Go for the Green

A scream. Not her scream, but it echoed in her head, bouncing off the walls of her skull. Fleur tried to move, to cast a shield, anything, but her limbs wouldn't obey. Darkness pressed in, not the comforting darkness of a closed room, but a thick, suffocating void. Was this death? It was so… small. Not the grand adventure she'd always imagined.

Then, a flicker. A blurry image swam into focus. A ceiling, cracked and stained. Not the ornate ceilings of Beauxbatons, but something… drab. Rough. She blinked, trying to clear her vision. Where was she? The last thing she remembered was the acrid smell of burnt grass, the insane glint in Barty Crouch Junior's eyes, and then… nothing.

Panic clawed at her throat. She tried to sit up, but her body felt wrong. Weak. Small. With a groan, she managed to push herself up on her elbows. Her hands… tiny, chubby things. Not her elegant, long-fingered hands. These looked like a child's hands.

She looked down. A thin, floral-printed nightdress hung loosely on her frame. Her frame? This wasn't her body. This was… a child's body.

Fleur lurched upright, a wave of dizziness washing over her. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, and her feet dangled inches above the floor. Panic turned to terror. This couldn't be happening. It had to be a nightmare. Any second now, she'd wake up in the hospital wing, Madame Pomfrey fussing over her.

But the room remained stubbornly real. A small, spartan room with peeling wallpaper and a single, barred window. A room that smelled of dust and despair. This wasn't Beauxbatons. This wasn't France.

She stumbled towards the window, her legs shaky and unfamiliar. Peering through the bars, she saw a grey, overcast sky. Below, a neglected garden overgrown with weeds. A swing set stood rusting in the corner, chains swaying gently in the breeze. Everything about this place screamed poverty and neglect.

A wave of nausea hit her. She had to get out of here. She had to figure out what was going on.

Reaching for the door, she found the handle was too high. Frustration welled up inside her. She was Fleur Delacour, champion of Beauxbatons, and she couldn't even reach a bloody doorknob! With a surge of adrenaline, she jumped, managing to grasp the handle and pull it down.

The door creaked open, revealing a long, dimly lit hallway. The air was cold and stale, carrying the faint scent of bleach and boiled cabbage. Fleur crept down the hall, her bare feet padding softly on the wooden floor.

She passed several closed doors, each identical to the last. From behind one, she heard the muffled sound of crying. Her heart clenched. Wherever she was, it wasn't a happy place.

At the end of the hallway, she found a staircase leading down. Hesitantly, she descended, her small hand trailing along the dusty banister. The stairs led to a large, communal room. A dozen or so children, ranging in age from toddlers to teenagers, were scattered around the room. Some were playing with worn-out toys, others were huddled together, whispering. An older woman with a severe bun and a sour expression sat behind a desk, watching them with a hawk-like gaze.

As Fleur entered the room, all eyes turned to her. The room fell silent.

"Artemis, what are you doing out of bed?" the woman barked, her voice sharp and unforgiving. "You know the rules. Bed until breakfast."

Artemis? Who was Artemis? Fleur opened her mouth to explain, to demand answers, but no sound came out. Her mind raced. Think, Fleur, think! She was in the body of a child, a girl named Artemis. And she was in some kind of… orphanage?

The woman, clearly impatient, rose from her desk and strode towards her. "Well? Answer me, girl."

Fleur swallowed, trying to compose herself. She had to be careful. She didn't know where she was or what was going on, but she knew she couldn't reveal her true identity. Not yet.

"I… I had a bad dream," she stammered, her voice small and unfamiliar.

The woman's eyes narrowed. "A bad dream? And that gives you the right to disturb everyone else? Get back to bed, Artemis. Now."

Fleur hesitated for a moment, then turned and fled back towards the stairs. As she ran, she heard the woman's voice behind her, "And if I hear another peep out of you, you'll be scrubbing floors for a week!"

Back in the "Artemis'" room, Fleur collapsed on the bed, her mind reeling. She was trapped. Trapped in the body of a child, in a strange and hostile place. She had no wand, no allies, no idea how she'd gotten here.

But she was Fleur Delacour, and she wasn't about to give up. She would figure this out. She would find a way back to her own life.

She took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. First, she needed information. Who was Artemis Green? What was this place? And more importantly, how could she get out?

As she lay there, staring at the cracked ceiling, a glint of determination flickered in her eyes. She might be trapped in a child's body, but she was still a witch. And she would use all her skills and cunning to survive.

