PROLOGUE

PART ⅓⸺ growing pains

July 1st, 1972

THE FIRST TIME FATE CAME FOR ME it was in the form of a letter.

It had been rather surprising, in the sense that the day started out in a particularly uneventful and usual fashion.

Like everyday, the House was quiet. Like every day I woke up exactly seven minutes before dawn. Like everyday, I got out of bed from the left side. Like every day, it took me thirty four minutes to get dressed and ready for the day.

Like most days, I had counted two hundred and twenty seven steps separating my bed from my chair in the dining hall. Some days, I counted more, others less, but the number barely ever changed. However that day it had been the same and I was quite pleased (I had always particularly liked the days it was the same. It felt like good luck).

I was not entirely sure why I counted, but I liked it. Rory sometimes said that I was a creature of habit, and I found myself agreeing with her for once. Besides, I had always thought that there was comfort and company in the numbers that distracted me from the loneliness of life within these cold walls.

Lonely was not the right word to describe Drewitt Manor. Most times, it could have seemed as if nobody lived in this place- this was only partially true. In my books, living─ truly living─ would mean joy.

Saying we lived in Drewitt Manor would imply all sorts of delirious scenes─ our family together on Christmas Day sharing a warm meal together, our father's deep laugh echoing on the walls. I imagined my sister and I racing each other through the halls, our mother scolding us halfheartedly, an amused smile on her lips. All those images flashed before my eyes, like one of those muggle movies Rory rambled about.

I shook my head to forget them- lies, made up, insidious illusions. I wasn't to feel grief for what never was. There was no love before and there certainly was none now.

Only duty bound us. Only that was worth anything.

Saying that we lived here would imply that they enjoyed it, which was a lie. Because as far as I knew, there was not a single happy person in Drewitt manor.

(Though maybe an exception could be made of Rory).

I advanced towards my destination as the sunrise light poured into the endless dark hallways of green wallpaper. There was a constant eerie air about this house- its frozen silence, its shadowy corners, the hushed buzzing of the whispering portraits, its seemingly infinite rooms, the never ending corridors, the ease with which you could get lost here. I had always thought that it would seem somewhat hostile to the outsiders; it had too many doors and corners.

The entire house felt like a familiar place gone disturbingly distorted by a dream.

It didn't bother me, though- I knew my way around. I knew which doors to open and the ones never to, I knew which floorboards creaked, I knew which corridors lead to the kitchen, the dining rooms, the entrance, the gardens, and which ones lead nowhere at all. But most importantly, I knew how to work my way into the silence, how to become a part of it; how to be a spider on the wall, how to be a speck of dust in the air. How to morph into the nothingness until you became it, until there was nothing left of you- how to become the very void you live in. A skill of the utmost importance to be a good daughter.

Despite everything, I liked it here. The House was my favourite place in the world. Here all was gentle. All was kind.

Here the world was quiet.

I often had to remind myself to not get too attached to this place or anything inside of it. Everything here is borrowed and nothing belongs to you, I repeated to myself like a mantra.

It rarely worked.

I kept on walking, my footsteps muffled by the expensive carpets─ the ghost of Drewitt Manor, silently haunting the empty corridors.

Making my way towards the dining hall, I waded through hallways of grand tapestries and portraits of my ancestors, all of whom were looking down at me, following me with their glacial stares from their places, hung high on the walls, their hushed whispers falling silent as soon as I walked by.

Contrary to what Rory affirmed they weren't very talkative, at least with me. They never spoke to me, nor, I was sure, did they ever speak of me.

They didn't need to though. It didn't take a genius to know what they thought- that I was never meant to exist. There would only ever be one true Drewitt heiress, and it wasn't me.

The flesh and blood of a broken oath, Father had once said on one of those cold empty winter nights where people often admitted more than they had wished to.

To the portraits, I was ephemeral, a breeze, a name that sometimes echoed on the cold stone. A girl to marry off- and hopefully, soon enough there would be no one in this house that would remember my name, my face, my life, or the fact that I had ever lived here at all. After all, why would they?

