Disclaimer : All recognizable fictional elements belong to J.K. Rowling. All I own is a battered old laptop and too much time on my hands.

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Image of Perfection

Prologue

I open at the close

Moonlight.

The grounds are moonlit. A fire can be seen through the windows of a tiny cabin, next to a pumpkin patch, and moonlight bounces off its shingles like the surface of a mirror. The moonlight adorns the canopy of the forbidden forest, the leaves an indistinct mass of grey that sway in the summer breeze, and plays on the surface of the lake, the calm waters disturbed occasionally as the giant squid decides to take a night time swim at the surface. The moon light paves the cobblestoned streets of Hogsmeade, pours on the roofs of the houses, teases the darkness that hides under the eaves. The moonlight bounces off the glass ceiling of the green houses, adorns the drive of the castle like a silvery carpet, animates the eyes of the winged boars that flank the pillars of the gates to the school. It embeds the waters of the fountain in the courtyard with sparkling gems, caresses the shadows of the huge bolts that strengthen the huge oak doors to the entrance hall, makes the fire lit windows look pale in comparison. It cloaks the entire castle in silver and grey.

Moonlight.

Inside the castle, all is quiet. The torches burn low, occasionally flickering as a silvery spectre passes, looking as though it were constituted of moonlight itself. A quite cackle is heard as another silver spectre swoops down in merriment, its eyes glittering with mischief, and disappears into a solid wall. A quick patter of feet is heard as a grey haired woman passes, muttering about how the place was going to be covered in cobwebs if it were not for her, her owlish grey eyes searching the place for any speck of dirt that might have escaped her prying gaze. Moonlight filters through the large ornate windows, illuminating large suits of armour, tapestries covering the walls, staircases which move to form new paths that stay untrodden in the dead of the night, all caressed by the silvery light that has been the companion of the castle since the day the first stone of its foundation had been set down with a flourish of silver sparks.

Moonlight.

The moonlight filters through the windows into a circular room, complete with a dome like ceiling, painted with stars that mimick the constellation in the heavens, inanimate spectators of all that lies below. The room is empty and all the books that normally litter the tables are safely in place tonight, gilded covers illuminated as another spectre passes by, a tall woman with haughty features, clutching her robes tightly as though to reassure herself. She glides gracefully, as ethereal as the moonlight that seems to be the constituent of her form, bestowing a disdainful glance on the marble bust of a woman with a tiara on her head, her features strikingly similar to that of the woman made of moonlight, or the Grey Lady as she is often called.

Moonlight.

Two arched doorways stand on either side of the marble bust. The moonlight illuminates the runic carvings on the oaken frame of one of the doorways with much intricacy, as though emphasising its importance. The brightly lit doorway gives way to a staircase cast in darkness, leading to chambers neatly arrayed one upon another, the moonlight caressing the faces of its sleeping occupants. In one chamber though, the torches are lit, barring the moonlight unceremoniously out of the doors and the windows. And in this room sits a girl with silver hair that seems to be spun out of moonlight than anything else.

Dominique Weasley sat on her bed, glancing around at the dormitory, that had been, for seven years, her home. Her eyes swept the room in a glance, taking in everything; the door to the bathroom which had been the cause of far too many early morning squabbles than was healthy; the sole dressing table, no longer littered with hair brushes and empty nail lacquer bottles that had been their lifelines on Saturdays in a time long gone; the tiny desk that was only ever used for dumping their school bags on, before they rushed out for dinner; the window sill, that was no longer laden with books that had been borrowed from the library for light reading, but never really perused; the hearthrug which still had a dark stain on it, the result of too much Firewhiskey, that couldn't be removed despite many attempts, whether human or elfish.

Years of day-dreaming and reading novels had instilled in Dominique the belief that endings were, of course, the best part. She had always imagined that the end of each phase of her life would be marked by memorable events and remarkable epiphanies. She was convinced that her time at Hogwarts, being the most marvellous part of her wizarding life, would draw to an end with a – conspicuously magical – flourish. Though she'd like to deny it, some of the most memorable moments of her life so far had only been deemed worthy owing to the fact that they would invariably feature in her end-of-school reverie, thus granting them their importance.

