London, England, 1844
Julian Grey had, since the time of his infancy, been aware of the differences between he and the scruffy, sooty, Cockney-speaking chimney sweeps that occasionally visited his home, shimmying up the flues with minimal effort but much cursing and foul language. They fascinated him, with their devil's faces, burnt and scourged from a lifetime of ridding the dirt from a placid, frozen-over hell. Julian would watch, when he thought that Nanny was not looking, for if she caught him staring, there would be a sharp smack on his hand with the riding quirt that she always carried. That was another thing that puzzled him, Julian simply could not imagine Nanny, plump and rosy and wrinkled, upon a horse. But she and the quirt were inseparable, and though he did not fear the woman, he was terrified of the symbol of her power.
So he would sneak away from the nursery, where his younger sister Anne played calmly and uninterestedly with her dolls, a pudgy cherub completely lacking in curiosity or imagination. Hiding in the lee of the doorway, Julian would watch as the two sweeps argued back and forth, their sharp accents growing louder and then softer, as the butler cast disapproving glares their way. Julian compared everything about them. His fair, downy blond hair and their coarse stained black thatch; their ragged soot covered clothes, and his immaculately tailored nursery dress, the sort that many well-born boys wore until they were five or six. His childishly lisping but elegant voice sounded odd in his ears against the rough street argot of the Cockneys. Despite his young age, Julian attempted to find reasons why the sweeps were so dirty, and uneducated, and coarse. He could come up with no logical answer, and spent several days pondering the problem.
"Nanny, are the chimney sweeps poor?" Julian hazarded one day, leaving his palms vulnerable to the threat of the quirt.
"Yes, they are," she replied briskly, while folding a blanket into sharp quarters and placing it at the edge of his bed, "It is because they are lazy, horrible little demons who have no wish to better themselves. You, now, dearie. You are something special, above them. Never forget that."
"But—" Julian began, about to protest. The sweeps hadn't seemed much like demons.
"No buts," Nanny replied firmly, "That's the way of the world, child, and difficult as it is, you would be better to learn it now."
London, England, 1861
The swirling colors and music distracted him so that he could hardly keep a coherent sentence in his brain, but Julian Grey did not mind overmuch. There was so much to see, and so much to do, he could hardly contain his excitement. He had been to balls before, and it was always new to him, each time he attended one. So many people to meet, so many things to see and do and the wild frenzy of the dances, whirling around and around to finally collapse in a chair, panting for breath, and then rise up again to start the process anew. Nanny was right, he thought sardonically, remembering a conversation from years past. I simply cannot imagine a chimney sweep here.
At the moment, he was in the resting segment of the cycle, sprawled lazily on a bench and surveying the crowd with languid eyes. He knew exactly what they saw. Soft, almost silvery blond hair and pale gray eyes, cheeks flushed red with the exertions of the dance. They saw flawlessly tailored clothing in the latest styles, elegant without being foppish – a distinction that many young men of the era did not know how to make. The suit he wore was black with a snowy white shirt, a touch of lace at the throat and sleeves; golden cufflinks and watch chains, shining shoes. They saw a boy becoming a man, almost at his full height of six foot two, practically a giant for the time, broad shouldered and slim hipped, not handsome but possessed of an engagingly lopsided smile.
At the moment Julian was not surrounded by the usual crowd of hangers-on that followed after him, gaily chattering their gossip and jokes back and forth. He left them to their own devices, preferring to remain in his alcove and avoid the small talk, inconsequential and opinionated. A servant, in scarlet livery with gold trim, wandered by with a tray of delicately stemmed champagne glasses; he helped himself with even looking at the man. As the servant wandered off, Julian sipped absently at the bubbling drink, thinking about how nice it was to be rich, to have money, power and friends. Of course, he thought cynically, One couldn't quite call those backstabbing sharks friends.
Hopping lightly to his feet, Julian carelessly tossed the now empty champagne to another servant, this one in gold with crimson trimming, and rose to his feet – and then his heart stopped. Descending from the stairs was a… an enchantress. An ethereal beauty descended to earth. "My god," Julian whispered, transfixed. The woman was not a classic belle, some of her features were too bold and pronounced, but she had something to her, an intensity that, coupled with already formidable looks, magnified itself and left him staring.
She had a surprisingly dark complexion, dusky skin and ebon hair wrapped in a coil around her head. Deep sapphire blue eyes stared out from a strong-featured face, at once startlingly intent and dreamily absent. Neither thin nor plump, the girl seemed to be his age, perhaps a year or so younger. A royal blue dress embroidered with silver highlighted both eyes and hair, and as she walked, she seemed as though each step was premeditated, every motion thought out carefully beforehand. "My god, who is she?" Julian demanded, snagging a passing acquaintance by the sleeve.
"That, old boy, is Catherine Stanton," Ashley Taylor-St. Claire replied, tugging his arm away and making his escape.
Catherine. She had noticed his stare, and returned it, surprisingly direct for a girl of her era. A slight smile curved her mouth and he looked away first, flushing before gathering up his nerve. Am I a Grey or not? Really, Julian, you of all people, blushing like a schoolgirl at a first dance. Clearing his throat, he wove through the wildly rotating pattern of dresses and suits, making his way towards Catherine, where she stood waiting, expecting his approach and perhaps… dare he hope? Perhaps pleased by it.
"I… I haven't seen you here before," popped from his mouth before he could stop it. Mentally, he kicked himself, and for good measure, cursed fluently in French. Merde! He finished up, sighing. Had his wits deserted him? Well, obviously enough! Catherine, however, did not seem to be bothered by his sudden tangle of words, and stood, looking up at him as she fiddled with the fringe on her fan, carried in one silver-gloved hand.
"No," she agreed, intense gaze fixed on his face. "You haven't. I am Catherine Stanton."
He bowed low over her hand, kissing it lightly and nodding. "My pleasure entirely, Miss Stanton. Julian Grey."
"Yes, I've heard of your family." She sounded a little sad, and the unwavering cerulean gaze dimmed.
Baffled, Julian ran his hand through his hair, confused. "Is that a bad thing?" he asked, "I was not aware that our reputation was… tarnished in any way." Azure eyes met pale granite ones and held, and Julian lost track of the conversation for a moment, snapped back to reality when she answered.
"Your reputation, no. But your factories," Catherine murmured, voice concerned.
If anything, he was only more confused than before. "What about them? I am afraid, Miss Stevens, that I do not see what you mean."
"Your factories are not at all kind to the workers. Last year there were over a hundred that lost a limb or their lives in accidents."