I was a mistake, one that would be discarded all in due time, but a mistake nevertheless.

I arrived at my destination. The corridor carpet ended precisely where the glistening black and white marble tiles began. Before me stood the tall dark wood doors of the dining hall, leading the wide oval room. The first rays of dawn filtered through the grand windows, their light illuminating the room, reflecting on the spotless checkered floors. The table was round; impressively overlarge for the four of us, pitiful remnants of our house. We were a large family once. A very large and glorious family, once upon a time neither I nor any reminding members could recall.

Towering over the room was a tapestry hanging from the ceiling─ the coat of arms of our great family; two grey wolves stood on their hind legs, facing each other, fangs and claws out, intricately intertwined with a thorny rosebush, under which stood the family motto in tall silver letters─ THE TRUE WOLF RULES ALONE.

The view of the tapestry filled me with a certain dread. I was perfectly aware of why it stood there specifically, towering over us, an observer of our every move; it was not a mere decoration, or a display of our glory- it stood as a reminder to us all, should we ever forget what we were; wolves. And a pack of blood thirsty ones at that.

It was a threat. An implicit warning that loomed over us at all times. Its sight made my stomach churn.

I wasn't very hungry anymore.

But like every morning, I forced myself not to walk away and skip breakfast at once. Not that there would be anybody to scold me if I did not- however, I was well aware that if I waited for anybody to care I would have died of starvation a few years ago.

I always spent breakfast in silence. There was nobody to speak to. I was not even completely sure that if I did have company, I would even address them, but it would have been nice to have the choice, I suppose.

Rory was always up later. She had never been particularly fond of rising with the sun. It just didn't come naturally when she spent most of her evenings and nights running around the house, up to Merlin knowing what mischief. She operated better in the afternoon and early evening, when had had the time to get in all of her so-called "beauty sleep".

Father was surely already awake by now. However he was busy, even this early in the morning.

Kasimir Drewitt was always busy; he was an important man, with an important job.

Just like his father before him and his father's father before that (and so forth, I'm sure you get the idea), Father was the head of the department of mysteries. I never knew whether our renowned familial reclusiveness came from the nature of the job, or if it was the contrary- pondering over that question was time consuming and, frankly, quite useless. It was like asking which one came first, the dragon or the egg- two things so indissociable from one another that it was hard to see where one began and the other ended. It was impossible to talk about one thing without bringing up the other.

The Drewitts and the Department of mysteries. The Department of Mysteries and the Drewitts. Two sides of the same coin.

Of course the ministry didn't like it much. It was hard for them to tolerate that one family- and such a secretive one, at that- was controlling the entirety of a branch of the political power; free to use it however they saw fit. They tried to shut us down many times, but they never quite succeeded.

What did their opinion matter anyway? This was bigger than them. The Drewitts were playing a different game that did not abide by the same rules.

And so my father was an Unspeakable. I always believed it suited him like a glove; he didn't talk much and subsequently was the most mysterious person I knew. Not that I knew him that well.

Or not that I knew many people at all.

Still, my point remains- even to us, Father remained quite the enigma; he locked himself in his study before dawn and came out just for dinner, which was the only time of the day I could get a chance to see him. It did not matter much to me. I did not long for his presence; even when we were together we barely talked─ I wasn't the heiress. I was not very worthy of his time. Nor did I particularly want to be- not because I didn't love him; far from that. He was my father after all, The love I held for him could be overshadowed only by the overwhelming respect and admiration that I harboured. His unwavering strength, his immutable dedication to our principles, and his unwavering determination to carry our family to the height of greatness left an indelible mark on my soul. He was the pillar upon which our castle stood, the guiding light in times of darkness.

He shaped me into everything I was, and for that I could only be grateful.

I cherished and admired my father deeply, however, with the years, I came to learn that it was best for me to stay out of his way. Watch, love and learn from afar.

Sometimes at dinner when I would turn to look at him, I would find his blank gaze briefly lingering over me, and I would get the feeling I was toeing an invisible limit. An unspoken border I was not to cross, yet that I had no knowledge of. I would get the feeling that I was at the edge of a cliff where something dark and final laid. Something I had no desire to understand. Whenever that happened I would get a deep feeling of unease- the kind that made your bones thrum.

