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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November 1st, 1979
Avery stood in the chill dawn air, wand at her side, boots planted firmly on frost-laced stone. It was barely past six in the morning, yet the enchanted sky above the Ministry's training grounds already glowed with a strange violet light, casting long shadows across the open arena. The colour reminded her of a bruise—beautiful from a distance, ominous up close.
The Ministry did not believe in ceremony. There had been no welcoming banquet, no congratulatory speeches, no grand announcement marking the beginning of their training. Just a parchment pinned to a noticeboard outside the Auror Office the night before, listing names beneath the heading Candidate Assignments. Avery had found hers immediately. Greengrass, Avery S. Instructor: Callum Rowle
The assignment had hardly come as a surprise. Rowle was a senior Auror, a recruitment lead, and one of the examiners who had overseen her assessment. If anything, she would have been more shocked to find herself assigned elsewhere.
The candidates arrived in ones and twos, filtering onto the grounds through the morning fog. Some looked eager. Others looked exhausted. One or two were trying very hard to appear unaffected by the fact that they were about to begin one of the most demanding training programmes in Britain.
There were eleven of them in total. Eleven candidates who had survived the written examinations, the interviews, the spellwork assessments, and the months of waiting that followed. Now they stood in a loose semicircle upon the frost-covered stone, watching the fog gather at the far edge of the training grounds.
And then Rowle stepped through it. His coat today was dark forest green, worn over dragonhide, and his wand was already in his hand. The scar by his lip caught the morning light as he scanned them all, and no one dared speak. Not even the cocky-looking boy from Bulgaria who had been bragging about his dueling titles just ten minutes ago.
"Welcome," Rowle announced, voice cutting through the cold like iron. "You're not Aurors."
Silence. Yeah no shit.
"You're candidates, which means you're liabilities. Some of you won't make it to spring. Some of you will. Which category you end up in has very little to do with how impressive your school marks were. It depends on how fast you learn, how well you adapt, and how little you lie to yourselves."
He paced in front of them, boots making no sound on the stone.
"You'll be assigned weekly missions, physical drills, spellcasting scenarios, ethics simulations, and field theory. You'll also be paired with a mentor for evaluations. You break rules, you're out. You show up late, you're out. You hesitate with your wand—someone dies. Then you're out, or worse. Azkaban," he whispered the last word sardonically.
Then he turned and pointed at the center of the stone ring.
"First exercise. Partner up. Disarm, shield, and immobilize—nonverbal only. Three rounds. Go."
