Willowbrook

The iron gates groaned open as (your name) carriage rumbled onto the gravel drive. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the backdrop of the imposing silhouette of Blackwood Academy. Looming against the bruised twilight sky, the castle was a tapestry of shadow and ancient stone, its turrets piercing the clouds like skeletal fingers. Ivy, thick and emerald green, snaked its way up the weathered walls, whispering secrets only the wind could understand. A gust of wind, carrying the scent of damp earth and something else… something subtly sweet and wild, swirled around the carriage as it finally halted. A tall woman with eyes,the colour of amethyst and hair like spun moonlight, stood waiting at the foot of the stone steps. Her emerald robes flowed around her as she moved. “Welcome, (your name),” the woman said, her voice a warm melody that somehow cut through your nervousness. “I am Professor Willowbrook, your Transfiguration instructor. It’s a long journey; come inside and warm yourself.” Your, clutching the strap of your worn leather satchel, followed Professor Willowbrook up the seemingly endless flight of steps. The air grew colder, carrying the faint echo of distant voices and the rustle of unseen things. The heavy oak doors creaked open, revealing a vast entrance hall bathed in the flickering glow of countless candles suspended in mid-air. Suits of armour stood sentinel along the walls, their empty eyes seeming to follow your every move. Above, a vaulted ceiling disappeared into shadow, hinting at the immense size of the castle.