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DECEMBER FIRST YEAR
"Ow!"
The brush dragging backwards through her hair doesn't respond to her cry of pain- if anything, it's attack on her endless curls becomes more vigorous. Unfortunately, no matter how much of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion ('two drops tames even the most bothersome barnet!') her mother slathers onto her head, her curls find a way to fight it.
(If only her natural hair was soft, and tender, rather than as wild and as rotten as the bramble bushes that crawl up the walls of Brennan Castle)
"Sit still, Aurelia," her mother says, from the mirror, where her enchanted powder puff is putting the finishing touches on her flawless, luminous skin, "I'm sure Sirius doesn't make this much of a fuss." No, Aurelia thinks, biting the inside of her cheek as the floating brush tries to drag through a particularly knotted clump at the back of her hair, he's probably worse. Of course, it's not as if her mother knows what's happening behind the closed doors of the Black house- she probably imagines Sirius and Regulus to be the perfect children that Aurelia regularly fails to be. Perhaps no pureblood child is perfect- every other pureblood just believes they are.
Her eyes flit back to her mother, sitting utterly still in her red dress. She's twisting the pearls at her neck- a present from Aurelia's father, her husband, the man who cheated on her with a monster- as the brush dusts shimmering powder down her cheekbones. She's beautiful, but in a distant, frozen way- like a muggle painting, an untouchable object. In contrast, Aurelia is ugly- she's too raw, too feral, too real, with canines too sharp to be a human's and nails that are growing again. She feels as if she's risen up from the very earth itself, an animal forced into human clothes and human shoes, when all she wants to do is run and run and run across the boggy moorland until she sinks-
"Aurelia!" At her mother's shrill snap, she blinks, and realises that her hair has warped around the brush, consuming it, and that her soft, buttery brown eyes are deepening into black holes in her face.
She gasps, and her teeth gleam at her, starkly white and wolfish in a crimson mouth.
Her eyes fade back to brown, and her hair falls, matted with lack of care. When she looks down, her nails are shaped like daggers, her cuticles red and raw with blood, tiny beads that shake over her trembling hands. "You cannot let that happen at the ball tonight!" Her mother says, drawing herself to her full height with flashing, thunderous eyes. Aurelia knows to fear her father, but the woman who (to the rest of the world) presents herself as her mother is just as dangerous, if not more. After all, Aurelia is nothing to her- not a daughter, not her child, just a cuckoo in a nest that was never supposed to be hers.
