Her name is Nel Wyn Glyndwr, it's Welsh, but isn't particularly hard to pronounce. Nel - Nell Wyn - Win Glyndwr - Glin-dooer (stress on the 'i' and the 'oo')
I hope you enjoy.
Today is an unnaturally sunny day in the North of Wales.
The sun is out and shining magnificently, glinting and sparkling down on the world from a blanket of cloudless azure. Birds are settled in trees and singing merrily, their tunes filling the air. Children run in the streets, laughing and yelling as they play and make merry; a few appear to be equipped with sealed containers of water that they throw at one another. Parents sit in the shade with sneaky bottles of Guinness and Magners as they watch the young frolic.
It's decidedly sickening.
Currently I'm lounging on the painted wooden bench that's conveniently placed in the front garden while reading the novel 'Darkly Dreaming Dexter'. I'm dressed in black t-shirt that has stylised ruby clouds that creep along the right side as snowy strips outline all four against the dark backdrop and drainpipe jeans are made of worn navy denim. The Converse high tops that adorn my feet are scuffed and dirty, but incredibly comfortable, the black canvas is faded and a dark, a murky green in some areas, the seams on the tongue of the right shoe has burst slightly and a small tuft of white cotton is slightly visible, the laces are darkened from their once pristine white state and a single plastic aglet is missing, while the white rubber that encases the lower part of the shoe is stained and the black print that previously surrounded the off white rubber is all but gone, the only thing that remains in good condition was the rubber badges that are stuck to the sides of the shoes, it having lost no colour or been stained looks to be good as new. My forearms are covered in bracelets; most of them are made of common bracelet materials such as colourful string and moulded metal, while a small few are made of different coloured rubber and printed with either a witty slogan or a set of specific symbols. Around my neck hangs a locket that I wear at all times. It's something given to me by my parents before they left me here and I treasure it, despite its refusal to open; the locket's made of silver and is perfectly circular, with a simple rune is carved into its surface: a smaller circle's etched perfectly into a triangle with a single line slicing through its centre. The other accessory I bare at the moment is a lightweight, partially transparent, crimson scarf that I've carefully wrapped around my head this morning. Tying the flimsy piece of material around my head and then into a neat bow is fairly simple, but keeping the damned ribbon from falling into my eyes every time I move my head in a direction it doesn't like is a bit more challenging.
Alas, my moment of peace is shattered when some inconsiderate douche comes and blocked the sunshine that's keeping me warm. My eyes shoot up in an instant, only to lock on to the silhouette of a man. In the limited light his shadow allows I can make out a tall man; his skin is pale and sallow and his eyes are a deep obsidian - though they could be brown, the shadow do darken his features considerably - that hold quite a bit of anger and darkness, and even with my current lack of visibility I can tell that he isn't very happy to be here. His suit seems uncomfortable, as if he isn't used to wearing such garments, and is freshly pressed; the dark charcoal that matches his plain tie seems to blend in with the shadows. His shoes are highly polished and a sour look is plastered across his face, distaste evident in his features. Dark and greasy, his hair is shoulder length, and looks as if someone has tipped oil over his head and forgotten to remove it, and with a hooked nose he sneers down at me. But it's none of these things that catch my attention; no, it's the curious substance that floats around his person. Yes, this is quite noticeable.
This is hardly a new thing for me: each being I see has a glob of colours floating about them- but it's always muted and dull, some more so than others. Occasionally I'll see someone in a crowd with colours that aren't diluted, but as soon as I try to look into it they disappear. I call these people Glows, due to the gentle Glow that emits from them. This is the first time I've seen a proper Glow up-close - excluding myself. Never have I've seen one as bright as this: alive and fluctuating constantly, similar to mine in mass, but much tamer and under control. Dark green blobs; navy shimmers; a bright shot of emerald; a small glimmer of gold; a small patch of silver and a hazy grey mist. Such a curious combination. I have come to call these mysterious bodily smudges a person's Core, due to the colours connection to said person's personality and emotions. The Others have much of the same thing, only it doesn't move and breathe like proper Glows. It doesn't cast a gentle ambience of light on its surrounding either. Of course, there's more to it than that, but my mind can only think over so much in the short amount of time it takes me to take out my ear buds and greet the man.
I quickly fold page 64 and sit up straight. Turning my head up I refuse to squint at the bright light that emits from behind his form, it's unseemly. I suppose it's a good time to offer help then, especially if he's who I think he is.
