Emerson Wilmore was an exemplary Ravenclaw student, known for her unwavering dedication to academics and an unyielding moral compass. However, things took a twisted and deviated turn in her life after her boyfriend, Cedric Diggory, was murdered by L...
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Emerson's childhood home felt unfamiliar.
It had only been a few months since Emerson was last here. The last time she was here was when she packed her things for Italy with Olivia in July. She never even came back before she left for Hogwarts in September. That summer was a distraction, an escape, really, from all the things involving Mattheo that she didn't want to face.
Now, she stood in the middle of the sitting room, staring at the cold fireplace, the neatly arranged furniture and the untouched bookshelves. It was the same house she had grown up in, gazing at the same walls that once held warmth, laughter and family. And yet, it felt so unfamiliar.
Maybe because she had changed. Maybe because she spent so much time away that she had forgotten what home was supposed to feel like.
If this was even home anymore.
She realised why she stayed away for so long. It was suffocating. The silence was oppressive. The emptiness stretched from the entryway to the sitting room, seeping into the walls and settling in the bones of the house. The Christmas decorations were minimal, and Emerson could tell the only reason they were even there was because of her arrival. A small, half-heartedly decorated tree the height of her waistline stood in the corner of the living room, its lights flickering weakly, as if it wasn't quite sure it belonged there either.
Her mother was already gone by the time she woke up.
Of course she was.
She left a note on the kitchen table, written in her usual neat, efficient handwriting:
Ministry needs me. Be home late. Dinner in the fridge.
- Mum
That was it. Not even an apology or love you.
Emerson stared at the note for a long moment, gripping it tightly in her fingers before exhaling sharply and tossing it onto the counter.
She shouldn't have been surprised.
She should have expected it. She did expect it, deep down. But it still stung. She clenched her jaw, pushing down the frustration bubbling in her chest.
Her mother invited her home for Christmas. For the first time in years, she reached out and asked Emerson to come back. Emerson hadn't questioned it, and hadn't even thought to. A small, hopeful part of her wanted to believe—just for a second—that maybe this year would be different. That maybe her mother missed her and she wanted to spend time with her daughter.
But of course not.
She should've known better.
It was always like this. Ever since her father died, her mother buried herself in work. She avoided the house, her daughter and anything that might remind her of what she had lost. She wasn't cruel or neglectful in the traditional sense. Emerson never went without food, without new clothes or without anything she needed. But that was just it. Her mother provided for her like she was checking things off a list. Emerson cooked meals for herself and busied her days when she was alone from age 10. She didn't see her.
