A chill often followed the girl, one that seemed to faintly express an aura of cold. The shadows livelier, some seemed to even take a life of their own. Dust a few degrees and merely a sway, a twitch, an almost indiscernible movement in the darkness that simply did not belong. Then of course there was also her eyes, dim but always looking and keenly aware. It was as if she was not real, from her woolen clothes to her porcelain doll-like face, she seemed more like someone's plaything than an actual child. 

But she hardly had the mind of a youth or of anyone's plaything.

She would ascend the stair, her mary janes would click against the concrete steps. She did not respond to the polite Londoner's greetings if any were had, she was one objective and that was the studious task of reading. Myth and legend. The Occult. In the eyes of muggles the truth was obfuscated with pranks and hoaxes, the Ministry of Magic's careless attempt to 'protect' the public by withholding vital information that might keep them alive. Honestly she never cared, she was not humanity's advocate and it was advantageous to her to have someone lacking ...just in case.

She was looking for more information on despondency, depersonalization, a lacking sense of empathy. In the psychiatric section it simply called her a sociopath. Indeed a fitting description but not what she desired to learn, she did not wish to be defined but rather cured. Besides, the description 'sociopath' was inaccurate. She had great empathy, just those sentiments were not her own and were essentially fleeting. 

Yet she would find something -- tales of terrible wraith like creatures. Monsters and fiends truly. They haunt a number of places, none of which specifically named and those that were happened to be grotesquely misspelled. A consequence of learning about the world through a muggle's lens. Still she had enough, an opportunity to learn. To witness. Perhaps to eventually employ.