Disclaimer / Author's Note I do not own the Harry Potter Universe or its characters. I merely own the original characters you don't recognise.Thank you for reading. I am very excited to be writing this. It's extremely fun to toy with my idea of another Potter. This story will also be updated weekly.

Description Aurora J. Potter grew up privileged, with the price of having to follow all the rules that comes with being a respected pure-blood in wizarding society. She can't choose her own clothes, her own friends, or even her own likes and dislikes. Though she soon realises that her thoughts may not be her own either. There is a bounty out for her head, and there is a psychopath determined to collect it.

Small Note I apologise for the long wait. For questions about the series please contact my Tumblr for now. @Evanescent-art. I am working on my own book series so I am wanting a little patience. Aurora is far from done, though.

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Chapter Nine

Thinker's Tradition

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"And you just know he was talking about Harry Potter?"

Dole sounded as though he didn't believe me. His eyebrow was arched, he only spared me a glance, and when he wasn't stuffing his face with food his lips were pursed. I was impatient enough to quickly lose my temper. The one thing that I hated more than anything was when someone insisted I was lying, even when I knew I was telling the truth. Especially when I had no way to prove that I wasn't lying. Crossing my arms, I narrowed my eyes in a way that practically accused him of such.

He put his hands up as if he were defending himself. "Aurora, give me a break," he insisted, drawing out a sigh. "It's not that I don't believe you, it's just that I don't believe he was referring to. . .well, The-Boy-Who-Lived." he paused to push a spoonful of yogurt into his mouth, sliding a bowl of fruit in my face in hopes of persuading me to eat. He clearly thought that I was fretting over what I feared he thought was nothing. Dole swallowed, then continued. "He's all the way across the ocean. You're here. Plus, I thought it was Ilvermorny rumor that you were related to him?"

My eyes rolled before I could stop myself. Normally, I wouldn't. Not at Dole, but it was more at the fancy title that this boy had gotten since he was a mere babe in the crib than it was at Dole's ignorance. Or, rather, it was just the painful reminder of a truth that I was trying hard to separate myself from.

"Well," I began, greedily taking a whole thing of grapes to myself and beginning to stack them on my blank canvas of a cheesecake I'd had in front of me. "It's not," then I added after a pregnant pause: "Unfortunately."

This time, both of his eyebrows raised with interest. I studied him, wondering if he saw me in some sort of new light with the revelation. Yet, he showed no more and no less than just being in a state of shock and interest. Even so, I still immediately regretted saying anything and hoped he could manage to keep his voice down a bit, as I was. Lord knew that I didn't need the publicity if this got out. Dole couldn't even eat another spoonful of his yogurt.

"Wow," he set his fork down and tapped his fingers onto the marble table. "Who else knows?"

My mind strained to think. It was as if I felt some pulsing headache coming on. "Aunt Marlene, Anne, Hamilton. . ." I trailed off slightly when I saw Dole's expression. He looked thrown off. I felt embarassed, realising the slight error I'd made by openly admitting that I nearly told my life's story to a portrait. Nevertheless, I continued a little more warily than before. Surely, he could understand. "I suspect that the headmaster knows, too."

He would know, I inwardly corrected myself. Of course he would. Perhaps that was why he singled me out, because of the British Golden Boy himself. If possible, I felt my resentment deepen even more. It was confusing how much I hated someone that I'd never even met before.

Dole's voice took me from my bitter thoughts. "If you don't mind me asking," he began, his tone treading carefully. He waited for me to look him in the eye before he spoke again, pushing his plate away as if he's lost his appetite. "What is he to you?" he frowned in thought. Perhaps, he was drawing up his own conclusions. I could only imagine and made a face at him.

"Absolutely nothing."

He stared at me. "You know what I mean," Dole elaborated. "Are you. . . you know, his cousin? long lost scandalous sister?" he turned away from me and stared at the ceiling in wonder, like it'd give him the answers. "I didn't think Lily and James Potter had a daughter or something."