I felt I was playing a game he refused to tell me the rules of.

Then the spell would be broken and he would go about his meal quickly turning to look at something more interesting. Like my sister. Often it was my sister.

Needless to say I was always very careful around Father.

Then there was Mother. But no one spoke to Mother anyhow.

Calypso Yaxley was a delicate woman, to put it nicely (although, I do not think that she was deserving of such niceties).

So, to put it plainly, she was a weak woman.

A woman born for tragedy, we would perhaps have said if her existence was not too laughably miserable to be considered a tragedy in any sense. I could recount the story of her pathetic little life pretty easily; she married young, had me and my sister young, and then, stricken the tragedy of her faliure to ukeep family traditions by giving it a suitable heir, she succumbed to her despair and decided to bury herself into whatever was good enough to numb her mind.

Moondew was good. Fairy wings were even better. Valerian root was her favourite.

Of course, officially that was not what happened. To the public, my mother was a woman of frail nature and must stay bound to her home. Calypso Yaxley had to stay in her house and made very few public appearances, at risk of becoming severely ill. Poor woman, they said. What was truly happening behind the scenes was a secret.

That was also a very important quality to be a Drewitt- you must know how to keep secrets.

Some days, when the walls became too suffocating and the air too heavy, I felt the need to see her. I knew better than that, but I liked to imagine how it would go. I would walk the one hundred and forty steps to her chambers from mine. I would bang and kick against the door until I was let in. I would scream at her, cry to her- out of rage, out of despair, out of agony. On good days I let myself indulge in the fantasy that she would scream at me, too. In my gloomier hours, I knew she wouldn't. She would just stare at me with wide glassy eyes; and her lips would remain frozen, no words would fall from them.

So I didn't bother.

I came to realise that I did not particularly care for what became of her, either. She may have been my mother, but she was not a Drewitt. By name, maybe, but in truth, she was a Yalxey through and through. She may have taken our name when she married my father but that did not make her one of us. It did not cover up what she really was; an interloper. An outsider.

We cannot trust outsiders, Father's voice reminded me.

Breakfast was already served on the table when I sat down. My usual cup of green tea was waiting for me, still steaming. Our house elf, Brutus, always made a point to serve it to me as freshly made as possible.

Once I finished eating, I got up to go to the owlery. Normally, it would be Brutus' responsibility to make sure the letters were ready, waiting for us on our desks every morning, but father didn't trust him enough to do this. I wondered how paranoid one had to be to question the loyalty of a house elf who had been in the family for generations, but then again the message stood clear as day.

We couldn't trust anyone who was not us. It was Father, Rory and I- the Drewitts against the world.

And so it became my duty to go pick up the mail every morning. To be frank, it wasn't really my responsibility; there was no written rule, no words ever said on this matter, it was just an implicit agreement that it was always me who was to go get the letters every morning. Because it was, like most things in this household, something I knew would never be done unless I did it myself. I was sure that none of them really meant for this to fall upon my shoulders- I just think they didn't care enough to want to know.

The walk to the owlery was awfully long. It covered almost the entire estate. Four hundred and fifty three steps from the dining hall, to be exact. You had to walk past the fountain, through the rose garden, behind the pond, along the earthy footpath then there it was; at the edge of the forest, stood the owlery tower. I went up the stairs- all seventy seven of them- briskly, eager to get over this bothersome mission. By the time I finally arrived the sun had fully risen, the intricately shaped gardens below basking in its golden light as far as the eye could see, its halo of light shining onto the canvas of the early morning pink sky.

At least the view from above was nice. At least that was something.

The Owlery was a circular stone room, rather cold and draughty, because none of the windows had glass in them which allowed owls from all around the world to come and go freely. I rolled up my dress' sleeves, readying myself for the hassle of picking up the dozens of letters scattered on the floor.

