[Elsewhere]Disguises and Directions

There was hardly any light left in the sky that evening, the last semblance of blue fading over the horizon at an impeccable rate. A young girl was parading down the cobbled street, no more than perhaps thirteen years of age, clothed in a nearby Muggle academy’s uniform. The hardness of her school shoes clicked on the stone as she walked, the sharp sound echoing down the near empty lane. Her hair was a deep shade of red, and curly, with eyes so gray they seemed as if they could let an entire thunderstorm out of them at any moment. The girl clutched her school bag tightly in her hand, those eyes darting around frantically as she passed house after house. It soon appeared that she had reached her destination – a small townhouse, two stories tall with a slowly dying front lawn and a sign on the door that read ‘welcome to our home!’. She scoffed as she approached the slab of cherry wood, rolling her eyes. That damn sign. It was too happy, too cheerful, too… welcoming. And yes, indeed, that was the whole purpose of the sign, to be welcoming; the girl despised it nevertheless. She stuck a pale, thin hand into her bag and returned with a single key, using it to open the door that she stood before. It creaked open slowly, revealing a tidy living space within. She stepped in hurriedly, removing her stiff shoes and leaving them in the entryway before scurrying through the house. “Mum, Dad, I’m home!” The girl exclaimed forcefully, clambering up the stairs that lived just around the corner. A man appeared in the kitchen, which was parallel to the stairway, and waved his hand. “Welcome back, Darcy. How was school?” The girl was at the top now, running down the hall as she yelled “Good, fine!” back at him. She opened the third door in the hallway and rushed inside, closing and locking the door. A relieved sigh escaped her lips as she dumped her belongings on the queen bed that occupied the middle of the room. Darcy removed her coat, and began her work immediately. She knew that her parents wouldn’t bother her at all – they never did, never would. They just seemed to linger around the house, doing their own thing. It just made things just that much easier for Darcy; she made a good choice with this one, she thought. She checked the watch on her left wrist – tick, tick, tick. 5:59, it read, the moving hand edging ever closer to the fancy, ornate 12. Darcy stood and eyeballed the mirror in front of her. 3, 2, 1. Her skin began to bubble, her spine and legs began to shrink. The girl shut her eyes instinctively – it was a strange, unpleasant feeling, one she still hadn’t gotten over, but wouldn’t have to bear with for much longer. Her hair straightened out, growing several inches and turning into a darkish blonde color that lightened at the ends. The plumpness that filled her cheeks dissolved, the bones in her face shifted around. Once the bubbling had subsided, the girl opened her now piercing blue eyes, revealing an entirely new girl in the mirror. The ginger teen was now gone, and in her place was a smaller girl, a much younger girl. She shivered for a moment, as if shaking herself into her skin again. “Ah, back to myself again. Hello Clover, it’s been a while.” She said to herself, smirking as she eyed her reflection. Knuckles were cracked, along with her neck, before she reached into a drawer and pulled out what seemed like a never ending supply of research. There were books, loose papers, family trees, legal documents, everything. Clover, as she was, sank to the floor and began fingering through the lot. This kind of work bored her incredibly; she'd been doing this for years now, even though she'd only intended for it to last perhaps a year at most. She passed over several items that she'd already gone over before landing on a particular paper. It was a sort of family tree, though in reality it was just a bunch of names scribbled on a piece of parchment with some lines connecting them. Clover stifled a yawn, tucking some hair behind her ear as she obsessed over its contents. Yes, there she was, written square in the middle. Clover Primrose Thorne, connected above by mother Pixie and father Thorne - his name began with a D, and that's all she had knowledge of.

