Tom Riddle was an unlucky bastard.
But fate had a strange way of balancing the scales. He lucked out with the Slytherin bloodline, a lineage steeped in cunning, ambition, and ancient magic. To carry the blood of Salazar Slytherin was to inherit a legacy of power, one that came with the ability to speak Parseltongue and access the forbidden arts of Parslemagic. This bloodline was not merely a source of pride—it was a gateway to the arcane and the taboo, a wellspring of magic so potent it bordered on the forbidden.
Anne Sallow, fascinated by the secrets of magic, had long been drawn to the Slytherin legacy. Parseltongue, the ability to commune with snakes, was a language of power and mystery. But it was Parselmagic that truly captured her imagination. This branch of magic, laced with serpentine energy, was almost forgotten in the modern wizarding world, buried under layers of fear and superstition. To wield Parselmagic was to walk a delicate line between brilliance and condemnation, for its association with the Dark Arts rendered it taboo. Anne, however, saw the art for what it was: a unique and powerful tool, demonized by those who feared its potential.
Her fascination wasn't born of mere curiosity—it was tied to her family's history. Her great-grandfather, Sebastian Sallow, had once been close friends with Ominis Gaunt, a descendant of the Slytherin line. Their friendship had been fraught with complexity. Ominis carried the weight of a dark and cursed bloodline, his family infamous for their obsession with purity and their use of forbidden magic. Yet, Ominis had rejected the worst of his heritage, sharing with Sebastian only glimpses of his knowledge—enough to ignite a spark of curiosity in future generations.
Anne often thought about those exchanges between Sebastian and Ominis. While Sebastian had never dabbled in the darkest arts himself, he had been a seeker of truth, unafraid to explore the boundaries of what was considered acceptable. Ominis had shared stories of the Gaunts' use of Parslemagic, spells that blurred the line between the natural and the unnatural. These magics, often classified as "black magic," were intertwined with their language and bloodline. Anne couldn't help but be intrigued by the possibilities.
In her own time, Anne had delved into the forbidden texts that hinted at the power of Parslemagic. Many of these spells were branded as taboo for their potential to manipulate life forces, control creatures, and bend reality in ways most wizards couldn't comprehend. But Anne viewed them differently. Magic, she believed, was not inherently good or evil—it was the intent of the caster that defined its morality. To her, the stigma surrounding such magic was a relic of fear, a refusal to confront the true depth of what magic could achieve.
Anne's interest in black magic, however, was tempered by caution. She had seen too many examples of wizards corrupted by their lust for power. Even her great-grandfather had warned against recklessness, recounting stories of Ominis's family's downfall, consumed by their own arrogance. Yet, Anne believed that knowledge was power, and power could be wielded responsibly. If she could master these arts without succumbing to their darkness, she might unlock something extraordinary.
As Anne studied the legacy of Slytherin, she felt a kinship with Ominis Gaunt. He had been a reluctant heir to a cursed lineage, yet he had found strength in his friendship with Sebastian. Anne hoped to honor that connection by reclaiming the power of Parseltongue and Parselmagic—not as tools of domination, but as a means of understanding the balance between light and shadow. To her, the Slytherin bloodline was not a curse, but a challenge—one she was determined to rise to, even if it meant embracing the taboo in pursuit of the truth.
Anne exhaled quietly, her fingers tracing the edge of the book's worn leather cover one final time before closing it with a soft thud. Dream Hauntings and Their Significance felt heavy in more ways than one, as though it carried the weight of her strange dreams and the answers she wasn't yet ready to confront. She glanced at the nearby pile of books, each bearing the mark of her fascination with the Slytherin legacy—texts on Parseltongue, bloodline magic, and the dark yet alluring history of the Gaunt family.
Her fingers hovered over the pile for a moment. These books represented power, secrets, and a connection to the past she couldn't ignore. Yet this particular tome felt different. It wasn't tied to the Slytherin name, nor to the shadow of Salazar's legacy. This was personal.
"This one belongs apart," she murmured to herself, a thoughtful expression on her face.
With care, Anne picked up the book and stepped toward a smaller shelf on the far side of the library. It was an unassuming corner, tucked away from the prominence of her great-grandfather's curated collection. She placed Dream Hauntings and Their Significance there, alone, as if it were waiting for the right moment to be called upon again.
She stood back, her arms crossed, and studied its placement. It felt right, keeping it separate. The Slytherin collection was a testament to ambition, cunning, and mastery over external forces, but this book whispered of something deeper, more intimate. The knowledge it contained wasn't about legacy or bloodlines; it was about her.