Most, if not all, of the letters were addressed to my father. I recognized some names- foreign dignitaries, famed wizards, powerful ministry officials, but mostly other unspeakables. Some of which I had met, most of which I only knew by name. I was forbidden from opening any of those letters. Department of mysteries affairs were to be carried out in total secrecy. Nobody should know what kind of business they were up to. If, even by accident, the seal of a letter broke, I knew I would be presumed guilty of reading it and would have to suffer the consequences Father had intended for that purpose. I shuddered at the memory- they were far from being my happiest.

I was always particularly careful when handling those letters.

Occasionally, a letter addressed to my mother appeared. I always found myself in a rather strange state of emotions when those showed up. The jealousy ate me, blinded me, its familiar fingers choking and clawing at my throat.

Who sent letters to Mother? Were they an old friend from her school years; a long lost family member; a lover, maybe? Had she been talking to them regularly? Who was it that she had time for if not, Rory and I? Who was it that she could love, if not us? No, no, I decided. If we couldn't be loved then no one should be. I was consumed by a burning rage that coursed through my veins. The bitter taste of resentment coated my tongue, and the weight of past wounds pressed heavily upon my heart. Her indifference had left an indelible scar upon my soul. The void she left behind-the void where a mother's love should reside-, was filled only by a blinding hatred that consumed me, seeking solace in vengeance.

No, not vengeance, I thought. More like a simple redistribution of the matter.

I often found myself wishing for her to suffer as we had suffered. If she couldn't bestow upon me the love I so desperately craved, then she deserved to experience the same anguish, the same isolation she put us through. The thought of her feeling the void, the hollowness of being alone, brought a certain satisfaction to my heart. After all, my mother only reaped what she had sowed.

Most days, I ended up throwing those letters in the fire simply for the satisfaction it brought me to watch them burn. I found a consolation from my guilt in the thought that I was being merciful. Kind, even. Things would have been worse for her had I let Father discover them.

Today was decidedly a good day because all of the letters I collected were addressed to Father.

I had just turned around to make my way towards the stairs leading down when I heard an unusual sound coming from the stairway breaking through the frozen silence.

"You can come up Rory, I already know you're here," I called out. Despite all my best effort at concealing it, I couldn't help the smile that was heard in my voice.

A tired and long drawn out groan followed my words and slowly, the familiar silhouette of Ember Drewitt emerged from the shadows.

Despite the fact that we were twins, Rory and I looked nothing alike.

I- to my great sorrow- took after our mother. We shared the same sullen look, the same wide eyes and round face, the same pallid skin. That resemblance was the thing I disliked most about my appearance- sure, I did not find myself to be a great beauty, but I hardly ever had enough time to care about that sort of thing. Beauty, or a lack thereof, makes no difference However, I vigorously despised looking like my deserter of a mother. The resemblance, so striking and undeniable, only served as a bitter reminder of the person I was determined never to become. Oftentimes, it made it hard to look in the mirror every time I did, it was her void eyes that stared back at me, her sullen curve of the lips that was stuck on my face. It made it seem as if I weren't looking at myself in the reflection, but at her, a sick and twisted version of myself I was terrified to turn into.

Though, what frightened me most- and I only realised much later, well after the facts- was that it served as a haunting testament to the ephemerality of my place here.

A reminder, that I too, was an interloper. That I too, would not be a Drewitt forever.

That I was not built to last.

Rory, on the other hand, was an uncanny portrait of our father. They shared the same piercing dark eyes- intelligent and calm, as if peering through your mind with mischievous mirth and verve-, the same proud chin and noble features, the same regal posture.

However, despite her natural elegance, Rory's charm mostly resided in her nonchalance in regard to it. She was a careless beauty- her silky dark hair was seldom in opulent hairstyles; rather, it was often found flying with the wind. She mostly wore boyish clothing -not out of disdain for the feminine counterpart- but rather because she liked the range of motion they allowed; it was far more suited for her favourite activities such as flying around the manor on her broom or running around the estate chasing various animals. She may have been a girl of high birth, but she had something wild and free brewing beneath her skin.

