May you have the courage to go places that scare you.

Thin wrists & pale skin. She's made of bones and lace and pure silence.

Her wide, protuberant silvery eyes seem to wander around without properly focusing on anything, if not silent rapture and reverent awe in the presence of magic. Mostly quiet, she hums sombre tunes when left alone, undisturbed.

Muggle-born, she lives with her aunt, Mrs Warren, who owns a funeral house in a decadent High Street of London - in one of those boroughs full of abandonment and dirty, scratched window shops. High black gates stand out at the corner of the street, with bright golden letters that say "Warren's funeral services since 1923".
Death has been her company since she was a child - an imaginary, bitter friend in absence of any siblings or cousins her age, whispering tales of the broken lives that have passed through those gates.
You can picture her: the smallest of the creatures, a tiny, solitary child standing in front of the dusty window of the attic: all the way up there, at the top of the old Victorian building the house is, gazing silently at the mournful procession of visitors crossing the black gates.
Silent and bony, she would stand there with long hair flowing messily down her back, small lace-up shoes, and her green school jumper, too big for her tiny frame, worn almost as a dress, fingers grasping the end of the sleeves to protect the hands from the stagnant cold in the attic.
It happened always after school, once she abandoned the tiny, less than Outstanding public institution that was a 10 minutes walk from home. Ailberth Highstan Church Primary School was filled with children of all races, as their colourful leaflet proudly paraded, but of the lowest of backgrounds, with teachers all too inveigled in fighting - or surrendering to - the negligence of the councils and prejudices of society to care for little, solitary miss Warren, who would read, and listen, and exists as if she didn't and cause no trouble. And leave no trace.
Her only guardian, her aunt Sybel, is an old, reserved widow that still dresses in black and manages the business with a severe frown always carved between her eyebrows. Their garden resembles a sinister little graveyard of rustling bushes and some surviving roses, with thorns always too sharp.