Shadows and Light: Queen of Hearts

Chapter One: A Bloody Confusing Day

In her world, there was nothing but darkness. A girl smiled sadly, relishing in the revere of silent shadows. The shadows engulfed her, hiding her from the noisy, uncaring people of the world. She often spent her time here, hidden from the attention of life, taking no heed to the pain. Darkness was her friend; unlike those bright, gaudy lights that seemed to surround her constantly. Those lights always seemed to get her into trouble and caused naught but grief. The shadows always dulled the pain; the pain in her right arm and shoulder, and numbing away the pain of loneliness. Sometimes, the shadows diminished a little of the emotional anguish nestled in her heart. Those shadows had given her hope. Perhaps...just maybe...it would be okay this time.

"Next!"

The girl's eyes snapped open at that one sudden word, the shadows fleeing. Blinking her collected, grayish green eyes a few times, Brooke adjusted to the bright lights of the airport and looked ahead. An irked woman glared at her behind a cheap looking podium, her motioned impatiently for her to move forward. "Next!"

"I heard you," Brooke muttered bluntly, gritting her teeth against the now returning pain in her shoulder; the exact reminder of why she was dealing with the annoying woman at the moment.

Subconsciously clenching her passport in her hand, Brooke stepped forward, her small duffle bag thumped against her back at every step. As she pushed a strand of dark brown hair from her eyes, Brooke glared back at the woman.

A red line from the worn, grey carpet blocked her path. A thin smile spread across Brooke's face when she imagined what the woman would do if she dared to cross the line before she was told to do so. But her heart wasn't interested in her usual mischief. With a sigh, Brooke stood behind the red line, looking at the woman expectantly.

The woman didn't even raise her eyes from her documents, but from what Brooke could see, glaring spectacles giving her a queer owlish appearance. The woman smacked loudly on chewing gum as she reached a thin hand out from behind the podium and demanded, "Passport and Landing Card please."

Brooke handed them over, shivering slightly as the woman's cold hands brushed against her skin. Instinctively, she wiped her hand against her worn jeans, and forced herself to appear calm as the woman's eyes darted back and forth from her passport to her face. Her icy glance started to make Brooke feel edgy.

Feeling self-conscious, Brooke tore her eyes away and glanced behind her at the never-ending line of passengers from the nine-hour flight to London from Chicago. She suddenly felt grateful that she no longer had to wait. Brooke turned back to the woman and glanced at her picture identification card. The picture looks more cheerful than the woman, Brooke thought to herself as she identified the woman to possess the name of Margaret.

"Reason of visitation?" Margaret asked sharply, her British accent so thick the girl almost didn't understand her. Brooke had noted her eyes were a cloudy blue, which offset her thin, pointed face. The woman's skin was ghastly, and looked deathly white in her dark blue uniform. Brooke had also noticed she has a small scar on her right cheek.

"Exchange Student," Brooke lied, tearing her gaze away from the disturbing woman. Instead, she focused her attention back to the room around her. The walls were a drab brown, speckled with pebbles of black and gray all the way up to the tall ceiling. The place reminded her somewhat of an old, moldy dungeon. She wouldn't have been surprised to see a patch of moss growing somewhere above, or the constant drip...drip...drip of water from an overhead source. Voices from the hundreds of people crammed in the large room echoed around her amplified by the tall, angular ceiling. All the noise had begun giving Brooke a headache. She needed to get out of here, and fast.

The woman snorted. "Minors are supposed to travel with a guardian overseas," she stared at the girl, an unpleasant look on her face. "Or at least, have an adult traveling with them."

Brooke suppressed a sigh. "My father," she said, with an edge of bitterness, "gave me permission to travel alone."

"Humph," the woman flipped through the passport, noticing the blank pages. "First time abroad?"

"Guess you could say that," Brooke said, irritated. The flight from Chicago to London had not been pleasant, and any attempts to get some sleep had been aborted every time turbulence shook the plane. The lack of sleep, and some decent food, had a very harsh effect on her mentality.

"Humph," Margaret repeated loudly, her eyes stared intently at Brooke's landing card. Brooke rolled her eyes; the woman seemed to be looking for an excuse to deny her entry into the country. Deciding to ignore the woman, Brooke gazed about the room instead. Bright, almost gaudy advertisements lit up the walls, advertised tourist attractions of the city. Those same bright advertisements enticed the tired people waiting in the long line. Although they were meant to be pleasing to the eye, they had only sharpened the headache beginning to build in Brooke's head.