Anne turned away, her thoughts a quiet storm of curiosity and restraint. She wasn't abandoning the book—far from it. She was simply giving herself time. Time to understand her dreams. Time to prepare for whatever lay ahead.
The library fell silent once more, the only sound the faint crackling of the enchanted lamp. The book sat on its solitary shelf, waiting patiently, much like the monsters in her dreams. They would return, and when they did, Anne would be ready. For now, she returned to the pile of Slytherin tomes, her sharp mind already shifting gears. There was still so much to learn, and she would take it all step by step.
Anne closed the book with a soft, decisive motion, her face impassive but her heart heavy. The chapter on Blood Force—a twisted, corrupted form of magical energy born from suffering—had left her with a hollow ache. It wasn't just the grim reality of what she had read, but the stark inevitability of it. A magic that began as desperate protection, created in the cores of children who had known nothing but pain, only to turn against them in the end. A cruel paradox.
She rested her hand on the closed cover, staring into the distance as the words lingered in her mind. Blood Force was no gift. It was a curse, born from anguish and perpetuated by its own corrosive nature. Initially, it protected its host, a shield born out of desperation, but at a terrible price. It fed on its own magical ice core, a slow self-destruction that hollowed the child from the inside out.
"No one has survived it past thirteen," Anne murmured to herself. Her voice was steady, but her thoughts churned with unease. All but one.
She couldn't ignore that detail. The book had been frustratingly vague about the exception—a child who had defied the inevitable, whose fate had diverged from the tragic pattern. There was no name, no explanation, just a mention that hinted at possibility. But possibility wasn't certainty, and Anne couldn't shake the despair that clung to the subject.
"What a sad fate," she whispered, running her thumb over the book's cracked spine.
Her dreams of grotesque creatures suddenly felt tame compared to the horror of real children enduring such a slow, insidious death. She thought of the desperation it must take for a magical core to fracture in such a way, turning to Blood Force as a last resort. She thought of the loneliness, the isolation, and the inevitability that none of them had survived their first magical maturity—save for one anomaly.
Anne's sharp mind began turning over the puzzle. Who was the exception, and how had they survived? Was there a way to stop Blood Force from hollowing its host, or was it a fluke of fate? The book offered no answers, only a grim tale with one faint flicker of hope buried deep within.
She leaned back in her chair, staring at the library ceiling as her thoughts spiraled. Blood Force was a tragedy, yes, but it was also a challenge. If one child had survived, even against all odds, then there had to be a way.
"I won't believe it's hopeless," she muttered, her voice firmer now. "Not entirely."
Anne set the book aside, her resolve hardening. It was another mystery, another piece of the puzzle she would one day unravel. For now, though, she could only carry the knowledge with her, its weight a reminder of the world's darkness and her role in understanding it.
Anne leaned forward in her chair, the memory striking her like a lightning bolt. Her fingers hovered over the spine of the book she had just set aside, trembling slightly as her mind pieced together the threads.
Tom Riddle.
The name surfaced from the depths of her inherited memories, fragments of a story long buried. She wasn't sure how she knew it, but she did. There was no doubt in her mind—Tom Riddle had survived the curse of Blood Force.
"What an unlucky bastard," Anne whispered to herself, the words from her dream echoing in her mind. The phrase had been strange when she first heard it, delivered in that dark, distorted voice that haunted her dreams. Now, it made sense. Tom Riddle was both a victim and an anomaly, his survival of Blood Force as much a curse as it was a miracle.
She closed her eyes, the weight of realization settling over her. Riddle's life had been marked by tragedy and desperation, the perfect breeding ground for the corrupted magic described in the book. His time in the Muggle orphanage, the cruelty he had endured, and the isolation he had faced—it all fit too perfectly. Blood Force, born of suffering, would have found fertile ground in a child like him.
But how had he survived?
Anne's sharp mind latched onto the question, her thoughts racing. The book claimed no child had survived their first magical maturity, all but one. And now, she was certain that one was Tom Riddle. But his survival wasn't a triumph. The man he had become—the monster she knew from her fragmented memories of another life—was proof of that.
"Not lucky at all," she murmured, her voice tinged with pity.
Tom Riddle had survived Blood Force, but at what cost? The corrosive magic had hollowed out its victims, leaving them as empty shells, and while he had lived, it was clear he hadn't escaped unscathed. If anything, the survival of such a force might explain the darkness that consumed him later—the hunger for power, the cold detachment, and the willingness to use others as pawns.
