Sometimes It Lasts

By: Tadri33

Chapter One: A Great Change

Disclaimer: In no way (not even in my wildest dreams) do I own Harry Potter or any of his beloved family and friends. Nor do I own his enemies, as fantastically wild as they may be. I am but a humble and avid fan, inspired by the end of her childhood to capture the essence of a generation still covered in mystery by the books J.K. Rowling so beautifully wrote. Here is an honest attempt at a Harry Potter fanfiction.

Note: Welcome to my third story on ! I hope that you are pleased to be here, and continue to stop by. Those of you brave enough to follow me after my King Arthur stories, hello again! Thank you for being here. For those of you who clicked this story out of mild interest, hurry up and read! Should any of you be curious, visit my profile for my other works. I promise that I have greatly improved since I began "The Look of Hope." Enjoy!

The bells were ringing because she was out of bed. Of course, she hadn't intended to set them off, but alas, they were ringing loud and clear. She scampered down the cobblestone pathway past the graveyard, her wand held before her for the faintest bit of light. She was panting, heart racing from running around the grounds of the estate. She looked up to the building, lights coming on at the lower level. She was done for.

"You've really gotten yourself into it this time," she breathed, pausing near a few bushes to catch her breath. She could see her destination a few hundred yards away – no lights on, no people nearby. She looked back in the direction she had come from. Three lanterns were standing at the edge of the gates, and a look of disbelief crossed her face.

Come on! she thought, lifting up the hem of her nightgown once more. This isn't even my fault! She lifted her wand, scanning the ground quickly for anything she could harm herself on. Seeing nothing, she looked once more over her shoulder to see where the lanterns had travelled. She guessed they had come closer, and even if they hadn't her mind was telling her they had.

"Nox," she whispered, and the tip of her wand went out. Dashing out from behind the bushes, she scurried along the tree line across the grass. She knew she was near the rod iron fence that enclosed the campus, her heart beating wildly beneath her skin. Her eyes strained to make out the gardeners shed, the glass roof barely reflecting the stars. If Old Millis found her here, there would be no chance at redemption. She would be expelled for sure. Reaching the door of the shed, she pulled on the handle, looking over her shoulder to gauge the distance she had put between her and the professors that were out of bed. When the door didn't open, a wave of panic washed over her.

Mary said this would be unlocked! Her eyes widened with fear she pulled harder, the old wooden walls groaning in protest. She ceased pulling, afraid that the search party would hear her. She looked all around, and peered into the glass. You're a witch, reminded her conscious, and she rolled her eyes at herself.

"Alohamora," she whispered, pointing her wand at the handle. There was a muffled click as the door opened, and she threw herself through. She shut the door silently behind her, a short moment of relief over her. She walked quickly through the shed, stooping before a small area rug that covered the floor. Beneath it was a wooden hatch, placed centuries before her in order to help the real Salem witches to safety. Lifting the hatch she climbed into the darkness, gripped the rug over the wood, and disappeared through the floor.

"Lumos," she said, her wand lighting again, like a celestial torch. She ran up the dank tunnel for what seemed like miles, her mind torturing her the entire way.

What were you thinking, trusting Mary Connors?! Why on earth would you ever help her pull off one of her ridiculous pranks? She continued to scold herself until she hit the set of stairs Mary told her she would reach. She peered up the spiral steps, and she swallowed. At the top, supposedly, she would land behind the giant portrait of William Wadsworth Longfellow. She was to find the seam on the canvas and tap the cloth three times with her wand. Apparently, she was supposed to come out from behind his calf. She shook her head, noting, for the fourth or fifth time this night, how ridiculous all of this was. She sighed and trotted up the stairs. She reached the landing, and put out her light so there would be no strange glow coming from Sir Longfellow's legs. Her fingers felt for the seam, but struggled. The canvas seemed to be flawless, which proved of magic in itself, for this painting was hundreds of years old.

