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 as Regulus fell into step beside her. 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 eyes.
"We're researchers," Avery said smoothly before she could ask.
"History of education," Regulus added. "Gifted youth in the 20th century."
The woman blinked. "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 slightly.
"Yes," Avery said, exchanging a glance with Regulus. "That's exactly the boy we're interested in."
The woman set her knitting aside and scribbled something on a tea-stained notepad. "Names?"
"Rosalind Grey," Avery answered, offering a soft smile.
"Jonathan Clarke," Regulus followed, hands folded behind his back.
She jotted the names down on the pad, then 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.
"Jonathan Clarke?" Avery said dryly, appearing beside him. 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. "Better than sounding like a tax accountant."
Before Regulus could reply, footsteps echoed back from the corridor. The woman had returned, and she wasn't alone. Beside her stood a thin figure in a cardigan two sizes too large, hair pinned back in a trembling halo of gray. Her mouth was tight, and she wore the expression of someone who had spent years tamping down memories like weeds.
"This is Mrs. Cole," the receptionist said, with a forced neutrality. "She was on staff when your boy was here."
Mrs. Cole's eyes swept over them. "You've come for the Riddle boy."