Anne's hands balled into fists. There was so much she didn't know, so many questions without answers. But this—this she was sure of. Tom Riddle's survival wasn't a blessing; it was a curse that had shaped him into the Voldemort she remembered.
She opened her eyes, her gaze hardening. The world had no use for pity, and neither did Riddle. But there was something to be learned from his story, something that might help her piece together the puzzle of Blood Force and its devastating consequences.
Anne set her jaw, her thoughts steeling into determination. If he survived, then there's a way. I'll find it.
She glanced at the book again, her mind already churning with plans. If Tom Riddle was the key to understanding Blood Force, then she needed to know everything about him. His past, his power, and the twisted legacy he left behind. Because for all his faults—and there were many—he had done what no one else had: he had defied the inevitable.
"What an unlucky bastard," Anne repeated softly, the words now laced with purpose. "But even luck has its reasons."
___________________________________________
The small bedroom of No. 6 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, was suffocating with tension. Harry Potter knelt beside his sister, Rosaline Porter, who lay sprawled on the floor, her black hair plastered to her pale, sweat-drenched face. The faint glow emanating from her hands and chest sent shivers down Harry's spine.
"Rosie, what's happening to you?" Harry whispered, his voice trembling. He'd never seen anything like this before. The strange glow, the way her body convulsed—it was as if her magic was tearing her apart.
"I… I don't know…" Rosaline gasped, her voice barely audible. Her eyes fluttered open, meeting Harry's terrified gaze. "It… hurts, Harry. Everything… hurts."
Harry grabbed her hand, squeezing it tightly as if his touch alone could anchor her. "I'm here. I'm not leaving you."
Her hand burned against his palm, and he winced but didn't let go. "It's like—like something's trying to break out of me," Rosaline whimpered, her voice breaking with pain. "I can't stop it."
Harry's mind raced. They'd grown up together in this small house, enduring the Dursleys' cruelty, but this—this was something else entirely. Something he didn't understand.
"Maybe… maybe it's magic?" he stammered, glancing at the faint sparks flickering around her fingers. "You're magic, Rosie, just like me. Maybe it's just—"
"Magic isn't supposed to hurt like this!" Rosaline interrupted, her voice rising before she cried out, her body arching off the floor. "Harry, I can't—I can't—"
"Don't say that!" Harry's voice cracked as he shook her gently, his green eyes shining with unshed tears. "You're going to be fine. You hear me? You're going to be fine!"
Rosaline's breathing grew more ragged, her chest heaving as the clock on the wall ticked closer to midnight. Each second felt like a countdown to something unknown and terrifying.
"Harry…" she whimpered, her voice so soft it broke his heart. "I think… I'm dying…"
"No! No, you're not!" Harry shouted, his voice desperate as he gripped her shoulders. "You're not going anywhere, Rosie. You're my sister. I won't let anything happen to you."
Tears streamed down his face as he tried to think of what to do. Call for help? Who would understand? The Dursleys didn't care about magic, and they'd only blame her for causing a scene.
"I'm scared," Rosaline admitted, her voice trembling.
Harry wiped at his tears furiously, trying to be brave for her. "I'm scared too, but we'll figure this out. We always do, right?"
She nodded weakly, her fingers twitching as another wave of pain wracked her body. The light around her grew brighter, fiercer, casting eerie shadows across the room.
"Harry…" she whispered, her voice trailing off as her head lolled to the side.
"Rosie? Rosie!" Harry shook her, panic flooding his voice. "Stay with me! Don't you dare leave me!"
BANG!
The sound of a heavy knock on the front door made Harry jump. It echoed through the house, loud and insistent. He froze, his heart pounding in his chest.
"What was that?" he whispered, glancing toward the bedroom door.
BANG!
The knock came again, shaking the small house. Harry's mind raced. Who would be knocking at this hour? The Dursleys wouldn't tolerate someone disturbing their sleep, but somehow, this felt different—ominous.
He turned back to Rosaline, her body still glowing faintly as her breathing slowed. She wasn't moving, but he could still feel the faint warmth of her hand in his.
"I'm not leaving you," he murmured, gripping her hand tightly as the banging on the door grew louder. Whatever was happening, whatever that knocking meant, he wouldn't leave her side. Not now, not ever.
A few hours and a birthday cake later, emerald and lavender clash for the first time.
