead of reflecting it. Set into the wall ahead was a wooden door with a bronze eagle knocker — no handle, no hinges visible.