"Lookin' for this?" said a voice. Suddenly, her face was lit by several wands, and she gasped. She stepped away from the portrait, and looked at Old Millis. She was a fat, crotchety old woman, with spindly fingers and a permanent sneer on her face. Millis was in fact not the kind of person that hated students, she just hated those of the Corey House. Unfortunately, she and Mary were of the Corey House. Millis pointed to the gap in the portrait, and she exited the secret room that apparently was not so secret. She was in the West Corridor, where she travelled every afternoon to her potions classes, on the first floor. She was far from her bedroom, and realized that now was a good a time as any to be caught. There, standing in the hall before Longfellow's ceiling to floor portrait was her head of House and Charms teacher, Professor O'Leary, who had a firm grasp on Mary.

"You too, huh?" she asked, her voice defeated. Mary looked terrified, and she reckoned it was the first time she'd been caught in the act.

"Genevieve," began Professor O'Leary, "I am extremely disappointed in you. Of all my students…" His voice trailed off, and Genevieve couldn't bring herself to face him. He was a tall and hulking man, just past his middle life. His light hair was always perfectly neat and in place, which Genevieve assumed true now, even at this late hour. She hung her head in remorse, wishing she could kick Mary in the shins.

"Wait until the Headmistress hears about this," hissed Millis as she sealed up Longfellow's leg. Genevieve looked up, the bells still ringing. O'Leary lifted his dark wand and pointed it at the ceiling.

"Proin sonant," he said firmly, and a silver spark shot from his want. It hit the white, embellished ceiling and the ringing stopped. An eerie silence fell over the estate, and Millis grabbed Genevieve's upper arm. O'Leary and Millis marched the girls through the corridors, and up the sweeping marble staircase. Genevieve looked around her, cast-iron candelabras jutting out from the walls only casting a very faint light, as they had been dimmed since bed time. Like prisoners, the girls were escorted down to the South wall. Genevieve could see the great mahogany door of the Headmistress' office. It was a recessed door, with elaborate gold molding swirling around the frame. As they neared, Genevieve could recognize the star patterns she had learned in Astronomy, and noted the faces of the mythical creatures she had read about. Above the door, in peeling gold calligraphy, was the school's motto: "Lus Ad Pythones Et Ad Verum Et Veneficas."

For all witches and wizards but me, Genevieve thought, a little bitterly. O'Leary knocked on the door that was slightly ajar. A bright and warm looking light poured from the small opening, but it did not ease Genevieve's nerves. I am going to be expelled, for certain. She felt water brimming at her lower lids, but fought the tears escape.

"Come in," a voice called, a slightly withered quality to it. O'Leary pushed open the door, and the light filled the recessed area. Genevieve could not see past O'Leary's body, but the moment she crossed the threshold onto the gleaming wooden floors she didn't care about seeing the Headmistress' face. The walls were a bright purple color, and there was a huge golden globe hovering close to the ceiling. It lit the room, and Genevieve had not seen magic like that used in her six years here at Salem. It did not bob up and down, like other things that were suspended in the air using spells. This globe slowly rotated – so slowly it was barely noticeable. Genevieve heard a clearing of the throat, and she snapped her attention away from the ceiling.

"Matilda," said the cool voice of Headmistress Tassenari, "Phillip, you may be excused. I'll speak to Ms. Connors and Ms. Proctor alone." Millis reluctantly pried her fingers off of Genevieve's upper arm, Genevieve closing and opening her hand when she finally did to get the blood flowing to her fingers again. She then looked to her Headmistresses, awaiting her certain expulsion. Headmistress Tassenari was a tall woman with olive skin and dark, graying hair. Until this moment, Genevieve had never seen her hair down and around her shoulders. It fell in big, swooping curls around her shoulder, where it was tied off with a ribbon. The ends of her hair possessed a youthful shine, and Genevieve got the impression that she was once very beautiful. Now her face was lined and wrinkled with the stresses of being a Headmistress. Her eyes were a rich mahogany brown, and Genevieve found it hard to take her eyes away from them.

Tassenari rose from behind her narrow and rather delicate desk to stand before the girls. Genevieve cast her eyes down, and she could hear the faint sniffling of Mary beside her.

"Ms. Connors," Tassenari began, "why are you crying here in my office?" Genevieve let her eyes fall on Mary, who looked up. Her round cheeks were wet and shining with tears – Genevieve suddenly felt she was rather pathetic.

"I'm afraid of what you are going to do with me," she whimpered, touching her cheek roughly to wipe away the new onslaught of tears. Genevieve swallowed hard, very much afraid of the same fate.