The conversation, Julian thought, was gradually getting more and more surreal. Here he was, at a giant, outsized version of a birthday-party, talking to a beautiful woman in a dress that cost more than a poor man's annual income, and she was concerned about… the workers in his family's factories. It was all he could do not to laugh, or else to ask this Catherine if she was feeling sick. "Miss Stanton, they're only workers!" he exclaimed, "Accidents do happen, but most of them, you will find, came from their own negligence." Why did he feel as though he were defending his family's practices? It was not at all a question of who was at fault – that was obvious. The employees!
"Just workers?" Catherine demanded, affronted. "They have lives, as well! They—"
He interrupted, shaking his head. "…How can you say that, and come here, wearing that?" He had a point and she knew it. Instead of being angry, however, this most unusual woman merely smiled, shook her head, and motioned towards an alcove.
"We will continue the conversation."
Stanton Estates, England, 1861
The fire snapped and hissed in its place, sending up sheathes of vulpine orange flame. Julian watched it and wondered idly at his good fortune, if it could so be called. The Stanton Estates welcomed him, though he was told to avoid the third-floor east wing – which, it was said, was the residence of the mad uncle, Harold Stanton. Even above the popping of the blaze, he fancied that at times, he could hear a wailing coming from that direction
"Is something wrong, Julian?" Catherine asked, watching him shrewdly from across the room. He smiled. He had only known her for several weeks, though already she was guessing his thoughts and reading his mind. They understood each other, even if they were practically opposites in every way.
"I was just… I was thinking. It's nothing, Kate," he replied, pallid eyes languid as they surveyed her from underneath lowered lids.
"Kate?" she wanted to know, raising eyebrows above cerulean pools, mockingly sardonic, and yet teasingly warm. She was always a paradox, at her coldest, she was soft; and at her most soft, she was cold. It fascinated him, there was never a dull moment around Catherine. "Since when have I become… Kate?" A tiny smile tugged her mouth upwards, letting him know that her chilly tone was not meant to be taken personally.
"You lie, in faith, for you are called plain Kate," he quoted at her.
"You're no Petruchio, darling," she quipped.
"No," he agreed amiably. "As I hope you are no Kate. At least, not a Kate of that magnitude." Julian took a deep breath and leaned forward, fixing as intense a gaze he could manage on her face, which in so short a time had become as dear to him as his own. "Thou must be married to no man but me," he whispered, as she also put her head forward to hear.
He watched her reactions carefully. First, her eyes narrowed thoughtfully, then her expression softened. "I will marry no man but thee, Petruchio. You shall have your Kate, but to no extreme." To Julian, he thought that she had never looked so beautiful. Footsteps sounded in the hallway.
"Here comes your father: never make denial; I must and will have Catherine to my wife."
London, England, 1862
"Mother," Julian said, standing stiffly by the door as he watched Mother and Father sip their tea comfortably, entirely in their element as they watched him squirm, almost identical pairs of pale, washed out eyes staring at him coolly. It was, he imagined, much the same look that cheetahs gave to their prey before the final leap, where with a twist of the head, they broke the poor creature's back. I am the prey. He shuddered and continued. "…Mother, I have decided to marry."
"Darling, I am ever so happy for you! Who is this lucky, lucky girl?" Mother's voice chimed melodiously, her pale gray eyes threatened to pin her son where he stood, so like his own but... so cold.
"I am engaged to Catherine Stanton."
He saw the glance that flicked between woman and man, almost telepathy, but it was his mother that spoke. Father merely sat back, looked nice, and as usual, didn't open his mouth. "My dear," she said, in a rather oily tone of voice, "Do you not think that your choice is an… ah, shall I say, imprudent one? Her uncle is an invalid, locked up in his rooms. They fear constantly that he will hurt himself, or others. Her grandmother is little more than a gibbering idiot. This is the girl you wish to marry." The last sentence was as distasteful as she could make it, almost a curse.
"I love her."
"Since when has that had any bearing on marriage? Julian, you would be hurting your family if you married that girl. I will not have it. It simply will not occur. This is not a question of happiness, my boy, but of family loyalty."
"I'm going to marry her."
"Reap the chaos that you havoc."
"I will."
"Don't expect us to extricate you from any trouble caused by that woman."
"Don't worry. I won't."
London, England, 1865
Julian Grey was worried about his wife. She lay in the bed, almost as pale as the lacy sheets, bloodied and rumpled. Her azure eyes were closed and the lids stretched tightly across the curve of the eye; her cheeks seemed hollow and shadowed. The breath that emerged from her lips was ragged and rasped in her lungs. It was as though she had become a semblance of what she once was, and it scared him. The doctor bustled around her bed, mouth thin in disapproval.
"She's very weak. The baby was stillborn, and we were lucky that she survived at all." As he spoke, first one and then the other of Catherine's eyes fluttered open. She stared up at both of them accusingly, a haunted spectre of herself. She whispered something. Julian leaned closer to hear what she was saying, clasping her hands between his.
"Julian… Julian, I'm sorry."
"Catherine, it's nothing to be sorry about. Oh, God, I thought I'd lost you."
"…My fault. All my fault."
Dublin, Ireland, 1874
Catherine Grey was glad that Julian was working, as she gave birth. This time, when the baby died, he would not be there to see it, and would not suffer the grief that she did. After that first stillbirth, there had been others, and miscarriages. She wanted his children more than anything in the world; they were extensions of Julian, his beloved face showing in each of them. Push. Push, and breathe in and out. That would dispel the corpse from her body.
A wail greeted her, and for a moment, she could not remember what it was like to hear that – the first gasp of a baby meeting the cold air. No. The child was not alive. It wasn't. All the others had died, and this one, this boy that already had a fuzz of orange hair on his head, was dead too. She was not going to suffer the pain of losing another child, no, and this one simply… He was stillborn, too. Another tiny corpse to bury. She staggered to her feet, eliciting protests from her maid.
"No, Sukey," she murmured, "I'm going for a walk. Let me have that baby."
When she abandoned him in the alleys of Dublin, her only thought was that now, everything would surely be alright.
Dublin, Ireland, 1879
Cian Grey knew he did not belong in the family, though he loved his adoptive parents. Mr. and Mrs. O'Meara were kind people, and even though he called them by the honorific, it had become, in a way, a term of endearment. They were childless, and so looked upon him as their son. A sort of replacement… it wasn't what he would have wished. He wanted to be their son. That was impossible, but to his five-year-old mind he only knew that somewhere, there was a place in which he truly belonged. It just wasn't here.