"Can I help you, sir?" My voice is soft, polite. This was is we're taught to speak to any visitors, polite and respectful, seeing as anyone could be potential foster parents. Or parent. Not that I've ever gotten any farther than stage two.
"Yes," his voice was low and dangerous and he emanates the feel of a strict teacher, reminding me of the previous head master of the public primary school, "I'm looking for the matron." Short and to the point, I see. I think we may very well get along.
"Jennifer Jones," I tell him, my lip curling slightly as the name leaves an unpleasant taste in my mouth, "She's inside, if you would follow me?" I get up, gesturing for him to follow me as I lead the way inside. Had it not been for the bright Core he has I wouldn't have cared, but I'm interested. It's quite a difficult thing to get me interested. The entrance is shabby but immaculately clean, as well as being sparsely furnished.
"Might I inquire as to the reason to your visit?" I ask, leading him through the main hallway and across the checked floor and toward the Office. I sneak a look at him over my shoulder, only to find the face of a man who really doesn't want to be here. I get that, this place tries to be overly cheerful and homey.
He doesn't seem very appreciative of my question, "I'm a professor at an elite boarding school in Scotland that has an interest in one of your residents." he replies, looking mildly surprised at my choice of words, seeing as most children my age were loud and had the vocabulary and mannerisms of a particularly dense child. Though he doesn't show it on the outside, of course, it's the gentle bloom of white droplets on the edges of his Core that gives me intuition. Something I've always valued is manners; oh, how I long to live in the era where disrespect could earn you a date with an executioners blade. Such a lovely time.
Though this man's condescending attitude is irking me slightly, I brush it off. I haven't actually met anyone with a bright Core, minus the glittering fog that often surrounds my locket and the rare owl that flies overhead at night, and I suppose that some things can be pardoned. For now, at least.
Finally we reach the office door and I raised my hand to knock, only to hesitate slightly. Deciding quickly, I turn around to face the man, looking at him seriously, "Look out for Jennifer; she thinks every man she meets is attracted to her and is incredibly desperate." I might as well get in his good favour by warning him, from one Glow to another. Not that he seems aware of it, by any means. It's the thought that counts, right? Ignoring the decidedly disturbed look on his face I turn around and once more raised my fist to knock on the door. I give it two sharp raps and listen to the sound resonat through the bare hallway, before deciding to flee the scene.
Before turning the corner I turn and looked over the intriguing man, only to find him looking at me in carefully veiled confusion, easy to miss if his Core isn't gently veiled in a pale grey, barely noticeable fog. I mouth to him a silent "Good luck", slightly amused at the prospect of what scenario lays ahead for him, before finally rounding the corner and reaching the stairs. No one deserves to be subjected to Jennifer's atrocious flirting. No one.
Half an hour later and I'm sitting on an uncomfortable wooden chair by my battered writing desk. The wood is scarred and is scrawled on by multiple shades of biro and felt-tip in various forms of untidy hand writing. A book is open on the table and my eyes scan the pages, drinking in the words that detail the life of a secret psychopath that hides his true colours under the guise of a charming blood-spatter analyst and only kills those who wrong society because of his father's rules. An interesting read, certainly, and more than a little relatable.
I'm pulled from my own little world of killers and criminals by the round of loud knocking on the patchily painted white door, scuffed and dirtied from years of abuse. The quiet 'Come in.' leaves my mouth automatically as I replace the bookmark between the crisp pages and turn to face the door.
With a gentle creak the door swings open to reveal both Jennifer and the Professor, each with contrasting facial expressions; she smiles dreamily, ogling the irked face of the man with impatience. A giggle threatened to burst forth at the ridiculousness of the situation and the tang of ruby that seems to be eating away at the edge of a steely grey mass.
"Nel," Jennifer's snide voice drags my eyes from the throbbing mass of decidedly controlled emotions and to her flushed, plump face. "This is Professor Snape," she says this with superiority, apparently pleased that she learnt his name first, if the twist of her lips, thickly plastered with crimson gloss, is any indication, "He's a teacher at an elite boarding school that wants to offer you a scholarship there." She turns her eyes towards him; today they're lidded with a rather dangerous looking shade of neon blue. She blinks at speed, fluttering her stubby lashes like some sort of deranged butterfly. It's a rather memorable sight, whether you want it to be or not.
"Is that so?" I arch a brow, my face showing nothing but mild curiosity. I had assumed, of course, that he was he was here for me. Being a Glow he must be here for me, seeing as none of the other dunderheads at this infernal home has even the dimmest spark – that and the letter. But, again, I'm getting ahead of myself.
