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SEPTEMBER FIRST YEAR
SURPRISINGLY, SHE DOESN'T CRY in the night, slipping into her room when all is quiet, and her roommates are asleep. The only light comes from the flickering white flames from the elaborate fireplace, and when she clambers into the magnificent four-poster bed and draws the curtains, it feels as if she has been dropped into a void of darkness.
Aurelia lies on the silken sheets, staring up at the ceiling of the bed, and calculates her options. It seems as if Dumbledore will not allow her to be resorted- and judging by the reactions of the other portraits, it's practically sacrilege to ask. So what else is there to do? Leave? She knows her father was seriously considering sending her to Durmstrang- so much so that the headmistress of the school was invited to Castle Brennan on multiple occasions- and wonders if, perhaps, she could ask him to be moved.
(But it took so much convincing to get here, so much reassurance that she won't reveal herself.)
But then she thinks of Sirius, her only friend and ally, and frowns. Leaving seems too much like running away at the first sign of trouble, and even though her worst fear has come true, Aurelia hates running. So, obviously, the only thing left to do is–
Her train of thought derails at the soft sound of sobbing, dripping like tears through the darkness.
Aurelia sits up, the silk sheets sliding around her as she pushes to the side of the bed, knocking silvery pillows left and right as she twitches the curtains back, looking around the room. The icy fire casts peculiar, ghostly shadows around the room, turning the elaborate decor into wraiths and spirits and demons. To any other eleven year old, it would inspire some sort of creeping fear, but Aurelia knows too well about what really lurks in dark places, and swings her legs out of the bed, sitting and waiting.
There- a sobbing sound from the furthest bed, a whimpering akin to an animal in pain.
Her feet hit the ground silently, and instinctively feels for the wand in her pyjama pocket- her hand closing around the slender object, telling herself it's just in case. The trip to Ollivanders was her first visit to Diagon Alley- indeed, to London in general, and she can remember what the wand maker said to her almost word-for-word.
"Aspen, ten inches, dragon heartstring and hmm, what have we here? Hair of-" "Alright, alright, how much?" Her father interrupts, stepping between Aurelia, who's clutching at her new, ivory-white wand with a look of wonder. "8 Galleons." The wand maker says, looking up, his huge eyes even wider under the glasses he wears. "An unusual combination, I must say. Do you know about wand cores, Miss Brennan?" "N-no Mr Ollivander." "First-years rarely do," the wand maker sighs, "dragon heartstrings produce the wands with the most power, although they can be someone temperamental. Paired with that quite singular hair- and I'll tell you I've never sold another wand with one- and you have a wand inclined to the Dark Arts, should you let it wander."