"At least you're aware of what you've done wrong," Tassenari continued. She folded her arms over her chest, eyes cold and calculating. "I've been informed of the trick you two have played. I don't know why you thought it would be funny to conjure mobilis charms on all the busts of our former headmasters and headmistresses to steal bras and underwear!"

Neither girl answered. Genevieve felt her face burn under the accusation, and she couldn't bear to bring forward that they weren't just any bras and panties – they were Old Millis'.

"I'm sorry," Genevieve said, very softly.

"I'll bet you are, Ms. Proctor," answered Tassenari, just as softly as Genevieve. It was as if she was not speaking to Genevieve. "Which one of you was the mastermind behind this trick?"

"She was!" spat Mary, faster than lightning. Genevieve snapped her head up, brow furrowing.

"Mary Connors," Genevieve cried, "how dare you blame me for your stupid prank! Headmistress, it was all Mary, I swear I would have never done it on my own." The Headmistress looked at Mary sharply to silence what was sure to be another lie. Then, her rather piercing eyes fell to Genevieve, who did not look away this time.

"Genevieve," began Tassenari, "do I need to administer a truth serum on you?" Genevieve's eyes widened, one-hundred percent sure that the Headmistress could not do that. She swallowed, reminding herself that the Headmistress could do that, because no one was here to say it happened otherwise.

"No, ma'am," Genevieve answered, "I swear that I only joined Mary for, uh, personal reasons."

"That is not true!" Mary said again, hopelessly trying to pin this affair on Genevieve. "She forced me into helping her!" Genevieve glared at Mary, her voice finding grounds and welling up her throat, cusses and nasty words coming to mind, trying to formulate a sentence.

"Then why is it," Tassenari began, "that I received word of you bragging to your fellow classmates about your being responsible for the multiplying broomsticks in the foyer?" Mary's face went white as a sheet, and Genevieve smiled some. The Headmistress gathered all sorts of information, apparently, and must have known all along that Mary has been responsible for the pranks that have been happening all year. Mary's eyes began to water again, and she hung her head in defeat.

"Mary Connors," the Headmistress continued, uncrossing her arms and standing in front of Mary. "You are to report here to me the first thing in the morning. I have to inform the Council and the Ministry of Magic of your numerous offenses to our school here. They shall decide upon your discipline." Mary heaved a quaking breath, and nodded. She turned to leave the room when Tassenari added: "Don't eliminate expulsion from your worries." Genevieve was taken aback by the cruelness of her last words as Mary fled from the room. Genevieve suddenly panicked.

If she is facing expulsion, than what am I to receive? That thought and thousands similar in nature raced through her head. The Headmistress turned and brought herself back to her desk. She sat in her large, powder blue wing-backed chair. Genevieve took the center of the luxurious carpet, and looked at Tassenari.

"Headmistress," she said, her voice resolute and clear, "I would like to explain myself." Tassenari nodded, and Genevieve continued, "The bras hanging along the History wing are not just a random collection. They belong to one specific person. When Mary confronted me with the idea, I accepted out of anger and want for revenge. Granted, I am sorry to have been caught, but I would like to repeat that I was not involved with any of the other pranks Mary has pulled off. I also did not devise this, I simply accepted for the target."

"And which person was the target of this ridiculous act?" the Headmistress asked, her voice harsh.

"Matilda Millis," Genevieve whispered, very much ashamed.

"You willingly participated in a plan against an employee of Salem?" Tassenari clarified. All Genevieve could do was nod. "That is very serious business, Genevieve. I am extremely disappointed in you. For a witch bearing the last name Proctor, you would think that she had more respect for the members of the staff of the school built in honor to her family!"

"But," Genevieve interrupted, at great risk, "Millis was unfair to me! She humiliated me before a great number of my peers!" Genevieve searched her Headmistresses face, and found recognition of the event she spoke of, but no sympathy.

"I am aware of that event," Tassenari said, "but that does not justify what you have done tonight. In the real world there is no limitation on how one person will treat another. There will be plenty of people who do worse than humiliate you, Genevieve. This crime against our staff has put you in a very sensitive position." Genevieve held her tongue and removed her eyes from the Headmistress' face once more, scolding herself harshly. The Headmistress fell silent for what seemed an eternity, and Genevieve waited silently as the jury decided her fate.