I let him talk for only a short while longer before I the creeping feeling of anxiety became too much to bare. "I'm his cousin," I snapped. "On my father's side." and, technically, my mother's as well, seeing as she was from the Rosier line. Which was closely related to the Black family line, and inevitably, the Potters' as well. We weren't even a family tree, more like a family wreath. The thought was something I never really came to terms with ever since Anne had told me. It made me uncomfortable how casual she'd been about it.

Dole looked apologetic. "Sorry," he lowered his voice a little. "I was just curious, hon."

I nodded and shifted away from him, poking at the food that I no longer had a desire for, oddly. It was silent between us then. Neither of us were willing to press any further for fear of putting further strain on the conversation. Good. It gave me the time I needed to think of my next move. About the murderer on the loose in the castle and this prophecy that I'd just gotten. If it could even be called that. Anne had told me that seers were rather rare, but not that rare. Here, seers who'd mastered their skills enough strived to make a career out of it. But Anne had also said that they were nothing but scam artists that liked to mess with muggles.

I hardly remembered much of the man last night. It was dark and he had a pretty detailed costume on. The memory itself was blurry the second he implied that I wasn't supposed to be here. Wasn't supposed to be alive. I was - am - scared.

"You should tell an adult. About the seer, I mean," Dole said suddenly. I frowned.

"I told you."

"I'm not an adult."

"But you're a big kid," I pointed out, crossing my arms over my chest and narrowing my eyes at him. "And a prexy!" Surely, he could tell me what to do. Or pull some strings with the adults to get them to do something about it. No matter how the cookie crumbled, as the muggle saying went, I needed answers. But Dole only shrugged his shoulders at me. I pressed my lips into a thin line before standing up abruptly. Perhaps, I did have to tell someone. Only problem was that hardly anyone liked me here.

But I knew who'd listen to me. He didn't have a choice.

"Hear me cry!"

"I find it rather odd that you'd come to me," Alexander Hamilton said to me, glancing down at me with a calculating expression. Despite how weird it may look, I sat on the cold floor criss-crossed in front of his portrait. I didn't have long. Soon, the recreational period would be over and we'd have to attend our last two classes for the day. Perhaps, I should've came to him afterwards, though my anxiety didn't allow me to wait that long.

"Why?" I asked. "You're a grown up."

He almost laughed. "Yes, but I'm afraid I wasn't a seer," he informed me with his brows knitted together. "I'd have seen a lot of things coming if I had been."

Then, he did laugh. As if the joke had been truly funny. Though, the humor was missing from him. Upon my silence, he cleared his throat and put his hands behind his back in the same way I'd seen men do so often. It was weird to me, but, I chose to be quiet. To sit there and wait for an answer to come to me. He was the only one that I truly trusted in this damn castle. I wouldn't leave until he gave me something. Anything.

And he saw that and softened. "Look, the only seer I knew in my day was my dear wife," he told me, which only peaked my interest just a little. "But I'm afraid she doesn't like talking about it much. More so when she was alive."

The question couldn't be held back. "Why?" I pressed, watching as he shifted uncomfortably. I didn't understand. What was so bad about being a seer? To be able to see the future when hardly any other witch or wizard could? It seemed like a gift to me, to which I'd unknowingly said out loud.

He recoiled at my words. "To some, it is nothing more than a curse," he told me. "And even to those who choose to dally in the greener grass will find a patch that's dull."

I came for answers, not riddles. My mind couldn't make any sense out of the words that's just came from his painted mouth, though I tried. Maybe to Eliza, it'd been something of a bad thing. I didn't see how. It wasn't as if seers could even remember if they've given a prophecy. That's what I'd been told. Yet, could it be different than what I thought? My head throbbed. Quickly, I was becoming more frustrated as I kept drawing up blanks in my head.

Before I could ask, I heard footsteps behind me that were fast approaching. I stood up and wiped my skirt to walk away, but it was too late. I turned just in time to see Dora Calderon, alone, staring at me as if she'd never seen a pissed off redhead that'd had a bad day before.

"What?" I snarled, fixing my face into that if a threatening one. She seemed surprised at my nerve, I could tell. But her expression changed quickly.