All I want is sleep, Brooke thought, yawning. She almost resorted to hum the Jeopardy Theme Song just to amuse herself. What I would give to annoy that woman, she thought with a mischievous smile when there was two thuds, and Brooke's passport was being handed back to her.

"Welcome to London," the woman had a fake smile on her face and spoke in a tone that told Brooke she would much rather have the girl go away.

Good riddance, Brooke thought, quickly retrieving the little blue book. At last, she crossed the red line and a rather pushy man took her place at the Check-in desk.

Weariness and apprehension made her suddenly cautious; Brooke hesitated at an information board, where maps of the city were prominently displayed for tourist's handy reference. She grabbed one, and then walked slowly down a twisting, snake-like ramp towards a crowd of people in the baggage claim area. She slipped her passport into her pocket before stepping down onto level ground once more, lost in the crowd. Brooke stood on tip-toe and began peering over people's shoulders, trying to see which carousel would have her luggage.

"Miss!" someone yelled to her left. Brooke turned to see who could be shouting. They couldn't possibly be calling me. But she couldn't spot anyone among the crowd in the baggage claim area. Dodging a few people who were pushing heavy carts loaded with luggage, she looked again to her left and spotted someone waving towards her. An elderly man, short and slightly pudgy, wore a blue uniform similar to the woman at the podium, with a cap on his head. When she walked towards him, avoiding more carts on the way, she saw his nametag read 'Douglas.'

"Miss, your luggage is over here." He motioned behind him, where a large, black and silver trunk sat on a cart. "Would you like some assistance through customs?"

Looking first at the trunk, then at the man, Brooke found that her mouth was hanging open in shock. She quickly regained her composure, and asked the first thing that popped into her mind. "How did you know it was mine?"

He smiled, tipping his cap at her, "Well miss; I was informed that you would be arriving today, and that I should help you reach your destination." He smiled again, and winked, "We have to stick together, you know."

Brooke was taken by surprise at his last statement. How had he known? "Well," she replied, her voice quivering only slightly, "I guess that would be nice."

He tipped his cap once more; his dark eyes twinkled with amusement. Brooke suddenly felt very uncomfortable; she asked, "Is there a restroom around here? I feel kind of grimy."

"The lo's over there, love," he said, pointing to a couple of doors near the end of the busy corridor. "I'll wheel over and wait for you, if you like."

"Um," she bit her lower lip, a long time habit, "Yeah that would be great." She forced a smile, which felt more like a grimace, and carefully slipped past people and made it unharmed, but perhaps a little more ruffled, to the restroom. Lo? She thought with a small smile, Good God, it's like another world here.

* * *

Brooke splashed more water on her face, ignoring the sharp pain which spread from her shoulder down the length of her arm. She did her best to wash away the feeling of wrongness with the entire situation, with little success.

It's no use having second thoughts now, she thought fiercely, rubbing her temple with her fingertips, you're here and you're just going to have to deal with it.

Taking a paper towel from the dispenser, Brooke patted her face dry and stared at her reflection in the mirror. How does he know? How did he guess I was a witch?

That was silly, she concluded, finally turning off the water and finished drying her face. He's simply a nice man who saw that I was a bit lost and wanted to help.

That doesn't explain how he knew that your baggage was a trunk, a voice whispered inside her mind, suspicion clouding her thinking, Doesn't explain how he seems to know where you're suppose to go next, even though you haven't got a clue.

"Okay, so I haven't thought that far ahead," she answered aloud, which caused a woman, who was about to head out of the restroom, to give her an odd look. Brooke felt herself flush and furiously added silently, At least I got here, and that was the hardest part.

The little voice didn't answer, and confident that she had won the battle, Brooke threw the towel into the trash, and walked towards the door, refusing to glance at her reflection in the mirror one last time. If she had, she would have noticed how pale her skin was, almost ghostlike in appearance; how unnerving her gray eyes looked, which were bloodshot from lack of sleep. She also would have noticed how her brown hair hung in strands around her face, casting shadows across her flesh. Her simple gray sweatshirt covered a thin, summery tank top with Monet's Water lilies spreading across the front. It had been warm back home, but Brooke didn't want to get cold; she despised being cold and despised her reflection even more.