"I am going to have to remove you from Salem," Tassenari said. Genevieve looked up in utter disbelief.

"I'm being expelled?" Genevieve uttered, her eyes wide with fear. The tiny hairs on her skin stood on end, and mind about to burst with thousands of thought and incomparable emotions.

"Not exactly," Tassenari said, crossing back behind her desk. She took up some parchment and a scroll, and began writing. "You see, Genevieve, if I don't issue a punishment for you here then the Council of Salem will have to decide what to do with you. Since they have set a precedence of expelling all those who act against faculty and staff in a public and meditated way, then you are sure to be expelled. Mary Connors, for example, will more than likely be expelled tomorrow morning. However, if I simply deny you continued enrollment here at Salem, then you are free to go to another school. Provided, you find a space…" Her voice trailed off, and Genevieve tried to see the bright side of this.

"But, Headmistress," Genevieve replied, "I have only known Salem my entire life. I'm in my sixth year, isn't there any chance that you would consider my previously exemplary record and just give me a strict schedule of detention until the end of the year? I mean, it's still October! I am more than willing to scrub the floors every night until June!" to her surprise, Tassenari laughed.

"Genevieve, there will be no mother or father of Salem who will let you get away and let Mary Connors be expelled, even if you are a Proctor. No, I have to take some action against you. And, your attitude needs adjustment – you are not entitled to acting out against whomever you want simply because you think it's fair. I think," she said, "getting away from Salem will be the best thing to ever happen to you." Tears welled in Genevieve's eyes once again, and the first time in a very long while came close to slipping out. She watched through blurred vision as Headmistress Tassenari finished her letter and stamped it with the schools seal. She rolled it up, sealed it, and then handed it across her desk to Genevieve. Genevieve took it reluctantly, clutching it stiffly in her hand.

"You have a promising future, Genevieve Proctor," Tassenari said. Genevieve tried to blink away her tears and laughed curtly. "I know things seem bleak now, and this may add up to being greatly unfair, but once you sort yourself out, you will end school as a very talented witch. I must say, I am very surprised to have you in my office. From all of my reports, you were ranked as the quietest and most respectful. Apparently, there is something buried inside, isn't there?" Genevieve considered what she had said, her eyes averted away, determined not to look at Tassenari.

"I suppose there came a moment when I was tired of being disrespected. Everyone sees me as a meek and quiet pushover. When Millis tormented me about my not even being in the Proctor House I suppose I felt slighted," Genevieve muttered. Tassenari nodded, and then cleared her throat.

"Like I said Genevieve," she said, with a tone of finality, "leaving Salem may be the best thing that ever happened to you."

"Good morning, sweetie," said a chipper voice. Light poured through somewhere on her face, and she rolled over with a groan. "Time to get up. We have things to do today!"

Genevieve hated being home.

Of course, that wasn't entirely true. She liked being home, just not when she should have been in school. Her mother and father, Beatrice and Abraham Proctor, were incredibly surprised and disappointed when Genevieve arrived back home. After she had explained what happened, her father took to writing all of the heads of the schools he could think of, and her mother took to even more disappointment.

Her school things where still cast all about the room. She had left late in the night as to avoid any stares and comments, hoping to just disappear when the sun rose. She hated herself. She could not believe she let Old Millis get the better of her in this and wind up out of school. She sat up in her bed, looking around her room. The walls were pink and the furniture was white. She favored bright colors, as the sun streamed through her windows all day - it suited her. At this moment, she wished it was black. She swung her legs to the side, feet landing on the carpet. She stared vacantly across the room to her door, an irritating whistling floating through down the hallway from her parents' room.

Someone is in a good mood. It had been a month and a half since she had left Salem. She hadn't done anything in that time but sleep and eat and walk where her mother told her to. She hadn't unpacked anything but her clothes and her barn owl McNutters. He had roosted himself in the barn somewhere, much more happy about the winter than she was.

"Gen!" called her mother, "I'm not going to tell you again. We have a lot to do today!" Genevieve grunted in response and shuffled her way into the bathroom. She shut the door loudly.

Once finished putting herself together and feeling more awake, Gen brought herself downstairs for some breakfast.

