Lily Bowden was a normal ten year old girl before the night she met a Warlock. After that everything changed. She was whisked away by a wizard named Harry Akers and she was sent to Beacon Academy to learn magic where she would soon realise that magic is a lot harder than waving a wand about and saying a few special words.
The Third War is over. It has been for nearly fifty years. Yet it still haunts my dreams almost every night. I remember those days, remember the loss and pain it caused. Even now we struggle to regain our world from the shadow of conflict. Old animosity is deeply ingrained and only time will mend those wounds.
Tonight was particularly bad. I awoke while it was still dark, rain pounding against the window panes as a storm raged over head. Storms had always made it hard for me to sleep; the raw surging power overhead always set me on edge. My magic had always been particularly sensitive to such imbalances, it’s what made me a strong sensitive and probably the reason I had been offered this post at the Academy.
Resigned to the fact that I wouldn't be able to sleep any longer I climbed out of bed and pulled on my robe, lighting a candle and moving over to my desk. The room was small but comfortable. At one end a spectacular curved wall is covered in a huge bookcase that holds a wide collection of books on a variety of subjects, each showing signs of great use. My bed is nestled in one corner, on the opposite wall and sits snuggled beneath the sloping beams that are the only sign that my room rests in the highest part of the building, excluding the tower that is the cause of the curved wall. In between the bed and the bookcase, and opposite the door is my favourite feature of the room, a large window that frames a spectacular view of the grounds below. This is where my desk rests, which currently is littered in a variety of papers, most of which sit unmarked and some unread.
I collapsed into my chair, staring out of the window and marvelling at the slight reflection of myself that the weak candle light played across the glass. I don't look old, a trick of my magical ability. Wizards live a lot longer than mundanes, and as Wizards go I am still considered young. I look perhaps to be in my late twenties, though in reality I am closer to one hundred. No lines mark my face to show the passage of time, no grey mares my dark brown hair. Nobody who saw my passing in the streets would know that I was anything other than what I appeared, but I can see it. Deep within my green eyes, there behind the sparkle rests an old soul. One that has seen more than most.
I may be a professor now, but recently I have been thinking about when I first came to the academy, how different it was back then.