Standing in the front row of the church, Regan refused to cry. She wasn't someone who cried, so why should she? In her entire life, Regan never once remembered her mother crying. Even now, at her funeral, Regan couldn't make herself cry. The woman who had raised her, all alone, for the past 20 years, was gone. She walked up to the coffin and placed a bouquet of white orchids on it. She looked to the right of the coffin at the picture of her mother she had taken last summer. They were at the beach in South Carolina. Her mother was smiling and winking at the camera, her red hair flashed brightly in the midday sun. Regan smiled, everyone loved her mother. She touched the lid of the coffin before kissing the plaque that had been placed on it. Giving the signal, she followed the coffin bearers as they carried her mother out to a hearse that was bound for LaGuardia airport.
Holding her mother's last will and testament, Regan stepped off the airplane in Heathrow Airport. She watched from the window to make sure that her mother made it off the plane. Then, she waited. Suddenly, out of nowhere, appeared a purple double decker. She pointed to the coffin and then stepped on board.
"May I ask why you're bringing a coffin on board, Miss?" Asked the attendant. Regan looked at the young boy.
"My mother wanted to be buried with her family. I'm following her wishes."
With a lurch, the bus flew down the street. Regan looked out the window at London passing by.
"I guess we've got another stop besides yours, Miss?"
"Call me Regan."
"Regan then." She looked out the window. They were in a small village. A boy stood on the sidewalk and his face was pale, as if he'd seen a ghost. He was staring at the park across the street. Regan quickly shifted her gaze to the other window and thought she saw a black dog watching from a cluster of trees. The boy boarded the bus with a trunk and an owl cage.
"Hello." He said.
"Hello."
"You're American!"
"Yes. I was born in Great Britain though."
"What are you doing here then?" Regan pointed up to the rack above the boy's head. He looked up.
"Is that a coffin?"
"Yes it is."
"Can I ask who is in it?"
"My mother."
"How did she die?"
"Work accident."
"What did she do?" Regan's hazel eyes glanced at the boy, who had now seated himself across from her. He had dark almost jet black hair and bright green eyes, not unlike her mother's. He didn't look any older than 12 or 13. "I'm not at liberty to say. Confidential information." He nodded and extended his hand.
"I'm-" Then the bus stopped. Regan stood, while the boy was thrown to the ground. She stood up and exited the bus. Levitating the coffin, she walked through the cemetery gates. Highgate Cemetery. She looked down on her paper. She was looking for the Brassington family mausoleum. West side plot. I have never been so thankful to have been dropped off on the correct side of a cemetery. Unlocking the gate, she slowly made her way through. She walked slowly through the empty street. Now was a time that she wished she had a coat. Despite it being August and that the day had been over 90 degrees Fahrenheit, it was now cold, with a strong wind whipping through the cemetery. She stopped. She had reached the mausoleum. In large, elegant letters: Brassington: purus causa. Pure cause. Her mother had never talked about her family. She knew her grandparents had died in the war with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named when she was just a baby. Her aunt died of pneumonia at age 10, just a few years before. As far as she knew, her entire family was dead.
Her mother, Eden, rarely spoke of Regan's father. She said he was a pureblood and English like herself, but never a name or description. Of course, as she got older, Regan figured out from looking at photographs that she must look more like her father than her mother. Her mother had red hair and her grandparents were blond and redheaded themselves. Her dark hair and almost grey hazel eyes didn't seem to match. She opened the crypt door and walked down the steps. Lighting a torch, she kept walking. Andrew Brassington and Elisabette King Brassington. Juliana Brassington. Walking to the next empty alcove, she put the torch in a holder and shifted the cover off the tomb. Then, she levitated the large wooden coffin inside the tomb. After resealing it, she put her hand on it.
"Good evening Miss Brassington."
Regan quickly pulled out her wand and pointed it at the voice. A man in a long burgundy robe was standing at the opening for the tomb. His long silver beard was almost sparkling in the torchlight.
"Who are you?"
"My condolences Miss Brassington. I know you and your mother were close."
"Who are you and why are you here?"
"I don't think someone should bury their mother alone." He looked over his spectacles at her. "My name is Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. I am the headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I am here to offer you a job."
—
She was sitting in a kitchen. It was a kitchen that obviously hadn't been used in quite some time. The dust had piled up everywhere. Whoever had lived had either abandoned it or died. She looked at the man who was currently pouring her a cup of tea.
"Do you take milk or sugar?"
"No, just black." Regan looked at the cup and discreetly waved her wand. No poisons. No enchantments. Just a cup of tea. "So where are we exactly?"
"Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place." She nodded slowly and looked around.
"And we're here because…" The old man smiled.
"I was told to give this to you if you ever came to England. I was also instructed that you should read it here." She frowned.
"But I've never been here before in my life." His eyebrows raised before he began to silently sip his tea. She looked down at the envelope.My dearest Regan. Her heart flipped. Was it from her mother? She flipped it over to look at the seal. It had a crest marked into it. An elegant B. For Brassington? She wondered. Opening it carefully, she unfolded the letter.
Darling Regan, If you are reading this then you have met a man that I would have trusted with my life. His name is Dumbledore. He was the headmaster of the school I attended when I lived in England. Now comes the important thing: you cannot return home. I know it doesn't make sense, but it isn't safe. The people who killed me will try to find you. Dumbledore should have found some way to keep you safe. You mustn't argue with him sweetheart. You may be clever, but he is more so. Now, I thank you for burying me with my family. As for your family, just ask Dumbledore. He will fill in the blanks, but you must wait until you are safe. I love you and miss you.
She looked up at the man. Her cup of tea had grown cold in the time she had taken to read the letter. She had read it over at least a dozen times without saying one thing. Now she had one question. "Are we safe?"
"We are in fact Miss Brassington. This is the safest place for you right now, well until I get you situated."
"Where are you 'situating' me? Here in this dusty house all alone?" He shook his head.
"No, I only brought you here for the other answer." She looked at the letter. My family.
"You know about my family?" He nodded.
"Very well actually. Your mother was one of the best students of her year. Her parents never understood why she was sorted into Ravenclaw over Slytherin, but she definitely belonged there. All advanced classes, much like a student I have now." He looked at her. "What do you want to know about your family exactly?"
"Am I all alone?"
"No." Her heart soared in her chest. All these years she had thought she was the last one left, but that wasn't the case. Her eyes had widened. "Has anyone ever told you that you resemble your father?" She shook her head.
"I figured that out for myself. My mother never said anything, but obviously I don't look like her family at all."
"This is your family house. Well you father's family at least. You can always come here if you need to be safe." Her gestured in the general vicinity before finishing his cup of tea. "However, we need to be moving. There is something you need to do to be situated. Now, what was your strongest subject in schooling with your mother?"