Douglas was true to his word. He was leaning on the side of the wall waiting patiently for her, "No time to lose," he told her with a smile. "You don't want to be late."

"Late for what?" Her question was left unanswered. Douglas pushed her cart away with a speed that surprised Brooke; she had to jog to keep up with the short, elderly man.

And I thought I was height deprived, Brooke thought with a small smile as she fell in step besides the man. Although Brooke thought she was short, being only about five-feet-five, he barely came up to her chin.

Douglas wheeled past another stern looking woman dressed in the same uniform, who nodded curtly towards Brooke as she followed right behind them. He had turned the cart into a smaller hallway, which curved slightly and only allowed enough room for one person and a cart through at a time.

"Excuse me," Brooke asked, stepping as close to Douglas as she was allowed. "But what am I late for?"

"No time," he replied with a huff, continuing to push her trunk with breakneck speed she wouldn't have thought he was capable of, "We have to hurry."

Brooke swallowed down her protest and ignored the feeling she was being drawn into a trap. She focused her attention on not looking too conspicuous as they passed through customs. Remember, you're here for a reason, and any push in any direction is better than none at all, she reminded herself rather sternly.

They whizzed past more official looking men and women, who saw first the shorter man pushing the cart, and then a pale girl following close behind. Brooke was surprised when they let them pass; she couldn't understand how she could get away without an inspection. This thought came just as they passed a man, who happened to be the one who was waiting behind Brooke before in the Check-in line, who was having all of his five piece luggage set searched while he yelled, red faced, at an official who calmly ignored him.

You would think a large trunk with a girl in tow would be more suspicious, she thought in wonder

They rounded the last corner and broke free of the confining walls of customs. Brooke was relieved that she managed to escape without her luggage being searched; there were some rather odd things in her trunk that would be hard to explain to any normal human being. Such things were wands, cauldrons, and spell books (which would be considered normal for a teenage witch, but quite odd for a Muggle). Brooke was restored, but still edgy. The sooner she escaped the airport, the better.

Without pausing, Douglas continued his speed and, dangerously close to colliding with a dozen more fellow travelers. To Brooke's embarrassment, he yelled, "Oi! Fred! I have the girl for you!"

People turned to stare at Brooke, who was still attempting to cross the stream of people unscathed. She didn't have time to notice two pairs of eyes glance over in her direction and that Douglas had pulled to a stop beside a young man. He whispered something to the other man, having to stand on tip-toe in order to reach his ear.

By the time the girl managed to reach the spot where the two men were supposedly standing, Douglas had already gone. Brooke tried to hide her disappointment; she had begun to like the man. In his place, a stocky, young looking man with bright red hair was there, staring at her with amused eyes; Fred, she presumed.

"Hallo, Fred Weasley at your service," the man introduced, bowing low dramatically.

He had a hand wrapped around the handle of the cart, and Brooke wondered how she was supposed to get it back. This wasn't how things were suppose to go at all, she thought in frustration, shifting her duffel bag to a more comfortable position on her shoulder. The lack of sleep, and the fact that she wasn't in control with her situation at the moment, was making Brooke's temper begin to flare. Without meaning to, she said in a rather sharp voice, "Excuse me, I need to be going now." She reached a hand out to take the cart away from him.

Fred grinned. "I take it this is yours?" He glanced at her trunk and, very casually, moved the handle out of her reach.

Brooke gritted her teeth. "Yes, can I have it back?"

"What did you say?" the man was still grinning. "I can't quite understand your accent."

She felt the familiar rush of anger as it began to rise beyond the point where she could control it. "I said," Brooke, repeated herself, very slowly as if talking to a child. "Can. I. Have. My. Trunk. Back?"

Fred sighed, making a great show of sagging his shoulders in defeat and shaking his head. "It's no use," he told her. "I can't understand you. Bullocks."

And with that, he pushed her trunk towards the exit, and left Brooke amidst the large crowd of people passing through to the terminals. Her mouth was set into a thin line as her hands clenched into fists at the impertinence of the man. Brooke swore softly, she had no choice but to follow, squeezing her small body between carts and people.

"Where do you think you're going with my trunk?" Brooke hissed as soon as she had caught up with him. Her accent wasn't that bad and even if it was, this man should have the sense to figure out what she was saying.

"You're going to be late," he informed her with a mischievous grin. "So why don't you relax?"