I always thought that that contrast was what made her so especially charming- she was very beautiful but in a dichotomous, almost alien sort of way.

Rory was the eldest, but I had always felt protective of her. Like I needed to shield her from the world- to keep it from stealing her sunshine, the light she brought about. Behind these walls the world is cruel, Father always said. So I made it my mission to shield her from its poisonous reach- as if a touch from it would contaminate her halo. She was the spring breeze, she was the summer sky- she was the most beautiful rose in the garden.

But above all Ember Drewitt was no rose. She was a wolf.

More than I ever would be.

"You could've at least pretended not to have seen me." She said as she dragged her feet heavily over each stair, "As to not bruise my ego. It's called having bloody manners, you know?"

"Don't talk like that. It's filthy."

My remark had the opposite of the desired reaction and only widened that irritating smug smile she seemed to have mastered. "I would have run straight into you anyway. I was on my way down with the mail."

I huffed as I put both my letter-filled hands up for Rory to see, "And we're in a tower for Salazar's sake, what were you going to do, fling yourself out the window?"

"You never know," she smiled, "I am full of surprises." I rolled my eyes and she laughed louder. "Besides, throwing myself off of the owlery tower doesn't sound like such a bad plan when you really think about it. At least it might make my life less boring. A visit to St.Mungo's could be an excuse to get out of here," She added, furrowing her eyebrows and her lips falling into a heavyhearted pout.

I frowned at her words. "Stop being so dramatic,"

"I'm not being dramatic, Cece, I'm just bored half to death." Rory groaned, throwing her hands up in the air. I sighed internally- not really out of boredom or annoyment, but mostly because I could already tell where this conversation was going. We'd had it a thousand times before. "I've read all the books in the library -twice-, I drew a thousand pictures, flying on my broom won't feel any different today then what it felt like yesterday, and if Papa forces me near that bloody violin once more I might just lose my mind..."

I shuffled through my deck of responses, all of which were useless and that I had told her a thousand times before. "If I could help you I would, Rory, I really would." I sighed, "But these are Father's rules and you know we musn't-"

"We must not disobey him and need to obey and joyfully comply with his demands for it is our responsibility as daughters and heirs." She continued in a mocking voice, rolling her eyes, "I know the spiel, Cece. Merlin knows how many times you've repeated it to me." She ran a hand through her hair and sighed.

"That doesn't make it any less true. It is our duty to make our Family proud. We need to be patient; all of this is for the best."

I knew this truth wasn't of much comfort to Rory but it was one necessary for her to understand. She had never liked the idea that we existed for a greater cause. That we would live, breathe and die all for our family. We were born to submit ourselves to duty- her even more than I.

Alas, Rory was cursed with a spirited and adventurous soul. She had wanderlust coursing through her veins, the kind that made her aspire to much more than a life of pure-blood politics and bureaucratic nonsense. No, people like her dreamed of traversing uncharted lands, chasing sunsets, and discovering hidden treasures. To her, duty was like shackles where she found herself restrained, unable to break free from her responsibilities.

To me, it was an honour to serve in any way I could. I had never asked for this, no more than Rory, yet I tried to see satisfaction in it.There was something enchanting about knowing you were living for something greater than you, something timeless. Transcendent.

We could not change our destinies. We must do our duty, great or small, we must all do our duty, Father said.

I was a good daughter, so I did as I was told. Good daughters always did as they were told.

It was a gruelling and thankless life- I can't count the amount of times where I fell asleep with tears burning down my face begging, praying for an escape from this life and the expectations that came with it, or the amount of mornings I couldn't gather the strength to face yet another hopeless da, wishing to be someone else, someone normal.

Yet I was glad to do it. Because that was my responsibility.

"All of that is easy for you to say! Papa takes you outside all the time to go to all those balls and galas where you wear your pretty dresses and get to meet all those people. He never invites me."

"You don't need to attend any of those," I dismissed her comment with a wave of the hand. "And believe me, having to attend those events is no gift. The people there are more trouble than they're worth," I groaned.