The late afternoon sun filtered through the windows of Flourish and Blotts, casting golden light onto the rows of bookshelves. The store buzzed softly with murmured conversations and the occasional laughter of excited children clutching their new spellbooks. At one of the towering shelves, Anne Sallow stood with quiet confidence, her lavender eyes scanning the spines of old tomes with an intensity that seemed almost out of place for someone her age.
She reached for a particularly battered copy of Ancient Magic and Its Lost Forms when a quiet voice interrupted her.
"Excuse me, are you done with that one?"
Anne turned her head, her lavender eyes meeting a striking pair of emerald ones. The girl who stood before her was a few months younger, with black hair framing a pale face that carried a mix of curiosity and wariness. She held a small stack of books in her arms, gripping them tightly as though they were a lifeline.
Anne studied her for a moment, her gaze sharp but not unkind. "I've just started with it," she said, her voice calm and measured. "Why? Do you need it?"
Rosaline Porter hesitated, shifting on her feet. "It looks like it might help with… something. If you're not using it, I'd like to borrow it."
Anne raised an eyebrow, her fingers still resting on the spine of the book. "You're interested in ancient magic?"
Rosaline bristled slightly at the question, unsure why it sounded so much like a test. "I'm interested in a lot of things," she replied, her tone defensive.
Anne tilted her head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Interesting."
Rosaline frowned, clutching her stack of books tighter. "What's so interesting about that?"
Anne let out a soft laugh, pulling the book from the shelf and holding it out. "Take it," she said simply. "It might answer more of your questions than mine."
Rosaline blinked, surprised. "Are you sure? You don't even know me."
Anne's smile deepened, her lavender eyes glinting with something unreadable. "I don't need to know you to see that you need this more than I do right now."
As Rosaline reached out to take the book, their fingers brushed briefly, and both girls froze. There was an odd, fleeting sense of recognition—like two puzzle pieces clicking into place.
"I'm Anne," the older girl said, her voice steady but carrying a subtle warmth.
"Rosaline," the younger replied, her emerald eyes narrowing slightly as though trying to figure out just who Anne was.
Anne stepped back, her gaze lingering on Rosaline. "Take care with that book. It's not the sort you want to read too quickly. And don't skip the chapters on corrupted cores—they're more relevant than you might think."
Rosaline frowned. "How do you—"
But Anne was already moving away, her robes swishing softly as she disappeared into another aisle.
Rosaline stared after her, the book clutched tightly in her hands. She didn't know why, but something about Anne Sallow unnerved her—and intrigued her in equal measure.
A few moments earlier...
The peaceful charm of Diagon Alley drifted through the air like a soft lullaby. The cobblestone streets, dotted with brightly colored shop windows, were bathed in the golden glow of the afternoon sun. The gentle breeze carried the mingling scents of fresh parchment, magical herbs, and the faint trace of something sweet from a nearby candy shop. From a distant corner, mistletoe danced playfully in the air, moving as if alive with quiet mischief. It was a world that felt timeless, serene, and perfect for the pursuit of knowledge.
But then, inside Flourish and Blotts, Anne Sallow's sharp lavender eyes landed on a figure that, despite the calm beauty surrounding them, felt all wrong in that very moment.
Rosaline Potter stood near the end of one of the shelves, her raven-black hair messy and unkempt, as though she had long since stopped caring about how it looked. Her clothes were a startling mismatch—faded, ill-fitting, and clearly hand-me-downs, making her look smaller than she already was. The oversized jumper, the long sleeves and cuffs that seemed too big, hung from her fragile frame like a costume that didn't quite belong to her. The faded colors and patched fabric did nothing to hide the wear of someone who had been through more than she ever should have.
Anne stood there, momentarily stunned, watching as Rosaline's small hands brushed against the worn books on the shelves. The contrast was jarring—the serene beauty of the bookshop, the soft lighting, the quiet hum of magic in the air, and the girl who seemed so out of place, so vulnerable, standing in the middle of it all like a fragile, mismatched puzzle piece.
Her lavender eyes narrowed as she watched Rosaline. The raw, untapped power radiating from her was undeniable, though it was buried beneath layers of hardship and an overwhelming sense of survival. There was a flame within her, one that couldn't be ignored despite her outward fragility. It was an unsettling mix of strength and vulnerability, a dissonance that Anne could both empathize with and fear.