Brooke had to bite her tongue in order to stop the wave of insults she was about to issue the man. "Would you mind, at least, telling me what is going on?" she asked in a surprisingly calm sounding voice.

He seemed to give it a thought but continued his exit of the building. Brooke was only two steps behind him as he replied, "No," and walked right outside.

Brooke uttered a few expletives and chased after him. "At least tell me where I'm suppose to go," she said, trying her hardest not to get sarcastic.

Fred had wheeled the cart over to a car. Brooke read the word 'Taxi' on the top of the car, and then looked at the car itself as doubt began to fill her again. It didn't even look like a taxi; it looked like one of those old Beetle cars back home, black and shiny in the sunlight. She stood a few feet away, with her arms crossed across her chest and eyes narrowed with suspicion as Fred and the so called 'driver' of the taxi loaded her large baggage into the back of the car. Her gaze remained on Fred as they finished loading. He then finally turned to look for her.

He grinned then held open the back door to the passenger's compartment, "Well love, this is the last time I see you for now."

"What a shame," the comment was out of her mouth before she realized she had opened it. So much for not getting sarcastic.

His grin never wavered, and this time he offered his hand to her, "Oh, come on. I haven't been that horrible."

"And I take it your idea of 'horrible' doesn't extend to stealing, or leading a poor helpless girl to her doom." Brooke didn't reach out for Fred's hand; instead she took several steps backwards. Maybe I was wrong to come here. Panic took over when Fred advanced towards her, the pain in her body throbbing warningly, Maybe I would have been safer at home.

Fat chance, a voice inside her head retorted just as Fred reached her side.

"No need to be afraid, love." His playful manner had changed to concern as he kindly but firmly pulled her towards the open taxi door.

"Do all British people say 'love' to absolute strangers?" Brooke asked out loud, not really expecting Fred to answer her.

She heard him chuckle. "I'm sure you'll get use to it," Fred said, gently pushing her into the taxi. Realizing she didn't have a choice, Brooke sat in the seat gingerly, and then looked expectantly up at Fred.

He went to close the door, but Brooke stopped him before he could close it completely. "You don't even know me," she looked up at him again, confusion evident in her eyes. "You don't even know my name. Why are you helping me?"

Her question obviously caught him off guard, but Brooke recognized the sparkle of mischief in his eyes as Fred replied, "It's not every day when you're ordered to help a pretty witch on her way." He closed the taxi door on a surprised Brooke

"How did you know?" she hissed out the window, once she had figured out how to open it.

He turned to face her; his blue eyes regarded her carefully. Just as the driver got behind the wheel he replied, "Does it help that I'm a wizard?"

The driver chose that time to pull away from the curb. Still shocked, but trying to be polite, she yelled, "Thank you!" He grinned at her retreating form, waved, and then turned his back and disappeared into the crowd.

As she sat back in her seat, Brooke realized she was grinning as well. "Guess I'm going to have a proper adventure," she said aloud, and then groaned, placing her face in her hands.

"I haven't been here for more than an hour and I'm already starting to talk like them," she muttered, more confused than ever. Raising her head from her hands, Brooke glanced out the window, and she realized with a shock that they were pulling away from the airport and making their way into the heart of London.

"Oh Lord," she muttered. She knocked on the plastic glass separating her from the driver.

Without glancing at her, he pulled open a small window. "Yes, love?"

It's that word again, "Could you tell me where we're going?" Brooke asked.

"Leaky Cauldron, miss," he said, his accent surprisingly thicker than anyone Brooke had spoken to so far. "Should be there in a bit."

"Thank you," Brooke moved back to her original seat, and pulled out the map she had grabbed from the airport. At least I know where I'm going now, she thought with some relief, tracing each street with a finger as her eyes read each landmark.

Damn! She thought in frustration as she refolded the map and tucked it away, it's not on the map! She sighed; she hadn't expected to find it in the first place. It sounded too much like a 'magic' name to be a place where wizards, witches and muggles conversed together. Brooke thought back to lessons in Chicago, about European Witches and Wizards. They're more paranoid about muggles, isn't that right? She asked herself. So their world is secluded from the muggles; I hope it's at least somewhat similar to Chicago.