Cian was vaguely aware that there were people that had nice clothes and not hand-me-downs taken from the neighbors, people that lived a life of leisure in plush homes and had servants that took care of them. However, thoughts of these people, that might or might not exist, did not trouble him. He was busy with his own work, as a sweep's assistant. At the moment, Cian's bright orange hair was caked with black soot, and he was about to shinny up the chimney, along with the thick brush that he used to clean it.
He was untroubled, an innocent. And there were always chimneys to clean, and people to talk to, and things to do. The fact that there were people better off than he was never troubled him. It was a fact of life, and already, Cian Grey was learning to accept it.
London, England, 1882
Julian Grey stood by the side of the bed, staring at the corpse of his wife. She was dead, he knew, and in some ways it was a relief. The last years of her life had been hell for he and the children, as Catherine had slipped gradually deeper into the hold of insanity. The mirror confronted him from across the room, and it showed a face lined by more than years, tight creases at the corners of his mouth and eyes. After the miscarriages, the stillbirths, she had never been the same.
The last one, the boy, he had not even been there to see. Catherine had only said that he had died, and she must be rid of him before the ghost came back to haunt her. Julian remembered, also, how he had stared disbelieving at her, not wanting to admit the truth that was in front of him: Catherine Grey was insane. His mother, who was also now in her grave, had been right. He had been a good husband, sitting with her while she ranted, wiping her mouth when she drooled, holding her down when she tried to hurt himself.
As he stared at her, though, the thin husk of the vital woman she had been, he could not admit to himself that she was dead. Catherine had been the shaping of his life, the love of his life, the focus of his every thought. Bleakly, he scrubbed a hand through his hair. And without her, things would be difficult. He knew. Her last words echoed in his head, 'I am not a household Kate.' A reference to when he had proposed. Christ, it hurt.
For the first time in many years, Julian Grey cried. The sobs shook his back, and mucus and tears mingled on his face, caking into a mass of goo, but he cried. The grief that lay at the pit of his stomach was not assuaged, but it was manageable. He cried.
Dublin, Ireland, 1897
The streets of Dublin fascinated him. If he had been another person, Cian would have been termed an academic. The way things were, however, in his circumstances, the slum-boy was seen as merely odd. He had an abstract obsession with people and places; the way things worked and why, what might happen if he did this. It was a trait that sometimes got him into trouble, for he did not pay attention to his actions, when lost in thought. A sweet but clumsy boy, and the girls of Dublin, at least his area of Dublin, thought him quite charming.
When he bothered to emerge from his absentminded scholarly daze, at least. "Hoy, Mr. Sheehan," he greeted a man amiably as he walked down the street. As he looked up towards the sky, a particular cloud caught his attention. To the boyish twenty-three year old, it looked remarkably like a cat. The clatter of horses on the cobblestone streets distracted him, as well, until he bumped into something and a woman's voice, annoyed and just a bit pained, exclaimed, "Watch where ye're goin', cíoch!"
"I'm terribly sorry," he replied, holding out a hand to help the girl to her feet.
"That's what they all say," she grumbled, straightening out her skirts and attempting to wipe the worst of the mud away from her now-soiled garment. Her accent, he noted, was native of Dublin. "Oh, no!" she exclaimed, just the noticing that the bag of groceries she'd been carrying was spilled all over the street, now completely ruined. "A ray of sunshine into my life, you are," the girl informed him. "Well? Don't just stand there gaping at me!"
"I'm sorry," Cian said abashedly, shuffling guilty in front of her. "I'll pay for them, if you wish."
"Don't bother," she said with a sigh.
"I'm Cian. Cian Grey."
"Well, that's very nice. I think I'll prefer to call you Destroyer of Vegetables, or perhaps Enemy of Bread."
He grinned at her, "That's me, Miss. Opponent of All things Grainy."
"Saibh Ahearn," she informed him.
"Can I buy you dinner, then?"
Dublin, Ireland, 1898
"She's beautiful," Saibh Grey told her husband, tired face creased in a beatific smile. She was fairly sharp of feature, though no one could say that of her now. The lines had been transformed into something glowing and radiant, the look that only a new mother could achieve. Saibh radiated maternal love in a way that was inexplicable, yet touching. "Perfect. And she looks like you."
"Perfect and looks like me?" Cian joked, "Saibh, you must be weaker than you thought. You're delusional." He leaned over to kiss her forehead, then sat back and watched the tiny baby cradled protectively in her arms. Pale gray eyes stared back at him, the child was surprisingly quiet, just lay there watching him calmly, thumb in her mouth. "Nothing's wrong, is it? She's so quiet."
Saibh removed the thumb, instantly drawing a wail of protest from the infant. "Nothing's wrong, Cian. Stop worrying. She's a beautiful, healthy child.. We can call her Brenna, after my mother. Brenna Grey.. it has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
"It fits her." The decadence into which the room had fallen was ignored by both
Dublin, Ireland, 1902
A knock sounded at the door, and Saibh Grey shook her head and raised her voice, in order to be heard above the wailing of Brenna, a rambunctious four-year-old with a startling lung capacity. "Please, dear, do be quiet?" she pleaded with the shrieking girl. "Mummy has to answer the knock." As if understanding, Brenna suddenly fell silent, and beamed angelically at Saibh. A bit unnerved, the woman bustled towards the door, slipping her apron off as she did. "Coming!" She opened the door, and saw a familiar face standing there.
"Oh, hello, Father McGregor," Saibh said, curious. "Come in? Could I fix you something to eat – though I'm afraid there isn't much," she added apologetically, "Brenna's just thrown most of it onto the ground."
"Just a cup of tea, if it wouldn't be too much trouble to you," the older man replied, following the beckoning hand into the cramped flat. Saibh kept it as neat as she could; Father McGregor noticed thoughtfully, though with a child as exuberant as Brenna, that was at times more difficult than could be imagined. "Actually, it was about Brenna that I wished to talk to you."
"She didn't break anything of yours, did she?" Saibh asked, instantly worried and on her guard. "That girl is trouble; we love her dearly but we simply can't control anything she does!" The red-haired child in the kitchen cooed softly, putting all of Saibh's words to shame. "Oh, she doesn't sound like it now, but she's a right banshee when she wants to be."
"I'm sure," Father McGregor chuckled politely, sitting down gingerly on a chair that spouted most of its stuffing, looking as though its jugular had been punctured and its last life's blood fled towards the air. "No, she has not caused any trouble, Mrs. Grey, you don't need to worry. However… there are some unusual things which I thought that you should know."
"Unusual?" Saibh's voice hovered somewhere between concerned and flinty.
"Well, Brenna has often toddled down to my church, and borrowed the books there. I thought you would want to hear.."
"She's what?"
"Borrowing the books, Mrs. Grey. Your daughter reads better than some adults I've seen."