"Good morning," said her father, laughing at her frowning face. "There is a very exciting letter for you." Gen raised her eyebrow and considered how truthful that statement was. Looking down at the table, she spotted the letter her father spoke of. It was leaning against the fruit bowl her mother kept on the table for decoration – the fruit inside grew itself. Occasionally, Gen would get a very strange tasting apple or pear, and wondered whether or not the plants cross bred themselves on purpose. She sat down in her normal chair, the wood of the seat creaking.

To: Miss Genevieve Proctor

432 Hawthorne Rd

Marblehead, MA

01945

The address was scrawled in an emerald ink. Turning the envelope over, she saw a seal that read "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." Her eyes widened and her heartbeat sped up. She tore open the envelope and started reading the letter aloud.

"Dear Miss Proctor, it is my pleasure to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!" she cried, jumping up out of her seat and throwing her hands in the air. "Dad! You must have known all along!" Her father smiled, and nodded his head.

"Your Aunt Marcia went there," said her mother, who Gen looked at and smiled.

"But you went to Salem?" Gen asked. Her mother nodded and then stood behind her father.

"When your grandpa died Marcia was already at Hogwarts. Grammie moved here to be with her family and so I was put in for Salem. That's where your father and I met!" Gen nodded, knowing the rest of that story. She hadn't known her aunt went to Hogwarts. She never saw her aunt, and always assumed that she went to Salem like everyone else. Gen looked down at the letter again, and was then over come with fear.

"What if they are ahead of me in lessons?" she asked, "I thought that no magic schools took transfers. I have to go all the way to England!"

"Jesus, Gen," said a rough voice, coming in through the kitchen door, "stop screaming."

"Shut up Marcus," she said, rolling her eyes at her older brother. Marcus Proctor had already gone through the Salem system. He now worked for the Ministry of Magic in Boston, and was home for the weekend. He was a tall and very good looking young man with sandy blonde hair and light brown eyes like her mother. Gen had not been so fortunate in her genetic make-up.

"Marcus," her father chimed, "stop being rude to your sister. Gen, honey, you are going to be fine. When I spoke to Professor Dumbledore he said that he had always kept our spaces open." Gen furrowed her brow and looked at her father.

"Our spaces?" she asked, very confused.

"When you and Marcus were born," began her mother, "we were unsure of what school would be best for you. So, we put your names down at several schools in case there were things that happened here that made you want to leave. When you both grew, and Marcus was so successful at Salem, we took your name off of the other lists. Well, Dumbledore never took yours off, knowing that there would be no more additions to the class since it was so late in life and it wouldn't make a difference if one student didn't go to Hogwarts."

"Good thing he did!" added Marcus, helping himself to one of the pieces of fruit that was more ripened than the other, "Or else poor Gen here would be stuck at home forever." Gen glared up at him as he smirked, and chose to ignore him.

"We'll need to go get you new school robes," her mother said, "your Salem robes won't work." Gen nodded and rose for the errand. Hurrying back up the stairs she could here Marcus' deep voice going on about something with their father, and she rolled her eyes again. She hadn't always fought with Marcus, but of late it didn't seem to matter where they were – it only took minutes before they were screaming at each other. Crossing the hall to her room, Gen looked about with a different feeling. By God had she left her room a mess. I'd hate to see what it looked like if someone died, she thought dryly. She stepped over her trunk and the rolled up clothes from the previous days to her closet.

The snow had ceased for now in Massachusetts, and she and her mother took it as an opportunity to head to Provincetown. Normally that trip would take hours by car, but Gen had never had to sit through it. She always side-along apparated with her mother or father, depending on the number going. Since today it was just she and her mother, Gen held on tight to her mother's slender frame.

"I'm not sure if Mrs. Flemming will have Hogwarts robes in stock. Oh, Gen, did you take the supply list from the Dumbledore's letter?" Gen nodded to her mother, but knew that it wouldn't make a difference. Once her mother started talking, she nearly never stopped. They landed in Provincetown outside of a seaside restaurant where her mother and father came every year for their anniversary. Walking up the narrow streets, Gen noted the significantly less snow there was here in comparison to home. P-town, as it was affectionately called, never got the same amount of terrible weather that the rest of New England did. She supposed it made trips like this easier.