The contrast struck Anne more profoundly than she anticipated. The beauty of the bookshop—the faint, pleasant smell of new books and old parchments—seemed to fade into the background. All that remained was the image of Rosaline, standing so small and fragile yet burning with power, a vision so at odds with the serene space that Anne almost felt an impulse to step away.
And then, as if sensing her presence, Rosaline's emerald eyes flicked up, locking with Anne's. The connection was brief, but in that instant, something strange passed between them—a shared understanding that neither could voice, but both felt keenly. Anne's composure wavered just for a moment, her thoughts swirling in the quiet space between them.
Without a word, Rosaline returned her gaze to the shelves, her fingers brushing over the books with a quiet intensity that belied her fragile appearance. Anne stood frozen for a moment longer, feeling an odd tug in her chest as she watched the younger girl. Whatever it was that had drawn them together, she knew one thing: Rosaline Potter was not someone to be underestimated.
The world outside may have tried to bury her beneath faded clothes and fragile bones, but there was a fire inside Rosaline that Anne could feel, and she knew it was only a matter of time before it would blaze brightly.
Understood! Here's the revised version without the closing sentiment:
---
Now, she stood before Ollivander's Wand Shop, a place that carried an air of ancient magic and mystery. Taking a deep breath, Anne pushed open the door, the bell above tinkling softly.
Inside, the shop was just as she had imagined—dusty shelves crammed with countless wand boxes. The air was thick with the scent of aged wood and varnish. A white-haired man appeared from behind the counter, his silver eyes gleaming with curiosity.
"Ah," Ollivander said, studying Anne with an intensity that made her pause. "A new customer, and… a Sallow. You'll be the second Sallow I've had the pleasure of assisting."
Anne blinked. "The second?"
Ollivander nodded, stepping closer. "Indeed. Many years ago, I crafted a wand for Lloyd Sallow—your uncle, if I'm not mistaken. He was… quite the ambitious wizard."
Anne felt a pang of nostalgia. Uncle Lloyd was a name she knew well, the stories of his political rise ingrained in her family history.
"I remember his wand," Ollivander continued. "Blackthorn wood, dragon heartstring core. A wand suited for one destined for leadership and influence. But tell me, where did the rest of your family acquire their wands?"
Anne hesitated, her thoughts drifting to the stories her great-grandmother had shared. "Most of my family studied at Ilvermorny. My grandfather and father both attended there because Magical Britain wasn't… stable during their time."
"Ah, yes," Ollivander murmured, his eyes alight with understanding.
"My grandfather's time was marked by Grindelwald's reign of terror, and my father's by Voldemort's."
Ollivander flinched at the mention of Voldemort's name, his silver eyes narrowing briefly. "You must not speak that name so freely, even now," he said, his voice low.
Anne inclined her head. "I'm sorry. They both thought it safer to leave." She paused, her voice softening. "But Uncle Lloyd was different. He attended Hogwarts to expand his influence early on. He later became the Minister of Magic."
"Fascinating," Ollivander said, his fingers tracing the edge of a nearby wand box. "And now you're here. Let us see which wand chooses you."
Anne stood as Ollivander began pulling boxes from the shelves. She tried wand after wand, each time met with a soft explosion or a flicker of rejection.
Ollivander grew more intrigued with each failure. "Curious. Very curious. You are not easily matched."
Anne bit her lip, frustrated but also excited. She suddenly recalled something her great-grandmother had told her years ago. "Perhaps I'm best suited for… a yew wand?"
Ollivander paused, his expression thoughtful. "A yew wand? Rare indeed. Let me see…"
He disappeared into the back of the shop, returning moments later with a sleek, polished wand. "This is yew wood, phoenix feather core. Thirteen inches. Unyielding."
Anne took the wand, feeling a warmth spread through her fingers. A golden light filled the shop as the wand responded to her touch. Ollivander's smile widened.
"Ah, yes," he said softly. "A powerful wand for a powerful witch. Yew is known for its connection to life and death, transformation, and resilience. Paired with phoenix feather… you will do great things, Anne Sallow."
--------
Anne strolled through Diagon Alley, her arms laden with textbooks, parchment rolls, and various potion ingredients, while the acceptance letter to Hogwarts remained clutched tightly in her hand. The weight of it all felt oddly satisfying, as though she were holding her future in her arms.
As she approached Madame Malkin's, her gaze flickered to the shop's window display, but what caught her attention wasn't the mannequins in their neatly tailored robes.