"But she's only four!"
"I know, Saibh… I think you've got something special here."
"MORE FOOD," demanded Brenna, from the kitchen.
Dublin, Ireland, 1906
"Buy a paper, sir?" Brenna's childish voice piped up, as Aoife joined in. The three-year old and her older sister stood on a street corner with a pile of newspapers next to them, piteous and pleading. "Papew?" Aoife asked, as a well-dressed woman passed them with a sniff. Brenna glowered at her, hating the rich-looking matron with all her young heart.
"Just 'cos we don't look as nice as you doesn't mean you can ignore us!" Brenna yelled, causing the woman to snort softly and continue on her way, muttering about street trash. The girl stood there, anger rising in her. She hated those stuck-up wealthy snobs, walking through her neighborhood and acting as though not only did they own the place, but everyone else there was unfit to live. Blood rushed to her face as she stared after the woman, wishing mightily that something bad would happen to her, like mud spattering on that new, clean dress…
"Eeee!" shrieked the woman, a puddle, seemingly of its own volition, rose up and slopped noisily against her dress. Brenna stared, amazed. I didn't make that happen. I couldn't have! It's like.. It's like.. magic. No, that's silly. No such thing as magic. I know that.
"It's been a very weird day, Aoife," Brenna told her sister.
Dublin, Ireland, 1909
The letter stood on the table before them, and four members of the Grey family stared wordlessly at it. Little Aidan was too small to understand what was going on, but he was fascinated if Brenna was. Aoife watched the paper with her usual detached air, examining it pensively, dark face expressionless and quiet. Brenna, on the other hand, bounced up and down in her seat, waiting for Father to get home before she'd open it; for now, content simply to look.
It was a thick parchment, with shining emerald ink printed on it. Her address, right down to bedroom description. Brenna turned it over to look at the back, peering at the violet wax seal with four animals on it. Lion, eagle, snake, badger, and an H. What could it possibly be? Saibh also, looked at the letter, a bit worried. "Not to mean offense, Brenna, but who would be sending mail to you? You're only ten."
"I'll be eleven in a couple of weeks," Brenna corrected with all the gravity of one poised on the edge of a birthday.
"I know," Saibh smiled.
The door opened, and Cian stumbled in, looking exhausted. Instantly, the spell of the watchers was broken and Brenna bolted from her chair and threw her arms around her father's waist. "I got a letter!" she exclaimed, tugging on his arm to entice him to move faster into the kitchen. "Come and see!" was the imperative command, forceful as the pull on his limbs.
Cian laughed, shaking his head. "I'll only come if you promise not to pull my arm off, Bren. God, you're stronger every day, milady!" She giggled and pointed to where the parchment lay waiting, silent and with an apprehensive air of its own. The girl did not think she'd be able to hold back and leave it there any longer, and it was a wonderful thing indeed that Father had returned. Above her head, the eyes of Saibh and Cian met and held, puzzled.
"I'll open it!" Brenna announced, proceeding to do that. She slid her thumb underneath the seal, prying it carefully away from the main envelope. A cautious hand tugged the letter out, reading the paper silently for a moment. "This… this has to be a joke," she exclaimed after a moment, looking up at her family. "I'm a wizard."
The Irish Sea, 1909
Brenna Grey clutched the side of the boat, looking rather green around the mouth. She was miserable, homesick, seasick, and frightened. Never had she been away from her parents for such a long period of time, with no way to speak to them except for letters, which were slow and unreliable. "Ooough," she groaned, leaning over the rail. A passing sailor patted her cheerfully on the back, thick English accent anathema to her ears, more so, his reassurance. Anything smiling, now, was hateful to her. The ship rocked back and forth, and Brenna promptly lost her lunch overboard, watching chunks of yellow-brown liquid splash into the ocean.
Hogwarts had better be worth it, she thought grimly.
Hogwarts Train Platform, England, 1909
Carriages took the older students as a woman called to them. "First years, follow me!" No one followed, yet, they milled uncertainly around the platform. Brenna shouldered her one bag, holding her worldly possessions, such as they were, and glanced around the area, searching for a familiar face. At first, none presented itself, and she stood nervously aloof, plucking at her sleeve. Then, she noted the friendly features of a girl named Eleanor, called by some Ellie. Brenna sidled over to her, offering a sickly smile. "Nervous?"
"You bet I am!" It was a typical response, from her, Brenna thought, amused. The girl was excited about everything, even when she was most likely scared stiff. It wasn't a bad quality at all, she mused, and was distracted as someone else called her name.
Todd Clayton, one of a set of twin boys exclaimed, "Hi, Brenna!" Glad to see someone else she knew, Bren waved at him to join the two girls, prompting the other brother to nudge Todd in the side, asking, "Who's your girlfriend?" There was no reply to this silliness, Brenna thought, and stuck her tongue out at Tadd.
"I'm no one's girlfriend!" Further replies, however, were lost, as the children reached a lake, upon which a fleet of tiny boats waited. Oh, no, more boats! Brenna winced mentally but climbed in with a stony face, holding tightly to the sides as they moved off. Though it drizzled lightly, she could see Hogwarts in the distance, a broodingly dark castle surrounded by the mists and fog of the rain. Mysterious, and forbidding – she liked it.
Hogwarts, England, 1909
"Grey, Brenna!" Headmaster Porter called out, and she started. Dozens of other students had already been Sorted, and the sheer number of new wizards moving into the school astounded the girl. One eyebrow raised as the headmaster looked around the room, searching for the recalcitrant student. She jolted herself out of the daydream and moved forward quickly to the stool, where she shoved the hat onto her head and sat down.
Immediately, a voice began to speak. "Well, now! What do we have here? And where shall I put you?" Brenna, through a magnificent effort at control, managed not to jump. It was only the hat, after all. It wasn't going to do anything horrible to her..
The Hat seems to be excited. "Yes, yes, one with your ability to learn will definitely not be wasted here." Wasted where? Brenna wondered, and then mentally slapped her forehead. Ravenclaw, of course. The hat was going to put her in Ravenclaw! Excited, and happy, Brenna began to stand up, though the hat continued ranting dryly. She supposed that if she was only used once a year, she'd want to talk as well. It went on in the same vein as before.
"The wit of a hundred. Or so your mind tells me. Veeeery astute. Yes, you're a quick one, Brenna Grey. A sage at your age? Quite remarkable, Brenna Grey, yes. Your craving for knowledge would be wasted just /anywhere/. Better be a RAVENCLAW." It shouted the last word to the crowd, and as Brenna watched the faces beaming at her, she was satisfied with what the future offered. As she walked forward to the table, she knew it was a beginning.