Despite the fact that she had been here countless times before, beginning when Marcus started at Salem, Gen had never stopped secretly smiling at the magic of the P-Town Checkered District. She was never sure why it was called the Checkered District, but she was sure as hell how to get in there. Her mother and she made their way to the parking lot behind a row of several stores. Walking back behind the middle building, which happened to be Amici Pizza Shop, Gen and her mother separated some. Gen bent over to sweep away the snow covering a rusted man hole. They made eye contact when she had righted herself, and her mother took out her wand.

"Careful darling," she said. Gripping the handle of her wand, she slammed the butt of her fist and her wand against the cement wall to their left, and then touched the tip of her wand to the center of the lid of the man hole. Pausing for a moment or two, Gen watched her mother intently, as her favorite part was coming up. First, barely noticeable to all but the trained eye, her mother started to form small circles with her wand. The circles grew larger and larger, and as she used more and more energy to make the circles she rose from her somewhat crouched position. Gen took in a breath and for what felt like a lifetime there was an intense energy flowing through her body. Her mother reached her full height and the lid shot up into the grey winter sky. Gen's head shot up after it, watching the disk grow into a tiny brown dot. She smiled, and then looked at her mother.

"Quick, jump!" her mother said. Gen reached forward and grabbed her mothers' arms. They nodded in unison and jumped straight up over the hole. Gen looked up as they did it, watching as the disk was rapidly growing larger and larger as it plummeted back to Earth. The hole they jumped into took a sharp turn and she only heard the landing.

Of course, as what she loved about the magical world, nothing was ever as it seemed. Gen and her mother had not willing plunged themselves into a sewer hole but into a tunnel that led them to the Checkered District. The incantation on the man hole made it so that a marble tunnel slide into place underneath her and her mother, and the two of them laughed all the way down the oversized slide. After a moment the darkness fell away to a bright underground great room – a huge, underground, open market. She and her mother slowed down, and popped off the slide onto their feet. Gen looked around and took note of the lack of a crowd. Having to painfully remind herself that it was December and not August, Gen tore her mind away buy straightening her clothes. She and her mother walked off towards Mrs. Flemming's market station, delighted to see that both she and Mrs. Flemming's daughter were working today.

"Genevieve!" exclaimed Rebecca, "it's been ages since I've seen you!" Gen smiled at her old friend and embraced her as she bounced out from behind the booth. She was a small and adorable young woman, having just graduated from Salem. She had deep set chocolate eyes and a very freckled face framed by a light brown hair.

"Hi Becca," Gen answered, "How are ya?" Rebecca smiled at her, and nodded.

"I'm great! I'm sorry to hear about, well, you know…" her voice trailed off. Apologizing to someone about their misbehaving always starts off like you're apologizing for something they lost or a drastic change of events caused by something external – until you realize the person you're apologizing to did it to themselves.

"Yeah," Gen said, laughing awkwardly, "It's all good. I've just been accepted to Hogwarts."

"Which is why we're here!" Gen's mother chimed in, beaming at her daughter, "We're hoping that you'll have Hogwarts robes." Mrs. Flemming, a round woman who always smoked a pipe, grinned and removed the long mouth piece from her lips.

"You're in luck Ms. Proctor, I've got just the things ya need," she answered. She lifted her body off the stool and went behind the curtain she kept all her storage behind.

"Hogwarts, huh? Well, look at you London girl!" Rebecca teased, and Gen smiled again awkwardly.

"Yeah," Gen answered, "I guess mom and dad put me and Marcus in for more than one school." Her mother was tittering over some of the loose fabric Mrs. Flemming had out on the table, so Gen gave all her attention to Rebecca. "Listen, Becca," she began, quieting her voice some, "did Michelle say anything about what had happened at school?" Michelle, Rebecca's younger sister, was a year behind Gen at Salem.

Becca swallowed, her eyes looking away side from Gen for a moment.

"Yeah, Gen," she answered, "but I'm not sure you'll want to know." Gen pursed her lips, waiting for Rebecca to continue. "Some of the girls think that you," she paused, "well…got what you deserved."

Wow. Wasn't expecting that one. What?

"Ah, I see." Gen struggled to find some words, but eventually continued, "Because I'm a Proctor." She looked at Rebecca, whose chocolate brown eyes couldn't lie.