Brooke turned to look out the window, her chin supported by her hand. I suppose it'll take to getting use to, but it'll never be home, she thought as they passed the Tower Bridge. As much as she hated to admit it, Brooke began to feel homesick. The busyness of London only reminded her she was far from the traffic of Michigan Avenue, and how she would never walk down the street towards her school, 'Midtown Magic Academy' ever again. Although she hated to bare a certain fact, only because it made her feel weak to feel dependent on a place, but she missed her school. Not that anyone will miss me, she thought with some bitterness. But at least I liked the lessons, even though the students were awful.

That's not exactly true; some of the students had been nice to me. Brooke hadn't had any real friends; but she did know of one person who would miss her, her Divination teacher, Ms. Smith. It had actually been the teacher's idea for Brooke come to England, although she hadn't know at the time. The girl smiled slightly at the memory, her eyes glazed as she tried to focused on something outside that only she could see.

The scenery of outer London soon slowed to the crowded, busy streets of the inner city, but Brooke didn't notice until the taxi stopped a bit too quickly, and she nearly fell out of her seat. After that, she kept her trips down memory lane to a minimum.

They were passing Harrods now, the bright lights and crowd of people passing by in a blur made Brooke feel disconnected from everything. She felt adrift, watching everyone from her own personal bubble. Loneliness made her heart ache, and before she knew it, Brooke felt a wetness began working its way to her eyes.

That won't do, she thought with a frown. She blinked away the tears, you're homesick, understandable, but get over it.

"Miss, we're almost there." the driver's voice yanked her out of her revere.

Wiping her eyes quickly with the back of her hand, Brooke forced a small smile. "Thank you," she replied quietly, sitting back and forcing herself to look straight ahead. She wanted nothing else to set her tears off again. Brooke refused to let herself cry, even if she deserved to.

* * *

Brooke lay, curled up on a small but very comfortable bed, not even bothering to pull her shoes off after being shown to her room. Tom, the innkeeper and bartender of the Leaky Cauldron had helped the driver lug her trunk up to an empty room, where she had tried desperately to haggle with both men about the price of their service. But to her annoyance both of them merely smiled and shook their head.

"It's taken care of miss," the driver of the taxi had told her. "You just rest now."

Grateful for the rest, but unable to sleep because of a nagging feeling that something was not right with the whole situation, Brooke suddenly sat up. She had gotten here alright, and she even had a place to stay for free, but what the hell was she supposed to do now? Her next step would be to head to Hogwarts, or any type of school that would accept her, but how was she suppose to do that? And who were these people who were helping her?

"If someone could just tell me what's going on!" she shouted, slamming both of her fists into the bed.

"Temper," a sugary sweet voice said, "You shouldn't get so upset, dear."

Brooke glared at a golden framed mirror hanging across the room. "You would be upset too, if you didn't know what the hell was going on."

"Such language." the mirror made a clicking noise that sounded suspiciously like a tongue. "Pretty girls shouldn't use such language."

"Good thing I'm not pretty then," Brooke stated with a mischievous grin, "I can swear all I want."

"Humph." Clicking its imaginary tongue again, the mirror went silent.

Brooke smiled a bit. "Sorry; I'll try to keep it down to a minimum, alright?"

The mirror chuckled, shaking off the wall slightly. "Alright, dear; I do enjoy a good row."

Her grin widened as she pushed herself off the bed, supporting herself on her good elbow. "How long have you been here?"

"Ages," the mirror replied, "And I haven't met an American yet."

Brooke blushed a little. "Not that big of a deal, really," she assured the mirror, running a hand through her long hair self-consciously. Standing from the bed, Brooke walked over to the mirror and looked at her reflection.

She winced slightly at the pale figure before her, but managed a smile as she asked, "Is there anything interesting to do around here?"

The mirror went silent for a minute. "Well, you could always explore Diagon Alley; that's always interesting for first time occupants."

The girl smiled, her pale reflection brightening slightly. "I think I'll do that; after I get cleaned up."

"Go right ahead, dear. You know where the lo is."

"Right," Brooke nodded, although her brow frowned at the unfamiliar word. She moved to her unpacked trunk; Brooke had seen it pointless to unpack, not knowing how long she would be staying.

Probably not for long, Brooke thought with a bit of sadness, her eyes glancing around the room as she opened her trunk and pulled out a new pair of jeans and her toiletry bag. Aside from the comfortable feather bed and dresser close to the wall, the room was almost bare. The window stood wide open, letting in the early afternoon sunlight and the distant sound of London traffic as the beams played across the red tones of the room; Brooke had never particularly liked the color red, but it suited this room.