Dora glanced behind me at Hamilton, then back to me before her lip curled. Not exactly in disgust, more more so amusement. "People said they saw little Potter Pure-Blood talking to ghosts," she began, taking a step towards me as if that'd scare me. "Talking to paintings. . . still can't make real friends?"

I heard Hamilton mumble something smartly from behind me, but I could defend myself well enough. I think. After all, I'd dealt with her all of our lives. And that large thing on her face that she fooled herself into calling her nose. But, the nickname threw me off. It should he a compliment, really. A pure-blood was what I was. In the flesh, from the two most eldest family lines in history. One of which was part of the sacred twenty-eight lines. But at the same time, that meant nothing thanks to some who decided to go down the blood traitor route.

My hands went to both hips when I managed to find a response. "Have you, Dora?" I asked of her. "I believe I heard Dewie talking of how you were hanging around Collette Shulster. You know, the mudblood in second year?" While Dora seemed to show no reaction towards the word, I heard Hamilton - and a few other portraits within earshot - either bristle or scowl in our direction. I paid no mind to them. Any of them. Even Hamilton who had sighed from behind me. I felt a small ache at the thought of his disapproval. But I continued anyway to hit my point home. "It'd be a shame if I wrote to Anne of it. She'd tell your father, you know."

To see her stiffen gave me a sense of pleasure.

"You always tattle," Dora's voice became low. "And, Dewie knows nothing. You know that.

And I did. Yet, it still didn't change the fact that even the most doting of pureblood parents in our family inner circle would give their child quite the lashing if that got back to them about Dora's choice of company. All it took was a simple stroke of a pen to give this girl her own personal hell for a few weeks.

Observing her from top to toe, I noticed that he demeanor suddenly changed, though, couldn't really put a finger on why. Dora looked like she'd wanted to say something to me as always but was holding herself back for whatever reason. But that part I didn't really care about. So long as I'd gotten my point across, like I truly believed I did in that moment, I'd go on with my day. So, I took her silence as an invitation to poke the bear a little more. Even going as far as to put on the most threatening smile that I'd hoped was scary enough. Even if it wasn't, I was sure my words would be.

"All it takes is one letter," I shrugged at her, then straightened my back to try and look a bit more superior than her. She took a step back, but somehow my mind told me that it wasn't because of any bite it was afraid of, it was just the bark in this case. And, irritated at that thought pricking at my corners, I added: "Try me if you want, Dora."

Dora bristled. there was a small silence that stretched between us for a few seconds. The last thing I wanted was to be in a staring contest with this girl, but her nose made it easy anyhow. "Screw you," she eventually settled with that. In my head, Dora realised she'd lost. "At least I'm talking to someone."

The comment stung more than I'd liked. Lucky for me, she looked more hurt than I did.

I made sure to bump her shoulder when I'd shoved past her as if we were in a crowded hallway, ignoring the way I'd jerked back from doing it. I was uncomfortable with the thoughts that were trying to make their way into my head. "Is that really a someone?" I'd asked, and forced a laugh for good measure before stalking off.

When I looked back, I saw Hamilton's disapproving frown boring into my back, then into my eyes when our gazes locked.

"..."

Elizabeth Hamilton was, and still is, a very interesting, peculiar, and mysterious figure in history.

I was ashamed to admit that since I'd unknowingly spoken to her portrait that I was far too intimidated to go back. Of course, she was kind and gentle. She gave off that aura when I had to walk past her every day on my way to class. But, that didn't change the fact that I somewhat viewed her as more of a celebrity now than I did Alexander, whom became more of a friend to me than anything. Perhaps I was scared of how she viewed me. . .

My eyes began to hurt and the words on the pages began to blur a bit. When I'd looked up, I almost hissed at the intensity of my surroundings. I'd had my eyes glued to the pages for so long that the time became lost and I realised that the library became dimmed with the light. I was dark outside, from when I looked out the window next to me. I could hardly see the infinite snow that coated the school grounds even during the summer days.

For a moment I thought that I was past my bedtime. But if I were, certainly the keeper would've told me?

