june 30th & july 1st 1977
there’s always a look of understanding that runs the length of the great hall the morning after a party, as students nursing hangovers stumble their way in. no one is ever under the illusion that the faculty is entirely unaware of their antics, and for their part there is a certain wilful ignorance of the whirring schemes.
but this morning, it is an entirely different look that passes across the room, one of concern and worry. one that’s accompanied by whispers covered by hands slipping up and down the top table. a tension in the room as more stragglers emerge out of their stupor and into the hall. one only broken when grace tuft, daughter of thomasin tuft, passes the threshold — professors hurrying the length of the hall to whisk her from the room.
what’s going on?
and so the whispers start, as a few rub the sleep from their eyes and turn them to the morning’s papers; the tufts are dead. all of them wiped out in a night, the skull and serpent left hanging over their aberystwyth home. all of them but grace, kept safe by hogwarts grounds. too young to be left with a legacy like that, too young to plan that many funerals, too young to be the last left standing. but still she stands. alone.