A content smile on her face, Brooke felt more like herself since before she could remember. Walking into the restroom, her soul felt light and free and she was suddenly determined to wash more than just the grime from her body.

Time passed; she wasn't sure how long, but enough for her to scour every inch of her skin until it was pink and clean. The smile still on her face, Brooke walked back into the room. And stopped short when she spotted a tawny owl perched on her open trunk case, a thick envelope tied to its leg.

"Oh, there you are," the mirror chimed in as the owl turned its golden gaze to the girl, "I was just saying you should be out any moment. How was your bath?"

"Refreshing," Brooke replied, giving the owl a weary look. What now? She walked over to the owl. Trying to contain her apprehension, Brooke took some deep breaths; it had been years since someone had sent her an owl, and even then, it was to send a Howler. She shuddered at the memory, but sighed in relief when she noticed the normal looking envelope tied to the leg of the owl. Her thoughts immediately went to her father; could he have sent it?

She shook the thought quickly out of her mind. Her father wouldn't dare send an owl to her, unless he was seriously pissed. Half -assure herself that her father would never send an owl; Brooke carefully kneeled next to her trunk, holding her arm out to the owl. Without hesitation, the winged creature moved to her arm, and she ignored the stabbing pain of the talons as they dug into her flesh, and untied the envelope gently.

"Thank you," Brooke smiled at the owl, "Would you like to rest before you leave?"

The owl cocked his head to the side for a moment before nodding, and Brooke placed him back on her trunk. She felt a tug at her heart; Brooke had never been able to afford an owl, even though she had always wanted one.

That's enough of that, she thought viciously, pushing her mind back to the letter she held in her hands. It was addressed to her. Surprise, surprise. The writing was unfamiliar, and it was in bottle green ink.

"What in God's name..." Brooke said aloud, her eyes darted from the address to the owl on her trunk. "Can you explain this?" She held up the envelope towards the owl, even though she didn't really expect the owl to reply.

Clicking his beak once, the owl flapped his wings and before Brooke could stop him, flew out her open window, leaving her alone with the mysterious letter.

"That was helpful," she muttered, her attention back on the letter.

Ms. B. Lockhart

Room 17

Leaky Cauldron

London, England

"I guess that explains why people kept saying, 'I'm going to be late'." Shaking her head, Brooke turned the letter over, noted for the first time how thick it felt, and stared in fascination at the seal of the envelope; a purple wax seal that showed a lion, eagle, badger and snake surrounding a large H held the envelope closed. Her heartbeat quickened. Without a second thought, Brooke popped off the seal and pulled out pages written in the same ink.

"'Dear Ms. Lockhart,' " Brooke read aloud.

"'We were informed of your predicament---' ", here she snorted, but continued to read, "'and we're told you needed a transfer of schools. We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,' " Brooke's face split into a grin, her hands clutching the letter trembled with excitement. " 'Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1. Knowing of your predicament, we will send someone for you before then. We await your owl by no later that July 31. Yours sincerely, Minerva McGonagall.' "

"Good Lord, what did I get myself into?" Brooke asked her eyes wide in wonder. How in the world did 'Minerva McGonagall' know of her 'predicament'? The thought chilled her.

"Wonders never cease," Brooke whispered, still reading the letter over again. A rapturous smile was plastered on her face, and she couldn't help but jump from her crouch and squeal in a rare display of delight. "Hell yeah!" she shouted. "I'm going to Hogwarts!"

Don't count your chicks before they hatch, the voice in her head chided, Thing's are happening far too quickly to think they're just chance. Stopping in mid celebration, Brooke bit her lower lip as she read over the letter again; the voice was right. Things were happening far too easily.

But the excitement overcame her fear. What the hell, he can't get me here. I'm finally free!

She laughed after realizing this was only the first page of the letter; she quickly flipped through the others, scanning them over with wide grey eyes.

Her gray eyes narrowed. "I have to wear a uniform?!" she exclaimed aloud, looking aghast. "And a pointy hat?!"

She almost ripped the letter right then. Brooke was not one to conform to something that forced herself to hide who she truly was, but slowly, a grin spread across her face.

"They never said I couldn't...alter the robes at all," she mused to herself, "All I need is a little silver thread, maybe some gold..."

"That's the spirit, dear," the mirror piped in.