Being a Greengrass after all should sound pretty serene.
But being a part of "the Emeralds" should not, especially when hearts become entangled with the infamous Regulus Black.
Goodness, lawfulness, or evilness. Which path will they tread in the ti...
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December 26th, 1978
The orphanage stood hunched beneath the London drizzle, a box of ash among brick and soot. Its name—Wool's Home for the Young and Helpless—had worn off the sign, leaving only ghost-letters behind.
Avery pulled her coat tighter. Regulus said nothing. The building was smaller than they imagined. Gray stone. Dull windows. A place that raised dozens, but loved none.
They stepped into the lobby—linoleum floor, a heater that buzzed with more effort than warmth. A woman sat behind a desk, knitting something lumpy and gray. She looked up with suspicion already in her throat.
"We're researchers," Avery says before she could speak. Her voice was polished, calm, the way her mother taught her to speak in places that didn't want her.
"History of education," Regulus adds. "Gifted youth in the 20th century."
The woman blinks. "We don't get many of those here."
She eyed Regulus's gloves, the tailored cut of Avery's coat. "Riddle types, then."
They stiffened—just slightly.
"Yes," Avery says, exchanging a glance with Regulus. "That's exactly the boy we're interested in."
The woman set her knitting aside—half a scarf, or perhaps half a noose—and squinted at them. Her eyes were small and sharp, like buttons sewn on too tightly.
"Names?"
"Rosalind Grey," Avery replies smoothly, offering a soft smile.
"Jonathan Clarke," Regulus followed, hands folded behind his back.
She jotted the names down on a tea-stained pad as though she might be tested on them later.
Then, the woman stood. "Wait here."
She disappeared through a hallway that smelled like boiled cabbage and bleach. Five minutes passed. Regulus drifted toward the notice board: drawings in crayon, a poster about manners, and a list of rules.
No Shouting. No Hitting. No Lying. He stared at the last one too long.
"Jonathan Clarke?" Avery says dryly, appearing beside him like a whisper. Her eyes were on the board, but her smirk was all for him. "Really? That's the alias equivalent of white bread."
Regulus didn't look at her. "It's forgettable. That's the point."
She hummed, the sound thin as a ribbon. "Forgettable isn't the same as invisible. You should've gone with something spikier. Like Basil."
He rolled his eyes. "Yes, and you're Rosalind Grey, as though we're in a tragic Edwardian novel."
Avery smiled faintly. "Better than sounding like a tax accountant."