Julian Grey had, since the time of his infancy, been aware of the differences between he and the scruffy, sooty, Cockney-speaking chimney sweeps that occasionally visited his home, shimmying up the flues with minimal effort but much cursing and foul language. They fascinated him, with their devil's faces, burnt and scourged from a lifetime of ridding the dirt from a placid, frozen-over hell. Julian would watch, when he thought that Nanny was not looking, for if she caught him staring, there would be a sharp smack on his hand with the riding quirt that she always carried. That was another thing that puzzled him, Julian simply could not imagine Nanny, plump and rosy and wrinkled, upon a horse. But she and the quirt were inseparable, and though he did not fear the woman, he was terrified of the symbol of her power.
So he would sneak away from the nursery, where his younger sister Anne played calmly and uninterestedly with her dolls, a pudgy cherub completely lacking in curiosity or imagination. Hiding in the lee of the doorway, Julian would watch as the two sweeps argued back and forth, their sharp accents growing louder and then softer, as the butler cast disapproving glares their way. Julian compared everything about them. His fair, downy blond hair and their coarse stained black thatch; their ragged soot covered clothes, and his immaculately tailored nursery dress, the sort that many well-born boys wore until they were five or six. His childishly lisping but elegant voice sounded odd in his ears against the rough street argot of the Cockneys. Despite his young age, Julian attempted to find reasons why the sweeps were so dirty, and uneducated, and coarse. He could come up with no logical answer, and spent several days pondering the problem.
"Nanny, are the chimney sweeps poor?" Julian hazarded one day, leaving his palms vulnerable to the threat of the quirt.
"Yes, they are," she replied briskly, while folding a blanket into sharp quarters and placing it at the edge of his bed, "It is because they are lazy, horrible little demons who have no wish to better themselves. You, now, dearie. You are something special, above them. Never forget that."
"But—" Julian began, about to protest. The sweeps hadn't seemed much like demons.
"No buts," Nanny replied firmly, "That's the way of the world, child, and difficult as it is, you would be better to learn it now."
London, England, 1861
The swirling colors and music distracted him so that he could hardly keep a coherent sentence in his brain, but Julian Grey did not mind overmuch. There was so much to see, and so much to do, he could hardly contain his excitement. He had been to balls before, and it was always new to him, each time he attended one. So many people to meet, so many things to see and do and the wild frenzy of the dances, whirling around and around to finally collapse in a chair, panting for breath, and then rise up again to start the process anew. Nanny was right, he thought sardonically, remembering a conversation from years past. I simply cannot imagine a chimney sweep here.
At the moment, he was in the resting segment of the cycle, sprawled lazily on a bench and surveying the crowd with languid eyes. He knew exactly what they saw. Soft, almost silvery blond hair and pale gray eyes, cheeks flushed red with the exertions of the dance. They saw flawlessly tailored clothing in the latest styles, elegant without being foppish – a distinction that many young men of the era did not know how to make. The suit he wore was black with a snowy white shirt, a touch of lace at the throat and sleeves; golden cufflinks and watch chains, shining shoes. They saw a boy becoming a man, almost at his full height of six foot two, practically a giant for the time, broad shouldered and slim hipped, not handsome but possessed of an engagingly lopsided smile.
At the moment Julian was not surrounded by the usual crowd of hangers-on that followed after him, gaily chattering their gossip and jokes back and forth. He left them to their own devices, preferring to remain in his alcove and avoid the small talk, inconsequential and opinionated. A servant, in scarlet livery with gold trim, wandered by with a tray of delicately stemmed champagne glasses; he helped himself with even looking at the man. As the servant wandered off, Julian sipped absently at the bubbling drink, thinking about how nice it was to be rich, to have money, power and friends. Of course, he thought cynically, One couldn't quite call those backstabbing sharks friends.
Hopping lightly to his feet, Julian carelessly tossed the now empty champagne to another servant, this one in gold with crimson trimming, and rose to his feet – and then his heart stopped. Descending from the stairs was a… an enchantress. An ethereal beauty descended to earth. "My god," Julian whispered, transfixed. The woman was not a classic belle, some of her features were too bold and pronounced, but she had something to her, an intensity that, coupled with already formidable looks, magnified itself and left him staring.
She had a surprisingly dark complexion, dusky skin and ebon hair wrapped in a coil around her head. Deep sapphire blue eyes stared out from a strong-featured face, at once startlingly intent and dreamily absent. Neither thin nor plump, the girl seemed to be his age, perhaps a year or so younger. A royal blue dress embroidered with silver highlighted both eyes and hair, and as she walked, she seemed as though each step was premeditated, every motion thought out carefully beforehand. "My god, who is she?" Julian demanded, snagging a passing acquaintance by the sleeve.
"That, old boy, is Catherine Stanton," Ashley Taylor-St. Claire replied, tugging his arm away and making his escape.
Catherine. She had noticed his stare, and returned it, surprisingly direct for a girl of her era. A slight smile curved her mouth and he looked away first, flushing before gathering up his nerve. Am I a Grey or not? Really, Julian, you of all people, blushing like a schoolgirl at a first dance. Clearing his throat, he wove through the wildly rotating pattern of dresses and suits, making his way towards Catherine, where she stood waiting, expecting his approach and perhaps… dare he hope? Perhaps pleased by it.
"I… I haven't seen you here before," popped from his mouth before he could stop it. Mentally, he kicked himself, and for good measure, cursed fluently in French. Merde! He finished up, sighing. Had his wits deserted him? Well, obviously enough! Catherine, however, did not seem to be bothered by his sudden tangle of words, and stood, looking up at him as she fiddled with the fringe on her fan, carried in one silver-gloved hand.
"No," she agreed, intense gaze fixed on his face. "You haven't. I am Catherine Stanton."
He bowed low over her hand, kissing it lightly and nodding. "My pleasure entirely, Miss Stanton. Julian Grey."
"Yes, I've heard of your family." She sounded a little sad, and the unwavering cerulean gaze dimmed.
Baffled, Julian ran his hand through his hair, confused. "Is that a bad thing?" he asked, "I was not aware that our reputation was… tarnished in any way." Azure eyes met pale granite ones and held, and Julian lost track of the conversation for a moment, snapped back to reality when she answered.
"Your reputation, no. But your factories," Catherine murmured, voice concerned.
If anything, he was only more confused than before. "What about them? I am afraid, Miss Stevens, that I do not see what you mean."
"Your factories are not at all kind to the workers. Last year there were over a hundred that lost a limb or their lives in accidents."