Through the glass, she spotted Harry Potter and his twin sister, Rosaline, standing side by side. Next to them stood a pale, blonde-haired boy she instantly recognized as Draco Malfoy.
Anne froze.
"What in Merlin's name…" she muttered under her breath, shifting slightly to get a better view.
Inside, Draco extended a hand to Harry, a sly smile playing on his lips. Harry, looking uncertain, glanced at Rosaline, who gave an encouraging nod. A moment later, Harry clasped Draco's hand in a firm shake.
Anne's jaw tightened as she watched Rosaline smile warmly at Draco, her vibrant energy seemingly contagious.
"Oh, no, no, no," Anne whispered to herself, narrowing her eyes. "That's not supposed to happen. What are you doing, Potter? Malfoy?"
A passing witch, carrying a bag of owl treats, gave her a curious glance. Anne ignored her, her focus riveted on the unlikely trio.
"Rosaline," Anne muttered under her breath, shaking her head. "What have you done? Do you even understand the catastrophic butterfly of plot deviation you've just set loose?"
She adjusted the grip on her wand, the smooth yew wood reassuring in her palm.
"Making friends with Draco Malfoy," she continued in a low, sarcastic tone, "because that's a brilliant idea. What's next, tea with Bellatrix Lestrange?"
Anne sighed, shaking her head and muttering as she walked away from the window. "It's not my mess to fix. Not this time."
The chiming sound of a clock somewhere nearby reminded her she still had to get back home. Her trunk had been sent ahead to the Sallow Manor, but there were still final arrangements to make before the school year started.
Stepping into the Floo Network booth, she dropped a pinch of powder into the grate. The emerald flames roared to life, casting a green hue over her face.
"Feldcroft!" she called, her voice clear but tinged with exasperation.
The flames licked the hem of her skirt as she stepped forward. Just before the world blurred into a swirl of green, she muttered one final thought:
"I need a drink."
---
On the morning of September 1st, 1991, Anne Sallow stepped out of the Floo Network at King's Cross Station, feeling the familiar tingle of magic as her feet touched the polished stone floor. She clutched her handbag tightly, the soft leather cool against her fingers. Her shrunken trunk was comfortably stashed in her pocket, a convenient trick she had mastered over the years. A small cage swung gently in her hand, the soft hoot of its occupant breaking through the chaotic atmosphere.
Arthemis, her delicate owl with shimmering golden feathers, blinked sleepily from within the cage. She was just a baby, born from her father's old owl—an heirloom that had passed down through the Sallow family.
Anne's lavender eyes scanned the bustling platform. Everywhere she looked, students of all ages were swarming around, parents mingling with them. Some mothers wiped away tears as they said their goodbyes, while others wore proud smiles, celebrating their children's new journey into the magical world. It was a sight that would have been overwhelming if Anne weren't so used to the oddities of the wizarding world herself.
She briefly wondered how many of the students here were experiencing their first trip to Hogwarts, how many were nervous or excited—or both.
A sharp breeze tugged at the hem of her skirt, but Anne remained focused on the crowd. The noise around her intensified as the Hogwarts Express, its bright red carriages gleaming in the sunlight, puffed a thick cloud of steam. The platform was in full swing, filled with the clattering of trolley carts, the echoing voices of excited students, and the occasional screech of an owl.
Anne's lips curled into a wry smile as she mused over the situation. "I could have easily gotten to Hogwarts by Floo or flown there," she thought, her gaze wandering over the train's sleek form. The Scottish Highlands weren't far from Hogwarts, after all. She could have been there in a matter of minutes. But there was something enticing about the legendary ride on the Hogwarts Express, something that felt right about this tradition.
She caught sight of a few familiar faces in the crowd—some students from her own family's circle—though she paid them little attention, as they were busy with their own farewells. Anne felt strangely detached from it all. She had long ago learned to navigate the complexities of family connections and expectations, yet this moment—the one when she was officially setting foot on the path to Hogwarts—felt oddly personal.
Anne stepped forward, adjusting Arthemis's cage in her hand. It was time to board.
As she made her way toward the train, a soft breeze swept through her golden blonde hair, lifting the stray strands into the air. She felt the weight of anticipation settle on her shoulders. There was a world waiting for her at Hogwarts, one that wasn't just shaped by magic but by the complicated legacy of her family—and the destiny that seemed to be slowly unfolding before her.
With a final glance at the parents and students around her, she stepped onto the train, the sound of the Hogwarts Express churning to life beneath her feet.