"Yes," the Professor speaks for the first time since they've entered and I must say: his annoyance isn't even detectible. My eyes move over to him once more to see him staring at an empty corner, seemingly willing it to spontaneously combust. His hand jerks slightly as his Core flickers. Curious. "There are, of course, details that need to be looked over and preparations to be made. I've already discussed the main points of this with your care-taker," I twitch at this, "And need only explain the situation to you."
I only nod, my eyes drifting over to Jennifer once more. She's suspiciously silent. To the casual observer she's simply in her own little world, but I'm not exactly the casual observer. A closer look dictates largely dilated pupils behind lids that are no longer fluttering, but drooping slightly. Her posture, too, has fallen to an ungraceful slump as she sways slightly. Don't tell me she's-
"Miss Jones," his voice slices through the blanket of silence that seems to have descended on our little trio with the sharp precision of a surgical scalpel, "As I made clear earlier this is a very delicate matter, as our establishment has very strict rules regarding student…" his words trail off as my attention wanders to the curious flare his Core gave a mere moment earlier. Certainly curious, seeing as the only time my Core ever brightens in such a way is when I do magic, and even then it still remains invisible to everyone else. I suppose this only concretes my theory.
I'm pulled from my inner musing when Jennifer opens her mouth once more. Oddly enough her only reply to whatever the Professor has said is an un-ladylike grunt of agreement. A moment later she leaves through the still open doorway. I raise an eyebrow once more as Professor Snape closes the door with a pale, long fingered hand; the ability remove Jennifer's nose from ones business is an art that I still struggle with.
"Did you put something in her tea?" the words leave my mouth unbidden as his eyes finally turn to rest on me once more. I resist the urge to slap my own hand across my mouth as I inwardly cringe at the childish impulse overtook my common sense.
The only reply I receive is a blank stare that simply screams 'Elaborate or die.'
I clear my throat, cursing my pale skin as a blush decides to grace my cheeks, no matter how hard I force it down. "Her eyes were dilated, and she didn't seem to be all that interested in the conversation – and seeing as she enjoys poking her overly powdered nose into other people's business it's definitely out of the ordinary." I stare at him a moment longer, watching the manifestation of an orange-yellow puff of amusement creep along the edges of his Core.
"We didn't have any tea." Is the only reply I receive and I feel the corner of my mouth twitch upward in tandem to the amusement floating on the edge of his core. A slippery man, this one.
Reaching behind me I pull open one of the bottom drawers that comes with the battered writing desk. Inside is a sheaf of important papers and a photograph or two. Rooting around for a moment I manage to fish out the letter that I assume has a connection to this man. Mutely I hand it over to him, the pristine white parchment is decidedly heavier than normal paper while the ruby red lettering on the front contrasts greatly; a seal made of wax the shade of dried blood is imprinted onto two parts of the envelope, the crest split in half after being opened. As he carefully turns the heavy envelope over in his hands I manage to catch the spiky penmanship on the front that simply states:
Nel Wyn Glyndwr
"I received this letter at the beginning of the week," I tell him quietly as he scans the letter that's from a bank, apparently: Gringotts, a name I spent fifteen minutes thinking about after reading it. It speaks of my apparent fortune and place as heir to an ancient line of pure-blood wizards. Scepticism is, of course, my first reaction, but then mild confusion gives way as I have no particular knowledge about the 'Wizarding World', as they dub it. The letter then instructs me to wait for a representative from Hogwarts, another name I spent far too much time pondering, and that they'd explain everything. They seem rather certain that I haven't any knowledge of Wizarding Society as the last known member of the Glyndwr line dropped off the face of the Earth over a decade ago. Oh, and they're goblins, apparently.
"I see," he murmurs just loud enough for me to hear as he folds up the letter and replaces it in its envelope once more, a look of distaste evident on his face, "The goblins didn't explain very much. How wonderful: more work for me." I'm not sure I'm meant to hear that. "It seems we'll have to start from the basics: how have your bouts of accidental magic presented themselves in the past?"
"It's not particularly accidental," once more words leave my mouth without permission and inwardly I scowl.
He quirks a single dark brow as he settles himself in the only remaining seat; it's as solid and uncomfortable as my own and usually finds a hiding place behind the door. "In that case, Miss Glyndwr," his pronunciatoin is decidedly perfect "We have a bit more to discuss."