Dominique couldn't help but huff irritably. None of this was fitting. Endings were supposed to be consequential – full of quotable quotes and raucous laughter and tearful goodbyes. Full of memories.

She never knew her last night at the castle was going to be so dull.

Dominique huffed again, glancing at the only other girl who was still awake; her other two roommates had been asleep for over an hour now. She watched, frowning, as the other girl bent over a half packed trunk, occasionally flicking her wand and summoning various articles. The girl straightened, looking at the various things piled upon her bed, and pointed her wand at herself, twirling it lightly, making her dark hair twist itself into a tight, messy bun.

"You have hands for that, you know" said Dominique, irritated. The girl looked up, grinning and said, "Sure, Nicky", and began piling up tremendously heavy books upon her bed.

"You can do that by magic!", said Dominique, irritable, a little too loudly, and the other girl looked at the other occupants of the room, checking they were still asleep, then looked back at Dominique, raising her hands defensively. Dominique snuggled back into her pillows, and muttered, "I'm bored. When d'you figure you'll be done?" she said, shooting the other girl a filthy look. "In a while," the girl replied, shrinking the books to the size of a matchbox and depositing them in a drawstring pouch that she conjured out of nowhere, "and when d'you figure you'll start?"

"Those for Flourish and Blotts?" said Dominique, ignoring the brunette's query, eyeing the numerous drawstring pouches that poked out of a brown leather satchel, "Do they even stock this lot there?"

"Not all, no. I'm thinking of dropping some off at Burgess," said the other girl, folding up a set of working robes around a set of crystal vials.

"You're going to Knockturn Alley?"

"I assume it would be quite the trip," said the brunette, her eyes sparkling, "you can come along if you wish to; Burgess has an extraordinary collection of wizarding commentary on late Victorian muggle literature."

Dominique ignored the last comment, having finally decided to start packing. She slouched off her bed, and began to empty all of her belongings onto her Pride of Portree bedspread, which she planned to bundle up and dump in her trunk. She didn't pause until she had packed everything but her books, and as she reached into the cabinet, her hand brushed against a velvet cover.

She pulled out the book, an indigo oddity amongst its paperback peers. It was a notebook of some sort, a silver twining bookmark already tucked between thick ivory coloured pages.

Dominique turned, planning to enquire about this notebook that hadn't been here until half a day before, and caught sight of the other girl, clutching a similar notebook, but bound in brown, smiling at her.

Dominique could always tell when her roommate had a plan.

"So," said the blonde, with a note of incredulity in her voice, "you want me to record all the shit that we got into in the last three years," she flipped through the pages, "muggle style?"

The brunette looked up from her own brown leather bound diary and said with a chuckle, "Not necessarily muggle," she fingered her wand, "that would take ages. But I do suppose those memory recording charms would be useful here," she licked her lips, eyes bright, "what do you think?"

The blonde smiled, "Thought you'd never bring them up." Raising an eyebrow she said, "Not so ashamed of them, now, are you?"

"The ends do justify the means sometimes, I suppose," the brunette said, smiling, "though I'm sure you can explain that in its own element, now that you have the means to do so, no?"

Dominique hesitated for a second. Somehow, recording all that had come to pass, trivial as most of it may be, seemed like she was concluding a huge chapter of her life, and she wasn't sure she wanted to say goodbye yet.

The second passed.

"You talk too much, twit," said the blonde, picking up her wand from the set of drawers by her bedside, and throwing herself back on the pillows, "get to work, you have a three year long legend to record."

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Author's Note : So it's been three years or so and I stumbled upon this thing here. College was far less forgiving than I'd anticipated, but I'm home for the summer, and it doesn't seem a half bad idea to start things over. What d'you think?

Hopefully, you'll like it. :)