The conversation, Julian thought, was gradually getting more and more surreal. Here he was, at a giant, outsized version of a birthday-party, talking to a beautiful woman in a dress that cost more than a poor man's annual income, and she was concerned about… the workers in his family's factories. It was all he could do not to laugh, or else to ask this Catherine if she was feeling sick. "Miss Stanton, they're only workers!" he exclaimed, "Accidents do happen, but most of them, you will find, came from their own negligence." Why did he feel as though he were defending his family's practices? It was not at all a question of who was at fault – that was obvious. The employees!
"Just workers?" Catherine demanded, affronted. "They have lives, as well! They—"
He interrupted, shaking his head. "…How can you say that, and come here, wearing that?" He had a point and she knew it. Instead of being angry, however, this most unusual woman merely smiled, shook her head, and motioned towards an alcove.
"We will continue the conversation."
Stanton Estates, England, 1861
The fire snapped and hissed in its place, sending up sheathes of vulpine orange flame. Julian watched it and wondered idly at his good fortune, if it could so be called. The Stanton Estates welcomed him, though he was told to avoid the third-floor east wing – which, it was said, was the residence of the mad uncle, Harold Stanton. Even above the popping of the blaze, he fancied that at times, he could hear a wailing coming from that direction
"Is something wrong, Julian?" Catherine asked, watching him shrewdly from across the room. He smiled. He had only known her for several weeks, though already she was guessing his thoughts and reading his mind. They understood each other, even if they were practically opposites in every way.
"I was just… I was thinking. It's nothing, Kate," he replied, pallid eyes languid as they surveyed her from underneath lowered lids.
"Kate?" she wanted to know, raising eyebrows above cerulean pools, mockingly sardonic, and yet teasingly warm. She was always a paradox, at her coldest, she was soft; and at her most soft, she was cold. It fascinated him, there was never a dull moment around Catherine. "Since when have I become… Kate?" A tiny smile tugged her mouth upwards, letting him know that her chilly tone was not meant to be taken personally.
"You lie, in faith, for you are called plain Kate," he quoted at her.
"You're no Petruchio, darling," she quipped.
"No," he agreed amiably. "As I hope you are no Kate. At least, not a Kate of that magnitude." Julian took a deep breath and leaned forward, fixing as intense a gaze he could manage on her face, which in so short a time had become as dear to him as his own. "Thou must be married to no man but me," he whispered, as she also put her head forward to hear.
He watched her reactions carefully. First, her eyes narrowed thoughtfully, then her expression softened. "I will marry no man but thee, Petruchio. You shall have your Kate, but to no extreme." To Julian, he thought that she had never looked so beautiful. Footsteps sounded in the hallway.
"Here comes your father: never make denial; I must and will have Catherine to my wife."
London, England, 1862
"Mother," Julian said, standing stiffly by the door as he watched Mother and Father sip their tea comfortably, entirely in their element as they watched him squirm, almost identical pairs of pale, washed out eyes staring at him coolly. It was, he imagined, much the same look that cheetahs gave to their prey before the final leap, where with a twist of the head, they broke the poor creature's back. I am the prey. He shuddered and continued. "…Mother, I have decided to marry."
"Darling, I am ever so happy for you! Who is this lucky, lucky girl?" Mother's voice chimed melodiously, her pale gray eyes threatened to pin her son where he stood, so like his own but... so cold.
"I am engaged to Catherine Stanton."
He saw the glance that flicked between woman and man, almost telepathy, but it was his mother that spoke. Father merely sat back, looked nice, and as usual, didn't open his mouth. "My dear," she said, in a rather oily tone of voice, "Do you not think that your choice is an… ah, shall I say, imprudent one? Her uncle is an invalid, locked up in his rooms. They fear constantly that he will hurt himself, or others. Her grandmother is little more than a gibbering idiot. This is the girl you wish to marry." The last sentence was as distasteful as she could make it, almost a curse.
"I love her."
"Since when has that had any bearing on marriage? Julian, you would be hurting your family if you married that girl. I will not have it. It simply will not occur. This is not a question of happiness, my boy, but of family loyalty."
"I'm going to marry her."
"Reap the chaos that you havoc."
"I will."
"Don't expect us to extricate you from any trouble caused by that woman."
"Don't worry. I won't."
London, England, 1865
Julian Grey was worried about his wife. She lay in the bed, almost as pale as the lacy sheets, bloodied and rumpled. Her azure eyes were closed and the lids stretched tightly across the curve of the eye; her cheeks seemed hollow and shadowed. The breath that emerged from her lips was ragged and rasped in her lungs. It was as though she had become a semblance of what she once was, and it scared him. The doctor bustled around her bed, mouth thin in disapproval.
"She's very weak. The baby was stillborn, and we were lucky that she survived at all." As he spoke, first one and then the other of Catherine's eyes fluttered open. She stared up at both of them accusingly, a haunted spectre of herself. She whispered something. Julian leaned closer to hear what she was saying, clasping her hands between his.
"Julian… Julian, I'm sorry."
"Catherine, it's nothing to be sorry about. Oh, God, I thought I'd lost you."
"…My fault. All my fault."
Dublin, Ireland, 1874
Catherine Grey was glad that Julian was working, as she gave birth. This time, when the baby died, he would not be there to see it, and would not suffer the grief that she did. After that first stillbirth, there had been others, and miscarriages. She wanted his children more than anything in the world; they were extensions of Julian, his beloved face showing in each of them. Push. Push, and breathe in and out. That would dispel the corpse from her body.
A wail greeted her, and for a moment, she could not remember what it was like to hear that – the first gasp of a baby meeting the cold air. No. The child was not alive. It wasn't. All the others had died, and this one, this boy that already had a fuzz of orange hair on his head, was dead too. She was not going to suffer the pain of losing another child, no, and this one simply… He was stillborn, too. Another tiny corpse to bury. She staggered to her feet, eliciting protests from her maid.
"No, Sukey," she murmured, "I'm going for a walk. Let me have that baby."
When she abandoned him in the alleys of Dublin, her only thought was that now, everything would surely be alright.
Dublin, Ireland, 1879
Cian Grey knew he did not belong in the family, though he loved his adoptive parents. Mr. and Mrs. O'Meara were kind people, and even though he called them by the honorific, it had become, in a way, a term of endearment. They were childless, and so looked upon him as their son. A sort of replacement… it wasn't what he would have wished. He wanted to be their son. That was impossible, but to his five-year-old mind he only knew that somewhere, there was a place in which he truly belonged. It just wasn't here.