I glanced at the wall clock. 6:55 p.m. It was nearing time for me to go back, so I stood and folded a page of the book into itself to save my space, making my way to the exit. Only my foot went past the double doors, as the second that I attempted to leave I was suddenly sent staggering back with my grip loosening on the book. It fell to the floor, It's pages squished onto the marble in an awkward position. My skin only stung mildly.

"Has nobody told you that the doors been charmed?" An amused voice said from behind me. "You can't leave without a stamp in the book, sweetheart."

I'd forgotten that part. Still, I sent a withering look behind me as if she'd been responsible somehow. I glanced down at her Prexy badge, but to hell with it, I let the words slip. "Do I look stupid to you?" I accused, bending down to snatch the book from the floor and flatten the pages back. She said nothing. Only using her finger to beckon me closer to the check-out counter, and, having no choice but to comply, I stepped up to her and thrust the book in her direction while I looked down at the name engraved on her badge. Tilly Haller took a moment to peer at the cover.

And she laughed. "Women of America?" she spoke the title as if she'd read this before, opening the front of the cover and wielding the stamp over a the black box. the second she sealed it, there was a faint silver glow. When she pulled back I saw the time stamp in the box - like a countdown. She spoke again: "What chapter are you on? Pocahontas? Amelia Earhart?"

"Elizabeth Hamilton," I elaborated, taking the book and tucking it under my arm when she was finished. Then, my features softened a bit and I shuffled my feet a bit nervously. ". . .Do you, well. . . know anything about her?" at the tip of my tongue, I'd wanted to ask what her blood status is. or - was.

Tilly thought about my question for a bit in silence. "She opened the first orphanage in America. Raised a bunch of kids, muggles and magic alike. . . woman was practically a saint." she shrugged her shoulders. "I didn't get that far in the book, but, I'd go talk to her portrait if you're so curious. . ." she trailed off when she realised what she'd said. I frowned at her, my face hardening when she muttered an apology. An empty one, I believed.

My face grew a bit hot. "You see it as weird, but I see it as them holding better conversations than real people ever could," I'd snapped, turning on my heel to stomp out of the library. I even called out behind me out of some odd spite. "And she happened to be a seer!"

The door slammed behind me.

I stood there and debated my next move, which should have been the obvious good-girl choice of just going back to my common room and resting my head there. Especially after a long day. Though my eyes trailed in the direction I knew that Elizabeth Hamilton's portrait was. Part of me wanted to suck it up and march down there. After all, I had a bit of time before I had to head back. That is, until I heard rapid footsteps coming towards my direction. My first instinct was to hide, but I froze instead.

Much to my reluctant luck, the headmaster has not noticed me.

he paused a little ways away from me, leaning against the wall as he lifted his balled fist to cough into it. The man looked sick. Sicker than I'd ever seen him. I didn't think I'd ever seen a person sweat so much. The back and front of his buttoned navy blue shirt was drenched around the neckline. I questioned whether to make my presence known to him. Perhaps even offer to help. However, he quickly regained his composure and continued down the hallway without so much as a glance towards me.

The opportunity presented itself, it seemed.

I took a step in the opposite direction, making my way towards Mrs. Hamilton's portrait. Knots formed in my stomach the closer I got. The back of my mind even began to try and convince me that this was a bad idea. Though, I tried to shove the reluctance down. Somehow, I wondered if my hair looked nice.

When I saw her, she paid me no mind at first. She held a book in her delicate hand, eyes roaming over the pages ever so slowly. Did she know that I was standing before her? My face grew a little hot and I cleared my throat audibly to get her attention. Despite this, she still did not look up at me. Only smiled faintly and gave a small hum. "Hello again, my dear," she greeted in that calm, gentle voice. "I was expecting you," she closed her book and settled it on her lap, crossing her arms over it and straightening her posture. "You had some questions, I assume?"