"Of course most of the girls, especially the Corey girls, know better than that. Michelle thinks it's complete garbage." Unfortunately, this didn't make Genevieve feel better. At Salem, it always comes down to the name. For all Gen cared, they could have her stupid last name. So what if the Proctor's were the first witches in America? A lot of good that did them – they got themselves killed. Salem Witches Institute had been built for four magical families that were accused during the Salem Witch Trials in the 1690s. Each of them lost a family member, and were afraid of continued prosecution and discovery, so they were hidden by others in their community in part of the estate that is now the Salem Witches Institute. Gen loved the story, considering she was the direct descendant of the Proctor family, one of the true four. The other three – Bishop, Corey and Howe – created the four houses at Salem. At Salem, not all houses were created equal. Howe and Proctor were known to be selective and prestigious, having some of the most famous magical folk as members. The Corey and Bishop Houses were less renowned, and while still quality, there was a certain stigma that created a divide between the students at Salem. Since the school's inception, the majority of her family on her father's side had been a member of the Proctor House. There was an outlier every once in a while, and Gen happened to be the outlier for this century.

Mrs. Flemming returned from the back of the dark curtain with black robes in her hands and beckoned Gen over.

"Now, the girls and boys wear grey sweaters and white shirts with their house color ties underneath. Girls wear grey skirts and grey knee socks, and all students wear black shoes during classes," Mrs. Flemming said a floor length mirror floating over before the platform. Gen shrugged off her jacket, which the coat rack came over and took from her. She stepped up on the platform and Mrs. Flemming held one of the black robes to her back, measuring.

"Those look like they'll fit just right," Rebecca said, leaning over the front booth next to Gen's mother.

"Only one way to find out," Mrs. Flemming said. Gen held out her arms as Mrs. Flemming pulled the robes over her arms and up on her shoulders. "Arms down, hun," she said, and Gen put them down. Gen, avoiding looking in the mirror, looked to her mother.

"They look good," her mother said, nodding to her. "I hate the thought of you in all black and grey, but I suppose it is what it is. Mrs. Flemming, do you know what the other house colors are? My sister was in Ravenclaw, and they're blue and bronze."

"Yeah," Mrs. Flemming answered, measuring the hem of the robes against Gen's heels, "There's Hufflepuff, which is yellow and black, Slytherin which is green and silver, and Gryffindor which is gold and red." Gen's eyes widened. None of those sounded appealing to her, especially with an all grey outfit.

"Bit more exciting than the solids of Salem, eh Gen?" Rebecca asked, grinning up at Gen. Gen smiled and half-laughed.

"Yeah," she said, "very different."

Greeeaaaat. Just peachy.

The rest of her Checkered District visit was unremarkable, and rather ruined by what Rebecca had told her. The rational part of her brain, which was normally the majority of it, was trying to tell her that it didn't matter, as she was likely to never see those girls again. In fact, had she been talking to anyone but herself, she would repeat that point several times. However, weeks had passed since her visit with Becca and all she could think about was the stupidity of it all.

If only you hadn't acted like a freaking Proctor.

Despite the fact that she had wanted, very much, to shed her last name and its importance in the wizarding community, it had been her very downfall. She had acted like a proud and arrogant Proctor that night she was "discontinued" from school. But what had been so wrong about that? Old ugly Millis had been downright nasty to her, chiding and teasing a girl about something that wasn't anybody's business, let alone hers.

As she lay there in her hotel bed in London, the sound of her father snoring in the room over, Genevieve tossed and turned angrily. She never should have been forced to leave Salem. It was practically her family's school in the first place. She hated Tassenari. She hated Mary Connors. And most of all, she hated Matilda Millis.

I'm going to become the greatest witch of my generation. Then they'll all be sorry that they ever thought I needed to be taken down a notch. Just wait until Hogwarts tries to get a hold on me.

She stared and stared and stared out the window of her room. Slowly, the London skyline illuminated grey and dank, but bright. She listened as her parents began to stir, and all the while daydreaming about what was to become of her. She had sworn to work harder than she ever had before, but still felt the anxiety coming over her as the time of her train approached. 11 o'clock, from Platform 9 and ¾ .

What the heck kind of place is only three quarters?

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