It was almost four years prior to then that young Clover was left on her own. Her mother had never cared for her in the first place, often pretending the child didn't even exist. Without any guidance, Clover was left to raise herself for the most part, keeping herself entertained. That usually involved finding a rat or two in the garden and setting them into an enclosed area, leaving them to fight to the death. Oh, that was her favorite game. Little Clo adored it, and would 'play' it all day - or until she ran out of rats. Her mother never noticed her small daughter's sadistic behavior, though she probably wouldn't have been bothered to do anything about it even if she did. She never had a father either, at least in the flesh. Clover had no recollection of the man, and every record of him in their house had been eradicated. There wasn't a single trace of him, and that's what annoyed the girl. She needed him, not necessarily then, but now. If anything, just to use him. Nearly a month before her fifth birthday, Clover awoke to find her mother gone. The flat was empty, save for the couch in the living room and the bed she'd been sleeping on. That was when the fury started, any trace of affection she had towards Pixie disappeared. Although she had never been fond of the woman, she felt so betrayed that she would just /abandon/ her own child. It was then that little Clover vowed to hunt her down, and kill her. And not even in a theoretical sense - she was serious.

Fast forward several months, and a then five and a half year old Clover had been living on the streets since that day. Cunning as she was, she knew she had to figure out a way to blend into the area. She couldn't risk being found and sent to an orphanage - her entire operation would be soiled if that happened. Clover had been collecting anything she could about the Thorne family in an attempt to locate her father. She reasoned that he would have more information on her mother, or at the very least had more resources that she could go through. Then, her master plan came to her. She would find a useless Muggle child to kill, make a few years' worth of polyjuice potions, and /pose/ as her. Yes, it was perfect. It would be a perfect cover for her to keep as she continued her research. Clover then began looking for her target, usually lingering around the nearest Muggle academy. She wouldn't dare try and kill a wizarding child - their parents would surely catch on. Another month went by, then another, before she finally made her pick. It was a young girl named Darcy Crownbury, a girl several years older than she. Clover stalked her for nearly a year, learning everything there was about Darcy before she went in for the kill. If she was going to pose as this child for a long period of time, she had to be thorough. She learned her mannerisms, her favorite food, color, animal, and even grew to be able to imitate her handwriting. Then came the day of the slaughter. She'd stolen a polyjuice potion from someone already, waiting for the last component in her coat pocket. Clover approached the girl as she was walking home, with an innocent "Hello! I'm lost, can you walk me home please?" And of course, unsuspecting Darcy obliged, taking a shortcut down an alley. What a wrong move. There was a quick movement, a flash of silver, and Darcy was dead on the ground. Killed by a five year old with a dagger. The adrenaline Clover felt in that moment was unmatchable, such a wonderful euphoria. She chopped off poor Darcy's curly red hair, placing a strand into her flask. The brew quickly changed into an effervescent dark golden color, and Clover chugged it as fast as she could. She took on the form of the dead girl, and began the next three years living as Darcy Jenassa Crownbury. The girl's parents never suspected a thing.

Clover blinked, having gotten lost deep in thought. She quickly resumed observing the document presented to her, having left off at D. Thorne. Clearly, this tree was of no use to her, having no new information. A huff escaped Clover's lips as she flipped to the next paper, one she'd acquired only the day before but hadn't been able to look over just yet. She began reading, her blue gaze moving left to right, though it stopped about halfway down the paper. Eyes widened, and froze. There it was, right in front of her. 'Damien Thorne', it said, paired with an address to some sort of manor. A sly grin appeared on Clover's face. Finally, she had made progress, she was one step closer to hunting down her mother. She stood up suddenly, darting around her room, gathering a variety of things and shoving them into her bag. She had no time to waste; she had to begin making the trip to her father's manor straightaway. Clover wrote a note for Mr. and Mrs. Crownbury to find laying on their daughter's bed, saying she ran away and wouldn't come back. She changed clothes quickly, into a white turtleneck and jeans, and put on a pair of those stiff plasticky shoes from before. The girl planted the paper there, and opened the window, snatching her bag before climbing out of it, careful as she made the two-story drop to the ground. Clover began parading down the street once again, the click-clack of her flats echoing down the lane, the still blood-stained dagger clutched in her hand. "Back to myself again."