For the second time in her life, Valeria feels as if somebody understands her (the first being with Alain, of course). Not in the sympathetic kind of way, which by no doubts is still effective, but not nearly as heart-warming as having actually experienced it.

Oh no, I’ve done it again. Why do I always mess things up? Scrunching her face, Valeria hits herself on the head with her palm.

“Lysander Rathborne. Yeah, I know who you are.”

Valeria is slightly taken aback by the grin Lysander sends her way. Her first self-defensive instinct questions if the boy has any ulterior motives - why else would he be so nice to her? Hardly anybody smiles at her, let alone notices and talks to her for more than a minute.

Ever since she started at Hogwarts - or possibly even before that - Valeria has developed a particular liking and affinity towards Potions. The fact that a small dose of magically-brewed liquid can change lives, either for better or worse, entices her.

She can feel it in her bones, as the wind sends a cool chill down the back of her neck. Winter is just around the corner, a small child peering out from behind the hem of Autumn’s skirt, slowly preparing to show himself.

One song is representative of her as a child with no worries, hopeful to become a strong witch. The other, metaphorical of her teenage years.

Hearing a Seventh Year’s voice surprises Valeria, especially one that just so happens to speak of the very thing she is writing about: the Halloween party.

The Headmistress just made an announcement during dinner this evening.

The darkest hour…

“Come on, Val, it will be fun, I promise. You’ll love it.” Sitting on her bed and hugging her knees to her chest, Valeria shakes her head. All she wanted to do was to finish reading her book. Papa had pulled it out of her hands, demanding that she get her derrière out of the house to Diagon Alley.

What is this strange feeling? It’s as if… well… my head is all fuzzy. What happened yesterday? And… who is this… Sage that keeps cropping up in my mind. I must go find her, maybe she can make some sense out of this.

Comfort food, vice, style, drink, time of year, holiday.

Much like her mother’s, Valeria’s fingers are long and slender, her hand petite.

At the sound of music playing - the warm strum of a guitar and a boy’s soft voice - Valeria stops dead in her tracks. She turns her head in the direction of the music.

In all honesty, Valeria has not given this much thought, given the fact that all (or most) of her focus is on academics.

Who needs superstitions when they have seen magic, right? Wrong.