That itself answered one of them. A good thing, as I couldn't find the voice to ask further. I swallowed. "You see things that happen before they do," he stated the obvious, nearly kicking myself when I saw her arch a brow at me. "I. . . I want to know if you still can, even when. . . when. . ." somehow, I did not want to be insensitive. I hoped she caught on to what I was trying to say. Though I assumed it was a dumb question if she knew already that I was coming.

Elizabeth leaned forward. "Prophecies and visions?" she asked me. "Not anymore. See, this may be a hard pill to swallow, love, but I'm not exactly the real Elizabeth Hamilton. I just have her memories - and was only left with her intuition, of course," she explained. and although I knew that, somewhat, I felt a tightening in my chest at the reminder. "Nevertheless, such a restriction shouldn't hinder my ability to answer."

"Oh."

She smiled a bit sadly.

"From what I understand, when you die, you have options. . ." She trailed off. Elizabeth was speaking slowly and delicately now, as if trying to carefully step around ever flower in a garden. "Some can choose to be ghosts. Others portraits, such as Alexander over there. And those who are smart - they move on to find out if heaven or hell is real after all."

My eyes didn't blink for a bit as the heavy information settled into the pit of my stomach. That, there, was the real Alexander Hamilton I spoke to. But before me, was not the real Elizabeth Hamilton. The realization didn't sit well in my mind and I found myself queasy at the thought.

I manged to regain composure. "Why would anyone choose to be a portrait?" I asked, fearing the answer, assuming it was a more disturbing reason than I envisioned. Elizabeth sighed and looked around. Other portraits looked as though they strained their ears to listen, not even caring if it looked obvious, while others had their heads turned.

Her eyes drifted back to me and she took several beats of silence before she spoke again. "Child," she began. "When someone has a fear - of the dark. of heights. even something as small as bees - each of these fears are the surface of what everyone is truly afraid of," she explained. "The unknown. . . people like Alexander Hamilton, of Marie Antionette, of Henry VIII. . . they all feared what would come next after their death. So much so that they'd do anything to avoid a confrontation with the unknown and become something they may live an eternity to regret."

I never knew Henry VIII to be magical. "Muggles have a choice as well?" the way I'd said it had more disgust than I'd intended. Elizabeth frowned at me, but she did not address it directly.

"Yes," she confirmed. "Because at the end of life, we all face death regardless of what and who we are. It is the one thing that all of us have in common."

I had absolutely nothing to say to that.

"But if you're. . . not the real Elizabeth Hamilton, how are you talking to me now?" I questioned instead. "There are pictures that don't move, and pictures that do that you said -"

"- Most portraits are in denial, darling," she cut me off. "They think they're the real person when they are indeed not. Those paintings that are not the actual person, that is. Rare that any portrait is as self aware as I, but it is this reason that it is hard to tell the difference between who is really who," she elaborated. "But one thing is certain - I remember every single detail of Elizabeth Hamilton's life. That's how you tell. Paintings that are just paintings hold every detail of the person's life. It's why it feels to real to them. Hard to come to terms with the fact that the real person is long gone. . ."

As she said this, an indescribable look came onto her face. Her face was hardened and her eyes became a bit strained. Like she were in pain.

She continued. "All you need to know is that there are two kinds of portraits, dear," she opened her book back up. "I'm afraid I've said too much."

She said so much and so little at the same time, In my opinion.

"And what about poltergeists?" I was pushing my luck. "Can someone choose to be one of those?"

Elizabeth stopped, her hand halting mid page turn. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw some portraits turn completely away from the conversation at the moment. My face heated as Mrs. Hamilton's eyes sized me up for what felt like a long, long time. There was nothing written on her expression. nothing. somehow, it made me more nervous. I began to prefer her show anger instead.

After the quiet stretched for a bit, she opened her mouth. then closed it again. then again. "What on God's green earth would you want to know about that?" her tone was grave. tense. that alone made me guess that she wasn't going to answer my question. not at first, that is. my feet suddenly began to hurt. he weight of the conversation was crushing me and I felt nothing but regret that I came in the first place.

I struggled to speak. "I. . .I just thought -"

"- Whatever you thought, you thought wrong."

My lips pressed into a thin line. I knew it was the end of that conversation.

"..."