That much was true. In all my years of memory, I hadn't met a single one of those haughty pure-bloods I liked. In fact, I held absolutely nothing for them other than disdain and contempt.

I never attended any type of gatherings if I could help it- which was rarely ever; decisions were made for me not by me. They were filled with incessant pointless chatter, forced laughter, and hollow conversations- all of which held a talent to grate on my nerves. It seemed as though every single one of them possessed an uncanny ability to be endlessly annoying. Each occasion felt like an assault on my senses.

Their conversations, shallow and bland as their minds, held no substance, no depth. They revealed mindless gossip, their voices piercing my ears like needles. A sea of shallowness, nothing more, drowning in their insipid exchanges.

The way they acted was equally infuriating. The pretentious posturing, the false smiles, the cheap attempts at showing off wealth- it was all an exhausting charade. The world was filled with nothing but self-centred individuals, each vying for attention and validation in their own insufferable ways, their insincerity oozing from every pore.

No, I decided. I liked it much better here than anywhere else in the world. It was peaceful here. It was quiet.

And I liked peace and I liked quiet.

Rory walked a few paces towards the ledge of the tower, seemingly giving up on continuing this sterile exchange.

She folded her arms over the railing and dropped her to rest her chin over it. Her eyes went wandering in the distance, fixed on a point in the horizon only she could discern. She transfixed her stare on it with so much force of will as if she could- with only the power of her gaze- disappear from here and transport herself into the horizon, towards a new place with new beginnings.

I was desperate to change the topic of conversation seeing just how upset she had gotten - as much as I knew Rory was trying hard not to show it. I blurted out the first thing that came to mind and started rambling.

"What are you doing up here anyway ? If it's for those letters Pandora sends you, You'll tell our dear cousin to send them directly to your room's window. The owl tower is for important business only and you know Father would get upset if one of her mindless rambling filled letters got mixed up with actually important mail, and beyond that you're not even actually allowed to get mail from her and I know I usually cover for you but I can't be caught smuggling them to you and besides I can't always check all the letters that come through here before I-"

"It's the first of July." She answered bluntly, ignoring all but my initial question. She didn't even turn to look at me, as if I should perfectly know what she was referring to.

Needless to say, I did not know what she was referring to.

A silence fell over the owl tower. Rory was still gazing in the distance, but this time it wasnt sullen and mindless. She was surveying the horizon, as if she was waiting for something to happen.

The fact itself she had said the exact date felt rather odd. We weren't in a habit of keeping precise tabs on time. We never needed to because the days never differed. To me, even the thought of trying to keep an exact track of time here felt very foreign. In the House time looped, the days bent, and the months twisted all together to simply form a homogenous lump of what simply was just life. The idea of keeping track of them felt unnecessary and useless.

The rose gardens were the closest thing we had to a calendar. Yet sometimes, I even found myself very surprised at the first snows or the first blooms of spring, being so caught up in everyday tasks that the very change of season slipped my mind completely.

I tediously racked my brain for anything that could be related to this particular date, but nothing came up. It wasn't any particular holiday we had ever celebrated in the past, that I could be sure of. Nor was it anybody's birthday- unless, in one of her flights of fancy, Rory had decided that celebrating house elves' birthdays was in order from now on (with her you could never really be sure).

I came to the conclusion that this mysterious date wasn't something that I was aware of and so, despite my pride and ego, I resorted to asking.

"So what?"

She ripped her stare from the horizon and whipped her head to look at me. "Cece," she said with a sort of very delicate, very strange tone, as if she was about to explain something to a very dumb young infant, "It is the first of July," She continued, insisting and mouthing each syllable individually, as if that somehow gave it more meaning.

She must've noticed that that just confused me further because she added- with a very aggravating eye roll, might I add- ,"It's the day they send the letters."

"Look, Rory, I'm not sure I know what you're referring to exactly because we receive letters every single day, so if you, for the love of Merlin, could do me the favour of making any sense for once that would be very much appreciated."

She let out a cry of frustration, as if I were the one intentionally being cryptic and vague.

