Emma falls into classes easier than even she expected. Her parents' homeschooled knowledge has furthered her farther than she and Aurelia believed it would. She's a natural at Charms, even enough to seriously impress Flitwick, and manages to be competent enough at Potions to earn silence from Professor Snape.
She slides easily into the camaraderie present in the sixth-year Gryffindors, making fast friends with the famed and admirable Oliver Wood. While not particularly captivated by Quidditch, she retains enough interest in the sport to gain his instant friendship. What's more of a gratification comes to her surprise: the group regularly includes Ravenclaw prefect Penelope Clearwater, and, by extension and to Emma's delight, Aurelia.
She shouldn't be baffled at her sister's penchant for making fast friends, but she does marvel at the effortlessness put into the matter. Aurelia has the group wrapped around her finger before Emma can more than offer an introduction. She should have expected it, really; it always happens. But she's long gotten used to admiring Aurelia with the rest of them. She's brilliant, in schoolwork and in personal relations, and if Emma had been looking hard enough to truly see who her sister was, she would have known she was Ravenclaw from the start.
So Emma settles in, still hesitant and tripping over her words, but no longer quite the same girl who walked into the castle trailing on the heels of her sister. Perhaps it was learning to stand on her own for the first time. Perhaps it was many things.
She knows there are eyes that mark her progress, not the least belonging to her parents, who sent a congratulatory yet surprised letter at Emma's placement, and which asked for updates on her life and Aurelia's, to hear what the other girl won't tell them. Emma divulges nothing beyond what her sister does, always taking the cues she's given. In a way, it's comforting, to have others make the decisions. But with eyes on her and creeping back to her parents and her heritage, she can't afford a misstep.
Her Gryffindor friends have no idea. Aurelia shoots her uncomfortable glances when some pure-blooded Slytherins begin a dialogue on blood purity, but Emma tunes them out. So Hogwarts unfolds rather peacefully, for as much as Emma dreaded arriving there.
~
Emma's only manner of agitation in regards to schoolwork lies in Transfiguration. Somewhat embarrassing, since her House Head is the best teacher in the school. But the Brookshires never thought that it would be important for her to learn beyond a rudimentary degree, so she's at a fourth year level, and barely passing at that.
When she asks for a tutor, she's eagerly accepted by Percy, who seems to have endless time on his hands to show off his skill at absolutely everything, despite having a million tasks as a prefect. Even Margaret struggles with the management of it all, but Percy never once buckles under the pressure. It's as if he's been preparing for the work his entire life.
But Emma doesn't think he imagined how fully incompetent she could be, given the chance.
"I told you," she says in the courtyard, hissing under her breath. They've been at this for an hour, and she's been able to accomplish absolutely nothing. They're working on a more complex transfiguration.
"It's like science," Percy tells her for what must be the hundredth time.
"I have absolutely nothing to do with science," Emma says. "I spend all my time learning what my parents didn't see fit to teach me."
"Let' s just go through it again," Percy tells her. He has glasses on today, pushing them up the bridge of his nose. "Tell me what you're looking for."
"Weight, viciousness, wand power, and concentration." Emma rattles the words off, clenching her jaw.
"That's right," Percy says, and they go again.
She spends another hour getting absolutely nowhere, before managing it. Even Percy looks surprised, a change from where his head had been leaning dangerously near his hands in frustration. The bird that had once been a birdcage soars over their heads, flapping large blue wings.
"That wasn't the bird it was supposed to be," Emma says, frowning.
"Oh, who cares?" Percy asks. "You did it!"
"But it took me so long."
"Emma. Stop for a second." She watches him look up at the bird, with its great rush of feathers, one floating gently down to earth. He snags it out of the air and holds it out to her. "You told me yourself that you've never done things like this before—transfiguring something inanimate to a living creature. And you told me that you haven't studied Transfiguration before. So you're running off of a lot less than most of us have had, and you haven't been at it near as long."
"You've lost me," she murmurs quietly, staring at the feather in his hand. He shakes it a little, and she touches it briefly.
