In another life she might have found Hogwarts breathtaking. The castle certainly knew how to make an impression with its dark silhouette cut against the wide skies of the Scottish moors, and the hustle and bustle of students garbed in black robes in ancient stone halls that held a specific aesthetic charm. That specific aesthetic charm, while imbued in many things in the castle, was certainly lacking in the history books laid out in front of Asteria, who with one hand tugged at a strand of her hair, and with the other flipped through the books in front of her.
"I just- I just don't get it," she mumbled to herself. The dates didn't want to line up right, the history felt removed from what she had previously learned in her Muggle schooling, and there was this awful underlying sense of pointlessness to the whole venture. Tracing the watermarks of careless students from the past, she continued to jot down notes on gargoyles and goblins but again - that pang of pointlessness hit home, the desire to take the papers in front of her and scatter them to the wind, to tip over the desk, to run out onto the moors and never be seen again. The impulse terrified her. It was like walking out into black water or being consumed by fire - the absolute knowledge that your sense of self has been fundamentally altered. Still, there wasn't much else she could do but sit down, suck it up, and learn the material. She said that she would, and by god, it would happen.
Here lay the rub: she didn't care - she couldn't care. It didn't matter that she knew she was a witch now, that this was supposedly her history, her heritage. Her mother lived an ocean away, and her life was what she wanted to understand, but was terrified of at the same time. What did it mean to be a dark wizard? Why were there dark wizards? How did wizarding society reach this point? The worries felt too large, too abstract for the young girl, who felt stinging in her eyes and blinked furiously, willing the tears to disappear.
"Why. Can't. I. Understand," she whispered, berating herself as she rifled through the her papers, laying down her quill (an absurd tool really she thought) in the process. Dates swam in front of her eyes, wars and battle got mixed up in the flashcards, and confusion wormed its cruel way through her stomach. Which is why she had asked for help from an older student in her house - she didn't really know her, but it seemed as good of a place to start as any. Her house seemed... safe, forgiving, a place where she might be able to find a modicum of peace. However, that tangent of thought reminded her: where was Saskia? Hopefully she hadn't forgotten about the appointment. She huffed quietly as she picked up her quill and began doodling in the margins of her notes while she waited.
everybody crashes - you take a little damage, you'll spit a little blood, but we'll always manage love, cause everybody does