"Not just any letters, Cece, the letters for the-"

As if one cue, the frantic sound of flapping wings ripped through the air like lightning on a summer day. A dark blur flashed above us, swift as a shadow. An owl, black as the midnight sky, barged through one of the windows and was circling overhead. In its talons, I noticed, were clutched two tightly sealed envelopes. As quickly as it came it went away, dropping its mail, letting the letters waft in the air, tumbling to the ground. I was so engrossed by the beauty of its movement that I barely heard -quite frankly, inhuman- squeal Rory let out.

"They're here! Our letters they're finally here,Cece!"

The world seemed to pause for a fleeting moment, as if just to witness the spectacle. Like delicate leaves carried by the whispering breeze, the letters descended as if performing a slow elegant dance. In its gentle ballet in the air, the letters twisted and turned, until I caught a glimpse of the seal.

Red wax. Adorned with a coat of arms.

Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

It was at that moment that I realised. That I understood Rory's excitement. That today's date finally made sense.

Suddenly nothing was beautiful anymore.

I had never felt such vast helplessness before. When I saw those scraps of paper spiralling down from above. Like a meteor hurtling toward us, a cosmic obstacle I could do nothing to prevent, to stop, but only watch as my demise came raining down from above. They fell faster each second I looked, heavy with the weight of the calamity it was about to unleash upon us. Upon our family. Upon the peace we have built here. Ripping it apart.

With a sinister rustle, they finally hit the ground. There they laid. In a few lines of ink, scribbled on a scrap of old parchment- dark omens. Future troubles and woes.

A spark giving way to a wild fire in my perfect paradise.

Not even a second after they hit the ground, Rory rushed to pick them up, practically tripping over her own feet in excitement.

She does not realise, I thought, she does not understand.

Because for her, it won't matter.

Speechless with glee and hurry, she shoved my letter in my hand, hurrying to rip open her own (all the while continuing with the squealing, unfortunately).

It had my name on the back. In big bold letters of green ink was written:

TO MS. C. C. DREWITT. ,
DREWITT MANOR,
ENGLAND.

I took a moment to analyse that little envelope. As if, if I stared hard enough, I might notice a flaw, a mistake, an error that might somehow prove it to be fake. Something that could warrant me never opening this envelope and sending it back to that dreary castle along with the first owl to come.

But I saw no such thing. Only folded yellowed parchment tightly sealed by a drop of red wax.

(It was at that moment precisely that I decided I highly disliked red.)

What was most noticeable about that envelope was how small it was. Nothing but a little rectangle of paper and ink that easily fit in the palm of my hand. How could such a small thing bring forth such misery?

After much thought and with trembling fingers I opened it.

It read the very thing I feared.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Ms C. C. Drewitt,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins September 1st. We await your owl by no later than July 31st.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

The ground seemed to give away beneath my feet. The air was too heavy, too dense. My lung filled with white burning and blinding fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of the outside.

This was only made worse by Rory, "We're finally going to Hogwarts Cece!" She cheered.

The thing was, I did not want to go to Hogwarts.

The last thing I wanted in the world was to go to Hogwarts.

I still don't know how it slipped my mind. How I managed to make an abstraction of it so purely and completely. Like a prey would close its eyes when faced with its predator, trying not to make noise or a too violent movement which could wake the enemy and immediately destroy it- thinking, believing (or at the very least trying to believe), that if it cannot see it, then surely it won't find it too.

Yet, despite everything, it did.

I was an idiot for not having expected it. For having been so blinded by my delusions that I did not see the very real danger that lurked.

Yet despite everything I had hoped. Hoped that, maybe, Father would homeschool us, letting us learn spells and potions from books rather than outsiders. That Rory would forget, that she would long to stay here, with me, by my side rather than forget all about me in her search for greatness. That something would interfere, anything, rather than letting this tragedy befall me.

But it didn't. And it wouldn't.

I didn't want to go. I didn't want to leave. I knew what it meant for me. The beginning of the end.

I snuck a glance at Rory. Her letter clutched in her hand, like she was afraid if let go for even a second, it would disappear. Her eyes watery with joy, a smile bigger than I'd ever seen on her face.

