🙦·🙤
@Aeron Frey

✒ Posted-Dated: Noon, June 2020

The streets were filled with wide-eyed, fresh-faced children, coming and going in droves, dragging parents around from shop to shop as they excitedly checked off their lists. Imora was one of them, if perhaps notedly reserved. She consulted her list and quietly read out each item to her parents, unconsciously using the scroll of parchment as a makeshift barrier between her and the other children bustling down the streets.

Robes. She peered over the edge of the roll and scanned the rows of shops for Madam Malkin. She didn't like the idea of having anyone coming at her with a measuring tape. She didn't like the idea of anyone standing too close in general, but as her mother settled a hand on her shoulder and walked her inside, she took a deep breath. Mr. Corcilius waved cheerily at her through the window as she turned to check, before he turned away to lean against the brick and settle numbers in a small leather ledger.

She looked up a bit doe-eyed, but as the kindly robe-maker spoke to her, managed to gulp it down to a reserved, respectful nod. She answered a polite "yes ma'am" to her questions as she climbed up onto one of the stools provided, her thin fingers coming together to intertwin her fingers in an upside-down tent. The picture of awkward, 11 year old grace.

There were a few more students having their measurements finished up, but they quickly stepped down and left her alone, the young girl's eyes fixed in a slightly far-off stare at the fabric tucked in rolls against back walls, periodically pulling themselves free and floating across the room to one of the draping tables.

@Imora Corcilius

She wasn’t alone long. It was busy season at Malkin’s and the stool beside her was soon filled by a boy about her age. What played out was, well, quite similar to the scene with Imora earlier. A certain reserve from the youth; impeccably polite “Yes, ma’am”s and “No, ma’am”s; a flock of measuring tape whizzing through the air. He seemed comfortable, or at least familiar, with the process, diligently raising his arms as the tape did its work and one of the bevvy of assistants got down to the work of pinning and hemming.

This was it. He was getting his school robes, Hogwarts robes. No turning back now. Well, if he was being fair, there was no turning back after his parents had accepted the Hogwarts admission on his behalf, but being fitted for the iconic black robes made it all seem more real, more final. Katya, Theo, Adrian... they were all off to Durmstrang without him. Babolya said his russian wasn’t good enough, which had hurt, but she was right.*

It wasn’t that Aeron disliked Hogwarts. His mother always spoke fondly of her alma mater, always ran into old friends and fell to reminiscing. Everything she’d ever said about had made it seem fun, exciting— but he wouldn’t really know anyone there, and they wouldn’t know him. Would they like him? Could they like him? Really like him? He’d become so comfortable, so used to the company of his cousin and the childhood friends he took tuition with. Now the future held so many unknowns.

Lost in his own private angst, it took Aeron some time to actually notice the girl next to him. What started as a vague, passing glance became a second, more interested look as he took in the familiar robes— and the sheet of silvery hair.

Was she… like him? “Are you… also a first year?”

* His grandmother also said that he’d spent too much time tagging along after mama, and that she’d made a briton out of him— which was not right and started a series of fights that Aeron pretended not notice.

Imora took a deep breath, in and then out, to keep from fidgeting. She couldn't move much once she was engulfed in floating wraps of black fabric, so she let her attention wander, mind already elsewhere. It was still an exciting day. It was still a step towards formal education. And... Well, there was really no place better to get a good look at the stars than the remote, high-up castle of Hogwarts.

Grass green eyes drifted absently to her left as Aeron stepped up on the pedestal beside her, but the glance was brief; she didn't want to look rude. They were forward again in an instant, so consumed with Being Polite that it took her an extra moment to register who he was talking about.

"Yes." The answer was obvious. He was trying to make small talk, surely. "I'm Imora. Corcilius." Her parents had instilled a certain level of Importance in sharing one's surname, so that came a beat after. "What's your name?"

She waited politely for an answer, only to have her view of him immediately blocked by another floating bolt of fabric.