Cian was vaguely aware that there were people that had nice clothes and not hand-me-downs taken from the neighbors, people that lived a life of leisure in plush homes and had servants that took care of them. However, thoughts of these people, that might or might not exist, did not trouble him. He was busy with his own work, as a sweep's assistant. At the moment, Cian's bright orange hair was caked with black soot, and he was about to shinny up the chimney, along with the thick brush that he used to clean it.
He was untroubled, an innocent. And there were always chimneys to clean, and people to talk to, and things to do. The fact that there were people better off than he was never troubled him. It was a fact of life, and already, Cian Grey was learning to accept it.
London, England, 1882
Julian Grey stood by the side of the bed, staring at the corpse of his wife. She was dead, he knew, and in some ways it was a relief. The last years of her life had been hell for he and the children, as Catherine had slipped gradually deeper into the hold of insanity. The mirror confronted him from across the room, and it showed a face lined by more than years, tight creases at the corners of his mouth and eyes. After the miscarriages, the stillbirths, she had never been the same.
The last one, the boy, he had not even been there to see. Catherine had only said that he had died, and she must be rid of him before the ghost came back to haunt her. Julian remembered, also, how he had stared disbelieving at her, not wanting to admit the truth that was in front of him: Catherine Grey was insane. His mother, who was also now in her grave, had been right. He had been a good husband, sitting with her while she ranted, wiping her mouth when she drooled, holding her down when she tried to hurt himself.
As he stared at her, though, the thin husk of the vital woman she had been, he could not admit to himself that she was dead. Catherine had been the shaping of his life, the love of his life, the focus of his every thought. Bleakly, he scrubbed a hand through his hair. And without her, things would be difficult. He knew. Her last words echoed in his head, 'I am not a household Kate.' A reference to when he had proposed. Christ, it hurt.
For the first time in many years, Julian Grey cried. The sobs shook his back, and mucus and tears mingled on his face, caking into a mass of goo, but he cried. The grief that lay at the pit of his stomach was not assuaged, but it was manageable. He cried.
Dublin, Ireland, 1897
The streets of Dublin fascinated him. If he had been another person, Cian would have been termed an academic. The way things were, however, in his circumstances, the slum-boy was seen as merely odd. He had an abstract obsession with people and places; the way things worked and why, what might happen if he did this. It was a trait that sometimes got him into trouble, for he did not pay attention to his actions, when lost in thought. A sweet but clumsy boy, and the girls of Dublin, at least his area of Dublin, thought him quite charming.
When he bothered to emerge from his absentminded scholarly daze, at least. "Hoy, Mr. Sheehan," he greeted a man amiably as he walked down the street. As he looked up towards the sky, a particular cloud caught his attention. To the boyish twenty-three year old, it looked remarkably like a cat. The clatter of horses on the cobblestone streets distracted him, as well, until he bumped into something and a woman's voice, annoyed and just a bit pained, exclaimed, "Watch where ye're goin', cíoch!"
"I'm terribly sorry," he replied, holding out a hand to help the girl to her feet.
"That's what they all say," she grumbled, straightening out her skirts and attempting to wipe the worst of the mud away from her now-soiled garment. Her accent, he noted, was native of Dublin. "Oh, no!" she exclaimed, just the noticing that the bag of groceries she'd been carrying was spilled all over the street, now completely ruined. "A ray of sunshine into my life, you are," the girl informed him. "Well? Don't just stand there gaping at me!"
"I'm sorry," Cian said abashedly, shuffling guilty in front of her. "I'll pay for them, if you wish."
"Don't bother," she said with a sigh.
"I'm Cian. Cian Grey."
"Well, that's very nice. I think I'll prefer to call you Destroyer of Vegetables, or perhaps Enemy of Bread."
He grinned at her, "That's me, Miss. Opponent of All things Grainy."
"Saibh Ahearn," she informed him.
"Can I buy you dinner, then?"
Dublin, Ireland, 1898
"She's beautiful," Saibh Grey told her husband, tired face creased in a beatific smile. She was fairly sharp of feature, though no one could say that of her now. The lines had been transformed into something glowing and radiant, the look that only a new mother could achieve. Saibh radiated maternal love in a way that was inexplicable, yet touching. "Perfect. And she looks like you."
"Perfect and looks like me?" Cian joked, "Saibh, you must be weaker than you thought. You're delusional." He leaned over to kiss her forehead, then sat back and watched the tiny baby cradled protectively in her arms. Pale gray eyes stared back at him, the child was surprisingly quiet, just lay there watching him calmly, thumb in her mouth. "Nothing's wrong, is it? She's so quiet."
Saibh removed the thumb, instantly drawing a wail of protest from the infant. "Nothing's wrong, Cian. Stop worrying. She's a beautiful, healthy child.. We can call her Brenna, after my mother. Brenna Grey.. it has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
"It fits her." The decadence into which the room had fallen was ignored by both
Dublin, Ireland, 1902
A knock sounded at the door, and Saibh Grey shook her head and raised her voice, in order to be heard above the wailing of Brenna, a rambunctious four-year-old with a startling lung capacity. "Please, dear, do be quiet?" she pleaded with the shrieking girl. "Mummy has to answer the knock." As if understanding, Brenna suddenly fell silent, and beamed angelically at Saibh. A bit unnerved, the woman bustled towards the door, slipping her apron off as she did. "Coming!" She opened the door, and saw a familiar face standing there.
"Oh, hello, Father McGregor," Saibh said, curious. "Come in? Could I fix you something to eat – though I'm afraid there isn't much," she added apologetically, "Brenna's just thrown most of it onto the ground."
"Just a cup of tea, if it wouldn't be too much trouble to you," the older man replied, following the beckoning hand into the cramped flat. Saibh kept it as neat as she could; Father McGregor noticed thoughtfully, though with a child as exuberant as Brenna, that was at times more difficult than could be imagined. "Actually, it was about Brenna that I wished to talk to you."
"She didn't break anything of yours, did she?" Saibh asked, instantly worried and on her guard. "That girl is trouble; we love her dearly but we simply can't control anything she does!" The red-haired child in the kitchen cooed softly, putting all of Saibh's words to shame. "Oh, she doesn't sound like it now, but she's a right banshee when she wants to be."
"I'm sure," Father McGregor chuckled politely, sitting down gingerly on a chair that spouted most of its stuffing, looking as though its jugular had been punctured and its last life's blood fled towards the air. "No, she has not caused any trouble, Mrs. Grey, you don't need to worry. However… there are some unusual things which I thought that you should know."
"Unusual?" Saibh's voice hovered somewhere between concerned and flinty.
"Well, Brenna has often toddled down to my church, and borrowed the books there. I thought you would want to hear.."
"She's what?"
"Borrowing the books, Mrs. Grey. Your daughter reads better than some adults I've seen."