The morning light filtered through the dusty windows of the orphanage, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. Fleur—no, Artemis, she reminded herself—sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the envelope in her hands. It was thick and heavy, made of parchment rather than paper, with an elegant script written in emerald green ink. The address was precise, almost unnervingly so:

Miss A. Green

Room 12

St. Mary’s Orphanage

London, England

Her fingers trembled as she turned it over, revealing a wax seal stamped with a crest—a lion, a badger, a raven, and a snake encircling a large letter "H." She knew what this was. How could she not? It was her Hogwarts letter. The moment she’d been waiting for since she realized where—and more importantly when—she was.

For four years, Fleur had pieced together the truth of her situation. The newspapers in the orphanage library had given her the year: 1967. She had been thrown decades into the past, long before her own birth. England was a far cry from France, and this orphanage was nothing like the warm halls of Beauxbatons or the cozy home she’d grown up in. But Fleur had adapted. She’d had to. She was no longer Fleur Delacour, Triwizard Champion and part-Veela; she was Artemis Green, an orphaned girl with no family and no future—until now.

She ran her fingers over the seal before carefully breaking it open. Inside were two pieces of parchment. The first was a letter:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Miss Green,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1st. We await your owl by no later than July 31st.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

Fleur's lips curled into a small smile as she read it. She hadn’t expected to feel this… excited. After all, she’d already attended one magical school in her previous life. But this wasn’t just any school—it was Hogwarts.

The second parchment listed items she would need: robes, books, a wand… A wand! Her heart skipped a beat at the thought of holding one again.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. Before she could respond, it creaked open to reveal Mrs. Hargrove, the matron of St. Mary’s Orphanage.

“Artemis,” Mrs. Hargrove said gruffly, “there’s someone here to see you.”

Fleur frowned but nodded, slipping off the bed and following Mrs. Hargrove down the narrow hallway to the main sitting room. As they entered, Fleur froze.

Standing by the fireplace was a tall woman with sharp features and an air of authority that demanded respect. Her dark green robes were immaculate, and her square spectacles glinted in the morning light. Fleur recognized her immediately: Minerva McGonagall.

“Miss Green?” McGonagall’s voice was crisp but not unkind as she turned to face her.

“Yes,” Fleur replied softly, schooling her expression into one of cautious curiosity—the sort of look an ordinary muggleborn child might wear when confronted with something unusual.

McGonagall smiled faintly and gestured for Fleur to sit on one of the worn armchairs across from her. Mrs. Hargrove lingered in the doorway for a moment before McGonagall gave her a pointed look that sent her scurrying away.

“Miss Green,” McGonagall began once they were alone, “I imagine you’re wondering why I’m here.”

Fleur nodded slowly.

“I am here on behalf of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,” McGonagall continued, pulling out a copy of the same letter Fleur had just read upstairs. “Have you received our letter?”

“Yes,” Fleur replied quietly, holding up the envelope.

“Good.” McGonagall’s expression softened slightly as she leaned forward in her chair. “Miss Green… you are a witch.”

Fleur widened her eyes in feigned shock but said nothing.

“I understand this may come as quite a surprise,” McGonagall said gently. “Many muggleborn children—children born to non-magical parents—are unaware of their magical abilities until they receive their Hogwarts letter.”

“M-Magic?” Fleur stammered, doing her best impression of an overwhelmed child.

“Yes,” McGonagall said with a small nod. “Magic is real, Miss Green—and you possess it.”

Fleur bit her lip as if trying to process this information while inwardly marveling at how surreal this moment felt. She had dreamed about attending Hogwarts as a child in her first life but never imagined it would happen like this.

“Hogwarts is a school where young witches and wizards learn to control their magic,” McGonagall continued patiently. “You’ll study subjects like Potions, Charms, Transfiguration… And you’ll meet others like yourself.”

“Others… like me?” Fleur asked hesitantly.

“Yes.” McGonagall’s lips twitched into what might have been an encouraging smile. “Hogwarts has four houses: Gryffindor for the brave and daring; Ravenclaw for those who value intelligence and wit; Hufflepuff for the loyal and hardworking; and Slytherin for those who are ambitious and resourceful.”

Fleur nodded slowly as if absorbing every word while inwardly noting how little had changed about Minerva over the decades—or rather decades yet to come.

“You’ll be sorted into one of these houses when you arrive,” McGonagall added.

“How?” Fleur asked innocently.

“That is something you’ll discover on your first night at Hogwarts,” McGonagall replied cryptically before standing up briskly. “Now then—we’ll need to take care of your supplies.”

“S-Supplies?” Fleur asked.

“Yes.” McGonagall pulled out what looked like an ordinary quill but tapped it against her palm thoughtfully before continuing: “Your robes will need fitting; your wand will need choosing… And we’ll visit Gringotts Wizarding Bank to ensure you have funds for your purchases.”

Fleur blinked up at her with wide eyes but nodded obediently.

“Very well,” McGonagall said briskly before gesturing towards the door. "Shall we, Miss Green?"