IL

Everyone knew the name Auroura Moltisanti. Not because they had known her personally, not because they had grown up beside her or shared a classroom with her, but because she was the sort of story that survived long after everyone who had witnessed it was buried. She was an old tale whispered between the walls of ancient manors, a name spoken over expensive dinner tables by pure-blood families who had existed for centuries, and a legend passed from one generation of witches and wizards to the next. They said she was a girl too beautiful for death, a witch who had conquered the one thing every living creature feared, an immortal imprisoned somewhere beyond the boundaries of the known world. Some claimed she had been sent to hell itself. Others insisted that hell had been created specifically for her. Of course, Hogwarts students had heard the stories. Everyone had. But there was a considerable difference between hearing an old legend and believing it. Immortality was a ridiculous concept, the sort of thing found in dusty books written by mad wizards who had spent too long studying forbidden magic. People died. Even the greatest witches and wizards died. Bloodlines ended, kingdoms crumbled, and the most powerful names in the wizarding world eventually became nothing more than ink on parchment. The Moltisanti girl, however, supposedly had never been given that privilege.