Hogwarts. It didn't mean the same thing to her as it did to me.

For her it was a break. An interlude. A chance to live, to explore, to meet the world and shake its hand. An escape from a life she grew bored of. A life she could return to seamlessly once she got tired of the novelty. A life that was fit and tailored for her. An existence she was destined to have. A life promised for her, by blood.

There were no such promises made for me.

It would be the same at first. We would both attend Hogwarts at the same time. We would share a dorm, a house, and our classes. Be in each other's company just as much as we are now.

Just then things would change. It would be slow at first. Slow enough so that she wouldn't notice. I would. The slow drifting apart, finding better, more interesting things to do. After that reality would finally catch up. There was never meant to be more than one Drewitt heir.

After school, Rory would start whatever high end job she fancied-whatever her heart desired, Father would secure for her- waiting for Father to retire, then take his spot as Head of the Department of Mysteries.

So was her destiny; she would become head of the House. Marry whomever pure-blood her heart desired. Continue the legacy. Be Madam Drewitt in her own right.

I wouldn't.

After school, as soon as I was old enough to, I would marry. It didn't matter to whom, or if I loved them at all; I would be thrust into the arms of the first mildly respectable Pure-blood who came, whom it met at one of those haughty ball or whatnot, and I would be whisked off with him and made to pop out a few of his heir whether I wanted to or not. T

hen that was it. Then I was free to do anything I wanted. Go anywhere I'd like.

Anywhere but here. Anywhere but Home.

Because after that I wouldn't be a Drewitt. After that, I'd never be allowed inside the House anymore.

Even though there was this constant empty cold about the house, I could never imagine being somewhere else- it was simply unfathomable. The idea that I would live anywhere else in the world made my skin crawl. How could I ? These walls felt like my skin. These gardens were my soul. The House was my heart.

For me , there would be no more bedroom to sleep in, no more chair at the table, no more green tea made by Brutus, no more letters to pick up.

No more Cecile to look at the Tapestry.

Any mention of a me in the family history would be gone, erased by the passage of time, like it never even existed.

It was almost laughable- even though we were two, there was only one true Drewitt.

One heiress. One interloper.

It hit me all at once. I was not built to last. Not here to stay. I was a step on a ladder, a means to an end, and no matter how hard I tried, I would not avoid this fate.

Paper crumpled in my fist. In my hand laid the beginning of my end.

Rory finally tore her eyes from her letter, "This is the best news ever, don't you think?" she said, a huge grin plastered on her face.

And by the way she smiled I knew- I was already one foot out the door.

♠ ♠ ♠

WORD COUNT : 7156

AUTHOR'S NOTE !!

Hello,

First of all : any questions, comments , concerns ?

For reasons wretched and divine, this dumpster fire of a chapter took me more than a year to complete. It went through many rewritings, a few rewriting the rewritings, and also some 'my - life - is - a - failure - and - i - should - never - have - tried - to - write - now - I - need - to - delete - everything - to - absolve - for - my - sins' typa episodes.

The first draft was 20 000 + words. The revision of it was around 11 000. This version is a little over half of that. I have no idea if cutting that much out was a good idea but we'll figure it out together.

All of that and I am still deeply dissatisfied with it (although in my defense it's really hard to nail the first chapter).

I'll try to not make this too long, (because I've already wasted enough of your time here), so if you didn't think this was a hot flaming piece of garbage that should never have existed in the first place please consider:

Commenting / voting / sharing / adding to your reading list / sacrificing your first born child to me

The usual, you know how it goes.

Thx.

PS: on a slightly more serious note, the fact that anyone would take a little bit of time out of their day to read this means the world to me thank you so so so so so much and i love you're the best mwah <<3

PPS: Also please comment or I will turn into your sleep paralysis demon

lu'.

QOTD: are you team long chapters or short chapters?

A: Personally, I hate long chapters with a passion. I don't see how anyone would find them enjoyable. Although they're more tolerable on Wattpad than on regular physical books, they're still very annoying to read and especially to write. ( I don't know why I did this to myself).