Huffily Puffily || Golden Trio

Wizardry || i

* * * * *

Lucille was always a troublesome young girl. At least, to Mrs. Cole she was.

In all the years Nancy Cole worked at Wool's Orphanage, she'd say that only two occupants managed to make her rethink how much she valued her retirement benefits. She was not unkind, but she was strict and did not tolerate any kind of nonsense. Lucille was full of nonsense.

Of course, she'd have to admit that Lucille was preferred to The Boy.

No matter how much Mrs. Cole begged Professor Albus Dumbledore, the man refused to take The Boy forever. Each summer he'd return to Wool's Orphanage, and each summer he upset the other children, until he turned sixteen, and he disappeared for good. After that she, the head of Wool's Orphanage, had decades of peace.

Then along came Lucille.

Nancy was not a superstitious person by nature. She didn't believe in ghosts or vampires or any of that nonsense, but she truly believed that Lucille had something off about her. She had a near undetectable vibe of dark roots. The other children complained of her, and Mrs. Cole had to disrupt many fights between Lucille and the others over the years— and yet, she was the second child ever invited to Mr. Dumbledore's mysterious academy. 

"I don't know why you insist on the children you come for," the old woman said, and she stopped with her hand on the railing, huffing. She and Dumbledore had both aged wildly over the past fifty years and yet it seemed as though she was the only one feeling the effects. Dumbledore waited patiently for her to catch her breath. "She's a bad one," Mrs. Cole continued her pace up the stairs. "Just like the last one you took."

"Perhaps," Albus hummed. "But perhaps not. Tell me, Mrs. Cole, are there any concerns I should be aware of?"

Mrs. Cole sniffed. "Well, she's no Tom Riddle, but she's out of control! She leaves her bedsheets tied to the rafters, I've no idea how she gets them up there, and— and she steals knives from the kitchen! She carves into her bedposts to the point where we've gotten her a metal frame instead. She makes Jennifer Bishop go spitting man, and a few years ago a man came to adopt her— said his name was along the lines of Lucy as well— and she disappeared for three weeks! Disappeared! Oh, Mr. Dumbledore, we had the whole of London looking for her. And then she shows up at breakfast without a scratch on her! Wouldn't even tell us where she'd gone off to!"

Albus gazed at Mrs. Cole over his crescent-moon spectacles. It was rare that he personally visited wizards, but the circumstances here called for urgency. Wool's Orphanage was similar to Azkaban in the way that he could feel the sorrow moving through the air, clinging to his bones. He was trying not to make assumptions, but every time he thought of the convict's child, he thought of one far worse. 

He pictured a young girl with cruel, piercing gray eyes and a wardrobe full of stolen goods: a young girl with sleek, black hair; a young girl who was the picture of evil.

He knew that he, of all people, should not judge someone based on their past, but he reasoned that it was better to be wrongfully suspicious than woefully trusting. Better to be a safe man than a sorry one. And for a long time, a sorry man he had been. 

Albus dismissed Mrs. Cole before he walked in, peering around for Lucille.

It wasn't hard to find her. The girl's appearance demanded attention.

She sat in her desk chair leaning on its back two legs, and on her face balanced three pencils and a spoon. As soon as the door opened, Lucille tipped back and onto a mattress laid out on the floor. Her nearby metal bedframe was pushed up against the wall, and he could see skid marks on the floor from how often she moved it. She made a pained noise, but she scrambled to her feet quickly.