Chapter Three - Early Years
"Helene Kama?" I frown, looking up at her. Mrs. Zabini's warm brown eyes meet mine, as if they are boring into my soul. It sends a sharp shiver down my spine.
"My mother's last name was Scamander," she sighs, "But to honor her sacrifice, my father decided to give me the name of the man who should have been my grandfather. Mustafa Kama. My father was a superstitious man, and he believed that to name me Scamander, or Lestrange, or even Diouf would set me up for a life of heartbreak and darkness."
"I spent my early days exploring our small plot of land in Colomiers, blissfully unaware of my magical abilities. My father was an opinionated man. My mother was his magic, and when she died... he saw no use in the constant reminder. I never saw him use his wand a single time in my presence."
I pause, my lips pursed slightly. No magic.
"When I was 10 years old, a tall old man arrived at my house, and the first chapter of my life began to unfold." A small smile plays on her lips, lighting her face up in a manner that looks like a cross between excitement and nostalgia.
—
I fiddle with the hair of my doll. My mama made it for me, long before I was born. I never knew my mama. Not like the other girls know their mama's. Their mama's braid their hair, and sew them dresses from calicos and silks. The black yarn is frizzy and matted, practically destroyed.
My papa sits across the small room from me, watching as I play with my dolls. There is a loud knock at the door. I do not miss the way he tenses slightly, as if he is afraid. My papa told me never to be afraid, because many people simply fear what they do not know. So instead of being afraid, I should just try to understand.
I watch silently as he stands up, slowly walking towards the door. The old brass hinges creak as the wooden door is pulled open, and in comes a tall man. He looks like one of the characters from the books Papa reads to me at night, before I go to bed.
The man towers over my papa, dressed in long silvery gray robes that skim the dusty wooden floor I am sitting on. I look up at him, my eyes filled with curiosity as he walks towards me.
"Hello, child," he says, sinking to his knees on the floor in front of me. My eyes travel across the room to meet those of my father, which look wary, yet he slowly nods, "Do you know who I am?"
"No Monsieur." I shake my head. Papa says it's important to always be polite.
"My name is Maximillion Dupain, and I am the Headmaster of a school called Beauxbatons, have you ever heard of it?"
"No Monsieur," I repeat.
"It is a school for special children, like yourself, who possess the ability to control the extraordinary. They call them witches and wizards." A small smile plays on his lips as he draws what looks like a pointed wooden stick from his pocket. Waving it slightly, he flicks his wrist and says a string of gibberish along the lines of, "Aperendo."
My eyes widen with awe as a trail of blue light erupts from the tip of the stick, forming a small blue rabbit that hops across the wooden floor, nuzzling its snout against my leg.
"And I can do that?" I reach down to pet the bunny, taken slightly aback when it dissipates into a cloud of sparkling blue particles.
"With training, you can do much, much, more." He nods, "I would like you to come to Beauxbatons in the fall, so you can learn with the other witches and wizards your age. Would you like to do that?"
"But I would miss my Papa."
"Remember what I said ma cherie," my father finally speaks, joining us on the wooden floor, moving my doll aside so he can gently rub my back, "Do not be afraid. This place will teach you many things, things that I cannot teach you."
"So I can understand." My voice is soft.
"And then you will no longer be afraid," he nods, "I went to Beauxbatons, when I was just slightly older than you were."
"Did Mama also go there?"
"No," he shakes his head, meeting my eyes, "Your Mama was raised in England, so she went to the school for witches and wizards there... but her dream was always to see you go to Beauxbatons."
"Then I want to go." I nod my head furiously, "But what will I learn?"
"You will learn spells, and how to make potions, and the history of the Wizarding world," the man's voice is filled with wonder as a smile blooms across his face, "It will be hard, to adjust to living in such a vast castle, but I think you will fit right in."
—
"We received my official acceptance letter a week later," Mrs. Zabini picks at one of her cuticles, chipping the corner of her perfectly manicured nails, "The schedule is very similar to that of Hogwarts. The next fall, accompanied by a variety of books, a brand new wand, and a pet cat to keep me company, I rode a carriage drawn by palomino horses to the largest castle I had ever seen in my life"
"My years at Beauxbatons were some of the most peaceful of my life," She sighs airly, waving her hand in the air slightly, "My routine stayed mostly the same– I would attend my classes, then I would go out with my friends. There were a few boys too... but they were rather insignificant."
"The greatest thing that my time at Beauxbatons taught me was that I had the potential to become something incredible... but that I was never going to get there if I just sat around and waited for a good opportunity to come knocking on my door."
—
"Helene," my friend Marie giggles. She is a pretty girl, with platinum blonde hair cropped to her chin and rosy pink cheeks. The two of us sit, alone, in our dorm room, flipping through the pages of the Daily Prophet, "Have you seen this– look at this street– Oh I would positively kill for the chance to go to Diagon Alley."
"But it is just a street," A small frown forms on my lips as I take the paper, squinting slightly as I examine the picture, "I guarantee you there are better ice cream places and fancier wand shops here in France."
"But London is the heart of the Wizarding World," she rolls her eyes, flopping down on the bed next to me, "Everyone important ends up there–"
"So buy a train ticket."
"I'd be out on the street in a matter of minutes," She runs one perfectly manicured hand through her bob, "I have nothing to offer London– other than the ridiculous manners classes we are forced to take."
"Oh they're not that bad–"
"Spoken like a girl who has never had detention with Madame Reine."
"I suppose– but what else are we supposed to do after we graduate... become healers?" I shrug, "I don't know about you... but I've never been any good at potions."
"You're good at everything." She snorts.
Rolling my eyes slightly, I brush off the complement, looking back down at the paper. The main article is about a man named the Dark Lord, and how he is rallying his supporters. A bunch of hogwash if you ask me, but that is not why it has caught my eye. The writing... it is as if the words have a mind of their own. They jump off the page and manifest in apparitions, intense battle scenes that I can picture so vividly it sends a chill down my spine.
As my eyes reach the end of the page, my breath hitches slightly. The author. Wilhelmina Franks. A woman.
"Marie look at this–" I tug on the edge of the blonde girl's blouse.
"What?" she looks up, mildly disinterested.
"Look at who wrote the article," I point to the byline proudly.
"A woman?" She instantly perks up, "See– I told you London was the place to be."
A smile spreads across my face. Maybe for the first time in her life, Marie is 100 percent correct. London must be a magical place indeed– a place where a woman with a talent for writing can achieve the same recognition as a man. A place where I can gain power– something that has always been nothing more than a mere fantasy up until this point.
And then it clicks... I want to be a writer. I want to write for the Daily Prophet and compose paragraphs of words that leap off the page and tell a story deeper than the pure meanings of the words I am stringing together.