He reaches out and folds her fingers over the feather. It weighs nothing in her hand, just a small sliver of creation clasped in her fingers. Can something so vital feel so insubstantial?
"You managed to do this in a single afternoon," Percy tells her, pulling his hand away and pushing his glasses back up his nose. "Most people, when they attempt this for the first time, don't get it in their first week. I think you're worried too much about it."
"What about you?" Emma asks. "You're not worried you lost an afternoon to a girl who can't figure out a vital qualification for the rest of the Wizarding world?"
Percy leans back against the stone wall, running his thumb over his prefect badge. "I'm going to work in the Ministry," he tells her. "Under the Minister of Magic. And I won't get there if I give up on the things that seem challenging. Helping you with that was hard, and I should have been more patient. But I won't get anywhere if I avoid the things that are difficult, or that I can't do right."
"Everything just seems so easy for you all," Emma tells him. "Even Aurelia's gotten it so quickly."
"You're not your sister," Percy says, and the frustration has crept back into his voice.
"Sorry," Emma says.
"It's fine," he sighs, and begins to gather his things. She wrings her hands. "You need to start thinking about if you're going to be proud of yourself, and not if others are going to be proud of you. No matter how much you try, you'll never be your sister. You need to be something different."
He stands up, and watches her scramble to her feet. She clasps her books to her chest and slings her bag over her shoulder. "I'm not trying to scare you, but Aurelia isn't going to be hung up if you're not like her. She's not going to care. So don't focus on being like her. Find something you want, and don't let go of it until you have it in your hands."
"Like you?"
A cold look crosses over his face. "No. Not like me. Do it better."
~
Emma slides into her seat on the other side of Oliver as silently as possible. Across the table, Margaret gives her a careful look, but Emma shakes her head. Victoria notices, from the other side of Charlotte.
"All right, Emma?" Victoria asks, her sonorous voice sharpened by concern.
"Just a headache," she says, not looking at Percy. "I get them all the time."
"Really?" Margaret asks. "Have you talked to Madam Pomfrey about it?"
Emma gives a small laugh. "There's no need. I've been getting them since I was very little. About six, I think. And my father was always sick, so I inherited that as well." She sees their faces and waves them off. "Just colds, and occasional bouts of the flu and pneumonia. It's really nothing serious."
"If you say so," Margaret says, although she looks significantly reassured.
"What class do we have next?" Oliver asks Emma, and she flips through her schedule quickly.
"I think it's Charms," she says, grinning a bit. She's best at Charms, with the personal freedom that the spells require. While she's not better than most of the Ravenclaws, she certainly outstrips the others.
She's grown more confident in most of her abilities, especially in Charms. While she's still not the best student, she does know that she's keeping up at a decent rate, for missing the first five years of traditional schooling.
"I can't wait for the weekend," Oliver says. Emma turns to him curiously. "Quidditch practice," he says, and everyone within earshot groans. "What?"
"Nothing at all," Emma says. "How do you think it's going to go?" She makes a small noise as someone kicks her under the table. She thinks it might have been Victoria.
Oliver launches into a cheerful tirade over how he thinks they'll need to practice more, and alludes to new plays and strategies that he refuses to elaborate on. Percy and Margaret shoot Emma twin glares, and she smiles brightly. Oh, to be young and alive and capable of laughter.
Oliver slings an arm around her shoulders as they get up for Charms, and she leans into his side, still listening to him prattle about broom speeds and attributes in comparison to windsheer and aerodynamic sleekness in design. He pauses halfway through his monologue as they round the corridor to Charms.
"You're a good listener, you know?" He says.
"I've had practice," Emma tells him.
"I don't think that's it," he says, and then gets distracted by another half-formed thought of Quidditch and the sight of Marcus Flint in the hallway. The older boy stares at their group, produces a sneer, and then walks away.
"What was that about?" Emma asks, but Oliver moves on and frowns the entire rest of the way to Charms class. Emma looks over her shoulder to see Flint looking back at them, that same rictus snarl fixed on his face.
She shudders, and turns quickly into the Charms classroom, sliding into her seat with the feeling of worry lifting off her shoulders at the promise of security and success.