"But she's only four!"
"I know, Saibh… I think you've got something special here."
"MORE FOOD," demanded Brenna, from the kitchen.
Dublin, Ireland, 1906
"Buy a paper, sir?" Brenna's childish voice piped up, as Aoife joined in. The three-year old and her older sister stood on a street corner with a pile of newspapers next to them, piteous and pleading. "Papew?" Aoife asked, as a well-dressed woman passed them with a sniff. Brenna glowered at her, hating the rich-looking matron with all her young heart.
"Just 'cos we don't look as nice as you doesn't mean you can ignore us!" Brenna yelled, causing the woman to snort softly and continue on her way, muttering about street trash. The girl stood there, anger rising in her. She hated those stuck-up wealthy snobs, walking through her neighborhood and acting as though not only did they own the place, but everyone else there was unfit to live. Blood rushed to her face as she stared after the woman, wishing mightily that something bad would happen to her, like mud spattering on that new, clean dress…
"Eeee!" shrieked the woman, a puddle, seemingly of its own volition, rose up and slopped noisily against her dress. Brenna stared, amazed. I didn't make that happen. I couldn't have! It's like.. It's like.. magic. No, that's silly. No such thing as magic. I know that.
"It's been a very weird day, Aoife," Brenna told her sister.
Dublin, Ireland, 1909
The letter stood on the table before them, and four members of the Grey family stared wordlessly at it. Little Aidan was too small to understand what was going on, but he was fascinated if Brenna was. Aoife watched the paper with her usual detached air, examining it pensively, dark face expressionless and quiet. Brenna, on the other hand, bounced up and down in her seat, waiting for Father to get home before she'd open it; for now, content simply to look.
It was a thick parchment, with shining emerald ink printed on it. Her address, right down to bedroom description. Brenna turned it over to look at the back, peering at the violet wax seal with four animals on it. Lion, eagle, snake, badger, and an H. What could it possibly be? Saibh also, looked at the letter, a bit worried. "Not to mean offense, Brenna, but who would be sending mail to you? You're only ten."
"I'll be eleven in a couple of weeks," Brenna corrected with all the gravity of one poised on the edge of a birthday.
"I know," Saibh smiled.
The door opened, and Cian stumbled in, looking exhausted. Instantly, the spell of the watchers was broken and Brenna bolted from her chair and threw her arms around her father's waist. "I got a letter!" she exclaimed, tugging on his arm to entice him to move faster into the kitchen. "Come and see!" was the imperative command, forceful as the pull on his limbs.
Cian laughed, shaking his head. "I'll only come if you promise not to pull my arm off, Bren. God, you're stronger every day, milady!" She giggled and pointed to where the parchment lay waiting, silent and with an apprehensive air of its own. The girl did not think she'd be able to hold back and leave it there any longer, and it was a wonderful thing indeed that Father had returned. Above her head, the eyes of Saibh and Cian met and held, puzzled.
"I'll open it!" Brenna announced, proceeding to do that. She slid her thumb underneath the seal, prying it carefully away from the main envelope. A cautious hand tugged the letter out, reading the paper silently for a moment. "This… this has to be a joke," she exclaimed after a moment, looking up at her family. "I'm a wizard."
The Irish Sea, 1909
Brenna Grey clutched the side of the boat, looking rather green around the mouth. She was miserable, homesick, seasick, and frightened. Never had she been away from her parents for such a long period of time, with no way to speak to them except for letters, which were slow and unreliable. "Ooough," she groaned, leaning over the rail. A passing sailor patted her cheerfully on the back, thick English accent anathema to her ears, more so, his reassurance. Anything smiling, now, was hateful to her. The ship rocked back and forth, and Brenna promptly lost her lunch overboard, watching chunks of yellow-brown liquid splash into the ocean.
Hogwarts had better be worth it, she thought grimly.
Hogwarts Train Platform, England, 1909
Carriages took the older students as a woman called to them. "First years, follow me!" No one followed, yet, they milled uncertainly around the platform. Brenna shouldered her one bag, holding her worldly possessions, such as they were, and glanced around the area, searching for a familiar face. At first, none presented itself, and she stood nervously aloof, plucking at her sleeve. Then, she noted the friendly features of a girl named Eleanor, called by some Ellie. Brenna sidled over to her, offering a sickly smile. "Nervous?"
"You bet I am!" It was a typical response, from her, Brenna thought, amused. The girl was excited about everything, even when she was most likely scared stiff. It wasn't a bad quality at all, she mused, and was distracted as someone else called her name.
Todd Clayton, one of a set of twin boys exclaimed, "Hi, Brenna!" Glad to see someone else she knew, Bren waved at him to join the two girls, prompting the other brother to nudge Todd in the side, asking, "Who's your girlfriend?" There was no reply to this silliness, Brenna thought, and stuck her tongue out at Tadd.
"I'm no one's girlfriend!" Further replies, however, were lost, as the children reached a lake, upon which a fleet of tiny boats waited. Oh, no, more boats! Brenna winced mentally but climbed in with a stony face, holding tightly to the sides as they moved off. Though it drizzled lightly, she could see Hogwarts in the distance, a broodingly dark castle surrounded by the mists and fog of the rain. Mysterious, and forbidding – she liked it.
Hogwarts, England, 1909
"Grey, Brenna!" Headmaster Porter called out, and she started. Dozens of other students had already been Sorted, and the sheer number of new wizards moving into the school astounded the girl. One eyebrow raised as the headmaster looked around the room, searching for the recalcitrant student. She jolted herself out of the daydream and moved forward quickly to the stool, where she shoved the hat onto her head and sat down.
Immediately, a voice began to speak. "Well, now! What do we have here? And where shall I put you?" Brenna, through a magnificent effort at control, managed not to jump. It was only the hat, after all. It wasn't going to do anything horrible to her..
The Hat seems to be excited. "Yes, yes, one with your ability to learn will definitely not be wasted here." Wasted where? Brenna wondered, and then mentally slapped her forehead. Ravenclaw, of course. The hat was going to put her in Ravenclaw! Excited, and happy, Brenna began to stand up, though the hat continued ranting dryly. She supposed that if she was only used once a year, she'd want to talk as well. It went on in the same vein as before.
"The wit of a hundred. Or so your mind tells me. Veeeery astute. Yes, you're a quick one, Brenna Grey. A sage at your age? Quite remarkable, Brenna Grey, yes. Your craving for knowledge would be wasted just /anywhere/. Better be a RAVENCLAW." It shouted the last word to the crowd, and as Brenna watched the faces beaming at her, she was satisfied with what the future offered. As she walked forward to the table, she knew it was a beginning.