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The day had been one of the best of Neppie's life. It was full of memories she was sure to tuck away, to save for the days when she was beaten so hard she couldn't move. It was the first time she'd had a day like that since... well, since before the Remoras. It was wonderful.
Her favourite part of the day had of course been when she got her wand. It was thirteen and a half inch alder wood, with a dragon heartstring core. She found the wand almost poetic, in a way; its body was whitewashed and knotted and gnarled and looked like an old pruned branch, but its handle was ebony and smooth and polished like a gem, embellished with tiny, clear, faceted vines and flowers that curved gently around the base and shined in the light like they were glass. She had been in love with it the moment she saw it, and she didn't need the odd old man Ollivander to tell her this was the one for her.
Getting the small forest raven currently tucked under her arm— whom she named Socrates— was tied closely with getting her wand. She had found him at the very back of Eeylops Owl Emporium and promptly begged McGonagall to let her buy him. It was impossible for Neptune to just ignore the tiny thing. He was out of place, and not wanted, and so obviously stunted, and Neppie related to that more than anything. And it was impossible for McGonagall to ignore Neppie's imploring eyes. A raven was a type of bird, right?It didn't matter that it wasn't an owl. Or so she tried convince herself.
The books were third on Neptune's list of favourites. Of course, how could she not be excited for them? They were full of a world that she hadn't discovered yet, one she thought didn't exist. She had insisted upon going to a second-hand store in order to find the good ones, the ones with the annotations in the margins and worn spines and faded covers. Not many other people had been in the second-hand store with her besides the Professor, but she had spotted a gangle of red-heads exiting the shop as she came in. What a peculiar bunch, she had mused. They look so happy.
The rest of her things— her scales, cauldrons, quills and parchment— were exciting, but not as much as getting her own clothes. Her own clothes! Nothing borrowed from Ava, or stolen from the wash! Nothing that was too big or too small on her! Clothes that were her own. They had been odd, of course, but nothing too outlandish. They were deep black robes (draped over regular black school trousers) with a high zip-up collar and long, overlaying sleeves. The undersleeves were snug against Neppie's arms, but not in any way that was uncomfortable. The upper half was loose against her body, and then it tucked in around her waist nicely. The bottom half fell down to her ankles, barely covering her trousers— and Neppie was delighted to find that there were thousands of pockets hidden in her hanging sleeves and the skirt of her robes. Although Madam Malkin had pointed out a special pocket for her wand, Neppie decided that she'd rather keep it in her mane of curls where she had stuck it in the first place. Socrates, though, found a warm place in her right breast pocket, directly across from her school crest.
